Jakob Dylan [2010] Women & Country

[01] Nothing But The Whole Wide World
[02] Down On Our Own Shield
[03] Lend A Hand
[04] We Don't Live Here Anymore
[05] Everybody's Hurting
[06] Yonder Come The Blues
[07] Holy Rollers For Love
[08] Truth For A Truth
[09] They've Trapped Us Boys
[10] Smile When You Call Me That
[11] Standing Eight Count



amg: Continuing in the subdued, stripped-down direction he began with his 2008 solo debut Seeing Things, Jakob Dylan nevertheless achieves a cinematic resonance on his second record, 2010’s Woman + Country. Surely, part of this is down to Dylan swapping Rick Rubin, who has made starkness almost a fetish, for the analog impressionism of T-Bone Burnett, who previously worked with the singer/songwriter on the Wallflowers 1996 breakthrough album Bringing Down the Horse. Woman + Country has little to do with the sturdy, sinewy, straight-ahead rock of Bringing Down the Horse: it’s dreamy and airy, slipping in and out of focus, rootsy without being earthy. Horns swoon and stumble in the background, a string bass thumps time, Marc Ribot gently punctures the murk with his gnarled guitar, while Neko Case and Kelly Hogan add warmth with their harmonies, all creating a hazy glaze that augments with Dylan’s dry, unfussy songs. These seemingly conflicting extremes don’t result in a dissonant disconnect, but rather a subtle richness: the spareness of the songs lend themselves to these layered arrangements which in turn draw attention to Dylan’s tight, clean writing. Naturally, this means that Woman + Country is somewhat of a grower — it’s so purposefully hazy it seems to pleasingly fade into the slipstream upon the first play, but those repeated spins reveal the deep craft at the heart of Woman + Country, deep craft from both the songwriter, his producer, and musicians.
(amg 8/10)

Jakob Dylan [2008] Seeing Things

[01] Evil Is Alive And Well
[02] Valley Of The Low Sun
[03] All Day And All Night
[04] Everybody Pays As They Go
[05] Will It Grow
[06] I Told You I Couldn't Stop
[07] War Is Kind
[08] Something Good This Way Comes
[09] On Up The Mountain
[10] This End Of The Telescope



amg: When the songwriter from a songwriter-driven band steps out on his own the question always hangs in the air: did he need to forsake his band in order to cut this set of songs? In the case of Seeing Things, the first album Jakob Dylan has released outside of the confines of the Wallflowers, he most certainly did. Quiet, reflective, based almost entirely on acoustic guitars, Seeing Things is intimate in a way the road-ready Wallflowers never were, although the tunes are as sturdy and plainspoken as Dylan's songs for the band. Indeed, there's always been a modesty at the core of his writing, so he benefits greatly from this humble setting, masterminded -- as so many big-budget down to basics departures are in the 2000s -- by Rick Rubin, known for his stripped-down reinventions of Johnny Cash and Neil Diamond. Seeing Things isn't nearly as spare as American Recordings or 12 Songs; anchored on acoustics though he may be, Dylan isn't on his own, as bass, harmony vocals, and keyboards are gently woven into the fabric. This gives the music warmth, but the simplicity of the setting helps focus on Dylan's unassuming, well-crafted songs, songs where melodies are gently insinuating and words are so carefully sculpted it's easy to overlook how nicely he turns a phrase. Like many of his peers, Dylan is casting a wary eye on a war-ridden new millennium, but these aren't protest songs, they work on an emotional level and are appropriately balanced with lighter moments, like the lazy shuffle of "All Day and All Night." All through his career, Jakob Dylan has never pushed too hard; he simply lays it out there, so he's uncommonly suited to Rubin's unadorned production. In Rubin's hands, Seeing Things plays like a songwriter playing his newest songs in your living room -- a seductive feeling that no Wallflowers record ever captured, which is an excellent reason for Dylan to step out on his own.
(amg 8/10)

Jarvis Cocker [2006] The Jarvis Cocker Record

[01] The Loss Adjuster (Excerpt 1)
[02] Don't Let Him Waste Your Time
[03] Black Magic
[04] Heavy Weather
[05] I Will Kill Again
[06] Baby's Coming To Me
[07] Fat Children
[08] From Auschwitz To Ipswich
[09] Disney Time
[10] Tonite
[11] Big Julie
[12] The Loss Adjuster (Excerpt 2)
[13] Quantum Theory



amg: Always a sharp student of pop, Jarvis Cocker's solo debut — simply, cleanly titled Jarvis on the cover, not so simply called The Jarvis Cocker Album in the liner notes — unmistakably hearkens back to '70s solo debuts from singers who have just stepped away from their bands, whether it's in the terrific washed-out artwork or in its moody contemplative feel. Given the hushed atmosphere of much of the record, it'd be easy to call this introspective, but the curious thing about Jarvis is that it never feels as personal as any of Pulp's '90s albums. Whether it was the impassioned, sex-obsessed His 'n' Hers, the bracing, biting social commentary of Different Class or the weary trawl through the heart of darkness on This Is Hardcore, Cocker's writing was as twitchy and revealing as an exposed nerve: he may have trussed up his thoughts in metaphors and filtered his feelings through narratives, but it's impossible to hear "Babies," "Common People" or "The Fear" without imagining Cocker himself as the protagonist, the central figure in each song. Here, that's not so much the case. Cocker may well tackle topics close to his heart as a life-long misshape now facing his forties with a new wife and baby, but there's little sense of confession on Jarvis: instead, the music is unmistakably the work of a craftsman. That word can seem pejorative to some, since it implies that emotion has been sacrificed for mechanized musicianship, but that's hardly true in regard to this album. This is exquisite craft, the kind that a pop singer/songwriter who has been working at this for a quarter-of-a-century should have: Cocker knows how to structure a song, he knows how to write a lyric with momentum and wit, he knows how to construct a pop record as thrilling as "Black Magic," built around an inspired "Crimson and Clover" sample. That's one of only a couple of moments that are straight-up pop, the other notable ones being the wonderful opener "Don't Let Him Waste Your Time," which glides back and forth on an irresistible elastic hook, and the mean, pummeling "Fat Children," quite possibly the hardest Cocker has ever rocked. These songs — along with the cheerfully vulgar and inspired protest song "Running the World," buried at the end of the album — stand out among the meditative numbers here, songs that recall the measured craft of We Love Life but lack both the epic scale and pervading sense of hope that characterized that album. While hope may not be entirely absent here, Cocker stares dead-on into much of the dread that's permeated the new millennium. The specter of terrorism hangs over the remarkable "From Auschwitz to Ipswich," and "Running the World" directly attacks presidents and prime ministers, but Cocker also strikes out against corporatization, against apathy, against "fat children," he captures the creeping sense that Western society is slowly, surely turning morally bankrupt — and he does it with a weariness that stops short of resignation: he's doing this because he has to, because that's what adult artists do. And this is adult pop, no question about it — even "Don't Let Him Waste Your Time" feels built on the idea that the clock is running short for the woman at its center — but it is an adult pop that escapes conformity without succumbing to the high-class fashions and stylish obscurism of indie yuppies; it doesn't feel like hipster posturing, it's as much a reflection of Cocker's lyrical and musical obsessions as any of his Pulp albums, only it's made specifically for solitude, not the dance clubs. Nevertheless, like the rest of Cocker's work, Jarvis hits the gut first and then lingers in the mind — and even if it isn't as immediate as the prime work of Pulp, it's a richly nuanced, complicated album that finds Cocker near the top of his craft as a writer and record maker.
(amg 8/10)

James Dean Bradfield [2006] The Great Western

[01] There's No Way To Tell A Lie
[02] An English Gentleman
[03] Bad Boys And Painkillers
[04] On Saturday Morning We Will Rule The World
[05] Run Romeo Run
[06] Still A Long Way To Go
[07] Emigre
[08] To See A Friend In Tears
[09] Say Hello To The Pope
[10] The Wrong Beginning
[11] Which Way To Kyffin



amg: As the voice and face of Manic Street Preachers, James Dean Bradfield is a deceptively placid presence, presenting Nicky Wire's platitudes with a humble, plainspoken delivery — something that helped sell the more strident politics and also helped bring the band firmly within the coffeehouse territory, crossing over with Everything Must Go. He may front the band but he doesn't write the words, an odd situation for a group so charged and personal as this, but that does mean Bradfield is the ideal choice for a solo album, since it would promise to reveal a side of him thus far unheard on record. His 2006 solo debut, The Great Western, does indeed fill that bill, presenting a sensitive, vulnerable Bradfield, something that hasn't been captured on Manics albums even when they strayed toward colorless mature-pop. Sonically, this album isn't far removed from This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours — it's anthemic yet soft, dramatic yet hushed — but unlike on the Manics albums since, it doesn't sound labored. The Great Western sounds rather effortless both in its music and lyrics, as Bradfield unhurriedly tells intimate stories that are quite affecting partially because they are so modest. This small sense of scale is frankly a relief after the mock grandeur of Know Your Enemy and Lifeblood, and there's a genuine warmth to this record that makes it Bradfield's most endearing, enduring music since This Is My Truth, which bodes well for the next Manics LP.
(amg 8/10)