Bale Flich

Warner

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Y’know, I never really catch myself saying, “I wish there were a lot more banjo players around,” but I might be inclined to do so if more of them sounded like Béla Fleck. In the past I’ve held the same stereotypical view of the banjo that I’m sure most people do — the whole Bluegrass-pluckin’-hayseed-banjo-on-my-knee thing. Fleck does much to lay this stereotype to rest on Tales from the Acoustic Planet.

Granted, this is a laid-back and at times even country-tinged album, but there’s a whole lot more to be found here than the usual clichés. Fleck wanders through some interesting territory with the instrumental help of an assortment of friends — the more well-known include Chick Corea, Branford Marsalis, and Bruce Hornsby. The result is a strange but satisfying stew — a dash of blues, a sprinkle of bluegrass, a smidgen of jazz, and some mystery ingredient I can’t quite put my finger on.

Fleck makes consistently excellent instrumentation choices throughout, as evidenced in the achingly beautiful melody of ‘First Light,’ played on oboe by Windham Hill Jazz artist Paul McCandless. In fact, melody may be the mystery ingredient I’m searching for. Fleck consistently sculpts exquisite lines, whatever style he’s writing in, and the combination of these melodies with careful arrangements makes for evocative music. The bittersweet mood of the aptly titled ‘Circus of Regrets’ is balanced by lighter tunes such as the playful ‘Arkansas Traveler’ (a traditional folk tune with a jazz twist).

This is Fleck’s greatest strength: the ability to conjure up a variety of vivid moods and images in his songwriting and arranging. And, really, that’s what prevents an instrumental album from becoming just another riff-fest. Tales... stays well clear of that pitfall, thanks to Fleck’s strong writing ability, fine arrangements, and fluid performances by all the players involved.

by Kevin Sallows

People love labels. Labels give us a sense of order in a world that defies ordering. Labels allow us to categorize, to place parameters on what would otherwise be a confusing reality. Labels can give us power and a sense of safety but they can also limit and confine, creating walls between us and between things.

Practically Wired is an album that defies easy categorization. I can’t quite decide whether this is because it knocks down a few of the walls or because it builds its own. Basically, Wired is an experimental album of instrumentals by guitarist Bill Nelson. But it isn’t an instrumental album in the vein of a Jeff Beck or a Steve Vai album, where the guitar is in the spotlight and the player/composer attempts to put it through breath-taking contortions and acrobatics. Practically Wired is more about composition, the songs are the important thing here.

Imagine the sort of music you'd find on your radio if you were driving around in a primary-coloured, computer-animation unreality. Yet as slick and polished as this music sounds, there is a

human quality to it. This is a plastic album with a soul.

The cover art reflects the music well — clashing primary colours and a curious assortment of 50s sci-fi graphics. Nelson includes a couple of quotes in the liner notes that may give you a better idea of where he’s coming from than any description I can come up with:

Scuze me while I kiss the sky

-Jimi Hendrix

The only way I have thought of improving popular music so that I, for instance could enjoy it, would be to have lots of it, different kinds of it, in the same room.

-JohnCage

by Kevin Sallows

Ford Pier

VY ’ un” Wrong

Ford is a strange little man, with strange little songs, and no one else with power in his band to tell him when stuffs sucks. Which means half of “Meconium” is superb, and the other half is in desperate need of more work. Ford is also a member of Showbusiness Giants. You can see where the two merge. There are a few songs on “Meconium” that shine, and just for them I would buy this. Buy it, and make your famiy listen to it incessantly. They too would learn to love ‘Pinch,’ ‘Family’ and ‘Bad Architecture.’

by Joyce Robinson

January 23, 1996

Ego-tripping, masturbatory drum solos. Leaves me with the taste of blood in my mouth, if not just from biting my lip to keep from crying out in ecstasy.

Any metal-phile recognizes the aggressive nature of amagnum opus like this. A fling of a side project that leaves you gasping for more, like a skilled lover with a penchant for premature ejaculation.

It is my understanding that there will be no more Nailbomb, this was merely a brief sojourn for these artists, a pleasant diversion to kill time remaining unaccounted for.

The songs come in flurries between that potentially irritating background that hums in the background of any live performance. But here the applause intensifies the visceral connection between listener and musicians.

They cover a Dead Kennedys and a Doom song. Almost unnoticeably.

The last two tracks were recorded in studio, and give a glimpse of what they could do with a full jacket of studio time.

Short on vocals, and what is communicated is rather like a slightly more coherent Napalm Death. Or Sepultura. . .

by Kathy Moore

SLowl . GM. z; Let's Have « Talk with the Dead Virgin EM

The second time you listen to this recording you’ ll be singing along with half the songs. Darn it, they’re just so catchy, and quirky, and all the things people said about the Barenaked Ladies, only Showbusiness Giants are a slightly more subtle, and definitely less of a household name. Band member hail from such illustrious Lower Mainland (and Island) institutions as D.O.A. and No Means No. With resumes like that you may be expecting an edgier sound. Well, Let’s Have Talk... is edgy, but not with traditional punk sensibilities. Heck, it’s not even punk. There is more satire, parody, intelligence and musical styles.

by Joyce Robinson

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