10 - The Michigan Daily - Tuesday, January 30, 2001 From the Desk of Mr. Lady, Le Tigre; Mr. Lady Records By Christian Hoard Daily Arts Writer For former riot grrrl Kathleen Hanna, medium is the message but only sort of. Bikini Kill's incendiary punk rock was the nat- twal vehicle for Hanna's angst, while Le Tigre's lo-fi pomo disco - lots of synth-driven pop and DIY sonic collages - is the per- fect compliment to her newfound penchant for intellectualized and irony-laden insurrection. But just because she's big into Carolee Schneeman doesn't mean she's gone all arty and shit. What makes Le Tigre remark- able is their talent for distilling political rhetoric and feminist the- ory into shout-along sloganeering and epigrammatic lyrics, which are set to ditties that are at once catchy, complex and good fun. It's not Cliff's Notes feminism; it's a bril- liant combination of catchwords and hooks, compelling message plus compelling medium. This M.O., plotted out on their stunning self-titled debut, is even further cultivated on their seven- song EP From the Desk of Mr. Lady. Though not as undeniably fun as its predecessor, Mr. Lady finds Le Tigre at their most direct, whether issuing directives ("Get off the Internet / Destroy the right wing!"), decrying the deaths of minorities at the hands of the N.Y.P.D. (on "Bang, Bang") or sassing bonehead dudes (on "Mediocrity Rules"). Le Tigre proved that a group of ex-punk rockers and auteurs with lots of toys could make a big, big noise. Whether you call Mr Lady a refinement of their sound or a just a placeholder (it's a little of both, actually), it's apparent that Tigre have much more to say. We should look forward to it. Grade: B+ d Arrived Phoenix, Mount Florida; Matador Records By Christian Hoard Daily Arts Writer The old joke about the Grateful Dead was that you had to be on drugs to dig their music. Though they're certainly on the other side of the stylistic fence, you could say the same about Mount Florida, the Scottish electronica duo - Matador Records' latest overseas find. That's because appreciating Arrived Phoenix requires both the free time and the ability to dupe oneself into mindlessly contemplating the pseu- do-profound that only acid-eaters truly possess. There are ideas here, to be sure. Whether you want to call them "soundscapes," "aural collages," or just "moods," there is a semblance of a coherence lurking somewhere amidst the jumble of electro-noise and lethargic beats. But picking up on that coherence is more or less act of free association, and since melody and song structure are things these guys have little use for, it's up to the listener to play aural connect-the-dots. Worst of all, it's really, really, boring - even worse than listening to some drunken raver prattle on about the revolutionary progressive-trance sounds of DJ Forgettable. Near the halfway point, this Phoenix does begin to rise from its ho-hum electronic ashes: "Yo La Kinski" is a dourly melodic inquiry into (of all things) Grandfather's war-time activities and "Celebration" achieves a certain zen-like grace by tossing some rap- turous guitar fuzz atop a trance-like groove. But as quickly as things get inter- esting they turn drudging again. If you make it past "Don't Do Dada" (which, to their credit, MF don't do), you have the distinctly non- rocking pleasure of listening to a frigging Noam Chomsky lecture (excerpted from the "Manufacturing Consent" documentary). So let the cognoscenti fool themselves. For whiskey-drinking sons of bitches like the rest of us, this is just an arty snooze-fest. Grade: B- O-Town, O-Town; J-Records By Luke Smith and Andy TaylorFabe Daily Arts Writers TheAtavan Tap Hoen; Z By Scott Waldman For the Daily . pes, Sean Madigan -Records Sean Madigan Hoen currently studies psychology in East Lansing, but don't worry, I didn't hold it against him. The liner notes for Sean Madigan Hoen's debut CD The Atavan Tapes (yes he spells it wrong, blame the East Lansing air) say that the I1 songs on the album were "recorded in various bed- rooms, basements, and apart- ments" across the state of Michigan during the course of eight months last year. Unfortunately, it often sounds this way. But despite some technical stu- dio shortcomings, Hoen's jazzy chords, raspy raw voice, and crafty vocal, melodies on The Atavan Tapes combine together for an interesting, relaxing listen, although not straight through. Born right here in Ann Arbor, Sean Madigan Hoen has been mak- ing music for the past few years, fronting the critically acclaimed rock group Thoughts of Lonesco until early 2000. The Atavan Tapes is quite a departure from his previ- ous rock and roll works, showcas- ing Hoen's depth as a singer/song- writer. But change isn't always a good thing. While a few of the songs on this album provide unique listens, too often The Atavan Tapes sounds like an all-too-large medley, with track after track supplying bundles of repetition. What Hoen should have supplied with his CD was a few tabs of Ativan for my pounding head. I know that the prescription drug would have eased my anxiety after listening to this album. Grade: C+ Boy band svengali Louis J. Pearlman's latest entry in the world of teen pop domination launched with a wildly successful ABC pro- gram "Making the Band." From there, the five boys in this projected supergroup laughed together, cried together and dealt with the loss of Ikaika when he had to return to Hawaii to be with his girlfriend. He traded fame for love. How noble. Nailing down a contract with J- Records in the pow- erful finale of their' first season, all that had to be done was churn out a series of hits and dominate the record charts. Mission accom- plished, or some- Ain't Life Grand, Slash's Snakepit; Koch Records By Rob Bode Daily Arts Writer Apparently it takes more than a top-hat, a cool name and the moniker of guitar legend to make a good album. Slash's Snakepits' latest release Ain 't Life Grand is supreme- ly average. It is hard not to have high expectations for the man who wrote such guitar anthems as "Paradise City" and Welcome to the Jungle" but after listening to 70 minutes of vanilla blues rock it is hard not to wonder what happened to the epic sound that characterized Slash's playing with Guns N Roses. The album gets off to a quick start with "Been There Lately," but behind the pounding drumbeat, galloping guitar chops and gritty vocals there isn't much substance. Lack of sub- stance not only describes the first track but epitomizes most of the album. Relatively few examples of com- plete songs exist on the album. Most songs are ruined by a lack in lyrical creativity. Each song was either a song about drugs with sexual innu- endos or a song about sex with drug innuendos. How many times can rock clich6s be recycled? Within the song "Mean Bone," vocalist Rod thing. The powerful first single of 0- Town's eponymous debut has gone gold and taken its rightful place in the watered down market of bubble gum Swedish hit-making. "Liquid Dreams" rages with ado- lescent male pride, crafting the image of the perfect girl, an amal- gam of Jennifer, Janet and the three/five members of Destiny's Child. The song laments about mem- bers experiencing their "O-faces" in the middle of the night and subse- Jackson spews forth "I got one mean bone in my body/I got one mean bone in my hand." Whatever could he be speaking of? Yawn. Not only is the album lyrically abysmal but Mr. Jackson's smoked out growls are as unique as the newest boy band. A few standout tracks are scattered throughout the album. "Shine" has excellent dynamics. The song ebbs and flows adding to the delightfully disturbing feeling that comes from listening to a choir of children's voices sing backup vocals to a song about a serial killer. Regardless of lyrical content, songs like "Shine" and "The Truth" have very catchy, singable, hard rock hooks. "Back to the Moment," no matter how cliched, is a grade-A blues love ballad. Slash's guitar playing is quite solid but not exceptional. If it wasn't for his hard-hitting, chunky rhythm parts the album would fall on its face. Apart from his admirable rhythm work most of the tracks lack the rich melodic solos that made quently waking up freshly departed from their liquid dreams. "Sexiest Woman Alive" begins as an acoustic departure from the mod- ern pop formula and winds around into an explosive chorus rivaling Chumbawamba's smash "Tubthumpin," and by rivaling we mean stealing. Smoke Signal Communications spokesman and former CHiP Erik Estrada lends half of his genetic makeup to O-Town in the form of a junior version. Erik-Michael Estrada's vocals drive the creatively titled "Girl." The third track on the album is a relief as the steamer is gotten out of the way early. Musical laxatives. "Every Six Seconds" takes us back to 1986, deep inside the "Danger Zone" where Commander Mike "Viper" Metcalf barks at Maverick and Iceman for their in-flight antics. The chunky guitar lead during the chorus completes this not-so-quiet nod to Kenny Loggins. This album sucks. Grade: D- Got It Made, Brassy; Wija Records By Heidi Wickstrom For the Daily There is nothing worse than an artist's shameless self-promotion and celebration of a fundamentally terri- ble product. Some infamous ye memorable abusers of the systen include Vanilla Ice in hardcore mode, Puff Daddy and every boy band in history. Unfortunately, Brassy's Got It Made revels in this immodest tactic by indulging listeners in the kind of unabashed self-adulation that only' makes an already bad record even; worse. Got It Made opens with a strange, techno-infused interlude of warped,'" synthesized trash, partnered with excessive record scratching, reminis* cent of DJ Skribble and the whole MTV dance party groove crew. The interlude gives way to the first song of the record, entitled "No Competition." Throughout the entire song the lead singer, whose voice is comparable to Chrissie Hynde orr crack, repeats "B-R-A-to the double S-Y" over and over. It is almost enough to incite violence and/o* epileptic seizures in the unfortunate victims of its droning. And just when it seems that it couldn't get worse# "No Competition" drones on for about three more minutes, setting the stage for the next 16 atrocities on the CD. The crowning moment of Got It Made comes rather early on, in the form of a spoken answering machine piece of junk called "L vs. S." For those of you who couldn't deciphec that one, "L" and "S" stand for "Laverne" and "Shirley," of the popu- lar '70s television show, "Laverne , and Shirley." Why Brassy feels the need to pay tribute to them is unknown; what is known, however, is that their answering maching homage to this choice television misterpiece z would certainly embarrass Penny Marshall and Cindy Williams, and it turn, probably everyone else who hears it. Brassy further expands upon their "why everyone should think they're cool" rhetoric with the blatantly nr- cissistic songs "I Gotta Beef," "Who- Stole the Show" and "B'Cos We-, Rock." They also continually refer t the "Brassy way" of doing things and the familiar "B-R-A-to the dou ble S-Y" manifests itself many more times throughout the record. The- final jam of the disc, is entitle, "B.R.A.S.S.Y." and it consists solely of that dreaded chant looped continu- ously over a background of Europop techno-trash. At that point, the seizures begin again. "B'Cos We Rock" proves to be sim- ply humiliating. Brassy repeatedly' attempts to convince listeners of their all-encompassing coolness factor which is a shame because, yeah.. about you guys rocking? There seems to be a serious misunderstanding,.. If Brassy seriously thinks that they "got it made" by releasing insolent tripe like this record, it is unthinkable what might result if they knew they sucked; it's probably better this way. Brassy can continuously reassure themselves of their artistic merit, yet meanwhile, another conclusion has already been made: B-R-A-double S Y is C-R-A-double P-Y. Grade: D- Slash a guitar hero. The album as a whole isn't bad. If a group of twenty-something rockers released Ain't Life Grand as their debut album it would be easy to say, "Solid album, you have a lot of potential." But since Slash's Sankepit is a group of rock veterans led by a rock immortal it is harder to let such a generic album slide by without criticism. $EAN MAMA", 4 T HE A AM : . :: xaioowo7N'otalCSx- a«?w yt , Grade: B- STOMP's life rhythimhit Fisher :._ By Shannon O'Sullivan Daily Arts Writer STOMP - What does this make you think of? Do music, dance, theatre and choreography come to mind? Or, maybe trash cans, tea chests, plastic bags, plungers, boots and hubcaps? Whether it is one thing or another, STOMP is an incredible, award- winning international percussion all ends of the stage, with Zippo lighters creating fig- ures to garbage pail cans cracking, sounding explo- sions. Beginning on the streets of Brighton, England, STOMP has grown into an international sensation with five touring companies, covering over 200 cities. From engagements at the Acropolis in Athens to performing on TV's "Mad About You," "The Late-Show with David 1 tt-rgn ad"C.~~Annr c rnirn Amrica" STUMP 0 I traduatina Students I C