"A Great Long While" is the latest offering from Vermont folk rock band Strangefolk. Long revered by jamband fans for the depth and sincerity of their music, Strangefolk does not stray far from their original blueprint with this release. While slightly less political than some of their earlier work, "A Great Long While" still provides soaring instrumental harmonies to go along with collaborative vocal combos throughout. Reid Genauer provides lead vocals on the majority of the tunes, but not all. Jon Trafton sings lead on a few, to match his lead guitar duties. Bassist Erik Glockler also contributes lead vocals on a two tunes he penned himself, Pawn and Blue and Grey.

In addition to the four principle players (Luke Smith does a commendable job behind the drum kit to round out the lineup,) a few special guests add nice touches throughout. Co-producer and editor Richard Hilton adds some percussion and Hammond organ on several tracks, while fellow Vermont folk musician Gordon Stone provides his trademark Dobro and steel guitar on two songs. Bill Holloman gives some shine to a couple of the songs with his brass blowing, and Nile Rodgers strums an acoustic guitar as well. The overall effect is an entertaining brand of eclectic country, quite fitting for a band hailing from Burlington, VT.

The keys to the success of "A Great Long While" lie within the vocal cadence and gritty songwriting throughout. At their strongest points, Genauer's vocals are reminiscent of Tom Petty, but even so can tend to sound a little monotonous when taken at face value. Strangefolk overcomes this obstacle by stacking the backup vocals of his band mates and employing a series of studio effects to add variety to their spoken words. This help retain the power of their lyrics without sacrificing the emotion in their singing.

The album starts out with a song that seems representative of the kind of music Strangefolk is known for. Stout Hearted says if you have "come to bargain, you've come to the wrong place." As an only child the band puts on the only face they know. The song seems a fitting metaphor for the rest of the album. They sing and play with an earnestness that is refreshing. Mama is a likewise tribute to the values that Strangefolk frequently pays homage to. Their mamas raised them well, though there's also a hint of the hippie vs. conformist theme in there, too.

Chasing Away and Sinner are two good examples of how different approaches to singing work for the band. Trafton handles lead vocal duties on the former. His voice is altered by studio distortion, fades, and echoes, as well as some strong vocal backing by his band mates. The chorus of this song actually has the backup lyrics on the front end, which is an interesting way to approach a song, and one that is successful here in my view. Sinner, arguably the best song on the album, finds its strength in more good songwriting and vocal delivery. Genauer's timing and emphasis of lyrics really makes the song flow. Any song that mentions your father as a preacher, a life running from the law, and your dog meets the criteria of a successful country/folk song.

The band is not without its instrumental highlights on "A Great Long While." Walnut is an open tune with space for some soaring guitar lines, giving Trafton room to showcase his talents. There's just enough there to hint at Strangefolk's reputation as a live band, but not so much to outweigh the more crucial elements of the album. Invisible is another good example. The song alternates between soft and emotive vocal passages and an aggressive guitar movement in between them. The ability to balance these two factors plays heavily in the effect of the song as a whole.

Overall, Strangefolk's "A Great Long While" is a very worthwhile album. It remains very faithful to the modern folk tradition and builds upon the earlier works of the band in a logical way. The ultimate criteria by which an album should be judged is not the empirical strengths and weaknesses of the players, but how those elements are meshed together. Richard Hilton and Gary Tole did an excellent job in production, and they have a very solid album as a result. This is a good album to introduce Strangefolk to fans unfamiliar with their work. Anyone who enjoys creative country and folk music should check it out.

Bela Fleck has continually searched the tones of a banjo as a forum for revealing his influences. In the past, Fleck's commitment to the banjo became detrimental to the integrity of the music; certainly the work broke barriers, but the music sounded like smooth jazz or horrid rap. Somehow, Fleck's ongoing experiment moves beyond such pitfalls with "Outbound," Bela Fleck and the Flecktones first release on Columbia Records. "Outbound," despite some problems with a few select tracks, reveals Fleck's final musical synthesis.

While Fleck finally used his Hegelian principles, he does not exhibit any improvement by opening with Aaron Copeland's Hoedown. The listener will immediately begin thinking of "meat," given the media's incessant use of the song for selling food. A kind listener cannot blame Fleck for creating such horror surrounding a Copeland piece, however the astute music lover must question Fleck's musical pedigree in choosing such a destroyed work of art.

Despite the meat images conjured with Hoedown, Fleck reveals an uncanny ability to make his banjo sound like an electric guitar, and along with his band-mates, move Hoedown from American pastoral sounds into Middle Eastern idioms. A gifted arrangement of Hoedown, but once again the listener must wonder why Fleck spent so much time with a composition mired in media.

Only one other composition on "Outbound," A Moment So Close, elicits cringes. Containing an interesting, syncopated melody, reminiscent of several Dave Matthews Band compositions, Future Man sings some trite lyrics. Given the wonderful melody, mixing Middle Eastern strains with pop tastes, mundane lyrics do not work. To the Flecktones credit, "Outbound" only contains one such blunder.

Beyond the two previously mentioned problems, "Outbound" becomes an intriguing and poignant album. Tracks like Earth Jam and Shuba Yutra are spellbinding, the Flecktones at their finest. Earth Jam accomplishes to sound better than any jamband piece concocted recently. Especially interesting in Earth Jam regards Bela's use of a trigger synthesizer on his banjo to garner a sound reminiscent of Phish's Trey Anastasio's guitar.

Rather than spending a surfeit amount of words describing "Outbound," how the vocals by Shawn Colvin and other famous pop singers are used as ornamentation (with Colvin and the others not singing lyrics), the multitude of musical genres traversed, and the stunning pastoral flavor of tracks like Zona Mona, the wise listener should just spend the necessary sixteen dollars and discover "Outbound." The trip, not unlike the subway photographed on the album's cover, may indeed be bumpy and containing seedy characters, but eventually the ride contains something inherently special to each individual.

"The Super Man Curse" will damn the hoots of naysayers from the start, about the future of old-school jamband ancestors, Ominous Seapods. Slowly but surely, I myself was re-oriented, like a moss-covered wooden satellite dish, to my old stomping grounds far north of Westchestah: Upstate New York. Hazy recollections, oily roads and boozy brows weave their way through the hard-traveling 'Pods tunes, telling tales of hiccupy sloth and barn-burning introspection.

Although it's been a while since those northway days, those Albany trails, the 'Pods have not lost much ground. The songrwriting is as lively as ever, with fresh hooks which helped keep me giving just one more listen. Soon, the door was unlocked. The untimely passing this past week of Lewis Turco, my head poetry professor of four years at SUNY Oswego, reminded me of the sometimes cruel and irritant passage of time. Such deep verses and sweet elegies of time's passage followed me through four years of learning, touring and sampling the vibrations of the Upper East Coast.

There, in a woodsy dot from space on the north-flowing banks of the Oswego River, I'd watch the Seapods weave their potent, talky, party-shuckin' grooves well into the night. Old City Hall was the bar, like one the 'Pods have graduated past. I first heard them on a gnarly TDK tape, on the way to a Phish show in Binghamton, sometime in '994. It was some time before I'd even seen moe., though the two bands' paths had already met. The sound of the engine started etching itself into my brain with this triumphantly loose music, painted the color of interstates, road maps, upgrades, and woozy stars nestled in the passing hilltops.

Now, years of endurance have the 'Pods taking the high road to honing the sounds of those grittier days. Bright, soulful production steeps songs like Too Much Fire On the Brain, in the self-created light of their own backyard bluesiness. The tiki torch of hell-fire funk is lit on "For Now," with ornery organ sneer and broke-ass, backwater wah-wah attitude intact. The real jamming, though, doesn't start until Money to Burn, when the lid comes off the conservative clean of the studio can. Later, the bar party continues with Bong Hits and Porn, which, even in its simplicity, still makes me giggle and stomp.

As an album for a band which has been in constant transition, The Superman Curse succeeds in encapsulating all the change in a lap-steely swoon through the backwoods of a band. Imaginary Money captures this transient hobo vibe pretty well; a little spilled beer on the wood lats, and it's time to go home again. The mood even waxes abstract and somewhat sophisticated, come Thought About It, with velvety horn elaborations backing up the 'Pods inquisitive phrases. Finally, all roads merge with the title track, which ends the CD in a summation of the irony, ecstacy, and persistent exploration that is a band which won't stop scoring, even when the aims of the game seem unsure.

The cover photo is of Chris Whitley in a white sleeveless undershirt, the butt of a hand-rolled cigarette jammed between two of the fingers on his right hand. His hair is short and swept-back, his cheeks thin and bony, his stubble suspiciously well-maintained. He looks out from his stone face with wide, pupilless (or are they irisless?) eyes that seem almost to accuse the listener, of not feeling his weary soul smolder, of not walking down the lonesome dusty paths, of not riding the boxcars, that made of him the true, earthy bluesman that he is. Otherwise, why the undershirt and the cigarette - right?

Not to judge an album too much by its cover, or a man by his publicity photos. But as I listen to this almost hilariously serious guy, his acoustic guitars, and their extensive repertoire of blues mannerisms, my eyes inevitably settle on his. I meet his unblinking gaze, and I wait for him to ask aloud the questions implied in his stare. And as he does not, I too stare, and wait yet longer. I will not be psyched out at least not without a good protracted fight.

"Perfect Day" is an album of cover songs - love songs, specifically, ranging stylistically from blues to folk to soul. It was recorded in a day and a half in a studio in Brooklyn, as Whitley and his rhythm section - Billy Martin and Chris Wood of Medeski, Martin and Wood - huddled together with little baffling and laid out these very rough cuts under the guidance of producer Craig Street. Street's wisely minimal production conjures effectively the circumstances of the session, creating the impression of an album comprised of rehearsal cuts, lost tapes unearthed, just three musicians, late at night, in a dark room playing some mournful tunes.

Martin and Wood are, of course, amazing, effortlessly tasteful. To the extent that this album pulls itself off, it owes its success to its sidemen, whose unassuming accompaniment can sometimes bear the weight of Whitley's ponderous moaning. When it does "Perfect Day" has some bright points - Whitley's voice is versatile and can be quite expressive, and, while I could do without his slide guitar playing, when he starts fingerpicking he is creative, and locks in well with the grooves for which his colleagues are so well known. But more often even Martin and Wood buckle, Billy's distant, dry, pots-and-pans-sounding drumming and Chris's rough, minimal upright bass playing not sufficient to make this music convincing.

My thesis here can be evinced by the following excerpt from the liner notes verbatim, punctuation and capitalization intact:

"Why love songs?... the complexities, irrationalities of the experience... I am stimulated and terrified by translations of the inexpressible. our secret lives beyond symbols...shadows of the archetypal. an articulation. primitive and sophisticated... the ritual in a subconscious image... the diction of your senses... the ache of your faith and desire... Beyond dichotomies... the dialect of our revolution. the language of our mystery."

Without having counted, I feel safe saying that perforated paragraph contains more words of four or more syllables than the entire album's lyrics. And it suggests to me that the man I think I see on the cover is really there - a musician whose background and carefully honed, self-conscious hipness prevents him from understanding that the blues is as much about joy and laughter as it is about introspection and pain.

Sold exclusively last month by Grateful Dead Merchandising on the Furthur Tour, the Steve Kimock Band's "Live from the West Coast" CD is now available on the web. Though only five tracks, the release has over 70 minutes of gorgeous instrumentals and features brilliant rock improvisation. The tracks were recorded live at two concerts in July 2000, and later mixed by Brian Risner and Kimock's (formerly Jerry Garcia's and Zero's) sound guru, Howard Danchik.

The first track, Samba, begins serenely but soon, after a rousing solo from keyboardist Tom Coster (who played with Carlos Santana for a number of years), Kimock plays a spine-tinglingly stirring slide solo on a sensuous-sounding steel.

SKB's cover of Footprints, written by Wayne Shorter and popularized by Miles Davis, is enchanting. Kimock's bewitching, envelope-filter-effected solo on his legendary "Florida" (Cripe) guitar is sandwiched by dazzling contributions from Tom Coster on Korg keyboards. Bobby Vega and Alan Hertz provide electrifying accompaniment, and engineer the version's wistful ending.

Five B4 Funk, popularized by Kimock, Vega, Hertz and Ray White when they used to perform together as KVHW, is this disc's most thrilling track. In five time, the song makes for tricky dancing, but the inspired solos from Kimock and Coster -- not to mention the passionate, raging accompaniment from Hertz and Vega -- are amazing.

Keyboardist Pete Sears (of the band Hot Tuna) accompanies on the mystical, erie S.T.D., or Severe Tire Damage -- a reknowned Zero tune. Kimock's sultry, Eastern-flavored solo is soulful and beguiling, but brief. This version ends in a spacey fog of sounds.

The disc closes with one of Kimock's most popular compositions, It's Up to You. Though not flawless in its opening, this version nevertheless involves a variety of improvisations, which exhibit the genius of Kimock, Coster, Vega and Hertz. Fans of KVHW will recognize Pau Pau Go if they listen to Hertz's drumming for several minutes in this track. This It's Up to You travels through jazzy space -- intentionally directionless -- before ending beautifully.

Though a must for any Kimock fan, "Live from the West Coast" is a warm, expertly mixed disc that will complement any improvisational rock aficionado's CD collection.

By all rights, I shouldn't like the Big Wu's sophomore studio effort "Folktales" as much as I do. At first glance, their sound - Allmans-derived doubled guitar lines, harmonies straight offa "American Beauty", occasional white-boy funk slapped bass, cutesy wordplay, and other conventions of the genre - is everything I hate about a certain strain of bands: an attempt to mix a shload of styles together so much so that it all comes out sounding the same. To an extent, the Big Wu are guilty of this -- they certainly were on their '997 debut "Tracking Buffalo Though The Bathtub". But they also seem to moving beyond that, finding genuine beauty within these oft-repeated forms.

My first listen to the disc didn't do much to rid me of these suspicions. I fully intended on pawning it off on some other unwitting reviewer or ex-girlfriend. I threw the disc on the pile and braced myself to deal with it when assignment day rolled around. Something lodged in me, though, and a few days later I found myself humming one of the songs off the album (Elani). "One more listen couldn't hurt," I thought. So I put it on again. And it still sounded like generic jamband music. But it was good.

I'm often fond of calling the original lineup of the Ominous Seapods the ultimate generic jamband. Their sound was perfectly definitive of the genre, but they were also damn good at it, somehow finding an extra something. Since Max Verna left the band in '997, there has been a shortage of good music that falls into that formula. With the release of "Folktales", the Big Wu seems to have claimed the title once held by the 'pods. The songs here are standard verse-chorus-verse affairs, but the hooks are strong, the lyrics are interesting, and the arrangements somehow manage to avoid complete predictability.

On one hand, the band seems to be reaching very gracefully towards an original song-writing style. On the other hand, it also seems that they're having a hard time resisting the impulse to fall into standard mannerisms. Minnesota Moon is a surprisingly charming song. Within the genre of jamband music, each part follows the previous in a completely logical way. The boogie-woogie piano kicks in just after a quick a capella intro, and the fills color the corners straight out of a text book. The guitar break states the melody with little articulation and hands off to the piano which does the same. The band comes back in with vocals, harmonies building on each other.

Yet, it somehow all works. Each line of vocals turns down slightly at the end, bending ever so slightly into a lower range and using that as a starting point for the next line. That can't be it, though. That's what I come out of the song remembering. That's the hook, but it's not the heart. (Unless, somehow, the hook pierced the heart... in which case we have a particularly savage and bloody metaphor squirming in our hands.) There's a warmth to it. It could well be in the production.

It seems like almost all of the songs have a bed of acoustic guitars strumming texturally near the bottom of the mix. They're almost never mixed up, though, and never become abrasive and overstated in a way that is an easy trap for bands trying to explore the realms of studio recording. Often, it seems, bands put acoustic guitars on albums because they can, because they can't do it live, and feel the need to point this fact out by mixing them excessively high -- which, after a while, on one record or ten, can become exceedingly offensive to the ears.

It is in this arena that the Wu excels. "Folktales" is not overdone. It is a mature studio work for a young band. Kensington Manor, for example, has the obligatory acoustic guitar. It also has a host of other parts. There's a very subtle electric slide guitar part that colors the space behind the vocals very nicely, there are atmospheric keyboards, there are drum fills... but one doesn't notice them unless he really strains. It's almost an ambient mix.

The Big Wu has a long way to go, but they're on the right path. "Folktales" is a great record for a blustery day. Granted, it's definitely not for everybody, and - ultimately - it's probably not for me. Some songs - the pseudo-bluegrass of House of Wu - are the kind of fare that make me launch old fruit and promotional CDs down the empty street with a high-powered sling-shot. That said, this album could also well turn out to be a guilty pleasure for years to come.

On "Load * 8.'" or ("Loadstar") Fat Mama has grown from a young band into a mature, muscular, massive, mama music machine. They have created an excellent electric jazz album full of rich melodies, sophisticated soundscapes, and fusion funk freakouts.

The album was recorded live, but in a studio setting. There was a live audience to witness this recording at Theater 99, a recording studio/performance space in New York City. I assume the album was done in one take with no overdubs, but at the same time Fat Mama took full advantage of the high tech, spacious studio. The music is made up of layers of different instruments, sounds, colors and textures. There are always many different musical things going on within a song, but the music is never too crowded. Sam Kopper recorded and produced the album along with Fat Mama. They have teamed up to create a perfect sonic mix. In fact, this is one jazz album that should be listened to loud to bring out all the nuances in the music. If you want to hear every detailed sound that Fat Mama has created, crank it up!

"Loadstar" has a warm, full sound similar to a vinyl record. I am one of those audiophiles who prefer the sound of vinyl records to CDs. It is a sound that Fat Mama obviously aimed for as the album cover is a picture of an antique television and Load "*",8, ' was a command from the Commodore 64, one of the first household computers. Saxophone player Brett Joseph recently told Jambands.com "the concept of the album was to create new ideas with old toys" and "the song Knucklehead is a musical expression of digital/analog conversation."

The digital/analog conversation is also evident on the opening song, Beware of the Bloodborne Pathogens. This song opens with electronic effects, which then turn into a marching, sinister horn section that reflects the evil of the bloodborne pathogens. There is interplay between the analog horns and the digital electronic effects and turntables. An old TV laugh track is even added in between beats. The song covers a lot of musical ground and eventually turns from the dark side and becomes a more light-hearted retro lounge jam. During major portions of Knucklehead and Beware of the Bloodborne Pathogens and throughout the entire album, Fat Mama have created big band lunar lounge astro jazz comparable to Sun Ra.

But Fat Mama is a band of diverse musical minds and that fact is reflected in different genre-bending songs. The main melody of The Kichel Stomp is Klezmer and Road Derby is smooth bebop. There is even a slow blues tune, Rusty Trombone. This song has a somber feel to it to reflect the sadness a musician would have if his trombone were ruined by rust. Dueno de Esclavos has a Spanish title, but sounds more like a combination of Middle Eastern, Indian and Spanish music. Sonya Vallet (Yshara) provides hauntingly beautiful jazz vocals, the first vocals to appear on Fat Mama album. But there are no lyrics, she scats along with the band and jams with her voice. Fat Mama is the best when they fly their fusion flag. The two main fusion tracks here are Luminal Phase and Forbidden Fruit. These sound like Frank Zappa's style of fusion on his "Waka/Jawaka" and "The Grand Wazoo" albums.

Every song on "Loadstar" has a main melodic theme that begins and ends the improvisational portions of each tune. My only complaint about this album is the composed themes are not played long enough. Several members of Fat Mama are highly talented composers, a fact that sets them apart from most jam bands. Fat Mama should take advantage of their compositional skills and place a stronger emphasis on the composed parts of their songs. After just a verse or two of the melodic themes the band seems to be in a hurry to jump right to the improvisational portions. "Loadstar" would be a better album if Fat Mama let their time to let the compositional ideas grow and develop musically for a few minutes longer before beginning the improvisation sections. But don't get me wrong, they are indeed incredible improvisers. Their improvised music can be everything. It can be evil or beautiful, psychedelic or funky, ambient or metallic.

Fat Mama is a team consisting of Erik Deutsch (keyboards), Jonathan Goldberger (guitar), Jon Gray (trumpet), Brett Joseph (tenor saxophone), Joe Russo (drums), Kevin Kendrick (vibraphone, turntables, drum machine) and Jonti Siman (bass). But there is no captain on this team. Four different members are songwriters for the album. And musically, not one person or instrument dominates the sound. Instead, everyone combine forces to complement each other and work as a team to create mama music.

"Loadstar" is an amazing album, but there is not one standout track. While it is not a concept album, several songs do segue into each other. It is best to listen to the entire album at once, in your favorite listening chair. Just sit back, close you eyes, and soak in the wide variety of magnificent sounds that Fat Mama has created. The music is dense, layered and textured yet it is live. Their perfect balance of instrumentation, effects and electronics in a live setting is impressive and shows they will be studio wizards. On "Loadstar" Fat Mama has laid down the groundwork for their next album. They are on the verge of creating an epic album and studio masterpiece. If given enough time, money and equipment they have the potential to record a classic album. You can just imagine the future of Fat Mama coming into focus as you listen to "Loadstar."

Let's get one thing perfectly goddamn straight: there were always a few things in life I was sure about. One of them was that disco sucked. It seemed like a no-brainer. And, on paper, it still does. Tonight, though, I spent considerable time attempting to come up with some moderately intelligent criticism of Toronto's the New Deal, who are currently riding a crest with the seemingly sudden invasion of bands who draw on electronic dance music as a primary influence. I sort of hit a wall trying to describe what they were (and are) doing. Taking a break, I wandered upstairs.

Coming out of my housemate's room was a Donna Summer album. I sat down on his couch, somewhat transfixed. Suddenly, it made a lot of sense. Granted, the arrangements were just as cheesy as they always seemed, hilariously pompous synth violins sweeping melodramatically before leading back into an overwrought vocal... but, beyond that - below that - something else clicked. There was that... groove. It didn't seem very far removed from the New Deal -- or even Sector 9 or the Disco Biscuits. There was almost a hard edge to it. Of course, the New Deal aren't a disco band -- but they sure as hell play dance music.

The shape of the New Deal's sound owes more to straight-ahead jazz than it does to any subgenre of techno or disco: quick and effective heads that make way for improvisation that almost always somehow feels connected to the melody. The difference, and here's where the interplay between electronica and dance music arrives, is the lack of formalized solos. The trio - comprised of Jamie "Guitar" Shields on various keyboards and analog synthesizers, Dan Kurtz on electric bass, and Darren Shearer on drums and beatboxing - is essentially a rhythm section with one lead instrument on top.

In that sense, there are no formal solos because everything is a solo. One of the remarkable things about the New Deal, though, is the way in which melody and rhythm manage to shift back and forth between the instruments. Take Back Off, the EP's closing track, for instance. Like most New Deal improvisations, it's parceled down into chunks. Each instrument repeats a phrase a bunch of times - usually about eight bars - and it's time to change. While Shields's keyboard may be the easiest to pick out, there's often just as much melody embedded in Kurtz's bassline and- almost more so - in Shearer's drum part.

The EP - clocking it at 35 almost-too-short minutes - has a unified feel to it, almost to a fault. Part of this lies in Shields' array of analog keyboards, whose tone can become monotonous after repeated listening. Likewise, with the exception of a few short sections where Shearer drops down (or out altogether) - most notably an interesting break in the Steely Dan-esque Ravine - the band maintains a steady groove throughout -- which, again, can become somewhat tiring. When Shearer does drop out and Shields and Kurtz indulge in some trancey ambience it is utterly refreshing and quite compelling.

When the band gets it together, though, their music pushes the envelope with a wonderful momentum. The last minute of the disc-opening Return To Wherever is just nuts. Shields lays out with several cool sounding washes while simultanouesly pushing closer and closer to the theme of Back To The Middle before finally exploding into it. There is a lot space within the New Deal's music both sonically and improvisationally. It almost never feels weighed down by song structures, but it doesn't soar unrestricted into the stratosphere either -- most of the time, anyway.