Kandia Crazy Horse

Sharps & flats

The Bottle Rockets trade trad country for classic rock, leaving them with one tire in a ditch, the other on the right track.

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While alt-country visionaries like Jayhawk Gary Louris and Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy hastily walk a gangplank toward the vast Sargasso Sea of classic rock, their lesser imitators are already lining up for the chance to take a stroll. Indeed, “Brand New Year” — the latest from second-wave No Depression prophets the Bottle Rockets — is, despite flourishes of Americana, yet another straight-ahead rock record.

I don’t want to deny the primal powers of the Bottle Rockets, the four-piece pride of Festus, Mo. In these post-No Depression gold rush days, the band’s strategy is to embrace rock templates scorned since the advent of grunge and the triumph of alternative. And the strategy pays off, to some extent. The “Brand New Year” title track sounds like Ozzy meets “Green”-era R.E.M. crossed with some old Irish lament — all that’s missing is the tin whistle. “Dead Dog Memories” obliquely echoes post-”White Album” Beatles and evokes prime Wilco (“Being There”) rockers. “The Bar’s on Fire” and “White Boy Blues” — the latter skewering suburban white bluesmen — could be the Band funked up and re-recorded by Lynyrd Skynyrd in a shitty juke joint, and they’ve got the
Ronnie Van Zant growl down. But what’s with the song titles? “Love Like a Truck” sounds like a Bob Seger number to these ears, but the song itself is really a punkabilly rave-up.

Amid the loud guitar groove and Creedence-style songwriting on the rest of the record, the Bottle Rockets also manage to show off a persistent sense of humor, by turns tongue in cheek or goofball. Bordering on benign Billy Bob Thornton-style Jethro buffoonery, “Brand New Year” is almost stoner screwball comedy, like Cheech and Chong flicks or “Alice’s Restaurant” without the tragedy or grand generational statement. “Nancy Sinatra,” co-written by Georgia Satellite Dan Baird and Rockets man Brian Henneman, is both a tribute to the ’60s starlet and a pithy ode to a halcyon late-’60s childhood revisited through the prism of Plasticine pop iconography. And “Headed for the Ditch,” sort of a hip-hop parody based on “Werewolves of London” guitar riffage, shouts out to Bruce Willis, Sammy Hagar, Sinatra, “The Hag” (Merle Haggard) and other icons.

The short and sweet songs of “Brand New Year” (all in the vicinity of three and four minutes) are invested with the sort of pop pageantry that passes for ’90s pomp and grandeur. With the raging popularity of pimple pop and hip-hop, it’s surprising that the Bottle Rockets would exchange one nearly dead music form
(trad country) for another (rock) just because they can. But as twang titans Wilco veer even further away from their roots and sound worse and worse, Henneman and friends are actually succeeding at the cross-genre transition. On “Brand New Year,” the spirit of boogie lives on, and it ain’t such a bad thing.

Sharps & flats

I'm the lamest craze: Macy Gray is nothing but a new soul pretender.

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Rock-and-soul diva Macy Gray is getting gold-rush treatment from her record company. Before “On How Life Is” was even in stores, she’d already appeared on “Late Night With David Letterman,” had a trendy video out and been featured in the New Yorker. And last week, she played live for the celebrity cast of invitees at Tina Brown’s Talk magazine party at the Statue of Liberty. Too bad she’s just another new soul pretender.

Gray is supposedly kin to other allegedly maverick black artists like Erykah Badu and Eagle Eye Cherry, but ultimately she, like the others, is really just a nappy haircut with a savvy stylist and an old-school vinyl collection that would make Jamiroquai’s Jason Kay salivate.

Gray’s debut is really about the continued struggle of (largely) post-desegregation black musicians following a double-conscious muse in pursuit of critical and commercial regard. The pop scene is currently experiencing a flood of artists pursuing similar themes, some compelling (Cree Summer, Chocolate Genius), others less so (Cherry, Badu). But even with Living Colour’s arena-rock precedent, the notion of blacks pursuing rock ‘n’ roll careers or delving into white genres in the ’90s remains more or less verboten. That puts Macy Gray and her fellow alt-soul pioneers in a commercial world where even problematic entities like Lenny Kravitz look like grand old daddies.

As with many contemporary (alternative) cultural mulatto artists, in this release Gray has the tendency to skimp on the rock-and-soul structures in favor of computerized pap that nods mostly to electronica. The guitars of Red Hot Chili Pepper alum Arik Marshall and P-Funkster Blackbird McKnight — featured on half the record — are barely discernable. So far, Gray is smug about the unclassifiable nature of her music, but if it ain’t hambone, what is it?

“On How Life Is” kicks off with a spirited, funky tribute to post-”Stand!”-era Sly Stone. The sound conveys the appropriate soupgon of murky funk: muddy bass, percussive guitar, elastic drums and stacked gospel-inflected harmonies; the only thing missing is the horns. But in many ways, the disc devolves from that point. “Do Something,” Gray’s first single, is ultimately lifeless, full of rote trip-hop flourishes, a canned stew of samples, drum programs and noodly synth washes. And wow track “I’ve Committed Murder” is a bit too infatuated with itself: Ageist/sexist slurs (“The owner is this mean ole bitch”), dark cha-cha-cha stylings and overused spooky chamberlain effects undermine the showily provocative title and lyrics. Of the 10 songs, “The Letter” is the most compelling of the bunch, illuminating a hip-hop hillbilly path for Gray to pursue in future and proposing a radical shift that could liberate other artists of the African-Atlantic avant-garde.

The problem is that Gray’s songs don’t all add up to the whole new thang that she thinks she’s delivering. “I Try” is a lost track from Bowie’s “Hunky Dory” and “I Can’t Wait to Meetchu” evokes vintage Brand New Heavies. For those waiting to exhale on the new soul/black rock pilgrimage, the air around Macy Gray and her overrated, overhyped platter is woefully thin.

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