Listening Station: Gomez, From First to Last, Jadakiss

Gomez

Split the Difference

One of the biggest bummers of last week's cancellation of this summer's Lollapalooza tour was the possibility of we Americans missing out on the entrancing live spectacle that is Gomez. The soulful psychedelic-folk quintet--which found early success in its native Britain when its debut, Bring It On, won the esteemed Mercury Music Prize in 1998--remains one of the few critically acclaimed U.K. rock acts willing to earnestly tour Stateside. For its 2002 album In Our Gun, the band trekked around North America three separate times. When its recently released fourth album, Split the Difference, moved 5,700 copies its first week--the act's best American chart debut to date--its growing reputation as a must-see live act was mostly credited for the sales spike.

However, Gomez should attribute increased interest--album and ticket sales--to its musical talents, which it has in abundance. Its previous three albums have been charming examples of exemplary musicianship and versatile, nonstylistic approaches. On Split, however, there's a third element that further empowers the music--refined songwriting. If its earlier work has been a bit wayward and too experimental for its own good, its newer material sees Gomez trimming some of its instrumental fat--particularly eschewing the digital tinkering and layering of In Our Gun--and focusing on the tunes themselves. The three guitars often employed in its music are nearly as harmonized as when all three singers contribute to the same song. And the pander-free melodies are its sharpest, best evidenced in its single "Catch Me Up," a rootsy rave-up that flawlessly drives despite the unconventional time signature of its beat.

For the first time, Gomez seems to have direction, even if each of the album's tracks is exceedingly distinct. That may just be the work of Tchad Blake, the first producer the band has ever worked with. The songs are still fleshed out, but this time they're also more direct and less labored-upon. As a result, Split is a mature pop record, a perfect balance of urban blues and countryside glee.--Mike Prevatt

From First to Last

Dear Diary, My Teenage

Angst Has a Bodycount

The title of From First to Last's debut album is cribbed from the cult teen turmoil satire Heathers, but you gotta wonder if Winona Ryder's famous line has undergone some kind of bizarre reversal in the process of appropriation. Isn't it part of pop culture's job over time to whip the milk of seriousness into unserious fluff, to make standup fodder out of "I've fallen and I can't get up," to mine guffaws out of space shuttle explosions and double murders by former football heroes?

Well, maybe not. Here we see the opposite: unserious to serious. Indeed, after taking Dear Diary for a spin, it's clear that From First to Last doesn't take that Heathers nugget with anything resembling a smirk. Instead, this Diary brims with stormy, bleary-eyed emo that--beneath the Pee Chees folder histrionics practically firehosed with earnestness--boasts enough impressive songcraft to give this act a future after the final bell. Singer Sonny Moore flings his lungs around as though goaded by some spiky adolescent burr, while guitarists Matt Good and Travis Richter lay down axe work that manages to be raucous, tuneful and smart. Sure, there are some tracks that'll have you hitting skip--the unanchored bluster of "Note to Self," the percussive pointlessness of "Kiss Me I'm Contagious"--but when From First to Last tweaks its approach, the results can be amazing: the catchy Casio skitter and keyboard peal of the strangely heartfelt "I Liked You Better Before You Were Naked on the Internet," sounding like some hep Psychedelic Furs upgrade, or "Emily," an unplugged tune about a romantic faceplant that has Moore crooning such undeniable goosh that it calls to mind not a crafty Christian Slater but that other casualty of '80s teen flicks, perennial nice guy John Cusack.--AK

Jadakiss

Kiss of Death

The thing about Snoop Dogg is that he's such a salient observer of the human condition. Take, for example, this lovely little nugget off "Shine," the third track on Jadakiss' star-studded Kiss of Death album: "But you gotta hate a bitch before she gets your dick hard." Leave it to Snoop to know exactly what to say to the ladies.

But this is only one side of Kiss of Death--a record that changes perspective almost as quickly as it changes collaborators. Of the 18 tracks, nine feature guest appearances by artists including DJ Quik, Kanye West, the Neptunes, Nate Dogg and Eminem. While this is certainly an impressive collection of conspirators, the abundance of partnerships prevents Jadakiss from establishing a clear identity. Is he the rock-slinging baller who "still can't escape the ghetto," as he suggests on "Time's Up?" Or is he the sensitive player/poet he presents on the Mariah Carey joint "U Make Me Wanna?" Can he be both?

Jadakiss' last album, Kiss tha Game Goodbye, suffered from a similar schizophrenia, jumping from Nas to R&B crooner Carl Thomas to Ann Nesby (the former lead singer for the 30-piece gospel choir Sounds of Blackness). It could be argued that P-Diddy had the same identity problems on his album trilogy, but he bridged the gap between street hustler and industry maven with an aplomb that Jadakiss clearly lacks. Nowhere is this more evident than on Jadakiss' Anthony Hamilton collaboration, "Why"--the first single off Kiss of Death. Like Barry White and Luther Vandross, Hamilton's satin tenor could make a Bad Brains song sound like an R&B lullaby, but the track is marred by a sour beat and lyrics like, "Why do bullets have to hit that door?/ Why did Kobe have to hit that raw?/ Why'd he kiss that whore?" Now that, my friends, is the real kiss of death.--Newt Briggs