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Simple Plan Still Not Getting Any... (Lava)
With the strummy first single, "Welcome to My Life," singer Pierre Bouvier whines, "You might think I'm happy/But I'm not gonna be OK." And in the chorus to "Thank You," he tries sarcasm but still sounds earnest: "Thank you for showing me that best friends cannot be trusted." But whether or not these boys are being drama queens is beside the point. Despite the overwrought angst, Still Not Getting Any . . . is a hard-to-deny collection of bubblegum punk. Producer Bob Rock gives the band sinewy sonic muscles on songs such as "Perfect World" and "Promise," and there's hardly a track in the bunch that doesn't sound like a hit. The midtempo anthem "Crazy" finds Bouvier rattling off a laundry list of social ills ("Young girls dying to be on TV," "Money's our first priority") before asking, "Is everybody going crazy?/Is anybody gonna save me?" It's goofy as all hell, but don't be surprised if you catch yourself singing along. (JENNY ELISCU)
Leonard Cohen Dear Heather (Sony)
It's folly to complain that Leonard Cohen has lost his voice, since he never really had one to begin with. From the thin Canadian-folkie drawl of 1967's Songs of Leonard Cohen to the grave, gravelly tone that settled in circa 1988's I'm Your Man, Cohen is such a sourpuss that it's easy to miss his jokes. Take "Because Of," from the new Dear Heather, in which he seems to enact the title of his 1977 album, Death of a Ladies' Man: "Because of a few songs/Wherein I spoke of their mystery/Women have been exceptionally kind to my old age," he croaks as only someone who lived with Rebecca De Mornay in his fifties before heading off to a monastery in his sixties can. "They say, 'Look at me, Leonard/Look at me one last time.'"
What makes Dear Heather tick are the ladies who look back: longtime co-composer/producer Sharon Robinson and producer-engineer Leanne Ungar, as well as occasional co-lead vocalist Anjani Thomas, who open up the arrangements from the often repetitive Casio-lounge feel of 2001's Ten New Songs. Sometimes their work evokes wood paneling and tip jars ("Go No More A-Roving," with words by another famous poet, Lord Byron); sometimes it's stark (the spoken-with-piano "Villanelle for Our Time"); sometimes subdued and trip-hoppy ("The Letters"). But given how monochromatic Cohen tends to be, the jumbled feel works in Dear Heather favor. (MICHAELANGELO MATOS)
The Futureheads The Futureheads (Sire/Ada)
If Franz Ferdinand is your favorite new Scottish band, then its recent touring partners the Futureheads may likely be your next British beloved. Hailing from northeast England, this anxious young quartet shares similar New Wave leanings but proves to be even more tightly wound. As fidgety guitars collide with rapid-fire harmonies over pogo-inducing drums, guitarist Barry Hyde yelps excitedly in his unapologetically thick accent. His bandmates answer, crowding his vocals in a Brit-punk call-and-response. On "First Day," they sing happily about showing up for a dream job, and as the pressure mounts, so does the tempo, until the track ends in a blur of conflicting cries. The band avoids romance until a ransacked rendition of Kate Bush's "Hounds of Love" explodes in a burst of hectic yearning. The Futureheads reclaim pop punk from the Warped Tour crowd -- and revive it in the process. (BARRY WALTERS)
John Legend Get Lifted (Columbia)
For the past decade, R&B has tried to be as extravagant as the hip-hop that usurped its place. Kanye West protege Legend has more modest aims. His brand of soul is mannered, even elegant. And he's got range: Two luscious odes to infidelity -- "She Don't Have to Know" and "Number One" -- are followed by an equally convincing promise to not stray, "I Can Change." Best of all, "Used to Love U" bears West's self-doubting stamp: "Maybe, baby/Puffy, Jay-Z would all be better for you/'Cause all I could do is love you." (JON CARAMANICA)
Isidore Isidore (Brash Music)
Isidore is the story of two strangers in the night exchanging work tapes. Guitarist Jeffrey Cain of Remy Zero passed along an instrumental demo to the Church's guitarist Marty Wilson-Piper as a thank-you to its chief singer-songwriter Steve Kilbey for "years of inspiration." Impressed, Kilbey added words, booked a studio and completed the hypnotic "Transmigration." Their schedules never meshing, the duo continued working in separate studios, creating an entire album of lush, dreamscapes less anthemic than Remy Zero and of greater ambience than the Church. Their affinity for deep wells of reverb and modest sonic explosions via airy keyboards and heavily manipulated guitars supply tracks such as "The Memory Cloud" and "Musidora" with heightened drama, while exploring the rich lyricism that elevated the Church to more than just another band with a catchy melody. (ROB O'CONNOR)
Ulysses 010 (Eenie Meenie)
When rock sweethearts go Splitsville, they either jump right back into the studio to record bittersweet break-up pop (hello, Quasi) or they form new bands and make bittersweet break-up pop without the awkwardness of looking their ex-lover in the eye. Rob Schneider, formerly of Apples in Stereo, has taken the latter course with his new Kentucky-based band, Ulysses, and the result is a scrappy batch of weathered lo-fi confections. If Apples in Stereos sounded like a 1964 prep-school band right after they discovered acid, then Ulysses sound like a slightly more caffeinated Stephen Malkmus without the PhD and nursing a broken heart. In reality, Ulysses are just four guys in a garage recording on one microphone, flaws and all. And the imperfections are exactly the point; these songs are meant to be used and abused. But that doesn't mean they're not catchy: Schneider still loves hooks -- he's just not giving them away for free anymore. (MARGARET WAPPLER)
Son, Ambulance Key (Saddle Creek)
Good thing Bright Eyes collaborator Joe Knapp wasn't punning on "somnambulance" when he named his solo act Son, Ambulance, 'cause this isn't sleep-walking music. ("Son" refers to the little answering-machine voice that opens the album.) Knapp's an emo guy; he knows how to build drama, which he does really well in "Sex in C Minor." The opus swells with piano-filled suspense as his thin voice rises, his stream-of-consciousness words growing more passionate, until they're broken by the almost atonal swirl of Jenna Morrison's voice, which then goes Morcheeba-like, beautiful and sensual, in "C Minor Interlude." Knapp's got orchestration on the brain; in "Taxi Driver," he sings, "She's got symphonies to compose/Maybe I was just a melody/Who knows?" In the delicate "Houseguest," he writes of time and a kite that "sails upon a sigh" to evoke another heartbreak. He may be one more poor bastard unlucky in love, but unlike unrelentingly morbid ex-roomie Conor Oberst, Knapp goes for nuance. And that's a good thing. (LYNNE MARGOLIS)
Cerys Matthews Cockahoop (Rough Trade)
Cerys Matthews has a voice like a shot of bourbon -- either you can't stand it or can't get through a night without it. As the lead singer of Brit-pop band Catatonia, Matthews' raw, gravel-throated voice and unabashed broad Welsh accent stood out from her peers. Following Catatonia's demise in 2001, Matthews traveled far from her native Cardiff by way of Nashville to record Cockahoop, her first solo album. Produced by Bob Dylan's steel guitarist Bucky Baxter, the album finds Matthews trading loud guitars in dingy clubs for a plucked banjo on a front porch -- and her voice, like any good bourbon, has mellowed with age. With help from guitarist Richard Bennett (Travis Tritt, Emmylou Harris), drummer Ken Coomer (Uncle Tupelo/Wilco), and multi-instrumentalist Jim Hoke, she takes a stroll through through Americana: "La Bague" is a gusty Cajun flavored waltz, "All My Trials" is a spiritual with gospel backing and she pays tribute to her own roots on "Arglwydd Dyma Fi" a traditional Welsh hymn played to a country ballad. You'll want to show Matthews some southern hospitality by setting a place at the table. (ROBIN DAS)