Listening Station: R.E.M., Interpol, Medeski, Martin & Wood, Talib Kweli, Pig Destroyer

R.E.M.

Around the Sun

Despite the idea that certain albums are often not fully appreciated or absorbed upon the first or even second spin, ideally they shouldn't come with criteria for enjoying them. In a recent feature, R.E.M. lead singer Michael Stipe suggested to his interviewer that he might have to hear his band's new album "seven or eight" times before experiencing its artistic or emotional payoff. Furthermore, some have offered that Around the Sun works only as a "late-night" record.

Well, rock writers--let alone music fans not obligated to give an album multiple chances before establishing an opinion on it--are unlikely to devote such time to this work. I stopped at six listens (including one post-midnight spin) myself, and it's enough to ascertain that the real issue with Around the Sun is not a delay in aural reward, or its supposed sensitivity to sunlight or any other excuse its supporters might dredge up. No, its main problem is that it's boring.

It's a shame, because there's some obvious effort displayed on the Athens, Ga., trio's 13th studio album. Most of it, however, comes from Stipe. More than anything else in the R.E.M. discography, Around the Sun is his record, in the way that 1995's noisy Monster was guitarist Peter Buck's record, and 1998's experimental Up was keyboardist/bassist Mike Mills' record. Vocally, Stipe exhibits a richness and tone that is consistently beautiful and transcendent, never overcompensating for his bandmates' frequent lack of compositional inspiration.

Even more impressive is his lyrical output. Much has been made of the political slant of Around the Sun, but what's extraordinary here is Stipe's thematic range. He's rarely specific with worldly concerns, but he hardly disguises them either, opting instead to blend the external with the personal and give the material a universal resonance. "Make It All OK" has a Bono-esque spiritual ambiguity--he could be referring to God or a lover when he says, "Was it my imagination, or did I hear you say, `We don't have a prayer between us.'"

That leaves the music, and while moments of graceful melody enchant here and there, the album as a whole falls into the same midtempo lull that plagued 2001's Reveal. Since founding drummer Bill Berry left the band in 1997, the band has lost much of its rock edge and energy. It must be said, though, that a ballad as stunning as "Leaving New York" deserves to be a smash radio hit. And you don't need to warm up to it either.--Mike Prevatt

Interpol

Antics

For its sophomore release, lauded NYC post-punk quartet Interpol would've gotten away with more of the same. Its 2002 debut, Turn On the Bright Lights, was, above all things, an emotionally intoxicating work that balanced gloomy atmosphere reminiscent of acts like the Cure with melodies as absorbing as those from the Smiths and the Psychedelic Furs. It was one of those feeling-bad-has-never-felt-so-good records that people play repeatedly, inspiring countless young bands and endless bad teenage poetry.

However, that which usually constrains most artists has liberated Interpol, and for that it sounds reinvigorated. Its widely anticipated Antics is a loose, often swinging affair that doesn't take itself as seriously as its predecessor did; gone is much of the brooding and aura overload.

While not necessarily a simpler album, Antics often isolates elements to emphasize certain rhythms and melodies. On tracks like the groove-laden single "Slow Hands," bassist Carlos D and drummer Sam Fogarino are in perfect concert, their partnership seemingly more instinctual now. And the relaxed, less-nervy approach articulated by vocalist Paul Banks on opener "Next Exit" begs for a sing-along.

What truly makes this an Interpol record is the familiarly punctuated guitar riffs of guitarist and songwriter Daniel Kessler. He frequently takes the lead in songs like "Not Even Jail," albeit with the economic exhibition and sharpness of someone like the Edge or Johnny Marr. That buoyancy means there are few hangover moments here--this time, Interpol initiates the festivities.--Mike Prevatt

Medeski, Martin & Wood

End of the World Party (Just in Case)

Brooklyn jazz trio MMW has always jiggled more or less politely on the periphery of the white-dread jam band cosmos, although the grooves were tighter once upon a time. The next several years found them experimenting, see, and with mixed results--some quite good (DJ Logic and John Zorn collaborations) and some quite bad (although nothing truly unlistenable since 1997's Farmer's Reserve, which still makes a pretty cool little drink coaster if you Scotch-tape the hole in the middle).

End of the World Party marks a return to early `90s form, even if it lacks the methodical madness of those early efforts. Dust Brother John King's production sleeks out the record in a manner becoming to MMW's worldliness, and yet something still drags. Not much latent energy, distinction or endearment to individual tracks, even after several listens. It feels like a retread, actually, and for a jazz trio so willingly adorned with psyche-, cerebro- and cosmo- prefixes, failure to fascinate is a pretty serious offense. Check out 1994's Friday Afternoon in the Universe for the same MMW flavor done right.--Dave Surratt

Talib Kweli

The Beautiful Struggle

It was kind of weird to hear Talib Kweli get a shout-out on Jay-Z's 2003 swan song, The Black Album--not because Kweli doesn't deserve the props but because he's always been more concerned with truth and love and social equality than bitches and money. And that's the thing about Kweli; while his peers were sparking blunts and sucking down magnums of Cristal, he was extolling the virtues of fatherhood and painting stark lyrical portraits of inner-city life. His sales weren't that good--at least not as good as 50's or the Jigga's--but he was real in the same way that Grandmaster Flash was real when he came down the mountain with "The Message." It was a beautiful struggle that Kweli abandons on The Beautiful Struggle. He even says so on the title track: "They call me the political rapper/ Even after I tell them I don't fuck with politics/ I don't even follow it." It's kind of a strange position to take considering that he kicks off the record with a diatribe against sweatshops and child labor practices in the diamond mines of Sierra Leone. The contradiction defines an album that sees a reluctant revolutionary become a half-hearted entrepreneur. Definitely a step in the wrong direction.--Newt Briggs

Pig Destroyer

Terrifyer

Grindcore and gangsta rap are spiritual brothers in the sense that they make themselves easy targets for laughter. Their sociopathic origins are suspect, belly-soft with vulnerability. If you try out for the part and miss the mark, the joke's on nobody else but you: Witness the bling-drenched ghetto clown mugging with theatrical menace; witness the tattoo-smeared metalhead whose darkest thought is calling in sick to stay home and play Grand Theft Auto.

What are real bad-asses to do? Rock even harder, that's what. The burden of proof requires them not to ratchet up the tough 'n' scary schtick, but to ratchet up the music so the schtick becomes a natural outgrowth--an unavoidable tumor of consistency, if you will. So it goes with Pig Destroyer. Funny name, serious music: With its fifth album Terrifyer, Pig Destroyer retches forth 32 minutes of acid guitars and blast-beats that split the difference between groove and gross-outs, music and squealing mayhem. Shudder at the frantic punk bruise of "Pretty in Casts," the hot blitz of "Restraining Order Blues," the stinging smear of "Soft Assassin." Of course, no PD disc would be complete without one of the band's famous stalker paeans; this time around it's the lurching swamp foray "Natasha." Halloween is just around the corner, but for Pig Destroyer, horror is an all-season sport.--Andrew Kiraly