Bobby McFerrin and Chick Corea
Jazz singer McFerrin, the human synthesizer, had a major crossover hit in 1988 when he enjoined everybody, "Don't Worry Be Happy." Then he took time off to study classical music and, as a present to himself on his 40th birthday in 1990, to conduct the San Francisco Symphony in Beethoven's Seventh. He's back now with two collaborators—and mixed results.
In Hush (Sony Masterworks) there are far too many times when one wishes McFerrin had taken the album title seriously. He should have kept his vocalise and, worse, his shall-I-compare-me-to-a-summer's-day self-infatuation to himself and turned over the proceedings almost exclusively to his gifted classical cellist collaborator. In most instances, notably Vivaldi's "Andante" and Barrière's "Allegro Prestissimo," McFerrin, ululating, is an infuriating distraction. In that student recital warhorse, Rimsky-Korsa-kov's "Flight of the Bumblebee," he contributes a lot of inane buzzing. And he's merely silly, imitating a stuffy English conductor, in a purported parody of a Bach musette.
McFerrin is most effective in his own compositions. In the lovely "Grace," he sounds like a harp, and he's wonderfully raucous in his arrangements of "Hush Little Baby" and the down-home "Hoedown!"
On the whole, McFerrin fares better teaming with virtuoso jazz pianist Chick Corea in the aptly named Play (Blue Note). The two do a reasonably funny—if overly self-satisfied—burlesque of "Autumn Leaves," shoobee-doos, parody lyrics ("I see your face, I smell your breath") and lounge singer flourishes (deep sighs, long pauses, briskly snapping fingers). McFerrin creditably scats his way through Ornette Coleman's serpentine "Blues Connotation" and offers up a fine, controlled yet emotional version of Thelonious Monk's most famous ballad, " 'Round Midnight." When he isn't being too cute, McFerrin is fun to Play with.
Sass Jordan
Admirers have dubbed her the Tina Turner of Canada. They must be referring to Jordan's speaking voice, because the vocalizing of this English-born, Montreal-raised singer isn't going to remind too many people of Ike's ex.
But Sass' sandy and, yes, sassy voice does sound uncannily like that of another singer from the American South, but of the other gender: Chris Robinson of the Black Crowes. Even though the pained but indomitable quality of Jordan's voice is show-cased best on slower songs, she spends most of this album rocking steady. She shares with Robinson and the Crowes a debt to the boogie-blues rock of the Faces during the Rod Stewart—Ron Woods-Ian McClagan era.
Built on a prefab foundation of stinging guitars and barrelhouse piano, songs like "Make You a Believer," "Goin' Back Again," "Who Do You Think You Are" and "Time Flies" are rakish runaways that should appeal to rock traditionalists.
She might not have Tina's legs either, but this record proves Sass can kick it. (Impact/MCA)
Uncle Tupelo
The worst part about the king's-ransom contracts that record companies have been doling out to such aging superstars as Mötley Crüe and the Rolling Stones (the studios better have wheelchair access by the time the guys reach the end of these long-term deals) is that there's no money left to develop beguiling young acts like Uncle Tupelo.
On their second album this unassuming trio (guitarist Jay Farrar, bass player Jeff Tweedy and drummer Mike Heidorn) from rural Belleville, Ill., present a distinctive and unfettered sampler of scruffy indie rock.
The songwriting has developed since the band's 1990 debut, No Depression, as evidenced by the rabbit punch of "Gun," the shifting, stumbling rhythms of "Nothing," the poignant acoustic ballad "Still Be Around" and "Looking for a Way Out," which sounds like a countrified version of Neil Young's mournful "Powderfinger."
The avuncular approach, though eclectic, usually combines sensitive lyrics with a sloppily dignified style reminiscent of Hüsker Dü or the Meat Puppets, with a little more guitar guts and glory.
They come to their music all wide-eyed, restless and reverent. Boy, could Uncle Tupelo teach the Stones a thing or two. (Rockville)
Sammy Kershaw
George Jones's bar stool is a mighty big one to fill, but this 33-year-old Louisianan may be the guy to do it. With a weepy-twangy Jonesian voice and an ear for oops-there-goes-my-life songs, Kershaw (third cousin to guitarist Doug) may be the best public sufferer among the younger generation of country singers.
This debut includes a memorable breakin'-up song, Larry Bastian and Dewayne Blackwell's "Yard Sale" ("They're sortin' through what's left of you and me"). "Anywhere But Here" is a fitting monument to alienation, and Mark Petersen's "Cadillac Style" gives Kershaw another chance to feel sorry for himself—"I ain't Burt Reynolds and I ain't Tom Selleck/ I got bills up the pike and my car's an old relic."
Not just a complainer, Kershaw is a very musical singer who takes full advantage of the Nashville veterans backing him. But don't take the Jones comparisons too literally, Sammy. Since you've been married three times already, you can ease up on the hard living for a while. (Mercury)
- Contributors:
- Joanne Kaufman,
- David Hiltbrand,
- Ralph Novak.
Saved by the Bell Reunion
The hookups, the meltdowns, the memoires
The case reveals what was really going on what they think of each other now!
