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RAMBLIN' JACK ELLIOTT
Friends Of Mine
Hightone Records
RAMBLIN' JACK IS the Woody Guthrie of the last three decades;
a rootless cowboy admired by the truckload of folk-influenced
artists who show up on this disc of duets. John Prine, Jerry Jeff
Walker, Nanci Griffith, Emmylou Harris, Guy Clark, Arlo Guthrie,
Tom Waits--here's a full-fledged tribute to Elliott's legacy that
fortunately appears ahead of Jack's tombstone. Jack tends to take
the backseat on most of the cuts, the musical equivalent of what
he's done during his years of appreciatively accepting the rear-window
view during his legendary hitchhiking ventures. Contemporary folk
music has little to offer in the way of first-hand, legitimate
road stories, suggesting that Elliott may literally be the last
of his kind. This is as solid a bridge between folk generations
as Dylan's first album of paeans to the patriarchal Guthrie.
--Dave McElfresh
LOUDON WAINWRIGHT III
Little Ship
Charisma Records
LOUDON WAINWRIGHT III, the singer/songwriter best known
for "Dead Skunk" and his appearances on M.A.S.H.,
returns with Little Ship, a collection of 15 songs centering
on a recently failed relationship. Produced by Grammy winner John
Leventhal, the music on Little Ship alternates between
rootsy John Hiatt rave-ups and pared-down acoustic numbers supplemented
with banjo, mandolin, piano and horns. While the sound is good,
nothing really jumps out; it's the lyrics that take center stage.
Through appearances on Nightline and NPR, Wainwright
has acquired a reputation for wry topical commentary (sort of
a hipper Mark Russell), but Little Ship is most effective
when the material is strictly personal. The album's theme of reciprocal
pain and hurt from a break up gets a matter-of-fact treatment
with a refreshing lack of self-pity and more than a little humor.
Willing to expose his own moral weaknesses and confusion, Wainwright's
not afraid to confront his bastard side. On "So Damn Happy"
he plays off his conflicting feelings of guilt and relief at being
out of a relationship without being maudlin. Family relationships
receive a deft touch on "Bein' A Dad" and "What
Are Families For?" Like Twain, Wainwright's humor touches
a universal nerve that can make you squirm with recognition rather
than laugh. Things bog down when he gets self conscious or tries
too hard to be clever. The food/sex metaphors of "Breakfast
In Bed" are tired and annoying, while the wordplay of "OGM"
convolutes rather than delivers a message. When he's on though--as
he is for most of the album--Wainwright manages to connect with
feelings too often held in check and thoughts too often unspoken,
an admirable accomplishment. Besides, anyone that writes a jaunty,
incredibly cynical banjo ditty just to piss off Pete Seeger (albeit
good naturedly) can't be all bad.
--Sean Murphy
NEW BOMB TURKS
At Rope's End
Epitaph
THE NEW BOMB Turks are currently the best punk band on
this planet (sincere apologies to Tucson's own punk rock heavyweights,
the Weird Lovemakers)--hands down. This drunken Columbus, Ohio,
foursome has been blazing a trail of punk rock overindulgence
since 1992, with the sloppy lo-fi garage punk rawnch of Destroy
Oh-Boy. These bad boys of rock and roll have turned full circle
back to a meaty thick, bone-rattling invasion that embraces everyone
from the Stones to the Nervous Eaters. The New Bomb Turks whip
these ingredients in a musical blender of Minor Threat-meets-MC5
alcoholic fuel that could be drunk all night without a hangover.
On "Defiled," the Turks add the same random saxophone
squawking that littered the Stooges' Funhouse album. Stun-guitarist
Jim Weber attacks his instrument like the snot-nosed little brother
of Ron Asheton, shredding his Marshall speakers on "Streamline
Yr Skull," a massive wall-of-fuzz that detonates like a heart
full of napalm. Singer Eric Davidson sounds as nasally relentless
as the possessed soul of Darby Crash on "Bolan's Crash,"
a not-so-subtle commentary on the T-Rex founder's fatal car accident.
Davidson wishes he was young enough to contribute to "Exile
On Main Street," as evidenced by his raspy Gram Parsons-gone-Motorhead
pin-up fascination on "Veronica Lake." His hyper-manic
voice would've scared the Glimmer Twins shitless. Produced to
squalid Stooges-fied extravagance by Tomas Skogsberg, At Rope's
End, the Turks fifth and best long player, the break-neck
pace chugs throughout with gargantuan riffing and ass-ripping
vocals that result in nuclear meltdown.
--Ron Bally
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