Listening to this CD brings back a lot of memories. Mad Dogs & Englishmen was just about the most elaborate album that A&M Records had ever released, back in 1971, a double LP in a three-panel, fold-out, gatefold sleeve, with almost 80 minutes of music inside and a ton of photos, graphics, and annotation wrapping around it. A live recording done in tandem with a killer documentary film of the same U.S. tour, it was recorded at the Fillmore East, where the movie was a cross-country affair, and the two were, thus, completely separate entities -- also, as people couldn't "buy" the film in those days, the double LP has lingered longer in the memory, by virtue of its being on shelves, and also being taken off those shelves to be played. Unlike a lot of other "coffee table"-type rock releases of the era, such as Woodstock and The Concert for Bangladesh, people actually listened to Mad Dogs & Englishmen -- most of its content was exciting, and its sound, a veritable definition of big-band rock with three dozen players working behind the singer, was unique. The CD offers a seriously good sound, whether it's just Joe Cocker and a pianist and organist in the opening of "Bird on a Wire," or the entire band going full-tilt on "Cry Me a River"; the remastering was set at a high volume level and there was a decent amount of care taken to get the detail right, so you can appreciate the presence of the multiple drummers, and the legion of guitarists and singers, plus the multiple keyboard players. The lead guitar and solo piano on "Feelin' Alright," for example, come through, but so do the 34 other players and singers behind the lead. This record was also just as much a showcase for Leon Russell as it was for Joe Cocker, which A&M probably didn't mind a bit, as Russell was selling millions of records at the time. As is now known, and it's recounted in the new notes, the tour from which this album was drawn all but wiped out Joe Cocker -- on a psychic level -- because the music was presented on such a vast scale (and there is a moment in the movie where he mentions breaking up his former backing group, the Grease Band, with a hint of regret in his voice) and his own contribution was so muted by Russell's work as arranger and bandleader. He may well have been the "victim" of a "hijacking" of sorts, but the musical results, apart from the dubious "Give Peace a Chance," are difficult to argue about upon hearing this record anew, decades after the fact -- it's almost all bracing and beautiful.© Bruce Eder /TiVo

Ulrich Schnauss' second record for City Centre Offices moves away from the early-'90s U.K. techno touches of Far Away Trains Passing By in order to zero in on another early-'90s U.K. phenomenon. Though it was plain to hear in the debut that Schnauss had an affinity for the likes of Chapterhouse and Slowdive, it didn't become the crux of his sound until his version of the latter's "Crazy for You," from Morr Music's 2002 Blue Skied an' Clear compilation. Schnauss' version of the song was so dead-on that it could've been released -- without any suspicion -- as a Chapterhouse remix of the original. Though it's just as reliant on the past, A Strangely Isolated Place is an even stronger record than the debut, with a wider range of moods, improved beat programming, unobtrusive vocals, and an overall effect that is less inhibited. "On My Own" could've been the most blissed-out and forward-looking song released on Too Pure in 1992, with a steady Neu!-like rhythmic thrust and sun-bleached guitars shooting equal amounts of blurry rays and fuzzy shards. "Clear Day" is another track that could double as a Chapterhouse remix of Slowdive, only with an outtake from the first singles sped up significantly and bolstered with an energetic hip-hop beat that comes close to being lost in a dense swirl of effects. Schnauss might still be a little too sweet and amiable for most "serious" electronic music followers. That's clearly their loss, as this is the cream of the new-school shoegaze crop. © Andy Kellman /TiVo

Way back in 1963, Paul McCartney sang "A Taste of Honey" on the Beatles' debut album, and "Til There Was You" on their second LP, establishing that his tastes ran far beyond the world of rock & roll and R&B. Over the years, he touched upon pre-rock & roll pop -- writing pastiches like "Honey Pie" with the Beatles and, crucially, snatching up the publishing rights to many of these tunes, thereby building his MPL empire -- but he never devoted a full record to the style until 2012's Kisses on the Bottom, a cheekily titled (pun not only intentional but solicited) collection of songs you know by heart. He's not the first Beatle to sing songs his mother should know: Ringo's first step outside the Fab Four was 1970's Sentimental Journey, a record of standards produced by George Martin. Sentimental Journey may share a tune with Kisses on the Bottom -- Ray Henderson and Mort Dixon's "Bye Bye Blackbird" -- but its splashy, show biz sensibility differs greatly from McCartney's intimate stroll through the past. Macca hired Diana Krall's band as his support, enlisted veteran vocal producer Tommy LiPuma, and then set up shop at Los Angeles' famed Capitol Studios, along with spots in N.Y.C. and London, to cut faithful, loving versions of songs he's always sung. Overachiever that he is, Macca throws in two new originals -- the quite good "My Valentine" and "Only Our Hearts," the former featuring guitar by Eric Clapton, the latter harmonica by Stevie Wonder -- that fit right into the soft-shoe shuffle of the rest of the record, enhancing its casual charm. And since McCartney is no longer quite the vocal powerhouse he used to be -- something the spare setting makes all too clear -- the chief appeal is its leisurely vibe, how McCartney settles into his surroundings, savoring each melody and every witty turn of phrase. As a vocalist, this may not be his natural forte, but he takes great care with the songs, and that palpable love is enough to make Kisses on the Bottom worth a spin or two.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

The fourth album released in the wake of 2Pac's 1996 death, Until the End of Time certainly offers plenty of music, two discs' worth to be precise, yet doesn't offer too many highlights besides the chilling title track. As with many of 2Pac's posthumous recordings, the songs here seem overdone, too often dressed up with layers upon layers of production, choruses of background vocals, and a seemingly endless parade of guests. All of this over-production obscures 2Pac's performances, which somehow remain remarkable no matter how deep into the vault Afeni Shakur and Suge Knight have dug. Songs like "Letter 2 My Unborn," "When Thugz Cry," and the title track are just as heartfelt as "Keep Ya Head Up," "Dear Mama," and "I Ain't Mad at Cha" had been, but unfortunately they're marred by radio-oriented production that's too glossy for such stark, literate lyrics. The title track is somewhat of an exception, though. It's one of 2Pac's most desperate, spirited performances ever -- the voice of a man face to face with his own fate -- and it's accompanied by an anxious yet lulling interpolation of Mr. Mister's 1985 pop hit "Broken Wings" that is far more affective than you'd imagine. Note, however, that there are two versions here of the title track (the best one being the original one, which features RL on the hook), as there are also two versions of a few other songs. These nearly interchangeable remixes function as little more than filler, particularly since the production throughout Until the End of Time is rarely noteworthy. What at first seems like an epic recording, offering 19 tracks in total, consequently seems as overdone as the production. Had this album been pared down to the length of a single disc, it could be an exhilarating listen; as it stands, though, Until the End of Time is a mishmash -- too short on standouts like the title track and too loaded with dressed-up, guest-laden over-production -- that you'll find yourself fast-forwarding through far more often than you'd prefer.© Jason Birchmeier /TiVo

In his brief liner notes (really more of an appreciation), director Steven Spielberg points out that composer John Williams' score for Munich, Spielberg's film about Israeli attempts to track down and kill the Palestinians responsible for the massacre of Israel's 1972 Olympic team, is his fourth score of 2005, following Star Wars: Episode Three -- Revenge of the Sith, Spielberg's own War of the Worlds, and Memoirs of a Geisha. That's not a bad output for a man who also celebrated his 73rd birthday during the year. Pointing to the very different sorts of film the four titles represent, Spielberg calls Williams "a master of disguise," a composer able to serve the different needs of such varying subjects. Every film composer must have something of that versatility, though in fact Williams may have it less than most, as he is the closest thing to a traditional Hollywood composer still active. With Munich, he is put in an area that is very familiar to him, since the film is set in Europe, allowing him to draw upon his familiarity with and affection for European classical music. He employs a large orchestra, and for the most part he has written a conservative score for it to play. The one aspect of the project that is unusual is the film's darkness, beginning with the massacre and then following the increasingly problematic actions of those assigned to exact revenge. This does not allow for the kind of stirring, swashbuckling themes of a Star Wars movie. Rather, it involves minor keys, lots of low tones (no less than eight basses are used), and plenty of slow tempos. To make this tolerable, onscreen and on disc, Williams alternates the passages of dread with more romantic (but still sad) ones. Thus, the throbbing, percussive "Letter Bombs" is followed by "A Prayer for Peace," and other lyrical cues such as "Avner and Daphna" and "Avner's Theme" (the latter a solo for classical guitar) are interspersed with more jarring titles like "The Tarmac at Munich" and "Stalking Carl." But this remains a very dark score to accompany a dark film.© TiVo

A&M's double-disc Anthology may be too much for casual fans that just want the hits, but anyone else will find this exhaustive 37-track chronicle of Joe Cocker's prime years definitive. The first disc concentrates on his first three albums, buttressed by a rare 1964 single of the Beatles' "I'll Cry Instead" and his 1970 non-LP single "The Letter"/"Space Captain." Disc two features highlights of all the albums he recorded between 1972 and 1982, selecting not only hits, but key album tracks. The end result is a collection that is concise and definitive. It may be missing such latter day hits as "When the Night Comes" and doesn't cover as much ground as the box set Long Voyage Home, but anyone looking for a comprehensive collection of Cocker's classic recordings will be satisfied by Anthology.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Way back in 1963, Paul McCartney sang "A Taste of Honey" on the Beatles' debut album, and "Til There Was You" on their second LP, establishing that his tastes ran far beyond the world of rock & roll and R&B. Over the years, he touched upon pre-rock & roll pop -- writing pastiches like "Honey Pie" with the Beatles and, crucially, snatching up the publishing rights to many of these tunes, thereby building his MPL empire -- but he never devoted a full record to the style until 2012's Kisses on the Bottom, a cheekily titled (pun not only intentional but solicited) collection of songs you know by heart. He's not the first Beatle to sing songs his mother should know: Ringo's first step outside the Fab Four was 1970's Sentimental Journey, a record of standards produced by George Martin. Sentimental Journey may share a tune with Kisses on the Bottom -- Ray Henderson and Mort Dixon's "Bye Bye Blackbird" -- but its splashy, show biz sensibility differs greatly from McCartney's intimate stroll through the past. Macca hired Diana Krall's band as his support, enlisted veteran vocal producer Tommy LiPuma, and then set up shop at Los Angeles' famed Capitol Studios, along with spots in N.Y.C. and London, to cut faithful, loving versions of songs he's always sung. Overachiever that he is, Macca throws in two new originals -- the quite good "My Valentine" and "Only Our Hearts," the former featuring guitar by Eric Clapton, the latter harmonica by Stevie Wonder -- that fit right into the soft-shoe shuffle of the rest of the record, enhancing its casual charm. And since McCartney is no longer quite the vocal powerhouse he used to be -- something the spare setting makes all too clear -- the chief appeal is its leisurely vibe, how McCartney settles into his surroundings, savoring each melody and every witty turn of phrase. As a vocalist, this may not be his natural forte, but he takes great care with the songs, and that palpable love is enough to make Kisses on the Bottom worth a spin or two. © Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Roland Joffé's much-maligned 1995 screen adaptation of the classic novel The Scarlet Letter was a disaster in virtually every facet of production -- after rejecting Elmer Bernstein's completed score, producers tapped Ennio Morriconeas his replacement , but when Morricone contributed a series of ill-fitting Mediterranean-flavored themes, yet another substitution proved necessary. Somewhat remarkably, the John Barry score that accompanied The Scarlet Letter in its theatrical release proved one of the final masterpieces of the composer's career -- a sweeping romantic tragedy rich in period detail and emotional intensity, it captures all the drama and gravitas to which the film so nakedly aspires. Written in an epic-scale orchestral mode recalling Barry's landmark Dances with Wolves, the music boasts a streak of malice and brutality heretofore absent from the composer's work -- tribal percussion further underscores the primal emotions at the heart of the book and the music. This is John Barry at his most visceral, and worth seeking out regardless of the film it accompanies.© Jason Ankeny /TiVo

George Benson's place as one of the greatest and most successful guitarists in the history of jazz is secure, but what's easy to forget sometimes is that he began his career as a vocalist, and if this release, a tribute to Nat King Cole, comes as any kind of surprise, it shouldn't. Benson's and Cole's careers are remarkably similar, both becoming known first as instrumentalists, Cole as a pianist, and Benson, of course, as a guitarist, with both eventually easing into the pop mainstream because of their voices. Cole was a one of a kind vocalist, of course, and even Benson wouldn't claim to equal him as a singer, but Benson has a similarly soothing and lush tenor voice that more than holds its own on these familiar songs. The album is bookended by two versions of the Cole classic "Mona Lisa," the first a rare recording of Benson at the age of eight singing it sweetly and charmingly while playing ukulele, while the album closes with a full big-band, Nelson Riddle-arranged orchestral version that also features some sweet guitar from Benson. In between are warm, smooth, and soothing versions of "Walking My Baby Back Home" and "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter," a bouncing and bopping "Route 66," and nice takes on "Unforgettable" (featuring Wynton Marsalis), "When I Fall in Love" (featuring Idina Menzel), "Smile" (featuring Till Brönner), and "Too Young" (featuring Judith Hill), all given the full big-band orchestral treatment from the Henry Mancini Institute Orchestra conducted by Randy Waldman (Waldman also arranged several of the pieces here). It all adds up to a sweet and very impressive album, full of warmth and heart, and it swings where it should.© Steve Leggett /TiVo

Download not available

Way back in 1963, Paul McCartney sang "A Taste of Honey" on the Beatles' debut album, and "Til There Was You" on their second LP, establishing that his tastes ran far beyond the world of rock & roll and R&B. Over the years, he touched upon pre-rock & roll pop -- writing pastiches like "Honey Pie" with the Beatles and, crucially, snatching up the publishing rights to many of these tunes, thereby building his MPL empire -- but he never devoted a full record to the style until 2012's Kisses on the Bottom, a cheekily titled (pun not only intentional but solicited) collection of songs you know by heart. He's not the first Beatle to sing songs his mother should know: Ringo's first step outside the Fab Four was 1970's Sentimental Journey, a record of standards produced by George Martin. Sentimental Journey may share a tune with Kisses on the Bottom -- Ray Henderson and Mort Dixon's "Bye Bye Blackbird" -- but its splashy, show biz sensibility differs greatly from McCartney's intimate stroll through the past. Macca hired Diana Krall's band as his support, enlisted veteran vocal producer Tommy LiPuma, and then set up shop at Los Angeles' famed Capitol Studios, along with spots in N.Y.C. and London, to cut faithful, loving versions of songs he's always sung. Overachiever that he is, Macca throws in two new originals -- the quite good "My Valentine" and "Only Our Hearts," the former featuring guitar by Eric Clapton, the latter harmonica by Stevie Wonder -- that fit right into the soft-shoe shuffle of the rest of the record, enhancing its casual charm. And since McCartney is no longer quite the vocal powerhouse he used to be -- something the spare setting makes all too clear -- the chief appeal is its leisurely vibe, how McCartney settles into his surroundings, savoring each melody and every witty turn of phrase. As a vocalist, this may not be his natural forte, but he takes great care with the songs, and that palpable love is enough to make Kisses on the Bottom worth a spin or two.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Looking back on it, it's remarkable that Warner didn't sue Elvis Costello for making deliberately noncommercial, non-representative records, the way Geffen did with Neil Young in the '80s. After all, it's not just that he made a record as anti-pop as Mighty Like a Rose, it's that he followed it with a full-fledged classical album, The Juliet Letters -- "a song sequence for string quartet and voice," recorded with the Brodsky Quartet. It's inspired by a Verona professor who responded to letters addressed to Juliet, of Romeo and Juliet fame, too. Given this history, it's little wonder that the record didn't storm the charts, but it is remarkable that Warner, even with their reputation for being an artist's label, decided to release it, since this just doesn't fit anywhere -- not within pop (especially in the grunge-saturated 1993) and not within classical, either. Of course, that's precisely what's interesting about the record, and if interesting didn't signify any rewards with Mighty, it does here. This is a distinctive, unusual affair that, at its best, effectively marries chamber music with Beatlesque art pop. And there are a number of moments that work remarkably well on the record, such as "I Almost Had a Weakness" and "Jacksons, Monk and Rowe." True, these are the songs closest to straight-ahead Costello songs, yet they're still nice, small gems, and even if the rest of the record can be a little arch and awkward, it's not hard to admire what Costello and the Brodskys set out to do. And that's the problem with the record -- it's easy to intellectualize, even appreciate, what it intends to be, but it's never compelling enough to return to. More experiment than effective, then.[The Juliet Letters was the last of Elvis Costello's albums from 1977 to 1996 to receive an expanded double-disc treatment in Rhino's extended reissue campaign, finally appearing on its own in March 2006. Given the unusual collaborative nature of the project, there wasn't as much unreleased music and rarities as there were for other Costello albums, so this second disc winds up as a clearing-house for highlights from Costello's art projects of the '90s. Eight of the 18 tracks date from the Meltdown, there are the three non-LP songs from the 1993 promotional EP Live at New York Town Hall: Jerome Kern's "They Didn't Believe Me," Tom Waits' "More Than Rain," and Brian Wilson's "God Only Knows." Also included is "She Moved Through the Fair," a Costello-sung traditional folk tune that appeared on the Brodsky Quartet's 1994 album Lament, and another Costello/Brodsky collaboration on "Lost in the Stars," plucked from the 1997 tribute album September Songs: The Music of Kurt Weill, plus three parts of "Fire Suite" that were recorded with the Jazz Passengers and released originally on Roy Nathanson's 2000 LP Fire at Keaton's Bar & Grill. Considering the variety of sources, spanning the better part of the decade, it's not a big surprise that this disc isn't particularly cohesive -- particularly in comparison to its parent disc -- but there's a good batch of interesting music here. Not always good -- the version of "God Only Knows" is awkward, for instance -- but even the stumbles are worthwhile listening for those who appreciate The Juliet Letters, and the best of this, like "Fire Suite," is quietly sublime.]© TiVo