Flight of the Conchords, Billy Bragg, Steve Earle

Thursday, April 24, 2008

FLIGHT OF THE CONCHORDS

'Flight of the Conchords'

(Sub Pop)

It's difficult to view "Flight of the Conchords," the full-length debut by the New Zealand duo of the same name, as an entity apart from the often brilliant HBO series that spawned it.

Members of the show's cult will weigh the recordings one way: The dancehall-aping "Boom," for instance, simply isn't as hilarious without the special-effects video treatment it got on the show, and the absence of the skewed but sweet "If You're Into It" (which did make it onto last year's EP) is hard to explain. The record-making process has also professionalized some of the songs ("Robots") in a way that strips them of their best quirks.

For the uninitiated, some of the songs may simply make no sense: Does the parodic "Bowie" hold up when extracted from the worshipful mockery of the episode in which David Bowie appeared to one of the bandmates in a series of dreams, steering him along the path to fame? Probably not.

Happily, there are other tracks that require no initiation, from the '60s French pastiche "Foux du Fafa" and the mock Marvin Gaye-ish social conscience of "Think About It" to the live staple "The Most Beautiful Girl (In the Room)." They might not be enough to expand the fan base for these two endearingly unprofessional performers, but they can't hurt while the Conchords and their devotees wait for a second HBO season that may or may not ever happen.

— John DeFore

BILLY BRAGG

'Mr. Love & Justice'

(Anti-)

Folk-punk's favorite socialist, Billy Bragg, makes few enough albums of new material that each record's arrival has to shake off the dust of unreasonable expectations.

No, the songwriter's knack for balancing love and politics might never again be as bracing as it was during the Thatcher/Reagan era, but it isn't Bragg's fault if so few twentysomething rockers have filled his niche in the age of Dubya. Bragg himself has mellowed from young lover to dad, from shouting on barricades to "Sing Their Souls Back Home," a new song that instead of critiquing policymakers sends a heartfelt message of support to the soldiers who do their bidding.

Bragg is most political near the album's end, with street-level perspectives on terrorist witch hunts and war; the most spirited is "The Johnny Carcinogenic Show," a musical highlight that recalls the mass-media critique of "The Busy Girl Buys Beauty," even if its target (cigarette marketing) isn't quite cutting-edge.

More often, though, Bragg and backing band the Blokes (including Austin's Ian McLagan at the keyboard) chronicle the comforts and challenges of domesticity, from sweet (and nearly sappy) opener "I Keep Faith" through linguistic game-playing in "M For Me" to the enigmatic "Something Happened," an angry, wounded-sounding meditation on love vs. lust that opens itself up to nonromantic interpretations.

And despite the trying times, he finds rays of light — as in "The Beach is Free," perhaps the record's best political/personal hybrid, in which defiance of an entrenched oligarchy can be embodied by something as elemental as a family's day enjoying the sun and surf.

— John DeFore

STEVE EARLE

'Copperhead Road' Deluxe Edition

(Universal)

Twenty years ago, Steve Earle fashioned a combative postwar rural America as contentious as Vietnam itself. His rebel yell targeted familiar objectives — drugs, government, weary blue-collar veterans — but its harrowing impact was singular. "Now the DEA's got a chopper in the air," Earle howled. "I wake up screaming like I'm back over there. I learned a thing or two from Charlie, don't you know: You better stay away from Copperhead Road." Beware the ornery drums mushrooming behind Earle's spiky mandolin.

Resolutely cauterizing the musical gap between Axl Rose and Bill Monroe, Earle called "Copperhead Road" heavy metal bluegrass. Good enough. The album's entire first side — most notably, the compelling populist narratives "Snake Oil" and "Johnny Come Lately" — follows suit, measuring up against Earle's richest storytelling. In fact, "The Devil's Right Hand" still might be his single most timeless tale.

Pity side two — the stunning "Nothing But a Child," of course, notwithstanding — beats with such a hollow heart. Consider the faceless string of instantly forgettable, painfully earnest titles: "You Belong to Me," "Waiting on You," "Once You Love." Earle's lyrics — "One false move and you know you're busted," he sings on the latter, "once you love, you care" — are uncharacteristically lifeless. Nonetheless, the wildly uneven album remains his only platinum seller.

This deluxe anniversary edition's companion live disc redeems the original's dated, disappointing second act. In particular, smartly chosen covers highlight Earle's gift for interpretation. Even bootleg enthusiasts will discover nuanced treasures in his solo take on Greg Trooper's "Little Sister" and a ragged full-band throttle through the Flying Burrito Brothers chestnut "Wheels." That Earle channels a spot-on Bruce Springsteen on "Nebraska" is hardly a revelation, but his rusty stab at Rodney Crowell's "Brown and Root" is an unforeseen delight.

Recommended: "Johnny Come Lately," "Little Sister," "Wheels."

— Brian T. Atkinson