Listening Station

The Vines

Winning Days

I want to like the Vines. The Australian four-piece, led by certified head case Craig Nicholls, seems to have all the ingredients to emerge as the dominant rock band of the decade. But its debut album, 2002's Highly Evolved, included, at best, a solid EP's worth of good music, and its sophomore effort, Winning Days, released last week, comes up short in the same way.

The new album starts off strong with "Ride," a catchy garage rock feast, and continues to hit on all cylinders with the Nirvana-tinged "Animal Machine." Two other strong entries are the Beatles-reminiscent rocker "She's Got Something to Say to Me" and the punkified album closer "F.T.W." But the Vines, seeking to broaden their horizons, venture into territory in which they simply do not excel. "TV Pro" is an uneasy hybrid of late Beatles psychedelia and intermittent grunge rave-up. "Autumn Shade II" and "Sun Child" are Brian Wilson-esque ballads that are not very appealing, while "Amnesia" is lackadaisical filler. "Evil Town" is a conglomeration of a heavy metal intro, gloomy harmonies and Nicholls' mad screeching.

On the title track and "Rainfall," the Vines venture into indie pop territory, a la the Shins, to promising effect. But while the indie-style songs may stand up individually (especially "Rainfall"), they don't seem to fit well within the context of the album. In fact, really only three or four songs seem to make any sense together. One problem is that Nicholls, for all his on-stage swagger, doesn't have a distinctive voice to carry the poppier songs. In most cases, the lyrics are delivered in near-falsetto harmony with others, precluding Nicholls from putting his stylistic or emotional imprint on the song.

In short, the Vines don't seem to know what kind of band they want to be or what kind of music they want to play. Bands certainly don't have to fit into industry-concocted niches, but the better ones find that they do certain things well and stick with them. The Vines aren't brilliant enough to be all things to all people.--Geoff Schumacher

Jackson Browne

The Very Best of Jackson Browne

In its original incarnation, rock 'n' roll signified danger--subversive "race" music that threatened the bland certainties of mainstream American culture. As it matured and its rebellious songs became popular landmarks, rock music became a flabby institution. Respect elevated it and killed it. It ceased to matter as it became more meaningful. Far removed from its cultural origins, it has become a haven for contemptuous hacks who crave adulation and an oasis for unfulfilled romantic pilgrims who seek enlightenment.

Consider the dumping ground we call the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It can be a rest home for weary narcissists enamored with their faded glory or it can be a pit stop for a seekers of unattainable wisdom--another self-congratulatory gig or a moment to re-energize one's love affair with timeless melodies and alluring mysteries.

Recently inducted but still clinging to his tattered ideals, Jackson Browne savors stardom but despises indolence. The talented writer of more than a few classics--"Take It Easy," "The Pretender," "Lawyers in Love," "Rock Me on the Water," "Running on Empty"--Browne could have been mummified in a box set years ago. Instead, he continued to write masterful songs long after his popularity peaked.

A few years back, his label released a feeble greatest hits collection--it elicited curiosity from his fans, but it shortchanged his legacy. With The Very Best of Jackson Browne--a 32-track, two-CD set--Elektra has assembled most of the gems Browne has recorded over the past 30 years. While honoring his talents and his vision, the package does not calcify his creativity with flatulent praise and bombastic marketing.

Call it a summation, not an ending. And prepare to discover (or rediscover) an amazingly rich catalogue of disconsolate love songs, philosophical meditations on death and rebirth, sardonic political swipes at a rogue government and mordant contemplations of aging ungracefully in a youth-worshipping culture.--Robert Chancey

Onelinedrawing

The Volunteers

Singer/songwriter Jonah Matranga may be one of the truest emo artists in the country, if you disregard the Hot Topic-endorsed, co-opted segment of that otherwise earnest post-punk scene (see Story of the Year). But, evidenced on his latest album, The Volunteers, he transcends that which has largely defined him for the past five years.

Shortly after his old band, Far, disbanded following its revered 1998 Epic Records debut Water and Solutions, Matranga began hawking solo EPs (famously using a sliding payment scale) under the name Onelinedrawing. His early embrace of the Internet as a way of making his DIY art readily available and retaining the intimacy and interaction of his live shows online is the very essence of the underground emo community--as is his achingly sincere music, which ranges from confessional, acoustic solo tunes to full-band punk anthems.

On his second proper album, 2002's Visitor, Matranga mostly exhibited his penchant for minimalist strummers. On The Volunteers, however, he ventures into rockier territory, with varying tempos and instruments that make each song unique to the album. One notable inclusion is "We Had a Deal," the closest Matranga has come to a genuine radio single since Far's "Mother Mary" in 1998. Here, he ditches his normally sparse instrumentation and purely rocks out, an acoustic guitar punctuating the verses and the electric guitars driving the glorious chorus.

There are other moments of inspiration that differentiate The Volunteers from previous OLD albums. The `70s-esque "Over It" ends with a chorus of acquaintances and audience members, giving the song a live feel. "Oh, Boys" is a charmingly vague and almost flippant rock track, on which Matranga is either singing the straight female point of view or flirting lyrically with homosexuality. And he veers into ambient music with instrumentals like "Portland --->."

Matranga still retains his brutally honest demeanor in his songs, baring himself (and his perpetual heartbreak) like most of his peers and admirers, though singing better than most of them. Additionally, there's far more character in his music this time around, belying a wandering muse that can't contain him within a particular subgenre. He's more Elliott Smith and Ben Lee than he is Dashboard Confessional, endearing his listeners through both the mic and his guitar amp. The less attentive will still label him emo, but Matranga's multi-tiered expressionism goes beyond adolescent punk and diary rock.--Mike Prevatt