FREAKWATER 1/12, LOUNGE AX On their fourth and finest album, Old Paint (Thrill Jockey), Freakwater continue to make their hillbilly appropriations more organic, imbuing their music with greater warmth and beauty than ever before. In the past the group tried too hard to maintain a formal purity. But their striking originals now reside easily with old country and folk nuggets; the material serves them rather than the other way around. The untrained warble of Cathy Irwin intertwines masterfully with Janet Bean’s refined croon, and Bob Egan’s spare pedal steel and National guitar offer just the right amount of ornamentation. Dishes open.
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EKOOSTIK HOOKAH 1/12, HOG HEAD McDUNNA’S Daffy infantry in the ever-swelling neohippie jamming brigade, this Columbus, Ohio, quintet keeps its pan-stylistic grooves on the softer side of the overwrought blues-rock attack that characterizes most of the troops. On their self-released Dubba Buddah (great title, eh?) Ekoostik Hookah sing about lots of dopey stuff, from the harmonic convergence to riverboat gambling, amid languid rhythms, tinkling-waterfall piano, and jangly guitars–with plenty of obligatory jamming. In the rush to inherit the Grateful Dead’s throne, this combo has enough, um, hair to make an impressive showing.
G//Z/R, WICKER MAN 1/13, METRO Led by Black Sabbath bassist Geezer Butler, G//Z/R seem to be a side project designed to allow the elder metallurgist to muse on something besides the sludge he’s been producing for the last 25 years. On its debut, Plastic Planet (TVT), the band, which also features Fear Factory vocalist Burton C. Bell, trudges through a variety of post-Sab stances, from swirling grindcore to Soundgarden-esque goth. On “Giving Up the Ghost” Butler chides the metal ranks who’ve foolishly mishandled the satanic tendencies of his old band: “You are desperately seeking Satan.” Wicker Man vocalist/bassist Keith Pastrick claims, “Lately, people are taking everything way too seriously.” Well, based on their eponymous debut–finally released on Hollywood Records after Imago, the label that signed them long ago, went belly-up–he should be satisfied: no one with a modicum of taste will take their warmed-over sub-Helmet grinding seriously.
