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This Legacy Edition of Couldn't Stand The Weather commemorates the 20th anniversary of Stevie Ray Vaughan's premature death.
It's an expanded version of the 1984 album, the second of four the great Texan axeman and his backing rhythm section Double Trouble made that decade, which did so much to revitalize rhythm and blues together with the work of Robert Cray and Jeff Healey.
Their first album, Texas Flood, released the previous year, was the biggest-selling blues album for 20 years, and this one did even better. Couldn't Stand The Weather reached out further to mainstream rock audiences who admired what Vaughan could do with his Fender Stratocaster, and while his vocal range may have been relatively limited, he certainly knew how to put a song's lyrics across.
As always, there is excellent support from Tommy Shannon on bass and Chris Layton on drums, who provide a solid springboard from which to launch Vaughan's guitar fireworks. And although his technical ability to produce a wide variety of effects was phenomenal it always served the music.
This Legacy Edition contains two CDs (with extensive liner notes): the first disc features the original album's eight tracks plus 11 outtakes from the recording sessions of that time; the second showcases a concert the band gave in Montreal just three months after the album's release.
However, the album itself was first remastered in 1999, with four of these outtakes added then, while four of the other outtakes had already been included on the posthumous 1991 compilation album The Sky Is Crying, so only three outtakes here are previously unreleased. And though the recording of the concert is a new release, it does overlap heavily in terms of material with other live albums already available. Nonetheless, if hardcore Vaughan fans won't get too much extra value from this repackaging, this is still a terrific introduction for newcomers.
It's true that Couldn't Stand The Weather does not really break any new ground after the debut album, with only four songs by Vaughan (including two instrumentals), plus four covers. But even if the songwriting does not progress, with the band on top of their game it goes down a storm.
The title track (recorded in front of a live audience) is one of Vaughan's best compositions, with a funkier sound than usual. Voodoo Child (Slight Return) is an impressive account of the rock classic by Jimi Hendrix (one of Vaughan's big heroes and influences), as he stakes his claim to be considered one of the great man's successors.
Tin Pan Alley (aka Roughest Place In Town), the longest track at over nine minutes, is a slow, smouldering blues number, which proves to any doubters that Vaughan's could play guitar with considerable delicacy and depth of feeling as well as blistering power and virtuosic technique. And the jazz instrumental Stang's Swang adds welcome variety.
The additional tracks include previously unreleased versions of the wonderfully soulful cover of the Elmore James ballad The Sky Is Crying, the James-influenced Boot Hill and an alternate take on Stang's Swang minus tenor sax. There's also Vaughan playing slide guitar for a change on Give Me Back My Wig, a breathless account of the pioneering blues-rock guitarist Lonnie Mack's instrumental Wham! and the Grammy Award-winning instrumental cover of Hendrix's Little Wing.
On disc two all except the opening track of Couldn't Stand The Weather are put through their paces in a live arena showing Vaughan could well and truly deliver the goods at the sharp end without any studio trickery. It also features five tracks from Texas Flood, including storming opener rock instrumental Testify, the beautifully gentle, free-form Lenny and probably Vaughan's best-known song Pride And Joy bringing the gig to a rousing climax.
It's bitterly ironic that, having kicked his potentially lethal drink and drug habits, Vaughan should be killed in a helicopter accident aged only 35, but his outstanding musical legacy lives on. (Neil Dowden)
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100 Miles From Memphis is a sea change for Sheryl Crow. In place of her usual acoustic pop tunes, Crow has returned to the kind of music she loved as a kid growing up in the shadow of one of America's hottest soul hotbeds. The result finds her sounding more at home and effortlessly exuberant than she has since Tuesday Night Music Club.
Amid the white noise of the soul revival (see Amy Winehouse and Duffy) Crow sounds refreshingly genuine. Her road-worn voice seems made for these tunes and, alongside co-producer Doyle Bramhall II, she's created a completely convincing window into the joyful golden age of soul. But it's not just nostalgia or an attempt to recapture bygone sounds; Crow lends the album the feel of the prodigal returning home to open the fire hydrants and dance in the street.
Crow still treads the same lyrical ground she always has: sunshine, searching for connection, questioning the American political climate. She's just changed the method of delivery. Sure, there's a bit of the usual Sheryl Crow politics (as on the sombre Say What You Want) threatening to rain on the parade, but the fun wins out.
Our Love Is Fading opens the album with a dose of soul-blues, and establishes Crow as a capable bandleader, perhaps under the whirling lights at a roller rink. "Some day when you're older, and you search the world over, you might wish you could hold someone," she sings amid building B3 organ and escalating horns.
Keith Richards contributes guitar work to the reggae-styled Eye To Eye. Citizen Cope sings along on Sideways. Justin Timberlake does a bit of background vocals on Terence Trent D'Arby's mid-tempo brooding jam, Sign Your Name. Here, Crow sings "Sign your name across my heart. I want you to be my baby" while forcing Timberlake to fade into the background, and managing to upstage his neo-soul tenor at every turn.
Lead single Summer Day channels the same let-the-sun-shine vibe as 2008's Soak Up The Sun, but the old soul sound fuses with the message to give it a nearly transcendental wonderfulness. "A summer day that I recall, you came into my life and you let me fall in love," she sings amid horns, strings, and backup singers.
But the most thrilling track on the album is the bonus track, a spot-on cover of The Jackson 5's I Want You Back. It's here, in her faithful recreation of a young Michael Jackson's controlled, soulful wail that Crow reveals herself at her truest; she's obviously a student of soul who's been living in seclusion for too long.
Where will 100 Miles From Memphis land with listeners? There's a good chance that will alienate some of Sheryl Crow's fan base, so far removed is it from her previous body of work. There's also a chance that devotees of the soul revival will dismiss Crow as a poseur. But one listen to the album reveals that, at least in her mind, she's the genuine article, and that she's feeling the need to let herself loose. (Andrew Burgess)
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It's refreshing in an era of music bandwagon jumping that Sade has managed to glide through the last two decades seemingly untouched by anything resembling change. Their (and they are a band) sound has become synonymous with '80s sophistication and yet it's also strangely unique to them and them alone, elevated above most smooth R&B by Sade Adu's sumptuous vocals.
Given this context, it's not surprising that Soldier Of Love - only their sixth album in 25 years - doesn't mess with the formula too much. The excellent title track and first single is the only real curve ball, featuring a startlingly insistent drum pattern. Elsewhere, Babyfather is a dubby, near-reggae concoction that features some neat vocal interplay and shows what can happen when the band explore different horizons.
But if you're looking for stark experimentation then Sade aren't the band for you. With most acts this kind of militant denial of evolution would seem counter-productive. Yet somehow this hermetically sealed way of working suits them. Tracks like the gorgeous Morning Bird and the swirling In Another Time are as comforting as slipping on an old jumper.
As with all of their records, there's an obvious sense of hiding their light under a bushel. These are songs that can sashay straight past you if you're not careful, but producer Stuart Matthewman (whose work with Maxwell sounds equally poured over) slips in subtle moments such as the twinkling percussion on Morning Bird and the slow-burn backing on opener The Moon And The Sky. This unfussy backdrop allows Adu's voice to shine; to cloak it in anything more isn't really an option.
Whilst it's difficult to work up a sweat about Soldier Of Love - and there are stretches where the album fades into obscurity, the epitome of background music - it's a beautifully constructed album from an enduring band unafraid to mess with a sound that has influenced many. It's best to remember, however, that if you are disappointed with this then the next one isn't due for another 10 years. - Michael Cragg -
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When you're as big a musician as Carlos Santana, you can get away with self-indulgent projects, like an album of covers, and enlist several of your rock star friends to provide the vocals. Santana, who has created some classics of his own - Black Magic Woman, Oye Come Va and more recently Smooth, the 1999 mega hit featuring Rob Thomas - pays homage to everyone's favorite air-guitar songs on his new album Guitar Heaven: The Greatest Guitar Classics Of All Time, and goes slightly overboard in the process.
This is essentially an album to showcase Santana's prowess on strings, and Guitar Heaven seems to rely entirely on meaty riffs to the detriment of the performances themselves. Yet it opens with some promise as Chris Cornell leads the way to Led Zeppelin's Whole Lotta Love. Santana doesn't tamper with Jimmy Page's original notes and Cornell proves once again that he's one of the greatest voices in rock, delivering the lyrics with conviction and an intensity akin to that of Robert Plant.
Too bad then that the performances on the rest of the album are plain insipid. Stone Temple Pilots singer Scott Weiland's version of The Rolling Stones' Can't You Hear Me Knocking fails to deliver its vigour and Chris Daughtry's rendition of Def Lepperd's Photograph is like one of those covers you hear on popular TV talent shows. The Deep Purple classic Smoke On The Water, reinterpreted by Jacoby Shaddix of Papa Roach, is better left unheard, like AC/DC's Back In Black. It's hard to imagine anyone singing it with the same ferocity as Brian Johnson. Jay-Z often does a decent cover live, but here Nas fails in his effort to create a rap-rock fusion. Instead, it's a predictable mish-mash with a gratuitous rap and unnecessary female backing vocals.
The Doors keyboardist Ray Manzarek should really stop whoring out Doors classics. He joins Linkin Park frontman Chester Bennington for a bland performance of Riders On The Storm. Jim Morrison must be rolling in his grave - and that's to say nothing of Marc Bolan. Gavin Rossdale emerged from his wife Gwen Stefani's shadow long enough to record the T Rex hit Bang A Gong. Press stop and download The Power Station's 1985 cover instead, sung by Robert Palmer, with guitar work provided by Duran Duran's Andy Taylor, who simply nails it.
Soul star India.Arie and cellist Yo Yo Ma commit the most unforgivable crime of all. They massacre The Beatles masterpiece While My Guitar Gently Weeps by giving it a new age vibe, stripped of its bittersweet melancholy and offset by Santana's not-so-weeping guitar. In fact, his style borders on metal throughout the album, and the solos sound the same in every song. A bit of his famed Latin flair would have given them shape and panache. Granted, the point of a cover version isn't to re-record the exact same thing but to give it a twist. Yet there are very few twists and far lesser turns here.
Sadly, expert guitar playing cannot carry an album. Moreover, it is too sterile and obsessively arranged, and the majority of the vocals lack that rock fierceness. Everyone is playing it too safe, with the production geared towards something mainstream and pop-oriented rather than experimentation and reinterpretation. Only Rob Thomas, who owes Santana his international stardom, adds flavor to Cream's Sunshine Of Your Heart and Joe Cocker character to Little Wings, a decent cover of the Jimi Hendrix classic.
Guitar Heaven is Santana's idea of Rock Band and recorded simply because he can afford himself little luxuries. Here's to hoping that his next album of original material, set for release next spring, will be a little more hedonistic. (Talia Soghomonian)
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Aww, little Justin Bieber. Butter wouldn't melt, would it? Just look at his cute little dimples, his nicely combed hair, the way he pouts like a big grown up boy. Bless! Oh, look - he's playing piano in a mall! I bet he's singing about swimming or summer camp or something... Wait, what?
Okay, so it's not young Justin's fault that the sight and sound of tweenie popstars singing about deep commitment issues will freak some of us out. In fact, we're clearly in the minority: My Worlds is a combination of the My World debut album and My World 2.0 EPs, the former having topped charts, the latter already a Billboard Number 1 and selling by the bucketload Stateside.
Bieber, from Stratford, Ontario, was signed by Usher at just 13 years of age, and is still just a lad at 16. Such youth is - initially, at least - a little disarming: the first few bars of opening track One Time have the feel of pre-school programming, Justin's boyish tones more evocative of a gang show than a youthful R&B Lothario.
That impression, however, is one that doesn't last; One Time blossoms into a slicker-than-slick production, its catchy chorus hooking into its intended audience with all the imitable requisites. It's hardly rocket science, but neither does it claim to be: it does exactly what it says on the tin, as they say.
Thereafter tracks (from My World, especially) exhibit a disappointing-yet-seemingly-inevitable tendency to blend into one another, both aurally and lyrically: Favourite Girl trades on a light, disposable hip-hop backing, Bieber's adopted maturity and authority ("You're my special little lady") somewhat at odds with his - and his audience's - years.
Bigger, similarly, sees young Justin elevated to sexy adulthood ("Heartbreaker when I was little / But now I'm bigger") over an otherwise innocuous track, while One Less Lonely Girl - after Down To Earth has provided the obligatory piano ballad - makes what a cynic would call an unashamed and unapologetic attempt to woo every tween girl so inclined to lend an ear.
Merits are to be found, however, such as Love Me's Euro-inspired electro take on The Cardigans' Love Fool, and My World 2.0's lead single Baby - featuring Ludacris, obviously - which is already bothering the charts, its neat production and soaring chorus in this instance saving My Worlds' midsection from sagging into obscurity.
Somebody To Love (not a cover of the Queen classic) then introduces a stronger dance element - doffing a cap to Lady Gaga, perhaps - before Stuck In The Moment's harmless progression namechecks famous tragic couples like a Taylor Swift track, U Smile engages classic pop principles with panache, and Eenie Meenie benefits from the not inconsiderable talents - and appeal - of Sean Kingston.
My Worlds, it seems, while never particularly innovative, is largely free of filler, and is for the most part an effective conduit for Bieber's singing and songwriting talents. Okay, so it's aimed fairly squarely at a particularly receptive market - and it may not wind up in the hands of those whose teenage years are just a memory - but there's enough here to suggest that Justin Bieber will be a familiar pop name in the years to come. (David Welsh)
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Who, deep down doesn't love Kylie? Sure, there was a time when she was genuinely a bit naff - the dreg ends of the Stock, Aitken and Waterman era, for example; and 2007's X was just plain forgettable. But somewhere, throughout the past two decades, there's something for even the most stoney faced pop fan.
Whether it was bubble-permed, fresh faced Kylie singing Hand On Your Heart, or naughty, indie Kylie hanging off Michael Hutchence's arm, teasing with Confide In Me and purring away with Nick Cave, or the disco queen who gave the world the insatiable dance floor filler Can't Get You Out Of My Head - they were all era-defining moments, and they all had something in common; they showed Kylie at her most vulnerable.
She was young, then she was rebellious and, with the latter song, the one that transformed her into a genuine superstar, she was a woman clambering for survival, desperate to resurrect her career.
That's the thing we love about Kylie - she's a little elfin creature, hanging on the edge. If rumours are true and she really was the intended vocalist for the Manic Street Preachers' duet with Traci Lords, Little Baby Nothing, well, it could have been the most perfect piece of pop-casting ever made.
That is why this, her 11th album in 23 years, fails to quite hit the spot. At the age of 42 she's been through so much - her battle with cancer, her widely reported love affairs with wrong 'uns, the ups and downs of a long and turbulent career - but she's come out on the other side more self-assured and confident, and as a result, the sparkle's diminished.
That's not to say it's bad - far from it; there are five brilliant songs on here. The title track, for example, is sassy and triumphant, with tribal drums that give way to her now trademark twitchy electro sound - "I'm fierce and I'm feeling mighty, I'm a golden girl I'm an aphrodite...don't you mess with me, you don't want to fight me," she warns.
Opening song All The Lovers is a sophisticated Goldfrapp-esque track, with layers of synths and restrained vocals. It's got that downbeat, end of the night vibe favoured by Alison and co down to a tee and is destined to become a Kylie classic, although its positioning in the track listing feels a bit odd.
Closer has a curious, rolling prog backing that Muse would scrap for, while Cupid Boy has some time collaborator Calvin Harris's influence stamped all over it, right down to the get-the-crowd-jumping break down.
The Jake Shears-penned Too Much sounds like a Scissor Sisters b-side - a slice of start/stop disco funk that would reach its full potential on the dance floor.
Those five tracks are typical of Kylie's bizarre career. Neither a singer or songwriter of any real merit, she's seen off the competition throughout two decades of being pushed, moulded and sculpted into whatever those around her are feeling at the time. No one believes she loves bubblegum pop, brooding indie or ripping it up on the dance floor - it's just what she does, and somehow it works.
The world of girl fronted pop has changed since her last outing - whereas pre 2007 she was filling a void, that space has now been cluttered up with the likes of Lady Gaga and Pixie Lott but, with five singles sitting and waiting, Aphrodite is the record she needed. Just be prepared to hit 'skip'. (Helen Clarke)
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Long ago every other album was a rock opera with the tracks and artwork linked by some unifying theme or storyline. Such an approach has been pretty much ridiculed as pretentious since the late seventies but the format saw an unlikely revival in 2004 by Green Day whose American Idiot articulated the anxiety of a nation on the verge of war and saw the band reborn as protest rockers. The album sold 12 million copies worldwide. A tough trick to follow then but follow it they have — with a three part rock opera telling the story of two characters Christian and Gloria and the battle of idealism versus destruction. Many of the tracks here (Christian's Inferno, Peacemaker, The Static Age) are reworkings of the pop-punk sound of Dookie but without the goofy lyrics. Elsewhere they stretch themsleves into less familiar territory with cabaret (Viva La Gloria) piano balladry (Last Night On Earth), the pomp of Queen (title track) and Beatles style pop symphonies (Restless Heart Syndrome) — it’s on these less immediate tracks that Green Day really triumph and live up to the hype. Lyrically, it's a step up too and also notable is Billie Joe Armstrong’s impressive vocals which easily cope with the bands epic scope. Unlike most current albums 21st Century Breakdown works better when listened to as a whole but the downside to that (as with many films and books) is that it’s slightly too long. Most listeners though won’t be able to get enough of it. More to try: The Who: Quadrophenia Foxboro Hot Tubs: Stop Drop And Roll!!! The Clash: Sandinista Stiff Little Fingers: Inflammable Material
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Dirt is Alice in Chains' major artistic statement and the closest they ever came to recording a flat-out masterpiece. It's a primal, sickening howl from the depths of Layne Staley's heroin addiction, and one of the most harrowing concept albums ever recorded. Not every song on Dirt is explicitly about heroin, but Jerry Cantrell's solo-written contributions (nearly half the album) effectively maintain the thematic coherence -- nearly every song is imbued with the morbidity, self-disgust, and/or resignation of a self-aware yet powerless addict. Cantrell's technically limited but inventive guitar work is by turns explosive, textured, and queasily disorienting, keeping the listener off balance with atonal riffs and off-kilter time signatures. Staley's stark confessional lyrics are similarly effective, and consistently miserable. Sometimes he's just numb and apathetic, totally desensitized to the outside world; sometimes his self-justifications betray a shockingly casual amorality; his moments of self-recognition are permeated by despair and suicidal self-loathing. Even given its subject matter, Dirt is monstrously bleak, closely resembling the cracked, haunted landscape of its cover art. The album holds out little hope for its protagonists (aside from the much-needed survival story of "Rooster," a tribute to Cantrell's Vietnam-vet father), but in the end, it's redeemed by the honesty of its self-revelation and the sharp focus of its music. [Some versions of Dirt feature "Down in a Hole" as the next-to-last track rather than the fourth.] Steve Huey
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Cake, eh? If ever the world was in need of their lyrically astute, musically simple college rock, it's now. The fact that they have a new album due later this year has nothing to do with this re-issuing of this, their 1994 debut LP. It's just a coincidence. Motorcade Of Generosity, however, is far more than just a 15-year-old sales gimmick. It was the album that paved the way for McCrea and co's long-lasting, culturally-embedded career, and the forerunner of the band's varied, occasional hits (The Distance, Short Skirt/Long Jacket).
But it was also released in times when American college radio airplay held far greater significance in terms of mainstream success and the fortunes of such outfits. Usurped by an internet full of witty deadpanning, what further pleasures can be derived from a re-print of Cake's witty deadpanning of 15 years past?
If you're not familiar with the group, imagine, if you will, the two musicians who pop up now and then in There's Something About Mary, or the tune Jim Carrey whistles as he dunks a small child's head underwater in Me, Myself & Irene: here is a pop legacy built on charm, sarcasm, simplicity, and a lyrical confidence apparent in crystal-clear enunciation.
Motorcade shimmies into earshot with Comanche, an aurally sparse sprinkling of advice to Native Americans that seizes attention with John McCrea's trademark reigned-in draw, which is itself succeeded by Ruby Sees All, the loud-quiet stamp of riffery that presents itself - to varying extents - throughout the Cake discography.
With Jolene, the band drives Motorcade through its strongest passage. McCrea rallies passionately against the tedium suffocating the titular character, his lyrical tour de force augmented with the album's greatest riff and most fully realised cacophony. It's a snapshot of Cake in their early prime.
Haze Of Love carries the baton adeptly, serving as a further plateau of astute observation, whilst You Part The Waters exhibits the band in a jam session, all delicate guitar funk, extended solo allowances and a rather glorious vocal harmony crescendo.
Also on display is the sharp wit and playfulness of Jesus Wrote A Blank Cheque, as well as the band's debut single, Rock 'n' Roll Lifestyle, in which poseurs on both sides of the microphone are called to account for their phoney behaviour: "How much did you spend on your black leather jacket?" asks McCrea. "Is it you or your parents in this income tax bracket?"
Amid the final trio of tracks, Mr Mastodon Farm provides Motorcade with its figurative exclamation mark. As a simply layered, gradually unfurling, plainly poetic piece, it holds in equal measure the constituent ingredients of Cake's enduringly charming legacy.
And so, in spite of the time passed since its inception (or perhaps because of it), Motorcade Of Generosity transcends trends - of its era but not defined by it - and is as utterly listenable today as it was when Forrest Gump topped the box office. Not bad going for a bit of confection.
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This Legacy Edition of Couldn't Stand The Weather commemorates the 20th anniversary of Stevie Ray Vaughan's premature death.
