I’ve found that in my few years’ worth of experience in listening, writing, and reading about music, there are always going to be a handful of bands or artists that possess a curiously elusive quality in regards to the unwavering devotion of their fanbases. Bands that during the course of a conversation will provoke a raised-eyebrow statement of, “Oh, sure, Band X, they’re okay, but… they’re your All Time Favorite group?” I can understand, say, someone’s fervor towards a juggernaut like U2: they have dozens of successful singles, sold millions of records around the world, and have stuck with the same anthemic, fist-in-the-air, hook-filled formula for three decades now. Not really my cup of tea, but I could easily envision someone building a shrine to the group in a corner of their living room. I’m talking about bands like Echo and The Bunnymen. New Order. Hell, Radiohead, for that matter. (I’ll save The Sex Pistols for another time.) All groups who have had their moments, to be sure, but when the landscape of their discographies is viewed from a distance, those not blinded by their own rabid fandom would see maybe a peak or two, but far too many valleys – and in some cases, miles of barren wasteland. For me, Faith No More fall into this category.

Few collectives since the birth of rock ‘n roll have inspired such a cultish throng of hyper-obsessive acolytes (or Pattolytes, if you will) like Faith No More. Hopefully they’ll have reached this part of the post to read my disclaimer instead of immediately scrolling down to the comments section to expound a litany of obscenities and threats directed solely at my personal well-being: I like Faith No More. Shit, I used to love the band. I still get goosebumps from Mike Bordin’s drumming (see here). Bass players don’t get much more solid than Billy Gould. Roddy Bottum still holds one of the best monikers in rock music (say it out loud, and insert a “fuckin’” in there for maximum effect). But as I get older, the more I question the soundness of my rampant enthusiasm for the group during my musical coming-of-age back in the ‘90s. A cursory examination of Faith No More’s six full-length studio records over the course of their roughly a decade-and-a-half existence reveals the following: a phenomenal “classic” record, a decent but lesser “breakthrough” album, two barely passable and seriously flawed attempts in genre-hopping, and two rank, steaming piles of drivel that are essentially unlistenable to these ears. Not exactly an All Star-worthy batting average. Does this sound like a group who deserve the massive truckloads of reverence and acclaim that’s still heaped upon them to this day, ten years after their disbandment?

The core of Faith No More – bassist Billy Gould, drummer Mike “Puffy” Bordin, keyboardist Roddy Bottum, and guitarist Jim Martin – was formed in San Francisco in the mid-‘80s. After a revolving door of singers (most infamously Courtney Love) the band inexplicably settled on Chuck Mosely, a walking trainwreck of a vocalist who was one part surfer burnout, one part pseudo-rapper, and about ten parts drug-binge hangover. During these formative years the group’s sound was basically a heavier kind of party-hardy funk, anchored by Bordin’s thunderous drums and Gould’s popping bass, and punctuated by Martin’s thin, buzzing guitar and Bottum’s simple string-pad flourishes. It wasn’t exactly an original or complex formula, but it was about the only thing that worked with Mosely’s semi-retarded barks acting as vocals. Other than the title track, debut We Care a Lot (1985) is entirely forgettable, an insipid, throwaway mess of lightweight, one-note-riffing funk-metal. Follow-up Introduce Yourself (1987) benefited from slightly stronger songwriting and a fuller production, but Mosely’s obnoxious, ham-fisted presence is unavoidable; there’s just no getting around the guy. The band got more mileage out of “We Care a Lot,” reprising it for a single the following year, an anthem that would have forever rendered Faith No More to “one-hit novelty” had the members decided to fold and return to their day jobs. Fortunately, Mosely’s days with the group were numbered, and the frontman was sacked shortly after the record release party for the album due to his erratic behavior and excessive drug and alcohol use.

“Anne’s Song” – Faith No More 4:34 (Introduce Yourself, Slash 1987)

So two weeks prior to recording The Real Thing (1989), the band recruited a young Mike Patton to handle vocal duties, recommended by Martin after heard a demo of Patton’s other band, Mr. Bungle. Light years ahead of Mosely, Patton was unquestionably, almost shockingly talented, a vocal chameleon of sorts whose contorted whines, tough-guy roars, and clipped rapping was a perfect match for Faith No More’s new direction, with hooks and intensity in equal measure, livened by a beefed-up production from Matt Wallace to boot. This was the age where an edgy video could propel a band into the stratosphere, and it worked for Faith No More in spades – love it or hate it, everyone remembers the video for “Epic.” Lesser album cuts like the title track and “Zombie Eaters” revealed a depth and focus to the songwriting that had been previously absent from the band’s material, while second single “Falling to Pieces” and “Underwater Love” retained some of the playfulness that characterized their earlier work. To help rein the modern kneejerk criticisms of The Real Thing as “dated,” it’s important to remember that prior to its release, not many bands were combining funk, metal, and hip hop as effectively, for better or worse (accusations of the regrettable birth of the nu-metal that plagued the ’90s aren’t entirely unfounded). Granted, I could happily go the rest of my life without hearing “Edge of the World” or “Woodpecker from Mars” again, but as far as breakthrough albums go, The Real Thing delivers for the most part.

“Zombie Eaters” – Faith No More 5:58 (The Real Thing, Slash 1989)

With The Real Thing’s worldwide sales just shy of four million units, the pressure was on the group to produce a worthy follow-up. Yet no one knew what the hell to make of Angel Dust (1992) when it was released in the summer of ’92. Any buoyant whimsy left over from the previous album was gone, replaced by a darker, warped, almost oppressive atmosphere that confounded critics and alienated fans wanting another “Epic.” The band’s desire to experiment and avoid the carbon-copy follow-up resulted in one of the finest records of the decade, accented by the fact that Faith No More had finally discovered a unique sound that was entirely, sublimely their own. Patton, especially, went from a spandex-clad kid with a funny haircut to a vocal revelation seemingly overnight, jump-cutting from a piercing shriek to a baritone croon in the blink of an eye with breathless dexterity. Angel Dust managed the feat of each track sounding completely unlike the others without the album losing any sense of coherency as a whole: the full-throttle assault of “Caffeine,” the nightmarish sludge metal of “Jizzlobber,” the country-fried trailer-park drama of “RV,” the pulsating funk of “Everything’s Ruined.” Then there are the cuts that defy description, like “A Small Victory” and “Malpractice”; even the inferior tracks like “Crack Hitler” trumped anything the group had recorded to date. Within a few months of its release, it slowly became apparent that Faith No More had unleashed a masterpiece upon the public. The band toured the hell out of the album, working the European summer festival circuit and appearing at outdoor arenas with the likes of Metallica, Soundgarden, and Guns N’ Roses.

“Kindergarten” – Faith No More 4:31 (Angel Dust, Slash 1992)

(As an aside and bonus, here’s the movement from Shostakovich’s String Quartet No. 8 (1960) that was sampled in “Malpractice” [though the band actually used The Kronos Quartet’s version].)

“String Quartet No. 8 – II. Allegro molto” – Dmitri Shostakovich 2:44 (Manhattan String Quartet: String Quartets 3 and 8, Centaur 1986)

Then the problems started. After releasing a Commodores cover as a single (“Easy”), Martin, who for many was the “look” of Faith No More and had publicly expressed his displeasure at the outcome of Angel Dust (he had very little input in the compositional process), was fired under less-than-amicable circumstances. The search for a new guitarist began, with the group welcoming (somewhat reluctantly) Trey Spruance of Mr. Bungle into the fold. King for a Day… Fool for a Lifetime (1995) was written mostly by Gould, Bordin, and Patton – Bottum’s signature keyboards are curiously absent from most of the material (he was reportedly battling drug addiction at the time of the recording). Spruance, one of the most brilliant and mind-warpingly original guitarists of his generation, is sadly relegated to little more than distorted power chords here; it’s genuinely difficult to believe that it’s his playing on the album. Whether he was just out for a paycheck or had a total lack of enthusiasm for the songs is anyone’s guess, but the sound ultimately suffers for it, and one can’t help but long for the color of Bottum’s keys. Lead single “Digging the Grave” was nothing spectacular, suffering from a stripped-down blandness that characterized much of the record. “What a Day,” “Ugly in the Morning,” and “Cuckoo for Caca” are Faith No More-by-numbers, and even some of the riskier songs, like the midnight lounge-soul of “Evidence” and the country twang of “Take This Bottle,” don’t survive more than a few listens. The tracks that work best are the ones that are the least self-conscious, like “Just a Man”’s dub-meets-Gospel-ballad, the collision of showtune funk with a lively brass section on “Star A.D.,” and the atmospheric prog of album centerpiece “King for a Day.” Spruance departed before touring was scheduled to begin to finish work on Mr. Bungle’s magnum opus Disco Volante (1995), and Faith No More was yet again without a guitarist. The band promoted roadie Dean Menta to the guitar slot for the tour and parted ways with him shortly afterward.

“King for a Day” – Faith No More 6:35 (King for a Day… Fool for a Lifetime, Slash 1995)

There are a few items of note at this juncture in the band’s career. For one, their popularity on either side of the Atlantic had see-sawed, with a new legion European listeners following the group’s every move while their prominence in the States had waned. Side projects also began to dominate the lives of each member, with Bordin finding lucrative side work manning the skins for Ozzy, Bottum concentrating on his Imperial Teen, and Patton venturing further into the esoteric abyss with Bungle and solo work for John Zorn’s Tzadik label. Under these circumstances, it’s a miracle that Album of the Year (1997) turned out as well as it did, although the response from the public was generally lackluster. Jon Hudson of Systems Collapse filled in for the role of guitarist for a dozen selections that more or less followed in the anything-goes mold of King for a Day, ranging from some of the group’s finest work (the stunning “Stripsearch”) to miserable, uninspired dirges (“Paths of Glory”). A funereal air of finality – but not quite closure – hangs over the record like a fog, and anyone who had been following the group’s trajectory since the beginning of the decade couldn’t deny their own suspicions that the half-hearted attempt of Album of the Year was a clear signal for an impending breakup. Sure enough, Gould announced the split in the spring of the following year, but by that point, only the diehards were lamenting Faith No More’s disbandment.

“Stripsearch” – Faith No More 4:29 (Album of the Year, Slash 1997)

I’ll admit that much of Faith No More’s material has aged well with time, albeit somewhat peculiarly – Album of the Year becomes exponentially less of the disaster I made it out to be upon its release with each passing year, and there was a point in the late ‘90s when I couldn’t even sit through one song from The Real Thing. With an oeuvre this uneven – let’s not forget those earlier Mosely-fronted outings, much as we’d all like to – and given the patchy, hit-or-miss nature of the group’s later work, I posit my original case: is Faith No More really worthy of Hall of Fame status? I’m certainly up for hearing arguments in their defense.

As much as it pains me to admit, my longtime infatuation with Sweden prog-metal gods Opeth has appeared to have come to an end with the release of Watershed (2008), which dropped this past Tuesday. It’s the first time I’ve deviated from the now-standard new-album routine from the band: every two or three years Mikael Åkerfeldt & Co. release latest opus, critics and fans shit themselves silly with the amount of accolades they heap upon it, and I dutifully follow suit with my own variation on how phenomenal and important the group is. Not this time. Ghost Reveries (2005) was the first Opeth record in ten years that required some effort for me to muster enthusiasm about, and I still have difficulty sitting through parts of it . And I don’t want to place too much blame on the elephant in the room, but I’d be remiss to mention that I was hugely disappointed when I heard of the departures of drummer Martin Lopez and longtime guitarist Peter Lindgren in 2006 and 2007, respectively – especially Lopez, who could tap on the side of a champagne glass with a dinner fork for an entire album and I’d still be on the edge of my seat. So Åkerfeldt recruited Fredrik Åkesson (ex-Arch Enemy) and drummer Martin Axenrot as their replacements (clearly, the man has a penchant for Martins and short ‘a’s), toured the shit out of Ghost Reveries, and returned to the studio to prepare the next album.

Put simply, Watershed is a mess. Not a failure by any means, but easily the most unfocused and least engaging of the band’s “observations” to date.

For starters, you know something is awry on an Opeth record when you can count the number of furious, demonic, grab-you-by-the-balls riffs on one hand. Åkerfeldt, whose riff-writing abilities were once on par with the almighty Chuck Schuldiner – seriously, listen to “The Leper Affinity” again, or the entirety of Blackwater Park (2001) for that matter – now seems to favor standard power chords, open-chord strumming, and finger-picked arpeggios. Most of what constitute “riffs” here have been slowed down to sludgy, doom metal plods that have been done to death by the band and their stoner contemporaries countless times before. Those glorious riffs, whose grooves ran miles deep, could obliterate armies of guitarists, and trump the entire catalogs of most bands, are few and far between here. When a thundering, good old-fashioned palm-muted riff does finally appear, such as the 2:30 mark in “Heir Apparent” or during “Hessian Peel” at 6:31, it’s almost as if salvation has finally arrived. Sadly, it’s short-lived, as Åkerfeldt’s attention deficit disorder gets the best of him and the track shifts gears for the umpteenth time into some idyllic acoustic interlude.

Which brings me to my next complaint, the complete disregard of “flow” and linearity within the album that was one of Opeth’s most impressive characteristics. On past outings, such as My Arms Your Hearse (1998) and Deliverance (2002), the material was rife with sudden shifts in mood and dynamics, yet the transitions made sense, gravitating naturally and organically from one to the next. Watershed practically embodies the critical adage of complexity for complexity’s sake, throttling the listener through endless channels of seizure-inducing quick edits: pointless piano miniatures, power ballad strumming, masturbatory organ solos, grinding noise, or an excuse to dust off the old Mellotron. One can’t help but admire Åkerfeldt’s increasing interest in experimenting with various sounds, exotic instruments, and recording techniques over the years, but here they come across as bitty and far too self-conscious, as if he desperately wants the listener’s head to fucking explode upon hearing sudden Ligeti-like clusters of dissonance, the inexplicable chatter of restaurant patrons, or the pegs of a guitar being detuned – wait for it – while it’s being played. Yawn. Without an appropriate context, these “shocking left turns” carry the same ingenuity as a first-year composition student emptying his bag of tricks in a hopeless attempt to wow his instructors.

Considering the aforementioned loss of half of the band in recent years, my gut instinct tells me that this detour isn’t temporary. Åkerfeldt has been inching towards this sort of bombastic theatricality since the Deliverance and Damnation (2003) siblings, and honestly, it would hardly come as a surprise if the group released a purely symphonic or even opera record five years from now. Ultimately, this is about the age-old dichotomy of artistic growth vs. a fan’s selfish desire for uniformity; Opeth could release five more variations on Still Life (1999), throw in the towel, and I’d have no qualms claiming them as the finest metal act of the past century. Watershed is still better than a good 80% of the metal releases I’ve heard so far this year, but expectations are a bitch. To open a record with a quiet, almost tender acoustic duet between Åkerfelt and guest Nathalie Lorichs comes as a shock to someone intimately familiar with every note in the band’s cycle of five (arguably six) near-perfect albums of prog-metal of the highest order. I’ll always be rooting for Åkerfeldt and will continue praising his talents at every opportunity, but damned if he isn’t making me work for it, as his output becomes exponentially harder to digest with each passing album.

“Porcelain Heart” – Opeth 8:00 (Watershed, Roadrunner 2008)

As many visitors to this site are aware, there are a group of us out here in the audioblogosphere who are dedicated to promoting All Things Beat Garden Entertainment, a label helmed by Philly’s own Zilla Rocca and Nico the Beast, and it’s not just because they’re genuinely nice dudes who drop by every now and then to leave a comment. Last month saw the release of Nico’s No Beast So Fierce (2008), a sprawling, 80-minute hip hop monolith riddled with street philosophy, experience, and authenticity – or as Zilla accurately put it, like “The Game’s The Documentary (2005) meets Brother Ali’s Shadows on the Sun (2003) with a hint of Big Pun’s Capital Punishment (1998).” With solid, forward-thinking production handled mostly by Zilla and Alex Wood, it’s easily the label’s most ambitious release to date. To help promote the record, Nico’s been “feeding the beast” by dropping freestyles over two classic beats per week and letting the fans vote on which one he murders better. Fresh recently conducted a thorough and insightful interview with the man over at 33Jones, so rather than retread covered ground, I asked Nico ten random and somewhat irrelevant questions as a supplement. Prepare to get beasted.

Floodwatchmusic: What is the biggest misconception that people have about you?

Nico the Beast: I would say that, right now, I get molded in that class of “white rappers” trying to fit in. This is a misconception among those who first meet me. But I deal with, and have dealt with, too many dope MCs, white or black, that know me and understand that I’m just a monster MC, not just a good white rapper.

FWM: Blastmaster KRS-One said that every MC remembers the first verse that they ever wrote for the rest of their lives. Do you remember the first lines you wrote, and if so, what were they?

NB: Yes sir, I do remember my first rap. I was on some Canibus shit back in 98. I think I remember the first eight, so here they go:

Renegades of black shade persuade to invade the earth wit nuclear raids.
Bloody blades engraved with the mark of Satan’s grave behave brave.
Like slaves being whipped by forms of hate.
Insane like the pain of this rap game.
Emcees get slain from their backs up through their brain.
You heard of change of the estranged stage of the plague of human rage?

Yea, I know, kinda simple. But at fifteen and in a time where Wu-Tang and Canibus were the best thing in hip-hop – outside of Biggie, obviously – that’s the way I wrote for my first verse. I guess you can say I got worse over the years [smirks].

FWM: What is the one corny song that you feel guilty for enjoying?

NB: You know what, cuz? The one song that I felt when it dropped was that Gnarls Barkley “Crazy” joint. No guilt in saying that either – that shit was catchy. Cee-Lo’s voice is dope as hell. Plus the hook and beat is hook, line, and sinker when you put it together.

FWM: Which producer - dead or alive - would you most want to collaborate with on a full-length?

NB: Dead, the obvious answer is Dilla. End of story on that one. Alive, I’m a huge fan of Premo, Havoc, and Alchemist. As you can tell by my beat selections (mostly piano with heavy drums), dark beats with a story already to them before I even write are my cup of tea.

FWM: What is your favorite dinner that you like to serve?

NB: Well, anybody who knows me knows that I’m a husky Italian from South Philly. So my favorite meal is chicken parmigiana with some angel hair spaghetti and a good homemade meatball. In some outstanding gravy, not sauce.

FWM: If you could gain a superpower (strength, invisibility, etc), which one would it be and how would you use it?

NB: Any power? Man, I’m gonna get in trouble for this one, but fuck it – any man who says they don’t want X-ray vision is a goddamn liar [laughs]. I can be politically correct and say Spidey senses or some shit and that I would save the world. But let’s be realistic, it would take a lot more than one man with superhuman power to save this planet, feel me?

FWM: Who is your greatest influence as a lyricist?

NB: Right now, Brother Ali. Dude just has a reason to rhyme. He talks about everything, from his kid, to his personal life with his chick, to dealing with being “abnormal.” I mean, if you can’t feel what he’s saying you must be a zombie. That’s why I approach writing the same way – give people a piece of you every time you go in and they will either relate to you or not. Simple as that.

FWM: There are ten minutes left before the end of the world. What do you do in your last final moments?

NB: I spend every second with my two kids and tell them I love them, and that the final ten minutes of my life are worth more than the past 25 years because it was spent with them.

FWM: Is there a subject, for whatever reason(s), that you refuse to write about and why?

NB: No subject is untouchable, but I prefer to stray away from demeaning chicks. I also never talk about selling drugs – that is something I ain’t never done. I was around cats who did it, but to glorify something that cats do to survive is a cop out in regards to song substance. If you can paint a vivid picture of drug related events that occurred in your life, a la Jay-Z or Biggie, then that’s different. But if all you talk about is flipping coke – come on now, that’s just ridiculous.

FWM: What was the first record/cassette/CD you bought as a kid and what are your reactions to it now?

NB: I remember the first physical cassette I ever bought was Wu-Tang’s Enter The Wu-Tang: 36 Chambers (1993), hence me being a huge Wu fan. But I remember always putting my stereo on record with a Maxell tape running while the radio played new joints. I captured some good shit doing that. So most of my collection was Maxell tapes that I had made off the stereo. My reaction to it now is the same as the day I bought it: love it!

FWM: What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever witnessed at a show or on tour?

NB: Well, being fresh in the pond of hip-hop, I’ve yet to dip my feet into the touring end of the pool. But as far as shows are concerned, the craziest shit I’ve ever seen was actually shit on the underside of a toilet seat. Yeah, I’ve done it in some bad places, but come on, how the fuck did it get under the lid? It was like dude was trying to make a shit sandwich with the seat bottom and the bowl. Nuts, absolutely nuts. I had to laugh, because I was baffled thinking, “How?!?”

“My Life Is Mine” – Nico the Beast 3:48 (No Beast So Fierce, Beat Garden 2008)

There are probably more deserving candidates for the title of the most unfairly maligned, unjustly ignored, and criminally underrated band of the ’90s, but for my money, no one tops Oxford, UK’s Swervedriver. The group’s list of misfortunes and just plain bad luck borders on comic, from their drummer leaving the tour bus at Niagara Falls to “go get a sandwich” and never returning, to being dropped from their longtime label a mere week after releasing their most anticipated record. Swervedriver were one of those bands who were almost universally acclaimed during their decade of exposure (roughly ’89 through ’99), yet paradoxically suffered from piss-poor record sales while their imitators were topping the charts. Recent news of a reunion tour this summer has not only quickened my heartbeat in anticipation, but prompted a thorough reevaluation of the band’s catalogue, which bears the shocking distinction of being entirely out of print (save a two-disc retrospective). The following guide is for the curious “Swerve who?” readers who, once converted, will join me in demanding reissues of all Swervedriver material – CDs, LPs, singles, everything – with the frenzy of a full-scale riot when our peaceful protests are ignored (end Perfect World scenario).

The nutshell presentation: Swervedriver was officially formed in 1987 by vocalist/guitarist Adam Franklin, second guitarist Jimmy Hartridge, bassist Adi Vines, and drummer Graham Bonnar. The group secured a deal with Alan McGee’s Creation Records in 1990 when Ride’s Mark Gardener slipped the label head a demo of “Son of Mustang Ford.” Debut Raise (1991) garnered widespread acclaim from the UK music press, unimaginatively (and incorrectly, really) lumping Swervedriver’s roaring, guitar-driven rock with the then-popular ‘shoegaze’ movement. After Bonnar’s abrupt departure on their first U.S. tour, the remaining members recruited Jez Hindmarsh to occupy the drum throne and constructed their masterpiece, 1993’s Mezcal Head. Battling the onslaught of clones from the mid-‘90s Britpop trifecta (Blur, Oasis, Suede), Swervedriver released Ejector Seat Reservation (1995), which received next to zero promotion from their Oasis-crazed Creation label, who severed ties with the band shortly after the record’s street date. A brief but fruitless stint with Geffen brought nothing but legal woes over the release of their fourth full-length 99th Dream (1998), which eventually saw release on the near-bankrupt Zero Hour Records. Following tours of the UK, US, and Australia, Swervedriver announced their break-up later the next year.

Raise Creation 1991

Raise’s opening salvo, the blistering “Sci-Flyer,” must have confounded curiosity-seekers who picked up the record because the band’s name happened to be mentioned in the same blurb as My Bloody Valentine and Slowdive. Quizzically, the musical traits that defined shoegaze – dreamy textures, androgynous vocals, the ubiquitious “wall of sound” – are nowhere to be found here, just 45 minutes of high-octane guitar rock punctuated by Franklin’s drugged ruminations on, well, cars. Fast, loud, flames-on-asphalt cars. The entire album is propelled by its own kinetic energy, and the titles only hint at the kind of movement contained within: “Son of Mustang Ford,” “Sandblasted,” “Pile-Up.” To be sure, few songs sound better at 140 decibels while cruising down an empty highway at 90 mph than “Rave Down.” While the production of the record would likely qualify as “dry” by today’s standards, Swervedriver proved themselves masters of a multi-tracking technique pioneered by J Mascis in the ’80s, what a friend of mine refers to as “secret weapon guitar.” You’ll know it as soon as you hear it: just when it seems like the mix couldn’t possibly handle another layer of sound, in swarms a scorching guitar lead that sends a rush of electricity throughout every nerve of your body. Raise’s somewhat flattened mix causes the pacing to meander near the end, but as far as debuts go one could hardly do worse, and many fans adhere to the belief that this was Swervedriver’s finest moment. It’s certainly tough to argue with that assessment.

“Rave Down” – Swervedriver 5:08 (Raise, Creation 1991)

Mezcal Head Creation 1993

I’ll sheepishly confess that I’ve never spent more on a compact disc than the $50 I shelled out for an out-of-print Mezcal Head after my dubbed cassette had worn itself down to a fine magnetic dust. Keep in mind that this was long before the days of file sharing – hell, CD burning – and the only thing that kept me from financial shame at the end of the transaction was the fact that it was worth every last cent. Simply put, Mezcal Head is how electric guitars are meant to be played: amplified beyond distortion, strings walloping the fretboard, ripping through the mix like it was tissue paper. Lead single “Duel” meticulously collected all of the best features of Raise, honed them to a science, and condensed the formula into six minutes of perfection. “Last Train to Satansville,” is a hot rod chase through a scorching white desert set to a classic surf rhythm. “Girl on a Motorbike” and “Blowin’ Cool” radiate with a blue-flamed ferocity that belie their nature as gorgeously constructed pop songs. Honestly, there are too many stellar moments to mention, though a tip of the hat must be given to drummer Jez Hindmarsh, who deftly navigates through one dense layer of multi-tracked guitar after another with aplomb and determination. Absolutely, inexcusably essential, and a pinnacle of ’90s guitar rock.

“Blowin’ Cool” – Swervedriver 3:55 (Mezcal Head, Creation 1993)

Ejector Seat Reservation Creation 1995

Coming off Mezcal Head’s heralded reception and following a successful world tour of Japan, Europe, and the U.S., Ejector Seat Reservation should have taken the planet by storm. Sadly, two obstacles stood in the way – in the forms of labelmates Noel and Liam Gallagher. Creation needed to expend more of its resources coddling, er, promoting Oasis and Swervedriver’s less-accessible brand of edgy rock appeared to be a cog in the machine. Other than the complete absence of label enthusiasm and resulting fade-out from the popular radar (the record wasn’t even released in the States until Sony reissued it briefly in 2003), Ejector Seat’s only flaw lies in its presentation, a disgusting, overcompressed mess of frequencies that requires the utmost amount of patience to sort through. (Given that Alan Moulder was behind the boards for both this outing and Mezcal Head, this tragedy seems inexplicable.) Which is a shame, because underneath the steamrolled detritus lies a respectable pop album, more immediate than Swervedriver’s past work and finding the band experimenting with acoustic textures, strings and horns, and general psychedelic weirdness. Cuts like “How Does It Feel to Look Like Candy?” and “The Other Jesus” are marvelous pop gems, yet remain firmly grounded in the group’s guitar-based aesthetic. But records don’t sell when they’re not easily available to the public, and Ejector Seat was collectively forgotten in a matter of weeks.

“How Does It Feel to Look Like Candy?” – Swervedriver 3:40 (Ejector Seat Reservation, Creation 1995)

99th Dream Zero Hour 1998

99th Dream was Swervedriver’s make-or-break record, and although circumstances eventually sided with the latter, time has aged the band’s swan song remarkably well. Following the Creation fiasco the group was picked up by Geffen, only to find themselves in label limbo when their A&R rep got canned in a bout of corporate streamlining. A few legal headaches later and Swervedriver retained the rights to their record, which found release on the troubled Zero Hour Records. While distribution was spotty at best, those who were lucky enough to get their hands on 99th Dream were treated to the band’s most adventurous album to date, an expansive tapestry of sound that incorporated acid-tinged experimentation with the sugary pop structures established on Ejector Seat Reservation. The opening title track is as gripping as anything off Mezcal Head, fueled by a muscular surf guitar lead. Album centerpiece “Electric 77″ is notable for creatively utilizing each note of the 12-tone Western scale in its root progression without sinking into an academic exercise in technicality, and closer “Behind the Scenes of the Sounds & the Times” recalls the intricately intertwining guitars that dominated Raise. When Swervedriver finally threw in the towel shortly before the turn of the millennium, few could complain that they went out on a low note; 99th Dream beautifully summarizes what made the band so exciting since their inception ten years earlier.

“Electric 77” – Swervedriver 7:34 (99th Dream, Zero Hour 1998)

Sanctuary Records affiliate Castle Music released Juggernaut Rides ‘89–’98 (2005) a few years ago, a two-disc compilation of Swervedriver’s singles, notable album cuts, B-sides, and other treasures, and while I’m usually hesitant to recommend ‘greatest hits’ collections, it’s one of the finest of its kind and is the ideal place to start for those who’d like to explore this phenomenal band’s music. Unfortunately, with the rest of the catalogue currently in deletion, it might also be the place to end; here’s hoping the upcoming reunion tour will spark a renewed thirst for Swervedriver material.

Id: So over the past few days I’ve been spending a lot of time with Erykah Badu’s New Amerykah, Pt. 1: 4th World War (2008).

Ego: Yeah? God, what a pretentious title. How awful is it? I imagine it’s a train wreck as knotty as that fake Pam Grier ‘fro she’s often seen sporting. Come on, let’s don our First Impression Haiku hats and unleash some hating!

Id: Well, it’s… uh. (sigh) See, here’s the thing. It’s really good.

Ego: …

Id: …

Ego: You’re joking, right?

Id: (sheepishly) Afraid not.

Ego: We are talking about the same Erykah Badu, right? The “neo-Soul” queen who baby-dolled herself onto the chorus of every hip hop record for a solid five years around the turn of the millennium, exhausting herself creatively with the utterly wasteful Worldwide Underground (2003) before almost disappearing completely? The Badu notoriously responsible for destroying rappers’ careers and the inspiration behind OhWord.com’s most hilarious feature to date?

Id: The same.

Ego: Who fed you this nonsense? Have you been trolling around the Okayplayer message board again? Jesus, we talked about this.

Id: No, it was Dart Adams. I actually went out and purchased New Amerykah based on his recommendation. So, you know. Blogs stay winning.

Ego: Wait, let me guess: it’s got some killer guest spots, right? I mean, that’s the only thing that would make it redeemable.

Id: No, and that’s part of the reason why it’s so refreshing. Other than the producer credits – 9th Wonder, Madlib, the dudes from Sa-Ra, ?uestlove – and an appearance from Georgia Anne Muldrow, the spotlight is strictly on Erykah.

Ego: Yeah, but see, that’s exactly what would turn me off about it. Badu croaking over the same run-of-the-mill, Fender Rhodes-laced Roots backing tracks? No, thanks.

Id: But wait – the music is the best part! It’s got a weird, edgy, funky thing that veers from a lost Roy Ayers soundtrack to wildly experimental and, dare I say, almost avant-garde. And Badu doesn’t try to compete with it, or do that over-enunciating syllables thing that was mad annoying on Mama’s Gun (2000) and Worldwide Underground. Take a listen to “Me” and tell me you can’t nod your head uncontrollably to that shit.

Ego: It’s two chords. For nearly five minutes.

Id: But listen to what’s happening inside those two chords. First of all, there’s this subtle, wow-and-flutter pitch discrepancy going on that I love and wish more artists would do. Why does everything always have to be in perfect 440-hertz Western tuning? And that disjointed bassline – it sounds like Shafiq Husayn (the Sa-Ra member) chopped it up into microfragments on his MPC and deliberately reassembled the digital snippets haphazardly. The beat not only knocks, but it’s also got that latent Dilla shuffle where the hi-hats aren’t synched correctly with the tempo. Plus, those trumpets are gorgeous. Seriously, I probably listened to this track five times before I even realized that Badu was singing on it.

“Me” – Erykah Badu 5:36 (New Amerykah Pt. 1: 4th World War, Motown 2008)

Ego: I could see how you’d be all over this. But what about the rest of the album?

Id: Well, let’s dissect a bit. “Twinkle” is built upon this stuttering, collapsing rhythm with Morse-code keyboards and punctuating sheets of white noise. “My People” updates Eddie Kendricks‘ “My People… Hold On” as interpreted by Herbie Hancock’s Mwandishi collective. “Telephone” is the Dilla tribute and ?uestlove collaboration with a lush, spaced-out atmosphere that borders on transcendence. Then there’s “The Cell,” which I can’t even wrap my head around: an overcompressed Afrobeat groove, a distorted guitar, and a spidery, nervous bassline that sounds like Jaco Pastorius on crack. I’ve never heard anything like it.

“The Cell” – Erykah Badu 4:20 (New Amerykah Pt. 1: 4th World War, Motown 2008)

Ego: Funny, you just happened to gush all over the record without even mentioning Badu’s own contributions.

Id: Lyrically, she’s treading the same ground of social commentary peppered with a track or two about relationships and the (yawn) power of contemporary Black music. I’m not saying the record is impeccable; there are some between-song interludes with no replay value at all and some vain musical overindulgences on Badu’s part.

Ego: Does she still refer to herself as the “analog girl in a digital world”?

Id: No.

Ego: You may be swimming against a tidal wave here. I’ve read quite a few scathing reviews of this album, most of them from longtime fans.

Id: That’s because people want another Baduizm (1997). They want those same predictable, silky late-night grooves with swinging basslines and plenty of rim shots that don’t completely change course mid-song, blatantly flirt with abstraction, or end abruptly. Honestly, that’s what I was expecting, and I’m glad she did the opposite and experimented with her sound. In a way, it makes the listening experience more intimate and personal. She took a pretty big risk here, and at the very least you’ve got to give her credit for that, even if it doesn’t always pay off.

Ego: Speaking of risks, you’re gambling pretty big with this lame critic-arguing-with-himself format here. I didn’t know Pitchfork was looking for new writers.

Id: Why don’t you go somewhere and obsess about Enslaved or something?