Listening Station: Tom Waits, The Libertines, Paul Westerberg, Citizen Cope, Converge

Tom Waits

Real Gone

Tom Waits kicks off his 12th non-soundtrack studio album with "Top of the Hill," and throughout the monotonous, five-minute jam, you wonder if the inimitable singer/songwriter has finally fallen prey to shtick. It's a playfully sinister song, updating his avant blues with turntable elements and his equivalent of vocal beatboxing. But that sort of cacophonic arrangement swallows whatever substance we're supposed to extract from the lyrics, which project little more than Waits' reliably macabre imagery, his obscured baritone rasp not helping matters, either.

All is forgiven, however, come the second track, "Hoist That Rag," an anti-anthem that exhibits much of what makes Waits significant: his subversive melodic prowess, a tribal rhythmic flair that's simultaneously proprietary and global, a vocal evocation where coarseness isn't used for emotional distance or macho posturing, and an artistic vision that blends fringe sounds into something natural-sounding.

Waits--usually with wife collaborator Kathleen Brennan--has been exploring his backwater baroque blues and Tin Pan Alley-inspired rave-ups in earnest since 1983's Swordfishtrombones. And though he's sometimes too esoteric for his own good--see "Top of the Hill"--he's also an underrated songwriter, further proved on Real Gone. Strip away the gruffness and instrumental despondency, and you still have the framework of traditional songcraft--not to mention alluring narratives, vivid characterizations and distinctive vocabulary influenced by poetry, film and theater as much as by music.

If there's an extreme example of this on Real Gone, it's "Day After Tomorrow," previously featured on Moveon.org's recent Future Soundtrack for America compilation. The spare ballad has none of the ghetto circus aesthetic or misfit homage found in much of his work. Instead, Waits assumes the role of a weary everyman soldier and delivers a powerful, straightforward account that could not be any more timely ("I'm not fighting for justice/ I am not fighting for freedom/ I am fighting for my life and another day in the world here"). In a year of mediocre "anti-war" songs, this one is far and away the most compelling.

Waits also gets political on the reggae/bluegrass noir number, "Sins of the Father" ("The star spangled glitter of his one good eye/ Everybody knows that the game was rigged"), and you can feel those same themes lurking elsewhere on the album. But that's not the most distinguishing aspect here. Rather, Waits has maintained a proper balance between old and new, without sacrificing the core of his artistry.--Mike Prevatt

The Libertines

The Libertines

Like many doomed rock prophets before him, Libertines frontman Pete Doherty is one seriously fucked-up bloke. Long story short: Doherty earned delirious accolades for the Libertines' 2002 debut, developed a $400-a-day drug habit, burgled his own bandmate's house, spent some time in jail, lost the vast majority of his friends and wrote a bunch of songs about the whole experience. Some--"Can't Stand Me Now" and "Campaign of Hate"--are about his troubled relationship with guitarist Carl Barat (whose flat he robbed). Some--"Last Post on the Bugle" and "What Became of the Lads"--are about the uncertain future of The Libertines as a band. The rest are more or less about what a wanker Doherty is. Think of The Libertines as a London tabloid set to guitars--a paparazzi's telephoto snapshot of a band spiraling into a sinkhole of celebrity, ambition and crack. It's a bumpy ride, but it definitely delivers some delightful bits. "Don't Be Shy" skiffles along with the electric urgency of Chuck Berry, and "Road to Ruin" is pure, Morrison Hotel-era Doors (with a British twist, of course). At the very least, Doherty is keeping alive Liam and Noel Gallagher's tradition of insufferable genius. Good show, lad!--Newt Briggs

Paul Westerberg

Folker

Folker resembles all of Paul Westerberg's post-Mats efforts in at least one way: After one round (of the disc, of course), it's absolutely disappointing and sad. Three or four rounds down the road, however, I found all the pearls on which I had earlier tramped. Too many self-effacing giveaways on the new album suggest Westerberg still possesses all the bile to keep us guessing about the songs: Should I be laughing? Should I be crying?

The instantly infectious "Jingle" is irritating for all the right reasons, most notably because it seems as comfortable as the opening track here as it would being lost in the inebriated joy of the Hootenanny-era Replacements. And "$100 Groom" retains the singer's drunken anti-hero ethos, admitting to his soon-to-be bride: "I promise not to leave the room/ Even if I gotta vomit."

When Westerberg offers more poignant numbers, however, the subject becomes idealistic searches. "As Far As I Know" may be searching for the perfect girl or the perfect three-minute pop song; the singer from "How Can You Like Him?" asks who stands for integrity--masked as the ever-tired love song--and wonders how he isn't more of a star. But "Breathe Some New Life" rings as true as the artist gets, noting the effervescent nature of dreams of stardom. Westerberg sings: "It ain't happened yet/ I ain't holdin' my breath," acknowledging something so autobiographical that it hurts. For all its quality, though, this album is only for diehards. The rest gave up long ago.--Carey Murphy

Citizen Cope

The Clarence Greenwood Recordings

Washington, D.C.'s Clarence Greenwood, who records as Citizen Cope, picks up right where he left off from his self-titled 2002 major-label debut with his second record, The Clarence Greenwood Recordings. This is good news, considering his woefully underpromoted debut was full of promise. The bad news is the new disc sounds like a redo of the first, failing to capitalize on the vast potential of Cope's refreshing blend of hip hop, folk, soul and R&B.

The bright spots are undeniable: Lead single "Bullet and a Target" grinds some funky acoustic strumming and hi-hat rattles behind Greenwood's stream-of-political-consciousness: "People wanna bomb us/ More people gotta scatter and run from us/ You can blame it on Zeus and Apollo and Adonis." A tale of a psycho in love with a photo, the quirky "Pablo Picasso" runs seamlessly into "My Way Home," a sweet three-minute groove. "Sideways" shines brightest as Greenwood's Memphis roots drip into his vocals, his drawl drizzling warmth through a longing ballad.

But the streetwise edge of his acoustic hip-hop debut is all but gone, replaced with bland guitar licks from Carlos Santana and repetitive, sometimes cheesy lyrics. For a needed dose of soul, Citizen Cope is your man, but he's got more to offer than this.--Brock Radke

Converge

You Fail Me

Converge found itself in an interesting position after 2001's Jane Doe, the celebrated grindpunk blasterpiece that was intelligently wrought, malignant in its frigidity and utterly exhausting to listen to. Converge's quandary: What's a frowncore band to do when there's nowhere to go but up?

Try to squirm sideways a little, I guess. Follow-up You Fail Me finds Boston's Converge in a creative space that looks suspiciously like a plateau; this sixth album reflects a band that's become weirdly seasoned at spiritual violence and quite at home with extremes of emotion, content to blargh along quite nicely until a better impulse presents itself. Most tunes traffick in guitars that groan with their trademark operatic swells ("You Fail Me") and tasty breakdowns that rain hard ("Heartless"); and, of course, leadman Jake Bannon continues to subscribe to the belief that caterwauling like a rabid badger is, in this day and age, the only way to affirm your humanity. Still, You Fail Me indulges too often in telling moments of casual, sometimes unearned savagery that point more to reflex than response (the suddenness of "Black Cloud," for instance, feels like the movers barging into your house during dinner and spiriting the kitchen table away) and that makes You Fail Me a limited success.--Andrew Kiraly