Record Reviews
📝 2096 reviews| Artist | Title | Review |
|---|---|---|
| Bruce Cockburn | You Pay Your Money | <p>You Pay Your Money and You Take Your Chance: Bruce Cockburn Live is a short but sweet EP recorded on his supporting tour for his 1997 album Charity of Night. Featuring only six songs, the disc may be too short for the dedicated fans who are its target audience, but all of the six songs sound terrific. These are impassioned, elastic performances, bending according to Cockburn's emotions. The only problem is that it's simply an EP, not a full album, but it's still a worthwhile purchase for any dedicated Cockburn fan.</p><p>—<strong>Stephen Thomas Erlewine</strong></p> |
| Bruce Cockburn | The Charity Of Night | <p>At once a departure and a return, The Charity of Night represents a change from the folk rock stylings of his previous two albums, having more in common with earlier jazz-inflected works such as Night Vision. Shades of light and shadow play through the album's theme of reflection and memory: Cockburn recalls many events of his past, taking stock and coming to grips with them. It's a very cohesive album in subject, with only the anti-land mine "Mines of Mozambique" seeming out of place (though it's a worthwhile song on its own). The centerpiece of the album is the title song, a realization that facing the past can be more difficult when memories are exposed in the cold hard light of day, but the refuge and peace darkness can provide is "the charity of night." In fact, most of the album's events happen at night and this theme is echoed in the haunting booklet artwork by Bill Sienkiewicz, graphic novel illustrator for comics such as The Sandman. Musically the sound is very organic, with solid bass and drums provided by Rob Wasserman and Gary Craig. Guest Gary Burton provides shimmering vibraphone on three of the cuts, adding to the jazz texture. Other guests include Bonnie Raitt, Ani DiFranco, Jonatha Brooke, and Patty Larkin. The album culminates with "Strange Waters," a summation of Cockburn's life-long spiritual search, where he asks the question "if I loose my grip, will I take flight?" Acclaimed by fans and critics alike, this album is an essential part of the Cockburn catalog.</p><p>—<strong>Rob Caldwell</strong></p> |
| Bruce Cockburn | Breakfast In New Orleans | <p>Breakfast in New Orleans Dinner in Timbuktu is Bruce Cockburn's 20th studio album. Lyrically, Cockburn doesn't stray from the impressionist poetic lyrics that he's honed over the years, nor does he stray from his favored topics: travelogs, including those drawn from his trips to Third World nations that emphasize his social concerns; reflections on the dynamics of relationships between men and women; and a spiritual mysticism rooted in Christianity. Musically, too, there's a consistency to his folk-jazz-rock amalgam. The album features the vocal contributions of a rotating cast of three women who appear throughout the album. Jonell Mosser sings on two songs, including the single "Last Night of the World." Margo Timmins of Cowboy Junkies lends her breathy pipes to two songs: the sultry "Mango" and a cover of the Fats Domino nugget "Blueberry Hill" that turns up the "rock" and de-emphasizes the "roll." Most important, Lucinda Williams appears on four tracks. The standout track on the album is "Isn't That What Friends Are For." This tender song of friendship is made more poignant by Williams' voice, which always manages to convey a deep sense of hurt. While the lyrics are sure to be enjoyed by those who are willing to listen and think, fans of Cockburn's guitar playing won't be disappointed, either.</p><p>There are two instrumental pieces, both band efforts, which feature Cockburn's acoustic guitar. "Down to the Delta" is an up-tempo tune, while "Deep Lake" is a quiet, more reflective piece that is close to the impressionistic style of Michael Hedges -- except, of course, that Cockburn has been playing this sort of thing since 1971's High Winds White Sky.</p><p>—<strong>Martin Monkman</strong></p> |
| Bruce Cockburn | You've Never Seen Everything | <p>It feels weird to be writing that Bruce Cockburn has just issued his 27th album, but that's what You've Never Seen Everything is. It's been a quite a ride since 1970; the changes lyrically and musically have been enormous, and the world view of the artist — politically, spiritually, and psychologically — has evolved consciously and extensively. Of his many gifts, two of his most developed are his journalistic eye for detail, and having one ear always to the ground. This time out, the view is sharply contrasting from one song to the next. Politically, this is Cockburn's angriest record since World of Wonders or Stealing Fire. A listen to the hypnotic vibe of "All Our Dark Tomorrows," with its spooky, Malian/Ali Farka Toure guitar vibe, points directly at the root of all human evil: greed. "Trickle Down," an over-the-top jazz tune with Brazilian percussion and fine solos by Cockburn and pianist Andy Milne, reveals that by peeling away layer after layer, there are people who actually get paid to keep greed accumulating. But for Cockburn, righteous anger and indignant rage are never the whole picture. "Put It in Your Heart" is about the fierceness of love in the face of fear, both individual and collective, while "Don't Forget About Delight," with its floating violin (Hugh Marsh) and harmonica (Gregoire Maret) lines entwining across the plaintive mix, is an exhortation to keep seeing the beauty with the inner eye despite the outward conditions and single-mindedness in this pursuit.</p><p>Sarah Harmer, Sam Phillips, Emmylou Harris, and Jackson Browne also help out on the vocal chores, and Cockburn borrowed Tom Waits' rhythm section of Larry Taylor and Stephen Hodges for balancing the wild musical ride this album is texturally and compositionally. The title track is among the most forward-thinking and sonically adventurous tracks he's ever recorded. Hand percussion and drum loops are interlaced with minimal piano and harmonica riffs shimmering on the fringes; the long, spoken (maybe even preachy) word travelog, full of horrific images and expressionistic electronica, gives way to a sung refrain that transcends the lyric but leaves the listener unsettled. "Postcards From Cambodia" is another one, full of detailed explications of conditions caused by other conditions that have come before, and on the refrain he concedes: "This is too big for anger, too big for blame/We stumble through history, so humanly lame/So I bow down my head and say a prayer for us all/That we don't fear the spirit when it comes to call." Ultimately, this is the hinge track on the album, because Cockburn, despite the barely concealed fury that is contained within him, sees only a spiritual — and no, not necessarily "Christian" — solution to all of it, from the injustices to the anger and hatred he feels in his own heart for the perpetrators. Cockburn seems to be saying — and this is only this writer's interpretation of a very complex, wondrously intricate, and musically adventurous work — not to hate those whose actions cause suffering, but to root out the hatred in our own hearts so as not to become them. Action must come from compassion, not merely from anger, or it becomes nothing more than a mirror image of the cause of suffering itself. It is pointless to place this record in a pecking order with Cockburn's other work; that it adds to that body of work immeasurably is compliment enough. However, to say that it is necessary because it can cause self- and world-examination in any listener who plays it through is as high a compliment as can be offered.</p>— <b>Thom Jurek</b> |
| Bruce Cockburn | Speechless | <p>Speechless is proof in the pudding that you can teach an old dog new tricks. Old dog? Take a look at Bruce Cockburn's photo in the CD booklet. Speechless is the singer/songwriter's first foray into completely instrumental territory. There are 15 tracks here, the vast majority of which are redos of tracks from Cockburn's catalog. But given their treatment -- many of them done as solo guitar pieces -- the dearth of new material doesn't even matter. In fact, one could venture to say that these feel like altogether new pieces. Cockburn is a master guitarist; he often interweaves jazz, blues, country, and folk styles into his cross-genre songs. Here he shines, pure and simple. "Train in the Rain" (anyone notice how many of his songs are about trains and travel?) touches on Leo Kottke and Peter Lang; "Water into Wine" utilizes flamenco stylings while crossing into Gypsy jazz chords à la Charlie Byrd. A new work, "Elegy," kisses the modalities of "Greensleeves" while creating itself as a piece that evokes both absence and memory. "Rouler Sa Bosse" from Salt, Sun and Time juxtaposes Cockburn's six-string against Jack Zaza's clarinet, and becomes a straight-up gently swinging jazz tune. The set also includes "Rise and Fall," a sought-after trio track that was previously available only in Japan. Cockburn's steel-string is accented by his playing of bells, George Koller on bass, and drummer, Ben Riley! The new version of "When It's Gone, It's Gone" showcases an entire band that includes Booker T. Jones on organ and Edgar Meyer on bass, and is the only electric tune on the set. Another new work, "The End of All Rivers," is a multi-tracked tune that has Cockburn playing not only guitar but Tibetan bowl, a Navajo flute, and a baritone guitar, which are all threaded though the melody as a digital delay marks time with his standard acoustic. It's spooky, elegiac, and utterly beguiling. The set ends with a down-home solo read of the title track from Sunwheel Dance. The most remarkable thing about Speechless is that, although it lies firmly in its own subcategory in Cockburn's catalog, it remains, despite the improvisation and textures, a recording of songs. The composer's need to establish that fact even in abstraction and extrapolation is commendable. Speechless is not only accessible -- it's downright beautiful, poetic, and seductive.</p>— <b>Thom Jurek</b><p> </p><p>So pronounced is Bruce Cockburn's reputation as a celebrated singer-songwriter that it's easy to overlook the fact that Cockburn is also an exceptional guitarist. Speechless should change all that. A collection of previously recorded and brand new instrumental tracks, the album puts the spotlight squarely on Cockburn's brilliant acoustic guitar playing. Despite its absence of words, Speechless is highly expressive. Ranging from some of his earliest numbers to three recent compositions, the album showcases the breadth of Cockburn's eclectic guitar style. There's a strong cinematic quality to much of the album, whether it's in pieces from the 1970s like the haunting "Islands in a Black Sky" and the cascading "Water into Wine," or else in 1990s instrumentals such as the emotional "When It's Gone It's Gone" and the ambient "Mistress of Storms."</p>— <b>Amazon</b> |
| Bruce Cockburn | Life Short Call Now | <p>Bruce Cockburn displayed his aesthetic restlessness with his instrumental album Speechless in 2005. Those who have followed his career over the past four decades wondered where he would go next, or indeed if there was anywhere he could go. The question has been answered in spades on Life Short Call Now. Along with his regular band, Cockburn has employed an orchestral 27-piece string section to expressionistically color a good number of these 12 songs with help from producer Jon Goldsmith. Lyrically, Cockburn has returned to the terrain he alone inhabits: intimate observations of the personal, the spiritual, the sociopolitical and environmental concerns. As is also his wont, there are no sloganeering anthems in these songs. Form the title track that opens the album he looks across the Montreal landscape and observes it, not in a journalistic way, but as someone inside it, and he asks poignantly. "Can one man fit in a normal life?" The solitary person in the midst of unions, holy and unholy, can find no way to properly say goodbye or welcome.</p> <p>Ani DiFranco sings backing vocals on "See You Tomorrow," where Cockburn turns the tables on himself as he observes a mercenary, and though he understands the man's empty soul he envies his freedom from guilt to accomplish his task. Isolation in the midst of watching women walk mirrors the pain of sin and of loneliness for the beloved and seeks wholeness which he expresses that beyond "these chains of flesh" there is completion. The gentleness of his approach is also notable. Cockburn isn't raging here, he's expressing the hidden, the unseen, the unspeakable. Check the lovely, languid folk song "Mystery," where he embraces what is unknowable infinitely despite his fear and his hunger for it. A four-piece horn section adorns the mix on the outside, underscoring the questions in the grain of the singer's voice. What happens as the record unfolds is the work of a poet who happens to be a brilliant musician, who has refined his craft not as an aesthete, but as a hands-dirtied participant not only in the process, but in its realization: check the gorgeous falsetto that croons above the swell of strings in "Beautiful Creatures." He asks straight up, from the gut: "When the skin is peeled off it/What is there to say?" And then says it: The beautiful creatures are/going away..."</p><p>In many ways, there is a tenderness here that Cockburn's listeners haven't encountered since "Humans," where fear, desire, shock, awe and boundless love poured from his songs. And they do so here, too, tempered by a bloody but unbowed veteran of love, despair, spiritual hunger, desolation and the acknowledgement of community. Always a guitar to accompany that voice, always six strings whispering through the singer and carrying him through not only emotions, but scenes, places, times, encounters, to be able to speak clearly and directly, yet softly, with one exception: "This Is Baghdad." Here the observer battles the brokenness inside himself as he observes -- Cockburn spent part of 2004 there -- the mindless destruction for the sake of nothing whatsoever. The display of might by American troops under the guidance of a fearful leader is revealed for what it is: the display of power for its own sake, which is for the sake of nothing. The deep end of the string section hovers around his 12-string, and the hypnotic pulse of Gary Craig's drums.</p><p>There are three fine instrumentals here as well. "Peace March," is driven by that now-trademark fluid guitar kissed with a brushed snare, a tempered bassline which reveals the refined texture of a master painter. "Jerusalem Poker" with its handclapped percussion is a jazz tune with its syncopated guitar and muted flugelhorn. The album's final cut, too, named for Marcel Duchamp's infamous "Nude Descending a Staircase" is introduced by radio static, and then seamlessly flows into a guitar drive jazz tune with Cockburn playing a Byrdland electric guitar doing his best Wes Montgomery as strings shimmer and spiral down and a muted trumpet pushes down on the proceeding as more found sounds carry it out before the final cocking of what seems like a gun before the silence abruptly drapes the entire proceeding. Life Short Call Now is absent of metonymy or metaphor; it reports from the inside what is, and what should never be with equal wait, all the yearning for a convergence and a dusty grace to cover it all. Life Short Call Now reveals a seasoned artist at the absolute height of his powers lyrically and musically.</p><p>— <strong>Thom Jurek</strong></p> |
| Bruce Cockburn | Slice O Life - Live Solo | <p>Bruce Cockburn has issued numerous live recordings, and thus far all of them have been band offerings during the various periods of his 40-plus-year career. While the acoustic element has always been a primary part of his stage persona, fans — and the merely curious — have never had access to an official live document of those proceedings, until now. This double-disc set is a generous offering of 25 songs from all different stages of Cockburn's career, taped during May 2008. There were ten shows, and all of them have been sampled here, though the double-disc package has been edited to flow like a single performance in hopes of maintaining the flavor of a given concert. What's more, Cockburn and producer Colin Linden went a step further and added three tunes from the various soundchecks that took place before the gigs as a sort of encore. Along with Cockburn's stellar collection of songs, such as "World of Wonders," "Lovers in a Dangerous Time," "How I Spent My Fall Vacation," "Wondering Where the Lions Are," "If I Had a Rocket Launcher," and "Tie Me at the Crossroads," are beautiful instrumental interludes within tunes — and on the final disc as an intro to the soundcheck performances — that offer his mastery of the guitar as well. Among the final performances is a fine version of his early classic "Mama Just Wants to Barrelhouse All Night Long." While it's true that there is nothing new here, that doesn't diminish the sense of creativity and spontaneity Cockburn is capable of in concert, making this a deeply rewarding purchase for longtime fans.</p>— <strong>Thom Jurek</strong> |
| Joe Cocker | The Definitive Joe Cocker | |
| Leonard Cohen | The Songs Of Leonard Cohen | <p>At a time when a growing number of pop songwriters were embracing a more explicitly poetic approach in their lyrics, the 1967 debut album from Leonard Cohen introduced a songwriter who, rather than being inspired by "serious" literature, took up music after establishing himself as a published author and poet. The ten songs on Songs of Leonard Cohen were certainly beautifully constructed, artful in a way few (if any) other lyricists would approach for some time, but what's most striking about these songs isn't Cohen's technique, superb as it is, so much as his portraits of a world dominated by love and lust, rage and need, compassion and betrayal. While the relationship between men and women was often the framework for Cohen's songs (he didn't earn the nickname "the master of erotic despair" for nothing), he didn't write about love; rather, Cohen used the never-ending thrust and parry between the sexes as a jumping off point for his obsessive investigation of humanity's occasional kindness and frequent atrocities (both emotional and physical).</p><p>Cohen's world view would be heady stuff at nearly any time and place, but coming in a year when pop music was only just beginning to be taken seriously, Songs of Leonard Cohen was a truly audacious achievement, as bold a challenge to pop music conventions as the other great debut of the year, The Velvet Underground & Nico, and a nearly perfectly realized product of his creative imagination. Producer John Simon added a touch of polish to Cohen's songs with his arrangements (originally Cohen wanted no accompaniment other than his guitar), though the results don't detract from his dry but emotive vocals; instead, they complement his lyrics with a thoughtful beauty and give the songs even greater strength. And a number of Cohen's finest songs appeared here, including the luminous "Suzanne," the subtly venomous "Master Song" and "Sisters of Mercy," which would later be used to memorable effect in Robert Altman's film McCabe and Mrs. Miller. Many artists work their whole career to create a work as singular and accomplished as Songs of Leonard Cohen, and Cohen worked this alchemy the first time he entered a recording studio; few musicians have ever created a more remarkable or enduring debut.</p><p>— <strong>Mark Deming</strong></p><hr/><p>In his excellent 1997 biography of the Canadian poet, novelist, and singer/songwriter Leonard Cohen, Ira B. Nadel relates an anecdote that seems too perfectly symbolic to be true: A teenaged Cohen, after reading a book on hypnotism, successfully hypnotizes and undresses the family maid. This is the stuff of parable, presaging the hands-on mysticism, conflicted morality, and voracious lust that would come to define Cohen's art. The story also speaks to the peculiar effect of his music-- few singers leave us feeling so mesmerized and vulnerable.</p><p>On paper, Cohen's music is astoundingly simple. Because he became well-known as a poet and novelist in his 20s, there's a popular misconception that he didn't begin to play music until he started releasing albums in his 30s. But he became infatuated with the guitar at an early age, played in a country band called the Buckskin Boys at McGill University, and accompanied his poetry readings with live jazz, inspired by the Beat poets for whom he was a little too aristocratic to be taken seriously. He didn't become known as a musician until his 30s, but he was moving toward it his whole life, in an attempt to put his poetry where he thought it belonged-- with the people, not the academy.</p><p>Because of this long gestation period, Cohen's music seemed to emerge fully formed, and the qualities that dominate his first three, newly reissued albums can be succinctly cataloged. There's his reedy baritone-- a humble, melancholy instrument and an inviting source of warmth; there's his unique guitar style-- most of his songs are built from delicate webs of musky, finger-picked flamenco or broad, awkward chord progressions; and there are his lyrics, tracing out the hidden contours of love, lust, sex, religion, responsibility, and history through an inflexibly personal lens.</p><p>There's also the uncanny ambiance of the songs, the almost brutal frugality of which is offset by calliope, bells, keyboards, strings, horns, and Jew's harp. While Cohen was resistant to such embellishments and particularly displeased with John Simon's arrangements on his debut, they've worn into the songs' creases. These reissues do a good job of bringing out the instrumentation without crowding Cohen's voice or tainting the music's dark thrall, and an early version included on Songs from a Room reveals that "Bird on a Wire" isn't quite "Bird on a Wire" without those drafty keyboards pushing in under it.</p><p>This is enough to explain why these albums are good, but what makes them great is the ongoing search for personal truth and spiritual grace that they express, and how they manage to always embody both sides of their thematic coin. Everything is married to its dark twin: Freedom and shelter in "The Stranger Song", laughter and tears in "So Long, Marianne", salvation and destruction in "Joan of Arc", whom Cohen often used as a symbol for spiritual discipline and the power of womanhood.</p><p>We find this same dual nature in Cohen himself: Born to a stern religious father and a bohemian mother, Cohen's sensibility was forged in the tension between the liberal and the conservative. He's been a religious sensualist, a student of police work and law, bourgeois outsider poet, and disciplined dabbler in marijuana and LSD. While he emerged as a Dylan-inspired folkie, his music was anachronistic and only nominally political, less concerned with the timely issues of the day than the timeless issues of the spirit. Cohen was interested in "The Old Revolution", with its outmoded concepts of chivalry, and its religious (not secular) imperatives. The political ferment of the 60s manifests only obliquely, as in "Story of Isaac", which is as much about Cohen's awe of his father's stern religion as it is about the sacrifice of youths upon the altar of war.</p><p>It's appropriate then that Cohen's songs present him to us in far-flung locales. "Famous Blue Raincoat" finds him in a cold New York hotel, catching snippets of music wafting up from Clinton Street. In "So Long, Marianne", he's probably on Hydra, a pale spectre amid the Grecian island's greenery and whitewashed terraces. In "Suzanne", eating Chinese oranges on the St. Lawrence river in Montreal. In "Diamonds in the Mine", checking his empty mailbox on an isolated farm outside of Nashville.</p><p>All three of these albums, despite their musical simplicity, are leavened with the wisdom that comes from such a diverse existence. 1968's Songs of Leonard Cohen contains many of his most essential songs-- "Suzanne", "Master Song", "Stranger Song", "Sisters of Mercy", "So Long, Marianne"-- and establishes the themes and stylistic tics he would pursue relentlessly over the ensuing decades. John Hammond, the album's original producer, fell ill during the process and was replaced by John Simon; the two bonus cuts are from the Hammond sessions. "Store Room" emulates the restrained urgency of "Teachers" while "Blessed is the Memory" is more prayerful; both feature rather incongruous Ray Manzarek-style organs.</p><p>A long-time country music fan, Cohen would travel to Nashville to record his next two albums. 1969's Songs From a Room is similar to his debut: Just as Songs of Leonard Cohen replaced original producer John Hammond, who had signed Cohen to Columbia (as well as Billie Holiday and Bob Dylan) with John Simon (then just off the Band's Music From Big Pink and Simon and Garfunkel's Bookends), this album was started with the Byrds' David Crosby and finished with Dylan producer Bob Johnston. It also contains a number of Cohen's signature tunes, including "Story of Isaac", cover song "The Partisan", "Lady Midnight", and the seminal "Bird on a Wire", whose iconic opening lines ("Like a bird on a wire/ Like a drunk in a midnight choir/ I have tried, in my way, to be free") were cited by Kris Kristofferson as his desired epitaph. It seems a direct continuation of his debut, and in truth, the debut seems superior simply for having come first.</p><p>Of course, any seeker can become lost, and on 1971's Songs of Love and Hate, Cohen shows signs of disorientation. Though he's backed by a crew of ace musicians, including Charlie Daniels on fiddle, the record is thinner and less even than the first two. In contrast to his early precision, Cohen takes some wild swings that miss the mark, such as the weird Santa Claus imagery on "Dress Rehearsal Rag" and the uncomfortably strained singing style he adopts on "Diamonds in the Mine", which might be chalked up to an insecurity about his voice encouraged by his negative press. It's also a more blatantly depressive album than the first two, lacking hopeful equanimity, and does indeed reflect a period of great depression and uncertainty in Cohen's life. But elsewhere on Love and Hate, he's in his finest, subtlest form-- "Avalanche", "Last Year's Man", and "Famous Blue Raincoat" alone justify the album's classic status. Despite its relative flaws, it's an indispensable document in the development of one of the 20th century's most enduring artists. Cohen potently captures the pull between safety and the unknown, love and freedom, spirituality and sensuality: a panoramic view of human experience, rendered through the work of one exceptional artist.</p><p>— <strong>Brian Howe, Pitchfork</strong></p> |
| Leonard Cohen | Songs From A Room | <p>Leonard Cohen's first album was an unqualified triumph which announced the arrival of a bold and singular talent, and many who heard it must have wondered what Cohen could do for an encore. By comparison, Cohen's second album, 1969's Songs from a Room, was something of a letdown. While it's a fine LP, it ultimately feels neither as striking nor as assured as Songs of Leonard Cohen. Bob Johnston stepped in as producer for Songs from a Room, and his arrangements are simpler than those John Simon crafted for the debut, but they're also full of puzzling accents, such as the jew's harp that punctuates several tracks, the churchy organ line in "The Old Revolution," and the harsh synthesizer flourishes on "A Bunch of Lonesome Heroes." Johnston also had trouble coaxing strong vocal performances from Cohen; his singing here sounds tentative and his meter is uncertain, which regardless of how one feels about Cohen's much-debated vocal prowess is not the case with his other work. And finally, the quality of the songs on Songs from a Room is less consistent than on Songs of Leonard Cohen; as fine as "Bird on a Wire," "You Know Who I Am," "The Story of Isaac" and "Seems So Long Ago, Nancy" may be, "The Butcher" and "A Bunch of Lonesome Heroes" simply aren't up to his usual standards. Despite the album's flaws, Songs from a Room's strongest moments convey a naked intimacy and fearless emotional honesty that's every bit as powerful as the debut, and it left no doubt that Cohen was a major creative force in contemporary songwriting.</p><p><strong>— Mark Deming</strong></p> |
| Leonard Cohen | Live Songs | <p>Difficult to find and seemingly assembled from spare parts, Live Songs is the shabby orphan in Leonard Cohen's catalog. It is also one of his most thrilling releases. Culled from a series of 1972 concerts (except for "Tonight Will Be Fine" from the Isle of Wight festival), the album consists of compositions from 1969's Songs From a Room and a handful of otherwise unavailable material. Those familiar with Songs From a Room will find that the live versions improve upon their studio counterparts, which sound like they were recorded down a well. The spirited hoedown rendition of "Tonight Will Be Fine" includes two extra verses, and the lovely, restrained performance of "Bird on the Wire" may be definitive. As for the oddities, Dick Blakeslee's spry political allegory, "Passing Through," suits Cohen's dry delivery, and the hypnotic instrumental "Improvisation" reveals a rarely seen side of his musical personality. Curiously enough, the haunting prologue and the poem-as-dirge "Queen Victoria" don't seem to have been recorded live at all. The centerpiece of the album, however, is "Please Don't Pass Me By," a monstrous 12-minute rant, both outrageous and deadly serious, apparently half written, half made up on the spot. Cohen dedicates the song to a host of outcasts, including "the cripples, the maimed, the freaks...the burned, the burning...the Jews and the gypsies" killed in the Holocaust, "the children of England," and "a savior with no one to save," then goes on to beg some unspecified addressee (the listener?) to get naked for him. Before the song is over, he declares that he can't stand himself and instructs the members of the audience to "go home with someone else." Only a daredevil artist could freak out so totally and articulately before a crowd of paying customers. Cohen fanatics will know they've hit the jackpot when they hear Live Songs. Anyone who cares about poetry and raw emotional honesty in popular music should at least find it interesting.</p><p>—<strong>Daniel Browne</strong></p> |
| Leonard Cohen | Cohen Live | <p>Few artists have maintained such a devoted fan base for so long outside the mainstream as Leonard Cohen. With such a rich catalog, any compilation of his material is bound to invite discussion. Cohen Live opts to balance earlier material with work from his late-'80s/early-'90s period culled from two different tours. The newer songs include the lovely "Dance Me to the End of Love," the ominous "Everybody Knows," and "I'm Your Man." Cohen classics such as "Bird on a Wire," "Who By Fire?," and "Suzanne" are among the older songs. Backed by strong musicians, Cohen delivers the songs in his monotone rasp that is distinctly him. The renditions are fairly faithful to the studio versions, although the added warmth of the live performers provides an interesting contrast with Cohen's baleful persona. Cohen Live isn't necessarily essential, but fans will enjoy hearing one of the more original and enduring voices from the '60s in a different setting.</p><p>—<strong>Tom Demalon</strong></p> |
| Coldplay | Parachutes | <p>The London foursome Coldplay are constant critic's darlings in the band's native U.K., showcasing melodic pop in a slew of EP releases and constant live shows since the spark of the new millennium. Not as heavy as Radiohead or snobbish as Oasis, Coldplay is a band of young musicians who are still honing their sweet harmonies on the debut release <i>Parachutes</i>. Combining bits of distorted guitar riffs and swishing percussion, <i>Parachutes</i> is a delightful introduction and also quickly indicates the reason why this album earned Coldplay a Mercury Music Prize nomination in fall 2000.</p><p>Frontman Chris Martin's lyrical wordplay is feministic in the manner of Geneva's Andrew Montgomery, but far more withered. The imagery captured on <i>Parachutes</i> is exquisitely dark and artistically abrasive, and the entire composition is tractable thanks to gauzy acoustics and airy percussion. Coldplay's indie rock inclinations are also obvious, especially on songs such as "Don't Panic" and "Shiver," but it's the dream pop soundscapes captured on "High Speed" and "We Never Change" that illustrate the band's dynamic passion. This basic pop is surely a refreshing effort in the face of big productions like the Spice Girls and Westlife. <i>Parachutes</i> deserves the accolades it has received because it follows the general rule when introducing decent pop songs: keep the emotion genuine and real. And Coldplay has done that without hesitation.</p><p>— <strong>MacKenzie Wilson</strong></p><hr/><p>Pretty, lovely, fine, fair, comely, pleasant, agreeable, acceptable, adequate, satisfactory, nice, benign, harmless, innocuous, innocent, largely unobjectionable, safe, forgettable. I have just summed up in 19 words what I am about to say about Coldplay's debut full-length, Parachutes, in 600. Aside from being seemingly tailor-made for the paper-thin adult contemporary market, what is it about this Britrock quartet that's driving them up the American charts? Is it their popularity in their home country, or their Mercury Music Prize nomination? Could it be their charming, boyish good looks? Perhaps, even, a reputation built by Noel Gallagher's projected insistence that they're "a bunch of fuckin' pansies, the lot of them?" In reality, Coldplay's secret deadly weapon is vocalist Chris Martin. With the ability to mimic a Brit-accented Dave Matthews one minute, Jeff Buckley revived from the dead the next, and sometimes even a young Peter Gabriel, Martin's heartfelt delivery seems to be what's winning the hearts, wallets and alternative radio request lines of Americans young and old. That's not to say that the rest of the group isn't sharp. Guitarist Jon Buckland provides plaintive, strummed acoustic guitar with the occasional amplified wail, and bassist Guy Berryman with drummer Will Champion form a competent rhythm section. Oh yeah, the songs. They're nothing special. Most of the 10 tracks on Parachutes are indeed pleasant enough, often consisting of standard alterna-pop fare with the occasional folky ballad. They're innocent and inoffensive in general, but in turn, they're also exceedingly generic and immediately forgettable-- so much so, in fact, that after a minute of one song, you've usually already forgotten what the last song sounded like. And that's even after a few listens. Parachutes opens with "Don't Panic," the title of which is likely lifted from British mock sci-fi classic The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, despite the fact that the song has nothing to do with it. This subdued, dreamy opener contains Martin's falsetto chorus of "We live in a beautiful world," which seems to sum up the overall sentiment of the record; the record also closes with the inspirational swinger "Everything's Not Lost." Most of the other songs sort of drift in and out of consciousness, with the exception of the second track, "Shiver." It's the only truly decent song on Parachutes, but simultaneously, it's the only one that blatantly shows its influences. In fact, the influence can even be pinned to a single song: Jeff Buckley's "Grace." Martin has his Buckley impression down cold, complete with dynamic range and the trademark vibrato. But as enjoyable as the song may be, there's no question that Buckley did it better. And of course, you've probably heard their smash hit single, "Yellow," by now. Indeed, it's the most obvious choice for a single, and it represents Martin's vocal stylings effectively, but it's also the record's weakest moment. Buckland's grating, slightly tuneless guitars seem jarring, especially when sequenced in the middle of a series of songs that generally lack dissonance. And the saccharine lyrics are those that might have caused Mr. Gallagher's hypothetical remark: "Look at the stars/ Look how they shine for you/ And everything you do." You'd practically expect the band to show up at your doorstep with a wilting bouquet and Hallmark card. Parachutes is ultimately a promising debut for Coldplay, if by "promising," I mean, "promising them a windfall of cash and international popularity." If nothing else, it's harmless and pretty. Unfortunately, it's nothing else. If that's what you look for in your music, by all means, go for it. If you want substance, I suggest moving on.</p><p>— <strong>Spencer Owen, Pitchfork</strong></p> |
| Coldplay | A Rush Of Blood To The Head | <p>After touring in support of their debut album, <i>Parachutes</i>, Coldplay was personally and professionally exhausted. Frontman Chris Martin insisted he was dry; by the time they closed their European tour in summer 2001, he hadn't written a song in months. The U.K. music press immediately pounced on the idea of Coldplay calling it quits, but somewhere lurked the beauty of "In My Place." The spirit and soul of this ballad allowed Coldplay to pull it together to make a second album. What came from such anguish and inquisition was <i>A Rush of Blood to the Head</i>. Coldplay has surely let it all go on this record. Acoustics are drowned out by Jon Buckland's riveting guitar work, and vocally, Martin has sharpened his falsetto, refining his haunting delivery. It's a strong album; you can feel, hear, and touch the blood, sweat, and tears behind each song, and that's exactly what Coldplay was going for. Co-producer Ken Nelson and mixer Mark Pythain (the team behind the blissful beauty of <i>Parachutes</i>) allowed Coldplay to make an album that's initially inaccessible, but that's what makes it intriguing. Lush melodies and a heartbreak behind the songs are there, but also a newfound confidence.</p><p>From the delicate, shimmery classic "In My Place" to the piano surge of "The Scientist," Coldplay exudes an honest passion. The disco haze of "Daylight" and the lovedrunk ballad "Green Eyes" are divine examples of solid lyrical arrangements, but "Politik" and the stunning guitar-driven "God Put a Smile Upon Your Face" project a nervy edge to the band. Echoes of early post-punk showcase Coldplay's ballsy musicianship. Don't fret — it's not exactly rock & roll, but Radiohead, Echo & the Bunnymen, and The Smiths aren't exactly rock & roll either, and they're well-loved. "Yellow" didn't follow the rock formula, but it sold well, and similarly <i>A Rush of Blood to the Head</i> might not instantly grab listeners, but it's not tailored that way. It pushes you to look beyond dreamy vocals for a musical inner core. Regardless of the band still being in their mid-twenties, they've made an amazing record, and if it ends up being their last, <i>A Rush of Blood to the Head</i> didn't sugar coat anything. It's a bittersweet design no matter what.</p><p>— <strong>MacKenzie Wilson</strong></p><hr/><p>Though my hopes were briefly raised by a frazzled Christopher Lloyd in 1985, it's painfully obvious now that time travel doesn't exist as a human technological capability. This being overwhelmingly the case, I will try my best to transport with words, and paint a picture of another time-- a time ever so slightly more innocent, when terrorism wasn't being used as an excuse to crush civil liberties and drop bombs on mustachioed megalomaniacs. So, drag that bottle of Orbitz out of the back of the closet, put X-Files on the VHS, and journey back with me to the year 2000. It was a wondrous time-- we were still fascinated by the three zeros that had signified the birth of the new millennium, and many were relieved to have escaped judgment from an infinite, intangible being. Then, toward the end of the year, we began to hear rumblings from the many-headed hydra of UK rock journalism that some amazing new music had come to usher us into the New World. This music was deemed fascinating, uncompromising and utterly prizeworthy by our English brethren, who spoke in hushed tones of how it was to be the coming of "the next Radiohead," or perhaps more tellingly, "the next Travis." This new music was produced by a band of four affable blue-collar lads from Europe's island neighbor who called themselves Coldplay, and before you knew it, there was no escaping their lead-off single, "Yellow", as it burned itself into the national consciousness via extensive radio exposure and ABC promotional spots. I, myself, was never too taken with that single, though I openly admit to enjoying the album it was culled from, Parachutes. It was innocuous, to be sure, but it was also honestly rendered, and the opening three songs, effortless and hummable as they were, were hard to deny. Two years and a veritable avalanche of press later, A Rush of Blood to the Head has Coldplay taking a second shot at it, and to be perfectly honest, what they throw at the wall doesn't stick quite as well. I will credit them where it's due: they've admirably eschewed cloning their debut album, a path that would have been all too easy to take given that record's critical and commercial success. But while the sound of this album is more expansive, the influences a bit less obvious, and the approach more varied, the guys forgot to tote along their initial strength: the songs. Atmospherically, a couple of these tracks are remarkable-- particularly "Daylight", with its swooping guitar and synth lines. Even its strings, which echo melodies from Suede's last album, lend a sense of drama to a song that otherwise wouldn't hold much. Midtempo non-rockers "Green Eyes" and "Warning Sign" stretch the most obvious thread back to Parachutes with their lovelorn lyrics and slightly more developed melodies. And there are also a couple of "memo to listener: we can rock, too!" moments, specifically "A Whisper" and the lite-apocalypse of opener "Politik". The latter essentially takes the blueprint of "Yellow"-- namely, the slamming, repetitive strumming of clean electric guitar-- and builds a more spacious song from it, one with more rattle and hum, but less melodic substance. Martin's double-tracked vocals hover curiously low in the mix and the band thrashes earnestly, but all the listener really comes away with is a nebular dustcloud and the sense that Coldplay want to break out of their box. Part of the blame for moments like these rests on producer Ken Nelson, who doesn't seem to know what to do with the band's expanded sound this time out. He alternately dries up the quietest passages and drenches the louder sections with Martin Hannett-sized reverb tides. It takes a lot of discretion to handle that sound, and the folly of Nelson and the band (who co-produced) often comes at the expense of the vocals, which frequently get lost in the haze. And that's a shame because vocalist Chris Martin has improved since the band's not-so-humble beginnings-- his voice is dramatically fuller than in the past, and he falters less on the higher notes. But, of course, he's still far from foolproof: at times, his attempts to broaden his palette don't pan out, such as during the regrettable midsection of "Clocks", where he barely bothers to add a melody to the central lyric "nothing else compares." To his credit, he does manage a pretty good verse melody here, but then he oddly shies away from what should be the hook at the end, tentatively trailing off as though he's not sure it's good enough. That could very well be the case, too, as it's been widely posited that Coldplay nearly didn't make this album at all, fearing that they didn't have the depth to provide an adequate follow-up to their debut. I'll avoid the obvious cheap shot there and instead offer that they indeed still might. Parachutes proved that Coldplay have at least a nascent songwriting capability, and A Rush of Blood to the Head shows them testing themselves musically, so it seems logical that if their third album were to combine those strengths they might finally start to sound like the band the UK press is always going on about. After over a half-dozen listens, I still haven't taken anything away from A Rush of Blood to the Head (by contrast, I recognized Parachutes' "Don't Panic" for the relatively tight song it is after hearing it once), and my girl, who was much more a fan of Parachutes than I was, sums it up as "boring." She's pretty much got it right. Coldplay may claw their way back from this, but it'll be a pretty steep climb.</p><p>— <strong>Joe Tangari, Pitchfork</strong></p> |
| Coldplay | Coldplay Live 2003 | <p><I>Live 2003</I> celebrates Coldplay's worldwide tour in support of their stunning second album, <I>A Rush of Blood to the Head</I>. The band impressed the masses this time out, and once again it delivers a resilient, bright package of glorious rock & roll. Capturing an evening at Sydney's Horden Pavillion, the momentum and passion behind such songs as "God Put a Smile Upon Your Face" and "Politik" confirm Coldplay's place in music while also illustrating their power as a live act. <I>Live 2003</I> is clean-cut and solid from start to finish. The meticulous production of the dozen-song set list itself is exemplary of the band's first two efforts; therefore doing a live album such as this proves Coldplay's brilliance. From the sonic richness of B-side "One I Love" to the band's more merry singles like "Yellow" and "Clocks," <I>Live 2003</I> is a delightful listening experience. Coldplay treat fans to a new song, "Moses." Chiming guitars and Chris Martin's hushed vocals give this song a classic feeling circa Echo & the Bunnymen's 1988 self-titled release, and fans will be impressed by Coldplay's progression in style and sound. Like the U.K. and domestic releases, the Japanese DVD portion includes the show in Sydney as well as behind-the-scenes footage of the tour and a tour-diary documentary.</p> — <B>MacKenzie Wilson</B> |
| Coldplay | X & Y | <p>After Radiohead stubbornly refused to accept the mantle of world's biggest and most important rock band by releasing the willfully strange rocktronica fusion Kid A in 2000, Coldplay stepped up to the plate with their debut, Parachutes. Tasteful, earnest, introspective, anthemic, and grounded in guitars, the British quartet was everything Radiohead weren't but what the public wanted them to be, and benefited from the Oxford quintet's decision to abandon rock stardom for arcane art rock. Parachutes became was a transatlantic hit and 2002's sequel, A Rush of Blood to the Head, consolidated their success by being bigger and better than Parachutes, positioning Coldplay to not be just the new Radiohead, but the new U2: a band that belongs to the world but whose fans believe that the music is for them alone. To that end, Coldplay's third album, X&Y -- slightly delayed so it follows Rush of Blood by nearly three years, but that's no longer than the time separating OK Computer and Kid A, or The Unforgettable Fire and The Joshua Tree -- is designed to be the record that elevates Coldplay to the major leagues, where they are at once the biggest and most important band in the world. It's deliberate and sleek, cinematic and pristine, hip enough to sample Kraftwerk and blend in fashionable retro-'80s post-punk allusions without altering the band's core. Indeed, X&Y is hardly a bold step forward but rather a consolidation of Coldplay's strengths, particularly their skill at crafting surging, widescreen epics. But if X&Y highlights their attributes it also brings Coldplay's weaknesses into sharp relief. Forget the fact that they, by any stretch of the imagination, do not rock -- rocking is simply against their nature. They are a meditative band, reflecting on their emotions instead of letting them go in a cathartic blast of noise and rhythm. This isn't a problem -- after all, there have been plenty of great bands that do not rock & roll -- but their terminal politeness does cripple their music, preventing it from being as majestic as its aspirations. Coldplay is well scrubbed and well behaved, possessing a textbook education in classic rock and the good sense to never stretch any farther than needed. They are the perfect middlebrow rock band -- clean, pristine, and rational, seemingly smart since they never succumb to pounding, primal riffs, but also not weird enough to be genuine art rock. It's ambitious, yet its ambitions are modest, not risky, so their ambitions can be fulfilled without breaking a sweat. And since their sweeping yet subdued theatricality does recall the more majestic moments of Radiohead and U2, they have won millions of fans, but another crucial reason that Coldplay have a broad appeal is that lead singer/songwriter Chris Martin never tackles any large issues, preferring to endlessly examine his feelings. Like on Parachutes and Rush of Blood, all the songs on X&Y are ruminations on Martin's doubts, fears, hopes, and loves. His words are earnest and vague, so listeners can identify with the underlying themes in the songs, and his plain, everyman voice, sighing as sweet as a schoolboy, is unthreatening and unassuming, so it's all the easier for listeners to project their own emotions into the song. But for as impeccable as X&Y is -- and, make no mistake, it's a good record, crisp, professional, and assured, a sonically satisfying sequel to A Rush of Blood to the Head -- it does reveal that Martin's solipsism is a dead-end, diminishing the stature of the band. Where U2 is big in sound, scope, ambition, and intent, Coldplay is ultimately big music about small things, and even if X&Y is a strong, accomplished album, its limited, narcissistic point of view is what prevents the quartet from inheriting the title of the biggest and most important band in the world.</p>— <b>Stephen Thomas Erlewine</b> |
| Coldplay | Speed Of Sound (SP) | |
| Coldplay | Viva La Vida/Prospekt's March | <p>When Coldplay sampled Kraftwerk on their third album, X&Y, it was a signifier for the British band, telegraphing their classicist good taste while signaling how they prefer the eternally hip to the truly adventurous; it was stylish window dressing for soft arena rock. Hiring Brian Eno to produce the bulk of their fourth album, Viva la Vida, is another matter entirely. Eno pushes them, not necessarily to experiment but rather to focus and refine, to not leave their comfort zone but to find some tremulous discomfort within it. In his hands, this most staid of bands looks to shake things up, albeit politely, but such good manners are so inherent to Coldplay's DNA that they remain courteous even when they experiment. With his big-budget production, Eno has a knack for amplifying an artist's personality, as he allows bands to be just as risky as they want to be — which is quite a lot in the case of U2 and James and even Paul Simon, but not quite so much with Coldplay. And yet this gentle encouragement — he's almost a kindly uncle giving his nephews permission to rummage through his study — pays great dividends for Coldplay, as it winds up changing the specifics without altering the core. They wind up with the same self-styled grandiosity; they've just found a more interesting way to get to the same point.</p><p>Gone are Chris Martin's piano recitals and gone are the washes of meticulously majestic guitar, replaced by orchestrations of sound, sometimes literally consisting of strings but usually a tapestry of synthesizers, percussion, organs, electronics, and guitars that avoid playing riffs. Gone too are simpering schoolboy ballads like "Fix You," and along with them the soaring melodies designed to fill arenas. In fact, there are no insistent hooks to be found anywhere on Viva la Vida, and there are no clear singles in this collection of insinuatingly ingratiating songs. This reliance on elliptical melodies isn't off-putting — alienation is alien to Coldplay — and this is where Eno's guidance pays off, as he helps sculpt Viva la Vida to work as a musical whole, where there are long stretches of instrumentals and where only "Strawberry Swing," with its light, gently infectious melody and insistent rhythmic pulse, breaks from the album's appealingly meditative murk. Whatever iciness there is to the sound of Viva la Vida is warmed by Martin's voice, but the music is by design an heir to the earnest British art rock of '80s Peter Gabriel and U2 — arty enough to convey sober intelligence without seeming snobby, the kind of album that deserves to take its title from Frida Kahlo and album art from Eugene Delacroix. That Delacroix painting depicts the French Revolution, so it does fit that Martin tones down his relentless self-obsession — the songs aren't heavy on lyrics and some are shockingly written in character — which is a development as welcome as the expanded sonic palette. Martin's refined writing topics may be outpaced by the band's guided adventure, but they're both indicative that Coldplay are desperate to not just strive for the title of great band — a title they seem to believe that they're to the manor born — but to actually burrow into the explorative work of creating music. And so the greatest thing Coldplay may have learned from Eno is his work ethic, as they demonstrate a focused concentration throughout this tight album — it's only 47 minutes yet covers more ground than X&Y and arguably A Rush of Blood to the Head — that turns Viva la Vida into something quietly satisfying.</p><p>—<strong>Stephen Thomas Erlewine</strong></p> |
| Paula Cole | This Fire | |
| Paula Cole | Amen |
Showing 261–280 of 2096 reviews
· Page 14 of 105