It's refreshing to hear Harper ditch his role as husky-voiced balladeer and unload a set of blues-rock that has more in common with North Mississippi Allstars than it does Starbucks-brand folk-pop. With Charlie Musselwhite's mouth-harp skronk forcing his voice out of its comfort zone, the singer teeters on the verge of collapse for most of the album, but especially on bad-vibes house-rocker "Blood Side Out" and the Peckinpah-stained "I Ride at Dawn." Another keeper is "I Don't Believe a Word You Say," an anguished plea that makes one think Harper's referring to estranged wife Laura Dern.
Another year, another posthumous release full of demos and in-studio blues jams. People, Hell & Angels is billed as a collection of previously unreleased recordings, but that's not wholly accurate. Most of this stuff has been kicking around in one form or another for several decades now. The bulk of it dates from 1968 and '69, around the time The Experience was imploding and Jimi's next outfit, Band of Gypsys, was coming together. If you've already worn out his official albums, then definitely take the plunge; if, however, you haven't, then head straight to Electric Ladyland, like, right now.
King of Conflict isn't the most unique rock album ever, but throughout, The Virginmarys unleash a raw, propulsive sound. The key to the group's success is how they bring together various elements from hard rock's fractured diaspora: In other words, they're basically shaggy rocker-dudes collapsing grunge into garage into hair metal. Even better, they don't dig ballads, just ragers like "Out of Mind," "Dead Man's Shoes" and "You've Got Your Money, I've Got My Soul," on which Ally Dickaty (awesome name) howls about a poor kid wandering the forest, picking mushrooms just to make ends meet.
Tool-timer Maynard James Keenan revolves his half-jokey side gig's 2012 EP around interpretations of two classics by leather-loving homoerotic metal heroes. Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" is whiny, somewhat mournful, but less amusing than We've Got A Fuzzbox And We're Gonna Use It's '80s rendition; Accept's "Balls to the Wall" is slowed to a minor-key alt-rock ballad. Then they're both stripped into unrecognizably ambient instrumentals. Originals "Breathe" and "Dear Brother" get two mixes each, too: trip-hoppy-to-dub-steppy, with some kinky electronic-body-muzik whispering on top.
Devon might be the son of the iconic Gregg Allman, but his sound has traveled its own trajectory since he rose to prominence with Honeytribe in the late '00s. On his solo debut Turquoise, he blends his love for Southern blues and neo-hippie jam rock with smoothly purring rhythms reminiscent of Steely Dan, Doobie Brothers and Little Feat. As can be expected, Allman handles the bulk of the vocals, yet modern-blues fans should be on the lookout for a duet with shredder and bombshell Samantha Fish; together, they tackle the Petty-Nicks classic "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around."
These Toledo boogie-stoners open up with an ominous riff, echoing and building and panning across speakers like early Aerosmith back in the saddle to record an open-expanse spaghetti western about recovering debts on a horse named Mexico. "The Job," the song's called, and the band never equals it. But their harmonica-hopped backporch-biker heaviness holds its own regardless, ripping down wanted posters and dodging hanging-tree blood as it goes. Eventually Cheap Trick's Robin Zander ups the pitch for six minutes of "You're My Girl," and in "Shoot My Way Out" they funk out with burly 16th notes.
Naomi is a quirky turn for The Cave Singers. After beefing up their roots rock on 2011's No Witch, the Seattle outfit return with an album sans all that delicious beef. Indeed, the music's most salient quality is its precious fragility. Even on the bluesy "It's a Crime," the group bop and shimmy more like Vampire Weekend than they do The Black Keys. And speaking of Vampire Weekend, the group's blue-eyed Afropop looms large over numerous other cuts ("Canopy," "Karen's Car," "No Tomorrows"). Might it be time for the band's fans to trade their flannel for cotton pastels?
Need a good cry? Proceed directly to "Back When We Were Beautiful." Geez. That spare, wistful, devastating ballad highlights the gentle mastery and easy chemistry of these critic-beloved all-timers, softly bleeding into every classic-country note here. Expert musical touches -- fiddle, pedal steel, accordion, roadhouse piano and such -- insure that even a winking tune like "Open Season on My Heart" never devolves into cornpone self-parody; fans of recent Americana-duet smashes like Raising Sand and Living for a Song will flip. And seriously: "Back When We Were Beautiful." Geez.
Matt Costa might release his music on Jack Johnson's Brushfire label, but the singer-songwriter's throwback sound has little to do with surfer folk. Rather, he's a jack-of-all-trades tunesmith weaned on British Invasion nuggets and '70s AM radio. On the punchy "Shotgun," he pulls off a Marc Bolan-like chirp smothered in swirling harmonies, strings and vintage organ (all of which echo the orgiastic pop-nostalgia of the criminally underrated Jellyfish). Costa sounds even more British on "Clipped Wings" and "Laura Lee," both of which wouldn't sound out of place on Donovan's Open Road.
Like the perfect pair of broken-in jeans, Blackberry Smoke's soulful blend of Southern-fried guitar riffs, and big 'n' bouncy rhythms, is a comfortable old friend. Their sound isn't flashy or trendy, but you know the fit is just right when the deliciously lustful rocker "Six Ways to Sunday" hits at full blast. But the boys can play it sensitive, too: "Up the Road" starts off with just a piano and Charlie Starr's stirring vocals, before slowly building into a stunning slice of old-school soul. Other highlights include "Ain't Got the Blues," "Everybody Knows She's Mine" and "Lucky Seven."
After a visceral detour into feral horndog garage ribaldry via his Grinderman project, gothic rock's wiliest bard is back for his 15th (!) record with The Bad Seeds, and it's a softer, gentler, even more intimidating affair. Unsettling anti-ballads like "We Real Cool" (dark bass pulse, gorgeous strings) dominate here, amid tons of R-rated mermaid imagery ("Their legs wide to the world like bibles open") and oddball digressions like the Miley Cyrus-referencing "Higgs Boson Blues." Thesis: "It's the will of love/ It's the thrill of love/ Ah, but the chill of love is comin' on." Bundle up.
Not counting Tribute To, the singer's EP of George Harrison covers, Regions of Light and Sound of God is Jim James' debut as a solo artist. And it's a fairly ambitious one. Using his roots in singer-songwriter fare for a base, he erects a sound boasting touches of electronica, Tin Pan Alley nostalgia and, interestingly enough, blue-eyed soul. On maze-like miniatures "Dear One" and "Know Til Now" James slides into a self-reflection mode that relies heavily on his falsetto; in contrast, he really lets his trademark pipes open up on "All Is Forgiven" and the Donny Hathaway-inspired "Actress."
Following in the footsteps of The Black Keys and The White Stripes, The Stone Foxes have slowly drained the gritty flavor from their sound while striving for a more refined take on 21st-century bar rock. Not surprisingly, Small Fires is the San Francisco act's most polished record to date. It's an album specifically designed to showcase their songwriting as opposed to their jamming and ensemble interplay. A Little Feat vibe can even be detected in the loping grooves that anchor "Cold Wind" and "So Much Better." The group then turns to old-fashioned country-rock for closer "Goodnight Moon."
Hard to imagine you'd need more than one album by these aptly named New Yorkers -- this is approximately their sixth, counting self-released jam sessions. But one might come in handy, if you're a Savoy Brown fan who stares at shoes while woozily enjoying the rocking chair. Vocals are Beefheart-grumbly and buried when even audible; the wah-wah tends toward early Stooges; repetitive impulses range from Can (13-minute opener "The Savageist") to Hawkwind to The Groundhogs to sundry bogan bands from '70s Australia. Now and then, the tempo doubles. "General Admission" could almost pass for a song!
When Brother Duane died in October of 1971, his fellow Allmans did the only thing they could do: keep on jamming. Recorded less than four months afterward, this live set from their hometown of Macon, Georgia, captures the ensemble shifting from the fiery, cosmic boogie of At Fillmore East to the more pastoral and meditative country-rock that would emerge on Eat a Peach (released the following day, as a matter of fact). Nevertheless, the group still "bring it," especially during "Whipping Post," on which Dicky Betts' guitar strives so hard to fill the gaping hole Duane left behind.
Several tracks on this Welsh metalcore foursome's fourth album grab early with guitar intros, and a few make way for savory power-metal fills later; Michael Paget is clearly no klutz. The songs themselves, though, are almost embarrassingly clichéd in their sub-late-Metallica therapy-session emotionality: "Temper temper, time to explode/ Feels good when I lose control." Several lyrics address mean people (especially girls), and "Saints & Sinners" damns the bad folks for eternity. Only when running from sirens in the punkish, Misfits-shouted "Riot" do BFMV sound like they're having much fun.
It's impossible to determine whether Marr intended to make a classic-sounding Brit-rock album, or if it's just that the legendary guitarist is classic-sounding Brit-rock incarnate. Either way, The Messenger has it all, from '80s jangle over Motown bop ("The Right Thing Right") to this-town's-closing-in-on-me melancholy ("Lockdown") to Manchester dance-rock ("Word Starts Attack"). The music's easy proficiency suggests that the guy can compose this stuff in his sleep; still, this has more verve than anything Morrissey has released in the 21st century.
These alt-country godfathers take their seventh album's title very seriously -- mostly by shedding the "alt" part. Honky Tonk opens with a lilting Cajun waltz, luxuriates in twin fiddles and luminous pedal steel, and steeps itself in the classic Bakersfield sound so thoroughly that there's actually a song called "Bakersfield." But frontman Jay Farrar's sharp, sympathetic songwriting prevents it all from lapsing into period-piece languor, keeping it sweet and simple: "There's a world of wisdom inside a fiddle tune/ Throw this love down the highway/ See where it takes you."
The Boz worships Southern soul. From Stax to Muscle Shoals, it's been his primary inspiration since the release of his debut (all the way back in '69). For the aptly titled Memphis, the classic-rock icon made the pilgrimage to Royal Studios, where Al Green recorded many of his greatest sides. Green's influence is, of course, all over the record, but most acutely on its trio of smooth shuffles: "Gone Baby Gone," "So Good to Be Here" and "Pearl of the Quarter." Toward the end, Scaggs shifts his attention from Royal to Beale Street for a throwback rendition of Jimmy Reed's "You Got Me Cryin'."
