Listening Station

The Von Bondies

Pawn Shoppe Heart

Although the assault left his face looking a little bit like prison-grade beef, there's probably nothing better that could have happened to Von Bondies frontman Jason Stollsteimer than getting pummeled by Motor City messiah Jack White. Of course, Stollsteimer could have responded to the incident a little better--going to the cops is, like, so Bloomfield Hills--but White's tantrum inadvertently landed the Von Bondies write-ups in music rags across the globe (Blender even did a punch-by-punch artistic re-creation of the fight). A band literally can't buy that kind of publicity, and it's no doubt one of the prime reasons the Von Bondies suddenly scored a deal with Sire Records.

Unfortunately, the album doesn't make it clear why White was compelled to treat Stollsteimer's skull like an island coconut, but it does reveal that Stollsteimer is tragically hip. Observe the way his hair drapes perfectly over his right eye. Listen to how his guitar howls with just the right surf-blues twang and how his voice quivers with that John Fogerty-ish intensity. It`s all so very pretty, isn't it?

In parts, yes. Bolstered by the slick production of Jerry Harrison--the former Talking Heads keyboardist who has served as producer for Live, No Doubt and The Verve Pipe--Pawn Shoppe Heart opens with the glam strut of "No Regrets" and rolls on with the poppy, almost new-wave shimmer of "C'mon C'mon." In between, Stollsteimer riffs on his own predicament on "Broken Man" ("I'm a broken man from a broken land"), and later, bassist Carrie Smith takes the mic on the Yeah Yeah Yeahs-esque "Not That Social." Overall, it's a nice debut--equal parts mod, pop and Detroit--and an effort that, as long as he steers clear of White, will likely earn Stollsteimer many more back pats than black eyes.--Newt Briggs

Mojave 3

Spoon and Rafter

Enthusiasm and fanaticism can be inseparable demons. When a low-paid, infrequently published and rarely read music critic latches onto a band worthy of cult status and highbrow worship, he can boast about a rare find with smug glee. Feeling like Balboa stumbling upon the Pacific, he can pretend to rule over all he surveys and strut in his prose like an immortal being.

Or, he can humbly assert: Mojave 3 is a remarkable band. Anybody craving rich harmonies, dreamy elegance and plaintive yearnings should rescue this talented quintet from obscurity and vault them into the realm of minor celebrities. If the narcotizing purr of Norah Jones can become the best-selling totem of the Starbucks Nation, then a band that is both earthy and ethereal, tender and kinetic and arty and accessible should become a beacon in this age of empty glitter and mechanized songcraft.

In epic ballads such as "Bluebird of Happiness" and neo-psychedelic pop like "Billoddity," the band displays its obvious debt to Brian Wilson and Nick Drake. But the savvy listener will recognize other unheralded critics' darlings--Luna and the Apartments--in the meditative beauty of Spoon and Rafter. Like those two Kiwi bands, Mojave 3 believes the path to transcendence is paved with mournful melodies and the sunny pangs of sorrow.

Employing burbling synthesizers, pedal-steel guitar and banjo to enliven their spare piano and guitar arrangements, songwriter Neil Halstead and his bandmates pursue the muse of quiet regret and exquisite longing. Recorded in Cornwall, but aching for the unfulfilled romances of California, the band finds comfort in its musical affinity and their shared sense of dread. "Things are so much sadder/ When they don't matter/ Anyway" is the resigned philosophy of weary wanderers who doubt the lofty goals of their pilgrimage. Spoon and Rafter offers the joyful sorrow of heartache and the redemptive solace of doomed reveries.--Robert Chancey

James Lavelle

Global Underground

#026: Romania

It's not so much that British producer/label head James Lavelle's time has come as a DJ, but, rather, that the eclectic DJ set, where spinning records from different genres is favored over an adherence to one particular style (i.e., house, trance, jungle), is very much redefining the club scene. As far as the record store bins are concerned, the man in charge of the influential Mo' Wax imprint (home to DJ Shadow and the '90s trip hop movement) and hip hop-inspired production act U.N.K.L.E. could be filed under either progressive house or breakbeat. Otherwise, he's one of the toughest artists to compartmentalize, and his second effort for the esteemed travelogue mix series, Global Underground, refreshingly touts that sentiment.

Lavelle displayed his multitiered penchant for streamlining breakbeat, remixing rock and dubbing hip hop before it was universally cool to do so, and on Romania he almost sounds vindicated. He unconsciously exercises his freedom to explore, from his nearly sinister remix of alternative rock act Queens of the Stone Age's "No One Knows" to U.N.K.L.E.'s ethereal prog anthem, "In a State," the latter placed at the beginning of the set in its original version, and repeated for the closer, remixed by Sasha (who also reconfigures Alex Dolby's "Psycho Garden"). The resulting blend coalesces because Lavelle has tamed his wandering ear, either by remixing the tracks himself, or seeking songs that retain a similar depth or tone.

One thing Lavelle makes clear is the importance of the tune. He has no time for minimalism, marathoning grooves or vibe-building, as almost every track has a melodic element, usually in the vocal form. And if the chorus isn't particularly resonant, there's usually a looping or atmospheric segment engaging its listener. Credit part of it to expert programming, but you also get the impression Lavelle has learned to channel his aural passions into something that now sounds instinctively coherent. Romania is neither a primer in beatmatching nor a vanity project--just another sonic representation of a man who's never short on vision.--Mike Prevatt