Old 97's Satellite Rides (Elektra)

The curse of country rock is that its artistes take their inspiration less from country or rock than from the movies, where atmosphere is all, rural nostalgia is a given and the drummers all suck. The Old 97's are still a young band, but they've already outgrown their country-rock niche by ditching the cinematic approach of their peers for a lean, hungry guitar attack. Singer-songwriter Rhett Miller has always had a deft way with the one-liners, which he's displayed on all four of the band's previous albums. ("W-I-F-E" on 1995's Wreck Your Life is an indie classic ripe for rediscovery.) But while the Old 97's' acclaimed 1999 breakthrough, Fight Songs, was basically a Miller showcase, Satellite Rides has all the roar and crackle of a real-live bar band, a band that sounds experienced at drowning out hecklers and impatient to start knocking down doors, including yours.

Though the band started in Dallas, Miller later relocated to L.A., which lends an appropriately dislocated edge to his cowpunk tales. His subject is young love, his tone is insatiable melancholy, and yet he can bust out a valentine as openhearted as "Rollerskate Skinny," in which his invitation to romance goes, "Do you wanna meet up at the Picwood Bowl/We could knock nine down and leave one in the hole." Drummer Philip Peeples, lead guitarist Ken Bethea and bassist Murry Hammond juice the songs enough to keep corn at bay, even in desolate confessions like "Nervous Guy" and on "Buick City Complex," which comes on like the catchiest junkyard death trip since the Boss' "Cadillac Ranch." Satellite Rides holds up all the way through, but the Old 97's really hit country-rock nirvana in the expertly constructed cheatin' song "Designs on You." Miller sounds drunk and desperate four minutes before closing time, trying to sweet-talk a bride-to-be into one last tumble just so he can write another goddamn cheatin' song about her. The weird part is that you don't recoil from the creep in the song. You kind of like him. (ROB SHEFFIELD)

Trick Daddy Thugs Are Us (Slip-N-Slide/Atlantic)

Trick Daddy is the thug's thug, backing up more azz per minute than most rappers see in a year. Thugs Are Us is the latest Miami hip-hop block party from the guy who brought us Book of Thugs: Chapter A.K., Verse 47 and www.thug.com. From the opening track, "I'm a Thug" -- glad to get that cleared up, Trick Daddy -- it's raw, hilarious stuff, with amazing avant-ghetto chants like "Take it to da House," "Where U From" and "The Hotness," which proclaims, "We worldwide without the Web/Grateful without the dead." Since Trick Daddy is more into sex than violence and more into bass than either, he's fun to ride with as he meditates on the essence of thugness, aided and abetted by his homegirl Trina. "99 Problems," a hip-hop answer to the Nails' "88 Lines About 44 Women," describes his open-trunk policy in regard to the ladies ("I got a bitch that's a thug, and she carry a gat/A bitch that looks like Kim and one that looks like Da Brat"), while "Pull Over (Remix)" he worships booty like it's going out of style, which, as we all know, booty never will, not if Trick Daddy has anything to say about it. As the man himself avers in "The Hotness," "I was born with nothin', die with nothin' -- in between I want everything!" (SHEFFIELD)

Tiffany Anders Funny Cry Happy Gift (Up)

With PJ Harvey producing and J Mascis of the late Dinosaur Jr playing drums, singer-songwriter Tiffany Anders -- the daughter of film director Allison Anders -- had the muscle to make a debut album full of big, big love. But she opted for subtlety -- Funny Cry Happy Gift is a simple tone poem from a soul consumed with the vagaries of the heart. Anders' fragile voice adds poignancy to the powerful feelings flowing beneath the record's low-fidelity drone, while her two famous collaborators keep their distance, rolling like tumbleweeds through her intimate performances. Harvey's backup singing and somber organ add ephemeral angst to "White Frost Hills," a hymn to the emotional imprints left by ex-lovers. The album's finest track, the melancholy "I See How Much Has Changed," revolves around a yin-yang vocal duet between Anders' lonely croon and Mascis' distinctive grumble. At times, Anders' distorted guitar chords bury her keening, but it is a fitting effect on an album dedicated to the woes of one small human overwhelmed by a big, big world. (NEVA CHONIN)

Jon B. Pleasures U Like (550 Music)

Incorporating even more of a hip-hop feel on his third album, Pleasures U Like, twenty-something R&B balladeer Jon B. slides more comfortably from between the sheets to the streets. Recruiting the likes of Nas, Faith Evans and AZ, B. saves his best moves for his mid tempo grooves, especially on such highlights as AZ duet "Layaway" and "All I Want Is You" (featuring rapper Cuban Link). Determined not to ignore his core audience, however, B. spends plenty of time professing deep love and related feelings, showing his sensitivity on "Inside" and "Boy Is Not a Man." But his interests seem to lie elsewhere. His first single, the tempting "Don't Talk," isn't the usual come-on but a call to spend quality time at the hopping bar around the way before the sweet-nothings really start flowing. (MARIE ELSIE ST. LÉGER)

Toadies Hell Below/Stars Above (Interscope)

The high-pitched shriek that jumpstarts the opening tune on the Toadies' long-awaited sophomore effort, Hell Below/Stars Above, at first seems indicative that the album will follow the frenetic footsteps of the quartet's 1994 breakthrough Rubberneck. Instrumentally, this might be the case, being that the erratic surges of hard-driving riffs and strenuous vocals are again intact. However, the murky, psychotic lyrics that potently empowered its predecessor's featured songs (like "Possum Kingdom") are absent. The band's deranged fantasies of abduction and masochism have virtually morphed into introspective verses that straddle the line between remorse and defiance. Other curveballs are thrown, both lyrically and musically, such as on the title track, where they forth with an all-out assault before abruptly pulling back and closing out the song on a spiritual note -- with gospel singers. (PAT CHARLES)

Sepultura Nation (Roadrunner)

Sepultura hasn't been the same since original frontman Max Cavalera's departure, but that isn't necessarily a bad thing. With its second album since the split, Brazil's heaviest export continues developing its dynamic blend of the savage and the sophisticated. Nation runs a zesty gamut from hardcore outbursts that gnash and thrash with blunt intent ("Revolt," "Human Cause") to subtler numbers that temper the band's metalismo with exotic sounds. Middle Eastern scales tinge the guitar work throughout the album but give "The Ways of Faith" a calm, sitar-esque center; Jello Biafra makes a cameo in "Politricks," a slow, tortuous blend of rumbling bass and semi-spoken word; "Water" lives up to its title, flowing pensively with reverberant, percussive ripples. It all builds to an elegant, string-infused close with "Valtio," a collaboration with the Finnish hard rock cello quartet Apocalyptica. Not exactly a sweet ending, but certainly a smooth one. (SANDY MASUO)

Lars Frederiksen and the Bastards Lars Frederiksen and the Bastards (Hellcat/Epitaph)

Beware the day that a punk rocker gets misty eyed and nostalgic for their lost youth, because that means that, well, it's lost. Such is the case with this solo record from Rancid's co-leader Lars Frederiksen -- one tune's title name checks his home town, another one reflects on how he dropped out of high school to play rock and roll guitar. With a heavy emphasis on the past or rock roots, snottiness gives way to maturity and sometimes genius erupts -- to wit, Rancid's role models the Clash and London Calling. But where the Clash completely changed their manic style and presentation, Frederiksen's delivery is vintage raging Rancid plus Oi plus Ramones hard-charge -- sure, there are slide guitars, Motown covers ("Leavin' Here") that the Who, Motorhead and Pearl Jam have done better and dissonant bass lines afoot, but this is more of the same. The better songs, like "To Have and to Have Not" (which employs the same melody as the Clash's "Bankrobber") dispense with Rancid's now predictable two-step, and the angry "Wine and Roses" would have been a stand-out on any of their last three group discs. As is, Lars F. makes a record that doesn't deviate enough from the formula to justify its existence and he misses partner Tim Armstrong's great sing-a-long choruses. Close, but no cigar, or spliff, as the case may be. (JOHNNY ANGEL)

Alpha The Impossible Thrill (Astralwerks)

Melodrama can make for good music. And Alpha knows that. This Bristol-based duo, like their local compadres Massive Attack and Portishead, create atmospheric mood pieces that are as classically pop as they are up-to-the minute electronica-based, full of strings, mournful chords and dramatic vocals. The tracks here stagger along, loaded down with regret, heartbreak and melancholy -- "It's raining/My mood is gray" goes a typical lyric -- but somehow sound cathartic and mesmerizing rather than simpering or whiny. Three different singers make appearances (ranging from Wendy Stubbs, who sounds a bit like the Cardigans' Nina Persson, to Martin Barnard, who's more of a David Sylvain/Ben Watt crooner) but the tone doesn't waver. Throughout, this is sad stuff, just the thing to have on hand for the next breakup or lingering bout of depression. Cheers! (ERIK PEDERSEN)

Lionel Richie Renaissance (Island)

Don't call Renaissance a comeback -- it's actually Lionel Richie's third album since 1996, when he returned from a decade-long hiatus. Richie's last two efforts went nowhere, however, so either he's due for a break or it just ain't gonna happen for the guy. Odds aside though, Renaissance brings the goods. This is unabashedly slick adult contemporary fare -- file between Eric Clapton's work with Babyface and the last Tina Turner album -- but Richie can still write and sing the hell out of a get-you-right-there-where-it-hurts ballad; "Tender Heart" and particularly "How Long" both measure up to 1983's "Hello." The up-tempo numbers are more hit and miss, but even if the obvious-but-ultimately winning "Angel" and "Don't Stop the Music" don't quite inspire dancing on the ceiling, they'll at least get you tapping the dashboard of your Lexus. And Ricky, Enrique and Santana, take note: a cover of the flamenco-seasoned "Cinderella" is a Number One hit-in-waiting for whoever calls dibs on it first. That is, unless the third time's the charm and Richie scores a hit with it himself. (RICHARD SKANSE)

Killing Heidi Reflector (3:33 Music Group/Universal)

Success Down Under rarely guarantees the same Up Top, but Killing Heidi's giving it the old Aussie try. The band -- led by the teenage brother-sister team of Ella and Jesse Hopper -- has already seen this album go a few times platinum in their homeland. Farming ferocious pop that's reminiscent of Mary's Danish topped off with harder numbers, they sound like they could have been early Pearl Jam songs -- if Eddie Vedder were a girl. Female-empowering moments like "Mascara," the spiteful "A Jar Labelled Small" (spelled just like that, damn Aussies) and the moody acoustic "Astral Boy" prove that Ella has the bite and sensuality to be a star on any continent. But just as often, the band falls into dated pop-funk rock trappings that are more fit for a bar band stage than an arena. Not quite a teen-pop gimme, and appearing to lack some rock & roll cred, the future U.S. importance of this import is just too close to call. (J.R. GRIFFIN)

U.S. Bombs Back At The Laundromat (Hellcat/Epitaph)

The U.S. Bombs encapsulate all those most appealing of punk rock's contradictions. Their music has politics without really being political. The songs are thoughtful even as they maintain their don't-give-a-fuck air. They seem perpetually dangling on the edge of self-destruction, yet are contained enough to put together an album of songs and not just noise. That they stay true to the ethic laid out by the Sex Pistols is certainly to their credit at a time when many would be hard pressed to name a Sex Pistols song, much less use one as a template. The problem is that Back At The Laundromat lacks the teeth it needs to deliver on the Bombs' promise. Opener "Tora Tora Tora" brings them to about an eight on the intensity meter, and there they stay, when they should be smashing past ten with indignation. There's plenty to shout along with, but it would be just as easy to save your voice. (MIKE MAGNUSON)

Black Box Recorder The Facts of Life (Jetset)

Luke Haines has been one of London's most brilliant songwriters for nearly a decade now. As the lead singer of the Auteurs, he made two absolutely perfect albums, 1993's New Wave and 1994's Now I'm a Cowboy, which included sneering, mysterious, beautiful chamber-rock ballads like "Bailed Out," "Valet Parking," and "New French Girlfriend" in the voice of a Bowie boy with a heart full of doomed pop fantasies. Haines' new group, Black Box Recorder, may be his finest work yet. On their second album, The Facts of Life, Black Box Recorder offer a seductive, deceptive and maddeningly pretty set of torch songs for burnouts. Sarah Nixey's velvet vocals are the centerpiece of the music, making the melodies soar over the plush Brit-pop furniture of keyboards and guitar. Haines, Nixey and cohort John Moore address important topics like teen sex, twisted teen sex, contraception, twisted adult sex and "The English Motorway System." In gems like "May Queen" and "Goodnight Kiss," they sound like a worldlier, funnier Belle and Sebastian. (Of course, Belle and Sebastian could pass for an Auteurs tribute band.) On their debut, England Made Me, Black Box Recorder stuck to snide jokes like "It's Only the End of the World," but here they show a little human compassion -- not as much as Pulp or Saint Etienne, but more than Serge Gainsbourg or Ray Davies, which may be why they've had surprising success in the U.K. If you have a place in your heart for decadent Eurotrash fops with nothing but a song to sell you (and at import prices, bien sur), now is the time to bring Black Box Recorder into your life. (SHEFFIELD)

Ashley Stove All Summer Long (Merge)

Good-natured, punk-edged indie pop has been a specialty of the American mid-South for more than twenty years. Raleigh, North Carolina's Ashley Stove uphold that tradition with their fourth album, and if it isn't exactly What The World Needs Now, well, at least it's far from What The World Needs Least. Perky, slightly bittersweet guitar-rock tunes with upper-register male vocals dominate the set, made more palatable by some nice dual lead harmonies. There are some mild eccentricities to be heard in some lyrical references to crop dusters and a "Devo Freak," but for the most part, they sing about the normal fluctuations of young adult relationships. When they deviate from the format even a bit, as on the somewhat bossa nova-tempoed swing and breezy female vocal interjections of "If You're Going Away," it gets considerably more interesting. Overall, the disc mines shopworn territory, though it's engagingly executed. (RICHIE UNTERBERGER)

Skrape New Killer America (RCA)

In the nu-metal movement, it's important to be as angry as a nerd pushed too far. But if that's all you are, then you aren't much at all. Such is the problem with the debut from Skrape, which often has them sounding so pissed that they can't play straight. On most of the disc's dozen tunes, the band sounds as if they're going through primal scream therapy while a bad Pantera cover band complete with shrill guitars and thin rhythms practices in the other room. There are a few moments when their anger is tempered, most notably the tunes "Goodbye" and "Rise," to which they add a bit of a groove to the rhythms, a bit of singing to the screaming, a bit of texture to the guitars. But such moments are fleeting, and in the end this album just sounds like a small child who's yelled himself tired. (PAUL SEMEL)

Math And Science Math And Science (Brick Red)

Add John Wolf to the lengthy list of shy, sensitive guys who are most comfortable expressing their innermost feelings while holed up in a bedroom with a four-track and a pile of musical gear. Taking a break from his regular gig as P.J. Olsson's drummer, Wolf is responsible for all the songs and almost all the playing on this debut release, which features twelve skillfully crafted pop songs with a humble, homegrown feel. Although cheesy drum machines and weird effects abound, the principal focus here is Wolf's thin but endearing voice. His intimate phrasing and fragile vibrato at times suggest a male version of Aimee Mann. But you can bet Mann would never write a song as gleefully lovestruck as "Eternity" or as unself-consciously nostalgic as "Fifteen." Eschewing overt cleverness, Wolf cloaks his smarts with an aura of innocence that's fresh and appealing. (MAC RANDALL)

Charles K. Noyes Full Stop (Ecstatic Peace)

No matter how many times folks are reminded to give the drummer some, it seems the drummer can't get any until he or she ain't drumming no more. Any respect, that is. Just look at Charles K. Noyes, whose two decades as the avant-rock scene's most inventive percussionist (he's worked with Bill Laswell, John Zorn and countless others) has netted little notice -- a state of affairs that ought to change thanks to this jarring album of electronic compositions. Full Stop exudes an obsession with the fullest of stops -- the one that leads to the pearly gates. That's amply evident in pieces like the elegant "John Cage in Heaven" (which uses machines to conjure up visions of a vast orchestra, laden with bassoons and oboes) and "In Memoriam Kathy Acker" (a more visceral, yammering drone caked in concrete and gutter dust). But Noyes doesn't limit himself to one trick. The processed chants in "The Call" evoke images of Tuvan throat singers hemmed into a Philip K. Dick landscape, while the keening "From Mud Into Animals" creates a gene-splice of Metal Machine Music and Penderecki. In other words, it's got no beat at all -- but your synapses sure can dance to it. (DAVID SPRAGUE)

The Black Halos The Violent Years (Sub Pop)

While pantywaists like Buckcherry may claim the loud and crude rock & roll lifestyle, Vancouver's The Black Halos are living it. On their full-length Sub Pop debut, these five scruffy young men rouse the spirits of surly bands like the New York Dolls and Hanoi Rocks, turning out an undignified gutter punk and metal hybrid that is curiously hard to resist. The Violent Years opens with a chaotic chorus of guitars ("Some Things Never Fail") and stays diligently on course throughout, pausing only briefly to offer up the occasional moment of melodic clarity ("Capt. Moody") or seething power ballad ("50 Bourbon Street"). Otherwise, it's non-stop thrills, spills and sinister energy -- and that's the way we like it. (AIDIN VAZIRI)

(March 20, 2001)