CD Reviews

GORGE TRIO
Open Mouth, O Wisp
(Skin Graft)

Piano! How refreshing! It turns out that Ed Rodriguez's little doodle of harmony on the opening track of the latest from San Francisco–Minneapolis binaries Gorge Trio is the first of many small surprises. The out-jazz-rock trio's third release is rife with sketches as evocative as unfinished conversational fragments. Chad Popple's vibes on "The Age of Almost Living" play as an answer to John Dieterich's whining guitar on "Paris Trap," while Rodriguez's snare echoes the synthetic beats found on "The Lurker." Open Mouth is a playful listen, which you might expect since Dieterich's principal group, Deerhoof, has built a Candyland cottage industry of artful, messy punk rock. Here, Dieterich's guitar indulges in fuzzbox feedback, yet often skips a beat or two in order to accommodate Rodriguez's polyrhythmic tones ("Plum Sign"); "Intimate Addition" could score a slapstick cartoon. Dieterich weaves his jagged guitar like pipe-cleaner spirals, relaxing into "Roof Halves and Dew Drop Gems" by tickling Sun City Girls–style mono-riffs, then teasing them into blooming feedback. Gorge Trio's 22 instrumental vignettes appear assembled as haphazardly as their acid Mad Lib song titles, and like an ad hoc score to a Hal Hartley flick, Gorge Trio can be chatty. But they'll slow down just enough and let the picture do the talking. KATE SILVER

Gorge Trio play the Hideaway with Cheval de Frise and Point Line Plane at 9 p.m. Fri., July 16. $6.

JOEL R.L. PHELPS AND THE DOWNER TRIO
Customs
(Moneyshot)

Joel Phelps' first full-length since 1999's Blackbird isn't a comeback—his just isn't that kind of career—but it is a welcome return to active duty, if not a welcoming one. For many, the deal will be sealed or broken by Phelps' voice. Like Mark Eitzel's, it moves from a thick whisper to an elastic wail, often midphrase. This approach isn't well served by the full-metal-jacketed "Be First!" and "Shame," songs that markedly resemble Phelps' old band Silkworm, which he left, tour-weary, after 1994's Libertine. Customs is far more distinctive when longtime rhythm section William Herzog and Robert Mercer supply color rather than propulsion. "From Up Here" couches a soldier's letter home ("Remember me to no one, says I wouldn't fight") in plush, thrumming bass, a jarring steel-drum sound, and several strata of loosely synched guitars. The acoustic "Lamplighter" and "Darla Don't You Go" are less inventive but leave plenty of room for Phelps' contents-under-pressure vocal dynamics. And his largely grim narratives: That same soldier shows up twice more, leaving home on "Mother I Am Missing" and enduring basic training in "What the Sgt. Said." Everyone sung about here is struggling, either to get out or just not go under; a few songs, notably "North and Annie-O," suggest that the effort isn't futile, but it's all taken back by the closing "When Will We Bury You?" In this traditionally structured folk dirge, every Q receives the same A: "They're comin' for you, boy." No wonder Phelps keeps a low profile between records. FRANKLIN BRUNO

ROBERT ROTH
Someone, Somewhere . . . 
(Pattern 25)

Live Aid 2015. CBGB is an IKEA now. Tom Verlaine, Debbie Harry, David Byrne, and John Doe gather for one last nostalgic hand-in-hand on the Supremes' "Reflections," a lamentation over the death of downtown. But "downtown" as a state of mind lives on with Robert Roth, who has ideas about do-it-yourself culture that don't involve furniture assembly. Roth plays all of the instruments on his solo debut, Someone, Somewhere . . . , from effervescent Farfisa and Hammond organ to smog-thick guitar. "Walk All Over Downtown Life" enjoys one last drag before the smoking ban hits Seattle, anxious to preserve what's left of bohemia before its price gets jacked up; elsewhere, he eavesdrops on a dive bar roundtable reminiscence of the way things used to be ("Laugh Till We Cry"), recalls "Yesterday's War" fought against the everyday world, and makes light of last year's New York blackout. "At least we have the moonlight," he drawls. The same moon illuminates "Vicki and Jacky" a couple sharing a streetlight lip-lock to the tune of Roth's Television-inspired guitar. Roth may be a by-product of the Pacific Northwest (his old combo Truly featured former members of Screaming Trees and Soundgarden), but Someone, Somewhere . . . is pure New York rock. KATE SILVER

VARIOUS ARTISTS
Ragga Ragga Ragga! 2004
(Greensleeves)

Dancehall label Greensleeves' Ragga Ragga Ragga! series began as cheap samplers for First Worlders to sort through the annual flood of Jamaican 45s. But four years ago, the label began packaging its "Rhythm Album" series for audiences beyond the DJ market, setting the stage for dancehall's global pop crossover. Since then, Ragga Ragga Ragga!—and its competitor, VP's Reggae Gold—has sounded less like K-Tel and more like a preview of urban music's future. That future sounds like a Passa Passa street party reaching its peak. Credit Elephant Man with snuffing the fires and putting the dance back in the hall, but per its song titles, Ragga! 2004's quickening tempos are, as one Tony Matterhorn & Richie Feelings cut puts it, "All About Dancing." Rising star Feelings' "Dancin' Class, Part 2" could be Kingston's quirky answer to Chicago's "Cha Cha Swing." More than at any time in recent memory, Bounty Killer's grim ghettology ("Badman Order") sounds out of place. Instead, the irrepressible Vybz Kartel—Elephant Man with less energy and funnier lines—gets no less than five new riddims (JA parlance for "rhythms") to work, including "Blackout," "Mad Guitar," and "Cool Fusion." Previous Ragga! comps introduced non-Jamaicans to the "Diwali," "Egyptian," and "Coolie Dance" riddims, all of which quickly became fodder for First World one-hit wonders (Lumidee who?). This year's model is the "Aollo!! Aollo!!" riddim, a brilliantly bizarre mix of bhangra tablas, salsa timbales, Anglo-punk "Oi!"s, and Italian accordions. The track is called "Buddy Nuh Done," the ubiquitous Vybz is a Native Tongues fan, and you've just heard the sound of next summer. JEFF CHANG