So I was watching Project Greenlight on Sunday night, and I nearly fell out of my chair in shock. Let me tell you about it.

For those who’ve never seen it, Project Greenlight is a show on HBO that documents this interesting experiment. Will Hunting and the Sexiest Man Alive (Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, respectively) have set up this annual contest to find untapped filmmaking talent, and give them an opportunity to make a real, million-dollar nationally-released film. They take submissions from screenwriters and directors, fly the finalists out to the Sundance Film Festival to pitch their projects (or themselves), and select one script to be made and one director to make it. Then, the whole filming process is documented by HBO and turned into some surprisingly compelling reality television.

I highly enjoyed the first season, which followed neophyte Pete Jones as he made Stolen Summer, a fairly mediocre coming-of-age tale. What was fascinating about it to me was seeing all the incredibly hard work and emotional anguish that goes into the making of even a slight, forgettable film. Some people actually think that their favorite actors make up their own lines, and directors merely point the camera at them and the film comes together on its own. Project Greenlight worked overtime to show how untrue this assumption is. Even with the slanted, chopped-up reality presented on the show, which probably resembled the whole truth only a small fraction of the time, it was a fun and informative window into a world few will experience.

So I made a point to watch the premiere of the second season on Sunday, which culminated with Damon and Affleck announcing the winners at Sundance. And I guess I’m really out of the loop, because the winners were announced in January, and I only found out who they were by watching the show, but whatever. But I plan to watch every week from now on, and catch the movie itself, because it turns out I’ve met the directors.

Kyle Rankin and Efram Potelle were local celebrities in Portland, Maine while I lived there. The two hosted a cable access show that gained them notoriety, but their real accomplishments were the feature films and shorts they made, including the creepy Reindeer Games and the rather funny Pennyweight. Plus, the pair used to do movie reviews for Face Magazine, which I edited for years. I always admired Kyle and Efram for their drive and ambition, and their genuine talent – which, like all genuine talent in Portland, was met with a mixture of jealously and derision, for the most part. The two are amazingly sympatico, and getting to watch them make a movie on HBO is going to be fun.

The movie they get to make is called The Battle of Shaker Heights, and was written by fellow contest winner Erica Beeney. This will be the first film these guys have directed that they didn’t write, and it should be interesting to see how much of their creative stamp they get to imprint on it. Anyway, I just wanted to congratulate Kyle and Efram for landing this opportunity – and the premiere episode of the show certainly argues that they did earn their chance – and say how strange it already is to watch these guys, a fixture of a life I left behind, doing their thing on television. Hope it turned out well.

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Pretty much every musical artist who isn’t Fugazi or the Sex Pistols has, at one time or another, been accused by fans of selling out. But what, exactly, does that mean?

Unfortunately, to some closed-minded people, selling out refers to anything a band does that might expand their audience. It’s the our-little-secret syndrome – the truth is that some people only love certain music because most everyone else has never heard of it. They latch on to bands with which they identify, and then regard people who get into them later as less than worthy. “I’ve been into the Screaming Fuckdragons since their first demo tape,” they sniff. “You only got into them when they signed with a label,” they whine. And then they go in for the kill – “You only liked them after they sold out.”

But if an artist is producing good work, isn’t it a good thing that said artist’s audience continues to expand? It’s usually the opposite, honestly – despite decades of solid, terrific work, people like Bruce Cockburn and Mike Roe continue to sell only to the faithful few. There’s a certain indie cachet to only selling a few thousand copies (at most) of one’s work, but such a paucity of income doesn’t guarantee the ability to keep making that work. It’s a vicious cycle, and as long as the work is not affected, audience expansion is an unqualified good.

Ah, but there’s the rub – the work often does suffer in such circumstances, especially when artists sign to major labels. Suddenly, there are more people with jobs on the line who want a hand in crafting the music, and most of them aren’t musicians. Even if that’s not the case, it’s often extremely difficult to maintain the sense of the work under such increased pressure. (Another reason I’m interested to watch Kyle and Efram make their movie…) For instance, few would argue that R.E.M. made a smooth transition to Warner Bros. Records from tiny I.R.S. in the late ’80s. Their last I.R.S. album, Document, was excellent, and their first WB album, Green, was… well, not so excellent. They didn’t really find their footing again until Automatic for the People, three albums into their contract.

It is possible, however, for a band or artist ascending to major label status to retain the qualities that won them fans in the first place. An arguably perfect example is Sonic Youth, who kept the squalling, dissonant wonder of Daydream Nation when they moved to Geffen for Goo. Listen to those records (and the follow-up, Dirty) now and they sound like a logical progression. Still, at the time, fans cried sellout just because the band went to a major. Honestly, if Geffen could help get something like Washing Machine or NYC Ghosts and Flowers made and internationally distributed, then it can’t be all bad.

Selling out, then, should be a term reserved for those artists who deliberately change their sound or the content of their work to appeal to a broader audience. Under that definition, neither R.E.M. nor Sonic Youth would qualify as sellouts. (I don’t care how “poppy” you think Goo is, to the mass public it still sounds like unlistenable waves of noise. Really.) In order to really examine the process of selling out, we need to look at albums specifically designed for radio play, or video rotation, or anything else that sets commercial concerns above artistic ones.

Okay, then. I’ve got a couple.

It pains me that both of this week’s targets are talented women performers, because we don’t have enough of them on major labels. Jewel’s debut album, Pieces of You, seemed to indicate the birthing of a genuine, major talent. It was mostly acoustic and folksy, but it was nearly bursting with emotion and personality. Songs like “Adrian” are difficult to listen to – Jewel put so much real pain into their delivery that they practically shake with honesty and power. Similarly, Liz Phair made a huge splash with her defiantly lo-fi debut, Exile in Guyville, a maelstrom of blunt vulgarity and devastating lyrical acumen. Guyville went on to become a legend, held in such high esteem that any new Phair album gets the same treatment as a new Star Wars film – it could be Citizen Kane and still be disappointing.

I’m not entirely sure how we ended up here, though, because both Jewel and Liz Phair have decided, presumably independently of one another, to become pop stars. Jewel’s new album is called 0304, named after the years she hopes to ride it all the way to the bank, and believe it or not, it’s an excursion into dance-pop land. This is the kind of album which replaces both the words “to” and “too” with the numeral “2” in the song titles, the kind of album that surges forward on glossy production and propulsive, programmed drum beats. It’s the kind of album that prefaces each chorus with the production equivalent of a mighty voice screaming, “Here it comes!!!”

Unsurprisingly, Jewel adapts well to this style, which doesn’t speak to versatility as much as it does to Jewel’s faceless non-identity. Since her debut, she’s effectively subsumed her singular voice in the whims of her producers. She’s made slick Lilith Fair pop (Spirit), bland country-tinged rock (This Way) and a frigging Christmas album (Joy), and she’s completely submerged herself in these genres each time. It’s to the point that Jewel probably can’t remember how to summon the strength of her debut anymore.

0304 is an album that could have been made by any one of the current crop of teen starlets, and it would probably be praised for its minor moments of interest if it had been. “Leave the Lights On,” for example, incorporates some jazzy elements behind Jewel’s processed, husky voice. “Haunted” is supposed to be creepy, and you can hear the barest glimmers of what it could have been beneath the drum machine. “Doin’ Fine” is also an acceptable pop song.

Oddly, though, it’s the lyrics that really do this record in. They’re so bad on some tracks that part of my preparation for writing this column was to look up the noun form of insipid, because I was sure I’d need it. (It’s “insipidity,” by the way, just in case I don’t manage to use it.) Here, for example, is the chorus of “U & Me = Love,” a title I swear I am not making up: “Come on baby won’t u crash into me, I’m like nothing that you’ve ever seen, Dynamite, I’ll blow your mind, Guaranteed 2 mesmerize, You’ll say ‘Ooh la, la, la.'” All “2 kewl” spellings have been preserved.

Still, it’s easier to sell out when you have very little to sell, and Jewel has made such a schizophrenic mess of her career that it’s hard to be surprised at this move. 0304 seems entirely geared towards getting Jewel on TRL, but after three utterly bland and featureless albums, who’s to say she doesn’t belong there? If, however, Liz Phair winds up there, it would be kind of tragic. It’s hard to argue with the downward slide of Phair’s career, though, and the best you can say about her post-Guyville output is that, unlike Jewel, she’s followed a straight line of decaying decline. None of that confusing lateral movement for Phair. It’s been straight down for many, many years.

The strange, unfortunate nadir of Phair’s career to date is her self-titled fourth album, a slick product from the school of Sheryl Crow. Phair is the bigger attention-getter, largely due to interviews in which she’s dissed Guyville and said this album is the one she’s always wanted to make. Oh, and of course there’s the cover photo, in which 36-year-old Phair goes all Maxim on us in a shot reminiscent of Christina Aguilera’s recent Rolling Stone cover.

If she’s telling the truth, and Liz Phair is the album she’s always meant to make, then it only means that she’s not someone we should have been paying any attention to in the first place. She collaborates with the Matrix, the production team behind Avril Lavigne (that’s four, Mike!), on several tracks, including the pseudo-woman-power anthem, “Extraordinary,” also the first single. The Matrix has worked its magic here – their songs sound just like everyone else they produce, and they’ve even turned Phair into a pop singer, sanding off her rough edges. Sadly, the rest of the album is of a piece with the Matrix singles. Even the Michael Penn-produced material is dumb and glossy, and virtually none of the songs exhibit an ounce of individuality. They’re all radio-ready melodic rock, workmanlike and professional.

But if you listen closely, you can hear Phair trying to sell out with a wink. In “Rock Me,” for example, she discovers the joys of younger guys – “I want to play X-Box on your floor, say hi to your roommate who’s next door.” In the next couplet, she slips this in: “Your record collection don’t exist, you don’t even know who Liz Phair is.” In one of the Matrix tunes, “Favorite,” she subverts the glossy production somewhat by making the song as stupid as possible: “You feel like my favorite underwear, and I’m slipping you on again tonight.” That’s the chorus. Honest. You even feel dumber just singing along.

(Oh, and I highly doubt any of the less worldly teen stars with whom Phair has chosen to compete for radio time will be singing the praises of “Hot White Cum” anytime soon…)

So yes, there is a bit of the old Liz Phair on this album, but not nearly enough to make up for the layers of crushing mediocrity covering almost everything. I say almost because, saddest of all, sitting at track seven is “Little Digger,” a simply beautiful song that deserves a better album. Musically it sounds like Michelle Branch, unfortunately, but lyrically, thank Christ, it sounds like Liz Phair. “Little Digger” is about a single mom and her son (obviously autobiographical), and the honest tangle of emotions surrounding bringing another man into the family makeup is heartrending. It’s the one moment on Liz Phair that couldn’t have been much better.

The stink of sellout is all over this record, though, as it is on Jewel’s disc. These are two sterling examples of completely rewriting one’s sound to expand one’s appeal, and neither of these albums are worth much beyond that motivation. Both fall prey to the sad corollary of selling out as well – even if it works, years after the fame and fortune has dried up, both Jewel and Liz Phair will be left with artistically bankrupt albums no one really cares about, sucking black holes in their collections that infect everything around them with their stench. When it comes down to it, the saddest part of selling out, to me, is that an artist had a chance to make a statement, an impact, a masterpiece – and instead chose to make a minor, forgettable blip.

Depressing, really.

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I plan to further explore this ground when Jane’s Addiction returns next month with a new album nobody demanded, so you can think of this column as a preview of that one. Although, I expect that one will be a bit angrier…

Next time, the amazing Bruce Cockburn.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Here Comes the Rain Again

So they put our lawn in this week, right? You’ve seen how this is done – the grass arrives planted in strips of dirt, which are placed on the barren lot like carpeting. Given a few days, the grass will take root, adhering the strips to the ground. Works in theory.

Unless, of course, you get a torrential rainstorm or five.

My area of Maryland has had seven rain-free Fridays since December, apparently, so I guess we should have expected this. Our lawn is now mostly washed away, and what’s left has a riverbed running through it. Seriously, it looks like the Tigris and Euphrates met in our yard. I spoke with a neighbor the other day, and apparently, we’re the talk of the neighborhood. I keep seeing pieces of our lawn on the side of the road, some three or four houses down from ours. I get really weird looks from people when I claim these hunks of dirt and grass and drag them back to our house. It’s all a big disaster.

This column is late again, I know, but look at it – it’s huge. Gi-normous. It won’t be this long again for a couple of months, so enjoy it now. (Wait, the sexual connotations really took a strange turn with that last one, didn’t they?)

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Second Grade

Well, the wonders of digital downloading have made possible another first – this is the only time I’ve ever written two different reviews of the same album. You may remember that I previously gushed over Radiohead’s sixth record, Hail to the Thief, based on a rough draft I’d downloaded two months before the release date. You may also remember that the band freaked out when they heard the versions that had escaped to the public, posting angry diatribes on their website and other message boards.

They’re early, unmixed roughs, they said.

Some of them aren’t even finished, they said.

Don’t judge the album by these versions, because the real thing is so much better, they said.

Poppycock.

The official version of Hail to the Thief came out on June 10, and it just ain’t that different. Oh, there are minor things – some of the haunting harmonies have now been equalized, and the twittering drum beat that runs through “Sit Down Stand Up” has now been extended to provide the less-inspiring introduction – but honestly, they didn’t do very much. No matter what the band may say, these tracks were almost in their finished form when they were leaked, and only the most discerning listener could spot the differences.

I admit that I was bothered by some of the tiny changes at first, especially the meddling with Thom Yorke’s awe-inspiring vocal tracks this time out. The band and producer Nigel Godrich cut back the surprising three-part harmony in “We Suck Young Blood” that I liked so much, and gave less emphasis to my favorite melodies in “I Will” – mostly as a result of picking one of the three Yorke tracks as the lead vocal, relegating the other two to backing vocal status. I liked ’em all, dammit. But overall, making the switch to thinking of the official version as, well, the official version is quite simple.

And amazingly, I think my appreciation for this record has grown since I last rambled on about it. Hail to the Thief is undoubtedly Radiohead’s third-best album, combining the spacy atmospherics of Kid A with the melodic sense of The Bends. There’s no question that the band set out to make a pop album this time, and even though the result is not what anyone might deem pop, the songs are there, and that makes all the difference.

I do have reservations about Thief. Nothing on OK Computer, still reigning champion of the Radiohead catalog, sounds like the band gave up on it halfway through. The songs on Thief are certainly realized, but not fully realized in some cases. Partway through “Where I End and You Begin,” for example, I find myself wishing the band would do something with the terrific groove they’ve laid down instead of just carrying it to a conclusion. The same goes for the swirling “Sit Down Stand Up,” which builds to an explosion and then abruptly stops, or “The Gloaming,” which rides its jittery percussion and single melody to the end.

Minor quibbles, of course, when Radiohead have provided us with stunners like the soaring “Sail to the Moon,” the energetic “Go to Sleep” and the gloriously off-kilter “We Suck Young Blood.” And waiting at the end of the record, after the processed metallic drone of “Myxomatosis,” is perhaps the loveliest song the band has ever written. “Scatterbrain” is deceptively simple – just bass, clean guitar, drums and that amazing voice – but its melancholy melody is the very definition of haunting. On a record full of very good songs, “Scatterbrain” is the one truly great one.

One big difference between the two versions is the clarity of the vocals on the official release – plus, the lyrics have been printed in the booklet for the first time since OK Computer. Despite the title, it wasn’t immediately apparent before just how political this record is. It’s brimming with references to George W. Bush and his war of American might, which gives Yorke’s trademark paranoia an impending doom on which to focus this time. “It is too late now,” he mutters on “2+2=5,” before screaming, “because you have not been paying attention,” a clear finger-wag towards the complacent public. The middle third of “Sit Down Stand Up” centers on the line, “We can wipe you out anytime,” and “The Gloaming” features a paraphrase of Bush’s central rhetoric: “Murderers, you’re murderers, we are not the same as you.”

Given that framing, even the sweetest and most upbeat numbers here take on a potentially political subtext. “Go to Sleep,” for example, is about those who ignore atrocity – “I’m going to go to sleep and let this wash all over me…” Similarly, “I Will” deals with parental love, and details the thoughts of a father forced to hide underground with his children. Though Yorke doesn’t specify from what the family is hiding, enough context is provided by the surrounding songs to suggest a theme. Even “A Punchup at a Wedding”… well, no, that’s about a punchup at a wedding. But still.

The album’s major drawback is that despite the overarching theme, it sounds like 14 songs on a disc as opposed to a cohesive album. Even Kid A hung together better than this one does, but Thief‘s fractured versatility only lends to its air of scattered, raining doom. The second review isn’t much different from the first, I’m afraid: Hail to the Thief is certainly Radiohead’s best work in years, and ranks as one of the high points of aught three thus far. Just when you thought it was safe to write them off.

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A Whole Lot of Shoot, a Little Bit of Nanny

I don’t exactly understand my undying love for the music of Mark Oliver Everett, the man called E, and his one-man band, Eels. He seems to possess very few of the qualities I admire in other artists, and a whole bunch of the qualities I despise in other artists. Yet here we are, at studio album number five for the Eels, and I just can’t stop loving this stuff.

Okay, right off the bat I need to point out that there was no way E would make an album worthy of the title he selected for this one: Shootenanny! is just too wonderful for words. What’s interesting is that the title seems to have been selected at random – the album doesn’t even try to live up to it. In fact, considering that E is known as a Beck-style mix artist who plays with sound more than with structure, Shootenanny! is rather restrained.

That’s not to say it isn’t interesting, however. It’s just that E has stripped away virtually everything that his detractors say he’s hiding behind – Shootenanny! contains no trippy beats, no samples, no processed guitar textures, and no brassy horn sections. Embellishments are few and subtle here, leaving 13 guitar-driven ditties that focus on being uncomplicated yet engaging. E writes simple songs about loneliness and pain, but this is the first time he’s let the production remain as simple as the composition.

And while I generally recoil from simple as if receiving an electric shock, it works here. After years of writing folk songs with the word “blues” in the title, E has finally discovered the real thing on this record – “All In a Day’s Work,” “Agony” and “Lone Wolf” all draw from nifty blues figures. (Unsurprisingly, character study “Restraining Order Blues” is a folk song…) Elsewhere, E offers revved-up power pop on single “Saturday Morning,” “Dirty Girl” and “Wrong About Bobby.”

The bulk of the album, though, is given over to delicately strummed laments, the kind at which he’s excelled since his debut. E is all about finding glimmers of joy amidst crushing pain – see his two-album treatise on dealing with the loss of family members (Electro-Shock Blues and Daisies of the Galaxy) for an unparalleled example – and here he sings about “Rock Hard Times” and “Numbered Days” with his trademark silver-lined gloom. Though “Fashion Awards” centers around the line “We’ll blow off our heads in despair,” E gently reminds you in the closing track that “Somebody Loves You.” And even that song is suffused in melancholy, as E notes at one point that “no one pays you to sit around and think about how you’ll die.” (No one but Dreamworks Records, apparently…)

Once again, E has balanced the sweet and sad with finesse and grace. Though Shootenanny! has the feel of a rushed-out release, and some of the songs are a bit more simple than they had to be, it’s never less than engaging, and is sometimes downright delightful. E is about as idiosyncratic and honest as a mainstream performer can be, especially one who’s played Lollapalooza, and his prolific nature and refusal to coddle the middle of the road make him a fascinating one to follow.

For example, if you really want to hear an album that sounds like a shootenanny, check out I Am the Messiah, the debut from MC Honky. Officially, MC Honky is a 50-something Los Angelean DJ with a style he’s termed “self-help rap.” He’s the first and only artist so far that E has offered to produce, and the pair is scheduled to tour together in the fall.

Unofficially, of course, MC Honky is E, and I Am the Messiah is his solo project. And it’s here that he lets his inner Beck out to play, with hilarious results. “A Good Day to Be You,” for instance, samples a string quartet and splices it with a jittery beat and the funniest Daily Affirmations-style voice-over you can imagine. “You’re well-read,” the voice croons. “You’re smart, but you don’t make me feel stupid. Thank you.” Beck even gets a shout-out (or a one-up) with the hysterical “Three Turntables and Two Microphones.”

But wait, there’s more. Everett’s third album of 2003 (so far) is his haunting score to the film Levity, which also includes two new Eels songs. The score itself is lovely and off-kilter, much like the Eels’ forays into ambient instrumentals. It’s a measure of E’s bizarre skill that he can release three projects within months of each other, under three different names, and craft them so that they sound like the work of three separate artists. Anyone who can do that is someone worth watching, methinks, and so far, E hasn’t let me down. After 11 releases, it still feels like E’s career is just beginning.

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Radio Jesus Superstar

Last time I reviewed a Michael Pritzl project (last year’s Gravity Show album Fabulous Like You), I got an e-mail from the man himself, taking me to task for not giving him full credit for what was essentially a solo record. Even though I’m reviewing his band this time, I’m not going to make that same mistake. The Violet Burning is Pritzl’s project, through and through, guided by his vision, songs and voice. The band is, and has always been, a reflection of Pritzl – his musical ideas and his heartfelt spirituality.

And since Pritzl is one of the nicest guys you’d ever want to meet, it stands to reason that his band reflects this. Everything TVB has done has striven for beauty and wonder, grace and compassion. Those are strange words to use to describe a rock band, but it’s true – even at their most epic, TVB’s crashing waves of sound caress rather than slap. Their records are designed to build you up, to approximate the awe of seeing and believing something grander and lovelier.

It should be no surprise that TVB began as a worship band, even though they drifted from those roots somewhat on their major-label self-titled album. Recent Pritzl projects like the Gravity Show and TVB’s Faith and Devotions of a Satellite Heart have showcased their evolution towards a more radio-friendly sound, but lyrically, TVB have been circling back to those worship roots for some time now. The two aesthetics finally reach their apex on This Is the Moment, the just-released seventh Violet Burning album, and it sounds for all the world like the best modern worship album you’ve ever heard.

That’s assuming you’ve heard modern worship albums, of course. They’re all the rage now in the Christian music industry, with the likes of SonicFlood and Waterdeep crafting whole careers out of singing sweet pop songs to Jesus. There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with the idea, even if it isn’t my cup of tea, except that most of the modern worship trend has suspicious motivations. Most of it feels to this cynical soul like cashing in on a craze, rather than honest spiritual outpouring.

And now here’s Michael Pritzl, delivering an album full of small, heavily produced, Christian-radio-ready pop songs like “Heaven Holds My Heart” and “Lord, Rescue Me,” all but begging for a shot at mainstream success. You might be tempted to cry sellout, but for two very important things. First, The Violet Burning was ahead of the modern worship trend by about a decade, and second, they’ve been organically evolving into this for several albums now. For all its calculated sound, This Is the Moment feels like an accurate portrayal of where Pritzl is now, and any attending success is coincidental. Pritzl just happens to be playing what’s in vogue at the moment, but he’d likely be playing it anyway.

The record itself is very enjoyable, if you’re able to roll with two things – glossy mainstream production and up-front Christianity. The first is Pritzl’s choice, and may actually turn off longtime fans of the band weaned on atmospheric epics. The second, however, is simply who Pritzl is, and songs like this are just as honest and personal for him as those of any confessional folkie. The difference is that this time, they’re all dressed up and ready to take on the world.

I say more power to ’em. Any amount of mainstream success can only be good for the band and their label, tiny Northern Records. Listening to Moment, you’d never know it’s from a shoestring indie label, so clean and shiny is the production by Pritzl and TVB and Cush guitarist Andy Prickett. The rockers rock – opener “Lovesick” is a powerhouse, and “I’m Not Letting Go” is a standout – but Pritzl has always been better at slow, affecting tunes, and starting with track six, you get half an album’s worth of them. Best is closer “Manta Rae” (not the Prayer Chain song, meaning that Prickett has now played on two songs with that title), but the entire second half of Moment gently soars on Pritzl’s awesome voice.

I hope this blatant stab at Christian radio works for them – that institution could only be improved by embracing TVB. In fact, if Northern is smart, they’ll press up singles for “Everywhere I Go” and highlight “Lost Without You Near Me” and send them to every Christian radio station they can find. When a band this good wants success this badly, one can only hope they succeed. But even if they don’t, the record is exactly what it intends to be – an enjoyable and often moving modern worship record, with an honest heart bigger than the whole industry they’re trying to conquer.

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A Very Different Drummer

When drummers decide they want to sing, it hardly ever turns out well.

Don’t you wish, for example, that Phil Collins had kept his mouth shut and stuck with pounding the skins for Genesis? He would have spared us years of goopy pop crap from that formerly excellent progressive band, and we never would have had to deal with his whole sad solo career. No “Sussudio,” no “Groovy Kind of Love,” no Tarzan song. I’m happier just thinking about it.

Wayne Everett’s never been just a drummer, though. Oh, sure, he’s been the man behind the kit for several bands, including Starflyer 59 and the Prayer Chain. In fact, his percussion work on Prayer Chain records, especially Mercury, is uniformly astonishing. But there’s always been more to Everett, and he got the chance to show it off with his post-Prayer Chain band, the Lassie Foundation. He sang, wrote songs, produced and guided the band through two great albums and a slew of EPs, turning out dramatic (some might say melodramatic) guitar-driven rock with an epic edge.

And now Everett has finally put his name on the front cover. Kingsqueens is Everett’s solo debut, on which he wrote or co-wrote all the songs, co-produced with Frank Lenz, sang, and played drums and guitar. It’s been a slow process getting him out front to bask in the spotlight, but one listen to the album and you’ll be glad he’s there.

Far from the noisy heights of any of his former bands, Kingsqueens is something of an indie-rock classic, full of color and light but never losing its accessible, approachable sound. Even though it’s his first solo project, Everett has packed the album with musicians, including sax players, trumpet players and backing vocalists. “Mor Far,” for example, is rooted in gospel-style soul thanks to a choir of backing vocalists and a sweet horn section. “Bring Your Ship” has analog synthesizers swirling in and out of it, as well as xylophones and other mallet percussion.

Everett’s songs are sweetly tuneful, rooted in classic pop, and perfectly suited to the album’s diverse production. There isn’t a depressing moment here – Kingsqueens is a pop album that remembers when pop was supposed to feel good. As a singer, Everett doesn’t suffer from drummer-itis, either. He has an impressive range, crooning “Lucky Skies” in a sweet lower register while letting his falsetto soar on “I Can See Jail.” He places his nine new songs next to a complete reworking of the Prayer Chain’s “Chalk,” done with acoustic guitars and a loping gait.

Kingsqueens isn’t going to set the world on fire, but it’s another success for Northern Records and a fine achievement for Wayne Everett. I’ve just realized that he’s the second Everett I’ve recommended in one column, and there are similarities – both E and Wayne are better known for their work in bands, and both have just signed their names to solo projects after long periods in those bands. Both write and play idiosyncratic pop music from the fringes, but while E usually uses his to make you feel as bad as he can, Everett’s album is a breath of joyful air.

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Both Sides Now

And I think, though I’ve not totally decided yet, that I’ve saved the best for last.

I’m talking about Grandaddy, and here’s where I need to send a major shout-out to Chad Verrill once again. Chad gave me my first exposure to Grandaddy’s terrific second album, The Sophtware Slump, and without him I may never have heard these guys. Their third album, Sumday, has just been released to no fanfare, and I remain baffled as to how the Flaming Lips have racked up accolades for doing just this type of thing, only without writing compelling songs like these or arranging them nearly as well.

Grandaddy is Jason Lytle’s band – he writes the songs, produces the records, plays many instruments and sings everything. Lytle also obviously remembers vinyl, and appreciates the particular skill it takes to arrange an album for two sides. That’s why this record was originally intended for release on two CDs, each about 25 minutes – Sumday is absolutely divided into two sides. In fact, had record company finances not prevailed and forced the band to abandon that plan, it would have been a fascinating experiment. As it is, those who don’t know the story and don’t remember vinyl will probably be surprised at the abrupt shift in tone at track seven.

The first half of Sumday (or side one) is entirely engaging strummed indie-pop, for lack of a better description. Everything is propelled by the quarter-note beat, and with that limitation firmly in place, Lytle has written some delightful tunes and spiced them up with atmospherics and synthesizers. It’s hard not to think of these six songs as six movements of one long piece, so similar do they all sound. That’s not a bad thing in this case – it’s a sustained mood that really works, punctuated by great pop songs like “El Caminos in the West” and one genuine epic in “Lost On Yer Merry Way.”

Had they carried this mood through the second half, Sumday would fall far short of Sophtware, but side two takes off on wings borrowed from Brian Wilson. We get pianos, crashing percussion, synthesized orchestration and a sense of drama all but missing from side one. “Yeah is What We Had” works as a transition of sorts, incorporating some of those production flourishes, but by “The Saddest Vacant Lot in All The World,” we’re in epic pop wonderland.

And really, there isn’t a stretch of songs in the Flaming Lips catalog that can compare with the final three tunes on Sumday. “OK With My Decay” is a big, sad delight that leads into the bigger “The Warming Sun” before crashing into piano-driven finality with “The Final Push to the Sum,” and by the end, you’ve been carried somewhere and back, and you’re dizzy from the trip.

The Lips even borrowed Grandaddy’s pet theme of technology lost in a world of humans for Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, and did a crushingly inferior job of it. Here Lytle uses mechanical breakdown as a metaphor for emotional breakdown, and achieves that rarest of lyrical accomplishments – finding new ways to describe a broken heart. If Sumday is less immediately astounding than Sophtware, it grows in significance with each listen, particularly the ambitious second half. Why Grandaddy isn’t at the top of critics’ lists like their less talented contemporaries is beyond me. This album is more than recommended – if you’re into well-crafted and thoughtful rock music of any stripe, it’s mandatory.

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Last Words

I’m still not as caught up on recent releases as I’d like to be, but I think this will do for now. Coming up look for an examination of selling out with Liz Phair and Jewel, a bit about Led Zeppelin’s mammoth new live record, and reviews of Type O Negative, Guster, Mark Eitzel, the Alarm and Spock’s Beard. Coming in August is Sloan’s new one, called Action Pact – love that name – and what will likely be Warren Zevon’s final album, The Wind. Oh, and expect a diatribe about art and commerce when Jane’s Addiction returns with Strays.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m torn.

Torn, torn, torn.

So I thought I’d try something a little different this time. As people who’ve known me forever will attest (and people who’ve known me only a short while invariably find hard to believe), I’m a longtime fan of Metallica. I know all the words to “Creeping Death,” I can air-guitar along with “Leper Messiah,” and I once considered “The Frayed Ends of Sanity” the one song in all the world with which I most identified. I bought their stupid home videos (even the one with several versions of their then-lone video, “One”), and I believe (though I’m not sure) that …And Justice For All was the first album I waited for, and bought on the release date.

So yeah, me, James, Lars, Kirk and the ever-changing bass player go way back. Which means I’ve also suffered through the dreaded black album and watched as the group turned into video whores while parlaying moderately toughened-up boogie rock for the last decade. I even really liked some of it. But like many longtime fans, I longed for a return to the complex, heavy, lightning-fast Metallica of old, knowing in my gut that they, like Megadeth, would never grant my wish.

But lo and behold, they have.

Just out from the Metallicamp is St. Anger, a 75-minute album that’s billed as a trip in the Wayback Machine, a seriously heavy slab of old-time thrash and rage. And it is. Except it isn’t. Yet often, it is. And round and round I go, debating with myself on whether I’m hearing the best damn Metallica album since the ’80s or a pile of shit dressed in the emperor’s new clothes. And then I thought, why not just bring my inner debate to you, live and uncut?

Hence this little experiment. Two reviews, point and counterpoint, both of which I seem to believe. My hope is that other longtime Metallica fans share in my joy and frustration with this album, which could have been titled Be Careful What You Wish For. Herewith, the voices in my head battle it out over St. Anger:

Why St. Anger Rules

Let’s start with history, most of which points to the inescapable fact that Metallica was really starting to suck. Their first three albums with bassist Cliff Burton are legendary, not just for the music but for the attitude. Metallica was an undisputed success years before they got a record deal, and they managed to last six years on a major label without making any videos or doing the usual promotional bullshit. This band toured their asses off and played challenging, powerful music with conviction, and that’s all they needed to do.

Plus, they were fucking heavy. Just check out “Fight Fire With Fire,” or “Damage, Inc.” to hear classic Metallica on overdrive, drummer Lars Ulrich flailing away like an epileptic octopus while singer/guitarist James Hetfield growls and bellows with unrestrained fury. Try to find moments like that on any of the band’s ’90s releases. You can’t do it. The black album was simplistic and boring, Load and Reload had glimpses of excellence but basically plodded along like stretched-out ZZ Top records, and Garage Inc. was all covers, the heaviest of which were recorded in 1987. And that symphony thing was cute, but…

Now try finding moments like the early days on St. Anger. Jesus, they’re everywhere. The record opens with Ulrich playing the double kick drum as if he’s warming up to play “Whiplash,” and nearly every song contains sections of pure thrashing metal, the likes of which haven’t been heard on a major label release in ages. Here’s Hetfield, in his 40s, whipping out killer riffs and snarling into the microphone again with force, feeling and power. And here’s 11 songs that twist and turn and change tempos and do everything but just lie there, separating them instantly from just about every Metallica tune since 1988.

But that’s not the best part. It’s the vibe, the aggressive fucking vibe that permeates this record. Metallica has suffered setback after setback in recent years. They lost bassist Jason Newsted, who was with them for the whole of their boogie-rock phase, to inventive thrashers Voivod. Hetfield himself nearly crumbled due to addiction, and checked himself into rehab. The band’s future has been in doubt before, but they’ve never come this close to packing it all in.

Hence the glorious rebirth that is this album. Give some of the credit to new bassist Rob Trujillo, formerly of Suicidal Tendencies, but the lion’s share belongs to the three core members. This is now a band playing like their lives depended on it. The sound is raw, furious, and best of all, live. They’ve stripped everything away, even the guitar solos, and given us the real shit. For the first time in a decade, Metallica sounds like a real-live heavy band again, and also for the first time in a decade, they’ve made a record that isn’t predicated on how many MTV-watching teens like it. St. Anger isn’t an ad for the Metallica Marketing Machine, it’s a genuine work of expression, and that in itself is remarkable considering how far this band had fallen.

At its core, Metallica has always been about finding inner strength through dealing with rage, and St. Anger‘s lyrics read like an anger management class. This is a meditation on fury, with the final lesson being that you are stronger than anything if you want to be. It naturally deals with addiction – “My lifestyle determines my deathstyle,” Hetfield spits out in “Frantic,” the self-descriptive opening track, and the record is filled with similar hard-won truths.

What’s impressive about that is the vulnerability that James Hetfield lets show on most of the record. He channels the Hetfield of Kill ‘Em All in places here, but retains the melodicism that has marked his best moments as a vocalist. St. Anger is his most remarkable performance – he snarls, screams and whirls all over this album, his voice cracking and showing naked emotion even over the most punishing of the band’s riffs.

No, Metallica hasn’t made a sequel to Ride the Lightning here, but what they’ve done is even more impressive. They refused to disregard their melodic evolution, yet went back to their roots and found the old fire again. Just watch the accompanying DVD, which consists of the band playing every song from the record live in rehearsal, and you’ll see rebirth before your eyes. The focus is back, the drive is back, and the anger is back. St. Anger is without a doubt Metallica’s best album in more than 10 years. Their redemption is complete.

Why St. Anger Sucks

Simply put, there’s a definite difference between revisiting the old fire and recapturing it completely.

It’s true that this band was starting to suck, and suck hard. The problem is, I think they were (and still are) making the best music they are physically capable of making, and they’re just not as good as they once were. It’s not their fault. They got old. But to make an album like St. Anger, which purports to fit right in with their older, better albums, and to fall this short of accomplishing that goal is just sad.

What’s wrong with it? Well, your worst moment listening to St. Anger will likely come early on, like in the first two minutes, when you realize that that pinging sound is the snare drum tone they’ve chosen for the entire album. It honestly sounds like two paint cans being clanged together, and it’s mixed really loud, so there’s no escaping it. In fact, for most of this record, the fine line between raw production and indistinct mud is gleefully crossed. Who knows what James Hetfield and Kirk Hammett are playing during those snare-ping-infested middle sections? Who can hear new bassist Rob Trujillo at all?

Then there’s the songs. I understand that the band has tried to go back to the roots of their sound, and they’ve certainly amped up the aggression in places, but for a depressing stretch of St. Anger‘s running time, they fall back on mid-tempo repetition. Take the eight-and-a-half-minute “Invisible Kid,” which runs out of ideas one minute in and basically sticks to three notes throughout. Or try “Some Kind of Monster,” which really wishes it was “The Thing That Should Not Be.” But it isn’t.

In fact, the bits of blistering speed here and there only serve to underscore how average most of the songs here are. The title track, for example, quotes both “Damage Inc.” and “Hit the Lights” in its lyrics, but fails to measure up to either of those songs in the Furious Explosion category. The chorus hinges on the line “fuck it all and fucking no regrets,” pulled straight from “Damage Inc.,” but in comparison, Hetfield sounds like he’s whining that sentiment on the new song.

Oh, right, James Hetfield. There’s another big problem. The guy has spent so much time over the last 10 years writing little melodic ditties that he’s forgotten how to scream and bellow without sounding silly. He’s basically unrestrained here, which means we get to hear his loony laugh, his hillbilly sing-speak trick, and his oh-so-metal “hah!” He likely thinks he’s channeling the Hetfield of the Kill ‘Em All era, but in reality he sounds like James Hetfield at 40-something, not 20-something. And hearing him screech the line “I’m madly in anger with you” on the title track is like listening to a loved one go senile.

Basically, while it would be nice to hear Metallica make an album as good as their first four, St. Anger just isn’t that album. The band really tried, and it’s obvious. Some of the record is quite good, but most of it drowns in mediocrity that even the flashes of the old fury can’t salvage. In fact, it’s those very flashes that make the album an even bigger disappointment, since they invite comparison. No one compared Reload to Master of Puppets – there’s not even the thinnest of similarities between them. But Metallica wants you to think of St. Anger in those terms, and ultimately, that’s what kills it. I do believe that this is the very best album Metallica can make at this point in their career. It’s just not a very good one, unfortunately.

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In the very un-metal film Mumford, Loren Dean’s character, Dr. Mumford, makes the observation that holding two opposing thoughts in one’s head at once can cause splitting headaches. It seems he’s right – after typing this up, I’ve been afflicted with a monster cranial ache, so that’ll do it for me this week. But hey – birthday went well, I’m 29 (it’s pretty cool…no one but Mainers will get that reference), and there’s a buttload of new music awaiting review. Next week should be another long one, including Radiohead, Bruce Cockburn, the Violet Burning, Wayne Everett, Eels, Type O Negative, and anything else I’m forgetting at the moment. Hope you missed me, ’cause it’s good to be back.

See you in line Tuesday morning.