By Courtney Harrell
By Kyra Scrimgeour
By Jena Ardell
By Mary Willson
By Bree Davies
By Tom Murphy
By Tom Murphy
By A.H. Goldstein
Rubies on the Lawn
With her new release, Austin-based singer/ songwriter Trish Murphy has leapt a considerable distance. On Rubies on the Lawn, Murphy stretches her coffeehouse folkster beginnings across a decidedly more accessible landscape to create an impressive, from-the-heartland pop gem. Rubies is a scrumptious sheet of audio toffee that rivals Aimee Mann's brilliant I'm With Stupid for brainy song-sculpting and muscular hooks that can lift mountains.
Like Mann, Murphy prefers a shiny setting for her shimmering-but-stirring songbook. Producer Jim Ebert provides these touches in the proper amounts, with half-in-the-mix techno touches that nicely decorate Murphy's jangle. For the most part, the candy coating never gets so dense that it dulls Murphy's sharp edges. "Outsider [216K aiff]," the disc's opening cut, lopes with gooey guitars that push Murphy's reedy voice -- a thrilling instrument that rises from willowy whisper to girlish glee and trembling growl -- inside the brain. The all-American thrills continue on the disc's other buffalo-plaid rockers; " Go There [232K aiff]" and "Soul's Day" lurch from muted crunch to glossy open skies, while "Runaway Train" delivers delicious minor-chord delights. When Murphy purrs how she and her partner "did it in the road" on this steel-wheeled stomper, its clear she takes her travel time seriously.
In between these romps, Murphy backs off for a few redeeming acoustic numbers and sweeter efforts, losing steam only on an overproduced cover of " These Boots Are Made for Walking [243K aiff]" and the candy corn of "I Know What You Are." Murphy's swagger and smarts make amends for these minor offenses and make Rubies the kind of platter that satisfies both the brain and the rockin' bones. If radio programmers built play lists on taste instead of test-market audiences, Murphy would be filling the shoes of Sheryl, Alanis and those feminine rockers now dressing up the airwaves. Until that day arrives, though, a roll in the grass with this addictive diamond-out-of-nowhere will have to do. -- Marty Jones
The Dance of Death and Other Plantation Favorites
Plenty of acoustic guitar instrumentals are flat-out boring for a very simple reason: They're meant to be. Many technically skilled pickers settle for making pretty background music rather than challenging the preconceptions of their listeners and themselves. But not Fahey, who throughout his long career has burrowed himself into the dark side of the American folk music tradition. He not only recognizes the macabre aspects of the blues and other related idioms, but revels in them.
The Dance of Death, Fahey's third album, originally laid down in 1964, finds him at his most pleasingly funereal. "Worried Blues [254K aiff]," a Fahey original, is built around an almost spritely guitar figure, yet he never allows it to take wing, first dragging it into a tumble of low notes and later slowly uncoiling it as the tune fades into oblivion. " Variations on the Coocoo [229K aiff]," a Clarence Ashley composition arranged and adapted by Fahey, employs a similar strategy, racing along at a freight-train pace that's more about hellhounds on his trail than escape from earthly bounds.
Such descriptions may make this newly available platter seem like a bummer on par with holiday dinners with the in-laws, but that's hardly the case. " Dance of Death [243K aiff]" makes the great beyond seem like a lovely place to visit, thanks to a progression that's all about acceptance of the inevitable, and "Tulip (aka When You Wore a Tulip and I Wore a Big Red Rose)," one of four bonus tracks on hand, displays a shambling cheerfulness. Fahey's effects here and elsewhere are subtle, and he employs them with black-hearted joy. "It was an interesting session," he recalls in the package's fine liner notes, written by Lee Gardner. "It was the only one I ever did on marijuana and whiskey." If you've got to die, what a way to go. -- Michael Roberts
Pavement's latest is a tough one to penetrate, even for fans, but worth the effort. Daily listening -- for two weeks, solid -- turned up only two hooks in the opening and closing numbers ("Spit on a Stranger" and "Carrot Rope" -- not coincidentally, the album's lead singles in the U.S. and U.K., respectively). The rest read as a fairly watered-down Pavement album, which is better perhaps than run-of-the-mill alterna-rock, but disappointing for one of the best American rock bands of the Nineties. All of the pieces that make Pavement, well, Pavement seemed in place -- lucid phrases snuck into obscure (but not impenetrable) lyrics, great guitar all over the place -- but some intangible initially seemed to be missing. It was only after returning to the record that the other thing that makes the band what it is -- pop hooks -- finally became clear and jumped out of the speakers.
Unlike the band's more avant-garde role models, Pavement isn't afraid to snare you with catchy tunes to get their meanings across. And once they'd cooled off a bit, said hooks proved to be here in force, if the band's subtlest ever. And also unlike their pop peers, Pavement can be willfully obscure. Though that doesn't mean that their songs are without meaning, it does mean that those meanings can be difficult for the casual listener to discern among the red herrings and personal references.