Thursday, May 08, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Listening Station

Blue Man Group

The Complex

When Blue Man Group first surfaced in New York's East Village in 1991, the odd azure-faced trio seemed chock-full of critical potential. Clad in uniform black and beating on an assortment of bizarre, homemade instruments, they both rejected the promise of advanced capitalism (by asserting that there is no such thing as the individual) and reaffirmed it (by showing that even the most conventional objects of mass production--PVC pipes, paint cans, mallets, steel drums--can be used to make art). Besides that, the Blue Men made such a glorious, colorful mess of things--splashing anything and everything with gobs of liquid neon--that, at the very least, they provided a respite from the tedium and monotony of popular musical theater.

Inevitably, though, the culture industry leeches onto and exploits even the potentially subversive (see: punk rock), and soon, there were 30 Blue Men performing dull, hackneyed shows twice nightly for audiences from the Big Apple to Sin City. And perhaps The Complex is the logical end of this process. A lifeless, commercial effort that features such fading (or faded) music-industry icons as Gavin Rossdale and Tracy Bonham, The Complex denies BMG's erratic percussive instinct in favor of conventional, verse-chorus-verse song structures. As a consequence, the album gets mired in the slow, sterile "Sing Along" (featuring Dave Matthews) and Esthero's abysmal cover of Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit." Even the tracks that aren't bogged down by celebrity guests--including "Piano Smasher" and "Exhibit 13"--seem bafflingly stale and polished. In the end, not even the album's few refreshing moments--highlighted by Rob Swift's turntable work on "Shadows Part 2"--are enough to save The Complex from becoming like the Blue Man Group itself: a big, blue, boring flop.--Newt Briggs

Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Fever to Tell

It's all about Karen O. The vocalist for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs squeals, moans, squeaks, screams, pants and, oh yeah, sings the 11 songs on the New York punk band's first full-length album, Fever to Tell. Her voice, often reminiscent of Chrissie Hynde, is an instrument of tremendous range, expressing rage, ecstasy and everything in between--except reserve. On the song "Tick," Karen O manages to find 50 different ways to express the title word.

Speaking of the lyrics, there isn't much to them. More noise-making than storytelling. No grand pontification here, just easy-to-grasp rock attitudes. On "Black Tongue," the chorus goes: "Boy, you're just a stupid bitch and girl you're just a no-good dick." The chorus of "Cold Light," one of the album's best songs: "Cold light, hot night/ Be my heater, be my lover/ And we could do it to each other."

Karen O's intense vocals are backed by a White Stripesian band consisting of guitarist Nick Zinner and drummer Brian Chase. Zinner is fully capable of the dirty, raw guitar antics of Jack White, with a little less Delta in his repertoire.

Interestingly, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs describes themselves as a pop band. But you'd be hardpressed to describe Fever to Tell as an album that would appeal to the masses. That fact doesn't diminish its quality or power, not at all, but there are signs here and there that the Yeah Yeah Yeahs could, if they wanted, make a grab for the brass ring. Just a few concessions to pop conventions and they could be huge. "Maps" is perhaps the prime evidence, a touching rock ballad on which Karen O resists the urge to splatter her attitude on her sleeve.

But make no mistake: Fever to Tell is no sellout album. It's raw, hard, brash, authentic--punk. Karen O isn't ready for her closeup just yet. She and her young bandmates have plenty of time to go for the platinum later.--Geoff Schumacher

Michael Darby & Smile

Homemade Ice Cream

Michael Darby & Smile play that breezy, inoffensive strum-and-plink fare known as coffeehouse music, and the cafe is the perfect place for it--'cause you'll likely need a crack-fortified quadruple espresso to stay awake through a set of this stuff. Homemade Ice Cream, as earnest as its namesake, is 13 tracks of technically competent but strangely anemic lullabies about the power of (everyone: awww) love. The music is likable enough, and it's probably pleasant to hear winkling in the background as you sip an overpriced mocha latte, but the fact that Darby and crew approach their music and subject matter like they're tiptoeing through a field of snoozing infants makes Homemade Ice Cream something less like music and more akin to wall paint--you don't notice unless you're really paying attention.

Things get off to a promising enough start with "Wild," a pleasantly striding lovey-dovey tune, but Homemade Ice Cream starts melting from there, with a huddle of songs that quiver with preciousness and fragility--"Baby, I Love You Too," "California," "Gentle Eyes of a Little Girl," "What Love Really Means." Again, the sentiment is earnest, the chops apparent, but the music of Michael Darby & Smile just lacks that fundamental oomph that makes music, well, music.

That isn't so say that Homemade Ice Cream is a complete vanilla mess. A few surprise tracks throw in some verve and hooks, such as "Maybe," which lopes along with violin and piano accompaniment, or the fairly spirited "New Great Day," styled up with harmonica and some passable guitarwork. For the most part, though, this brand of Homemade Ice Cream is low-cal, fat-free--and completely devoid of flavor.--Andrew Kiraly