Jakob Dylan is becoming a master chronicler of things that fester: Tucked into the image-rich songs of the Wallflowers' third album, Breach, are accounts of romance that is not quite dead but on its painful last gasps, of desperate lovers carrying the torch long past the point of reason, and of sons being told, in a thousand little ways, that they'll never amount to anything.

You can tell that Dylan has been in the thick of this stuff. His songs are concerned with the residue left when the dust settles. "Nothing's hard as getting free from places I've already been," he sings wearily on the enigmatic hymn "I've Been Delivered," and you believe him. The song is one of those rambling seeker-on-the-path sojourns that Jakob's old man, Bob, does so well -- each couplet is a bit of sculpture that might not make immediate sense but that eventually has some abstract relationship to the whole. As the song builds, the banjo saunters in and sits down next to the brass, and the truths get heavier. "I've been the puppet/I've been the strings/I know the vacant face it brings," he sings. "I've Been Delivered" is the most intricate and songwriterly moment on Breach -- most of the time, Dylan does his best to frame more standard-issue observations (among the tropes: the wasteland, "incarcerated lovesick fools") in music descended from Springsteen, Tom Petty and other pillars of classic rock. Like the songs on the Wallflowers' 1996 breakthrough, Bringing Down the Horse, these tunes seem simple on the surface, an orderly procession of wordy verses followed by wide-load hooks. But there's always more going on: The sweeping Eagles-like arcs of "Hand Me Down" benefit from the wrenching chord changes and other subversive stuff Dylan and cronies stuff into the margins, while "Some Flowers Bloom Dead" masks its bitter message of regret in a resolutely sunny chorus.

It's in those little things that the Wallflowers show they're not exactly the same as they used to be. The band is more muscular, better suited to the task of bringing out the shades of gray or supporting the galvanizing refrains of "Sleepwalker" ("Cupid don't draw back your bow/Sam Cooke didn't know what I know"). Dylan has grown as a singer -- when he needs to, he can cop the grizzled nonchalance of an arena-rock veteran or echo Springsteen's somber Nebraska voice for one of the lumbering slow songs that dominate the tail end of the album. The slow stuff might be a bit ponderous, but the first six or seven songs manage a rare trick: They're incandescent enough to jump out at you on the radio, yet are steeped in a type of introspective inquiry that was once integral to rock & roll, and has nearly vanished. (TOM MOON -- RS 852)

Merle Haggard If I Could Only Fly (Anti-/Epitaph)

At this point, Merle Haggard's musical territory is staked out and grazed to the nubbin: slow, sauntering ballads, up-tempo country boogie, occasionally a little Western swing. No string sections, no synths, no exclamation marks. Staying clear of the clotted, market-tested production of the Nashville A-team studio players seems to keep him alive; still, his recent records, self-produced and made in his own California studio, have been a bit plain, enshrining his time-ravaged voice with a bit too much open, untreated space. If I Could Only Fly, his first for the punk label Epitaph, is no different. But what a lyricist he still can be. All the songs emanate from a single persona, an aging, cloistered singer (Haggard is in his sixties) whose routine -- avoiding drugs, taking comfort from cushioned bus seats, being honest with his kids -- is all he has. In "Bareback," a song about surviving the road after the romance of it goes away, he warns a woman that she'd better look out for his comfort. But this isn't some male-chauvinist guffaw; it's about age, not sex, and it's so unromantic that by its sheer honesty it achieves tenderness. The album isn't quite Sinatra's September of My Years, but the man's songwriting control is exemplary. There's nothing mytho-poetic in boredom, and weariness is one of country's cliche themes, but Haggard finds a middle road that's unusual for country: self-acceptance, totally free of bluster or self-pity. (BEN RATLIFF -- RS 852)

Collective Soul Blender (Atlantic)

Like deep-sea fishermen trolling for the biggest, baddest marlin, Collective Soul plumb for meaty, mighty riffs and chunky chords. They reel in a brace of them on their fifth album: Front-loaded with penetrating, powerhouse riff rockers with single-word titles -- "Skin," "Vent," "Boast" -- Blender simply shreds with unapologetic classic-rock energy. This is what the slightly robotic Collective Soul excel at: making you pay homage to the Mount Rushmore-like solidity of rock stripped to hard-hitting essentials. On "Why," AC/DC meet the Cars for a ride down some sinister back alley. The lilting ballad "Perfect Day" is given added glow from guest Elton John. But the real appeal of Blender is the scorpionlike sting of songs like "Vent," a churning rocker that builds to the line, "I love you 'cause you're such a prick." (PARKE PUTERBAUGH -- RS 852)

Orgy Vapor Transmission (Elementree/Reprise)

As they pillage rock's New Wave and glam past, Orgy propose a future where loud rock means more than dumb rapping over dumber riffs. MTV's favorite Max Factor-ed male quintet manifests some classic L.A. virtues: trashy allure, brain-melting hooks, Anglo inspirations and billboard-size ambition. Despite its stinky title, Vapor Transmission improves upon Orgy's '98 debut without farting around with more New Order cover versions. Marilyn Manson-isms still haunt singer Jay Gordon, but this time he binds his secondhand poetics to a forward-looking glam too catchy to be denied. Strip the studio synth-candy away from "Eva," a tribute to producer Josh Abraham's late mom, and the band's melodic skills remain as sharp as its rhythmic precision. Whether jack-hammering the double-time wallop of "The Odyssey" or riding the death-disco slick of "Opticon," Orgy generate genuine glitter frenzy that'll linger long after the makeup fades. (BARRY WALTERS -- RS 852)

Tiffany The Color of Silence (Eureka Records)

Having already tried her luck as a country twanger, Las Vegas lounge singer and, yes, industrial-techno ice queen, Eighties teen sensation Tiffany now wants to be Alanis Morissette. Nearly a decade after her grueling mall-circuit ascent made everyone choke on their Hot Dog on a Stick, the crimson-haired singer now comes for repentance with an album that updates her raunchy guitar pop just enough to erase but not eradicate previous offenses like "I Think We're Alone Now" and "I Saw Him Standing There." And if you're not convinced this is a changed woman, the new Tiffany does everything to remind you, from wearing leather tube-tops to dueting with Bone Thugs 'N Harmony rapper Krazie Bone on "I'm Not Sleeping." She even writes her own lyrics this time around. On "Piss U Off," she admonishes, "Maybe you thought you could throw me away like a shoe that doesn't fit/But you created your Frankenstein and now you have to live with it." How utterly cruel life can be. (AIDIN VAZIRI)

Gomez Abandoned Shopping Trolley Hotline (Virgin)

"Getting Better and Meandering Tripe" could be the subtitle to this British quintet's third album, as mired in trippy noodling as the "Drums and Space" segment of a Grateful Dead concert. If this collection of previously unreleased B-sides hadn't appended the band's soaring version of the Beatles' "Getting Better" -- recorded for a memorable Philips Electronics TV ad a few years ago -- it would be almost totally worthless -- almost because Ben Ottewell's easygoing cornhusk of a voice eloquently redeems small chunks of songs, especially in the otherwise-Oasis-like opener "Bring Your Lovin' Back Here," the soft-and-slow "Wharf Me" and the folkie snippet "Hit on the Head." The rarity concept grants the usually studio-tight band a luxurious lack of focus, used to gratuitous effect on the nine-minute "Buena Vista," the interminably repetitive, moaning "Rosemary" and the unfunny novelty "The Cowboy Song." (STEVE KNOPPER)

Downset Check Your People (Epitaph)

Downset makes Fred Durst seem like a wuss. After all, these founding fathers of rock 'n' rap have always done it much harder and way better. Forced into limbo for a couple of years as the result of a corporate merger, Rey Oropeza and company have evidently been bottling up their rage while watching the Bizkits and Korns of the world collect platinum certifications. Not surprisingly, the quintet's third album, Check Your People, uncorks with an explosive, emotive "Fallen Off," and rarely sways from the Downset blueprint over these fourteen ferocious cuts. Guitarist Ares gives up a groove-heavy, Morello-esque riff on "Together," as the eastern-flavored "Play Big" and Tool-inspired "Chemical Strangle" evolve into raucous, authentic exercises in scream therapy. With the unrestrained "Coming Back," Downset rise up to stake their claim. This is a dynamic, unstoppable concoction of punk, metal and hip-hop that commands respect -- not a knockoff, but the genuine article. (JOHN D. LUERSSEN)

Van Morrison and Linda Gail Lewis You Win Again (PointBlank/Virgin)

Van Morrison has always followed his muse, but one suspects the folks at Virgin wouldn't mind if he followed it into more commercial territory. Early this year he presented the label with an album of skiffle music with Lonnie Donegan, and now he's come out with an album of oldies duets with Linda Gail Lewis (sister of Jerry Lee Lewis). From a sales-enhancing vantage, Morrison might as well have recorded with a goat. But ever since 1968's transcendent Astral Weeks, Morrison has put his art above commerce, arriving at some of the most distinctive, uncompromising, get-you-through-a-dark-night-of-the-soul music extant. He has recorded sufficient music of depth and expanse that he's due an occasional holiday, and, on its own merits, You Win Again is a massively enjoyable album. Very few potential co-singers can equal the incandescence of Van's celtic-soul voice, and Lewis is not of that number. She does, however, sing with an unfettered passion for the music, and their rough-hewn harmonies have a wild charm. Lewis' pumping piano sounds like a clear-headed version of her brother's no-prisoners keyboard attack, and most of the tracks here have the crackling immediacy of her brother's old Sun recordings. (JIM WASHBURN)

Cherry Poppin' Daddies Soul Caddy (Mojo Records/Universal)

Soul Caddy has the Cherry Poppin' Daddies, who rode the swing wave to success in 1997 with Zoot Suit Riot, serving up a more diverse offering on this round. There's still some swing guaranteed to put a spring in your step -- just check out "So Long Toots" and "Swingin' With Tiger Woods (The Big Swing)." But "Diamond Light Boogie," the album's leadoff track, could be a T. Rex outtake, and the propulsive "God Is a Spider" is quite a punk rave-up for a band with a horn section. The diversity wears a bit thin over the course of the album, with a saggy middle section of unremarkable songs. But the kiss-off, "Saddest Thing I Know," is a melancholy crooner of a tune that goes down easy. (GILLIAN G. GAAR)

Keb' Mo' The Door (Epic)

There are three types of songs on The Door, Kevin Moore's fourth album as Keb' Mo'. First, the most effective -- pure solo blues selections where he accompanies himself only with guitar. Of these, "Loola Lou" and "Mommy Can I Come Home" work the best, inverting and modernizing the blues idiom. For a couple songs -- the title track and "The Beginning" -- he adds some tasty sideman spice to the mix but they are less intimate. But Moore torpedoes his own ship with several over-orchestrated pseudo blues selections that best qualify as easy listening -- as if Taj Mahal had suddenly morphed into Lionel Ritchie. Mo' avoids the blues cliches trap with compositions that are both originals and compelling, but why he invites another set of clichés to set down by the fire is anybody's guess. (CHARLES BERMANT)

Ian Pooley Since Then (V2)

DJ Ian Pooley may be German, but you might not guess it from the sound of this disc. Call it house music if you must, but Since Then seems more appropriate for a beach house in Rio than some sweaty club (check out "Bay of Plenty"'s seagull squawks). Pooley's grooves bubble with effervescent charm, but the buoyant Latin and Brazilian touches don't even raise a sweat -- it's more like cool condensation on a chilled cocktail glass. Tracks like "Venasque" and the title tune maintain the easy, understated mood more or less until the dreamy fadeout "Cloud Patterns." But even when he ratchets up the BPMs, he does so effortlessly, as on "Balmes" (which sounds the Gipsy Kings at their jauntiest) or the don't-wake-up-the-house music of "900 Degrees." Call it what you like, it's good stuff. (ERIK PEDERSEN)

Deke Dickerson and the Ecco-Fonics Rhyme, Rhythm & Truth (Hightone/HMG)

Few rockabilly revivalists are as versatile as Deke Dickerson. He can sound like Carl Perkins ("Will You Be Mine"), Jerry Lee Lewis ("Beat Out My Love") and Johnny Cash ("Have Blues Will Travel") during their days at Sun Records. He can sound like late-1940s western swingmen ("[If I Go to Heaven] Give Me a Brunette"). He can sound like rockabilly/western swing instrumental duo Joe Maphis and Larry Collins ("Speedin' on Keystone"). All of which leaves you wondering, when does Deke Dickerson actually sound like himself? You can't determine, given his obvious role models and knack for switching musical hats. Still, he's a more enjoyable retro listen than much of his competition, as he's got an affable, clear high voice and jumps through genre hoops with unforced ease. (RICHIE UNTERBERGER)

Deltron 3030 Deltron 3030 (75 Ark)

It's no secret that hip-hop has inherited many of rock & roll's rebel mantles. So it's a pleasant non-surprise that hip-hop has also shouldered the weighty rock yoke of both supergroup and concept album. Case in point, Deltron 3030, an all-star rhyme and turntable supergroup comprised of verbal gymnast Del Tha Funkee Homosapien, DJ-producer Dan the Automator and turntablism vanguardist Kid Koala. The trio has endeavored to paint a bleak, future shock portrait of a dystopian and hyper-commercialized distant tomorrow (i.e. the year 3030). Del's rubbery, kinetic rhyme schemes provide the narrative to a world that's driven itself off the rails. Automator and Kid Koala provide a sonic backdrop that's alternately ironic and haunting, connecting the busy, Armageddon-mongering sounds crafted by such predecessors as Public Enemy's Bomb Squad to the old-school, (now) retro-futurism of such artists as Grandmaster Flash and Afrika Bambaata. And the trio gets help from such high-profile cohorts as Prince Paul (no stranger to the hip-hop concept album himself), "Money" Mark Nishita, Sean Lennon, Blur's Damon Albarn and MC Paul Barman. Like a funhouse mirror held up to Wu-Tang Clan's deadly serious conspiracy theories and baroque, arcane frame of reference, Deltron 3030 takes the hip-hop concept record to the next level. (CHRIS HANDYSIDE)

Idaho Hearts of Palm (Idaho Music)

This Los Angeles band nearly got swept under the rug in the mid-Nineties at the hands of a fleeting scene (slow-core/sad-core) to which it did not rightfully belong and a propensity for self-destructive overindulgence. After Idaho -- which at various points included Hole/Smashing Pumpkins bassist Melissa Auf Der Maur and former Beck/R.E.M. drummer Joey Waronker -- were finally dropped by their label, the only member left standing was singer-songwriter Jeff Martin. Now he returns with the independently released Hearts of Palm disc. The songs retain the gently epic melancholy that runs through all of Idaho's work, but sound more chilling and devastating than ever, as Martin's aching voice rises and falls over minor-key masterpieces like "To Be the One" and "Evolution Is Cold," where he solemnly sings: "I just want to be attractive to you/I want you to do things you used to do." It hurts so good. (VAZIRI)

(October 10, 2000)