REVIEWS [ALBUMS]

“Get on your boots” adopt a self-conscious
Zoo tV swagger that only exposes bono’s
dodgier wordplay.
and ultimately, No Line hinges on your
appetite for, or patience with, the nobel Peace
Prize nominee’s lyrical approach. “I’m sick of
bono and I am him,” the singer admitted of his
persona recently. so he abridges his first-person
pronouncements, taking the point of view of a
war correspondent on the moody diary “Cedars
of Lebanon,” and of a suicidal man who thinks
his phone is texting him instructions via
computer commands (“Force quit and move
to trash!”) on “Unknown Caller.” He imagines
himself as invisible in “moment of surrender”
and is a mostly phonetic presence during
“Fez—being born.” It’s odd that the world’s
most voluble one-named activist, who holds
forth at will on, say, Larry King Live, seems
unsure of how to express himself in a musical
context. maybe, like most rational adults, he’s
lost some faith in pop or rock to transform the
planet, but if you’re gonna be the leader of U2,
you oughta embrace the pulpit.
so it’s frankly startling when the confident
rumble of “breathe” emerges. bono sounds
wired, paranoid, and defiantly sympathetic,
ranting about an “asian virus,” “juju man,”
and “st. John the divine.” then, suddenly,
his ambivalent anxiety recedes. and by simply
being a rock star who’s singing his heart out,
he depicts our ability to reenter the grind
every day without cynicism as a near-heroic
act. the edge’s concise, ascending solo
sears the point home.
sick of Bono maybe. sick of U2? not yet.

grown duller and less imaginative. Minus his smart-alecky cheek, it’s increasingly difficult for McKeown to hold your interest. LINDSEY THOMAS

THE ASTEROIDS GALAX Y TOUR

1990s
Kicks

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MYSPACE AMAZON
Sense of humor betrays
Scottish indie-pop jester
Like most bands that shape
songs around wisecracks,
this trio used up their
best gags on their debut
(2007’s charming Bernard
Butler–produced Cookies).
Here, high-spirited front-
man Jackie McKeown
daydreams about kooky

Hollywood life on the stop-and-start “Everybody Please Relax,” abetted by sunny ’60s pop interludes, and then responds to a proposition involving an obscure sex act (“I Don’t Even Know What That Is”) with punky swagger and stinging guitar. There’s an inverse relationship between the guitars and jokes: The riffs have gotten sharper and more jagged as the punch lines have

Aceyalone Aceyalone & The Lonely Ones

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MYSPACE AMAZON
Indie rap innovator slips
into natty retro threads
Aceyalone’s ninth solo
album is one of the year’s
most unexpected hip-hop
pleasures, with the Los
Angeles MC switching
gears from his inventive
and hugely influential
rapid-fire rhyme style.
On The Lonely Ones, he
pays loving homage to
doo-wop and Motown,
spinning lyrics about
civil rights (“Power to the
People”), partying, and
chasing women (“The
Lonely Ones,” “Step Up”).
The music, produced by
newcomer Bionik, skews
close to Mark Ronson’s
self-consciously throwback
pop-soul, but Acey’s care-
free, curse-free lyrics are
delightfully fresh and unpre-
tentious, and he sounds like
a relaxed master at play.
MOSI REEVES

The Asteroids
Galaxy Tour
Fruit

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MYSPACE
Adorably upbeat squawk
finds Apple’s sweet spot
Fans in high places—Amy
Winehouse and Steve Jobs,
most notably—haven’t
hurt this Danish band’s
crossover potential, but
credit is due to what made
those ears prick up in the
first place, namely ebullient
bedroom pop like “Around
the Bend.” The bubbly song
(you’ve heard it in an iPod
Touch ad) inhabits a weird
intersection of Portishead,
the Go! Team, and ’60s Stax
soul, and it’s topped off by
an endearingly squeaky
voice you’ll either love or
loathe. If it’s the latter, give
a few tracks the chance to
win you over—pretty much
every minute of Fruit offers
sweet, sticky pleasure.
JOSH MODELL

gEt MOrE FOR lINkS TO MySPACE PAGES AND v IDEOS, AS w Ell AS TO I Tu NES AND AMAzON, GO TO digitAl.SPiN.COM/ rEviEwS

Mastering Nature
Southern metal brutalists invoke sweet oblivion

They were unaware that Mastodon originally meant “nipple teeth.”

Mast0don may be heavy, but they’re sure as hell not dull. Leviathan, from 2004, was a bruising explication of Moby Dick. two years later, the band allegorized signing with a major label as a quest to the top of Blood Mountain. and the atlanta quartet matched its weighty themes with unpredictable, intelligent metal.

It was a thrilling display. It was also all prelude.

Inspired by family tragedy, interstellar wormholes, Rasputin, and guitarist
brent Hinds’ recovery from a fractured skull, Crack the Skye is a seven-song,
50-minute phantasmagoria of psychedelic song structures, cosmic lyrics, and
foreboding atmosphere. opener “oblivion” provides a fiery summary
of what’s to come, as mystical allusions (“I flew beyond the sun before it
was time”), sinister vocal harmonies, and furious instrumental passages
explode in Zeppelin-esque grandeur before receding into eerie darkness.
Lengthy epics “the Czar” and “the Last baron” showcase Hinds and bill
Kelliher’s new yen for guitar solos, which shine like malevolent beams
of moonlight. throughout, drummer brann dailor proves amazingly
versatile, capable of throwing down funk breaks and fusion fusillades.
While the band still lack a truly distinctive vocalist, it’s become clear
that with their mastery of water, earth, and skye, mastodon’s music now
feels as powerfully elemental as its subject matter. DAVID MARCHESE

MASTODON Crack the Skye

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FROM TOP: SOREN S TARBIRD; JAMES MINCHIN

74 APRIl 2009 / GET MuSIC NEw S 24/7 AT SPIN.COM