(Virgin)
Lenny Kravitz's Greatest Hits, released last year, gave most people all the Lenny they could ever want; a summary of Kravitz's radio hits, recycled from Hendrix riffs and Beatlesesque sentiments. Then, perhaps as a backlash against the flood of dancing teen pop sensations, Kravitz started getting more credit than was due to him'he went from being a negligable craftsman to being heralded as a musical innovator.
The overwhelming influence on Lenny is The Rolling Stones: Kravitz's guitars have gotten louder and crunchier, and his ballads have strayed from slinky wah-wah guitar to \Wild Horses""-like acoustic strumming (""A Million Miles Away""). Kravitz deserves some credit for playing nearly every instrument on Lenny, a task he meets with overwhelming adequacy.
Despite all his fuzzed-out guitar licks and thunderous drumwork, the songs on Lenny sound repetitive and uninspired, the lyrics vague admonitions to go out and do something, anything universally rock 'n' roll (like ""Let's Get High""). ""God Save Us All"" lifts John Lennon's ""Instant Karma"" sound almost perfectly, but the insight stalls after the first four words, ""we need a leader."" ""Dig In"" is the most successful track, all hooks and riffs, with the vocals buried far enough into the mix so their banality doesn't ring through.
Lenny may offer the clearest picture thus far of who Lenny Kravitz really is, but unfortunately, who he is is just not that appealing. The glamour-shot liner notes belie the fact that Kravitz is relying heavily on his own good looks to create a personal aura of mystery and intrigue, one that just doesn't hold up with this superficial collection of songs. Being the most articulate rocker on TRL is one thing; capturing the ear of audiences like his influences did is something else altogether, and may remain permanently out of Kravitz's grasp.
(Epitaph)
Arguably the nicest thing that can be said about The International Noise Conspiracy is that they are one of the few bands out there who are courageous and intelligent enough to use their music as a sounding board for their quest of political and social justice. However, their anti-capitalist, pro-socialist ideals are so blatant, so painfully obvious that there is little else to get out of their music other than socialist propaganda.
The Swedish-based band's latest album, A New Morning, Changing Weather, contains a sleeve that is as anti-capitalist as ever, equipped with Web sites, an essay and quotes by everyone from Karl Marx to Mae West. Though the band has a well-structured booklet of propaganda, they should have spent more time structuring their music.
Although still as rockin' as the Conspiracy's last album, Survival Sickness, the 11 tracks on Morning fall victim to sounding almost indistinguishable, utilizing the exact same tempo, their dirty garage guitar sound and lyrics of profound social unrest. Obviously fans of The Clash and The Kinks, the group's sassy, sex-rock sound would be more effective if it were more diversely and creatively structured. Although the energy of the band's music makes an International Noise Conspiracy show sound like a good time, the group needs more musical motives and less political preaching to make their albums as good as they could be.
Upon opening the liner notes of Scattershot's new album, one might expect to see Sean Connery snooping through the folds. The sporty, fashionable grooves that morph into Extrasexual Behavior could accompany any James Bond film to date'or perhaps it's James Bond gone techno.
Scattershot features a large array of talented and varied musicians, all of whom mix seemingly distinct sounds into a splurge of raving, rapid-fire instrumentals. All the tracks revolve around a complex beat, filled in with heavy bass, guitar and funky brass. Woven through them all are steady electronic samples that twist and stretch the music like silly putty.
Using cover images of parties, chicks with guns and kicks in the stomach, Scattershot seems to have shaped their album around Bond-like themes. The first couple of songs drive guitars and sweat out beats to spark the action. The music is precise, ranging from hush-hush to boisterous tones without straying from its titanium backbone of rhythm. The story continues in ""This Heat,"" a song who's heavy and erotic undertones are perfect for a Bond's seduction-of-bad-girl scene. Especially sultry is John Keech's hollow saxophone wail, which amidst the ""Heat"" is superbly sexy and sad. Scattershot finishes the album with intense, skillful songs that even include the names ""Plan B"" and ""Chase Scene."" From start to finish, Scattershot's aims are clear: This is mission music.
After listening to Extrasexual Behavior, one may feel its funkiness but also its lack of thematic originality. Were it not for the cover art and song titles, this album might be more imaginatively defined. Instead, it is merely a catchy caper tribute with little purpose. Extrasexual Behavor is best when it meanders in tunes like ""The Meaning of Love,"" churning out sounds of tinny dialogue, static, murmurs and squishes. This kind of imagination is what the album needs more of, not ""007"" as a guide. As it stands, Scattershot's album is a meticulous, forward and mostly danceable 30-minute romp. But prepare to be stirred, not shaken.
(Zenith Beast Records)
Touring on weekends off from his job as a paralegal in Chicago, Larry O. Dean brings his own brand of folk/pop/rock to Caf?? Assisi, 254 W. Gilman St., Dec. 1. His new album, Sir Slob, varies from amusing triteness to wrenchingly annoying attempts at cleverness, creating a misguided derivation of his classic rock influences that would make the pope weep.
LOD's primary downfall is his dedication to the notion that he has something new and clever to say. In fact, he clearly does not, and yet on Sir Slob he still spends 12 tracks and 53 minutes yammering away as if he's Oscar Wilde with a guitar. His band, The Me Decade, does its part, adding an uninspired but blandly pleasant pop/rock backing track. It always remain unobtrusive, letting LOD get off his lines with minimal interference. Unfortunately, he does so in a nasally whine reminiscent of Neil Young, without any of Young's emotive abilities. After repeated listening, this especially grates.
Despite these shortcomings, LOD shoots for escape from the paralegal profession in the realm of rock. On the third track, ""The King of Close Enough,"" the listener gets the full brunt of his pop/rock ambitions. Adding a self-consciously obligatory ""whoa aaooh!"" chorus, handclaps and poorly arranged strings to a pseudo-insightful lyric, Dean succeeds in creating a song so hopelessly cloying that it can't possibly resonate with the listener unless they're devoid of any sense of irony.
In the next track, LOD again misses the mark. He sings, ""Like the sun to the fog/the machine to the cog/blue skies to fog/love is the tail wagging the dog."" In attempting to compose a paean to the irrationalities of love, though, he instead creates a web of similes which makes no sense. This flaw permeates the entire album, as Dean stretching for a rhyme leads to many baffling statements and metaphors.
The rest of the tracks similarly don't hold up under close scrutiny. One can't help but feel some sense of compassion for LOD, though. He is trying, really trying, to be a rock star and has put out a reasonably professional album, which is admirable in some capacity. Losing the smirk and overzealous attempts at piquancy, though, would go a long way in making his music listenable. Until then, Larry O. Dean should not quit his day job.
