ALBUM REVIEW

No matter what you think of Black Label Society’s music, you have to admire just how brilliantly the band has been able to build a fanbase. Led by the towering, bearded guitar ace Zakk Wylde, the band benefited immensely from his 20-odd-year gig as Ozzy Osbourne’s sideman by continually being given prime spots on the OzzFest bill over the years, but that was one of several key factors. The music, while nothing really to write home about, was nevertheless a swaggering blend of Southern rock, the shred-tastic heavy metal of the 1980s, and the tuned-down sludge of 1990s acts like Alice in Chains, Down, and Crowbar, a perfect backdrop for the Viking-esque virtuoso to let loose with his fleet-fingered fretwork and trademark pinch squeals.

Better yet, though, was the image. Drawing heavily from the aesthetics of the Hell’s Angels, Wylde played up the biker shtick masterfully, from the leather jackets, to the iconic insignia, to the camaraderie amongst fans, who consider themselves to be very much the metal equivalent of the “1%-ers” that the Angels proudly claim to be. Safe, middle of the road heavy music, the backing of one of the most powerful management teams in all of rock music, savvy marketing have steadily built Black Label Society to the point where they are now an undeniable force. They sell records, they draw big crowds, and they do bang-up merchandise sales wherever they go. It’s a position that any other metal/hard rock band would kill to be in.

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When you call your first album Funeral, you set the bar high in terms of your maturity level. How can any young band evolve toward that full-grown third album after starting out with a meditation on death and grief? It’s no problem for Arcade Fire – these Montreal indie rockers are not shy about gunning for a solemn, grandiose, three-hankie anthem every time out. The best song on their last disc, “No Cars Go,” was a dead ringer for Neil Diamond’s flag-waving classic “America,” which gives a sense of the gargantuan scale of their anthemizing. On their fantastic third album, The Suburbs, they aim higher than ever, with Roman numerals and parentheses in the song titles. In their dictionary, “suburbs” is nowhere near “subtlety.” But that just adds to the emotional wallop.

Their first two discs, 2004’s Funeral and its 2007 sequel, Neon Bible, peaked with songs about scared kids hiding from their parents. In “Rebellion (Lies)” and “No Cars Go,” the kids hide by escaping into dreams and sharing guilty secrets with one another. But on The Suburbs, they open up to see family life from the parents’ perspective – a much harder trick. “I want a daughter while I’m still young,” Win Butler sings on the magnificent opening theme, “The Suburbs.” “I wanna hold her hand/And show her some beauty/Before this damage is done.”

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Morcheeba may have continued to be in existence in some form since its formation in the mid-1990s, but its sound will almost certainly be forever associated with that decade. Before the Time-dubbed “Decade From Hell”, Morcheeba’s blend of lush, loungy trip-hop perfectly captured the carefree, decadent dot-com era that was the mid-‘90s. Even if that decade contained its share of wars and economic misery, it seemed far easier to evade those problems, and Morcheeba was the soundtrack of escape. The group’s first two albums, Who Can You Trust? (1996) and Big Calm (1998), had an irresistible formula: deliver some jazzy hip-hop style beats and lay them over Skye Edwards’ vocals, which were the perfect mix of frigid cool and warm soul.

In 2003, Edwards left Morcheeba. Brothers Ross and Paul Godfrey continued, but the group’s signature voice was gone. Seven years later (according to a post by Edwards on her MySpace page), the three had dinner, got tipsy, and decided to reform. A scant four months later,  Morcheeba’s new album Blood Like Lemonade is already available for download or in stores (in the UK).

For about four songs on Blood Like Lemonade, it sounds like 1998 all over again in a good way. The opening track, “Crimson”, is the perfect vehicle to welcome Edwards back into the fold. Her ached delivery of the chorus “hellbound hopeless for you” will linger in a listener’s ears long after the album ends. It’s the type of track that makes you question whether you downloaded the album correctly, as the slow burning nature of the song seems more at home at an album’s midway point.

Things continue to go good for the reunited Morcheeba. “Even Though” may not be as memorable as “Crimson”, but it’s by no means a weak track, and serves as a great lead-in to the title track. While “Blood Like Lemonade” contains horribly clichéd vampire imagery and an admittedly silly simile, the Godfrey brothers manage to keep the pacing light. The band had enough faith in the song to concoct a drink after it.

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Twelve years ago, Blur frontman Damon Albarn and Tank Girl creator Jamie Hewlett formed Gorillaz — a ”virtual band” whose animated avatars and woozy beats pastiche seemed custom-fit for a dawning era of smartphones, iPods, and other Jetson-y gizmos. ”I’m useless, but not for long/The future is comin’ on,” Albarn drawled on their first single, the dubby alt-chart hit ”Clint Eastwood.”

He was right: Gorillaz’ self-titled debut sold 
almost 2 million copies in the U.S. and made them stars, albeit in physical absentia (even in live performances, they are hidden behind 
 giant cartoon projections). A half decade after their last release, 2005’s multiplatinum sophomore outing Demon Days, the band has returned, once again gilding their four-character core with a delightfully random roster of guest stars: Snoop Dogg, legendary soul smoothie Bobby Womack, Lou Reed, and the Clash’s Mick Jones among them.

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Spoon are a quartet from Austin with roots in what now seems like a distant golden era: the early-Nineties zenith of alternative rock. In 1993, the year singer-guitarist-songwriter Britt Daniel and drummer Jim Eno founded the group, Nirvana were still a working band, Beck was hot with “Loser” and Smashing Pumpkins were in the Top 10 with Siamese Dream. Daniel, Eno, keyboard player Eric Harvey and bassist Rob Pope are now in a mainstream of their own. Their records don’t go platinum or anywhere near Top 40 radio, but albums such as 2002’s Kill the Moonlight and 2005’s Gimme Fiction are routinely plundered for film scores and TV shows. With that exposure, hardy touring and the loyalty of indie-rock fans, Spoon are big enough to be in the Top 10 themselves — 2007’s Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga debuted there — and headline rooms as big as New York’s Radio City Music Hall.

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In 1994, Jared Leto gave us a TV hunk for the ages: the mute and brooding Jordan Catalano, from My So-Called Life. Unfortunately, Catalano wouldn’t waste an “uhh…whatever” on the hammy, bombastic third disc from Leto’s band, Thirty Seconds to Mars (with Leto’s brother, Shannon, on drums). The signposts here are Pink Floyd, INXS and Nickelback. Leto bellows things like “Where is your God?” over and over as industrial atmospherics and choirs of fans (invited to studio “summits” by the band) hammer home a theme of fortitude in the face of societal trauma (or something). We can all feel as one in coming together to ignore his message of hope.

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