Picking up on the ‘60s soul undercurrent of Brothers, the Black Keys smartly capitalize on their 2010 breakthrough by plunging headfirst into retro-soul on El Camino. Savvy operators that they are, the Black Keys don’t opt for authenticity à la Sharon Jones or Eli “Paperboy” Reed: they bring Danger Mouse back into the fold, the producer adding texture and glitter to the duo’s clean, lean songwriting. Apart from “Little Black Submarines,” an acoustic number that crashes into Zeppelin heaviosity as it reaches its coda, every one of the 11 songs here clocks in under four minutes, adding up to a lean 38-minute rock & roll rush, an album that’s the polar opposite of the Black Keys’ previous collaboration with Danger Mouse, the hazy 2008 platter Attack & Release. That purposely drifted into detours, whereas El Camino never takes its eye off the main road: it barrels down the highway, a modern motor in its vintage body. Danger Mouse adds glam flair that doesn’t distract from the songs, all so sturdily built they easily accommodate the shellacked layers of cheap organs, fuzz guitars, talk boxes, backing girls, tambourines, foot stomps, and handclaps. Each element harks back to something from the past -- there are Motown beats and glam rock guitars -- but everything is fractured through a modern prism: the rhythms have swing, but they’re tight enough to illustrate the duo’s allegiance to hip-hop; the gleaming surfaces are postmodern collages, hinting at collective aural memories. All this blurring of eras is in the service of having a hell of a good time. More than any other Black Keys album, El Camino is an outright party, playing like a collection of 11 lost 45 singles, each one having a bigger beat or dirtier hook than the previous side. What’s being said doesn’t matter as much as how it’s said: El Camino is all trash and flash and it’s highly addictive.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

The Downward Spiral positioned Trent Reznor as industrial's own Phil Spector, painting detailed, layered soundscapes from a wide tonal palette. Not only did he fully integrated the crashing metal guitars of Broken, but several newfound elements -- expanded song structures, odd time signatures, shifting arrangements filled with novel sounds, tremendous textural variety -- can be traced to the influence of progressive rock. So can the painstaking attention devoted to pacing and contrast -- The Downward Spiral is full of striking sonic juxtapositions and sudden about-faces in tone, which make for a fascinating listen. More important than craft in turning Reznor into a full-fledged rock star, however, was his brooding persona. Grunge had the mainstream salivating over melodramatic angst, which had always been Reznor's stock in trade. The left-field hit "Closer" made him a postmodern shaman for the '90s, obsessed with exposing the dark side he saw behind even the most innocuous façades. In fact, his theatrics on The Downward Spiral -- all the preening self-absorption and serpentine sexuality -- seemed directly descended from Jim Morrison. Yet Reznor's nihilism often seemed like a reaction against some repressively extreme standard of purity, so the depravity he wallowed in didn't necessarily seem that depraved. That's part of the reason why, in spite of its many virtues, The Downward Spiral falls just short of being the masterpiece it wants to be. For one thing, fascination with texture occasionally dissolves the hooky songwriting that fueled Pretty Hate Machine. But more than that, Reznor's unflinching bleakness was beginning to seem like a carefully calibrated posture; his increasing musical sophistication points up the lyrical holding pattern. Having said that, the album ends on an affecting emotional peak -- "Hurt" mingles drama and introspection in a way Reznor had never quite managed before. It's evidence of depth behind the charisma that deservedly made him a star.© Steve Huey /TiVo

At some point every band makes a move towards commercial success. Accolades for purity of motivation and peerless references are great, but selling a few albums carries its own kind of rush. Oh sure, by 2011, The Black Keys had already hit paydirt licensing music for Victoria's Secret ads, among other brands, but the duo wanted their music rather than their opportunism to be respected. Routinely crediting The Cramps and The Clash while still sounding like the rough 'n' ready garage band from Akron, Ohio, that they'd been since the beginning made the journey to larger musical success problematic. Enter Brian "Danger Mouse" Burton, who produced guitarist Dan Auerbach and drummer Patrick Carney's preceding album, 2010's Brothers; recorded at Muscle Shoals Sound Studio in Sheffield, Alabama, it continued the Black Keys' move away from a lo-fi sound. Advised by Burton to record more upbeat material that would play well in the arena-sized venues they were aiming for, the pair convened at Auerbach's new Easy Eye Sound Studio in Nashville and began to work up fresh material. Like all Black Keys records, riff rock and Auerbach and Carney's back-and-forth interplay are the foundation, but now their usual dirty blues vibe gave way to a more straight ahead early rock and roll tone. Danger Mouse also became an active part of the songwriting process for the first time. Fast tempos and more pronounced pop hooks were the immediate focus. The opener "Lonely Boy," is impossible to resist. In "Dead and Gone" handclaps and the album's three female background singers Leisa Hans, Heather Rigdon and Ashley Wilcoxson beef up the poppy choruses. Recorded by Kennie Takahashi and Collin Dupuis, and mixed by Tchad Blake, the sound here is enhanced with plenty of reverb making everything that much larger in the process. Tunes like the working girl paean, "Money Maker," where Auerbach sings, "I wanna buy some time but don't have a dime," sound oversized and very much arena-ready. "Sister" is the Keys' elemental riff rock at its best, this time fleshed out by Danger Mouse on keyboard. Touches like the squiggly guitar line in "Run Right Back" confirm musical evolutions in their usual jam-it-up method. This reissue contains 20 tracks from a previously unreleased concert from Portland, Maine, an 11-track BBC Radio 1 session from 2012, and a 9-track 2011 Electro-Vox rehearsal session recorded prior to the 2012 El Camino tour. While both live sets are stacked with tracks from Brothers ("Howlin for You," "Tighten Up") and El Camino, the BBC set has a closer, densely packed sound, while the live sound of the Portland show in front of a rabid audience is huge and reverberant. The rehearsal session is predictably loose with slower tempos, though the arrangements are similar to what was eventually released. This reissue does bring up questions: is ten years long enough to create the demand and perspective necessary for a successful reissue? Have Keys fans even stopped listening to their original copies yet or is this more rampant commercialism from a band famous for it? Of course, it may also be that Auerbach and Carney are closing a chapter. Stay tuned for the next decade. © Robert Baird/Qobuz

The Downward Spiral positioned Trent Reznor as industrial's own Phil Spector, painting detailed, layered soundscapes from a wide tonal palette. Not only did he fully integrated the crashing metal guitars of Broken, but several newfound elements -- expanded song structures, odd time signatures, shifting arrangements filled with novel sounds, tremendous textural variety -- can be traced to the influence of progressive rock. So can the painstaking attention devoted to pacing and contrast -- The Downward Spiral is full of striking sonic juxtapositions and sudden about-faces in tone, which make for a fascinating listen. More important than craft in turning Reznor into a full-fledged rock star, however, was his brooding persona. Grunge had the mainstream salivating over melodramatic angst, which had always been Reznor's stock in trade. The left-field hit "Closer" made him a postmodern shaman for the '90s, obsessed with exposing the dark side he saw behind even the most innocuous façades. In fact, his theatrics on The Downward Spiral -- all the preening self-absorption and serpentine sexuality -- seemed directly descended from Jim Morrison. Yet Reznor's nihilism often seemed like a reaction against some repressively extreme standard of purity, so the depravity he wallowed in didn't necessarily seem that depraved. That's part of the reason why, in spite of its many virtues, The Downward Spiral falls just short of being the masterpiece it wants to be. For one thing, fascination with texture occasionally dissolves the hooky songwriting that fueled Pretty Hate Machine. But more than that, Reznor's unflinching bleakness was beginning to seem like a carefully calibrated posture; his increasing musical sophistication points up the lyrical holding pattern. Having said that, the album ends on an affecting emotional peak -- "Hurt" mingles drama and introspection in a way Reznor had never quite managed before. It's evidence of depth behind the charisma that deservedly made him a star.© Steve Huey /TiVo

Often, supergroups wind up dominated by one particular personality - think Eric Clapton in Derek & the Dominos, Jack White in the Raconteurs -- which makes the egalitarianism of Them Crooked Vultures all the more remarkable. Of course, when it comes down to it, it’s a group of three natural-born collaborators: John Paul Jones, the old studio pro who gravitated toward provocative partners after Led Zeppelin’s demise, teaming up with R.E.M. as easily as he did with avant-queen Diamanda Galas and nu-folkster Sara Watkins; Dave Grohl, who hopped into an empty drummer’s chair whenever the opportunity presented itself; and Josh Homme, who set up a mini-empire based entirely on jam sessions. If Them Crooked Vultures brings to mind Homme’s projects more than Grohl's or Jones', it’s largely due to his role as lead vocalist and how guitar can push a rhythm section as powerful as this to the side, dominating with its grinding riffs and solos. Homme’s predilection for precision does reign supreme -- when the group stretches out, even wallowing in the murk on “Interlude with Ludes,” there’s the sense that, like a great improv troupe, the trio freaked out then retained the best moments, trimming away the indulgence and experiments, leaving behind intrinsically, grippingly musical hard rock, where power is secondary to interplay. And while there are melodies and hooks that certainly dig into the skull, what impresses is chemistry, how the three play together, how they instigate each other, and how they spur each other on, to the point where their familiar tropes sound fresh -- as on “Scumbug Blues,” where Jones’ “Trampled Underfoot” clavinet intertwines with Grohl’s avalanche and Homme’s rigorous psychedelia - creating guitar rock that’s at once classicist and adventurous and undeniably thrilling.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Not many rock bands are still exploring new ideas after their 30th album, but Guided by Voices are not like many other bands. Though the lineup of GbV present on 2022's prog rock-meets-power pop outing Tremblers and Goggles by Rank had only been together since 2017, the album was their 13th release in that short time, with the unmistakable vocals and crooked hooks of founding member Robert Pollard steering the songs down new, weird paths. La La Land is a continuation of Tremblers and Goggles by Rank's expansive construction, moving further away from the patented short, sharp pop that GbV made their name on in the '90s and opting for relatively longer song lengths, more complex song structures, and a generally more angular side of the band. Where the last album jumped right into towering prog rock, La La Land takes a little longer to get there. Opener "Another Day to Heal" is a driving banger, made up of crunchy drums and huge power chords and flying by in under two minutes. Pollard applies his mystical melodic style to the jangly sway of "Released into Dementia" and the Beatles-informed harmonies of "Ballroom Etiquette" before blasting off into unknown dimensions with more intricately designed tracks like "Instinct Dwelling." Moments like the winding, six-minute epic "Slowly on the Wheel" or ominous intro of "Wild Kingdom" aren't quite like anything GbV has attempted before, which is saying something for a band with hundreds and hundreds of songs in their catalog. La La Land strikes a nice balance between more adventurous experiments with new styles and tunes like "Caution Song" and tracks such as the starkly beautiful "Queen of Spaces" that call on the fractured pop brilliance of the group's best-known earlier material. La La Land captures the incredibly rare state of a band still sounding fresh and curious on their 37th LP, and shows no indication of Pollard and co. stopping anytime soon.© Fred Thomas /TiVo

This is the fifth album by Nicole Atkins, who, just like Bruce Springsteen, the national icon to whom she paid tribute in 2014 with her successful cover of Dancing in the Dark (on Dead Man’s Town: A Tribute to Born in the USA., Lightning Rod Records), was also born in New Jersey. The singer continues in the same vein with a ‘60s soul sound, this time recording alongside Ben Tanner, a producer from the legendary Muscle Shoals Sound Studio in Sheffield, Alabama. David Hood is on bass and Spooner Oldham on keyboards, both brilliant musicians from the Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section which has featured on albums by Aretha Franklin and Percy Sledge, to name but a few. The result is a timeless album which wouldn’t sound out of place if it were released about fifty years ago, with a light-hearted, nostalgic feel that is easy on the ears. The wonderful opening track, AM Gold, sounds like it’s straight out of a Tarantino film. The rest of the album has an Americana style, which, even if it’s on its way out, has a charm that never seems to fade. © Yan Ceh/Qobuz

It had to happen: with the fever for retroactive musical styles running especially rampant through the heavy metal community in the mid-‘00s (see parallel examples from The Sword, Witchcraft, Wolfmother, and others), some band was bound to try resurrecting the once thriving confluence of thrash and hardcore generally labeled as "crossover." And few who remember the sub-genre in its original form would dispute that Richmond, Virginia's Municipal Waste really did their homework, delivering in their second album, 2005's Hazardous Mutation, as authentic a blast of ‘80s crossover thrash as has been heard since its fall from wider public awareness. From the carefully observed two-minute-tops song rule, to the lightning-fast shouted vocals of frontman Tony ‘Guardrail' Foresta (and his cohorts' gang choruses behind him), to Ryan Waste's razor-sharp buzz-saw guitars (and virtually no solo breaks in sight), and even the million-photo collage gracing the CD booklet (such things were popular back in the day), Hazardous Mutation addresses most every requisite crossover detail. Except where concerns the lyrics, which are predominantly focused on sci-fi and fantasy horror themes ("Unleash the Bastards," "The Thing," the title cut, etc.), or comic yarns about juvenile delinquency ("Blood Drive," "Mind Eraser") and copious and varied substance intake ("Accelerated Vision," "Bangover") -- not political incompetence, social injustice or anything remotely that serious. Oh well, it's not like veering from reality diminishes the mosh-pit-churning efficacy of standout moments "Deathripper" and "Terror Shark," among many of those cited above. And even though it's a little too early to file Hazardous Mutation with any of the crossover genre's unchallenged ancient classics, suffice to say that, if you were ever a fan of mid'80s gems such as Agnostic Front's Cause for Alarm, the Cro-Mags' Age of Quarrel, or Murphy's Law's eponymous debut, prepare for a happy visit to your past over the course of these bruising 26 minutes. © Eduardo Rivadavia /TiVo

The Juno award-winning Canadian hard rock unit took a five-year hiatus after 2010's Life Turns Electric, a break that saw the departure of longtime drummer Rich Beddoe. It also found Finger Eleven retooling their sound, which they decided to do in Music City, U.S.A., working out of the West Nashville home of producer Dave Cobb and enlisting seasoned session drummer Chris Powell, both of whom helped to strip away some of the finery that had begun to accumulate over the last two studio outings. The resulting Five Crooked Lines doesn't deviate too much from the band's post-grunge past, but it is built from more volatile stuff. That shift in tone from heavy gloss to raw power is made apparent within the first few seconds of opener "Gods of Speed," a dense and propulsive road-warrior anthem built around a galloping backbeat that threatens to explode into Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song" at any given moment. That penchant for groove-laden stoner metal with a hint of flannel continues on the Sabbathy "Save Your Breath" and the nervy, psych-tinged "Absolute Truth," but Finger Eleven have always been a basement band with family-room aspirations, and the tight, ever so slightly funky single "Wolves and Doors," the shoegaze-kissed party anthem "Blackout Song," and the final two tracks, both of which pair Beatlesque melodies with beefy, Torche-inspired walls of distortion, feel as rooted in the cement and black light of urban, modern rock radio as they do the open highways of the Ontario wilds.© James Christopher Monger /TiVo

Picking up on the ‘60s soul undercurrent of Brothers, the Black Keys smartly capitalize on their 2010 breakthrough by plunging headfirst into retro-soul on El Camino. Savvy operators that they are, the Black Keys don’t opt for authenticity à la Sharon Jones or Eli “Paperboy” Reed: they bring Danger Mouse back into the fold, the producer adding texture and glitter to the duo’s clean, lean songwriting. Apart from “Little Black Submarines,” an acoustic number that crashes into Zeppelin heaviosity as it reaches its coda, every one of the 11 songs here clocks in under four minutes, adding up to a lean 38-minute rock & roll rush, an album that’s the polar opposite of the Black Keys’ previous collaboration with Danger Mouse, the hazy 2008 platter Attack & Release. That purposely drifted into detours, whereas El Camino never takes its eye off the main road: it barrels down the highway, a modern motor in its vintage body. Danger Mouse adds glam flair that doesn’t distract from the songs, all so sturdily built they easily accommodate the shellacked layers of cheap organs, fuzz guitars, talk boxes, backing girls, tambourines, foot stomps, and handclaps. Each element harks back to something from the past -- there are Motown beats and glam rock guitars -- but everything is fractured through a modern prism: the rhythms have swing, but they’re tight enough to illustrate the duo’s allegiance to hip-hop; the gleaming surfaces are postmodern collages, hinting at collective aural memories. All this blurring of eras is in the service of having a hell of a good time. More than any other Black Keys album, El Camino is an outright party, playing like a collection of 11 lost 45 singles, each one having a bigger beat or dirtier hook than the previous side. What’s being said doesn’t matter as much as how it’s said: El Camino is all trash and flash and it’s highly addictive.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Like Anthem, Christian Scott's 2007 post-Katrina meditation, Yesterday You Said Tomorrow is more than a collection of tunes; it's a statement. Scott, who was 26 at the time of this album's release, spells out his intention in the liner notes, where he explains that -- and he cites the 1960s work of Coltrane, Miles, Hendrix, Dylan, and Mingus as reference points -- he wanted to "create a record that has all the qualities of the documents of that era as they relate to our time by creating a palette that referenced the depth and conviction of the '60s in the context of subject matter and sound, but done in a way that illuminates the fact that my generation has had the opportunity to study the contributions of our predecessors, thus making our decision making process musically different." That's a pretty lofty goal (and a very long sentence), and a challenge to achieve, particularly with instrumental music. Scott pulls it off with aplomb though -- recorded by Rudy Van Gelder and produced by Chris Dunn and Scott, Yesterday You Said Tomorrow is very much a contemporary jazz album, yet it frequently touches down in that earlier, headier era, both sonically and in a more visceral, emotional sense. It's impossible, for example, not to notice the tonal similarities to Miles' work of the late '60s in Scott's trumpet playing, and the pacing and feisty overall attitude of several tracks is reminiscent of the more contemplative music of that time. Yet the rhythms and the setting belong to the present, with subtle and not-so-subtle influences from hip-hop, funk, and electronica finding their way into the mix. "K.K.P.D." (which Scott says stands for Ku Klux Police Department) launches it with a minute-plus of Matthew Stevens' swampy guitar run and Jamire Williams' manic drumming before Scott steps in to blow his first coolly muted solo. The piece becomes more aggressive as it unfolds, Milton Fletcher, Jr.'s piano and Kristopher Keith Funn's bass sending sparks in directions that often lead away from those Scott has chosen. "The Eraser," a song adapted from Radiohead frontman Thom Yorke's solo album of the same name, is smoother than the source material yet it's pervaded by a deliberate, somewhat unsettling scratchiness that signals the listener not to get too comfortable. The titles of some of the other tracks alone -- "Angola, LA & the 13th Amendment," "Jenacide (The Inevitable Rise and Fall of the Bloodless Revolution)," "American't" -- serve notice that this is a record that means business. On the latter, aimed at the negativity presently pervasive in the nation, Scott takes his time developing the melodic theme and musing introspectively as the other musicians build a solid foundation under him, while "Angola…" is a brooding, if occasionally angry exposition that doubles as a showcase for Stevens' tasteful licks. Stevens is also prominent throughout the record's closer, which he co-wrote with Scott, "The Roe Effect (Refrain in F# Minor)," a relatively stately, albeit at times unnerving commentary on the abortion issue. The track utilizes a backward recording technique in its latter half, ostensibly to juxtapose the opposing viewpoints on the charged issue, but also, one supposes, to remind the listener that the open-mindedness that goes into creating music as moving and commanding as this is also something we need to keep in the forefront as we find our way through these troubled times.© Jeff Tamarkin /TiVo

In music, as in life, it's a good idea to have a plan B when life derails you. Chad Ubovich of Meatbodies had a good one in place when the group's third album was delayed due to the 2020 lockdown. With unexpected time on his hands, he delved back into the band's archives and found a demo recording he and drummer Dylan Fujioka had worked on a few years earlier. He figured with a little bit of at-home mixing the songs would work just fine as a stopgap release until the real album was ready. He was more than right, and 333 not only fills the gap, it takes the group to uncharted territory. Some of the tracks hit the same sweet spot between garage rock swagger and almost-metallic heaviness where their work has set up shop in the past. The grinding, slow-motion jam "Reach for the Sunn" and the rippling rocker "Cancer" are examples of classic Meatbodies-style songs, played with a loose and rambling vigor that's refreshingly unstudied. Knocking those pins down was easy enough; elsewhere, Ubovich takes some stylistic chances and gets all strikes. The instrumental "Eye Eraser" brilliantly drops some classic shoegaze guitar work on top of plinky drums, "The Hero" is a psychedelic ballad worthy of pre-freakout Syd Barrett, and "Night Time Hidden Faces" is a stunning departure. The first half of the track comes across like Stereolab if they were members of a biker gang, juxtaposing hypnotic guitars and organs with a motorik groove and some blithely sneering vocals. Once the groove really starts to pick up steam, the song abruptly switches to low-slung blues-rock, the likes of which one might hear on a Royal Trux album. It's experimental, it's fun, and as with the rest of the record, it works like a charm. 333 might be a side trip for Meatbodies, but it's a fascinating one. Not only does it show how versatile they can be, it also cements their place as one of the great underrated rock bands of their era. © Tim Sendra /TiVo

Like Anthem, Christian Scott's 2007 post-Katrina meditation, Yesterday You Said Tomorrow is more than a collection of tunes; it's a statement. Scott, who was 26 at the time of this album's release, spells out his intention in the liner notes, where he explains that -- and he cites the 1960s work of Coltrane, Miles, Hendrix, Dylan, and Mingus as reference points -- he wanted to "create a record that has all the qualities of the documents of that era as they relate to our time by creating a palette that referenced the depth and conviction of the '60s in the context of subject matter and sound, but done in a way that illuminates the fact that my generation has had the opportunity to study the contributions of our predecessors, thus making our decision making process musically different." That's a pretty lofty goal (and a very long sentence), and a challenge to achieve, particularly with instrumental music. Scott pulls it off with aplomb though -- recorded by Rudy Van Gelder and produced by Chris Dunn and Scott, Yesterday You Said Tomorrow is very much a contemporary jazz album, yet it frequently touches down in that earlier, headier era, both sonically and in a more visceral, emotional sense. It's impossible, for example, not to notice the tonal similarities to Miles' work of the late '60s in Scott's trumpet playing, and the pacing and feisty overall attitude of several tracks is reminiscent of the more contemplative music of that time. Yet the rhythms and the setting belong to the present, with subtle and not-so-subtle influences from hip-hop, funk, and electronica finding their way into the mix. "K.K.P.D." (which Scott says stands for Ku Klux Police Department) launches it with a minute-plus of Matthew Stevens' swampy guitar run and Jamire Williams' manic drumming before Scott steps in to blow his first coolly muted solo. The piece becomes more aggressive as it unfolds, Milton Fletcher, Jr.'s piano and Kristopher Keith Funn's bass sending sparks in directions that often lead away from those Scott has chosen. "The Eraser," a song adapted from Radiohead frontman Thom Yorke's solo album of the same name, is smoother than the source material yet it's pervaded by a deliberate, somewhat unsettling scratchiness that signals the listener not to get too comfortable. The titles of some of the other tracks alone -- "Angola, LA & the 13th Amendment," "Jenacide (The Inevitable Rise and Fall of the Bloodless Revolution)," "American't" -- serve notice that this is a record that means business. On the latter, aimed at the negativity presently pervasive in the nation, Scott takes his time developing the melodic theme and musing introspectively as the other musicians build a solid foundation under him, while "Angola…" is a brooding, if occasionally angry exposition that doubles as a showcase for Stevens' tasteful licks. Stevens is also prominent throughout the record's closer, which he co-wrote with Scott, "The Roe Effect (Refrain in F# Minor)," a relatively stately, albeit at times unnerving commentary on the abortion issue. The track utilizes a backward recording technique in its latter half, ostensibly to juxtapose the opposing viewpoints on the charged issue, but also, one supposes, to remind the listener that the open-mindedness that goes into creating music as moving and commanding as this is also something we need to keep in the forefront as we find our way through these troubled times.© Jeff Tamarkin /TiVo