Unlike the giddy nonstop carnival atmosphere of Since I Left You, Silent Movie is, for lack of better categorization, a chillout album, even though it is just as much a creep-out, its most tranquil scenes seemingly on the verge of being washed away by a sudden ecological catastrophe. With the exception of “Circus of Horror” — scuzzy hurtling-through-a-dustbowl psych rock, replete with the howls of a man who sounds like he has been pitched into the Grand Canyon — and “Gold Rush” — a dead ringer for Scenic’s epic, tribal desert scores — everything passes with the force of a light breeze, evoking swaying hammocks, sun-bleached picnics, beached isolation, states of half-awake delirium, and the slowest-moving groups of stoned dancers imaginable. Though the new tracks, including the impossibly lush “Broken Promises” and the sparkling but arid “Singing Sand,” could hardly be accused of weighing down the album, it’s the previously released material that stands out most. Best of all is “Pillow Talk,” a reconfiguration of the Alan Parsons Project’s “Voyager/What Goes Up…” that can be disorienting in the most sterile environments. Bonus: It sounds like it was put together to flow directly into the Passions’ “I’m in Love with a German Film Star.”

In lieu of samples from the album, here are samples from some of the album’s sources:

The Alan Parsons Project - “Voyager”
Captain & Tennille - “Never Make Your Move Too Soon”
Janis Ian - “Fly Too High”
David McWilliams - “The Days of Pearly Spencer”
Gianni Marchetti - “Part-Y-Time”
The Chi-Lites - “The Coldest Days of My Life”

Despite the uniqueness of presentation and sound, all of this was novel, not novelty — a utopian melting pot on wax and on stage that flipped the script on some norms and mixed it up in every way. The multi-ethnic lineups, the outlandishly stylish and/or silly performance gear, and the music — a virtually unclassifiable mixture of vintage and modern sounds that melded disco, funk, soul, new wave, big band, early ’60s girl groups, Tin Pan Alley, show tunes, and nearly the entire Latin music spectrum — must have been conceived on another (much better) planet, and even the less ambitious and relatively tame recordings come off like big productions from people with not just grand ambitions but the ability to fulfill them; joy and oddness shoots forth from every groove. Though it’s a less-known B-side, Aural Exciters’ “Marathon Runner” exemplifies this, as well as Darnell’s balance between frivolous subjects and exquisite arrangements, containing a wicked midtempo funk rhythm, rollicking piano, romping horns, and the song’s winded subject, whose footsteps and breaths, audible over a chorus of vocalists cheering him on (”Go, man, go!” “Go, fool, run!”), reach a peak with a spent “Awhh, shit.”

Darnell was not averse to social commentary and digging up thought-provoking material, either. In the storming and nearly frantic “There But for the Grace of God Go I,” produced and written by Darnell and recorded by Machine, a Latino couple in the Bronx has a child and then “they gotta split ’cause the Bronx ain’t fit” to where there’s “no blacks, no Jews, and no gays.” From another angle, check the Don Armando remake of Irving Berlin’s “I’m an Indian Too,” from Annie Get Your Gun. Not exactly something you could — or can — take at face value.

Amongst the long-ago clued-in, arguments could be made about the disc’s tracklisting, but each one would likely end with a justification for second and third volumes. There’s no space here for “Maladie d’Amour,” “Yolanda,” “Darrio,” “Me No Pop I,” “Spooks in Space,” “Cherchez la Femme,” “Hard Times,” and several other just-as-worthy tracks from Darnell and his extended family. Additionally, the disc somewhat perversely contains the B-side of “Stool Pigeon” (the entirely deserving “Double on Back”) but not “Stool Pigeon” itself or the other U.K. Top Ten hits from 1982’s Tropical Gangsters, “Annie, I’m Not Your Daddy” and “I’m a Wonderful Thing Baby” (both of which, along with several other Darnell-related tracks, can be found on the recent and expanded reissue of Ze’s Mutant Disco compilation). It’s easy to think of what’s missing, but choosing what to take off the disc would be far more difficult (i.e., impossible). As is standard for the Strut label, the package contains plenty of photos, along with extensive liner notes, this time from journalist Vivien Goldman.

Highlights
Dr. Buzzard’s Original Savannah Band - “Sunshower”
Kid Creole & the Coconuts - “Going Places”
Machine - “There But for the Grace of God Go I”
Aural Exciters - “Marathon Runner”

A brief random sampling of other Darnell-related nuggets
Dr. Buzzard - “Cherchez la Femme”
 
 
 
 
 

Kid Creole & the Coconuts - “Yolanda”
 
 
 
 
 

Cristina - “Temporarily Yours”
 
 
 
 
 

Coati Mundi - “Que Pasa/Me No Pop I”
 
 
 
 
 

Ford paid the price for his behavior, dropping out of sight and alienating friends (the testimonials by Bobby Womack and PJ Proby here are heartbreaking, although they leave little question that they had to not see Ford in order to preserve their own sanity). His demons drove him underground but like many tortured artists, the art that Jim Ford produced was the opposite of his chaotic life: his songs flowed easily and naturally, simple in their structure yet clever in their words and melodies. That is as true to this collection of 16 songs — all but the 1968 single “Look Again” previously unreleased, but that’s so rare it virtually counts as unreleased — as it was on the music on The Sounds of Our Times. The songs here ever so slightly emphasize his country side, surfacing primarily as the thick country-funk that distinguished Harlan Country but also the slick ’70s shine of “If You Can Get Away (She Don’t Need Me Like I Need You),” where Ford falls for a Rodeo Drive cowgirl and cuts a single that could have been a soft-rock hit if he had only gotten his act together. Songs like this bolster his boast that he could have delivered a hit record if the price was right, but that price was never met, so he left behind gem after gem… at least it seems that way based on the unreleased tapes Bear Family has dug up, as Point of No Return is every bit as excellent as Sounds.

The music here is a continuation of the unreleased cuts there, right down to how this offers a slow version of “Go Through Sunday,” a rewrite of “She Turns My Radio On” (here spun to be a gospel tune), and a different version of “I Wonder What They’ll Do with Today” called “Whicha Way,” but also in how Ford’s country blends with his soul obsessions, most wickedly so in “If I Go Country,” a plea to get back to the land that’s dressed up in blaxploitation funk. That’s the only big, brassy funk tune here; when Ford gets soulful, it’s a bit quieter, as on the soulful “Harry Hippie” and slow-burning “Sweet Baby Mine (You Just A…),” which has a counterpoint in the dirtier, fuzz-toned funk of “Don’t Hold Back What You Feel.” There are also a couple of polished roots-pop tracks here that very much sound like the end of the ’60s — “Point of No Return,” “Look Again” — but the heart of the new stuff is in the country, in the rocking ramble “Mill Valley,” the slow-rolling tear-in-my-beer “Just Cause I Can,” a cover of Eddy Arnold’s “Bouquet of Roses” and, best of all, “Stoppin’ to Start,” a clever ode to the bottle. Of course, that addiction is what sunk Ford personally and professionally, but somehow through that haze he left behind a wealth of remarkable music, music that only gets better the longer that you live with it, music that makes a significant argument that he’s one of the great unsung country-rock songwriters of the ’60s and ’70s. Those talents are as easy to appreciate here, on a full-blown collection of rarities, as they were on Harlan County and The Sounds of Our Time… and with any luck, the promise of yet another volume of Jim Ford tapes in the liner notes to Point of No Return will indeed come true somewhere down the road.

That quicksilver speed is the key to Momofuku, what separates it from all the albums Elvis Costello has cut in the decade since he signed with Universal. Almost every record from 1998’s {^Painted from Memory on has had a conceptual thrust - even 2002’s When I Was Cruel was designed as a back-to-basics - but not this. It’s merely a collection of 12 songs, all bashed out in a matter of weeks, not an album that’s been labored over for months. Ironically enough, that rush of creative energy gives Momofuku a unified feel so it holds together as well, if not better, than such recent records as When I Was Cruel, which felt too deliberate in its classicism, or The Delivery Man which was only wanting for the kinetic energy that this has in spades. That dynamic energy is down entirely to the speed of conception, how the record was cut in short enough of a span where Lewis, Rice and Dave Scher (of Beachwood Sparks and All Night Radio) could lend harmonies throughout the record, lending a grace to the clattering “Turpentine.” As the only female here, Lewis naturally stands out from the pack, but she’s also given the opportunity to stand toe-to-toe with Costello, such as on the superb closer “Go Away,” as simple and addictive a song he’s written in years. Much of Momofuku is indeed this direct, at least in its construction - applying equally to the old-fashioned ballad “Flutter and Wow” as it does to lean rockers as “American Gangster Time” - but the lyrics are as expertly crafted and wryly sophisticated as any latter-day Costello record. This sophistication can creep into the music as well, as the lounge-y puns of “Harry Worth,” the clenched, dense rhythms of “Stella Hurt” and cabaret shuffle of “Mr. Feathers” all recall a Spike recorded sans accoutrements. Again, that’s where the speed of this whole enterprise works in its favor, as it makes these digressions seem funny, not fussy, and that’s ultimately the charm of Momofuku: it’s captures a loose, natural Elvis Costello, somebody that hasn’t been captured on record in years. It’s still a Costello that plugs Lexus, writes operas and plays jazz festivals, but here he’s not trying to prove anything, he’s just making music and that’s why it’s one of his most enjoyable latter-day records.

The connection to Charlie Rich is inescapable on Frazier’s 1966 debut Elvira, as it contains Dallas’ own versions of “Mohair Sam” and “She’s a Yum Yum,” songs that Rich cut the same year that Elvira was released. There’s not much separating Rich’s and Frazier’s versions; they have the same polished, funky Southern groove, equal parts R&B and country, played by pros who are too good not to give this soul. As similar as the two artists sound, there are differences, many of which can be inferred by Frazier’s songs themselves. As the author of “Alley Oop” and “She’s a Yum Yum,” it shouldn’t come as a great surprise that Frazier has the flair of a comedian, something that Rich lacks, and it’s a delight to listen him deliver his own jokes on these, or to hear him dip into gibberish on “Just a Little Bit of You,” which otherwise is a stomping two-step worthy of the Sir Douglas Quintet. Sometimes this easy frivolity can overshadow his facility with deeper soul, but his knack for gorgeous, bluesy ballads shines on “Especially for You” and “Done Made Up My Mind.” Of course, these two cuts — each arriving as the second track on their respective sides — are the only times that the tempo slows on Elvira, as the rest of this consists of rollicking good times. Sure, Frazier can get a little silly — he has a weakness for jokes and nonsense, evidenced by the very title of “Whoop It On ‘Um” and the giddy-up chorus of the title song — but this never turns into novelty, as the music has grit and Frazier has style, never pushing his jokes too hard. In fact, it’s so much fun that it’s not until a second listen that it becomes clear how thoroughly Frazier blurred the lines between R&B, rock & roll, soul, and country here, creating a roots music that was pretty progressive for 1966 and still sounds absolutely addictive all these years later.

Arriving just a year after his 1966 debut Elvira, Frazier’s second album Tell It Like It Is! offers more of the same, but that’s hardly a complaint. Frazier had such a light, easy touch that it’s a pure joy to hear him turn out another 12 tracks of funky country-soul, and he’s in fine form here from the moment “Don’t Come Knocking on My Door” kicks off the album. For as similar as this is to Elvira, Tell It Like It Is! does have some notable difference, chief among them how Frazier turned to outside writers for his slow ones this time around, cutting George Davis & Lee Diamond’s “Tell It Like It Is” (popularized, of course, by Aaron Neville) and Curly Putnam’s “Green Green Grass of Home.” He also cut a song from former rockabilly rebel Ronnie Self in “Home in My Hand,” a relentless celebration of the rock & roll lifestyle later cut by Brinsley Schwarz and Dave Edmunds. With its references to one-night stands and smoking weed, “Home in My Hand” is far wilder than anything on either Frazier record, a reflection of the loosening times in 1967, but it’s an isolated incident here. Most of the record reflects its time with a production that’s ever so slightly splashier than Elvira, feeling a bit more showbiz than its predecessor, an impression that’s made somehow stronger by Frazier’s slight emphasis on novelties, including “Clawhammer Clyde” and “Honk’N Tonk,” a tale of two fleas. These silly songs and the glitzy production suggest that Frazier and Capitol were gunning for a hit, but they weren’t gunning too hard, as the basic sound of Frazier’s music hadn’t changed: it was still funky country, rock & roll, and R&B that didn’t sound like anyone else outside of Charlie Rich in 1967. Again, Frazier was just slightly ahead of his time, predating such root-rocking mavericks as Tony Joe White, and while that didn’t result in a big hit, it did make for music that has aged better than a lot of country or rock & roll records from that year.

Clearly, chemistry counts and names mean something, as reuniting with Tom Leadon — who never played with Tench in the original lineup — and drummer Randall Marsh, with Petty himself sliding over to bass — affects the sound and attitude of the band, turning the group’s belated 2008 debut Mudcrutch into something far looser than any Petty project in recent memory. “Looser” suggests that Mudcrutch rocks hard, following through on the rangy, cheerful raunch of those five tracks on Playback, but this album doesn’t rock, not really. Mudcrutch rambles and rolls, sometimes stretching out for upwards of 10 minutes, sometimes stopping off for a circular circus instrumental, but it never quite ramps up the rock & roll, never locks into a thick swamp groove that brings them back to their Southern roots. This is thoroughly a Californian album, all sun-bleached riffs and mellow grooves, so unhurried that it never breaks a sweat, more interested in the journey than the destination. More specifically, Mudcrutch is an uncanny evocation of latter-day Byrds, after Gram Parsons left for the Flying Burrito Brothers and Roger McGuinn brought in Clarence White for the winding jams of Untitled — a connection Mudcrutch makes explicit via a cover of that album’s “Lover of the Bayou,” which is paired with the Burritos’ version of the Red Simpson anthem “Six Days on the Road.” Although it has a quicker pulse than most of the 14 tracks here, Mudcrutch’s version of “Six Days on the Road” lacks the zippy Bakersfield drive of the Burritos version, as everything the band does is very, very laid-back, a sensibility these five guys absorbed years ago when the Byrds were still releasing new records. The remarkable thing about Mudcrutch is that it sounds like it could have been released in ‘70 or ‘71, with the obligatory Hurricane Katrina song “Orphan of the Storm” being the only concession to modern times (and even that departs only in topic, not sound).

On Petty’s part, it’s a conscious reconnection to the past, one that revitalizes him, albeit in a very low-key fashion. It’s been a long, long time since he’s released a record as band-oriented as this, emphasizing interplay and vibe over song and concept, not caring if there are loose ends and detours cluttering the record, and it’s refreshing to hear him in such a casual setting. He sounds at ease as a singer and songwriter — such seemingly tossed-off tunes as “Topanga Cowgirl,” the wry “The Wrong Thing to Do,” and “Bootleg Flyer” resonate deeper than carefully considered songs from recent efforts, as do more consciously substantive numbers like “Scare Easy” — and he gladly shares the spotlight, letting Leadon have his original “Queen of the Go-Go Girls” and sing the first verse on an album-opening version of the folk standard “Shady Grove,” while Tench writes the sly “This Is a Good Street.” All these happy concessions, along with the strong emphasis on instrumental interplay, gives Mudcrutch the feeling of a true band effort, and even if it’s not perfect — it is indeed possible to amble and ramble just a little bit too much — it’s thoroughly winning because of its imperfections, as this is music that’s all about cruising down the back roads on a sunny nostalgic day.

Regardless of how the single or the album fares stateside from a commercial standpoint, Estelle can at least be proud of having made a second full-length that builds upon and far outstrips her first. Wyclef Jean and will.i.am produce two songs each, while the remainder is divided between a wide-ranging cast including Mark Ronson, Jack Splash, and Swizz Beats, all of whom produce one track. Through it all, Estelle is the main attraction and is never upstaged or out of her depth, whether she is trading lines with Cee-Lo or Kanye West, switching between singing and rapping on “More Than Friends,” or swapping out blissful rocksteady reggae for nerved-up glitz-pop. Most impressive is “So Much Out the Way,” where she does the work of at least three vocalists of varying modes, all over a Wyclef concoction that alternates between tautly snapping jazz-funk (courtesy of Louis Johnson’s bass from Grover Washington, Jr.’s “Hydra”) and wall-of-sound soul (transformed from Bob Marley’s “So Much Things to Say”). Not many vocalists could possibly navigate all this terrain without losing a beat, but Estelle has no trouble pulling it off with her versatility and easy-to-like personality. Her second act is ceaselessly enjoyable, one of the finer R&B albums to be released in 2008.

Shine highlights:
“Wait a Minute (Just a Touch)”
“American Boy”
“So Much Out the Way”
“Shine”

Bonus beats:
Estelle - “1980″ (from The 18th Day)
Estelle - “Dance with Me” (from The 18th Day)
will.i.am - “Impatient” (the source of “American Boy”)
Grover Washington, Jr. - “Hydra” (sampled on “So Much Out the Way”)

That strain of uneasiness is a new wrinkle within Portishead, as in the ’90s they favored a warm, enveloping melancholy, a rich sound that could be co-opted and turned into simple fashion, as it was by band after band in the heyday of the swinging ’90s. So many groups grabbed ahold of Portishead’s coattails that it’s easy to forget that in 1994 there was no other band that sounded quite like Portishead – not even Massive Attack and Tricky, who shared many surface sounds but not a sensibility – and that is just as true in 2008, years after trip-hop has turned into history. Their cold, stark uniqueness isn’t due to a continuing reliance on the cinematic textures of Dummy, although there are echoes of that here on the slow crawling album openers “Silence” and “Hunter,” songs just familiar enough to act as reminders of how Portishead is special, yet just different enough to serve notice that the trio is engaged with the present, even if they’ve happily turned into isolated recluses, working at a pace utterly divorced from the clattering nonsense of the digital world. Third is resolutely not an album to be sampled in thirty-second bites or to be heard on shuffle; a quick scan through the tracks will not give a sense of what it’s all about. It demands attention, requiring effort on the part of the listener, as this defies any conventions on what constitutes art-pop apart from one key tenant, one that is often it attempted yet rarely achieved: it offers music that is genuinely, startlingly original.

Surprises are inextricably intertwined throughout Portishead. There are jarring juxtapositions and transitions, as how the barbershop doo-wop of “Deep Water” sits between those twin towers of tension of “We Carry On” and “Machine Gun,” the former riding an unbearably relentless two-chord drone and while the latter collapses on the backs of warring drum machines. Echoes of Kraut-rock and electronica can be heard on these two tracks but that very description suggests that Third is conventionally experimental, spitting out the same hipster references that have been recycled since 1994, if not longer. Surely, these influences are present but they’re deployed unexpectedly, as are such Portishead signatures as tremulous string samples and Utley’s trembling guitar. Out of these familiar fragments from the past, Portishead has created authentically new music that defies almost every convention in its writing and arrangement. As thrilling as it is to hear the past and present collide when “The Plastic” is torn asunder by cascading waves of noise, Third doesn’t linger in these clattering corners, as such cacophony is countered by the crawling jazz of “The Hunter” and the sad, delicate folk of “The Rip,” but a marvelous thing about the album is that there’s no balance. There is a flow, but Portishead purposely keeps things unsettled, to the extent that its tonal shifts still surprise after several listens.

Such messiness is crucial to Portishead, as there’s nothing tidy about the group or their music. Experimental rock is often derided as being cerebral – and this is surely enjoyable on that level, for as many times as Third can be heard it offers no answers, only questions, questions that grow more fascinating each time they’re asked — but what sets Portishead apart is that they make thrillingly human music. That’s not solely due to Gibbons haunting voice, which may offer an entryway into this gloom but not its only glimpse of soul, as the perfectionism of Barrow and Utley have resulted in an album where nothing sounds canned or processed, the opposite of any modern record where every sounds is tweaked so it sounds unnatural. Third feels more modern than any of those computer-corrected tracks as the group’s very sensibility mirrors the 21st Century, where the past is always present. Then, of course, there’s that rich, fathomless darkness that Third offers, something that mirrors the troubled days of the new century but also is true to that shimmering, seductive melancholy of Dummy. Here, the sad sounds aren’t quite so soothing, but that human element of Portishead gives them a sense of comfort, just as it intensifies their sense of mystery for it is the flaws – often quite intentional – that gives this an unknowable soul and makes Third utterly riveting and endlessly absorbing.

This is a smart play, as this is the audience that’s always consisted of Madonna loyalists, and it’s also is a savvy way to negotiate the explosion of niches in 2008, but there problems in her execution. Madonna relies on the Neptunes and the pair of Timbaland and Justin Timberlake for most of her modern makeover – a good idea in theory as they are some of the biggest hitmakers of the decade, but the productions they’ve constructed here sound a couple years old at best and at worst feel like they’re dressing Madonna in Nelly Furtado’s promiscuous hand-me-downs. Sometimes this can result in reasonably appealing grooves – “Candy Shop” captures Pharrell Williams’ flair for slim, sleek grooves, “Dance 2night” conjures Timberlake’s Off the Wall obsession nicely and the icy heartbreak of “Miles Away” is a worthy successor to “What Goes Around Comes Around” — but this also points out the album’s main flaw: the track comes before the song. Madonna’s greatness has always hinged on how she channeled dance trends into pop songs, placing equal emphasis on sound and melody, which provided a neat way to sneak underground club trends into the mainstream. Here, she cedes melodic hooks to rhythmic hooks – witness the clanging, cluttered “4 Minutes” where she’s drowned out by Timbaland’s farting four-note synth — which might not have been so bad if the tracks were fresher and if the whole enterprise didn’t feel quite so joylessly mechanical. Madonna doesn’t even sound desperate to sit atop of current trends; rather, she’s following them because she’s expected to do so. There’s a palpable sense of disinterest here, as if she just handed the reigns over to Pharrell and TimbaLake, trusting them to polish up this piece of stale candy. Maybe she’s not into the music, maybe she’s just running out this last album for Warner before she moves onto the greener pastures of Live Nation — either way, Hard Candy is as a rare thing: a lifeless Madonna album.