Heard Here

Papa M’s
Whatever, Mortal

This record is one more in a long line of Drag City releases that is less music, than as flaky scraps of effluvium, tiresome parlor games of oblique references with deplorable attention paid to craftsmanship and an abject lack of anything even remotely resembling talent.
David Pajo could have gone into web design after playing guitar for Slint and Tortoise, gracefully abstaining from recording these third-rate amalgams of Will Oldham’s plaintive confessional style and John Fahey’s finger-picking Appalachian missives, thereby securing his foot-note position as a benign and faceless post-rock hack. But no; a distinct yet indefinable voice crept from the deepest recesses of Pajo’s brain and whispered into his ear that he, too, could join the ranks of his brethren in creating music with no real reason to exist. Walking the streets of Louisville, torn by the inevitable ambivalence that eventually greets anyone hampered with such a dour, ponderous disposition, Pajo finally recognized that the proliferation of tiny indie labels practically demanded that anyone with a knack for embarrassingly bad poetry and a four-track share his piece of the pie.
Here’s what you get if a similar voice succeeds in convincing you that Whatever, Mortal is worth a missed episode of “Wheel of Fortune”: the glittering double-helixes of acoustic Fahey, as intricately woven as church-house tapestries and conceived with meticulous attention to melodic detail, disintegrating into the rambling pastoral banality of Peter, Paul and Mary; a voice which reminds me of nothing so much as the crushing of dead leaves; the hideous “Sorrow Reigns” (“There is something like a wall between us/ That stopped your going down on my penis”) and inadvertently hilarious “Many Splendored Thing” (“Love is a many splendored thing/ Both of us together/ Can listen to it sing”), which make me pine for a time when songwriters were weeded out by Brill Building-type gatekeepers which would have taped some Carole King nuggets over this nonsense. I’ll stop right there and let the wound fester.
If this is the best that indie labels have to offer these days, then I say bring on the mega-mergers. In an ideal world, gratuitous tomfoolery like this would be put through a critical filter and left on the cutting-room floor to be swept up with the cigarette butts, pizza crusts and Colt 45 empties which fueled its dreary inception.

-Zach English

Mystic
Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom

Not since Lauryn Hill busted onto the femme fatale hip-hop scene has there been such an outstanding blend of intelligent rhymes, sophisticated beats and melodic harmony as is heard on Mystic’s debut release, Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom. These days, the selling point for the mainstream female hip-hop artist has been the typical busty, lusty lipped, leggy, sexy-voiced girly girl package topped with an absolute lack of substance. Mystic, however, does nothing to compromise her beauty or sex appeal while at the same time delivering some of the most introspective and poetic lyrics by a female hip-hop artist to date.
With a lyrical honesty reminiscent of Ani DiFranco, Mystic’s debut record is a stylish compilation of many artistic components that make her much more difficult to place in a box than her contemporaries. She moves seamlessly from the traditional R&B feel of her breakout single “The Life,” to the impassioned outpour of unrequited love in “Neptune’s Jewels” (undoubtedly one of the best songs on the album), to the eastern influence of “Forever and a Day,” to the prosaic and intimate portrayal of her drug addict father in “Fatherless Child.” The finished product makes her a decidedly multi-faceted performer.
The comparison of Mystic to Lauryn Hill (a critical reality she’s most likely going to have to deal with a fair amount) actually reflects on Mystic quite favorably. Their styles are decidedly different, but it can be said that at her best, Mystic seems to be much more sophisticated and accessible than her New Jersey counterpart. Mystic writes personal, meaningful and socially relevant lyrics, without the racism and bitterness imparted by Hill. Her style is just as polished, her melodies just as robust, her rhymes just as accomplished — and this is only her first record.
Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom has all the makings of a brilliant hip-hop record. Mystic’s poetic and personal lyrics, deep, soulful vocals and diverse compositions make her not only difficult to lump into a category, but also difficult to top. Lauryn Hill, kindly step aside.

-Natasha Uspensky

Smashing Pumpkins
Smashing Pumpkins Greatest Hits

Juvenile
Cash Money Headquarters
New Orleans, LA

Andrew Simmons
c/o Judy Rosenfield
and Ira Simmons
1440 Cherokee Rd. Lou, KY

Dear Andrew,

I am writing primarily in response to your Oct. 3 review of my much-lauded Project English album. For the most part, your assumptions concerning the lifestyle of this ‘Nolia-spawned thug are correct. Though our relatively recent achievement of celebrity status has prevented us from consistently riding quite as hard as our lyrics might suggest, we do get a bit tight off the old Bacardi and find redeemable joy in the odd brawl with bitch-made photographers and over-zealous security personnel seeking to reign in our hedonistic impulses. But most importantly, we are making lots of dough, which permits us to transcend the limited realm of popular rap music to reach unprecedented levels of decadence. For God’s sake, man, I played golf with John Updike’s son last week. He’s a charming fellow. Who wouldn’t give up a spot of realism for all that glory?
Anyway, back to the point I was intending to make from the outset of this wee treatise. While I do hold in high esteem your candid appraisal of the Cash Money crew’s critically-acclaimed affinity for waxing the urbane asses of the well-scrubbed masses, I must take issue with your hurried examination of our authorial process. Let me first say that I’ve read Derrida’s pre-trendy ruminations on the problems associated with language and the like on several occasions over the years, and I still find him rather tiresome. He’s a frightful bore, and I’d hate for my music to be associated with all that rubbish. You must realize that I’m an aesthete, pure and simple. Any structural manipulations are entirely coincidental, and merely the incidental by-product of my eternal mission to relentlessly pound absolute truth and unwavering realism into the mother-fucking abyss of human consciousness. That’s all.
Before, I put down my pen and take up the gilded bong, I’d like to give a fleeting shout-out to my mate Billy Corgan. While those irrepressible Pumpkins have, alas, ended their decade-long stranglehold on the alternative rock genre, he recently compiled their most lovable tracks into a tidy greatest hits package that makes for a splendid listen. The sounds pouring from Billy’s ax and voice are just magnificent. Lush. Meditative. Damaged. Monstrous. In addition, D’Arcy is quite the looker. My favorite song of all time is “Disarm.” What’s yours?

Cheers,
Juvenile
-Andrew Simmons