By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
By Drew Ailes
The Aluminum Group
Pedals, the latest release from Chicago's lounge-loving Aluminum Group, is populated by the kind of delicate little melodies that seem to peek at you from around a corner before coyly ducking away once you've noticed them. But the timidity is merely an act: These songs practically demand to be chased after. Bathed in the faded watercolor wash of generally agreeable vocal and harmonic arrangements, Pedals tries to move the achievements of last year's Plano into more ambitious, self-serious territory. Once again, sibling songwriters Frank and John Navin -- the Frasier and Niles Crane of indie pop -- color their fey, too-smart-for-their-own-good musings with a stylized palette of smooth-baby-smooth atmospherics. With the help of the High Llamas' lounge-core luminary Sean O'Hagan, Doug McCombs from Tortoise and the omnipresent Jim O'Rourke (who produced this effort with the band), they've added some noticeable depth to their work.
Lyrically, the brothers Hagan might want to not try so hard to impress their art-scene comrades; there is a ponderous ode to Marcel Duchamp's female alter ego on "Rrose Selavy's Valise [225K aiff]" and an odd, out-of-nowhere reference to a Calder sculpture in "Jinxed." Still, they've created an intriguing concoction of musical elements that moves beyond space-age makeout music: Jazzy horn tracks, for example, rest easily next to the skulking synth arrangements on other selections, such as the pretentiously titled "Two-Bit Faux Construction [218K aiff]." But the album's intellectual musical accomplishments seem to have come at the expense of the catchy hooks and over-the-top leanings found on Plano. So while " $35," a rather sad, vulgar portrait of hustler culture, is squeezed for every bit of bile it contains, the song remains needlessly sterile and delivers none of the expected pathos. It's strange to think that these performers -- who are noted for their ability to create music that's as easy as warm butter -- could stand to lighten up. -- Chris LaMorte
The Chicago-based vocalist and pianist Patricia Barber is a phenomenon in two worlds. She has applied her impeccable jazz-singer credentials to postmodern pop irony with such hip assurance that listeners in both camps are paying rapt attention. Barber's timely fusion doesn't please everybody, of course, any more than Cassandra Wilson's does: Some jazz "purists" wonder why anyone would bother to cover the Doors anthem "Light My Fire" (which Barber did to spectacular effect on her breakout CD Modern Cool), while devotees of Joni Mitchell and her descendants complain that Barber doesn't rock.
The dissenters are shooting peas at a battleship. Barber's new live disc, Companion, so named because she means it to be a fraternal twin to Modern Cool, once again demonstrates her skill and nerve. She chills a nine-minute-and-44-second reinvention of "Black Magic Woman" down to icy perfection, lays playful wit on Sonny and Cher's "The Beat Goes On" andpays homage to the fast-rising jazz pianist Jacky Terrasson with the sinuous "Like JT." Recorded in July at Chicago's Green Mill, the cozy NorthSide jazzery that remains Barber's home base, Companion combines the immediacy of live performance with the solid craftsmanship of a singer who doesn't miss.
The centerpiece of the new disc has to be "If This Isn't Jazz," a sly, down-tempo manifesto in which Barber tweaks her critics ("will the New York Times say I'm too white or too black?") and stakes out her musical territory, which has no apparent borders. When she winds her way to the punchline ("If this isn't jazz/It will have to do/Until the real thing comes along"), the Green Mill audience erupts, enthralled by this cheeky and poetic Barber-ism.
Barber's regular sidemen, bassist Michael Arnopol and percussionist John Mclean, contribute to her genre-bending efforts with both straight play and a variety of intriguing electronic effects, and Barber herself takes a turn at the Hammond B-3 organ as well as the piano. Those interested in sheer singer development will be edified by reprises of two Barber originals from Modern Cool: the mordant "Let It Rain" and the audience fave "Touch of Trash." Others may ask why she didn't open the songbook a little wider.
The battle over definitions should now draw to a close. That Patricia Barber, the daughter of a saxophonist with Glenn Miller's band, should draw upon, say, Bob Dylan as well as Billie Holiday is not evidence of impurity, but the mark of distinction. How will she startle us next? -- Bill Gallo
As far as the mainstream is concerned, the electronica movement is useful when it comes to providing background sounds for car commercials, but that's about it. As a result, many domestic electro-musicians have returned to the club scene whence they came, chucking aside creative pretension in favor of the lowest common danceability denominator. But in Europe the scene continues to support oddballs whose music is good for something other than raving yourself to death -- and Moist, the latest from Germany's Dirk Dresselhaus, who hides behind the Schneider TM moniker, shows how much artsy fun this stuff can be.
At first the title track seems to be nothing special -- a synth wash here, skittering beats and a rudimentary bass progression there. But its chipper little melody snakes in and out of some quirky places before detonating a roar of sheer industrial noise. That's followed by "Moonboots [234K]," a three-minute dip into a pool of wah-wah; "Masters," in which a drum-and-bass track cuddles up to warm, Eno-esque noodling; and "Raum Im Ort [248K aiff]," an aural smorgasbord spread with simulated gas-passing, tinkling faux percussion and a generous serving of loungey minimalism that falls somewhere between Tortoise and Stereolab. Neither it nor "Eiweiß" will instantly propel you to the dance floor, but by ambient standards, they're practically tuneful. While Dresselhaus has enough of a pop sensibility to keep novices to the genre from raising the white flag, he's not nearly so cheesy as to give aficionados a case of the guilts for digging what he does.