High Bias aural fixations
October 28, 2001

FUGU
Fugu 1
(Minty Fresh)
Fugu is essentially singer/songwriter Mehdi Zannad, a keyboardist/guitarist based in Nancy, France, who previously released split singles with Stereolab and St. Etienne. Zannad's songs sport zany titles like "Variations Fitzwilliam" and "Clavipluck," but musically toe a fairly strict 70s pop line. He tempers his analog keys (electric piano, harpsichord, Farfisa organ) with strings, minimalist guitar and a polite rhythm section. Armed with harmony-heavy arrangements and a too-pretty-to-be-masculine tenor voice, Zannad works Paul McCartney's old bedroom like a pro, producing a (mostly) irony-free collection of sensitive pop songs. The lilting melodies of "Meanwhile," "Clavipluck" and "Vibravox," which is a virtual tribute to 70s cult pop maestro Emitt Rhodes, sound fresh and comforting at the same time, like a glass of cold orange juice. You know what to expect, but the taste still stimulates the taste buds like nothing else. Even the arch crooning of Stereolab singer/faux hipster Laetitia Sadler can't ruin the delicately lush vibe. Hopefully Fugu 1 will be true to its title, and be the first of many. Michael Toland [buy it]

For fans of: Emitt Rhodes, Harry Nilsson, June & the Exit Wounds

JASON MORAN
Black Stars
(Blue Note)
When you hear the term "young lion" in reference to a jazz musician, it usually means a performer under 50 who hews fairly closely to tradition, echoing the work of the greats without adding anything distinctive to the canon. He or she will show genuine skill and even more genuine passion for the music, but only if it's representative of a particular time period and pays respect to the right forefathers. Wynton Marsalis is the poster child for this movement, a virtuostic, "traditional" jazz diehard who refuse to acknowledge that jazz continued to evolve past 1965.

The best of the young lions, however, are less interested in occupying the museum than in building on the foundation. Pianist Jason Moran is this kind of big cat. The 26-year-old Houston native learned how to constantly push himself while studying at the feet of jazz iconoclasts Andrew Hill, Muhal Richard Abram and Jaki Byard, and Black Stars, his third album, is a testament to what he's accomplished. Moran's nimble finger work is deceptively dissonant. His fierce note clusters and manic runs up and down the scales will sound at first like unstructured improv, but don't be fooled. Buoyed by the constant swing of bassist Tarus Mateen and drummer Nasheet Waits, the melodies of songs like "Draw the Light Out," "Earth Song" and Duke Ellington's "Kinda Dukish" prove to be irrepressible. The ivory tickler's musical and compositional skill are awesome enough, but his record is made even more delightful by the presence of avant garde titan Sam Rivers. His high energy saxophone drives "Earth Song" and his own "Summit" like a runaway bus, while his pastoral flute work on the ballads "Say Peace" and "The Sun at Midnight" brings the pieces into the field beneath the clouds. That Moran shares his album with the 77-year-old vet is a good indication of where the youngster is going and where he's been.

Perhaps the most representative cut is "Out Front," a solo piano piece by his mentor Byard that incorporates James P. Johnson stride and Thelonious Monk whimsy into a seemingly stream-of-consciousness piece of music. Moran demonstrates mastery of each style, linking the section with his own melodic ideas; despite the nods to past masters, on this track Moran sounds most like himself. Black Stars displays the talents of a young lion whose mane is already lustrous and full. Long may he roar. Michael Toland [buy it]

For fans of: Andrew Hill, Don Pullen, Thelonious Monk

DARRYL PURPOSE
A Crooked Line
(Tangible)
There is a fine French film, The Vagabond, that defies the romantic version of hitting the road with only a knapsack and a guitar. The road is hard, forging alliances difficult and tenuous. Upon listening to A Crooked Line, I felt this more keenly than before. What a coup—Darryl Purpose seems to have melted the reserve and the petty disagreements among his fellow travelers. He has honed his songwriting on the road, appropriately enough. Song stories ignite flashes of brilliance as snapshots glint and fade with his lyrics. "Bryant Street" exemplifies this as small moments loom large: "A black and white faded scene/A girl with a toy/You kept your smile on while someone took pictures." The singer's quest for a father he never knew becomes the listener's quest as well. I feel faded and spent.

Purpose collaborates with a loose band of songwriters and is stronger for it. He can craft a song from a pinwheel, an asphalt road and Rutherford Hayes—give him a talisman and a story will follow. I think good writing is sublimating yourself to the story, allowing yourself to become someone or something else to tell the narrative. Purpose does this to glorious effect in the song "Late for Dinner." The narrator is a woman waiting for her husband—who is dead. The specifics are meticulous. The devil is in the details, and Darryl Purpose has 'em in spades. Blythe Christopher [buy it]

For fans of: Woody Guthrie, Peter Case, James McMurtry

RABIES CASTE
Let the Soul Out and Cut the Vein
(Earache)
I listen to some of the godawfullest noise out there, and I like it. Bad Brains, Helmet, Tool, Prong, Slayer, Pantera. Hell, try to sit through a Blind Willie Johnson double CD and see if you don't want to drive gleefully off a cliff. Uneasy listening, you know? But what's become increasingly clear over the years is that, if aggressive music has an Achilles Heel, it's to be found behind the vocal mic.

There are options. Some vocalists scream nonstop (God Forbid, Shallow North Dakota), some abandon singing for what might better be called "vocalizing" (Rollins Band), and some actually have capable singers (Tool, Streetwalkin' Cheetahs). Any of these approaches has the potential to work.

Rabies Caste, the sludgecore trio from Jerusalem, has chosen to follow the gimmickry route on its second album, Let the Soul Out and Cut the Vein. On the band's sort-of debut-proper, For The Vomiting Tractor Drivers, the members mix up the vocal effects; unaffected, vocalist David K. sounds a little like Helmet's Page Hamilton, and his efforts have the same kind of driven appeal. They should have stuck with that approach.

From the ground up, the new CD has potential. Slack, bottom-dwelling riffs with triphammer drums, it's all chunk chunk chunk, grind grind grind, and that's a good thing. But the vocals are ALL processed and/or multitracked to sound like Hell's choir. Maybe it's an octaver or doubler or harmonizer. Hard to say. And yeah, it sounds cool, for a little while anyway. It summons visions of what a conversation with Linda Blair on a bad, bad day might sound like. But given that all of the vocals are treated this way, the reality is that we get a full CD's worth of "snarl growrl schwarnz sparzh." Maybe they're saying something moving. Maybe there's a lyricist of note here, but man, there's just no telling.

This is not a vote for making things all pretty and intelligible. Every fan of the hard stuff has at least a little masochist in him/her. This is just a vote against exclusive use of this squawking nonsense. Brian Briscoe [buy it]

For fans of: God Forbid, Ministry, Sepultura

TSOL
Disappear
(Nitro)
One of the original early 80s SoCal hardcore bands, TSOL (AKA True Sounds of Liberty) hasn't existed in this form since 1983, when singer Jack Grisham and drummer Todd Barnes left to pursue other interests. Guitarist Ron Emory and bassist Mike Roche carried on with other players, only to see their revered punk institution become a lame Hollywood metal band before disintegrating to little fanfare. After some legal trouble with the replacement members over the rights to the name, the original lineup reconvened in the late 90s for a series of triumphant shows that showed that neither the band's vitality nor audience had diminished. (The commercial success of the Offspring, who resemble TSOL more than a bit, was probably a factor as well.) Disappear, recorded with skinsman Jay O'Brien replacing the late Barnes, to whom the record is dedicated, is the first true TSOL album since 1983's Beneath the Shadows. With the band's Goth experimentation apparently a thing of the now-distant past, the band roars with unmitigated fury, as O'Brien and Roche flay the rhythm all to hell while Emory erects a blazing wall of power chords and Grisham adds bits of piano. The frontman's distinctive sneer spits out lyrics skewering the police ("Anticop"), social climbing ("Socialite"), substance abuse ("Wasted") and those that have faith in the system ("Terrible People"). He also surprisingly examines the skeins of romance in "Crybaby" and "Renounce." The songs are catchy without being poppy, with sing/shoutalong choruses and muscular riffs, and the social messages don't detract from the sheer joy of making a hellacious punk noise. Disappear is the kind of punk record they just don't make anymore, unless "they" happen to be from the original punk era. Like TSOL. Michael Toland [buy it]

For fans of: the Effigies, the Offspring, Bad Religion

Copyright © 2001 High Bias