Hank Williams Iii Damn Right Rebel Proud Rar

Freedom Fire--The Indestructible Beat of Soweto Volume Three [Earthworks, 1=
990]
Producer Trevor Herman claims the lead cut, featuring Mahlathini and the ga=
ng, is "the finest track ever released on Earthworks." I say it's high-gene=
ric, and five minutes of high-generic at that, damn near swallowing the sho=
uting spirituality of the two Amaswazi Emvelo songs right afterwards. But g=
radually things pick up--Zulu fear of flying, nasal Shangaan weirdness, thr=
ee distinct and magnificent Mahlathini vehicles, modest accordion jive, ava=
nt Venda-Pedi instrumental, modernized marabi, hectoring Sotho shout. Out o=
f many peoples, one compilation. A-

The Sound of the City: New Orleans [EMI, 2003]
Surely some exploiter will step forward, or wouldn't it be nice if the Smit=
hsonian strong-armed licensors into sluicing royalties right to the Ninth W=
ard? But with Rhino's three-LP canon long ago put under and Shout! Factory'=
s four-CD Doctors, Professors, Kings & Queens tourist-board hype, this Char=
lie Gillett creation is easily the finest available overview of the lost ci=
ty's rock and roll heritage even if you have to e-mail England to get one. =
On what is essentially a rock-era survey, the New Orleans tinge sustains a =
perilous segue from "Let the Good Times Roll" to "West End Blues" to (Bobby=
 Bland's) "St. James' Infirmary." No Mardi Gras krewes, but Gillett does re=
member every major artist as well as irreplaceable one-shots from Jessie Hi=
ll's high-principled "Ooh Poo Pah Doo" to the Animals' carpetbagging "House=
 of the Rising Sun." And though he deals a few sixes and sevens, ace finds =
start with Archibald's boogie-woogieing "Stack O Lee," Jerry Byrne's frenet=
ic "Lights Out," Willie Tee's pimping "Thank You John," and two very differ=
ent Bobby Charles songs--one young, dumb, and itching to be free, the other=
 disabused, disabusing, and longing to make love work. A

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Run the Road 2 [Vice, 2006]
Got no idea whether this is true grime because I never knew what grime was =
to begin with. The Brit accents on the pseudo-triumphalist, vaguely Jeezy-s=
ounding four-cameo opener are grime enough for me--most gripping grime I kn=
ow, in fact, and pretty damn fine Jeezy-sounding pseudo-triumphalism to boo=
t. Offenses against purity abound--girl choruses and duets, guy who argues =
endearingly if unconvincingly that "shanking" isn't commercial, and a Nas f=
an with a pink penis who tells a mildly grisly story backwards whilst strum=
ming an acoustic guitar very hard. Letdown: Sway, touted as this year's, yo=
u remember, Dizzee Rascal. Disappointment: paucity of Jeezy-sounding pseudo=
-triumphalism. A-

The Rough Guide to Bhangra Dance [World Music Network, 2006]
Punjabi-based dance music has accrued formula since Rough Guide's first bha=
ngra comp, and this one pumps identical hyperdrive from boy group, Anglopho=
ne pop queen, and subcontinental elder. Only it's really great hyperdrive--=
if that's the same hook again (it is, right?), bring it on. Eventually, sof=
t or folkloric sounds do enter the mix, and how about that? The letdown is =
a respite if you happen to be tired and does itself proud if you're not. Mo=
re more more. A-

Plague Songs [4AD, 2006]
The ten plagues of Egypt were good for the Jews--brought down by Moses, Aar=
on, and their boss Jehovah to help those long-ago Middle East good guys get=
 out from under. But when a British documentarian got grant money to commis=
sion songs about said plagues as part of her muddled re-enactment of the Ex=
odus, what were her arty artistes to do? Make locusts and boils sound like =
liberation? Instead, Brian Eno and Laurie Anderson escape into depressive m=
urmurs, Scott Walker and the Tiger Lillies offer competing Antony and the J=
ohnsons imitations, wan London rapper Klashnekoff and typographically chall=
enged soulster Cody ChestnuTT fulfill their quota, and King Creosote associ=
ates frogs with loneliness because they didn't ask him to write one about r=
oses. At least Rufus Wainwright moves the firstborn-son action to Westchest=
er. And thank G-d Stephin Merritt risks "necessary heresy." "Fleas fleas, S=
TDs/All of Egypt on her knees"--that's the spirit. [Rolling Stone: 2] =20

Vee-Jay: The Definitive Collection [Shout! Factory, 2007]
Before Motown, Chicago-based Vee-Jay was the biggest black-owned label of t=
he rock and roll era, with a run of r&b and then pop hits stretching from J=
immy Reed's "High and Lonesome" in 1953 to the Dells' "Stay in My Corner" i=
n 1965--and also included the Four Seasons' 1962 "Sherry" and, thanks to Ca=
pitol Records' initial stupidity, four of the first nine Beatles' songs to =
go top 40. But the label failed to survive these unlikely successes--by 196=
4 or so, it was said to be involved in sixty-four separate legal actions. V=
ee-Jay had no house style--just a&r man Calvin Carter, who favored the roug=
her strains of blues and gospel but appreciated every r&b and gospel style,=
 and promo man Ewart Abner, who could schmooze anybody about anything and e=
nded up president of Motown. Reed was its most prolific artist. Label-hoppi=
ng blues primitivist John Lee Hooker had his biggest singles with Vee-Jay, =
and apostle of soul cool Jerry Butler his first. Carter also brought the wo=
rld the supernal doowop of Pookie Hudson's Spaniels and the durable post-do=
owop of Marvin Junior's Dells. But all these artists are more efficiently a=
ccessed on their own collections. What's striking on this four-CD set is th=
e one-shots: young Gladys Knight and aging "5" Royales, cult heroes Rosco G=
ordon and Pee Wee Crayton outdoing themselves, hot songwriter Hoyt Axton's =
hokum blues and future record exec Donnie Elbert's falsetto workout. Like m=
ost boxes, this one needs its familiar hits and is too long on high-generic=
 collectors' items. But with the worst of eighty-five tracks a lounge-jazz =
"Exodus," a lot of people were clearly doing something right. [Rolling Ston=
e: 3.5] =20

Generation Bass Presents: Transnational Dubstep [Six Degrees, 2011]
In 1994 Wax Trax' Ethnotechno proved a politely polyrhythmic techno reachou=
t to straightforward international dance musics it secretly found quaint. I=
t listened well and stuck poorly, the "ethnotechno" tag itself its main con=
tribution to international understanding. Conceived, assigned, and sequence=
d by DJ Umb, the London-born son of Kashmiri exiles who promotes such all-e=
mbracing terms as "transnational bass" at his Generation Bass blog, this ar=
ray of whomping exotica reflects its creator's appetite for any Third World=
 dance movement he can get his ears on, including such new ones on me as ku=
duro, barefoot, and--from the mysterious depths of the District of Columbia=
--Moombahton! Plus, of course, the bassy evolution of techno beatmaking sin=
ce 1994. Speaking as someone who will never enter a barefoot club (my docto=
r prescribed those orthotics, dammit), I hereby extend my thanks to whoever=
 invented that shuddering synth low end that turns background music into fo=
reground fun without requiring you to kiss your ass goodbye. And I also tes=
tify that not a damn thing here sounds quaint. Which is to make no predicti=
ons as to how any of them will sound 17 years from now. A-

Our Dreams Are Our Weapons: From the Kasbah/Tunis to Tahrir Square/Cairo an=
d Back [Network, 2011]
At first this bifurcated selection of eight liberation songs from Tunisia a=
nd six from Egypt sounds noble and no more. Although the 14 tracks vary con=
siderably, all are on the respectable side except for one Tunisian rap, whi=
ch was recorded well before the revolt got the rapper imprisoned. But soon =
the Tunisian sequence hits home: uplifting neotrad opener to songpoem with =
crowd chatter to haunting rap to marchlike hymn right through a rock anthem=
 that swept all the way to Tahrir Square. Unfortunately, after a Nubian ope=
ner the Egyptians' contributions don't connect as deep. The two oud-and-per=
cussion features by two Coptic brothers are too many, and the saved-for-las=
t "The Challenge," by Tunisian oud-and-zither brothers with their own album=
 on this very label, strives a little too solemnly to, as the notes put it,=
 "build a bridge between Orient and Occident." A matter of taste, of course=
--tragic sacrifices and momentous changes merit some solemnity. But I'd lov=
e to hear just one beat from the rappers I know damn well were taking their=
 A game to the Cairo streets. B+



God Don't Never Change: The Songs of Blind Willie Johnson [Alligator, 2016]
We hear Johnson less as a singer of songs than as a primal force: gruff roa=
r softened slightly by female backup overwhelming resonant bottleneck to ho=
nor a merciful God who had damn well better be strong enough to get us out =
of a damn hard world. So one advantage of this tribute album is that the vo=
calists foreground the lyrics. Tom Waits and Lucinda Williams get two songs=
 apiece, and although they will no doubt be accused of oversinging as if th=
is isn't Johnson the exaggerator already, Waits's opening "The Soul of a Ma=
n" and Williams's "God Don't Never Change" are milestone performances and t=
he other two rock. Almost as impressive is how confidently and conceptually=
 lesser honorees Sinead O'Connor, Susan Tedeschi, Margo Timmins, and Maria =
McKee put their songs across. All women, notice--Luther Dickinson fares les=
s well, although not as ruinously as Rickie Lee Jones, whose affected croak=
 wrecks "Dark Was the Night--Cold Was the Ground," which Johnson recorded g=
uitar-only. Crucially, each performs with her or his own band. And then the=
re are the only black performers here, the eternal Blind Boys of Alabama, w=
ho amid all the bellowing and emoting deliver "Motherless Children" as if t=
hanking God for getting that hellhound off their trail a long long time ago=
. A-

Outlaws & Armadillos: Country's Roaring '70s [Legacy, 2018]
Although this Country Music Hall of Fame-certified double-CD never admits i=
t, it means to link the de facto folkies Nashville songwriters with hippie =
tendencies inevitably became with Waylon and Willie--also Kris Kristofferso=
n, who achieved their dream, and Emmylou Harris, they wished. But the track=
list just isn't sure-shot. I've never fallen for Townes Van Zandt or Steve =
Young like I'm supposed to, so why don't "Rex's Blues" and "No Place to Fal=
l" convince me to try again? And while you may have missed deadpan Tom T. H=
all and early-blooming Joe Ely, "Joe, Don't Let Your Music Kill You" and "I=
 Had My Hopes Up High" won't send you hightailing to Spotify like you shoul=
d. On the other hand, I am now convinced that Kinky Friedman's "Sold Americ=
an" shoulda been a hit and Michael Murphey's "Cosmic Cowboy" deserves its l=
egend, and give thanks for Bobby Bare's "Marie Laveau," Lou Ann Barton's "Y=
ou Can Have My Husband," Gary P. Nunn's "London Homesick Blues," Commander =
Cody's "Too Much Fun," and Johnny Paycheck's "11 Months and 29 Days," none =
of which had previously set up residence in my recall memory. Also, this is=
 as good a place as any to discover Terry Allen and the Flatlanders, whose =
debut albums I think I'll go play right now. B+
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