CD Reviews

THE BETA BAND
Heroes to Zeros
(Astralwerks)

The Beta Band have the worst song endings since Luscious Jackson. The same ones, too, both of them: a single, mildly ringing chord, delivered out of nowhere with even less authority than drama, and a simple, abrupt halt. Such lazy exit strategies seem natural for L.J., who had the depth of a tortilla chip and an air of psychic inertia so vicious that you couldn't help but marvel at their ability to start songs, let alone finish them. But the fizzlefest tainted Jackson's live shows alone; someone (producer? engineer? janitor? Beastie Boys?) had the presence of mind to fade them in the studio. Not so for the Betas, a puzzling lapse in light of the fact that Heroes to Zeros—the Edinburgh-based quartet's third album and their first since 2001's Hot Shots II—crackles with spectacularly crafty arrangements. (Clarification: For once, they don't sound like Dire Straits remixed by Beck.) Album opener "Assessment," a gently rolling rocker, culminates with a concise but convoluted freak-out driven by guitarist-vocalist Steve Mason's sticky-fingered rhythm and a wall of horns that simultaneously evokes Sam & Dave's "Soul Man" and "Tonight," by Supergrass. The interlude is so packed with stop-start surprises and whimsical flourishes that its anticlimactic ending only makes you wince a little bit. Same for "Liquid Bird," a dubby micro-epic that runs on Mason's gated-delay guitar mindfuck and drummer Robin Jones' fluid variable-tempo breakbeats. As with most of the album, the song's meaty means justify its clunky end: Heroes maintains such a ferocious level of synaptic activity that you can't help but wonder if the Betas are simply saving the compelling conclusions for touring time, like Luscious Jackson in reverse. ROD SMITH

MARTHA WAINWRIGHT
Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole
(Querbes Service)

After opening Rufus Wainwright's Moore Theatre performance last winter with her sometimes smoldering, sometimes shy folk/pop cabaret songs, Martha Wainwright spent the rest of the evening accompanying her brother on acoustic guitar and singing her heart out—on backups. She gripped the mike stand emphatically as she harmonized, and bent as if submitting to the songs. Martha Wainwright the solo opener was no different than Martha Wainwright, stage left. Behind, in front, on the side—that's irrelevant. To sing is the thing. Like her brother's, her songwriting style both acknowledges her famous folkie parents (Loudon the III and Kate McGarrigle) and dis­regards them, making way for modern, irreverent, loose-lipped torch songs where "love" is not the only four-letter word. Check the title track of this self- released EP. Over an acoustic guitar and sparse, slow keyboard lines, Wainwright repeats, "Oh, you bloody mother fucking asshole," with sweet, throaty determination, turning it into an odd little pet name. Borrowing "Pretty Good Day" from her father's catalog, her expressive, upside-down hopefulness is backed by a quiet, twangy pull. Wainwright told the UK's Guardian Unlimited that she tried acting, for no other reason than to differentiate herself from her family, but found it unsatisfying; and while she's yet to find commercial success in the music business on par with that of the rest of her family, it seems inevitable. "I am comfortable/In the corner/Whispering, 'Please,'" she sings on "I Will Internalize." Yes, but it's obvious that she's also quite comfortable bleeding those pipes under the spotlight. LAURA CASSIDY

Martha Wainwright plays Chop Suey at 8 p.m. Mon., July 5. $8.

CALIFONE CALEXICO
Heron King Blues Convict Pool EP
(Thrill Jockey) (Quarterstick/Touch & Go)

Califone and Calexico have little in common—except that each is an eclectically inclined, oft-augmented duo with roots in '90s alt-rock that records for a Chicago indie label, and either would make a dandy opener for Wilco. Califone hail from Chicago; Calexico live in Tucson. Califone's name comes from a manufacturer of record players that last forever but sound like shit—not unlike Crosby, Stills, and Nash. Calexico derive their nombre de guerra from a hamlet on the California side of the Mexican border, just north of Mexicali. Calexico founders Joey Burns and John Convertino—both ex-members of Giant Sand and Los Angeles transplants—have never actually inhabited their namesake, but the sobriquet reflects their ongoing (four albums, plus a slew of singles and EPs) exploration of amicable culture clash far more eloquently than "Tucson" ever could. Not that Calexico limit their peregrinations to the U.S./Mexico interface. The Convict Pool EP, a six-track whistle-stop between last year's Feast of Wire and their next gran trabajo, finds Burns and Covertino playing a mighty game of pin-the-tail-on-the-map with the instrumental "Praskovia," integrating Eastern European melodies, French chanson, Tex-Mex horns, and incendiary surf guitar into a deliciously vertiginous whole. Califone's sixth album, Heron King Blues, splays with equal success but different orientation. Ben Massarella and Tim Rutili—both late of Red Red Meat—concoct an admixture straight out of The Wire: fractured funkadelia, twisted Fahey-esque folk, and Dead-like instrumental interplay all frolic in these bitches' frothy brews. Problem is, they need a bigger cauldron: Even at seven minutes–plus, "Sawtooth Song a Cheater's Song," a banjo-driven mini-epic that starts on the same back porch as the Doobie Brothers' "Black Water" and ends in para-Yoruba sex-cult ecstasy, seems far shorter than its possibilities allow for. But that's why God invented shows. R.S.