Tori Amos: Strange Little Girls
2002

My love affair with fruit loop Tori Amos lasted five years as I rolled in the cotton candy rapture of her first two albums. The honeymoon was over with Boys For Pele. At the risk of having my neck snapped by Toriphiles worldwide, I found the harpsichord irritating and the piglet-suckling photo repellent. Like, what in hellsake was she trying to say this time? I dropped the idiosyncratic queen and her in-orbit lyrics like a hot rock. It just got old.

Her majesty is back on the throne trying to make some blasted point with Strange Little Girls, a theme album of 12 cover songs originally performed by an odd assortment of male artists. Tori�s M.O. is to transform herself into formerly male characters, revealing a woman�s perspective on love, violence and gender identity. Regardless of Tori�s never-ending feminist manifestos, this album furnishes emotional appeals and interesting musical interpretations that burst with fruit flavor.

Here's Eminem�s �Bonnie & Clyde,� in which a man makes his young daughter an accomplice to her mother�s murder. Tori�s macabre whispered delivery, backed by a sinister digital string loop, sounds straight off Nick Cave�s Murder Ballads. Another demonic cut is Slayer�s frenetic �Raining Blood,� now stripped and funereal. Neil Young�s �Heart of Gold� is barely recognizable due to a beefed up melody and whining guitar; The Beatles' "Happiness Is A Warm Gun" is similarly unidentifiable, a ten minute epic with sampled political rants by Tori�s father and George Bush Jr. and Sr. Her minimalist approach and icy vocals on 10cc�s �I�m Not In Love� draw attention to disturbing subject matter more than the innocuous pop original. The Boomtown Rats' "I Don't Like Mondays,� Depeche Mode�s �Enjoy the Silence,� and Tom Wait�s �Time� are rendered unmistakably Tori with the sentient piano that branded her early work.

Keep in mind that this is Tori Amos, and it�s going to be dramatic and weird. So she�s not performing original work, big deal. It�s another of her creative brain farts, and a strangely redeeming one at that. Recall the first time you heard her bold interpretation of �Smells Like Teen Spirit�; this is more of the same.

The CD was released with four different covers, the booklet featuring an entourage of costumed characters. I�m reminded of the various Elvis editions that TV Guide periodically thrusts upon the public to increase sales. Whether or not this album flies with the masses, this lovable kook will still sell legions of copies to diehards who must possess each fragment of her multiple personality.

Chronogram, Dec, 2001

Blueberry: Have Another Pillow
Spirit Music Publishing, 2002

I just got this CD by Blueberry called Have Another Pillow. Ooh! Such an adorable package. The artwork is all swirly and drippy. Neat-o! Vocalist/songwriter Gwen Snyder is cute as a button. And what�s this rattling sound? Colorful nuggets from a candy necklace are in the spine of the jewel case. TCFW! (Too cute for words!) Okay, so the marketing�s precious. Wonder what it sounds like.

I detest it at once. It�s Lisa Loeb fronting Sergio Mendes and Brasil �66. Tori meets Shaft. Burt Bacharach and Elizabeth Frazier entrapped inside a disco ball, copulating. Are these people smoking crack? Here�s what I�m thinking: if I�m on Weight Watchers� Winning Points Plan, how many points does this cheese get? Blood races to horror-stricken nerves. My eyes are saucers. I�m clawing flesh from my skull. Can I have another pillow, so I can smother myself?

But wait, it gets better. I can�t deny Snyder�s talent. Her voice is alluring, and she plays her electric Velveeta Fender Rhodes effortlessly. She�s been featured on WB�s Roswell, NBC�s Providence and in a few recent films. She�s worked with Academy Award-winning composer Ryuichi Sakamoto, jazz great Don Byron and plays bass for rockers Johnny Society. Her eight mystery Blueberry musicians are skilled players, as well. But to immediately process the unconventional pairing of this sweetheart to a lounge music ensemble with full horn section, I�d have to be on some mind-altering substance. I suppose the genre is Soul Noveau. Whatever it�s called, I�m still on my first listen, and I want to run screaming into the night and hit my head with a big rock.

After enjoying various roles in the music industry for 12 years, I thought I�d heard every genre under God. But upon listening to this New York City-based band, I clearly understand that there�ll always be something out there to dumbfound me. This isn�t a middle-of-the-road CD, and my initial reaction to it is severe. I know that even if I give it a frightening review, consumers will still buy it because they�re weird little monkeys who are curious about idiosyncratic stuff (such as Fabio�s brilliant abomination album, which is like being stabbed in the eyeball with a hot syringe... or good sex, I�m not sure which).

So, I listen to Blueberry�s album a second time. I have to, I�m reviewing. Suddenly, I�m sorta grooving on it. After a third listen I�m embarrassed, because I�m finally digging this kooky twaddlewhack. (It�s a tender moment.) Maybe there are subliminal messages deeply imbedded in the cheese to make me happy, I don�t know. Anyway, I love this CD. I hate it. Murder me.

From Chronogram, 2002

Love Scene Clear: Wave of Grace
Open Channels Music, 2002

Upstairs at Joshua�s, I�m in the corner watching Love Scene Clear. But I�m not only watching them. There�s the long-haired twirling fairy girl. And the woman with the painted face and funky moves. A guy just stands there with closed eyes and prayer hands. And the hugest crystals _ever_ are on an altar, glowing _whoo whoo_ like kryptonite. After having just attended an emotionally heavy rock concert in another part of town, this is a switch. I turn to my friend.

�Do you like this?�

She grins. �It�s the happy hippies!�

Yes, these are some very happy hippies. But there�s a musical need for that. I first heard Wave of Grace last summer and immediately wanted to twirl like that fairy girl. It�s very unpretentious. These guys love life, the world, everybody, everything. Kiss! It�s that simple. They say they�ve just returned from a tour of the Andromeda Galaxy-- that�s Christian Lewandowski on flute/vocals, brother Joshua on 12-string/vocals, and Jeffrey Giering on percussion. What more is required? In a world where Bush holds the lasso, these guys roll out the magic carpet.

See what I mean on tracks like high-spirited �Lake Within Our Soul,� as they sing, �Constellation, as stars we are one that spans wide, far into eternity, la da da da.� Christian presents simple truths in �Love�s Creation�: �I love my brothers and sisters and what they mean to me, and I�m understanding what it means to be judgment free, and I�m singing for all of us to be open to a new frequency... show me your heart!� On the incredibly light �Rotating Sunstone,� featured in an independent documentary by Jennifer Perez, Christian screams, �We can sing this song together as we rotate around the giant sunstone!� Whee! Let�s fly off this big ball of dirt.

This trancey local trio has graced art spots, holistic centers, and the International World Peace Sanctuary. They recorded a track at Levon Helm�s studio for Mamaste, a CD for vibrational healing, music therapy and pregnancy preparation. What�s next? A cosmic winter tour of the Northeast and Midwest.

To trip on Wave of Grace, visit LoveSceneClear.com.

Chronogram, January 2002

Scott Smallwood: Desert Winds: Six Windblown Sound Pieces and Other Works
Deep Listening, 2002

When you�re in the fog of an unsatisfied sex haze, you might like to listen to the sound of a squeaky recliner or a rattling crap heap because it doesn�t challenge you to process a single aural neuron. Because no one can truly listen to anything while in a mind-numbing stupor.

Thanks, Scott Smallwood, you brilliant devil. Behold: Desert Winds... or meditations on litter. This guy took a jig out to the Salt Lake desert like Brigham Young-- except his only companions were a microphone and some wind-- and he found himself a bunch of junk and some kick-ass noises. At Wendover Air Field, Smallwood recorded bed springs and other scraps. Presto! Track One (aka �Debris�). Metal scrap against a chain-link fence plus flapping plastic equals Track Two. �Rusted Womb of a Bomber� is-- you guessed it-- the womb of a bomber inside the Enola Gay Hangar, complete with apparitions from Dubya Dubya Two. Clearly, Utah produces more than Mormons.

�Wind Tunnels� is especially spooky; it�s howling inside the four large concrete tubes of Nancy Holt�s �Sun Tunnels,� a sculpture built in 1976 near a small ghost town. Ooh. One of my favorites, �Chest & Chair,� comes with nice visuals-- right there in the CD booklet are pictures of the abandoned chest and chair. As a matter of fact, you can see pictures of other sonorous garbage there, too. Hilarious. As a bonus, several tracks present variations on a men�s bathroom door in Berlin. Deep Listening? I�m halfway to the core of the earth. This CD is cool, but I�m weird, so there you go.

One may adore this quirkiness in the same way one adores the Eraserhead soundtrack (minus the annoying dialogue and creepy baby). Hence, it�s safe for Halloween and other freakish events. Or as companion music to your occasional torpor or unjustified war.

Chronogram, May 2003