RECORD REVIEWS

Want an album review, sucka? For good or ill, Music Liberation Project has promised to review every local, commercially available cd, record or cassette sent to us. Band photos are not necessary so save them for the big boys.

Submit to:
Music Liberation Project
5038 ne 29th
Portland, Or
97211
submit@musicliberationproject.com

I’ve never been a big fan of Robert Plant’s voice, but I love Led Zeppelin. In situations where you have a band VS a singer, you have to weigh the sides. Big Island Shindig forces me to pull out that scale because while four-of-five members of B.I.S. take the mike, none of them are distinctly qualified to do so. Sometimes, they combine forces and create some Voltron-hybrid that sounds OK - but only OK.

Many of the songs start promisingly strong, but then the music takes a back seat to the vocals. The rest is just passing the time with a mindless bobbing of the head that may or may not extend to the other extremities. Sure, you’ll have a smile on your face, but so do many drooling comatose people. Solidifying my conviction, there are two excellent instrumental songs that prove these guys make good music when they shut up. They extend their most interesting melodies and let them journey rather than just vamp. It’s a tough pill to swallow, but there are musicians and there are singers. Most people that try to be both are faking it. B.I.S. does so rather poorly. -mhw
www.bigislandshindig.com

The Bonobo Project gets metal right. Excuse me, they don't play metal, they play FUCKING METAL! The guitars are powerful, somehow crisp and dirty at the same time. The riffs never get boring, thanks in part to kick-ass guitar harmonies that come and go throughout the songs. The vocalist sometimes sounds a lot like Turbo Negro's lead, but he alters his tone right when he should; the diversity in the vocals is actually a treat not often found in their genre. Lyrics include shout-outs to Viagra and Pabst, but without the usual childishness of pop-culture references. The only lyrics less than stellar are found in Karl Across America, but hey, at least they're amusing. Really though, how can you write a song about Cleveland Steamers and the Dirty Sanchez intending for it to be taken seriously?

The recording quality of this album is confusing. The guitars are so present, and recorded so well, while the drums and vocals sound like they were recorded by a single room mic in a dilapidated basement. A "flawed" recording can add some desired grit to an album, but the Bonobo Project has enough grit to spare. Their next album would benefit from extra attention paid to vocal and drum tracks.
I'm looking forward to seeing this band live and hearing future recordings. If you like FUCKING METAL, Bonobo Project's self titled album is definitely worth checking out. -pk
www.bonoboproject.com

(Sigh). I can’t criticize the quality of this album too much, because CART! knowingly called it D.E.M.O. But it’s one of those frustrating “live” albums that sounds like the product of a lonely, under-qualified microphone hanging in the middle of a room. So as an album, D.E.M.O. is best left alone. BUT! The one thing a crappy live recording is good for is hinting at the potential of a sweet live show. If the raucous avant-punk sounds on D.E.M.O. capture even half the energy of a CART! performance, I hope they employ some very large men insuring nobody gets hurt amid the chaos. The music is intelligent, funny and forceful with a blend of punk, surf and, for lack of better explanation, noise that shakes the nails out of the floorboards. And the catch is, after seeing such a show as I expect from them, I could imagine wanting to own this album to hold on to just a small echo of its power. -mwh
www.carttheband.com

The Charmparticles make music that feels like warm water: comfortable, life affirming, fun to swim around in. Droney and planetarium, like My Bloody Valentine, but with the rock riffness that Catherine Wheel so cleverly disguised on their first album, Sit Down for Staying will direct your stare in the proper downward direction. Shoes untied? Listen to this album and soon you will find out.

They have the genre locked. I am sure I have pedal envy. And something should be said of the voices on this album. Adam’s is strong and solid and occasionally delves into the falsetto/vibrato realm of the late Jeff Buckley, with moderate success. Pamela’s voice? Silvery and heartbreaking, leaving you lingering with a sweet but vague memory, like falling in love in a dream. Could be the reverb. The best moments on Sit Down are when the voices breathe together, forming nebulous, opaline harmonies that tickle the back of your throat and make with the fuzziness in your brain. -sh
www.charmpaticles.com

I stopped seriously listening to Rap music in 1995, so forgive any ignorance on my part in this review. Why did I stop? Commercialism, Sean Combs, Rap-Rock, and Wiggers pretty much sum it up. Like many people, I will claim that I listened to Hip-Hop in it’s golden era. A time before the mainstream took it over, where even the majors were putting out solid acts. Nowadays, popular rap artists are too busy working on their TV or movie roles, with all the various endorsements, to work on solid albums. As soon as mini-mall white dudes in oversized jerseys started calling me “dog”, I decided I was out. My music sensibilities always tell me that when something gets too popular, it’s just not cool anymore. This is unfortunate, because just as a suffering lineup in the mainstream has been an absolute boon for underground rock, it has nurtured a burgeoning underground hip-hop scene, as well.

Terrance Scott, a.k.a. Cool Nutz, is obviously a hard working individual, and his project Collabos, which is a collection of collaborations he has done through the years on various albums, is a testament to that work ethic. Imagine a heart that has to pump blood from Portland, through Sacto, the bay, LA, across Texas to the Fifth Ward, through the Dirty South, up to Philly and New York, back across the midwest to Seattle, returning for oxygen in Portland. The metaphor reflects his phone list, tour schedule and latest release all in one.

I’d like to say the album has a Portland sound, but I don’t know what the Portland sound is. I’d like to call it West Coast, but it’s bigger than that. I hear the G-funk glide of LA, the Bounce of the Bay, and the stripped down spooky Southern style. Lyrically, I hear the lazy, sing song spits of the west along with the busier lyrical barrages of the east.

Collabos is hip-hop universal. Like our global economy, it needs not a country of origin, but only a cunning CEO. You think your Indie band has it bad? Imagine trying to produce hip-hop out of Portland. Cool Nutz does it well, for while he is proud to represent Portland, he is also aware that without alliances nationwide, the ship won’t sail.

The album itself has a large cast of characters including Spice 1, Yukmouth, Mac Dre, and B-legit of The Click fame along with his closest collaborators, his partner Bosko, Poppa LQ, and label mate Maniac Lok. While the diversity of tracks might take away from the cohesiveness of the project as a whole, this album would be a good introduction to where your home town fits on the hip-hop map. Most rap listeners are reluctant to hear anything that doesn’t come from the Bay, LA, New York, or the South, even if the artist is local to the area. That is a big mistake! If you think there’s nothin’ hard coming out of Portland you would be very misinformed. This shit is straight up hip-hop. Crossover Outkast fans need not apply.

The Portland Rock underground could learn a lot from the type of unity I see represented by Collabos, and the tenacity of Terrance Scott and associates. Portland residents could learn a lot about underground hip-hop if they just listened to one of their neighbors, Cool Nutz. Give it a try, Collabos is a great beginning if you don’t know where to start. The shit is dope and grown locally.
Stand out Tracks: Rude Boyz, Behind the Scenes, Thug Shit, Shiesty Cats, Holla What’s Up. -nno
www.jusfamilyrecords.com

Dear God,

Why do you let people make crappy music in your name? This isn’t about The Covering, they’re just doing what you want them to. But with songs like The Sun (NOTE: not “Son”) Will Come Again, Run to You and Lost In Your Love, it feels like you’re not even trying anymore. When the baroque composers tried to define the heavens with music, that was awesome. But this shit is so base. Are you trying to convert the godless heathens that rule popular music? Because we don’t have a place for you here. You try and hide your intentions with wafer thin veils, but when we hear words like “bless,” “holy,” and “lord” our godless ears perk up and we say “Is this God-rock? No wonder it’s so fucking awful.” I’m glad you’ve given the kids something to play on retreats and during youth ministry. But this isn’t music, it’s gospel - something I have no desire or authority to comment on directly. No, this bigger issue is between you and me, God, though I doubt I’ll be hearing much from you in the future.
Thanks for caring,
mhw
www.thecoveringmusic.com

“Only electrons from here until your eardrums,” is one of my favorite lyrics ever. It’s one of many great one-liners on Blowout. However, prolifically entertaining lyrics are only the tip of the iceberg of goodness that is Dat’r. Their music manages to be dance-y and fun without crossing the ever-dreaded campy line. Amazing drum beats keep your foot tapping (which is dangerous to do on the gas pedal when you listen to Blowout in the car, as I know from a recent speeding ticket). The keyboards and guitars are in loving competition with each other to prove which is more important for any given song. It’s almost as if one instrument says, “Look at me! Look how cool I am,” then backs off to let its buddy have a shot at glory too. It’s a neat trick that keeps the music more interesting than that of similar artists. The only reasons you should not own this ep are: 1) You despise smiling, or, 2) You don’t like good music and should not be reading this magazine. All in all, Dat’r is definitely one of my favorite new musical discoveries. -pk
www.perilymph.org

Dirty Shirley’s new, limited run, hand-made EP is as much a work of art as it is a collection of songs, and maybe even more so. The music itself seems to be down the list when it comes to this band’s priorities. What comes first is the personal touch that each album has. The packaging is first rate DIY, with half an envelope as the holder, a Polaroid on the cover that’s held in with those anchors used in old scrap-books, a hand drawn star next to the artistically uneven track list--oh, and a number written on the bottom. For me, that number is 16/100, and it proves that the band had fun making the cd.

The next priority is the creativity of the songs. One of the most interesting versions of Nancy Sinatra’s These Boots are Made for Walkin’ I’ve ever heard ends the album. The rest of the songs strive for depth through simplicity. The line, “I asked her to stay so I could cook her scrambled eggs on rye,” is a valiant attempt at this ethos, the failure being that it seems like a first draft.

In fact, the music in general sounds like a demo recorded with one mic on the band, and the singer in the next room, voicing herself straight into the recording device. The result is a separation between the music and the singer that’s too distracting. While the music is performed well, the riffs sound like the first thing that came into the guitar player’s head, and the bass, if there is one, is undiscernable.
What Dirty Shirley does well is make you feel like you’re someone they care about. The album is like a well-chosen postcard from a friend you haven’t heard from in years. It’s just too bad that the friend didn’t have enough room to write anything more eloquent. If this band works hard and puts as much passion and creativity into their music and recording as they do into their artwork, 100 copies of their next album will be far from enough to satisfy the number of people that will want it.-ib
www.geocities.com/dirtyshirleypdx

Before listening to The Film’s album, I was deceived by not only the packaging, but by their name as well. I thought The Film was an apt name for a sparse or instrumental “gentle rock” band, but in my Indie isolation, I forgot that people actually still play rock and roll. My first suggestion would be to adopt a more earthy name, grow your hair, wear vests with no shirt and bell bottom jeans. But enough of my image consultation, it’s far too valuable to be free.

The recording is very well done and, with three guitar players, that sound is particularly thick. At it’s best The Film sounds like a power-pop version of The Black Crowes, with a similar talent for Stonesy, country blues styled ballads. I heard a nod to Rocket from the Crypt, as well. At it’s worst, its a piano laced tribute to Train or The Counting Crows. Maybe it’s a matter of perspective, but I felt both ways, sometimes within the same song. I like it, I don’t like it. They’ve got a very talented vocalist, but sometimes the lyrics are a little cliche. The sound has a lot of power, but sometimes the song structure is too easy of a read.

Sometimes, though, I have to ask myself what I have against Rock, especially the country-fried variety. They’ve got three guitars like Skynyrd and a singer that sounds a whole bunch like Chris Robinson, what’s not to love? I hear a genuine feeling and dedication in every song, and the production is pretty awesome. For some reason though, “Mr. Jones” won’t leave me alone. There’s a little mid-thirties adult contempo radio type of sensibility in this stuff that makes me wince a little bit. My tastes, though, are pretty narrow.
So, in summation, messenger bag toting geeks with high waters that listen to Broken Social Scene, stay away from this deceptive project. This is Southern Rock, not a mellow early morning affair. These guys need a new name, like Whisky Grits or something.
This is hip grind, not sensitive embrace, it needs something with more balls. The name is my biggest complaint, though, as the album is pretty solid.
P.S. There’s a goofy ass secret track, too. “I can’t feel my fucking legs, man!!” -nno
www.thefilm.org

I swear to Mercury (the Greek god, that is) I’ve heard this band before. I’ve heard these songs somewhere. I was sure, for instance, that the sparse and gentle Lullaby Song was actually a Toad the Wet Sprocket tune, and I was completely befuddled when Google would not return the results I wanted. I spoke with the band on the matter, and as it turns out, Lullaby Song has had radio play. But I never listen to the radio, so that didn’t help. They said it was on some obscure compilation at one point, but that didn’t ring any bells either.

Maybe it’s Matt Sheehy’s strong and catchy voice, Jarhid Brown’s complicated and flawless drumming, or the epic songs themselves. But something about Gravity and Henry is simply familiar. That fact is a mixed blessing. Regardless of the quality of the music, I’m always distracted by the nagging, “How do I know this?”. But at the same time, it’s music that resonates with the listener immediately.
Lullaby Song is one of a few “singles” on the album. On the other end of the sonic spectrum is March 4th, an explosion of energy and riffs that starts with a quiet but tense Sheehy singing over a rhythm which goes back and forth between a three/four and five/four time signature, but never loses even the casual listener. Then there’s the radio-ready Shit for Laughing, which carries on in the tradition of Simon and Garfunkle, before building up and launching into something just as palatable but more modern (double bass drums, anyone?) and dynamic (time for a quiet backwards guitar solo? Anyone? Yes, you in the back.)

In short, it’s music that a mother would be proud of, without losing its edge. It’s not particularly original, but still heartfelt and moving. -ib
www.gravityandhenry.com

If I heard Astronauts in 1996, before I discovered Ben Folds Five's first album, I'd probably really like it. Unfortunately for Here Comes Everybody, Ben Folds Five did the piano-based-rock-thing first, and they did it better. All the songs on Astronauts are pleasantly radio-friendly, but unoriginal. The lyrics are at times laughable, then guilt provoking because you realize they were meant to be taken seriously. It's like getting asked out by a really fat person. Michael Jarmer's lead vocals are rich in timbre, which almost makes up for the words he's singing. The occasional synth sound is utilized which prevents the listener of burning out on piano. The mix was done very well-especially the backup vocals and harmonies. They sit perfectly behind the lead vocals to accent rather than distract. This album is a notch above mediocre, so my copy will go to someone with mediocre taste. They'll love it like I never could. -pk
www.herecomeseverybody.com

As I sit here in the July heat like a sauna with a garrote, I listen to the winter tales of Steven Kattenbraker. Part Eliot Smith, part L. Cohen, as run through the production wringer of Daniel Ash, his vauge plaintive woes are breathily sung out in the standard double tracked fashion that has come to instill a melonhcoly as much as the tremolo pedal has. There aren’t a lot of hooks here, it is all stream of conciousness: music, lyrics, the flow from song to song, all a river of thoughts. Not to say it is aimless but rather like being in a very large field, and you’re standing in the middle and every direction you go just proves to be more field. Sometimes there are cows, sometimes a horse or a farmer making cowboy coffee on a wood stove.

Kattenbraker’s baritone voice is pleasant and soothing. The guitar work sweet and mellow and, might I add, deftly played. As a whole, this eponymous CD is not unlike drinking chamomile tea at the end of a particularly heartwrenching day. -sh
stevenkattenbraker@hotmail.com

You know those girls in high school who did theater and had poetry readings and owned all of Tori Amos’ CDs? Yeah, they’ll LOVE Myrrh Larsen. His androgynous look/voice perfectly suits his eerie sound. It hovers between moods, never touching down on solid emotions for too long. Myrrh’s high whispy voice is akin to a feminine Bryan Adams--and there’s an air his songs share with Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman, helped in no small part by occasional flamenco-esque guitar solos (not Myrrh’s, btw). The album is short, and that’s including two versions of one song, but the ensemble is great--taking Myrrh’s music to a level it would never reach in the boy-with-guitar category. While a good album for the right crowd (see above), Here In My Arms stands out as an awesome, if melancholy, love song that crosses all genres. It captures the seasickness of longing, the righteousness of demand and the humility of need with it’s changes in tone and key. A couple more songs of this caliber would make the album a smash. As is, it’s a debut that will get the right people’s attention to plant seeds for the future. -mhw
www.myrrhmusic.com

There is an angel inside Gena Mason, but I suspect it is one of those fallen angels that wreak havoc, like those earth bound in that Prophesy movie starring Christopher Walken. Spent a little too much time walking the gritty midnight streets, making friends with sidewalk sleepers and stray dogs. Falling in love but realizing that angels and mortals don’t mix well and cursing the bossman for sending her here in the first place. Embittered, she takes solace in her studio apartment, no TV, just a lot of Velvet Underground.
Then out comes The Queen, a five song ode to surviving. Recorded entirely by herself (minus the drums and viola), Gena shows herself to be self-reliant, talented, and ambitious. With its liberal use of the tambourine and the fuzzy Lou Reed style guitar lines, it tends to be heavily reminiscent of the afore mentioned Underground, even to the point that the first track is called I’ll Be Your Mirror. No, it’s not a cover and she’s not Nico. Gena’s voice has a gravel that Nico didn’t have, or didn’t use if she did. And sometimes Gena employs a growl that, honestly, seems a bit forced, but not like she doesn’t mean it, because clearly she does. Like I said, there is an angel inside Mason, but one that wants to go home and knows she can’t. -sh
www.genamason.com

Once upon a time, back in the eighties, there was a little town called L.A. There, bands that had big hair and wore tight fitting spandex played power-chord rock music on what was called “the strip”. They started to dominate the scene, and eventually, the airwaves. Alternately, there were bands, such as The Replacements, that would play away from “the strip”. They had more raw, punk aesthetic, but still retained the power pop sensibility that the kids were so fond of those days. A few years later, in the early nineties, in a town called Seattle, a backlash of the L.A. scene erupted. It was called grunge. Then ten years passed.

On Lasterdays, Mission to Mars revisits that period between the alternative to “the strip” and grunge. If this album had been made fifteen years ago it might have been prophetic, if not revolutionary. Track 8, Don Drysdale, is a good example that bridges the strip/grunge gap. It starts out slow and heavy, then it pop-rocks its way out of the bridge to the “woo-hoo-hoo” ending. The album would be better off with more songs like it. But then again, it is the only song that feels like it is less than ten years old. Still, it’s a common occurance on Lasterdays: great hooks leading into so-so rock songs.

Not to say there aren’t some great rock moments on Lasterdays. The opening riff to Wash and Wear fucking kills. And Philip Golden takes his music seriously and has no problem mixing his politics with his pleasure. He often touches on adult issues with very little subterfuge. He doesn’t hide his ideas in clever wordplay, he just wants you to know what he’s thinking. So, if post-punk rock and roll and open introspection is your bag, then by all means pick up Lasterdays and rock to your hearts content. -sh
www.stereotyperecords.com

I like it. The opening track, Mount Saint Helens, is reminiscent of Neutral Milk Hotel and I think it represents the genre this act fits into. That genre is Non-Jam hippie bands. With very nice acoustic and slide guitar work, the album breaks from its Elephant 6 beginning and goes into a little sentimental country music becoming more similar to The Beachwood Sparks, complete with references to the rain and the corn and the trees (oh we can’t forget the trees).

Like a good character in a story the album itself changes and develops. It goes from gentle country back into it’s earth pop tendencies in Apples and Oranges and then in The Village leads, surprisingly, despite how I described this genre, into a jam. Don’t think I’m contradicting myself, because the type of jam I am referring to is where the divergence between types of hippie bands occurs. Are you a Deadhead or a Pink Floyd fan? Not to say these fans are exclusive, but by asking the question, you can differentiate between the styles, the mouse that roared being of the latter school.

Pink Floyd led the way for Tortoise and the other Thrill Jockey dudes, or bands like The Album Leaf. The Dead lead the way for Phish, Widespread, String cheese, et al. There is a great difference between lineage’s. So when I call these guys a hippie band it’s not an insult by any means, if anything it’s flattery. I’m a hippie, but I hate Jam-bands.
The production’s awesome, the playing is deft, and the music is mellow. Drop out. Grow your hair. Smoke dope. Just leave the noodling at home. -nno
www.circleofthunder.com/mousethatroared/

Phish ruined it for everybody. Because The Sham isnt really trying to do the Phish thing, but there are enough parallels that the bands will get lumped together: The ensemble is tight; their riffs are creative; they blend styles from reggae to country and sometimes the vocals sound eerily similar to Trey and Page. The problem with getting put in the Phish barrel is that Phish released so much music, they pretty much saturated the market. I never need to hear anything Phish-y again, not that I haven’t already heard, anyway. And that’s just too bad for The Sham, because they’re fucking good. They have their own merits, like not indulging in too many protracted jams. The ever-present trombone is most interesting when kept in the background as it adds an odd quality to the ensemble which hides unless you listen hard - try the title track Wide Awake. As We Are showcases some blazing guitar work. Supergiant is just waiting for George Clinton to break out some funk lyrics. So, Damn the Jam! Portland should be proud of this ensemble, not for finding new waters, but for being a big fish in our own special pond. -mhw
www.shammusic.com

The cement floor is sticky with beer and many sweaty bodies are pumping fists into the air and slamming into each other with drunken abandon. Replete with that simple “bendy, dissonant guitar” solo thing and the occasional mantra “tonk” of the cowbell, SK and his Punk Ass Bitches drive us into a rock and roll frenzy with their “fuck you” attitude and chunky guitar power chords. Not since the Reverend Horton Heat has a three piece given us reason to throw up, give primal screams, and keep drinking until we pass out in the bathroom. And while the Rev’s dice and martini loungeabilly shtick worked coming out of the gin soaked eighties, SK derives it’s power from shots of rotgut whiskey and smashing empty PBR cans on their heads in the “I’d rather not” oughts.

Giving us tales of meatheads “making it”, and the trials and tribulations of being in Wyoming, The Bitches are doing their part, franticly, to save “rock and roll”. However, I found myself wanting more screaming guitar solos. You know, 32nd note flurries, a whammy bar dive or two, a string scrape. Shit, I’ll even settle for simple melody. A guitar player doesn’t need to walk on water to impress me, but a nice musical sermon I’ll sit and listen to. Being the self-proclaimed messiahs of fucking-a Rock and Roll, is it too much to ask for a finger tap.

If this album were the last supper I would liken SK and the Punk Ass Bitches to the impetuous Peter or the vengeful Paul. SK and Punk Ass Bitches: Apostles, definitely. Saviors, mmm, maybe not so much. -sh
www.skandthepunkassbitches.com

The Wanted’s sole member, Tommy Harrington, has connected sonic dots from some of the great sad-pop bands of my youth. Bored is a happier cousin of the Smashing Pumpkin’s Disarm--Harrington’s voice even carries the same frail quality as Billy Corgan’s while playing humble and touching acoustic riffs. Track 2, You Never Do, could have very well been stolen from a Cure album. That he’s doing this all himself is impressive to say the least and any comparisons are compliments.

So what’s the catch? Many of the songs are too long, extending past their catchy staying power. When heard alone, any song on the album is a jewel but trying to get through the album in total (as we critics do) somehow waters down the experience. Best to start in the middle with Maybe I Wont. It is the Marry Poppins exception to any complaint against this album; practically perfect in every way. Listening to it, you can just imagine yourself walking in the rain, having that cinematic revelatory moment that everything is going to be ok. And for all the grey and gloom of sad-pop music, people always find redemption in the release. -mhw
www.thewanteds.com