LA and OC WEEKLY
CD REVIEWS / SHOW PREVIEWS
1997-2000

The links to these somehow disappeared and I'm too lazy to find them again, so where it says [OC Weekly version] or [LA Weekly version], pretend there is a link, then put http://www.laweekly.com or http://www.ocweekly.com into your browser, and type FIORE and {band name} into the Search bar. I don't know why you'd do that, as the words are all here, but ...

SHOW PREVIEWS
eels
Komeda, His Name is Alive
Tahiti 80

CD REVIEWS
Elf Power
Cornelius - Point
Lambchop - Tools in the Dryer
Mercury Rev - All Is Dream
Reindeer Section - Y'all Get Scared Now, Ya Hear?
Quasi - Sword of God
The Shins - Oh, Inverted World
Edith Frost - Wonder Wonder
Clem Snide - The Ghost of Fashion
The Minders - Golden Street
Creeper Lagoon - Take Back the Universe and Give Me Yesterday
Autour de Lucie - Faux Mouvement
Rainer Maria - A Better Version of Me
Death Cab for Cutie - Forbidden Love EP
PJ Harvey - Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea
Bettie Serveert - Private Suit
Elf Power - Vainly Clutching at Phantom Limbs
Matt Suggs - Golden Days Before They End
Future Bible Heroes - I'm Lonely (And I Love It)
eels - Electro-Shock Blues
Komeda - What Makes It Go?
Front 242 - Re:Boot - Live '98
Bettie Serveert - Venus in Furs
Beth Orton - Central Reservation
Inger Lorre - Transcendantal Mediaction

SHOW PREVIEWS

eels at the El Rey, February 12, 1999
Hard to say which is more impressive - the inspired grace of the eels' latest effort, or the fact that E survived the death of his parents and suicide of his sister (the album's focus) to write it. But don't bother to whip out that black dress. E's wit, gorgeous hooks (with added grit and feedback onstage) and indomitable spirit promise tonight's show will be more of a belated New Year's party than a funeral: Shake hands with the past, embrace tomorrow's clean slate, then shake your noisemaker and double martini till your friends pour your ass into a cab. L.A. life is tough - dream jobs are scarce, true friends are scarcer, and a decent pad for under $600 is damn near impossible. But if a hapless geek from Echo Park can turn its toughest blows into something beautiful, so can you.

Komeda, His Name Is Alive at the Troubadour, November 17, 1998
Sweden's mod squad makes their second sweep through L.A. in support of the infectious What Makes It Go? That question will be promptly put to bed on Tuesday with a swirl of bossa-nova bomp and lo-fi, sci-fi synths that would make a fitting soundtrack for Tomorrowland -- a space-age projection whose go-go boots are firmly planted in Cronkite-era kitch. The quartet is surprisingly down-to-earth, even shy, but their loony tunes are anything but. If Stereolab (a likely influence) ever decided to write a chorus, they could give Komeda a run for their money, but 'til then, these sharp-tongued Swedes are the life of the martini swilling crowd. From outer space to just plain spacey, openers His Name Is Alive toss everything from The Beach Boys to Brian Eno into their sonic reverie. "This world is not my home," the recurring refrain of 1996's Stars on E.S.P., is the core of the band's ambient groove that makes even acoustic guitars sound intergalactic.

Tahiti 80 at the Troubadour, September 1, 2000
Don't be fooled by the Polynesian moniker of these Parisian popsters; it was taken from a souvenir t-shirt worn by frontman Xavier Boyer's father (proof the quartet is in no danger of taking themselves too seriously). Their irresistible debut, Puzzle, is dash of disco and a heavy helping of '60s-era British pop that fans of The Beatles, The Zombies, or even labelmates The Cardigans will dig. Despite an homage to idol Ray Davies of The Kinks ("Mr. Davies") -- and a few guitar licks in that direction -- Boyer and Co. stick to the lighter sounds of the crumpet-eating crowd: trumpets, flutes and keyboards can’t seem to weigh down their laid-back tunes. Those up for a more aggressive groove should arrive early to catch George Sarah (mastermind of L.A.’s industrial outfit THC) and the cross-cultural electro-funk of DJ Me DJ You.

CD REVIEWS

Elf Power, "Creatures" (Spin Art)
Like a corporate lawyer named Heather or Courtney, Elf Power has outgrown the cuteness of its name. On this fifth full-length, the silly carnival atmosphere that characterized the band’s earlier releases has been replaced by darker fantasies: specters and demons, kings and vipers, voices and darkness, and always the sea—the patented symbol of the subterranean dream world, even if these rhymes read more like nightmares. But for all their eerie imagery, the songs are less than menacing—due to Andrew Rieger’s harmless, almost listless vocals and arrangements that swing from cute-but-raunchy power pop to lilting lullabies. Demons with "fingers that claw through the dark" are somehow less ominous when accompanied by accordions, cellos and keyboards. Back-to-back gems "The Modern Mind" (a folk waltz?) and "Visions of the Sea" shimmer and sway, and only two tracks pose a threat to 10 p.m. noise curfews. There are a few times when things even seem to sag, as blandly familiar as pickup lines at the local watering hole. But unlike the desperate parasites at last call, these kids redeem themselves enough to pass muster as bedroom companions. That’s the best place to mull over the true theme of the album: the idea that the creatures closing in are not threats of death but of life’s memory slipping away, a fear that progresses throughout the album: "Where the ancient memories awake, don’t let them fade," Rieger sings. "Time is over, we’re forgotten. . . . O, who will remember?" [OC Weekly version]

Cornelius, "Point" (Matador)
Five years ago, this Japanese DJ (known to his grandma as Keigo Oyamada) released the phenomenal album Fantasma and then lived up to its name by dropping out of sight. His follow-up, Point, lives up to its name as well. Cornelius’ debut was a wonderfully schizophrenic collage of Beck, Stereolab, Pizzicato Five, Brian Wilson and carnival mayhem, but Point converges on one style and circles it for the better part of an hour. The synthetic blips and acoustic tweaks of one track turn themselves inside-out and appear on another track. Like the Buddhist’s "flowing river" or a handful of Julia Roberts’ roles, the songs are different yet the same (compare "Tone Twilight Zone" and "Brazil," or "Another View Point" and "Fly"). As minimalist as Fantasma was bombastic, Point often subsists on mere twitters of guitar, looped synths, sparse taps of percussion and a backdrop of noises nabbed from the Discovery Channel: birds, waves, wolves and more birds. The likely single, "Bird Watching at Inner Forest," is both a highlight and a typical example of Oyamada’s "anything is an instrument" approach, using a loop of perfectly on-key bird calls as the song’s main hook. It also builds its tempo and instruments slowly, taking a full minute to reach top speed, as many of the tracks do. Only one song has traditional vocals and lyrics, and those are digitized and romantically cornball to the point of near incomprehensibility. All of this considered, Point is definitely best when spun as a whole—something you’ll want to do repeatedly. [OC Weekly version]

Lambchop, "Tools in the Dryer" (Merge)
This 16-song collage is about as cohesive as a drunken diary entry by Syd Barrett, but as a collection of "A-sides, B-sides, live tracks and remixes," that’s exactly as it should be. Lambchop may be Nashville’s least favorite sons, but these gems prove that even their table scraps are worth a listen and a laugh. A bit less country and a lot less heinous than their hometown’s regular fare, these guys have churned out brilliantly skewed twang since ’92. The two singles that kick off the disc showcase the traits the band has relied on ever since: goofy dissonance (on the irresistible "Nine") and slow-heeled slide guitar (on "Whitey," a 1997 tribute to Yankees pitcher Whitey Ford that’s so American it hurts). The perfectly chosen cover of Vic Chesnutt’s "Miss Prissy"—which boasts one of Vic’s kinder choruses: "Knuckles on a cheese grater"—is a definite highlight, as are Jonathan Marx’s fascinating liner notes, which rival Peter Buck’s comments on REM’s Dead Letter Office. Also putting in cameos: bedroom jams, marvelously off-key $2 flutes, lo-fi squawks, beautiful acoustic discards, and an inexplicably Bee Gees-esque cover of Curtis Mayfield’s "Give Me Your Love." Some songs on Tools in the Dryer get by on sheer comic value; others should have been college-radio staples. All in all, it’s a delicious sampling of odds and ends for those who like their Lambchop rare and well done. [OC Weekly version]

Mercury Rev, "All Is Dream" (BMG/V2)
Never keen on restraint, Mercury Rev turn out another dramatic opus that begs phrases normally reserved for Spielberg films—"a sweeping epic!" "a heart-wrenching tale!" After the album’s opening crash of cymbals and soaring violins, in fact, it’s hard not to glance around for a teary Meryl Streep or Tom Hanks, an IV drip in one arm and a box of chocolates under the other. Instead, you’ll find a few stock characters, such as the jilted lover, and several off-kilter musings from the cobwebbed recesses of singer Jonathan Donahue’s mind. He filters them through vocals that conjure every high-pitched heavyweight—from the threadbare strains of Neil Young to the deliberately off-key warble of Thom Yorke. This works to great effect in the album’s austere and eerie "Lincoln’s Eyes": "What is dark like a birthmark and pulls like a magnet, male and female and covets like a dragon?" Shiver-worthy stuff. On the sunnier side is "A Drop in Time," sweet as honey and nearly as sappy. Most of the album, though, is a mixture of the two and a fitting follow-up to 1998’s Deserter’s Songs—exquisitely and intricately produced, melancholy and melodic. The dissonance of drunk-and-disorderly ’90s offerings like Yerself Is Steam and Boces has all but evaporated. In its place are more strings than a shop full of marionettes, singing saws that quiver like ghosts, romantic orchestral swirls, and keyboards from the parlor of Edgar Allan Poe—ethereal reminders that the album’s title might not be far from the truth. [OC Weekly version]

Reindeer Section, "Y'all Get Scared Now, Ya Hear?" (Bright Star Recordings)
Possibly the most misnamed album since Madonna’s Like a Virgin, Y’all Get Scared is an EZ-Boy recliner of a record put out by a pile o’ Scottish kids, including members of Arab Strap, Belle & Sebastian, Mogwai, and Snow Patrol. Strangely, Snow Patrol is the only remotely noisy band in the bunch, and that band’s Gary Lightbody is the one who spawned the idea—at a Lou Barlow gig on an 80-proof evening. He wrote the songs in one day, and the band recorded them in 10, a feat that makes even Beck look lazy. It’s a surprisingly minimalist record, considering there are 14 guys involved (and one girl, Eva’s Jenny Reeve). Aside from a few organs, some brass, a "timbaleze" and some "pigeon noises," it’s a straight-up, toned-down rock record along the lines of ultramellow Barlow—which isn’t too shocking, as it was less than 12 hours after the show that Lightbody penned the 14 tunes. Though the group mixes it up a bit, trading vocals and instruments from one track to the next, things sometimes get a bit too sedate. The gems "Raindrop," "Sting" and "Tout le Monde" (that last one a fuzzed-out Stereolab groove) are the only songs that threaten your horizontal slouch. But then, this isn’t a soundtrack for your trip down the 405. The album’s more of an "It’s 3 a.m. on a Tuesday, and I’m nursing a Sam Adams, hypnotized by the neon BAR sign flickering in my window" thing. Which is, indeed, the recommended usage. (Kristin Fiore) [OC Weekly version]

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Quasi, "Sword of God" (Touch And Go)
No one else makes as much of his misery as Sam Coomes. You almost want to put him down—an act of mercy generally reserved for old dogs—but he appears to enjoy airing his grievances as much as we enjoy eavesdropping on them. So we let him live. As always, Quasi’s song titles read like slogans you might find on black T-shirts in a divey punk shop: "Fuck Hollywood," "A Case of No Way Out," "Nothing Nowhere"—stuff Nietzsche might have worn, if he’d bothered wearing anything. Like Nietzsche’s twisted tales, Coomes’ world (a "cardboard panorama in an empty void") is scattered with all sorts of human refuse—drug-dazed Argonauts and whining naïfs, Barbary apes and corporate puppets. He eviscerates them one by one with his patented postmodern cocktail of bile and sarcastic wit. As the album’s title suggests, there are only three tracks in which some loser isn’t getting lopped off at the knees—and two of them are instrumentals. The other, "Goblins and Trolls," is Coomes’ plea to a loved one for refuge from the demons that populate his weary world, a rare moment of softness. We’ve come to expect these dour parables and the thick fuzz of keyboards, guitar and Janet Weiss’ drums that grumbles and throbs underneath them. There are no surprises there either (even birds make their trademark appearance at the start of the title track), though several songs are a bit more melancholy and melodic than usual. But don’t let that fool you. Sword of God is the condemnation of a culture 21 months into the decade of the double-zero. [OC Weekly version]

The Shins, "Oh, Inverted World" (SubPop)
If forced to choose between your own shins and this stunning debut, grab yourself a wheelchair and some knee-length shorts. After a few fine singles on Omnibus, the Shins have managed to kick out a gorgeous full-length (if 33 minutes and change could be called "full length") album, one that should make several of those obnoxious Best Of lists come Thanksgiving. They manage to combine Pulp’s melodic lilt, Belle and Sebastian’s under-the-comforter coziness, Stephin Merritt’s razor tongue, and Death Cab for Cutie’s emo vibe without resembling any of them. Like a Rorschach drawing, you can find pretty much anything on the disc that you look for: new wave sonics, ’60s-style Brit pop hooks, ringing guitars, hallucinogenic keyboards, and bewildering song titles ("Know Your Onion!" and "Caring Is Creepy"). The quiet highlight is the acoustic "New Slang," one of many lovelorn lullabies gone wrong. Like many tracks, it turns a new—and bizarre—phrase on old frustrations ("God speed all the bakers at dawn/May they all cut their thumbs"). The Shins aren’t strangers to the seamier side of human nature—revenge, diminished expectations, abusive relationships—and songwriter James Mercer, master of the sarcastic understatement, could go toe to toe with Tori Amos any day. But a hard-won optimism peeps through elsewhere ("When they’re parking their cars on your chest/You’ve still got a view of the summer sky"). And with such a promising offering, the Shins should be nothing but optimistic. [OC Weekly version]

Edith Frost, "Wonder Wonder" (Drag City)
Sometimes feeling bad sounds pretty darn good. Frost’s third full-length album finds her wondering (repeatedly) about the possibilities and limitations of love. Some lines can border on the mawkish ("Let me melt into your starry eyes"), but most ring true, especially when filtered through Frost’s smoldering alto. Her vocals are a perfect match for the fireside intimacy of the acoustic, often country-inspired ballads that make up much of the album. The only two upbeat songs are the whimsical title track and the sure-to-be single "Cars and Parties." After a few rounds of this unsentimental ode to the majestic strip malls of Texas, you’ll find your index finger permanently attached to the BACK button of the CD player. It’d be wise to move on, though, because the next track is the first of several down-tempo lullabies reminiscent of Beth Orton or Bettie Serveert. Their mellow melancholy sets the tone for the disc—a pulse of soft percussion, waning violins and diffident organs that sound as though they were recorded on a dim and desultory Sunday evening. The CD seems minimally produced until you note the subtle flourishes and unusual instruments thrown in at opportune moments, effects that accentuate Frost’s seasoned songwriting without obscuring it. She may lack the bite and ingenuity of bare-bones acoustic wizards like Kristin Hersh, but Frost excels at her own balmy blend of heartache and harmony. [OC Weekly version]

Clem Snide, "The Ghost of Fashion" (Spin Art)
The indie brigades have been marinating in their own overdeveloped sense of irony for about a decade now, and Clem Snide can smirk with the best of them. Just when you think crooner Eef Barzelay is waxing sentimental, he throws in a barb that’s sharp enough to cut the Crystal Cathedral’s glass. But when such sarcasm is balanced by keyboard- and string-laced blue-collar lullabies (not to mention euphonium and flute), the effect is irresistible: tales of out-of-hand pillow fights dripping over banjo licks; a scathing blow-off sung a cappella over thick record crackles; a fuzzed-out religious epic starring Corey Feldman (bravely titled "Junky Jews"). "Joan Jett of Arc" is a surprisingly tender ode to a first love, and when Barzelay coos, "She fixed me a dinner of sunflower seeds and Ready-Whip topping inhalers," you don’t bat a lash. The Ghost of Fashion and the warped world it encompasses are both bruised and beautiful, sneering and strangely sincere. [OC Weekly version]

The Minders, "Golden Street" (Spin Art)
A fun-loving, Brit-based, 1960s throwback, drenched with smooth organs, shimmering backup harmonies, ringing guitars, hip-wiggling beats and squeaky-clean production. U.K.-born front man Martyn Leaper’s scones-and-high-tea vocals only add to the effect. Sure, it might be a bit on the fluffy side—the album has all the depth of the Santa Ana River in mid-July—but New York indie label Spin Art is known for its classy, lightweight pop records (Jason Falkner, the Orange Peels, Apples in Stereo). Even so, the Minders incorporate several instruments and styles: wistful acoustic guitars, high-hat bootie-shakers, even hi-fi fuzz. It’s not a soul-probing masterpiece or a sternum-thumping call to arms, but fans of psychedelic pop should find it positively ... shagadelic. [OC Weekly version]

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Creeper Lagoon, "Take Back the Universe and Give Me Yesterday (Dreamworks)
An ex-indie band going hi-fi is like a brunette going platinum—if you’re gonna do it, for Christ’s sake, go all the way and do it right. Putting producers Dave Fridmann (Mercury Rev, the Flaming Lips—but you knew that) and ex-Talking Head Jerry Harrison at the wheel is an excellent start—hi-fi, platinum, whatever your ambitions. And Creeper’s fourth album (on as many labels) is an ambitious one, indeed; Marilyn’s lips ain’t got nothin’ on this gloss. But after a few spins, the space-age textures and surround-sound ambience enhance—not obscure—the songs beneath. Swirling gems like "Sunfair" and "Naked Days" and the six-string crunch of "Hey Sister" prove that radio-friendly doesn’t always mean rotten (though quips of insanity and high drama—"Check it out/I’m a freak with tripped-out behavior, yeah" —are past their expiration date). Don’t hate them because they’re beautiful. [OC Weekly version]

Autour De Lucie, "Faux Mouvement" (Nettwork)
Despite the danger of judging books and folks by their covers (that bongo-pounder emitting patchouli fumes just might be a CPA), French quartet Autour de Lucie don’t stray far from the detached, blasé sensuality of their album’s cover: girl with pink chemise (and nothing else) on pink blanket; plump pink lips. But the face, propped by a hand on the chin, is cut off above the nose. One can imagine a long-lashed, vacant stare, but her true mood — and identity — is kept from us. Likewise, the back shows a body (an arm, a breast?) too close to decipher, again wrapped in pink.

But the tone of the album is a slate blue — muted, dislocated, sweetly melancholy, the topics often deliberately banal. Bewitching chanteuse Valérie Leulliot rarely climbs above a whisper and is often recorded, as are many of the instruments, as if through a distant mic. Despite the lush orchestral arrangements (a first for the group) — violinists, flutes, vibraphones, a clarinet, a harp, a Hammond organ and more — the songs still come off spare, inflated with empty space. Titles like “Lent” (“Slow”), “Le Dernier Mot” (“The Last Word”), “Sans Commentaire” (“Without Comment”) and “Corps Étrangers” (“Foreign Bodies”) are equally icy. Electronic flourishes, glips and beeps amplify the subzero vibe and give the sweeping arrangements a postmodern tweak. Several tracks boast an intensity honed on everything from hip-hop to piano-bar suave, while others include left-field infusions of brass and deep-space guitar reverberations. They sport just enough grit and dissonance to keep your eyelids from getting heavy.

It’s a wildly mixed sonic bag, yet Faux Mouvement evokes a consistent mood — midnight partings at airports, languid afternoons, and sullen nymphs in fishnets whose musings and affections are ever so slightly out of reach. [LA Weekly version]

Rainer Maria, "A Better Version of Me" (Polyvinyl)
This emo trio wear their hearts on their frilled, Elizabethan sleeves. And though they claim they chose their moniker at random, their musings share the reflective melancholy of their namesake, German lyric poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Solitude, uncertainty and slight disillusionment circle the mystery of their own psyches and the world at large, yet Rainer Maria seem to prefer pondering life’s locked doors than trying to pry them open—as Rilke suggested once, they "live the questions now." But their literate, antique style and subjects ("The Contents of Lincoln’s Pockets" is a collage of Walt Whitman, linen, newspaper clippings and Lincoln’s death, brimming with phrases like "trajectory of a common crowd, simmering") are punctuated with a thrashing of cymbals and the dissonant crunch of assorted indie-rock archetypes. Bridging the two are swells of luxuriant, glimmering guitars and empty expanses; hovering above it all is the sometimes-strident, sometimes-sonorous wailing of singer Caithlin De Marrais, which seems to defy and lament our own mortality. A Better Version of Me is a record that comes on like a long, cool, contented sigh. [OC Weekly version]

Death Cab for Cutie, "Forbidden Love EP" (Barsuk)
Only Death Cab vocalist Ben Gibbard could deliver a phrase like “screaming drunk disorderly” with such malaise. The Washington state–based quartet has been tagged a shoe-gazing emo band, and the foggy listlessness that pervades this EP (on the heels of We Have the Facts and We’re Voting Yes, released last year) is probable cause, but Gibbard brilliantly walks the line between that genre’s self-absorbed wallows and the terminally ironic detachment of many indie-pop poets.

One can hardly imagine Modest Mouse crooning earnestly about courting schoolteachers, boys and “the letter jacket that wasn’t yours to own” (from the tender, ’50s-inspired “Technicolor Girls”). Gibbard manages to swing from this innocence (albeit bittersweet and plagued with childish arguments and dashed hopes) to full-blown disillusion and dysfunction in less than 20 minutes — without losing his understated wit: “Misguided by the 405 ’cause it led me to an alcoholic summer/I missed the exit to your parents’ house hours ago” (from “405”). The band’s music doesn’t follow Gibbard’s downward spiral, but remains a solid incarnation of the moody/minimalist/melodic indie pop that young people sprinkle sugar on and swallow whole. And why not? Despite critics’ ceaseless comparisons to Doug Martsch and Built To Spill (each one of them deserved, mind you — and can you name a better mentor?), Death Cab is irresistible: the three-quarter lilt of “Song for Kelly Huckaby,” its double-tracked vocals and high-hat hiss, or the warped folk of “405,” whose Kristin Hersh–style strumming shimmers more than jangles.

Gibbard’s stinging lines spill over into bar after bar, unforgiving reminders of your own shrinking aspirations and receding youth. “And as they all grow older/the truth will be understood/because we never turn out the way/we thought we would.” [LA Weekly version]

PJ Harvey "Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea" (Island)
The brash cries and anthemic poundings of Stories’ opener, “Big Exit,” are a 120-decibel declaration of the attitude and energy to follow. Harvey’s sixth album is named for her experiences in light-speed metropolises like New York and in her childhood home of Dorset, England, where she lived on a sheep farm. Upbeat in mood and tempo, the collection definitely resembles the energy of the former. While it’s a more accessible and rock-oriented work than most of her previous releases, Harvey still deals frankly with love, sex and violence (and the discomfiting corners where they meet), though relationships and love now seem more of a refuge than a grotesque curiosity — she now wants to “chase you ’round the table” and “watch you undress” (“This Is Love”). Even a gritty title like “The Whores Hustle and the Hustlers Whore” contains the unlikely line “Speak to me the language of love, the language of violence, the language of the heart.”

Yet Harvey hasn’t exactly gone soft on us. Several cuts, including ”Whores,” crackle and swirl with impassioned howls and high-voltage six-string dissonance (albeit acoustic). Her debt to Patti Smith and the mid-’70s New York punk scene in general is as blatant (and as well-utilized) as it has ever been; one song is even titled “Horses in My Dreams.” Along with “Horses,” the piano-backed “You Said Something” and “We Float” are the sole easygoing, even pretty, tracks; even “The Mess We’re In,” conceived for and sung by Radiohead’s Thom Yorke — who delivers his usual monotone performance — doesn’t dampen Harvey’s high spirits. A beautiful album that even non–Harvey fans might relate to, Stories is an undeniable, unrelenting triumph. [LA Weekly version]

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Bettie Serveert "Private Suit" (Hidden Agenda)
If taking three years off is what it takes to produce an album as cohesive and alluring as this one, then this Dutch quartet should pencil in some hefty chunks of downtime. Bettie Serveert’s first release after leaving the giant teat of Matador Records finds them moodier and more mature—grown up and stripped down, yet never watered down. A peek at Private Suit’s producer hints as much: John Parish, who has molded such dark and disparate acts as P.J. Harvey and Giant Sand. Now that their once-cranky guitars have receded in favor of such more esoteric toys as marimbas, cellos, congas and an octopad, singer Carol Van Dijk gets scooted up front, her honey-coated rasp nailing every note and nuance as she swings from the relatively jovial rapture of "Satisfied" ("Throw out all your chastity/No need for your blasphemy/Live out every fantasy/All we really want is each other") to the solemn disillusion of "Auf Weidersehen" ("There’ll be other times/There’ll be other days/Mortify the flesh until we find a way")—though the latter more often prevails. A few lighter moments, plus the high-octane title track, recall their previous three albums, but this new model Bettie is better—more brooding, yet more beautiful. [OC Weekly version]

Elf Power "Vainly Clutching at Phantom Limbs" (Arena Rock)
With more fuzz than fuss and packing sound experiments that resemble everything from TV static to squeaky windshield wipers, Vainly Clutching is a far cry from the cuddly whimsy of last year’s A Dream in Sound. As the title suggests, this collection of early cuts is a gory, groping, delicious mess, the first dozen tracks culled from the band’s debut LP, back in ’95 (only 250 vinyl copies were pressed), and the remaining five off the previously unreleased The Winter Hawk EP.

In the grand tradition of basement pitch-benders everywhere, Elf Power prove anew that you can make a helluva lotta noise with a four-track, a six-string and a gaggle of your closest buddies. Their manner of mayhem is a bit more subdued, though, than most holey-sneakered college kids’. Layered vocals are whispered or mumbled, the sarcasm and ennui muted, the snarling amps turned down a notch. If many indie debuts resemble Jackson Pollock’s splattered extravaganzas, this one is Malevich’s Black Square, understated yet ominous — a mood evident in titles like “Slither Hither” and “Arachnid Dungeon Attack” (3.5 minutes of droning guitar dissonance). The band’s choices of cover songs are clear indications of both their lo-fi origins (a killer rendition of the Dwarves’ “Drug Store”) and their surreal, more melodic future (Robyn Hitchcock’s “Surgery”).

There are a few other hints of the Elves to come — Julian Koster (of Neutral Milk Hotel and the Music Tapes) chimes in with a Moog, and violins, flutes, organs and accordions pepper the album. But every note is filtered through the bare, defiant buzz of gritty basement blowouts, garage-sale couches and invincible youth. [LA Weekly version]

Matt Suggs "Golden Days Before They End" (Merge)
If John Wayne were still alive and rambling around OC, this CD would have a permanent spot in the five-disc changer in the back of his Lincoln Town Car—though the perfect output device for Suggs’ solo debut would be something more like a dusty, hand-cranked Victrola planted near a blazing campfire, both popping and crackling in the Arizona night. Even the titles resemble forgotten westerns: "The Rambler vs. the Vulture/ Devils Dance," "Rambler’s Ride," "Western Zephyr." Well-worn trails wind through his troubled tales, illuminated by sunsets and darkened by lonely evenings and lost loves, but there are also characters that bark at the moon and shoot up to the ceiling.

Suggs’ foray into the wide open spaces of country and folk may surprise fans of his mid-’90s indie-rock duo Butterglory (with Debby Vander Wall), but traces of his rough-hewn rock days remain. His songs retain the indie approach, sounding thrown together but still flawless; his vocals are almost off-the-cuff and off-key, yet they fit just right (it’ll be a while before Suggs shakes the comparisons to Ray Davies or even Pavement).

But instead of the fuzz-guitar-by-way-of-storm-drain production that Sebadoh and Guided by Voices made famous a decade ago, Suggs opts for the straightforward: acoustic and slide guitar, a heavy helping of piano, and the occasional triangle or chime oddity. And it shore is purty—cohesive without being redundant, laid-back but never lethargic. With no more than a pinch of sentimentality and a dollop of twang, Golden Days just might even attract fans from the rock, indie, folk and country camps. [OC Weekly version]

Future Bible Heroes "I'm Lonely (And I Love It)" (Merge)
The only thing better than a guilty pleasure is two guilty pleasures—in this case, the self-indulgent pining of Stephin Merritt and the new-wave nostalgia of Boston DJ Christopher Ewen. This five-course follow-up (complete with tablecloth cover art) is the first release from the duo since their similar 1997 debut, Memories of Love. Those familiar with Merritt’s main stint as the Magnetic Fields’ lovelorn leader will instantly recognize his pleas and post-breakup barbs ("I’m as lonely as Narcissus gazing in his mirrored pond/ Wearing all the clothes you hate and going back to blond" from the title track), but Ewen’s coochie-coo Casios are as far from the Fields’ banjo ballads as Prozac is from Proust.

Merritt’s acerbic wit is also a strange match for Ewen’s irresistible ear candy—the Erasure-like "I’m Lonely (and I Love It)" is proof, with Ewen at his most musically ambitious and Merritt at his crankiest, sarcastic best. Claudia Gonson, the band’s manager and the Magnetic Fields’ drummer/keyboardist, sings lead on two tracks, including the only truly moody, non-poppy entry from Ewen, "Café Hong Kong." If your ’80s fantasy was to suffocate Vince Clarke with his tutu, then the Future Bible Heroes will make you lose your lunch—but, if you still close your blinds, don a skinny tie, and bop about to OMD and Yaz every once in a while, then this is your fix. [OC Weekly version]

eels "Electro-Shock Blues" (DGC)
The eels have made a '90s "Rock-a-bye Baby" -- nearly every song is a caress of tremelo organ and music box chime, but underneath the lullaby, the bough is breaking, the cradle falling. Inspired by a troubled and departed sister, Liz (to whom the album is dedicated) E, the band's main writer and musician, slips into her skin to explore madness and death, then retreats to reveal his own disillusionment, loss and eventual resolve to carry on. From Cobain to Clinton, such an evolution is a sadly familiar blueprint for the decade and a well-tread path in '90s music. But the venomous aggression and world-be-damned stance of the early '90s has given way to a softer, more complex vision that allows contradictions -- the confidence of insanity, the seduction of death, the strength of vulnerability, the life-affirming whallop of a funeral.

The eels' only hint of sarcasm is in their combo of music and subject matter. An airy cascade of strings and get-your-groove-on bass line is an unlikely backdrop for a tale of a straight-jacketed mental patient on "My Descent Into Madness." While much of the album subsists on a sprinkling of keyboards, chimes, and acoustic guitars, a few tracks whip out the amp, the banjo (by Grant Lee Phillips), even the sax -- check the Beatnik shimmy of "Hospital Food" or the magic of "Last Stop: This Town," which finds Liz's ghost at E's doorstep one last time, ready to take him for a spin, Peter Pan style, above their hometown before she whisks herself back to Neverland. E's knack for finding life among the ruins rears its head a few times before the album's final line, which happens to be, "… maybe it's time to live."

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Komeda "What Makes It Go" (Minty Fresh)
With all of the masturbatory self-analysis Serious Artists slather onto their albums, Komeda’s playful "insanity is our hospitality" is a welcome and accurate tag. The Swedish quartet has more hooks than a corset from Trashy Lingerie, yet they seem to prefer straight jackets; every catchy morsel of pop is submerged in weirdness. But while other bands are retro or quirky as a gag, Komeda go beyond novelty by incorporating the kitsch into a more complex sound. Their third full-length release is another musical grab bag, with prominent bass lines, layered voices and strings, Meat Beat Manifesto-style outer-space sonics and corny sci-fi keyboards à la electronica (minus that genre’s post-mortem drone). But instead of the bossa nova backbone so common on their previous albums, this organized mayhem is thrown onto some meat-n-potatoes American pop. The solid rhythms and vocal and instrumental harmonies tie together all the intergalactic chaos and bring it down to earth.

With such a monster at the wheel, the lyrics definitely take a back seat, mirroring the wit and whimsy of the music (lines like "a smiling bare ass, a temptress in a bathing cap" or "da ba da ba dum" never brought anyone down from a ledge). At times, their monotone or perverse simplicity belies their darker undercurrents, recalling the anti-consumerism of "More is More" from The Genius of Komeda. "Flabbergast" is a laundry list of the impossibly perfect woman ("be sophisticated, be a rebel and be sexy, be a good mother"), while the upbeat "Binario" is really a mantra of self-reproach. But these moments are rare; Komeda’s attitude toward life and music is clear – "It’s alright baby; it’s a crazy world." Perfect if you like the happily insane vibe of Pizzicato Five, but wish they’d switch to decaf.

Front 242 "Re:Boot - Live '98" (Metropolis)
Industrial purists may scoff at the idea of pop-influenced F242 leading the vinyl-clad legions into the 21st century, but their marriage of Throbbing Gristle's inaccessible aggression with pile-driver dance rhythms is undeniably infectious, and much copied. It is their influence, not the metallic dissonance of SPK or T.G. (who coined the term "industrial" back in '76), that spreads its seed in the hybrid that is '90s music. (If it weren't for F242, Prodigy would still be a wimpy techno outfit instead of a redundant industrial-rock band.) Yet none of their beat-driven disciples - everyone in the WaxTrax! and Metropolis catalogs - can match F242's drum-synth wallop or Jean-Luc DeMeyer's vocal growl.

The hour-plus, aptly named Re:Boot (bewilderingly similar to 1993's Live Code, another official "concert bootleg" and the band's immediate prior release), recorded in Brussels and other points Flemish, pummels through nearly every anthem these Belgians have recorded over the last dozen years, from 1986's "Masterhit" to 1993's "Happiness," and proves that even decade-old synthesizer hits can still pound you like an LAPD officer. Double whammies include "Moldavia" following a relentless "Masterhit," then, later, "Headhunter" leading into "Welcome to Paradise." The latter pair, arguably the most recognized leather-and-leash mantras not penned by Mr. Reznor, got a better work-up on Live Code, but are still menacing enough here to pack a punch. Stripped down, these songs confirm what detractors refuse to believe: that there is good songwriting in industrial music.

The '90s have taken their toll on pseudo-noir acts that rely on sampling, nihilism and graphically violent imagery to lure disaffected teens. Now commonplace in rap and alt-rock, these empty shock tactics usually offer no distraction from the banal writing underneath. While F242 do use a smattering of samples and often scrape the bottom of humanity's collective barrel for subject matter, they don't rely on such parlor tricks to hold their audience, which is why that audience has grown.

Bettie Serveert "Plays 'Venus in Furs'" (Brinkman)
For a record that was never meant to see the light of day, this ain't bad at all. For fans of Serveert or those who share their fetish for the most worshiped band in alt rock (is there anyone in the indie bins who doesn't kiss Lou Reed's ass?), it's a great find. This authorized bootleg, from an Amsterdam show in November '97, was recorded for the band's private collection, but the good folks at Brinkman felt it'd be a darn shame if you couldn't get your mits on it as well, so here it is. True to form, the band delivers an amped up, stipped down take on many of VU's classics.

Carol van Dijk's in-yer-face rasp (which makes Stevie Nicks sound like a soprano) and the guitars' growl and grumble add a definite Serveert spin to a now-blistering "Beginning to See the Light" and "What Goes On." Gone are the tambourines and clean guitars -- and with them, a bit of the subtlety and nuance of Reed's delivery, but van Dijk fills the gap with a dose of 110-degrees-in-an-armpit-of-a-night-club energy. "Stephanie Says" is a bit lethargic, but the band pick it up again with psychedelic romps through the title track and "Black Angel's Death Song," both awash in feedback, and a faithful rendition of "Sunday Morning." Some favorites are conspicuously missing -- "Sweet Jane," "Pale Blue Eyes" and a buncha songs about heroin -- but the band rounds out the set with "I Can't Stand It," "European Son" (complete with riot sound effects and that random "art noise" the VU were so fond of), "Rock and Roll" -- and the perennial show-closer, "Afterhours." Don't expect any grab-your-honey ballads or transcendental, headphones-in-the-dark experiences. Do turn it up, don some Ray Bans and a black turtleneck, and shake that mop top. Pure bliss. No heroin necessary.

Beth Orton "Central Reservation" (Arista)
Sink into this one like you would a candle-lit bath or a lazy Sunday morning. Orton's second offering is comfier than your fuzzy slippers, and promises to wear just as well. Like her phenomenal debut, it swells with strings, keyboards and vibes, then subsides -- kept alive by an easy six-string strum and the faint pulse of drums. With a melt-in-your-mouth smoothness, this freckled, six-foot Londoner layers jazz and country styles on a base of folk and good old-fashioned heartache.

While not quite as lively or diverse as its predecessor, Central Reservation has a lush beauty and continuity that keep its relaxed pace from lapsing into a Mazzy Star-style coma. Orton's hypnotic, throaty vocals also ring with a newfound confidence. Not just another instrument in the mix, her voice now leads the listener through lullabies ("Sweetest Decline") or soars over the title track, gorgeously detailing an evening's end ("I can still smell you on my fingers / and taste you on my breath"). But not every track is deliciously semiconscious -- the spacy hip-hop of "Stars All Seem to Weep" will have Portishead kicking themselves, and the groove of the album's opener, "Stolen Car," gives your ass a mind of its own.

With this sophomore success, Orton has mastered the contradictions her debut promised: As an artist, she's at once formidable and inviting, leisurely and passionate, indefinable and unique.

Inger Lorre "Transcendental Medication" (Triple X)
Ex-Nymph and Courtney's runner-up as L.A.'s Scariest Frontgrrrl has returned, but don't expect to recognize her straight away; a few years of art school have done wonders for her songwriting and infamous anger-management skills (a frustrated Lorre's parting gesture to Geffen in '91 was a piss on an executive's desk). On Transcendental Medication, she's still enamored of life's dark side, but she reflects more than she rants, vows to conquer her world by surviving it. Despite a dig at Courtney ("She's Not Your Friend" is a retort to Hole's "Sassy"), the two explore similar themes -- disillusionment and tragedy, and how to claw your way back when they strike./

Lorre lacks Love's wit and biting candor (and knack for singing off-key), but her pliable voice can slip from a seething howl to a gorgeous, dead-on soprano. It glides over guitars so thick they stick to the roof of your mouth, then get washed down in feedback and a splash of cymbals. Clearly a fan of Iggy, P.J. and '70s underground, Lorre also infuses her grinding dirges with gothic, even metal influences. Her mood can be everything from elegaic ("It Could Happen to You") to Harley-and-hairspray ("Haunted Hill"), but she's best when she's eerie -- "Thief Without the Take" (with a sinister-sounding Jeff Buckley) and "She's Not Your Friend" are like a shuddery wind whipping through a ghost town. Things get a bit repetitive at times (Lorre is excruciatingly fond of minor-seventh chords and plodding tempos), but if you've ever paid a visit to the Rainbow Room or wished Courtney hadn't deserted punk for saccharine ballads and a closet of $900 shoes, you won't be disappointed with Inger (who writes songs her own damn self).

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