Music: CD Reviews

Reckless Kelly Rolls the Dice

Reckless Kelly: "Wicked, Twisted Road"
(Sugarhill)

Even before the cellophane's peeled off, Reckless Kelly's new disc, "Wicked, Twisted Road," is making noise: There's a tiny die rattling in the spine.

Besides being necessary to play the board game contained within the CD sleeve, maybe it's a metaphor. A game, after all, is what every love affair turns into. And what kind of country band doesn't want to roll that dice?

Brothers Cody and Willy Braun, the nucleus of Reckless Kelly, face the snake-eyes on the disc-opening title cut. It's a moving bit of acoustic songsmithing, with Willy's lyrical reflection and regret layered with Cody's virtuoso fiddle and mandolin. "My first love was a wicked, twisted road, I hit the million-mile mark at 17 years old," Willy sings. "I never saw the rainbow, much less a pot of gold."

Remorse dominates "Dogtown" as well — the remorse of inertia, of losing love or success because of you just didn't get up and chase it.

Those two songs suggest the Braun brothers, who grew up on the road under the musical tutelage of their dad, have found a new maturity. But that judgment goes out the window with a couple of gratuitous party tunes: "7 Nights in Eire" and "Motel Cowboy Show." The autobiographical-sounding "Eire" plays too heavily into the Irish drinking stereotype ("The first pub we could stagger to was 12 steps from the plane"). "Cowboy" plays out as a nostalgic paean to the days of "candied up" noses. No wonder it sounds like "Hotel California."

Like Reckless Kelly itself, "Wicked, Twisted Road," is at its best when it takes the straight-ahead, hats-optional country approach. It sinks when the band goes in for hoary storytelling, as it dies on "Sixgun," a rehash of the sort of "we'll rob a bank and be happy" song that was done better by their mentor Robert Earl Keen on "The Road Goes on Forever."
— Lynne Margolis

Black Lipstick: "Sincerely, Black Lipstick"
(Peek-A-Boo)

After years as an Austin staple, Black Lipstick has split itself in two. Half the band lives here and half lives in New York. Usually that sort of long-distance relationship spells creative death for tiny, independent bands.

Oddly, the reverse has happened; Black Lipstick sounds older, wiser and more in command than ever. Doesn't hurt that longtime bassist Steve Garcia has finally lent his voice and pen to the droning guitar jangle. But lead Lip Philip Niemeyer, one of the newly-minted New Yorkers, is still steering the ship, his awe of the big city translating into crisp strum and lovely solos straight out of the Feelies. The tunes still aren't swinging enough for their Stones fetish, but they swing enough for the emotions, sad memories and new loves they convey. Picks to click: "Grandma Airplane," "Viva Max," and "All Night Long Forever."
— Joe Gross

Black Lipstick play Emo's on Saturday.

Pong: "Bubble City"
(Realistic)

Two years and a reported $20,000 later, "Bubble City" is a giant leap forward for these Austin scene vets, overflowing with disco drums, mirror-ball grooves and weird harmonies. (It's not a party until someone breaks out the Vocoder and shouts out H.E.B.) Guitarist Gary Chester's style has finally morphed from the noise chunks he was slinging in Ed Hall into something smooth, clear and — no kidding — funky. But are the two songs that sound an awful lot like indie faves Interpol a jape or a tribute? Probably both.
— Joe Gross

Pong plays a record release show at Room 710 on Saturday.

Busdriver: "Fear of a Black Tangent"
(Mush)

This veteran of the Los Angeles underground thrives on flow that ranges from nearly unconscious cool to goofball hyper. Dude sounds like he's flipping through a year's worth of journals, spinning each entry into a few verses that hold together better than they should. Of course "Avantcore," his attack on hipster hip-hop fans and the artists they love, sounds like sour grapes. But the bitterness is only surface; he sounds like he honestly wants to expand hip-hop's vocabulary, and not just complain about people who are more famous than he. But a little fame wouldn't hurt, either.
— Joe Gross