Various Artists - Kill Bill: Volume 2 [SOUNDTRACK] [2004]
Posted by admin on September 27th, 2007
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Quentin Tarantino wraps up his dizzy double-dose of martial arts film tribute cum informed paean to junk cinema with the throw-it-all-against-wall abandon that’s become his cliched trademark, if not necessarily his true strength as a filmmaker. That sensibility has long informed his quirky, world-pop savvy soundtracks as well, though this chapter’s collection gratifyingly sacrifices a dollop of eclecticism in favor of a little more focused nuance. Revolving loosely around a decidedly international, free-floating axis of Latin rhythm (Chingon’s “Malaguena Salerosa, ” the flamenco-demento of Lole Y Manuel’s “Tu Mira”) and Western twang, Tarantino’s choices include Morricone both familiar (The Good, the Bad and Ugly’s evocative “Il Tramonto”) and less so (Il mercenario’s “l’arena,” “A Silhoutte of Doom”), fellow Roman film scorer Luis Bacalov’s slinky, guitar-driven “The Summertime Killer” and a couple disparate slices of Americana by country legend Johnny Cash and rockabilly loose cannon Charlie Feathers. The director’s pop fare covers less adventuresome territory, though Malcolm McLaren’s trip-hop take on the Zombie’s British Invasion chestnut “She’s Not There” somehow seems all-of-a-piece with the retro groove of Shivaree’s “Goodnight Moon” and melodramatic kitsch of Japanese actress Meiko Kaji’s “Urami Bushi.” It’s all interspersed with excerpts of Tarantino-penned dialog from the film, snippets that only inspire an even greater admiration for his adventurous taste as musical compiler/supervisor. — Jerry McCulley. Read the rest of this entry »
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Boston-born comedian and actor Denis Leary released his first standup comedy album No Cure for Cancer in 1993. The chain-smoking, explosive Leary first gained notoriety with MTV commercials, but he certainly benefited from the popularity of Sam Kinison and Andrew Dice Clay in the late 1980s and early 1990s. No Cure for Cancer is wildly uneven. About 35 minutes of standup are sandwiched between four novelty songs. The best one, “Asshole,” is a funny diatribe set to acoustic rhythm guitar. It achieved some success in a censored form, which robbed it of impact. Leary’s barbed tongue tackles topics like drugs, smoking, meat, rock stars, death, and combinations thereof. Parts of the standup monologue don’t work, and occasionally the deadly silence of the audience proves it. He starts rolling when he talks about sex, drugs, and music as they related to 1970s culture. In “Rehab,” Leary complains about people blaming dysfunctional families for life’s disappointments. In a poignant rebuttal, he argues that happiness comes in small doses: a cigarette, a chocolate-chip cookie, or a five-second orgasm. “More Drugs” is clearly the best bit. He laments the deaths of stellar musicians and complains about the superhuman durability of lesser talents. No Cure for Cancer’s best line?: “Stevie Ray Vaughan is dead and we can’t get Jon Bon Jovi on a helicopter.” Ouch! Others singled out for praise or ridicule include John Lennon, Yoko Ono, Motley Crue, Barry Manilow, the Bee Gees, Andy Gibb, Judas Priest, Dan Fogelberg, James Taylor, the Black Crowes, the Doors, R.E.M.’s Michael Stipe, Don Henley, Joe Walsh, Elvis Presley, and Keith Richards. Leary gleefully punctures political correctness by praising smoking and wishing for throat cancer and a voice box on “Smoke” and honoring war-mongering, carnivorous men on “Meat.” ~ Bret Adams, All Music Guide. 
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Like many long-term relationships, Manic Street Preachers benefited from some time apart, as their seventh album, Send Away the Tigers, makes plain. Arriving on the heels of 2006 solo albums from both singer/guitarist James Dean Bradfield and lyricist/bassist Nicky Wire, Send Away the Tigers finds the group recharged and revitalized, achieving the widescreen grandeur of Everything Must Go but infusing it with a harder rock edge that may not be as furious as their earliest work, but is no less committed. This surging sense of purpose was conspicuously absent on the Manics’ previous albums, which grew increasingly mannered in their attempts at majestic pop, culminating in the pleasant but too soft Lifeblood. It’s hard to call Tigers soft — it thunders even in its quietest moments, and when strings or keyboards are brought in, they’re drowned out by guitars. This doesn’t sound like a desperate measure; it sounds like recommitment on the part of the Manics, especially since they haven’t abandoned the melodic skills they’ve honed over the past decade. They’ve merely melded them to muscular yet mature rock & roll. It’s that commitment to hard rock that makes Send Away the Tigers bracing upon its initial listen, but what makes it lasting is the songs, which may lack anthems on the level of “A Design for Life,” but they’re something better: they’re small-scale epics, roiling with drama and coiled with tension, flirting with being overblown but kept grounded by the group’s reclaimed righteousness and newfound sense of control. That leanness applies to the album overall as well — where every Manics record since Everything Must Go grew increasingly over-stuffed, this has no flab, and its ten songs have a relentless momentum. It’s still pretty bombastic — the Manics were never about subtlety — but the sweeping gestures are delivered with a sense of efficiency that makes Send Away the Tigers never seem heavy-handed, which is something that even their best albums often are. So, this isn’t merely a return to form, then — it’s also a welcome progression from a band that only a couple of albums back seemed stuck in a rut with no way out. ~ Stephen Thomas Erlewine, All Music Guide. 
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