Seattle quintet Juno was one of those bands from the past decade that there should have been more of. Consisting of guitarist/vocalist Arlie Carstens, guitarist Jason Guyer, third guitarist and keyboardist Gabe Carter, drummer Greg Ferguson, and a revolving cast of studio and touring bass players, the group released only two records at the turn of the century before disbanding in 2003. To label the band “emo-core” is a disgraceful insult to every loud, intelligent guitar rock group of the past half-century; theirs was a sound that would obliterate self-indulgent whiners like Dashboard Confessional or The Promise Ring from the stage in a swift fury. With a three-pronged guitar attack, a daring prog-rock approach to songwriting, and smart, insightful lyrics, it’s no surprise that the major labels and MTV gave them a wide berth while pursuing more marketable groups. A typical live Juno set would usually include amps cranked to eleven, intermittent diving from monitors, splintering shards of feedback, and violent guitar thrashings resulting in head injuries to various members of the band. It didn’t take long for them to become underground favorites.

After an assortment of seven inches and brief courtships by Sub Pop and Jade Tree, Juno signed with Kim Coletta’s DeSoto Records for their debut, This Is the Way It Goes and Goes and Goes (1999). It’s a strong first release, only weighed down by occasional forays into overextended Mogwai-esque boredom-rock during its midsection. It would be hard to argue with Arlie Carstens’ vocal comparisons to Bob Mould, and it’s no more difficult to imagine the Husker Du frontman emote lines like:

You saved for me a memory of my former self,
But I won’t ask if you promise not to tell.
Lord knows we really never had much else.
It slides in real slow, you slide out real slow.
When she died she was just twelve years old.

Yet Juno’s sound is more about texture and subtle nuance, toying with dynamics and structure rather than full-frontal and direct guitar assaults. The organ at the intro of “The Young Influentials” is a nice touch, and what at first seems like a gut-wrenching ballad transforms into an aggressive stop-and-start workout for the band.

“The Young Influentials” – Juno 4:00 (This Is the Way It Goes and Goes and Goes, DeSoto 1999)

All great bands have a secret weapon, and for Juno it was drummer Greg Ferguson, a musician in complete deference of the song, never showboating, propelling each section with reliable time and thoughtful patterns. The rewarding half-time breakdowns are just one of the joys of “Venus on 9th Street,” where the three guitars shtick is applied to magnificent utilization.

“Venus on 9th Street’ – Juno 3:15 (This Is the Way It Goes and Goes and Goes, DeSoto 1999)

The follow-up to their debut, A Future Lived in Past Tense (2001), is one of the best guitar records since Hum’s glorious and criminally overlooked Downward Is Heavenward (1998). The concise six-stringed drills of the debut are expanded into atmospheric spoken-word mood pieces and furious onslaughts of noise, with the occasional marimba-led ballad and hypnotic instrumental tossed in. A Future also shows the band experimenting more with odd time signatures and, as “Help Is on the Way” exhibits, minimalistic repetition. Note how the hammered-on guitars slowly pan left and right during the introduction and how Ferguson’s bass drum delightfully anticipates the next section. At 1:43 the three guitars can’t control themselves any longer, forcefully bouncing off one other as Carstens’ vocals increase in intensity.

“Help Is on the Way” – Juno 5:29 (A Future Lived in Past Tense, DeSoto 2001)

The highlight of the record is saved for the finale, a monstrous juggernaut of a song titled “Killing It in a Quiet Way,” which couldn’t be more misleading. At nearly seven minutes, the track is an ideal illustration of what Juno had matured into over the course of a few years, and encompasses all the best elements of the album. Listen at 3:03 as the guitars erupt into chaos, and at 4:12 Ferguson blasts into one of the sickest 5/4 drum patterns I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing; from there the guitars promptly enter the stratosphere. It’s absolutely stunning, and one of the few songs in existence that is mandatory listening at 130 decibels.

“Killing It in a Quiet Way” – Juno 6:51 (A Future Lived in Past Tense, DeSoto 2001)

Juno was a band that should not be relegated to the annals of obscure 90’s indie rock; every guitar player absolutely must own a copy of A Future, and any fan of rock music in general would do well to pick up either.

Curtis Mayfield, at the summit of his creativity, wrote and produced three soundtracks during the 70’s: the ever-popular Blaxploitation drug saga Superfly (1972), Aretha Franklin’s career-reviving Sparkle (1976), and one of my favorites, the sweet and soulful Claudine (1974) for Gladys Knight & The Pips. The film starred Diahann Carroll as a struggling single mother on welfare in Harlem, and explored her relationship with James Earl Jones, an affable garbage man trying to manage a few kids of his own. This lighthearted drama didn’t make much of an impression on me when I watched it a few years ago; the preachy welfare system lessons were handled awkwardly and tended to detract from the chemistry between Carroll and Jones. Admittedly, I was only watching the film because I love the soundtrack so much and wanted to see how it translated visually.

Knight and Mayfield were both at the height of their popularity in 1974, with the former still coasting on the success of the universally-praised classic Imagination (1973) and Mayfield continuing his string of socially conscious Soul records beginning with Curtis (1970). Claudine’s only fault is its brevity: at seven tracks and with a running time of a little over half an hour, it’s incredibly skimpy by today’s standards. But what it lacks in length it more than makes up for in content. Every track is a solid gem: the irresistibly funky single “On and On” (which spent four weeks at #2 on the Billboard R&B charts), a lovely interpretation of Mayfield’s own “The Makings of You,” and the gospel-tinged “Hold On,” to name a few. “Mr. Welfare Man” opens the album with some incredible string and woodwind arrangements (listen closely for that flute line), airtight interaction in the rhythm section, and a delightfully campy chorus.

“Mr. Welfare Man” – Gladys Knight & The Pips 5:31 (Claudine, Buddah 1974)

One of the more fascinating aspects of the soundtrack is hearing Gladys sing with Curtis’ unique vocal inflections. “Make Yours a Happy Home” wonderfully combines Mayfield’s phrasing style with her Southern gutbucket wails.

“Make Yours a Happy Home” – Gladys Knight & The Pips 4:33 (Claudine, Buddah 1974)

Mayfield’s orchestration skills on Claudine had taken a huge leap forward since Superfly, as the sunny title theme demonstrates. Ideally, I would have preferred more cues and incidental music on the record, but it’s really more of a vehicle for Knight and less an Original Motion Picture Soundtrack; this instrumental track suffices well enough.

“Claudine Theme” – Curtis Mayfield 4:21 (Claudine, Buddah 1974)

I picked up this disc for $8.99 at a Barnes & Noble in Fredericksburg, VA seven years ago, and sadly, it’s gone out of print, with copies fetching up to $189.00 (!) on Amazon. (What an unfortunate shame that some opportunistic prick would have the audacity to make someone pay that much for something that cost less than a buck to manufacture. But I digress.) I’ve seen original vinyl editions for less than $10 on eBay, which may be the best solution to getting one’s hands on a copy – it has my highest recommendation and is a key addition to any classic 70’s Soul collection.

When I was a horribly lanky, impressionable lad in the ninth grade, I walked into the cafeteria one morning before school and happened upon my friend Jeremy sitting quietly at a table by the windows. He was alone with headphones on, staring intently at nothing, like he was studying an imaginary fly on the wall. I sat down and waited for him to acknowledge my presence, and as he removed the cans from his ears, he began to rewind the Walkman and said, “Ben, you have to hear this.” I listened to the dark, slinky bassline that opens “Three Days” from Ritual de lo Habitual, said, “Cool,” and I tried to hand his headphones back to him. But Jeremy made me listen for the next ten minutes, watching as I became enveloped in the sonic whirlwind the song morphs into. This was a no-brainer; I was now a Jane’s Addiction fan.

At first I was drawn to Perry Farrell’s nasally, whiny vocals and the flashy guitar heroics of Dave Navarro (whom I’ll still defend now, ridiculous parody that he has become. Try to name one other guitarist from the late 80’s who was even remotely close in style and technique to Navarro – an amalgam of complex jazz chording, hair-metal pyrotechnics, and gritty funk. Say what you want about him now, but the dude was incredibly unique for his day). It wasn’t until I started playing electric bass, however, that I started to notice how outstanding Eric Avery and Stephen Perkins’ rhythm support was.

Normally I’m pretty quick to dismiss rock drummers who tour the country giving eight-hour clinics at Guitar Center and appear on the cover of Modern Drummer grinning and twirling a pair of sticks. But Perkins, damn him, is just so charmingly self-effacing, so un-rockstarish (despite the mohawk), so eager just to contribute a solid drum part than hog the spotlight. And his technique is absolutely flawless, but tasteful; most drummers of his caliber are calculated and cocky, using any opportunity to display their double bass drum chops or some nauseating tom roll. I’m only posting “Ted, Just Admit It…” for purposes of convenience, as everyone really should own a copy of Nothing’s Shocking, but listen to how Perkins confidently navigates through the maze of parts and compliments everyone in the band beautifully, like he had been playing this song for decades. Oh, and he was barely 21 when this was recorded. Twenty-one, people.

“Ted, Just Admit It…” – Jane’s Addiction 7:22 (Nothing’s Shocking, Warner Bros. 1988)

After Jane’s disbanded and Farrell took Perkins with him to form Porno for Pyros, his drum work evolved into something more complex and subtle. I was surprised at the amount of negative criticism their self-titled debut received when it was released; I thought it was quite good for the most part and appreciated the fact that Farrell wasn’t trying to create a Jane’s v2.0. All four musicians were accomplished veterans of the L.A. music scene, but there was a still a loose, unprofessional vibe to the record that I feel many critics and fans overlooked. (My favorite anecdote about the Pyros was that bassist Martyn Lenoble had no fingerprints because he played so hard.) By this stage Perkins’ kit had expanded to the kitchen sink and then some, but he incorporated the exotic percussion into the music in a thoughtful and consistent manner. Check out the accents in his bizarre pattern during Peter DiStefano’s guitar solo on “Cursed Male,” one of the highlights of the disc.

“Cursed Male” – Porno for Pyros 3:51 (Porno for Pyros, Warner Bros. 1993)