Listening Station: Ol' Dirty Bastard, Mark Rae, My Morning Jacket, The Moaners

Osirus is ODB's revenge from the grave

Ol' Dirty Bastard

Osirus

Russell Jones, at various times also known as Ol' Dirty Bastard, Dirt McGirt, Big Baby Jesus or Osirus, died of an apparent drug overdose Nov. 13. The most outlandish rapper in the New York hip-hop collective known as the Wu-Tang Clan, Dirty had established himself as a successful solo artist on the strength of hit singles "Shimmy Shimmy Ya" and "Got Your Money," and a remix collaboration with Mariah Carey that spawned the immortal line, "Me and Mariah/ Go back like babies and pacifiers."

Alas, drug and gun charges forced ODB to serve some time behind bars. Released last year, he was working on an album for Roc-A-Fella Records at the time of his death.

Usually when an artist dies--and this is especially true in the case of rap music--his work is immediately and extensively celebrated, perhaps creating a false impression of how important the art really was. Both 2Pac and the Notorious B.I.G. will be remembered as two of the greatest all-time rhymesmiths, regardless of whether or not it turns out to be true, simply because they were cut down in their prime. The truth about ODB is that he was the third or fourth most significant member of Wu-Tang, but his lewd sense of humor, odd interpretation of rhythm and insane vocal delivery made him a unique figure in the world of hip-hop.

His bizarre lyrical freestyles always called for quirky production, but unfortunately there is almost none of that on the bloated, 57-minute Osirus, a mixtape released by JC Records, which is run by his mother and his manager. This is not the album ODB was working on for Roc-A-Fella; perhaps future posthumous albums will be produced with some sort of consistency.

Only DJ Premier's track "Pop Shots," Mark Ronson's "Dirty Dirty" and K-Def's "High in the Clouds" featuring Black Rob are notable among these 18 songs. Among the bad stuff, DJ Chops shits out some weak, wannabe-crunk beats on several tracks, clashing horribly with Dirty's Brooklyn shout-outs.

It's clear that some of the rhymes were recorded a while back, because the post-prison Dirty sounds tired and groggy, nothing like the frenetic wildman from his rowdy 1995 solo disc Return to the 36 Chambers. Once hilariously obscene when describing the burn of gonorrhea or the fragility of his balls, he now scrapes the bottom of the 2 Live Crew barrel with "Pussy Keep Calling," a disgusting disaster of a song. His marble-mouthed delivery and off-key singing, once somehow charming, had degenerated into the sounds of someone who didn't care anymore.

Ol' Dirty Bastard left behind some pretty good music. Unfortunately not much made it onto Osirus.--Brock Radke

Mark Rae

Into the Depths

Mark Rae is arguably the funkiest white boy in Manchester, England. The producer/DJ/label and record shop proprietor eats, sleeps and breathes the entire spectrum of black music, whether as half of dance duo Rae & Christian or on his own in the studio. He showcased some of his genre schizophrenia on his solo 2002 debut Rae Road, but that exercise is merely a foundation for the skills displayed on his recently released follow up, Into the Depths. On first listen, it's easy to get caught up in all the cross-styling. Rae seamlessly merges hip-hop, funk, R&B, soul, dancehall, house and jazz, projecting a less-throwback Jamiroquai and a more relaxed Basement Jaxx. But subsequent listens reveal even more dimensions. Rae appears to sidestep the lure of digital craft by utilizing live instruments, his work sounding more like performances than compositions. And yet, his songwriting is hardly an afterthought; enhanced with subtle musical narratives, his pastiche approach boasts direction--and a greater likelihood his listeners will revisit this work.--Mike Prevatt

My Morning Jacket

Chapter 2: Learning

These are rare cuts and leftovers from countrified Kentucky rocker Jim James. Katie Beach's album art is violently adorable. As for the music: It's a good idea to release two seminal '80s covers we all dig in secret ("Take My Breath Away," "West End Girls"), but maybe not a good idea to arrange and perform them with such slavish loyalty to the originals. Only the immense, yawning reverbs are distinctive, and in quite a dispiriting way--like you've stumbled liquor-deafened and penitent into a cathedral where it's youth night and some wayward, retro-minded preteen has comandeered the P.A. with her mom's "Top Gun" cassette.

Beyond these and a couple of other fairly weak revisits ("Dream A Little Dream," "Why Don't You Love Me?") we get some original country rambles that come off reasonably well. Not a bad collection for collectors. James saves the most viable track for last ("Good Nights and Happy Trails"), but I'm already a sucker for the kind of fuzz 'n phaser guitar it features, and Learning doesn't manage to pick up much in the end.--Dave Surratt

The Moaners

Dark Snack

It's no secret that blues-rock duos are, like, the thing ever since the White Stripes and the Black Keys and a whole bunch of similarly monochromatic twosomes discovered their roots in a musical style that was neither of their culture nor their geographic region. Perhaps such was the inspiration for singer/guitarist/fashion plate Melissa Swingle to form the Moaners--an all-female, electric-blues dyad--with drummer Laura King. Formerly of Pussy Teeth (which is a lot of fun to say once you get over the image of the Sarlacc Pit from Return of the Jedi affixed to Jenna Jameson's naughty bits) and Trailer Bride, Swingle abandons her stoner-country drawl in favor of her inner bluesman on Dark Snack with mixed results. Alternately sultry and menacing, the 12-track album ranges over the expected emotional territory--heartbreak, betrayal, etc.--but Swingle's down-tuned guitar and roundabout delivery are more ponderous than punchy. "Elizabeth Cotton's Song," for instance, opens with a keening harmonica only to deteriorate under Swingle's repeated lament, "Goin' down the road feelin' bad." Young lady, Jack White you are not. --Newt Briggs