Listening Station: Janet Jackson, Johnny Cash, Your Enemies Friends

Janet Jackson

Damita Jo

It seems Janet Jackson is having a bit of an identity crisis. For a woman pushing 40, she can't really decide who she wants to be. For the past two decades, we've watched her evolve through what could loosely be called concept albums. On her 1986 breakthrough, Control, she came of age as a no-nonsense young woman finally living life on her own terms, giving her a sense of independence that would smartly distance her from her famous family. Innocence was lost again on the next two albums, whether it was addressing the ills of the world (1989's Rhythm Nation 1814) or revealing herself as a sexual being (1993's janet). Since then, her albums have showcased less personality, less revelation and less distinction. It should follow that the recently released Damita Jo is perhaps the most unfocused and least inspired effort since Control.

Most of Damita Jo covers the various aspects of her sex life, which has been exhaustively covered on the last three albums. When she sings "You make my juices flow" in the single "Just a Little While," it's just not as titillating as, say, 1993's oral sex-referencing "If," or as revealing as her 1997 Sapphic cover of Rod Stewart's "Tonight's the Night." With such a lack of new sensual insight coming from one of the most undersung R&B artists in modern pop (and, lest we forget, the woman who essentially flashed America just a few months ago), most of Damita Jo feels limp and inhibited. Sure, she takes on various roles--the individual, the girlfriend, the sexpot, the daughter--in both the songs and the spoken interludes, but none of them seems to represent the same person. In fact, the album is dangerously faceless, save maybe the title track.

What saves Jackson and this album is the production, helmed by longtime duo Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. They still come up short for the ballads--Jackson's artistic weakness--but here, they've bridged a gap between old-school nostalgia and the Pro Tools era, evidenced on the slow-burn single "I Want You" and funkier tracks like "All Nite" and "R&B Junkie." Additionally, while most of her albums peter out two-thirds of the way through, Jackson closes this belabored affair with the up-tempo nuggets "SloLove" and "Just a Little While." Too bad that, lately, for each step forward she takes, she ultimately takes two back.--Mike Prevatt

Johnny Cash

My Mother's Hymn Book

The second song on My Mother's Hymn Book, American Recordings' latest Johnny Cash release, is called "I Shall Not Be Moved." It is an adaptation of the African-American spiritual "We Shall Not Be Moved" and is performed by Cash with nothing but an acoustic guitar and his cement-mixer baritone. As is suggested by the change to the first-person singular, Cash's rendition doesn't buy into any collective struggle; it's just the Man in Black against the world: "Just like the tree that's planted by the water/ I shall not be moved."

It's a potent reminder that Johnny Cash was country music's last great loner. Perpetually flirting with the wrong side of the law, Cash struggled with a well-documented drug problem, which is probably why he was as comfortable playing at San Quentin as he was the Grand Ole Opry. He was also profoundly suspicious of authority, making him one of the few music icons who could reach across genres and speak to felons, poets, punks and scholars alike.

But the bedrock of Cash's musical legacy was laid on a New Deal cotton farm in Dyess, Ark., where his mother, Carrie, would serenade him with gospel songs strummed on a barebones guitar. Cash collects his favorite of these hymns on the aptly titled My Mother's Hymn Book--a record that was originally included on the voluminous Unearthed box set released last November. Produced by Rick Rubin, it's consistent with Cash's other American efforts--Spartan, rootsy, austere--but doesn't feature collaborations with Nick Cave or Fiona Apple or anyone of that superstar ilk. Rather, My Mother's Hymn Book presents Cash all by his lonesome and ultimately makes for a strong record--powerful perhaps for the devout, less so for the skeptical. Particularly moving are Cash's renditions of Merle Travis' "I Am a Pilgrim" and the foot-stomping traditional sing-along "Do Lord" (of course, Cash could have sung the Quizno's song and made it sound soulful). More than anything, though, the album is a solid document of Cash himself, who lived to be 71 but still left the world far too early.--Newt Briggs

Your Enemies Friends

You Are Being Videotaped

The New Wave revival within modern rock must be climaxing--more like already peaked--for now hardcore-oriented bands such as Your Enemies Friends are slathering their songs with synthesizers and brightening the usual guitar dirge. Kicking off the L.A. quintet's debut longplayer, You Are Being Videotaped, is "The One Condition," which begins with all sorts of pedal-treated guitar noise, but then achieves liftoff with a sugar-rush keyboard melody that could have been nicked from the New Pornographers. "Back of a Taxi," the next song, is straight-up Nirvana reinterpreted by Andrew W.K.; listening to it, you're not sure whether you should bang head or shake hip. If the Faint was an electroclash band butched up by some guitars, Your Enemies Friends are the opposite--a post-grunge/post-shoegazer outfit occasionally breaking its distorted trance with spry, occasionally effeminate synth lines.

Much of You Are Being Videotaped can be traced back to Nirvana, the Foo Fighters and the Deftones--sort of a shock, given that its label is mainstream-scoffing mag/imprint Buddyhead. YEF's assumed muse is most evident in Ronnie Washburn's vocals, drummer Luis-Carlos Contreas' percussive assaults and the downcast, sometimes-abrasive tunefulness exhibited on most of the record. On the other hand, some songs, like "Census" and "The Comfort System," are reminiscent of the Vines' hazier material and Pink Floyd's more theatrical moments.

What's fairly consistent is the quality of the songwriting. Washburn has a sharp sense of melody, even when he threatens to rein in the ascendant bombast with a little dissonance. Some of his lyrics are forgettable--"Pollution of Nonsense" lives up to its name with the choral chant, "What the company wants, what the company needs, is a company"--and some of them seem poorly derived from defunct group At the Drive-In's paranoid, spoken-word screamo. But it's Washburn's songcraft--along with the jaunty keyboards and affected production--that ultimately seduces you.--Mike Prevatt