The Go-Betweens were already a good band well before they made Before Hollywood, but this second album is what proved for many listeners that they were great. For good reason -- both Robert Forster's and Grant McLennan's singing sounds much more honestly theirs, finding their own voices, while collectively the trio create a series of intricate, surprising melodies and songs which balance past and present beautifully. Strange as it may sound, the band's peers at this point could and did range from the Cure (for both melancholic intensity and guitar -- check some of the electric work on "Ask") to more obvious cohorts such as Orange Juice, but the Go-Betweens already had their own identity firmly established. For many the album's reputation rests on the presence of one song alone, and understandably so: "Cattle and Cane." Arguably the band's absolute highlight of its earliest years and one of the early-'80s' utter classics, the combination of McLennan's nostalgia-laden but not soppy lyric, his flat-out lovely singing and overdubbed backing vocals, and the catchy, beautifully elegant acoustic/electric arrangement is simply to die for. There are plenty of other songs that demonstrate the threesome's collective strength. "Two Steps Step Out" is a prime example, with sudden tempo shifts, from a more straightforward beat on the chorus to the sudden breakdown on the brisk chorus, and McLennan's lovelorn lyric and quietly impassioned singing making it an instant winner. Another McLennan winner is "Dusty in Here," soft piano from Bernard Clarke adding just enough to the spare but warm arrangement. Forster gets his own share of memorable moments, not least of which is the title track, not to mention the edgy, desperate "By Chance" and slightly calmer "On My Block." Lindy Morrison's abilities as a drummer are similarly improved, the at-times strident work of Send Me a Lullaby here replaced with a good balance between impact and steady swing.

(by Ned Raggett, All Music Guide)

Some performers never make a bigger splash than with their first record, a situation which the Ramones and De La Soul know all too well. If that's the case, though, said musicians had better make sure that debut is a doozy. Aztec Camera, or more specifically, Roddy Frame, falls squarely into this scenario, because while he has doggedly plugged away ever since with a series of what are, at times, not bad releases, High Land, Hard Rain remains the lovely touchstone of Frame's career. Very much the contemporaries of such well-scrubbed Scottish guitar-pop confectionaries as Orange Juice, but with the best gumption and star quality of them all, Aztec Camera led off the album with "Oblivious," a minimasterpiece of acoustic guitar hooks, lightly funky rhythms, and swooning backing vocals. If nothing tops that on High Land, Hard Rain, most of the remaining songs come very close, while they also carefully avoid coming across like a series of general soundalikes. Frame's wry way around words of love (as well as his slightly nasal singing) drew comparisons to Elvis Costello, but Frame sounds far less burdened by expectations and more freely fun. References from Keats to Joe Strummer crop up (not to mention an inspired steal from Iggy's "Lust for Life" on "Queen's Tattoos"), but never overwhelm Frame's ruminations on romance, which are both sweet and sour. Musically, his capable band backs him with gusto, from the solo-into-full-band showstopper "The Bugle Sounds Again" to the heartstopping guitar work on "Lost Outside the Tunnel." Whether listeners want to investigate further from here is up to them, but High Land, Hard Rain itself is a flat-out must-have.

Yes, David Thomas is weird, and yes, he's even weirder solo than he is when he's leading Pere Ubu. But if you're not careful, it can be all too easy to let the weirdness distract from the genuine beauty, of which there is quite a bit on this spectacularly good album. Lots of credit is due to Brit-folk guitar hero Richard Thompson, whose presence may seem like a complete artistic non sequitur, but who adds not only chops but also structural complexity and a deep musical grace to Thomas's whinnying falsetto ruminations on birds, plants, and pedestrians. Credit is also due to bassist Jack Monck, who anchors things heroically on this album. There are lots of highlights here, but two of the album's finest moments come on Bird Town, a hysterical 12-bar blues romp that features both a vocal cameo ("Oy kid, what's the name of this town? Is it giraffe town?") and a whole series of brilliant solos by Richard Thompson, and on "A Day at the Botanical Gardens," which is one of the loveliest pieces of music Thomas has ever been responsible for. Highly recommended.

(by Rick Anderson, All Music Guide)

The Waterboys' eponymous debut album finds Mike Scott essaying his vision of "big music." Part Van Morrison, part U2, it was sweeping and romantic, with nearly every song stretched out to epic length. At this point, Scott's vision far exceeds his grasp, yet it's fascinating to hear him try to reconcile the two extremes.

(by Stephen Thomas Erlewine, All Music Guide)

"We wanted to have this kind of timeless record," guitarist Peter Buck said of R.E.M.'s debut, and this "technically limited" band (according to producer Don Dixon) did just that. Buck was a rock scholar who had worked in a record store; singer Michael Stipe unspooled his lyrics as if they constituted some new secret language. Murmur is full of ringing guitar and mystery. The lyrics and the melodies seem buried, almost subliminal, and even the hookiest songs, such as "Radio Free Europe," resist clarity. Murmur was a founding document of alternative rock, released just as Gen X was starting to go to college.

(Rolling Stone)

In 1982, the Dream Syndicate seemed to come out of nowhere (actually Davis, CA, but close enough) to become the most talked about band in underground rock with their debut album The Days of Wine and Roses, recorded for the tiny but prestigious Ruby Records label when the group was all of nine months old. After waves of positive press, A&M Records signed the Dream Syndicate and they went into the studio with producer Sandy Pearlman, who spent five months in the studio guiding the band through their second LP. Given their sudden rise to success, the Dream Syndicate probably would have dealt with a certain amount of critical backlash no matter how their sophomore effort turned out, but Medicine Show was greeted with openly hostile reviews, largely because it sounded practically nothing like the album that sent tongues wagging two years earlier. Where The Days of Wine and Roses was a raw but passionate fusion of Highway 61-era Bob Dylan and the Velvet Underground at their most primal, Medicine Show sounded big and polished, but also dusty and weathered, with the terse, nose-thumbing lyrics of the debut replaced with dark, complex narratives full of bad luck and bad blood backed with booming drums and roaring guitars that were significantly more rockist than what Steve Wynn and Karl Precoda brought to their earlier recordings. Viewed in the context of Wynn's career, Medicine Show marks the spot where the lyrical themes and musical approach of his later work would first come into focus, but it still doesn't bear much resemblance to what the Dream Syndicate would create on their subsequent albums in its grand, doomy tone and obsessive but curiously unobtrusive production style. Medicine Show isn't a grand failure as its initial detractors claimed, but it isn't the triumph some revisionist fans imagine it to be, either; there are a few great songs scattered throughout (especially "Merrittville" and "Armed with an Empty Gun"), and once it works its way in, the 8:48 of "John Coltrane Stereo Blues" is as potent a guitar workout as anything this band would ever release. But in most respects, this finds Wynn and his bandmates reaching for something they couldn't quite grasp, and Tom Zvoncheck's keyboards, for all their drama, never really find their way into the music. Lots of bands let loose with a major-label budget for the first time have made lavish records that didn't quite work, but unlike most of them, Medicine Show doesn't sound like a grandiose waste of money. Instead, it's a widescreen guitar spectacle with the soul of a Jim Thompson paperback, and if it doesn't always work, enough of it does to make it worthy of serious reappraisal.

(by Mark Deming, All Music Guide)

Friday the 13th was the first new release following Man's 1983 reunion, and was recorded live at the London Marquee on, indeed, Friday the 13th of June, before a crowd that knew the songs as well as the band itself. Certainly there's no shortage of old favorites here, and the opening "C'mon" is barely seconds' old before the time machine has whisked you back, and the last ten years might never have happened. True, there's one strange face on the stage -- drummer John Weathers. But the key axis of Deke Leonard, Martin Ace, and Micky Jones blazes around him, and there's not a dull moment to be heard. What does seem strange here is the absence of any of the band's trademark, 15-minute workouts -- the longest songs clock in at barely half that, which means that just where "classic" Man would have started pulling out the stops, the new crew are beginning to wind down. But there's a sharp beauty to this brevity all the same, and though Friday the 13th will never rank among the greatest Man live albums ever, at least it lets fans know that they were back. And that was good news as well.

(by Dave Thompson, All Music Guide)

Schnörkellose Rockmusik, Gitarren-dominiert und mit tollem, mehrstimmigem Gesang in absolut akzeptablem, aber klar erkennbarem Livesound.

(Good Times, Februar / März 2012)