Listening Station: Bad Religion, TV on the Radio, David Cross

Bad Religion

The Empire Strikes First

When punk rock got a political conscience in the '80s--largely in reaction to our own li'l Western axis of evil, Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher--the genre seemed to peak like a liberty spike. Bands and labels broke out like rashes, righteous anger was practically a religion and sticking it to The Man was as easy as learning three chords, buying a case of Pabst and inviting over two dozen of your righteously angry best friends. But if you peered past the mohawks and mayhem, you often discovered mere pissed-off kids looking for an excuse to party.

Then along came Bad Religion, nerdpunks standing proud at the head of the class war, burning with real anger and real big words to match. Over its 20-plus year career, the band has had highs (1989's spitfire masterpiece No Control) and lows (2000's The New America, a botch of defanged "punk" overproduced by Todd Rundgren), and now, well, um, Bad Religion's still here. Yeah, that's the best way to sum up The Empire Strikes First; the band's 14th studio effort is a mixed mosh pit--some passion, some plod, some brilliance, some blah. The two standouts, "Let Them Eat War" and "God's Love," sit in mid-album like two balled fists, showcasing BR at its leanest and keenest, with classic buzzsaw careen and brainiac wordplay. But the bulk of Empire reveals an aging band, as BR frequently cannibalizes its own riffs (the title track sounds like a "21st Century Digital Boy" remix) or slacks off into sing-song, Beach Boys harmonizing that seems less likely to inspire tossing Molotovs than writing a pointed letter to the editor. Empire doesn't strike out, yet doesn't strike lighting. Longtime fans of the BR faith might christen this crew Baddish Religion.--Andrew Kiraly

TV on the Radio

Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes

In a year when even the best rock music has been decidedly retro or retread, TV on the Radio is a welcome arrival. The buzzing Brooklyn avant-pop quintet doesn't pilfer from or imitate its influences. Instead, it dreams up inspired amalgamations and seemingly free-association arrangements that would normally score high on the quirk factor if it weren't delivered so sincerely. On its second full-length, Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes, there's very little evidence of piss-taking or stylistic romanticism. Carefully unfurled tracks such as "The Wrong Way" and "Dreams" are stubbornly original, gliding along by way of its hypnotic low-end fuzz and Afrobeat-like rhythms.

TV on the Radio's true pop coup d'etat is that it's not easily comparable to other musical entities. References to Peter Gabriel--whom lead vocalist Tunde Adebimpe sounds most like--and the Pixies--whom it once covered, in doo-wop fashion--abound in the press, but other references rarely capture the essence of the band's sound. Only in this regard, ironically, does a likeness present itself--specifically, the Mars Volta, another doggedly independent multi-culti act that skillfully and distinctively upends the conventions of rock while still embracing it as an outlet for liberation.

However, TVOTR's drama is less cathartic and more observational. Adebimpe doesn't buy into primal scream therapy, nor does he use emotional distance; his vocal delivery is thoroughly felt at consistently even-tempered tones. His articulation lends his world-weary prose both clarity and honesty, and it's perhaps the album's most inviting element. On the a capella "Ambulance," Adebimpe's skipping croon carefully avoids melodrama during its most potent refrain: "I will be your one more time if you will be my one last chance/ oh fall for me."

Desperate does fade a bit toward the end. The music can grow a little too spare ("Wear You Out" plods along via its death-march drumbeat), and Adebimpe's fatalism isn't always so affecting (see "Bomb Yourself"). But overall, TVOTR makes an indelible impression, particularly in this rock revisionist environment.--Mike Prevatt

David Cross

It's Not Funny

Even though David Cross' last comedy album, Shut Up You Fucking Baby!, petered off into a series of increasingly fragmented diatribes about the pope and a loathsome breakfast niblet called the Squagel, it was a masterpiece of bitterness and bile. Arguably the most salient political humorist since Bill Hicks, Cross is the short, bald, crabby answer to right-wing jesters like Larry the Cable Guy and Jeff Foxworthy. But unlike his conservative counterparts, Cross makes no effort to be a blue-collar man of the people. In fact, the bulk of his rhetoric on It's Not Funny is directed at the average joe--you know, the kind of person who buys electric scissors and believes in the Department of Homeland Security.

Of course, this is not untrodden ground for Cross. Within his last-angry-man world view, everything is a harbinger of the apocalypse, from "The Simple Life" ("a show that glorifies these two rich, giggling cunts") to nu-metal ("I would rather hear the death rattle of my only child than have to listen to that fucking shit."). In between these snaps on pop culture, Cross levels his critical gaze at the ultimate Everyman, George W. Bush. Riffing on everything from the terror alert scale to Bush's plans for a moon base, Cross spares no hyperbole in his quest to discredit the president-select. For Cross fans, some of this will seem familiar; and for neocons, most of it will seem outrageous (particularly when Cross announces, "I hate our freedom...we're fucking assholes, man.").

Still, Cross is an important voice on the cultural landscape--kind of a Gen-X Al Franken. Plus, Cross closes It's Not Funny with a priceless anecdote about meeting Creed frontman Scott Stapp--a regular target of Cross' caustic barbs--at a Las Vegas poker tournament. Long story short, Cross introduces himself and a peevish Stapp replies, "Thanks for the words." Although Stapp undoubtedly intended it in a different way, it's a sentiment that many listeners will share.--Newt Briggs