48th... Few "loyal knights" left here...

Mirror Blue.

(Apologies for having to call in sick last week)

All Richard Thompson fans start their tribute reviews with a variation of this line: "I can't understand why this guy isn't more popular." The praises have been sung: great songwriter, great singer and great guitar player, insanely prolific and always of high quality. He's been at work since the late 60s and so there must be an album for every mood (I don't even own a tenth of his output, shame on me). If you're new to his work, drop everything and buy Action Packed: Best of the Capitol Years, as fine an introduction as you'll get.

So why isn't he more popular? I'll attempt an answer.

1. Bad timing. Richard started at a time when great guitar players were making their reputations, and he was on the wrong side of the fence. Folk just doesn't have that big an audience compared to rock, and so he always got the level of notice accorded to folkies - in the grand scheme of things, not a lot.

2. Richard's always had a black sense of humour, cropping up at odd moments, frequently blunt, off-colour and off-putting. If you don't have a cynical bone in your body, you probably won't like this guy.

3. Emotional cynicism. I got my first Thompson CD while witnessing a marriage break apart and ever since I've considered him the bard of divorce. His steady theme is love and he examines it from every conceivable angle, most of them pessimistic. When love is real (which isn't often), it costs. When love is not real (more often), it still costs. And you thought Leonard Cohen was depressing....

4. There was some damn fine music being released in 1994, debuts from Katell Keineg and Jeff Buckley among other stuff. Mirror Blue should have been released a year earlier, but there were reshuffles at Capitol and releasing and promoting Richard Thompson became a backburner priority. When the album came out even the critics didn't like it, claiming Mitchell Froom's production got in the way of the songs. I don't see it myself. But what does annoy me about Mirror Blue (that title's a quote from Tennyson, by the way) is Richard's cagey distrust of his audience. He can't trust them to handle a good, heartbreaking ballad, so he throws joke songs out to ruin the feeling. This happens twice. His earlier release, Rumour and Sigh, has the same problem.

Things start out in restrained manner; For the Sake of Mary is driven as much by percussion as guitar and takes a rather unexpected tack - there aren't that many devotional love songs in the Thompson canon, but this is one of them, focused on the nitty-gritty changes that have to be made to look after someone else, and the emotional trip-ups that can get in the way of the best intentions. "For the sake of Mary/I keep the flame/I don't want to be the villain again/she's had her bad times and it's shook her about/I don't want to take the easy way out." There's some great guitar here, as a sample of what's to come.

That's a distorted washboard you hear at the opening of I Can't Wake Up to Save My Life, a delightful rocker that best shows off his weird sense of humour. It's about a man who's done (unspecified) things that "make [his] dreams go bad/like Borstal boys coming home to Dad..." The imagery is choice; funny and dramatic, whilst the ridiculous situation heightens the inherent truth of the song.

MGB-GT tackles the car song with easygoing charm and some fabulous middle eastern flourishes. The happiest fellow you'll meet on this record spends all his time tinkering with his automobile. The man responsible for all the percussion is called Pete Thomas and he's brilliant - the messy drumroll tossed in at the end fits the song perfectly. Delightful stuff.

The Way That It Shows features the stormiest guitar playing herein as Richard contemplates the moment when an adulterous woman finally fives the game away. The passion-wracked guitar coda stands in direct contrast to the clinically observant verses.

Easy There, Steady Now is toward the top of my list standouts here. That's Danny Thompson's double-bass backing the manic, flurried guitar; the verses are hazy, lost in the visions of wandering at night in an empty town. There's more to it than just booze and a femme fatale...the music is too silvery bright, the narrative too impressionistic, the narrator too unconcerned....

King of Bohemia is Richard and an acoustic guitar. Lyrically he contemplates the case of a "refugee from the Seraphim," a girl who's been broken by the world. "Let me rock you in my arms/ I'll hold you safe and small," is how the song starts, and he sings it so gently you're liable to pause and draw breath, but in the end there's no conclusive evidence that he can help this wounded creature. The song is so spare that it sits uncomfortably in the midst of Mirror Blue.

Shane and Dixie is a rock and roll pastiche about a pair of bank robbers. It's a rather crass and obvious story as Shane decides to secure their fame by a suicide pact - the only hitch is that Dixie thinks he's nuts. It's funny, it's in bad taste, it's a throwaway and there is no reason it has to follow King of Bohemia in the running order. For shame.

Mingus Eyes is something of a mantra, slow, soothing and unsettling. There's a darkness at the heart of this song - it's thin on content but thick on atmosphere.

I Ride in Your Slipstream shares the pace of Easy There and does away with verse-chorus procedures. It's somehow even more disconcerting, as this narrator is a married man saying some rather odd, inscrutable things....

All the stops are pulled out for Beeswing - a delicate, expertly written ballad featuring a gorgeous melody, fiddle, flute, concertina, Northumbrian pipes, mandolin and the acoustic guitar. It's a tale of lost love, tackling the irrevocable conflict between love and freedom, and justly considered one of his best songs. Richard lets the poet out for the descriptions. "Brown hair zig-zagged around her face/ a look of half-surprise/like a fox caught in the headlight/there was animal in her eyes."

And then he does it again! Fast Food is a blunt satire directed against a target that's never deserved it more: "Water down the ketchup, easier to pour on/pictures on the register in case you're a moron/.../sugar, grease, fats and starches/fine when you dine at the golden arches." It's actually funnier to read than listen to, but there's some cheeky strands of folk music threading through it. The question is why did it have to follow Beeswing?

Mascara Tears is an attempt at heavy metal, angst-ridden and out of place. Yet there's a certain fascination in it just because Richard doesn't usually indulge in those sort of emotions, and also since it's about a self-destructive couple savaging each other...

After that burns itself out there's the beautifully theatrical coda: Taking My Business Elsewhere. A soft, echoing, darkly amusing song. There's something of the lullaby in its melody. You know the scene: the lovelorn sap bores the waiter with his woes after his girl fails to show. And yet it manages to captivate once more. It's the icing on the cake.

Stats: of the 13 tracks, only three could count as love songs, and only one had genuinely happy people as subjects. That's about the average ratio. Thompson's World is broadly pessimistic, featuring a cast of cruel and adulterous women, with men as losers, nerds and borderline nutcases. Every now and then comes a tender portrait of a damaged woman, or decent men surface to alleviate the gloom - these characters shine the brighter in their surroundings. All of it is oddly true to life.

Musically, this guy is a treat. Richard Thompson never gets old, he's always creative and expressive, finding new stories to tell, new angles to take. For some reason most of his catalogue is out of print. Did you know his debut album is reputedly the worst selling record Warner Bros. ever released? So if you've never heard him before, check him out. I most highly recommend it.

47th... Interior lives

Ladies of the Canyon.

Come Thanksgiving, for some reason I always get a hankering for the music of Joni Mitchell. She just seems suitable to the occasion.

In 1970, Joni Mitchell really came into her own. She'd already won a Grammy for Clouds (only her second album) and was taking the music world by storm on the strength of her songs and her ability to arrange them. Clouds was Joni unaccompanied - Ladies of the Canyon shows her expanding her repetoire; her lyrical subjects pointing ahead to albums such as Blue and For the Roses; musically beginning to experiment with jazz. Joni was getting ambitious, and this album is a perfect balance between the phases of her early career and therefore a recommended starting point.

Each of the 12 songs would make an excellent poem, and some could easily by imagined as short stories. Joni always had a pleasantly "literary" quality which, of course, explains her appeal to me. However, she also had several key musical qualities: her arrangements and her voice, which would play with the words, never singing all the verses in one manner. It's never predictable, listening to her sing.

Morning Morgantown starts things off with genuine charm, though it's almost unbearably twee and precious. "We'll find a table in the shade/and sip our tea and lemonade/and watch the morning on parade/in morning, Morgantown." There's affection and enthusiasm in her style, and it's quite charming.

Things become more dramatic and somber with For Free, a piano ballad and a glimpse of the kind of confessional reportage that came into its own on For the Roses. A singer-songwriter who plays for money sees a man on a street-corner who performs for free. In her ensuing comparison, there are shades of guilt, anger, regret, resignation and sorrow - all the great dramatic emotions underscored with taste and sophistication. And at the end, as the piano fades with her voice, the "one man band" takes over with his clarinet. It is sublime.

Conversation switches back to guitar with some light percussion and more jazz flourishes during the overlong coda (this time on pipes and saxophone). Three characters: a sympathetic waitress, an unhappily married man and his wife. You can tell where that's gonna go, but Joni ignores a conventional story and focuses on the smallest of thoughts and actions. Told through the waitress' view, everything is skewed in shades of gray. The overlapping barbershop harmonies and false cheer of the ending are kind of annoying though.

Ladies of the Canyon (Laurel Canyon, I presume) paints a picture of certain bohemian women who make the place their home. The melody is lovely and the harmonies much nicer this time. Unfortunately, the vision is cloyingly sentimental - the hippie dream for female artisans, which is nice but not especially interesting in the album's context.

Willy is a short and unadorned song for piano. Since she was apparantly in love with Graham Nash at the time, it gets attributed as an ode to him. Whatever the inspiration, it is this track that points toward the style and subject of Blue most clearly. "But you know it's hard to tell/when you're in the spell if it's wrong or if it's real/but you're bound to lose/if you let the blues get you scared to feel/and I feel like I'm just being born." Her voice is so expressive that the point comes across with remarkable subtlety.

The Arrangement starts slowly, piano filling time, waiting close to a minute before Joni starts to tell the latest story. In relatively few lines, her voice cutting through to the essentials, she lays bare the empty, purposeless life of a man who has won the rat race. And what now? she seems to ask. Who cares if you've won? Isn't your life worth more than its setting? Standout, just for conveying so much in under three minutes.

Rainy Night House has lovely piano and some cello, but the melody is unmemorable at best. Dwelling on the simple details of a quiet encounter which I've heard is about Leonard Cohen. I have not confirmed this, but everyone knew everyone back then and she does describe him as "a refugee from a wealthy family" and "a holy man on the F.M. radio," which sounds about right. Unfortunately, the song is done in by its dull melody.

The Priest is much better, returning to guitar and some percussion. This one hearkens back to old balladry; it sounds like something Fairport Convention or Pentangle would have been comfortable playing. A highly dramatic song, though the story is again internalized (most of the songs are) as a woman and a priest sit in an airport bar, talking and observing. Fascinating stuff married to a highly memorable melody.

The only truly sad song is Blue Boy, as a man's depression and a woman's idolizing completely destroy their relationship. It's Joni's expressive singing that makes the song so tragic; she sounds as unhappy as if it happened to her.

So of course, Big Yellow Taxi is compensation to cheer everyone up. It sounds like Joni trying to write a dumb pop song, though she wrote it about the destruction of the environment and how "you don't know what you've got till it's gone." It's a cute joke song, it jives, and that's all. For some reason, it's also a classic Joni Mitchell tune, and its popularity is beyond my understanding.

Woodstock is another classic, but not as she wrote it. Upset over having to miss the festival, she wrote an idealized vision of the event and turned it into a dirge. Amazingly, she utilized keyboards, which add to the strangely haunting sound of the longest track on Ladies of the Canyon. After Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young heard it, they seized the tune to cover and got a hit. And since they had been at the event in question, their rocking version was closer in sound and spirit to what actually went on. Either version: the chorus is dynamite and the song is better than 9/10ths of what played in the Woodstock film. So I think, anyway.

Another classic is the final song, The Circle Game, which has CSN&Y on backups, some say - though the credits say it's the Lookout Mountain United Downstairs Choir (which is so patently ridiculous a name that it's got to be a cover-up for something). The song is much more serious, a clear-eyed observation of a boy growing up, passing through the seasons with a carousel as metaphor for time "until the last revolving year is through." Reminding the listeners of time and mortality at the end of her record...it's a pretty good reminder, if you're at all sensitive to the thought, to immediately be off and doing something worthwhile with the rest of your day.

Ladies of the Canyon is a great album, and if you want an idea what the singer-songwriter genre had to offer in the 60s and 70s, my advice is to postpone the James Taylor and start with a Joni Mitchell recording instead. This one will do nicely. To those who already know the CD, this review functions the way all my other ones do: as a token of appreciation, my online tribute to the fine music of this world.

46th.... "Long distance salvation"

Nebraska.

This is dangerous music. 3 A.M. music. It is among the darkest, most haunting material I've heard, ranking with up there with Berlin and Pink Moon. It is not suited to casual listening - it's stark, makes no compromises and is uncomfortable to hear. It's also shockingly good.

Consider the facts: Bruce Springsteen in 1982 was a major phenomenon, an American rock and roller, a talented songwriter and lyricist, ambitious enough to tackle the "concept album" with Born to Run, and popular enough to be seized by the media as the latest hype.

He also scored major production values. Then along came Nebraska. Bruce had a 4 track cassette recorder and busily made the demos for his next album. He'd play guitar and harmonica, like the Dylan of old, livening it up with organ, mandolin, glockenspiel, tambourine and some well placed Echoplex. The sound was classic American folk, describing and protesting the hardscrabble lives of ordinary working class men, though cast in an almost unrelieved gloom.

Well, Bruce tried to develop the songs with his E Street Band in the studio, but the result just didn't seem right. He re-recorded the songs solo, but that didn't work either. The magic was on the original cassette; so started the hard work of cleaning up the tape and releasing Nebraska on vinyl.

It still sounds like a demo on CD, but don't worry about the sound quality - there's no distracting tape hiss or crackle and if it sounds a little obscure or rough at the edges, that is its glory. It is a demo. The music has nowhere to hide and neither do you.

With a tired out harmonica and exhausted voice, the album starts somber and unhurried. Nebraska is based on the true killer Charles Starkweather, who took his fourteen year old girlfriend with him on a killing spree. Asked why he did it, on his way to the electric chair, he says "I guess there's just a meanness in this world." Glockenspiel carefully steps into play, staying a respectful distance from the mike. It's not meant as a macabre song. It's simply honest.

Atlantic City is the vision of a confused young man watching the violence and chaos of the world and struggling to stay ahead of it, out of it, beyond it. Eventually, however, he can't get by honestly anymore... The pace quickens for this song, and Bruce sings his own backups in harried fashion, flubbing the chorus at the last second, giving a sense of urgency and messiness to proceedings.

Mansion on the Hill is a soft spoken childhood memory of a beautiful house overlooking a small town. But while the children can play in the road and listen to the music from the parties, the mansion's gates remain ever closed. Despite the evocation of class differences, the memory is peaceful rather than bitter and it makes for a necessary interlude.

Johnny 99 is a rarity on Nebraska, a rock song. As the story of a desperately poor man sentenced to 99 years in prison, it calls for immediate comparison with Dylan's protest ballads, against which it can hold its own as an excellent song. Oddly, by repeating a line from Atlantic City: "I had debts that no honest man could pay..." it invites other comparisons as a sequel to or companion piece - proof of how common the situation is.

Highway Patrolman is the story of Joe Roberts, an honest man struggling with the economy and his no-good brother Franky, trying to keep him in line and when he fails, having at last to choose between family and the state.... With quiet dignity, the story is told and it makes an unforgettable highlight.

However, it's why I call Nebraska 3 A.M. music. Its atmosphere is all pervasive in the nighttime and you may find yourself questioning the validity of life to music like this. State Trooper is an echo-laden meditation, driven by one endless, simple rhythm. The power it derives comes from the poetic vision of driving at night and by an almost suicidal fear creeping into the last lines. "Hey, somebody out there/listen to my last prayer/hi ho, silver-o/deliver me from nowhere," before vanishing in a beautiful but lunatic howl....

Used Cars is another childhood memory, far more bitter, as the boy (maybe the same one, who knows?) remembers the humiliation of his father buying a used car, though he "sweats the same job from mornin' to morn." The bitterness seems trivial by itself, but surrounded by the adult cast of Nebraska, this childish resentment is no relief.

Perhaps it all got a bit much for Bruce, since he threw in a rewritten State Trooper as the Chuck Berry car trouble tune Open All Night. The effect is delightful, as imagery from the former song indicate it's the same New Jersey turnpike seen from very different eyes, with plenty of new images to keep things interesting. Instead of howling, it ends with scat singing. Maybe Bruce had a sense of humour. I lifted this review's title from the lyric: "lost souls callin' long distance salvation."

My Father's House takes in a final child perspective, as a nightmare turns to comfort, a real life turns to failure and things which should have been resolved are left undone. It's about as sober and haunting as it sounds.

Reason to Believe seems to be attempting to sum up the album. The characters continue to suffer through their hard lives by futilely finding something to believe in - just to get them through another day. It's a dismal but honest ending that sits just as uncomfortably in the listener's mind as the first song did.

I can't compare Nebraska to any other Bruce Springsteen album, as I haven't heard any. It demands to be heard at night, preferably with lights out. In that way its true companions can be found among such disparate CDs as Berlin and Songs from a Room; The Idiot and The Boatman's Call; not to mention Tom Waits' early works. However, to listen to such songs in their element is to be absorbed in their moods, so proceed with caution. If you're not prepared, you'll be left devestated rather than in catharsis. Naturally, I recommend it highly.

45th... The values of England

Unhalfbricking.

This album is one of the most influential I've ever heard. It (with The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan) was my door into folk rock. From the entrancing beauty of this little CD a place was made next to art rock that led me to discover or re-discover such artists as Drake, Mitchell, Cohen and the Thompsons.

In 1969, the album rather marked a tragic turning in the band. Two months prior to release, a car crash killed drummer Martin Lamble (Richard Thompson's girlfriend Jeannie Franklyn also died). While Fairport Convention continued, they dove straight into traditional English folk tunes and left this brief, beautiful era for good.

Besides Lamble, not even 20 years old, the band at the time had Ashley Hutchings on bass; two guitarists/odd instrumentalists, Simon Nichol and Richard Thompson; and Sandy Denny, taking over the lead vocals after the departure of original singer Iain Matthews. It's Sandy who's the star of Unhalfbricking - she invented the nonsense title; it's her parents, Neil and Edna, pictured (in Wimbledon, no less); and it's her coolly restrained yet incredibly warm voice that you'll first notice when you hear the record.

The material is, shall we say, eccentric? Several loopy covers of obscure Dylan tunes, one traditional ballad, two songs each from Sandy and Richard's pens. Somehow they mesh into a beautifully structured, cohesive record where a gentle humour offsets and heightens the grace of the serious songs. And if I was asked what I found so attractive about folk, I would answer twofold: grace and a powerful quietude.

Genesis Hall contains both those elements; a tale of injustice, prejudice and the oppression of the poor. Restraint is evident everywhere, from Richard's lyric, which refuses to exaggerate, to Lamble's drumming, steady and sure, rising to accent the drama without overwhelming it. There have been many self-assured opening tracks on CD. but the only one I can think of to match the somber expressiveness of Genesis Hall is Nick Drake's Time Has Told Me.

Si Tu Dois Partir is one of the most affectionate Dylan covers to grace the list. "If You Gotta Go, Go Now" is sung in French, in a careless harmony. It's like a lovable bunch of partygoers: they laugh, smash the wineglasses, forget the lines and substitute "la la las" and sing together. It's a very peaceful, goodnatured song - heaven knows what it's actually about.

Autopsy is a Sandy Denny original. It begins at a swift tempo, driven along by guitars before slowing down for an extended, jazzy section featuring gorgeous guitar work. Sandy takes up a clinical study of a depressed, perhaps self-involved friend. Compassion is masked under cautionary advice. Vocally, perhaps Sandy's best showcase herein and fascinating to hear on multiple levels.

A Sailor's Life may seem at first too long. The trick to appreciate its length (11 minutes) is to take it as a painting with each note as a stroke of paint. You can hear the prologue, the ship setting out, the waves rolling, the space, Sandy as the tragic heroine of a ballad of near fable-like simplicity, her voice causing chills before she sinks from sight and the sea takes over completely... Unhalfbricking's center, plus, there's great Thompson guitar and it's a one take recording.

Side 2 gets off to a rollicking start with Cajun Woman. Dave Swarbrick guests with spirited fiddle (he also guests for Si Tu and Percy), he'd later join the band proper. Handclaps, slide guitar, "ba-ooms" a-plenty and a fun lyric from Richard. "He grew up in the bayou with a Bible round his neck/and never loved a woman in the way you would expect." These fellows had a sense of humour, and know when to lighten the mood.

Who Knows Where the Time Goes is Sandy Denny's signature song, one she'd been in the habit of performing the past few years, introduced to the world at large by Judy Collins. "Sad deserted shore/your fickle friends are leaving/ah, but then you know/it's time for them to go/but I will still be here/I have no thought of leaving/I do not count the time..." Sandy could do amazing things with covers. but it's in her original material that her voice best shines. A luminous song.

Rounding out the album with Dylan. Percy's Song. Another dramatic prologue, but overall very formalistic, with the verse and chorus endlessly intertwined. A story of outrageous injustice. a man in a car crash sentenced to 99 years in prison for manslaughter. Myself, I've always speculated (superfluously) if the judge presiding didn't lose someone in that crash...

Million Dollar Bash is the last comedy, Dylan's word soup served up in style with Swarbrick on mandolin and a few men in the band chiming in for the raggedy verses. The party from Si Tu Dois Partir in English and a great way to cap off an incredible record.

Fairport's finest, one of my my favorite CDs, and probably in the top five best "folk" albums ever made.

44th... Ghouls passing in the night...

Juju.

You are looking at the album that inspired this whole darn fest of gothic delirium. I hope you've enjoyed the show. Cut and wrap!

Siouxsie and the Banshees were the original goth band of the new wave. They beat Bauhaus to the punch with an inspired post-punk '78 debut. Interestingly, both Siouxsie Sioux and Peter Murphy turned out as gifted singers once they'd learned how to do it. Juju is the critic's pick for best Banshee record. In 1981 they had their classic lineup: Siouxsie to sing in imperious, angry tones; Budgie the spectacularly talented drummer, who favored a tribal rhythm; Steven Severin the bass player, contributing style and atmosphere and several lyrics; and John McGeogh the guest guitarist. This forms the dead center of the McGeogh trilogy, the Banshees' creative peak. But where Kaleidoscope and A Kiss in the Dreamhouse were highly experimental, Juju was pretty straight. It was a guitar propelled bad dream, a parade of ghouls in the night. Men, women and children are all implicated - even the television is a vehicle for evil. Juju sounds only one note, but the band is fiercely proud of that note and plies it well from start to finish. You could call it variations on a theme.

Spellbound is the instantly memorable single, and a popular, much loved tune. The subject is uneasy - children being possessed - but the relentless propulsion of guitar, bass and drums (getting a unique sound from so typical a set-up) makes it more fun, and more commercial, than anything coming afterwards.

Into the Light is the momentary hesitation, hovering on the edge between light and dark. Siouxsie sounds less like she chooses the darkness and more as if she's set on an irretrievable collision course with it. The die is cast; the claustrophobia inherent to this track dogs the whole album and it becomes quite impassioned. The random hisses and angular guitars give a sense of musical overflow.

Arabian Knights casts aspersions on the Middle East, ranging from "a monstrous oil tanker/its wound bleeding in seas" to its treatment of women "kept as your baby machine." Budgie's heavyhanded drumming redefines primitive and the chorus has a shimmering, diseased beauty that points the way to A Kiss in the Dreamhouse.

Halloween is a thrashier, punkish affair and Siouxsie hearkens back to her old toneless singing style. Memories of "a childish murder" casts doubt on the innocence of children. It's not one of the strongest tracks - frankly, it feels a bit gimmicky.

For sheer attitude, Juju has no better than Monitor. Siouxsie has some great howls and the music is so impressive that it's even better the second time round, when it repeats in encore fashion. "His face was full of intent/and we shook with excitement/then the victim stared up/looked strangely at the screen/as if her pain was our fault/but that's entertainment." Good God, what are they watching?

Night Shift is something of a sordid epic, the band in top form, crafting a wall of sound punctuated with squeals of feedback. Visions of the morgue, a sense of nausea, a narrator irredeemably in love with a murderer - and this isn't even the most distasteful song. That's just ahead.

Sin in My Heart is one of the Banshees' best rockers and eschews any lyrical incidents in favour of more of Siouxsie's howling. Not a whole lot can be said about it but it's not filler by a long shot - it's the only fun track on side 2.

Head Cut is about exactly what it says: severed heads, both real and plaster, not to mention the shrunken ones. Even the Banshees' had their limits - this one's a black comedy, maniacally cheerful, and the darkest Juju gets for that reason.

Last of all is Voodoo Dolly, which wastes the opportunity 9 minutes gives it; instead of a long, involved lyric, we're given a few opaque verses and a whole lot of "listen!"s. Musically, it holds up best at its most restrained. It's probably my fault I don't appreciate it more; I just don't find the notion of voodoo dolls all that frightening.

Overall, I would have to disagree with those critics (hell, I almost always do), as Juju is far too limited in scope to stand as Siouxsie and the Banshees at their very best. Good as it is, their next album would be better still.

43rd... The occult, or a pub band gets carried away...

Black Sabbath.

No credit is given in this CD for "lyricist" and I would have presumed the lyrics to be made by Ozzy Osbourne, simply because he's the singer; however, it turns out that the lyrics on this CD were made up by the bass player. As far as that goes, I'm convinced the man couldn't write. Compared to... anybody... on my blog roll, this guy (and by extension Ozzy) comes across as a subliterate caveman. Therefore, I shall not be quoting a single line from this one. Call me a snob if you like.

Historically, by taking the guitar-heavy blues-rock of Cream and turning it into sludge, dismissing everything the 60s stood for, this 1970 album was adored by disaffected youth, panned by the critics and stood as the birth of heavy metal. Rarely are influence, enthusiasm and criticism all perfectly understandable, but in this case I can see where everybody was coming from.

There's no denying Black Sabbath's influence; there's no denying that the cover art is October dynamite, or that they improved significantly on future records. I would argue that their overlong medleys are where this record really shines, giving them time to wander down any alley they choose, earnestly crafting a soundscape that escapes the more tightly reigned in songs. In that way also, Sabbath becomes an inverted Cream. In a way, they even pioneered the "morbid concept album" that I've been celebrating this month.

Who's who: guitarist Tony Iommi, provider of all the fireworks; Terence "Geezer" Butler on bass as well as lyrics; drummer and percussionist Bill Ward; and Ozzy for harmonica and singing - the latter of which is incredibly distinctive, but quite ugly as well. His voice matches the words he sings, and this gives the listener a choice of interpretation: is the narrative clunky because it's an Everyman incoherent in the face of dark powers, or is it actually a tripping college boy, overtaken with admiration for Aleister Crowley, gone off his nut? Take your pick.

The band keeps it simple, managing to name itself, its debut and its introductory song all Black Sabbath. The opening soundtrack of rain, thunder and tolling bell (think of a funeral) is by far the best part of it, as soon the guitar kicks in, running its dirge-like riff into the ground while the band mutters around Ozzy's paranoid encounter with ultimate evil. Eventually this becomes interminable, at which point the band finally loosens up and rocks like hell, stodgy riff thankfully left behind in the ensuing melee. For menace, nothing beats Ozzy screaming for help as if he really means it, but the good and bad on this one lean heavily against each other.

The Wizard, at four minutes, is the shortest track and an anomaly. The harmonica is what you'll remember; the song is out of place, as the mysterious wizard goes around making people feel happy. Word has it that it's talking about the group's drug dealer. Dealer or benevolent magician as it may be, taking the peril from the equation really messes up the effect and leaves this song as filler to my ears, despite its memorable riff.

First of the medleys is Wasp/Behind the Wall of Sleep/Bassically/N.I.B. It gets off to an agreeably rocking start, though Ozzy's first lines are good for a wince. It evens out pretty soon and the use of imagination helps fill in between the lines - something about being put on trial in dreams. Guitars pause, leaving Bill Ward to fill things out and fade into the next scene. Focus goes over to the bassist, soloing into a handy bridge for the next Ozzy-led bit. The only problem with this segment is Ozzy shouting "oh yeah!" and putting a crimp in the atmosphere. Otherwise, it's quite appealing; it's got jive and energy, it's a love song from Lucifer and the musicians are all in top form. Standout.

Side 2 tries for some sort of social commentary with Wicked World. It's also high on energy, but again, there's something constrained in the layout. It does have a gorgeous bridge, assuming a psychedelic bent that ends in an Iommi solo. Nice touches like that really liven up the proceedings.

Fourteen minutes is given to the last act, which is much too long (the other was only ten!). A Bit of Finger/Sleeping Village/Warning. It's got acoustic guitar and a jew's harp to start, and the best lyric by far, an evocative and sadly short fragment before it's back to the usual suspect: heavy metal. Again, the music wanders about, hooking onto a riff, a tune, before moving on, getting a new tempo, cutting back to the last bit and expecting you to keep it all straight. Ozzy gets back into the game, this time with a diatribe against the devil as a woman. At least, I think that's what he's on about. It's not as good as the N.I.B. segment was, going on much too long, though when the group gets into an uptempo place, the result is good music.

Without further adieu, the whole record ceases there. Verdict? It's always good to hear a groundbreaking musical act, but to equate groundbreaking with genius would be a mistake. Black Sabbath was a nifty idea, but in my opinion, one deeply flawed in execution. I'd say if you're looking for heavy rock with claustrophobic and occult tendencies, you'd be better off trying their follow-up Paranoid, or Bowie's Man Who Sold the World. If you want the best of the guitar rock groups of the era, Led Zeppelin's the real deal. But then, I'm less than ideally suited to Sabbath, placing so much weight in lyrics. This still comes recommended as a necessary excerpt in the history of rock.

42nd... gnash those teeth and watch the bones...

Bone Machine.

In 1992, it had been about five years since Tom Waits had released a studio album (Franks Wild Years), when he stepped into the Prairie Sun Recording studios in C.A. and created this monster album of songs every bit as morbid and frightful as the cover art indicates. He sang it in a voice that could be called ugly and just as easily (well, to some of us) be called beautiful. He even released two music videos, primitive accompaniments to an album made with as few instruments as possible (often just percussion, guitar and some upright bass); music stripped back almost to the bones. Yes, he recorded and produced it all in a studio, but did so in the cellar - complete with cement floor and hot water heater. As Tom said "it's got some good echo."

The punchline: this most difficult music, the darkest chapter in his career and not something to sit easily on a person's mind, won the Grammy for Best Alternative Music album. Isn't that nice?

People new to the music of Tom Waits, however, may well be inclined to shut it off before they reach track five, since Tom makes you work for the music. The most punishing tracks are lumped together right at the start (except for In the Colosseum), and only after that can a certain amount of "entertainment" be had.

Earth Died Screaming is where it begins, mostly with percussion that sounds like rattling bones - it would be plain silly, except the imagery invoked is...well... "and the great day of wrath has come/and here's mud in your big red eye/the poker's in the fire/the locusts take the sky." Did I mention his way with words? The transfer from his indifferent account of apocalypse to the impassioned chorus is even more unsettling.

Dirt in the Ground is classic Waits in the ballad style, the piano and clarinet and upright bass making it beautiful to hear. It's also a treatise on how death undoes all of life's meaning and Tom sounds absolutely wounded to sing it. "What does it matter, a dream of love/or a dream of lies/we're all gonna be in the same place when we die." It doesn't get any better.

Such a Scream is not as bad as it may sound - it's music as cacophony, percussion and saxophone vying for your attention while the lyric goes on almost tunelessly about a bizarre, possibly invented woman.

And then there's noise. Very interesting, but it might be a bit much for the unwary. Persevere! All Stripped Down is the first entertaining song - it's infectious, catchy, Tom sings it in a ridiculous high pitch and it's even got elements of a rather surreal kind of love song.

Now things are alright. That doesn't mean it's any happier. Who Are You is the bleeding heart ballad of the set (Tom has a stable of characters in his world, guises donned for whatever the next story is). Who Are You sneaks in a perfect reference to bones, deliberately tying it into the concept, despite the song being addressed to a duplicitous woman. Sung with such sincerity, filled with telling details and antagonism, it's an immediate highlight.

The Ocean Doesn't Want Me is a monologue, briefly recited as a man contemplates drowning, hungers for it, yet is turned back at the last by a faint unease. I defy you to listen to it and not get chills.

Jesus Gonna Be Here is standard acoustic blues, and damn! does he ever replicate the style of the old bluesmen. Unfortunately, I don't much care for the repetition of the blues so this song, of them all, really leaves me cold.

Contrast with the piano driven A Little Rain, a world weary yet comforting intermission. Loss hangs over the fragmented characters of the song, yet the narrator assert "a little trouble makes it worth the going/and a little rain never hurt no one."

In the Colosseum is mainly a tour of carnage and a lot of drums, played by someone humorously called "Brain." Tom plays chamberlain and conundrum and the song leaves a bad taste in the mouth, as any contemplation of the Roman games should...

At this point, I remember thinking I had the album pegged, I knew the themes and how it all tied together. Well, in fact I didn't know anything about it, because Goin' Out West was next. A fuzz drenched guitar rock track (still with only upright for the bass) with a lyric so overly macho that it becomes the only comedic passage. There's still some menace, but no death and the song comes as both a relief and a shock.

Murder in the Red Barn is the best song to sum up Bone Machine - it's got his all-in-a-day's-work recital tone, it's got a banjo (!), percussion (including what sounds like a rocking chair) and upright bass and that's it, and the lyric is monumental. Here's just a snatch of the enigmatic happenings: "someone's crying in the woods/someone's burying all his clothes/now Slam the Crank from Wheezer/slept outside last night and froze." There's at least seven pertinent characters and a ton of confusing events. It's great. You'll never figure it out.

Black Wings sports a fuller sound with two guitars, maracas and a music solo that allows you to draw breath. A western, starring a dark angel type of cowboy awash in Biblical imagery. An exceptional interlude, "and the fenceposts/in the moonlight look like bones."

Piano balladry makes a final flourish on Whistle Down the Wind, about a man who has remained all his life out in the prairie. You can feel the lachrymose desolation. David Hidalgo of A Hawk and a Handsaw guests with accordion and violin, adding to the lugubrious sense of lost time.

I Don't Wanna Grow Up is an astoundingly quick attack on the adult world by a very disenchanted youth, putting down the rat race, the superficial comforts, the futility "nothing out there but sad and gloom." Since everyone on record so far is either damaged or dead, it's perfectly in keeping with the concept. Simple song, just more bass and guitar, yet very catchy.

Let Me Get Up On It is a percussion experiment that doesn't even last a whole minute and has an inaudible lyric. What was the point? It's Tom Waits' world - stuff like that is part and parcel for him.

That Feel is notable for being co-written and with backing vocals from Keith Richards. It's an ode to "the one thing you can't lose," some indestructible feeling that - apparently - can survive everything on Bone Machine. So you're not left in the lurch; you're bid farewell with a teary sing-along.

That is that. That's Tom Waits at his most consistently morbid, more or less. There's far more to Waits' World than this bag of bones though. There are diners and waitresses, musical theaters helped out by Alice in Wonderland and William S. Burroughs (not, alas, at the same time), sailors, booze, true love, crime and rain. Lots of rain. Any one album is only the tip of the iceberg with this guy. If you're just starting out and like the sound of this one, by all means try it out.