NEW MUSIC

Super D

(Attacked by Plastic)

Ben Folds’ newest solo project makes one nostalgic for whiny rants against ex-girlfriends, depressing abortion anthems and quirky pop songs—the kind of things that made 1997’s Whatever and Ever Amen such a landmark for angst-ridden but grunge-free teenagers. Ben Folds is best appreciated for his catchy tunes, bitter and sexually frustrated lyrics and creative piano melodies, but the five songs of Super D possess few to none of these qualities. This disappointing disc follows Speed Graphic and Sunny 16 as the third in a trilogy of forgettable releases from the past year and a half.

Folds played a fantastic concert last summer with Rufus Wainwright and Guster in New York’s Central Park. The singer-songwriter consistently engaged his audience from behind the keys, at times conducting them to hum the orchestral parts missing during his performances of old Five songs. But there’s nothing engaging, and certainly nothing to sing along with, on Super D, which only includes three Folds originals. Instead, the ever-innovative pianist tries his hands at addressing the demand for a metal piano arrangement of the Darkness’s “Get Your Hands Off of My Woman,” and, in the album’s only highlight, nails a cover of Ray Charles’s “Them That Got,” recorded live at Boston’s Avalon. On the track, Folds addresses the incomplete nature of the song but leaves the listener wishing he might also explain the overall incompleteness of this CD.

The original material is nothing short of embarrassing, reaching its nadir in an overly-long sequence of “Adelaide” that draws new meaning to the phrase “musical masturbation” as it alternates between depressing piano solos and composed moments of Folds panting. Even the most devout fans of Folds should pass up this disc and wait for the dork-chic piano man to offer up something more substantive. Those who purchase the EP will forget its melodies and instead find themselves singing along with Whatever’s “Song for the Dumped”: “Give me my money back, you bitch.”

– Kristina M. Moore

Hem

Eveningland

(Rounder Records)

This second release from orchestral octet Hem was recorded in New York City and Slovakia—very far from the southern home of the “countrypolitan” sound that they try to channel. Judging from this bloodless collection of songs, the northward sonic transplant did not take.

Case in point is their cover of Johnny and June Carter Cash’s “Jackson.” The original duet was no lyrical masterpiece but instead drew its charm from the interplay of the couple. Here it is effectively gutted by their removal of the male voice, stripping the tune of its original charisma and replacing it with vocalist Sally Ellyson’s somnambulant, though urbane, croon. Here and elsewhere on the album, her voice lacks any of the smoke or hue that lends distinction to good country singing. As a result, the album drifts by affably and forgettably. None of this is helped by the excessively and almost comically maudlin lyrics, as in “Receiver,” with its chorus of “I will always love you like I do.” Celine Dion might beg for something edgier.

The disc could have easily been a lighter and more pleasant affair had the band not taken such a deeply self-serious attitude. Somewhere in between listing their songs alphabetically rather than in track order on the front cover and recording with the Slovak Radio Orchestra, they forgot to endow their music with any sign of levity or vivacity. The end result is a 53-minute lull, as sleep-inducing and unpalatable as warm milk.

—Eric Fritz

In Love and Death

The Used

(Reprise Records)

Time is ticking away quickly, or so the Used seems to want us to think over the course of their second album, In Love and Death; but the only time fleeting here is the duration of the record. At just over 40 minutes, it takes less than one turn of the clock to finish this disjointed brew, which combines screaming (á la their self-titled debut) with three or four thought-provoking, catchy melodies that manage to evoke the album’s intended theme, what drummer Branden Steineckert calls “that feeling of movement and momentum you hear in the music,” caused by “the life [they] lead, living out of duffel bags and waking up in a different city every day.”

The album’s best tracks, such as “I Caught Fire,” “Yesterday’s Feelings” and “Light With a Sharpened Edge,” are those that place in the foreground the lyrics that build this theme of transient life. On the other hand, when lead singer Bert McCracken belts out “I’m not listening” for 25 piercing seconds at the end of “Listening,” it does little to contribute to the album’s lyrical drive and at the same time repels listeners who may want to escape from the ear-splitting and ineffective shrieking. It’s a challenge to grasp the “movement and momentum” of an album when shielding one’s ears from the dissonant ruckus of songs like “I’m a Fake” and “Let It Bleed.”

On In Love and Death’s more sophisticated songs, the album is the intended race against time, but in the end the songwriting just doesn’t have enough strength to counter the overpowering screaming before the clock runs out.

—Jessica Berger

Kenny Wayne Shepherd

The Place You’re In

(Reprise)

Posing on the front cover of his first record in five years with a massive cross, a black leather jacket (complete with black undershirt) and meticulously uncombed platinum hair, Kenny Wayne Shepherd looks either like a white biker Prince or some musically degenerative ex-boy band star. The Place You’re In, Shepherd’s fourth record, emphasizes garbage rock that sounds more like a NASCAR soundtrack than the inventive blues that enthusiasts desire. The band occasionally sounds like Collective Soul having a bad day or a meek Boston, but mostly just like guys playing repetitive chord changes with amps cranked and metronomes set on allegretto.

Shepherd’s guitar chops—normally his distinguishing trait—here offer no variety and aren’t as prominently displayed as on earlier releases, and in compensation for the diminished guitar work, Shepherd sings on most of the album. Noah Hunt, who fronted the band on the last three records, takes the mic here only on two tracks. Kid Rock also guest-stars but is unable to save the album’s sonically limited vocals. It’s not that Shepherd has an atrocious voice; he just isn’t a singer and would be better giving his attention to composing more compelling tunes. He himself says, “My songs have always been highly personal, but the last thing I wanted to do was sacrifice my sound for the sake of singing lead vocals. It just took awhile for them to match up.” For Shepherd, that clock still ticks.

With bands like Wilco reinventing what can be done with American roots music, there’s never an excuse for an album of the genre to sound so recycled: Even after repeated listening, it’s nearly impossible to distinguish songs from The Place You’re In. On top of the dearth of creativity in the production, the lyrics are simplistic and clichéd. The title track features a particularly unfortunate line: “Live baby live / While you still can / I can change the world if you let me be your man.” Though Shepherd says that his band is “growing and changing” and that he plans to get “behind it and enjoy the ride,” if he continues to do so he’ll soon find his albums selling for $3.98 at used record stores.

—Nathaniel Naddaff-Hafrey