To say that the released version of Extraordinary Machine is a marked improvement over the bootlegged version is not to say that it sounds more complete -- after all, the booted Jon Brion productions sounded finished, as evidenced by the two cuts that were retained; the intricate chamber pop of the opening title track and the closing "Waltz (Better Than Fine)" are the only time Brion's productions not only suited, but enhanced Fiona Apple's songs -- but they are both more accessible, and more fully realized, letting Apple's songs breathe in a way they didn't on the original sessions. While Brion's productions were interesting, they stretched his carnivalesque aesthetic to the limit, ultimately obscuring Apple's songs, which were already fussier, artier, and more oblique than her previous work. When matched to Brion's elaborately detailed productions, her music became an impenetrable Wall of Sound, but Mike Elizondo's productions open these songs up, making it easier to hear Apple's songs while retaining most of her eccentricities. Now, Extraordinary Machine sounds like a brighter, streamlined version of When the Pawn, lacking the idiosyncratic arrangement and instrumentation of that record, yet retaining the artiness of the songs themselves. Like her second record, this album is not immediate; it takes time for the songs to sink in, to let the melodies unfold, and decode her laborious words (she still has the unfortunate tendency to overwrite: "A voice once stentorian is now again/Meek and muffled"). Unlike the Brion-produced sessions, peeling away the layers on Extraordinary Machine is not hard work, since it not only has a welcoming veneer, but there are plenty of things that capture the imagination upon first listen -- the pulsating piano on "Get Him Back," the moodiness of "O' Sailor," the coiled bluesy "Better Version of Me," the quiet intensity of the breakup saga "Window," the insistent chorus on "Please Please Please" -- which gives listeners a reason to return and invest time in the album. And once they do go back for repeated listens, Extraordinary Machine becomes as rewarding, if not quite as distinctive, as When the Pawn. Nevertheless, this is neither a return to the sultry, searching balladeering of Tidal, nor a record that will bring her closer to tasteful, classy Norah Jones territory, thereby making her a more commercial artist again. Extraordinary Machine may be more accessible, but it remains an art-pop album in its attitude, intent, and presentation -- it's just that the presentation is cleaner, making her attitude appealing and her intent easier to ascertain, and that's what makes this final, finished Extraordinary Machine something pretty close to extraordinary.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Giving voice to powerful emotions is the essence of soul music. It's also the core of what made James Brown's music so special.  Brooklyn-based Daptone Records—the home of the late Charles Bradley and Sharon Jones, both Brown admirers—has specialized in crafting feverish, heartfelt albums of throwback soul. It's fitting then that Lee Fields, a performer once nicknamed "Little JB" for being so adept at mimicking  Brown's moves and vocal style, should today be their biggest remaining star.  Fields released his first single in 1969, and then went dormant in the '80s before becoming an early beneficiary of the '90s retro soul craze, subsequently making new records for Ace, Truth & Soul and Daptone. In his Daptone years, Fields has slowly morphed into a much more nuanced balladeer, turning his shouts into something approaching a devout plea for mercy and forgiveness. On Sentimental Fool, he animates songs (most written by Bosco Mann a.k.a. label owner Gabriel Roth), that celebrate joyous love or brood over devastating heartbreak. Daptone's signature all-analog retro sound prides itself on showcasing the entire band playing together in whole takes with a minimum of overdubs. This ethos suits Fields' impassioned, testifying style perfectly, with only a judicious use of reverb adding depth to the sound. In "Forever" he reassures his beloved wife that "Through thick and thin/ I'll be there by your side." Backed by an eight-piece band led by Hammond B-3 organ that's beefed up along the way by numerous additional musicians, including producer Roth, the title track finds Fields hopelessly entangled in a delusion: "It was only me/ (Who believed in a love)/ That could never be." While Fields is primarily known for his ballads, he's also very effective in upbeat material like "Two Jobs" where he emphasizes the punchline in each verse: "I'm working two jobs/ Getting paid for one," before revealing "I'm working two jobs/ And one of them is you." Self-recrimination is another Fields (and Roth) specialty, and by the end of "I Should Have Let You Be" he convincingly makes the case that his shame is real, admitting "Now me and my pride/ Sit alone in the dark/ Your face is all I can see." Whether digging deep into regret or summoning pure adulation, Lee Fields makes sure by the end of a song that you too believe. © Robert Baird/Qobuz 

This release marks the recording debut of the small vocal group Resurgam, and it is quite a distinctive item among the English Renaissance releases of early 2024 (it was recorded the previous year, in observation of the 400th anniversary of Weelkes' death). There are plenty of Irish choral releases that emulate the English cathedral sound, but this is not one of them. Resurgam's longtime director, Mark Duley, has a confident feel in leading the group. Resurgam's mixed-gender singers (one to a part, but this may work in Weelkes' intricate textures even for those who don't prefer this kind of performance) have a bright, sharp sound that is ideally complemented by the brass of the English Cornett and Sackbut Ensemble, and by the noisy but brilliant hand bellows-operated organ of Ilani Smishkewych Kosovske. Even those with large collections of English Renaissance choral music will find this sound fresh; it diverges both from pristine English cathedral sounds and lush American ones. Another draw is the music itself; Weelkes is better known as a madrigalist, but the neglect of his choral music seems to go all the way back to his own time and the accusations of being a "common drunkard" that were leveled against him. Few of his sacred works were published. The charge may or may not have been valid, and physical album buyers will get a good discussion of Weelkes' career. In any event, Weelkes forged a distinctively rich style in the Anglican anthem and in service music, and this is an unusually good match for Resurgam's talents. The group is backed up by the Resonus Classics label with clear sound from the Holy Trinity Church, Minchinhampton, Stroud, UK. One hopes to hear more from the new-to-recordings Resurgam.© James Manheim /TiVo

It's a bit tempting to peg Green Day's sprawling, ambitious, brilliant seventh album, American Idiot, as their version of a Who album, the next logical step forward from the Kinks-inspired popcraft of their underrated 2000 effort, Warning, but things aren't quite that simple. American Idiot is an unapologetic, unabashed rock opera, a form that Pete Townshend pioneered with Tommy, but Green Day doesn't use that for a blueprint as much as they use the Who's mini-opera "A Quick One, While He's Away," whose whirlwind succession of 90-second songs isn't only emulated on two song suites here, but provides the template for the larger 13-song cycle. But the Who are only one of many inspirations on this audacious, immensely entertaining album. The story of St. Jimmy has an arc similar to Hüsker Dü's landmark punk-opera Zen Arcade, while the music has grandiose flourishes straight out of both Queen and Rocky Horror Picture Show (the '50s pastiche "Rock and Roll Girlfriend" is punk rock Meat Loaf), all tied together with a nervy urgency and a political passion reminiscent of the Clash, or all the anti-Reagan American hardcore bands of the '80s. These are just the clearest touchstones for American Idiot, but reducing the album to its influences gives the inaccurate impression that this is no more than a patchwork quilt of familiar sounds, when it's an idiosyncratic, visionary work in its own right. First of all, part of Green Day's appeal is how they have personalized the sounds of the past, making time-honored guitar rock traditions seem fresh, even vital. With their first albums, they styled themselves after first-generation punk they were too young to hear firsthand, and as their career progressed, the group not only synthesized these influences into something distinctive, but chief songwriter Billie Joe Armstrong turned into a muscular, versatile songwriter in his own right. Warning illustrated their growing musical acumen quite impressively, but here, the music isn't only tougher, it's fluid and, better still, it fuels the anger, disillusionment, heartbreak, frustration, and scathing wit at the core of American Idiot. And one of the truly startling things about American Idiot is how the increased musicality of the band is matched by Armstrong's incisive, cutting lyrics, which effectively convey the paranoia and fear of living in American in days after 9/11, but also veer into moving, intimate small-scale character sketches. There's a lot to absorb here, and cynics might dismiss it after one listen as a bit of a mess when it's really a rich, multi-faceted work, one that is bracing upon the first spin and grows in stature and becomes more addictive with each repeated play. Like all great concept albums, American Idiot works on several different levels. It can be taken as a collection of great songs -- songs that are as visceral or as poignant as Green Day at their best, songs that resonate outside of the larger canvas of the story, as the fiery anti-Dubya title anthem proves -- but these songs have a different, more lasting impact when taken as a whole. While its breakneck, freewheeling musicality has many inspirations, there really aren't many records like American Idiot (bizarrely enough, the Fiery Furnaces' Blueberry Boat is one of the closest, at least on a sonic level, largely because both groups draw deeply from the kaleidoscopic "A Quick One"). In its musical muscle and sweeping, politically charged narrative, it's something of a masterpiece, and one of the few -- if not the only -- records of 2004 to convey what it feels like to live in the strange, bewildering America of the early 2000s.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

3 stars out of 5 - "...Prince is a crack bandleader in addition to being an ace performer, and he marshals all the skills in this lean - just bass, keys and drums, with four horns - edition of the NPG..."© TiVo

Live in Extraordinary Times is a compilation of tracks recorded on James' 2018/2019 world tour, which took in 14 different countries over 86 nights. The album features several fan favorites as well as tracks from their 2018 album, Living in Extraordinary Times.© Rich Wilson /TiVo

Who knew that all Liz Phair ever wanted was to be a pop star? Surely, her debut, Exile in Guyville, with its cinematic lo-fi production and frankness, never suggested as much, nor did its cleaner sequel, Whip-Smart, even if her appearance in negligee on the cover of Rolling Stone did imply she wanted a wider audience. In retrospect, perhaps the streamlined surfaces of Whitechocolatespaceegg were a bid for the big time, but it was undercut by songs of motherhood, marriage, and remnants of her time as an indie queen. All of that is a distant memory on her long-delayed eponymous fourth album, where she makes a long-delayed stab at superstardom, glamming herself up like a Maxim MILF of the Month and inexplicably pitching herself somewhere between Sheryl Crow and Avril Lavigne, on one side working with Michael Penn and adult alternative singer/songwriter Pete Yorn and on the other hooking up with 2003's hitmakers du jour the Matrix (not wanting to lose her aging core audience, she began her support tour for the album opening for the thirty-something darlings of the early 2000s, the Flaming Lips, even if her new music was a far cry from indie). As "Extraordinary" starts the album with a heavy guitar downstroke, it's clear that Liz Phair has piled nearly all her chips on making it as a pop act, delivering music that not just fits comfortably with Lavigne's, but follows her sounds and stance, right down to the insipid lyrics. This, to say the least, is disarming, not just to die-hard fans of Exile who could never have dreamed that, of all the directions she could have gone, she chose this, but because such sentiments sound painfully trite coming from a 36-year-old woman. Throughout the album, these sparkly banalities come fast and furious, sometimes interrupted by something a little deeper, sometimes sounding catchy enough to sound pleasant in passing if you overlook both the lyrics and the fact that they're written by Phair, who used to be one of the sharpest writers in rock. There's nothing wrong with a change of pace, but there's a startling lack of depth in either the words, which are entirely too literal, or the music, whose hooks are at once too obvious and not ingratiating enough. Then, there's the weird realization that Phair has so little to say on Liz Phair. While this very well could be her most directly confessional album -- nearly every song is in the first person, with many songs drawing parallels to her circulated life story -- there's no insight here, particularly when compared to, yes, her earlier work. It's not just that "The Divorce Song" details a messy breakup better than either of the divorce songs here (although that's an important, telling truth), it's that the parenting song is confused and condescending, it's that the endless songs about sleeping with twenty-something guys are littered with ridiculous lyrics ("I'm starting to think young guys rule," "I want to play Xbox on your floor"), and it's that she can't manage to write either a funny or sexy ode to her underwear on "Favorite." It's also that toward the end of this deliberate bid for the mainstream, she tosses in the embarrassingly "naughty" "HWC," where she extols the virtues of semen in the hair and on the skin ("Without you I'm just another Dorian Grey"); sure, it might seemingly break taboos, but what good is explicitness if it is only smarmy, with none of the humor or candor of "Flower" or "Glory." Yes, let's not compare a new record to an LP that's ten years old (although she invites those comparisons with a song like "HWC"), but Exile in Guyville has such a lasting impact, it's impossible to shake its memory when hearing her other, newer works. Liz Phair is running away from that shadow on Liz Phair, creating a record that is pretty much the polar opposite of that album, a shiny bright affair that wants nothing more than to be taken as a confection, even when it tries to dig deeper. It may be that Phair no longer has much to say -- three albums after Exile, that's looking more like an anomaly in her catalog -- but even so, the clothing and trappings of mainstream pop don't fit her well, and Liz Phair is a fascinatingly awkward, clumsy album.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

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Emeli Sandé's Real Life aims to alleviate, uplift, and motivate. Well-matched with the versatile Troy Miller, whose production work includes sessions with Gregory Porter, Laura Mvula, and Rebecca Ferguson, the singer and songwriter -- this set's sole lyricist -- devotes less time to introspection, offering instead a personal growth endcap worth of support, encouragement, and praise, and in one instance, a to-do list of sorts. Like Sandé's two previous studio albums, it's based in mature pop, but its integration of other genres and styles -- a little reggae, some blues, disco, and more gospel than ever -- is done with more finesse. The seamlessness, combined with full-hearted vocal performances, counteracts all the platitudes and flying-bird-as-freedom metaphors. Tucked into the second half are two of Sandé's most powerful songs, and they're consecutive. The flawlessly assembled "Survivor," a gospel anthem in every aspect, contains a career-defining vocal performance. It gradually unfurls with a rippling rhythm accented with sweeping organ and strings, a spirited choir with some call-and-response -- the (water)works -- as it lifts off. Rather than go the conventional route by following with a restful ballad, the singer whisks the listener to the dancefloor with the crisp disco of "Extraordinary Being." There's so much conviction in Sandé's voice that its stock flattery and motivational phrases seem trite only in print. A couple old-fashioned love songs toward the end, including the clap-along title track -- another churchified number -- add emotional variety without sounding like consolation prizes for those who expected to get more material like "Next to Me" and "Hurts."© Andy Kellman /TiVo