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TREY ANASTASIO: PLASMA (Elektra) In the end, it’s all about “Inner Tube,” a studio/concert hybrid composition that changes pace frenetically over 22 minutes. Phish honcho Trey Anastasio and his nine-piece orchestra have thrown together a crazy enough bouillabaisse in “Inner Tube” to beat Medeski Martin and Wood at their own jazz-funk-electronica game. If it weren’t stashed near the end of the second disc of the double-live release Plasma, “Inner Tube” might have even had the chance to preach to someone other than the jam-band choir. Since the whole point of Plasma is to hit you with the highlights of Anastasio’s solo work in 2002—the other tracks come from various concert and soundcheck performances—“Inner Tube” really cuts to the chase in one sense with its cut-andpasted style, though in the more literal sense, it takes over 20 minutes to cut to the chase. While Phish has done well simply to maintain their exploratory mojo since their hiatus ended in December, Anastasio’s solo progress has richly rewarded anyone who’s been paying attention. Compare the Plasma version of the Cubanboppy “Mozambique” to one from just a year earlier: Anastasio has fleshed out the horn section’s role and added extra sections with more nuances in tone, energy, and volume. Plasma is really just a benchmark in the ongoing development of the sounds in Anastasio’s head. The biggest drawback to Plasma is also the
most obvious: there’s no visual aspect. Anastasio is a joy to watch onstage, using all kinds of sign language to direct his players (a keyboardist, percussionist, drummer, bassist, and five horn blowers). It’s one thing to listen to the lengthy jam in “Night Speaks to a Woman” and dismiss it as self-indulgent noodling, but it’s something else to realize that virtually every twist and turn comes on the spur of the moment from Anastasio’s direction. That’s self-indulgence on a whole ’nother level, but infinitely more engrossing, too. As with all worthwhile works of improvisation, there are the inevitable missteps: “First Tube” and “Sand” pale in comparison to their Phish incarnations, and no matter what your fancy, Anastasio’s spotlight-hogging guitar style can wear thin after two hours. That’s why the instrumental arrangements of Bob Marley’s “Small Axe” and Phish’s “Magilla” make Plasma a winner by themselves: they’re short and understated, a most welcome change of pace. When Anastasio does take his hands off the guitar for even a few moments, the focus shifts to his songwriting and compositional skills. That shift is becoming more and more welcome as the years go by. —Taylor Upchurch ARAB STRAP: MONDAY AT THE HUG & PINT (Matador) It would be bad form to write off Arab Strap as just another musical export in the so-called Scottish invasion. Like their cohorts Mogwai and Belle & Sebastian, they write lyrical, melodycharged pop songs with tongue firmly in cheek, although the Straps are a bit more mischievous. Malcolm Middleton and Aiden Moffat are crafty buggers. After seven years, they are misanthropic storytellers with no shame. Many of their lyrics center around the world of relationships: good, bad, and disastrous. They also write about drug hazes, gloom, and Scottish locales. They throw it all at you: cellos, bagpipes, distorted beats, doors slamming, and floods of tears. This is especially true with their new CD, Monday at the Hug & Pint. Named after a pub in their native Falkirk, the disc melds all of these things into a well-crafted, but sometimes non-contiguous, unit. The album attempts to create the pub feeling. You enter on a euphoria, then you drink, think, drink, mingle, talk, mingle, and drink some more. Somewhere along the line, you’re at the barstool being sad and miserable, but still reveling in it all. Arab Strap have made a record that is lyrically frank. They are honest and on point. However, after a few rounds, they begin to spiral into sadness and decay as they banter on about bastards and evil women. “The Shy Retirer” encapsulates the euphoria and is a brilliant beginning to the album. It fea-
tures a beat that slashes calmly along, melded with great hooks and lyrics. “Meanwhile at the Bar, a Drunkard Muses” is tinged with darkness; it has dark lyrics and weeping melodies as a backdrop. “There are rules to follow,/just a big black gaping hollow.” That about sums up the dreariness here. “Loch Leven” is introduced by a nicely distorted bagpipe solo. The song itself is a
homage to the loch in Falkirk, draped in the hopes and aspirations of dealing with somebody. “Flirt” is also one of the album’s best moments. This also is a record that is honest, genuine, and real. Arab Strap are heartfelt songsters with an uncanny knack for making great hooks. This is most evident with “Glue” and “Act Of War,” two really solid tracks that, along with “The Shy Retirer,” may be the best on the record. Arab Strap never craft the same song twice. But they have made another record with no rules or boundaries. They are captivating because they don’t care; they are relevant because they simply wear emotions on their sleeves. Stylistically, they have always been all over the place. This is OK, though, because they craft exhilarating pop. They devise great songs out of twisted lives and bitterness. Arab Strap are not for everyone. You have to be down on your luck to really appreciate them, as they wallow in sadness. However, when they break out of it, it is joyous. Hug & Pint offers sentimentality, irony, melancholy, and hope amid all of its muddled sounds and diverse melodies. —Rob Levy BLUE OCTOBER: HISTORY FOR SALE (Rainmaker) “The rain always brings our heroes.” Leave it to Justin Furstenfeld to write the nontraditional love song. From his lyrics, you quickly understand him to be a man who’s seen despair and self-destruction, who continues to battle his demons—yet who rejoices in the sunshine, the beauty of life. With Blue October’s History for Sale, Furstenfeld gives us just that: a glimpse into his past, into the depths of his memories, for the price of a CD—and he’s selling himself short at that. History is the Texas quintet’s third album, their first since the underpromoted effort at Universal, 2001’s Consent to Treatment. And there’s so much to this disc: even aside from the tough, poetic lyrics—more than worth the price of admission alone, in my book—there’s a tremendous pop sensibility, a flow between 12 songs that will burrow into your heart and take
