Guns, murder, blunts and booze: Move over Tupac, there's a new OG in town. Actually, make that an old Original Gangsta, 'cause Cash was singing about shooting men in Reno just to watch 'em die back when gangsta rappers were mere pups. And some things never change: The country star's first album in three years kicks off with "Delia's Gone," an unflinching, morbidly funny tale of murder sung without a hint of irony.
"Delia's" is only the most overt example of Johnny's grizzled gangsta-cowpoke vibe: Cash as Icon is the unspoken theme of American Recordings. The singer and his producer Rick Rubin (Red Hot Chili Peppers, L.L. Cool J) straddle a fine line between artful exploitation of the Man in Black legend (a mournful version of Leonard Cohen's "Bird on a Wire") and lame parody (schlock-satanist Glenn Danzig's "Thirteen"). Fortunately for both of them, Cash's humanity prevails over his cull of personality and ultimately makes this compelling listening. Recorded in Rubin's Hollywood living room and Cash's Tennessee cabin, the album is an acoustic, close-lo-the-bone collection that zeros in on the singer's deep, rich voice—a voice as mysterious as it is familiar, as dignified as it is raw and emotional. (American)
Traffic
A Traffic reunion is a great idea, but that's not what this is. Co-founder Chris Wood is long dead, and sometime Traffic man Dave Mason is now a member of the revamped Fleetwood Mac. Which leaves Traffic frontman Steve Winwood jamming with original drummer Jim Capaldi, who cowrote most of these 10 songs. As with the Traffic of old, it's Winwood's soulful tenor and churchlike organ playing that will attract listeners. When these elements are combined with Winwood's Chris Wood-style flute trilling on the song "Here Comes a Man," the results do have the smoky, jazzy and slightly spacey feel of circa-'69 Traffic. But more often the tracks are in the tradition of Steve Winwood, solo superstar: "Every Night, Every Day," with its gut-bucket piano and foot-stomping chorus, is a surefire party-starter like his 1988 hit "Roll with It." So, nice as a new Traffic album would be, let's just call this a Winwood/Capaldi reunion—the fruit is no less tasty. (Virgin)
Pretenders
Chrissie Hynde's no-nonsense sexual bravado and impeccable pop smarts have been influencing how women rock since the 1979 debut of her band the Pretenders; certainly her bad-girl persona has helped pave the way for a generation of rock chicks, right up to alternative music's current sweetheart Liz Phair. On Last of the Independents, the Pretenders' best album since the decade-old Learning to Crawl, Hynde continues to tackle her favorite subject, love, in a way that may frustrate longtime fans of this symbol of empowerment. In a curious homage to doormats, her female protagonists constantly give, rarely get and waste a ton of time wailing for "him" to return. The weakest track, the waltzy "I'll Stand By You," is an anthem of blind support. And on "977" Hynde coos, "He hit me with his belt/His tears were all I felt," as though remorse excuses abuse. Fictional or not, it's a shockingly regressive stance. Fortunately there is the fiercer "I'm a Mother" or the anthemic "Revolution" to quickly erase the creepiness of "977." Such is her emotional force that Hynde manages to transform even iffy sexual politics into powerful rock. (Sire/Warner Bros.)
Pam Tillis
Pam Tillis has a genuinely sexy voice—a good, old-fashioned instrument à la Wanda Jackson: reedy, but appealingly so, and capable of everything from a flirty squeal to a full-throated wail. Thanks to that voice, and the intelligence behind it, Tillis is a singer on the verge of big success; if 1992's Homeward Looking Angel found her knocking on stardom's door, this latest album may unlock it. Highlights include the Spanish sway of "Mi Vida Loca (My Crazy Life);" a cover of Jackie DeShannon's 1963 "When You Walk in the Room," which beats the original with just the right mix of sugar and muscle; and the full-lilt gospel finale, "Til All the Lonely's Gone," which benefits from 82-year-old bluegrass great Bill Monroe's hot mandolin solo and a backup choir composed of Tillis's famous father, Mel, three sisters and a brother. Pam soars above them all, though, riding the album out to its end and high point. Holy smoke...this woman bums. (Arista)
Sonic Youth
Sonic Youth has perfected the art of cool. Leave the tortured writhing and barking at the moon to Pearl Jam's Eddie Vedder. Rhythm may rumble and guitar riffs squeal all around them, but Sonic Youth's alternating vocalists—guitarist Thurston Moore and his wife, bassist Kim Gordon—rarely seem to break a sweat.
That disarming sangfroid is on display on the foursome's ninth album, which abandons the political ranting of 1992's Dirty for the more esoteric point of view of Youth's earlier work. Much of the credit this lime goes to Gordon, whose languid sensuality and breathless agitation can inject beauty into the most abrasive moments. That said, Jet doesn't look like the album that will push these perennial toasts of the underground to the top of the charts. The band excels more at crafting a remarkable sound than writing great songs, and with no 3½ minutes as catchy as hits by younger post-punkers—the Breeders' "Cannon-ball" for example—the underground is looking like Youth's permanent throne. (DGC)
- Contributors:
- Amy Linden,
- Tom Sinclair,
- Tony Scherman,
- Jeremy Helligar.
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