Music Reviews by Glenn Ricci

April, 1996

Cult of Ray / Frank Black / American

Following the two brilliant and underappreciated albums that launched his post-Pixies career (his self-titled debut and Teenager of the Year), Frank Black appears to be revisiting his roots. While his two prior albums flaunt a postmodern cornucopia of sounds and styles, Cult of Ray goes for sonic consistency. Two guitars, bass and drums played by the same people and mixed the same throughout the whole brief 13-song set. Black has never shown this kind of restraint.

The band (with Black himself on rhythm guitar) is tight, lively and energetic. Flaunting some of his most accessible tunes to date (like "You Ain't Me" and "I Don't Want to Hurt You (Every Single Time)"), Black is sounding a little like a twisted parody of Soul Asylum The only thing holding back some of the songs is Black's own vocal stylings. His usual fiestyness is lacking on several tracks that sound as if they should otherwise be leaping right off the CD. Typical of Black's work, this one will take a few listenings to really get into.

Old-time Black fans should not be phased by the albums flaws, especially with song titles like "Mosh, Don't Pass the Guy," and "Kicked in the Taco." First time listeners may want to check out his earlier albums before entering the Cult of Ray.

Frank faithfuls will also want to seek out a little import called The Black Sessions -- Live in Paris. It's a clean recording of a radio show he did in Paris on which he played a great set made up of songs from his two most recent albums.

He is also, currently on tour with the band featured on "Ray." Guitarist Lyle Workman's versatility shines not only on the new stuff, but in his ability to make the older songs sound fresh and new. He even manages to fill in all the spaces formerly occupied by keyboard sounds. Black himself is a formidable front man -- effortlessly strumming rhythm guitar and belting out some powerful vocals. Aside from the occasional story or quip, the band ripped through a 1.5 hour set consisting only of songs from Black's solo career. Surprisingly, there was no encore, even after the D.C. crowd I was in cheered loudly for over 15 minutes. (Friends who have seen him in other cities said that he has played a shorter set with an encore.) That notwithstanding, there were few complaints about the show.

Boys for Pele / Tori Amos / Atlantic

It's difficult not to start out this review by delving into a full-fledged psychological analysis of Tori's wide palette of neurosis. But I won't. Just suffice it to say that Tori's lyrics on Pele is every bit as in-your-face confessional as her past albums. Maybe more. But they work -- seducing you to listen closely in the hopes of cracking the code of her melancholy. (Good luck.)

While it is my duty to warn you to consult your therapist before putting this CD on endless loop for weeks, I'd have to say that there are far worse places to channel a little misdirected anger. Amos' wispy and emotionally drenched vocals top off her lush, pianocentric arrangements. Her hypnotically cascading piano work could just as well go on forever, and on the first couple listens, it seems like it does. But never fear. You must work through the pain until the sameness of the songs reveal the greater depth of Tori's idiosyncrasies. Of course, that's just a suggestion. I'd never do anything like that.

If you've loved Tori in the past, buy without hesitation. If you're not sure, you may be likely to find the above mentioned idiosyncrasies to be nothing more than self-indulgences. If you've hated her, you still will.

Trace / Son Volt / Warner Bros.

A.M. / Wilco / Sire/Reprise

And then Uncle Tupelo, upon his death, begat two bands, Son Volt and the other son Wilco, and thus began a great twang-off the ends of which the world may never see.

Who will win? It's way too early to tell, but maybe neither. Not that either band is all that bad, but their staying power is highly suspect.

First, let's take Son Volt. For the country uninitiate, Trace will no doubt sound like a genuine country rock album. But a little research along the lines of Jennings and Cash with free up that notion. As far as facsimiles go, however, Volt is about as genuine as it gets. All the texture and country whine is there in abundance. Jay Farrar's lyrics and vocals, while sometimes cliche, still make for a convincing stroll through a man's tired back-wood memories.

Now for Wilco. Songwriter Jeff Tweedy's work seems to have as much in common with The Replacements as it does with any country band. There is still twang aplenty to be heard, but with a lighthearted, more upbeat touch. Add Tweedy's flattened cigarette voice, and you're bound to find a hit or two.

Both albums make for a fine stop on any country rock journey, but neither are worth a long stay.

- Glenn Ricci