Henry Rollins A Rollins in the Wry (Quarterstick)

If there's any remaining doubt that Henry Rollins missed his true calling as a stand-up comic, this hilarious compilation of "spoken word" performances (recorded over a four-week period in 1999 at L.A.'s LunaPark) should dispel it completely. Though A Rollins in the Wry might not pack the same aggressive punch of his musical endeavors, the solo format allows him to train his scope on a much wider array of topics -- this time around, he covers everything from receiving English-as-a-second-language fan mail to listening to his gay neighbors get it on. Poets, Bill Clinton, Rite Aid and techno-loving teens all get shish-kebabed on the blade of Rollins' incisive wit, though none so severely as the man himself. Though the album's cover illustration depicts Rollins as the proud owner of a "Ph.D. in Bullshit," you'll truthfully find far more B.S. in a five-minute George W. Bush oration. To paraphrase the old Nixon campaign slogan, we need Rollins now more than ever. (DAN EPSTEIN)

Finley Quaye Vanguard (Epic)

Finley Quaye's 1997 debut, Maverick a Strike, was such an ebullient blast of sunshine, such a signature reinvention of reggae, that it was well worth wondering if the young Scotsman (who either is or isn't Tricky's uncle, depending upon whom you ask) was the next Bob Marley. Nearly four years in coming, Quaye's follow-up album, Vanguard, has enough distinctively soulful moments to leave the door open on that question, but also enough lightweight material (it took him four years to rhyme "Susie" with "Jacuzzi"?) to leave you wondering if Quaye isn't as much a novelty as a visionary. Some tracks this time rock a little harder or deftly venture further into electronica, and nearly everything is buoyant and playfully constructed. But the album is half over before the yearning futuristic ska of "Feeling Blue" wrenches you into the better world Quaye constructed on Maverick a Strike. That, the reflective troubled-mind exploration "When I Burn Off Into the Distance" and the ominously roiling "Calendar" are potent enough to keep us wondering about Quaye for another four years. (JIM WASHBURN)

Tortoise Standards (Thrill Jockey)

The title suggests both a measure of excellence and songs that have entered the performance canon. The five hipsters in Tortoise probably would reject those definitions -- and, to be honest, Standards doesn't attain either one. Still, these ten instrumentals flirt with structure more intently -- if no less elliptically -- than Tortoise have in the past. "Blackjack" even sounds like the lost theme from an imaginary spaghetti western. What finally rescues this album from the graveyard of cerebral noodling is rhythm. If the keyboard, guitar and marimba lines typically dissolve before cohering into melody, the bass and drums beneath them -- and, at times, above them -- are always moving and shifting. Even at their most ethereal, as on the synthetic meditation that opens "Benway," Tortoise don't become fully unmoored. That sense of grounding -- which never solidifies into rhythmic cliches -- allows Tortoise to explore abstraction without seeming bloodless. To be smart and original, playful and provocative -- those are the standards Tortoise really aspire to, and that they achieve here as ingeniously as ever. (ANTHONY DECURTIS -- RS 863)

Boy George Essential Mix (London/Sire)

DJ mix CDs are an interesting phenomenon -- you're not really buying someone's talents, you're buying their taste. In the case of erstwhile Culture Club frontman Boy George, you get your money's worth. Culture Club grew out of Britain's early Eighties dance scene and when that outfit ran its course, George returned to the clubs in the Nineties, reacquainting himself with the DJ booth. Essential Mix is an invigorating tour through George's crates, beginning with ragga- and reggae-flavored obscurities like the Boogie Macs' "Girl From Ipanema" and Richie Dan's "Call It Fate," then flowing smoothly through neo-soul cut-ups like Shauna Solomon's "Watcha Gonna Do" and into more conventional acid house and drum-n-bass sound collages. George throws a bit of himself into most of these tracks, reworking some of the beats and grooves, adding a few instrumental licks, even the odd vocal, but mostly he just programs a dynamic set that proves he's no dance music dilettante. (DAVID PEISNER)

Mark Kozelek What's Next to the Moon (Badman Recording Co.)

Mark Kozelek's recent AC/DC fixation spills over onto yet another mini-album of unusual covers. This time, the Red House Painters singer-songwriter has selected ten vintage Bon Scott-era tunes to reinterpret in his distinctive drowsy folk style. Stripping away the nails-on-chalkboard caterwauls, ear ravaging guitars and caveman histrionics, Kozelek gets down to the very essence of the words and melody, rendering most of the songs unfamiliar but wholly captivating. The opening "Up to My Neck in You" recalls his own band's sad laments, while cheekier tune like "Love at First Feel" and "Walk All Over You" are elevated by the gorgeous, tear-stained readings. He is a brave man. (AIDIN VAZIRI)

ohGr Welt (Spitfire)

In the six years since the demise of his doomy industrial outfit Skinny Puppy, Nivek Ogre has kept himself busy collaborating with such kindred spirits as Pigface and KMFDM. His latest project (a joint venture with programmer/producer Mark Walk) resurrects material originally slated for release in 1995, then mothballed in the wake of American Recordings' collapse. Tinges of SP's dark ambiance seep in around the edges of these tracks -- the more anxious interludes ("Minus," "Kettle") serve as reminders of SP's role in Trent Reznor's formative years -- but for the most part they play like an affectionately melancholy homage to the electronic music moguls of the early Eighties. "Cracker" is suave and lively, a gritty recombobulation of Duran Duran's best dance etudes; "Solow" resonates with the ghosts of synth pop practitioners like Yaz and Depeche Mode. Welt isn't exactly warm and fuzzy, but this angst-reduced incarnation of Ogre is decidedly easier to embrace. (SANDY MASUO)

Love Forever Changes (Rhino)

Folks from the East Coast can't understand how we in the West never worshipped at the altar of the Velvet Underground. The reason is that the West Coast had bands that could be every bit as dark and mysterious, but with the added advantage of being able to sing and play music. Perhaps the best of these amid the mid-Sixties Sunset Strip scene was Love, whose disquieting clash of sunshine and noir defined the L.A. mood the Doors later mined. Leader Arthur Lee is one of rock's great troubled men. When he rode his demons, Lee made '67's Forever Changes, one of the most distinctive masterpieces in that era of masterpieces. When his demons have since ridden him, he's plunged at times into incoherent drifting, bumming change outside the clubs he once ruled, and into his present troubles, serving a twelve-year prison sentence for firing a gun in the air, a sorry victim of California's three strikes laws. On Forever Changes, Lee wrote and sang some of the most luscious melodies this side of the vintage Bee Gees -- check out "Andmoreagain" -- butted against apocalyptic visions of what lay beyond the Summer of Love, as on "The Red Telephone" with its prophetic lyrics, "They're locking them up today, they're throwing away the key/I wonder who it will be tomorrow, you or me?" Rhino's remastered version of the album edition brings out every nuance of the original recording, particularly the flamenco flourish of the near-hit "Alone Again Or," while the seven bonus tracks include demos, alternate takes, the band's final 1968 single and a studio tape of Lee cajoling his band from the producer's chair, showing how driven his muse once was. (WASHBURN)

Spoon Girls Can Tell (Merge)

Austin's favorite trio dishes out eleven helpings of diverse alt-pop on what may wind up being the finest record of its ilk all year. Charged by song sculptor/frontman Britt Daniel, this start-to-finish triumph never underachieves even if it has an effortless aura at times. The dually twangy and jazzy heartbreaker "Everything Hits at Once" ("Don't say a word/The last one's still stinging") is a song worth obsessing over, but there's similar merit in the edgy punk blues of "Believing Is Art" and the bass-thumping, snare-snapping rhythms of "Take the Fifth." Recalling the Pixies and Pavement at their accessible best on "Anything You Want," kneeling at the altar of Big Star for the acoustic charmer "1020 AM" and revisiting new wave on both "Take a Walk" and "Lines in the Suit," Spoon's instant classic has something to offer every hook-starved indie rock worshipper. (JOHN D. LUERSSEN)

Split Lip Rayfield Never Make It Home (Bloodshot)

"Outlaw bluegrass" is the working description for these speedy banjos and doom-and-gloom lyrics from Kansas, but the telling detail on the Wichita quartet's third album comes during "Kiss of Death." The title refers not to a pact with the devil, as you might expect, but a humorous domestic dispute with automobiles everywhere: "Even though Rush sounded good on the stereo, I had killed that car," laments singer-banjoist Eric Mardis. Split Lip Rayfield isn't the first bluegrass band to revisit the dark spirit of old Hank Williams and Bill Monroe songs -- Bad Livers have traveled this road before. But the four singing strummers' primary weapons are melody and harmony; despite the lonely facades of "Love Please Come Home" and the title track, there's an inner sweetness that recalls the Eagles at least as much as the Carter Family. (STEVE KNOPPER)

The Turbo A.C.'s Fuel for Life (Nitro)

Bands who put scantily clad women on their album covers come in two varieties: more badass than Mr. T, or cheesier than his album Mr. T's Commandments. Reeking of flat beer, stale cigarettes and the unmistakably acrid stench of a thousand dive bars, the Turbo A.C.'s fit most assuredly into the first category. Splattering dark shades of surf guitar across a deep swath of pure rock mayhem, the A.C.'s are the punk rock band for people who are old enough to buy beer, but desperate enough to scour the bar for abandoned, half-finished bottles instead. Their songs veer more towards creating a mood than a real impression -- but then, they capture just the mood for kneeling before the dirty altar of rock & roll, so who's complaining? (MIKE MAGNUSON)

Willard Grant Conspiracy Everything's Fine (Rykodisc/SlowRiver)

Yes Depression, rather than No Depression, would be a better way to describe the sadly beautiful, rustic songs of Robert Fisher and Paul Austin, a.k.a. Willard Grant Conspiracy. On this fourth album, they travel the usual open roads, border towns and star-filled skies accompanied by accordion, B-3 organ and mandolin. But there's an edge to Fisher's dark­night-of-the-soul vocals (like Nick Cave with a drawl or Dave Alvin as a goth) that takes the sound off the usual blue trails and into the black ("Southend of a Northbound Train" and "Drunkard's Prayer"). Like the Conspiracy's contemporaries, Damien Jurado and Mark Lanegan, and very unlike forebear Cave, there is little light at the end of the lyrical tunnel. But like Cave, the best songs are delivered free of much embellishment, as on the man and piano number "Massachusetts." (DENISE SULLIVAN)

Lemon Jelly Lemonjelly.ky (XL/The Beggars Group)

For a music motivated by the common goal of moving butts, electronica can be dreadfully glum, and the perky, big-beat-y stuff often comes across as if some DJ is pointing a gun at your feet. That's why Lemon Jelly's debut album -- a collection of their first three EPs, released between 1998 and 2000 -- is such a delicious, improbable treat. The British duo of multi-instrumentalist Nick Franglen and DJ-graphic designer Fred Deakin creates tunes as dreamy and sample-intensive as the likes of DJ Shadow while wielding a liberating wit that doesn't require a laugh track. With a studio-session pedigree that encompasses both Hole and the Spice Girls, Franglen builds subtly twisted lullabies that sooth and tickle with gently bubbling sonics. Deakin applies spoken non-sequiturs and whimsical loops. Elements of ambient music, cocktail jazz, hip-hop, folk and Monty Python combine in unholy marriages of mirth and craft. "A Tune for Jack" spins a sprightly melody out of a gurgling baby, while "Come" croons its title over a bittersweet cut of woozy beauty. You're gonna love the way Lemon Jelly break the chill-out mold. (BARRY WALTERS -- RS 864)

Richard X. Heyman Heyman, Hoosier & Herman (Turn Up/Permanent Press)

New Jersey-born, East Village-based Richard X. Heyman has stoked the eternal flame of Sixties pop -- bright, jangly guitars and unforgettable melodies delivered in three minutes or less -- for the better part of two decades. On this seven-song EP, he teams up with an authentic Sixties pop icon, former Hermans Hermits frontman Peter Noone, whose crystaline, slightly pinched voice is instantly recognizable on the vowel-bending "Hoosier." The rest of Heyman, Hoosier & Herman is unreleased material from the sessions for Heyman's last album, Cornerstone. But these songs don't sound like outtakes, with hooks galore and ebullient melodies, Rickenbacker cross-picking ("Holding On"), layered harmonies over parlor piano ("A Little Drive"), a touch of early Fairport Convention on "Monks Hollow" and lyrics revealing the emotional power that pop can pack into its brevity ("I feel like a shadow in the dark/No more than an overlooked remark"). (MEREDITH OCHS)

Dianne Reeves The Calling: Celebrating Sarah Vaughan (Blue Note)

She sang like an angel and swore like a sailor -- could there be a jazz singer more deserving of a tribute than Sarah "Sassy" Vaughan, one of the finest singers and musicians that jazz ever produced? Probably not, but that doesn't mean it's an easy to pull off successfully. Reeves, no slouch in the vocal department herself, does an admirable job here, especially on signature Vaughan tunes like "Lullaby of Birdland" and "Key Largo." But the production style chosen by knob-twiddler George Duke -- fussy, frilly and with more strings attached than a used car salesman's contract -- overwhelms rather than overjoys on tracks like "Send in the Clowns" and "Obsession." Reeves and the musicians more often than not overcome the overblown production. If only they didn't have to. (ERIK PEDERSEN)

The Queers Today (Lookout)

A five-song EP from one of the most prolific punk bands of the last ten years and what is it comprised of? Two rave-ups, one entitled "Yeah, Well, Whatever" that is one of their better efforts ever, with two prominent choruses and standard chug-a-lug rhythm, and two ballads, the better of which is a semi-melancholic ode to a daydream called "I Don't Want to Go to the Moon." Fifth track is a Beach Boys cover. In other words, your typical Queers disc, just shorter. Needless to say, anyone under eighteen might find this to be appropriately rousing in its chipper, minimal way, the rest of the (interested) world is wondering why these guys (well, "guy" actually, as the only permanent band member is the leader, Joe "Queer" King) haven't added anything else or new to their arsenal since they were a Boston club band eighteen years ago. The Queers are as consistent as AC/DC, say, putting out reliable rock discs that are interchangeable, but unlike AC/DC, are entirely unoriginal, having never evolved away from their slavish devotion to the Ramones. Therefore, if you like the Ramones, why not? If you don't, don't bother. (JOHNNY ANGEL)

(February 20, 2001)