Eric Lichter--- Elks in Paris

If Eric Lichter had no talent at all, you would have to give him credit for being smart. Thing is, he is loaded with talent. He spent a few years anchoring the rhythm section of Seattle band The Life before becoming a Pajama (a Green Pajama, in fact) and in the Pac NW that's one hell of a recommendation. Over the years, he has honed his skills as a songwriter and singer which makes him a threat on many levels (he is best known as a drummer).

The smart? When he filled his steamer's trunk with songs and considered a solo album, he was smart enough to tie up with one of my favorite producers of late, Ken Stringfellow, who in addition to his work with the re-formed Big Star and his original band The Posies, has put together or played on albums by the likes of Hannah Gillespie (whose All The Dirt album made my best-of list for 2011 and still knocks me ass over teakettle every time I hear it), Neuman, The Disciplines and Red Jacket Mine while putting out a solo album (Danzig In the Moonlight) which made my best of 2012 list. If I was a songwriter and ready to go it alone, Stringfellow would be my first choice too.

Lichter brought ten songs to him that were album-ready--- ten songs remarkable in their simplicity yet ready for treatment. Solid songs. Outstanding songs. Songs which I hesitate to label Pop, though they are, for fear of having some of you stop reading right here. Trust me when I tell you that by the time Lichter and Stringfellow finished with them, they were both more and less than what you might imagine. They are more than songs, even. They are works, and if they fall short of art, they are works which resonate in my head and soul, bumping other favorites aside during walks and drives. More than once I have caught myself struggling to remember where I had heard something only to realize that it was Lichter. It says a lot to me that without thinking I want to know where I've heard one of his songs. Believe me when I say that I know where songs I don't like come from.

If asked, I would be hard pressed to pick favorites from Elks in Paris. Over a number of listens, each song has filled a slot as favorite. Lately, it has been Tell Me One Thing, its beauty as much in odd chord changes and minor chords as anything, the harmonies chilling in an odd sort of way. It reminds me a bit of some of the lesser known Marmalade songs which radio in the US ignored back in the early seventies, the song structure just beyond the formula for airplay. Right now, it is a real favorite, far beyond the confines of this album.

I Still Insist has me thinking Alan Bown, and if you've not heard their version of All Along the Watchtower, you should. If someone told me that Lichter had listened exclusively to the The Alan Bown! album while writing the song, I wouldn't bat an eye. Posh is Pop at its purest, simple melody and chorus making it what we would have called back in the day “AM gold”. You couldn't pick a better song than A Plan So Beautiful to kick off an album like this--- easy rocking and produced to perfection, the background vocals adding just enough on the chorus to make it magic. It reminds me a bit of Rich McCulley, another Pop-rocker who really knows his way around a song.

You know who would love this album? Every one of my old girlfriends. The ones who loved Carole King and Jackson Browne and Linda Ronstadt. And no, Lichter doesn't sound anything like any of them. I think it's because on Elks In Paris, the songs are the thing and Lichter brought some absolute beauties to the studio. Songs that get stuck in your head but you don't mind because they are songs you like hearing and humming and singing (even singing along with). I mean, any one of these could be a hit, at least in the old days. They're that good.

You know what I really like about Ken Stringfellow? As a producer, he knows when to produce and when to get out of the way. Something tells me he did a lot of both on Elks. I would have liked to have been privy to the many conversations leading up to the completion of the album. It is a process, you see, and I have always been fascinated by it. A producer walks a fine line because, in the end, the final product belongs to the artist. I guess that's why they call albums like this collaborations. There is a lot of both Lichter and Stringfellow here. I can't imagine either one having walked away displeased.

You know what I think? I think the real winners here are the people who find this album. It isn't easy, you know--- discovering new music. In the digital age, it is just short of daunting. Perhaps it is time to undaunt yourself. Elks is the perfect album to start with.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.) 

Maxi Dunn--- Edmund & Leo

I am obsessed with this album. I am so obsessed that I have deleted at least ten starts to what will eventually become a review, mostly because Edmund & Leo is so much more than I expected, even after fully absorbing Dunn's last outstanding release, The Neglected Gambit. It is so much more, in fact, that I want to send a copy to every writer in existence just to share the music. I want to put together a band and an elaborate international tour complete with full fifty or hundred voice choir so people could hear Dunn in a setting worthy of this album. I want to swamp radio, Internet and otherwise with reviews, and put together fully professional videos for music video freaks. Unfortunately, that takes money and money is in short supply around the old homestead these days. But if I had it, I would. Swear to God.

Why? Because when the music is this good, you want to do something. Back in the old days you could tuck an album under your arm and head to a friend's house to trade turns on the turntable. You could tell people about music and, amazingly, some of those people would listen. You could give albums as gifts and sometimes they were accepted gracefully and maybe even eventually coveted as much by the person to whom you gave it as by yourself. I miss those days when I hear albums like this because I know that many of my old friends would listen and at least try to hear a semblance of what I hear. What do I hear? A lot.

If I didn't know better, I would think Edmund & Leo (the song) an intro to the album as a whole, but Dunn denies it. She pointed out not long ago that it was different than the rest of the album and I get that, but only to a degree. It does have that intro feel to it but by the time you get to the closing track, Meteor Shower, I get the feeling that Edmund is an intro to Meteor Shower's outro, of sorts. Bookends to the whole work, as it were.

Packed between those two songs are ten stunners (which makes twelve total, just in case math is not your strong suit). Ten beauties, ranging from the very folk rockin' Change the Record (with twelve-string riffs to bring the sixties back from the dead) to the song with an absolute killer chorus (Buffoon Man--- I tell you, it sends shivers up my spine) to the just short of Broadway Tuxedo Cat to the Beach Boys-y Everything to that outro capper, Meteor Shower, a real show-ender if ever there was one.

Dunn has outdone even the output of The Neglected Gambit, which was an album of which anyone would be proud. Song after song, the album builds and builds until the curtain drops (in my head, with the band still playing and the music going on and on and the crowd digging every beat and off-beat as the energy dies for lack of fuel). There are equal parts rockin' live band, orchestra, and session band in the mix and maybe a little Ziegfeld Follies kick here and there, as well.

But this is what separates Edmund & Leo from the pack: production and/or arrangement. This album is so well put together it takes my breath away. Every song, every movement and every damn note is right where it needs to be to put this over the top. The sequencing of songs alone freaks me out and when you get into how they stacked the voices and the instruments--- man, it just doesn't get any better! I have no idea how many hours Dunn and co-producer/magic man/sideman Peter Hackett put into this, but it must have been hundreds. The voices, all Dunn's, are used to magnify the music--- in duets and trios and quartets and choruses and almost choirs. They are everything from the full-on angelic choir to the doop-doops and oo-wahs and last for a whole chorus or only one note. Hackett, who plays every instrument except drums (handled very ably by Damon Roots), is masterful in his simplicity, though at times pushing the guitar and amp to wuthering heights.

If I was teaching a class on arranging or producing, I would use this album as an example. Every time I hear it, and I've heard it over a hundred times thus far, I hear something new. Something not necessarily buried but just deep enough in the mix to add to yet not distract from the song. Voices. Instruments. Sounds. I remember talking with Max Wisely and Bill Phillips of Cargoe about the making of their self-titled album for Ardent Records back in the day. I laughed as they told stories of snapping belts and coke bottles and ping pong balls. The good artists and producers do whatever it takes to get the sound they need. That's what Hackett and Dunn have done here. No stone unturned.

Yes, I am obsessed with this album. This is good stuff. Amazingly good. Good enough to be guaranteed a Top Ten slot in my end of the year list. (and it was they year it was released--- 2013) No, I don't need to wait. I can hear it. Click here. Listen closely. It may take you a few times, but you will hear it too. When you get it, buy it. Play it for your friends. Put a leash on it and take it for walks, I don't care. Hopefully it will be an antidote to always looking backward to the music you've already heard way too much but just can't seem to shake. This is an album which could be the first album of the rest of your life.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

Bright Giant--- Kings & Queens of Air

I remember hearing the opening of Women when I first received Bright Giant's self-titled 2009 EP, an electronic collage with what sounded like a tea kettle preparing to scream, a cross between low whistle and phlegm-like gurgle clothed in choral harmonies and ambient sounds building in intensity until the first chords buried the collage beneath power chords and a plodding but driving beat. You know how you hear something once and it embeds itself in your soul? Women did it. All five songs on the EP knocked me out, in fact, and I have taken these guys under my wing--- a project, ,so to speak, because music this good deserves to be heard and, indeed, needs to be heard. You can quote me.

I could go into great detail pointing out the subtle differences between the EP and the new album, Kings & Queens of Air, but you need a dry treatise as much as I need a punch in the neck, so I'll give you a break. The vast majority of you have probably not heard the EP anyway (do yourselves a favor and take a quick listen here), in which case comparisons are moot. Suffice it to say that the songs are more raw on Kings & Queens, that the beat is more prominent as a force (probably due to a more sparse sound on many of the tracks), and that feedback and electronic blasts, a definite plus on the EP, have been given an upgrade.

In fact, if the album does nothing more (I don't know why I say that, because it does), it reinforces my faith in feedback as music. Some of my favorite moments in rock have come via feedback, controlled or not--- the extended feedback which supports the chorus of Illinois Speed Press's P.N.S. (When You Come Around) is welcome in my head any day, perfect background for the harmonic lead-in to the double guitar lead on the break; the occasional snorts and grunts from variousYardbirds tracks keep them at the top of my all-time favorites list; and of course there is Jimi Hendrix (no explanation necessary here, eh?). Let's face it, sometimes there is no better sound.

Welcome to Kings & Queens of Air, an album of raw, crunchy fuzzed-out over-amped guitar driven by zealous drum beats and bedrock bass. And it is not all loud and raucous, even though that is the largest part of it. But we'll get to that later. First, let me tell you that the song I liked least when I first started listening is now the song I like best--- Sandbox, a two-minute-plus runaway truck powered by jolting guitar and pulsating feedback at the end of each verse. It is about as base as you can get, even the vocals a bit distorted, but turn it up and it drives a stake right into you. Did I say I liked it best? What am I thinking? That would Katie Come On, a piledriving stew of overamped attitude crammed into a mere 1:43, during which Noah Mass sounds like he grew up on a mess of Manfred Mann stew (Mick Rogers was one of the finest rock guitarists out there in the seventies and had a style all his own--- check out Meat and Look Around on Glorified Magnified--- the guitar is outstanding). Mass stumbles upon Rogers' sound and that of a handful of my other favorite guitarists as he busts his way from song to song, breaking out for the occasional solo but always there in the background tossing out squeaks and squawks and simple riffs to make a point. If someone expected The Moody Blues, it would sound at times chaotic and even messy, but to the rock 'n' roller it is a well-orchestrated mess and music adventure at its best, at the very least.

If I made that sound like every song is a cranker, that is hardly the case. For one thing, the band brings forward a remixed and maybe even re-recorded version of the anthemic Forget-Me-Nots from the EP which is a bit slower than most of the other tracks and almost choir-like in its ending (think Angel's Flying With Broken Wings) and is just downright impressive. Coraline Rose uses simple guitar hook and floating vocal “oo-oo-oo”s over wall-of-sound chords on the chorus to drive home anthem once again and my mind's eye can see lighters being held above the heads of every geek in the arena while the power chords lay down that wall (Obviously, I was not a fan of the lighter thing. I hated “the wave” too). It's a beauty.

But once again, let's talk feedback. I was curious, so I sent an email to the band's Josh Davis asking who was responsible. He said “(Noah and I) both play old amps which are feeding back constantly.” So it must be a constant battle to control the sound? I don't know, but the final result must mean that in the constant wrestling match the guitarists are winning because I have seldom heard snarks and blats and rheee's hit the highs hit here. To my ears, it is the sound of the sirens. No, not the sound of sirens--- the sounds of the sirens. There is a difference.

I'm sorry, but I have to stop here a second for a good laugh. The vast majority of people who read this might think Bright Giant a band of barbarians reeking havoc armed with guitars and amps, but they are in fact a rock band looking into a hard rock and rock 'n' roll tent, feeding on the same courses as early or mid Rolling Stones and Black Crowes and blazing their own path through the maze. Because I can't really describe it, I have a tendency to be a little verbally melodramatic here and there, but let me assure you that if it makes you take note it is worth it. This is good stuff. Really, really good stuff. In places, even great stuff. I love these guys. They are right up there alongside Research Turtles on my list of artists I would shove down your throat if it would only make you listen. Want to take a listen? Okay. The last five songs are the EP--- the earlier ones are from Kings & Queens of Air. Or maybe not. Hell, start anywhere. It's all good. Click here. And turn it up. Then buy it. Or else.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

Bright * Giant--- Bright Giant EP

Jesus! How long ago did that first Black Crowes album come out? And whatever happened to Drivin' & Cryin'? I would swear to God that these guys were those guys' younger brothers if I didn't know better and as good, if not better. From the dyslexicly unbalanced fade-in of Women to the extremely Black Crowes-esque No Flies On Me, Bright * Giant melds the best of those two bands with their own subtle in-your-face style on five of the best rockin' tracks you'll hear this year.

While the above video shows a process, it does not show the power Bright * Giant generates. Built on bedrock of solid drumming, booming and sometimes fuzzed-out bass and crunching rhythm guitar, the music is the Hard Rock version of Power Pop, lodging simple hooks in your head that will be hard to dismiss. The almost five minutes of Women slams into the faster paced Songbird like a car backending a truck on the freeway (listen for the buried “Aiyee, aiyee, aiyee” after watching the video and you get an idea of the range of choices a band must make during the production process) and that sets up the manic song/talk of Jesus, the Devil & Me, a step off the deep end of the gene pool. They enter the realm of anthem with Forget-Me-Nots, a slightly slower and much more intricately pieced together composition, complete with outstanding full chorus buildup at the end. Then it's early Black Crowes all over again, rhythm and voice dominating hard rock hook and distorted guitar.

You remember those albums that had “Record Loud to be Played Loud” banners printed on the back? File this sucker with them because it is like a car gaining speed on the open road with the driver unaware. The longer it plays, the louder you want it.

Don't like EPs? Well, these five songs just may be your exception. Better five solid, well laid out tracks than five great songs spliced between six others and these are as solid as they get. My head tells me they are the springboard to a long and fruit fly career. Sorry. Couldn't help myself. Buy this album. Seriously. Huh. Couldn't help that, either.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

Jim of Seattle--- We Are All Famous

No we aren't, Jim of Seattle, but if you keep this up, you certainly will be.

I had no idea what this was when it came. I knew it was from Green Monkey Records, of course, and I knew it had the highest recommendations of head monkey Tom Dyer and his henchman and my good friend Howie Wahlen, but you have to figure that a lot of that comes from being on the label. Then again, the fact that Dyer heard something in We Are All Famous he found worth releasing says one hell of a lot right there. Howie? I've learned I have to trust him or run the risk of missing music I do not want to miss. Still, this is not exactly what I expected.

From the cover alone, I knew the songs would be more on the fringe. No one puts together artwork worthy of a Monty Python or Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band and then slips classic rock or Broadway or even modern classical in the jacket. Look closely and without thinking, try to guess what kind of music is on this album. You can't, right? Then again, maybe you're closer than you might think. Theatrical? Odd? Is it a rock opera? Is it a soap opera? Hell, it could be circus music judging by the cover and, not surprisingly, it is, if only for a short interlude.

What it is is either a rock opera pieced together very carefully and in the minutest detail, or it is 19 experiments in music or perhaps musical theater woven together with the skill of one who suffers from OCD. I am leaning toward the former because the more I hear this, the more I hear genius. It is a wild but controlled genius, an ear for sequencing so many pieces of music in just the right order. Granted, without the music, the sequencing would be wasted. I do believe Jim wasted not a drop.

From the carnival intro of Overture through the folk/psych and sixties farfisa rock of Everybody Now to the Oingo-Boingo-ish deviltry of Laboratory Rat, this album begs a complete listen. Give it one and you get equal parts fringe rock with classical interludes and the occasional cross between glee club and Hi-Los which practically sounds like recordings from a monastery. The small compositions, for they are worthy of that designation, fade in and out seamlessly, the distance between one and the next timed to perfection.

I'm going to tell you right now that while you may find favorite tracks on We Are All Famous, listening to them individually takes away from their true impact. Jim obviously worked extremely hard to make this album flow from beginning to end in such a way that each track sets the next one up in the best way possible. This is only a portion of the “genius” to which I earlier alluded.

So I sit here listening for what must be the 20^th or 30^th time, coffee cup at hand because I need caffeine to make my own words flow enough to just keep up. If you were sitting here with me, you'd be gulping coffee too. This is amazing stuff.

I wish I didn't have to say “you have to hear this to believe it”. It stops most people dead in their tracks. But I have to. This is way beyond what I expected.

Normally, I try to steer clear of personal messages in reviews, but Jim, my apologies for taking so long with this. It has taken me this long to even begin to understand the whole of We Are All Famous. And if, as you predict, The Martians Are Going to Eat Us, I hope they hold off for some time. I need more time. At least a thousands listens worth.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

Greg Laswell--- Through Toledo

This is part of a series I will be reposting I call the Hall of Fame reviews.  These will consist of albums which are firmly entrenched in my DNA, being either unique or beautifully put together or more than likely both.  Greg Laswell's Through Toledo album qualifies in both areas.  This review originally written for and posted on the Folk and Acoustic Music Exchange website.

“If Greg Laswell wasn't a throwback to the '70s he might be just another singer/songwriter, but he has the heart and soul of the best the early '70s had to offer--- Paul Simon to Jackson Browne to Jim Dawson and Jim Post. At first, I thought it was the lyrics but I slowly came to realize it is deeply embedded in Laswell himself. This is good music only partially because of the music. It is good because what we get is not just musician and music, but musician stripped bare by tragic circumstance and rebuilt through monumental emotional struggle. Ah, the good ole days.

So, who is Greg Laswell? He's a San Diego musician who for the past few years has supported much of the music scene by backing those ignored by a music industry more worried about intellectual property than music. Much of what he did previously was released on his own Twenty Inch label ( I shall be doing extensive searches as soon as I'm done typing this) and things seemed to be trucking right along until he was blindsided by his wife, who left home one day and just never returned. Her choice, of course, but one Laswell did not see coming. It changed him.

For the next few months, he put together the songs available here. What kind of songs? Well, he fluctuates between light folk themes and wall of sound power pop so effortlessly you find yourself wondering who the hell is this guy and why have we not heard of him. He writes, he sings, he produces and does all, judging from this album, exceedingly well. His use of acoustic guitar and piano make his good songs exceptional and his exceptional songs amazing. He fits the music to his voice well and that voice, well, there is something beyond just hitting the notes here (which he does). There is a texture, if you will, and it adds that extra dimension to songs, sometimes making chords vibrate with astounding depth.

There are numerous high points, not the least of which is the title track. Through Toledo captures that cross between today's music and that of '70s yesterday, tripping lightly at a 6/8 clip, a slight jazz riff beneath a beautiful melody voiced so easily and carried majestically along with classy production. Since hearing this, I find myself yearning to drive up San Fransisco (sic) Bay on a regular basis. If you want rock, I'm Hit gives you plenty, a wall of pop fuzz guitar supplying the base for assembly line rhythms and a perfect vocal chorus. Laswell reaches way down and lays out soft acoustic piano in High and Low, a plaintive cry for the love he lost, and he takes it that one step further by ending in a sort of symphonic coda, a heart-rending and beautiful musical picture of what once was but is no more.

You really have to hear this to understand. He floats, he rocks, he struggles and he makes it all work. He even crunches, albeit in a melodic power-pop Oasis kind of way, and it's all good. To my ears, it is beyond good. And I'm stuck. I have other CDs to review and an article to write and I can't get Greg Laswell's music out of my head. Actually, now that I think about it, that is good. At this moment, I'd rather hear Laswell than all of the pretenders out there. He has the goods. Buy this CD."

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

Cydney Robinson--- Spokesman for the Shoeless

And under the category of "What the...?", we have Cydney Robinson whose Spokesman for the Shoeless album should have been titled "O Cydney, Where Art Thou?" because, like a certain movie with a similar title, it drags old-time country music kicking and screaming into the 21st Century and beyond. With pipes that could heat an old tenement in the wintry slums of New York City, Robinson sucks you into her semi-demented world with a succession of songs from the edge before whipping you into submission with two wild old-timey rockers (if such a combination can exist, it is here) which leave you reeling and if you're not sold by then…

The first three tracks could easily have been placed on the O Brother, Where Art Thou soundtrack. Jebadiah fades from one-dimension to full-bodied sound, telling the story of a girl handed to a zealot by her mother "for teaching" and ending you know where. Aided by Robinson's wavering and sometimes cracking voice, the story unfolds as a horrible fact of life, but damn, it's good music. Not too far from the scene in that movie wherein the guys run into the three maidens washing, Hold Me Now has a rhythmic but ethereal feel. Simple sticks beat the cadence of a death march to the gallows while the victim pleads forgiveness from a Higher Power. Haunting in structure, it is made whole by the odd vocal harmonies beneath Robinson's clear, beseeching voice. Old-timey drives Amos Henry toward destruction, a story of greed ending in suicide. Depressing, but classic.

Then, like Dolly Parton on steroids, Georgia takes you from the depths with some kickass rock of odd dimensions. The overamped guitar and banjo of Sleven Rucci-Airo propels band and Robinson to greater heights until it goes over the edge and ends in a stumble. Set up by the aforementioned three, it is a musical sledgehammer to the forehead. Of course, they don't stop there. Butterflies & Diamonds takes it a step further, the rocking beat taking everyone headlong toward oblivion, Robinson squeezing notes and phrases from God knows where. On both tracks, it sounds as if Tony Hoffer, who produced, put the band in a basement and said let 'er rip because that is exactly what they do. Incredible stuff.

If you're not convinced about the power of Robinson's voice and delivery by now, Texas convinces you. Simple guitar is all you need when you have lungs like that and all I can say is after hearing this little ode, Texas is okay with me. If Robinson wanted to go country, My Wedding would do it, but she is just not a cookie cutter musician. No squeaky clean view here. Black dress, a Vegas wedding and consummation on a mattress in the middle of a floor. Nashville might cringe, but let them. She even ends the song with a bit of a Melanie Safka la-da for good measure.

The slightly demented Pelican Bay is as close to folk as Robinson gets, a beautiful song pushed by odd chords and bleak subject matter. The strange siren chorus toward the end will have you scratching your head. Then on to—pop? Son of a gun. Caroline has the makings of an Americana hit if Americana has such a thing. It's all here—hook, melody and an all-too-short sha-la chorus toward the beginning which lives only that one time. Follow Me Down, with its out of tune piano peculiar to those in Hollywood's depictions of the saloons of the Old West, caps off the album perfectly. Simple ballad with psychotic undertones, it gives Robinson one more chance to prove her voice.

Truth be told, with Spokesman, Cydney Robinson has given us a chance to redeem ourselves as listeners. Blessed with more than just a voice, she pushes the envelope at every turn and has come up with some of the more unique and creative music available. Add the excellent musicianship (especially of Rucci-Airo) and odd but ideal production of Tony Hoffer and you have a must-have. True, this may not catch everyone's ear, but the possibility alone makes this worth the search because if it does, it will be gold in your vaults.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)