Kinda like: The Ramones aren’t kinda like anybody, ‘cuz everybodyis kinda like the Ramones
Prior to his death last April from lymphatic cancer, the lategreat Joey Ramone had turned his back on the punk rock genre hepractically birthed and began to explore new musical horizons — ablend of deep house, rolling ragtime piano and Polynesian tribalrhythms, a strange cacophony of aural influences he integrates on theposthumous release Don’t Worry About Me.
Thankfully, that first paragraph is bullsh**. Ramone’s first, andsadly last, solo outing is basically a straight-up Ramones recordmusically, though the lyrics and subject matter on some of the songsdeal with much more mature issues than the boys from Queens everdreamt of confronting.
The kickoff track, a cover of Louis Armstrong’s “What A WonderfulWorld,” serves as a fitting epitaph for the late Ramone. It’s not asappy farewell from a dying man, but rather an unabashed celebrationof a beautiful and fulfilling life, the testimony of a man in lovewith the world who, until the end, infused that love into music.
Ramone’s sickness is dealt with on the album, most notably on “IGot Knocked Down (But I’ll Get Up).” This is done through the usualRamone succinctness as he croons, “Layin’ in a hospital bed.”Ramone’s take on the situation? “It really sucks.” The chorus,though, is an affirmation of the undying spirit of a man stolen fromthis world much too soon.
“Maria Bartiromo,” an ode to the host of MSNBC’s stock market show”Squawk Box,” is classic Ramones, save the financial and marketreferences — just replace “Yahoo” with “sniffin’ glue.”
All told, Ramone’s opus is a great album though stays well withinchartered territory. And who cares? The man spent his life innovatingand arguably had a greater influence on modern music than any othersingle figure.
Don’t Worry About Me is a faultless farewell. Adios, amigo.
— Ken Smith
UNWRITTENLAW
ELVA
Kinda Like: Good Riddance, Jimmy Eat World, that Blink-182 songabout staying together for the kids
Any San Diego band gets a star for not referring to San Diego inevery song. And another one for not spewing Stifler-brand crudeness.And, in this case, a bonus star for including no songs about leadsinger Scott Russo’s young daughter, Cailin.
Bravo, Unwritten Law — three stars and we’re not yet halfwaythrough the review. Catchy, radio-friendly songs? You get a star.Reasonably expanded musical scope, far beyond the tiny Green Dayriffs that cost earlier work credibility, earns another. A return toyour girl-hating candor and cathartic veracity with such toxicmisogynistic anthems as “Actress-Model” and “Mean Girl?” Good gosh,that’s six stars.
Of course, there is the matter of slipshod organization, acluttered mess of genres that makes Elva sound like a Fat WreckChords compilation. And ridiculous attempts at power-punk that, quitesimply, hurt. And, well, the novelty in copycating emo (“Seein’ Red”)lasts only as long as it takes to realize it’s copycat emo.
So what’re we at? Three stars, a mediocre but meritoriousevaluation for another damn San Diego spliff record.
–Sam Miller
GERARDO
FAME, SEX Y DINERO
Kinda like: Snow, Vanilla Ice, “Rico Suave”
Writing a review of a Gerardo disc can be hell on your liver. Bynow I have already swilled down a half-dozen Manhattans and I’m onlyon the second sentence. It took about four before I could even getpast the first song and it has taken a couple more to get through thealbum. I expected Gerardo’s new album, Fame, Sex y Dinero, to be ahorrible collection of pop ditties, but I thought that there’d besome humor in them. Instead, I was immediately bombarded with themacho ramblings of a bitter has-been. It’s not even bad enough to befunny; it’s just bad. Gerardo tries hard to achieve some sort ofstreet credibility and occasionally sounds like a bit of a tough guy, but always tumbles back down with a wimpy dance tune (“Escandalosa”and “Americana”).
After his 1991 hit “Rico Suave,” Gerardo faded into oblivion, butnot out of lack of trying. He actually released three more albumsthat were most likely never heard. Will this latest offering fare anybetter? Only time will tell. The bottom line, however, is that it’shard to poke fun at a wealthy, one-hit-wonder who is now a successfulrecord executive (on the album he brags about signing EnriqueIglesias and Bubba Sparxxx). Sure, the album is awful, but so was Mo’Ritmo and that bastard sold almost 540,000 copies, so who am I tocriticize?
–Stacy Brandt
CHEMICALBROTHERS
COME WITH US
Kinda like: Basement Jaxx, Fatboy Slim, The Propellerheads
It’s been seven years since the Chemical Brothers made theirstateside debut, and, well, not much has changed. But that’s a goodthing.
The Brothers’ new album, Come With Us further explores thepsychedelic funk of their last album, Surrender. This time around,there’s no Noel Gallagher, but old friend Beth Orton returns tocontribute vocals to “The State We’re In.”
The first single, “It Began In Africa,” combines their signatureelectro-funk with sounds of tribal drumming and the occasional junglecat, while “Galaxy Bounce” is vaguely reminiscent of J. Lo.
The real treat, however, is on Side B. “My Elastic Eye” and”Pioneer Skies” are two of the trippiest tracks the Brothers haveever dropped, and “The Test,” a collaboration with Richard Ashcroft,is a groovy epic, not unlike his collaboration with U.N.K.L.E. a fewyears back.
Come With Us is nothing revolutionary, but damned if you can’tshake your ass to it.
— Jeff Terich
