Come
Eleven:Eleven
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Thalia Zedek, the singer-song-writer-guitarist whose edge-city emotional intensity is Come's driving force, fronted Live Skull in the late Eighties and before that the innovative Boston underground bands Uzi and Dangerous Birds. Her songs are personal, sometimes despairing, often pissed off, invariably gripping. And she brings off the rare feat of "singing the blues" entirely in her own voice, without noticeably copying the licks or mannerisms of others. There's a bedrock integrity to her work and a kind of nervy, embattled grace that can be like manna from heaven for listeners more interested in connecting with real passion than in current indie rock's fixation with career moves and stylistic
Read More surfaces. But more than any of Zedek's previous projects, Come harnesses her formidable energies to a classically rock & roll ensemble process. Zedek and Chris Brokaw have forged a twin-guitar attack that stands out even in these guitar-rich times, a partnership that has little to do with conventional notions of "rhythm" and "lead." The guitar sound is all barbed, sizzling edges, with lots of hard strumming, amps set at sonic stun and a truly left of center but highly effective take on fundamentals such as blend, text-re and dynamics. And the rhythm section couldn't be much better. Bassist Sean O'Brien and drummer Arthur Johnson are graduates of respected Georgia bands (Kilkenny Cats and Bar-B-Q Killers, respectively) and rock out with a Southern grittiness that Northerners Zedek and Brokaw find exceptionally congenial. Zedek is always worth hearing, but this is the kind of band that fully lives up to the old saw about being more than the sum of its parts. Eleven: Eleven, ten originals and a deeply felt cover of the Stones' "I Got the Blues," is occasionally diffuse but more often bracing, and on songs like "Orbit," "Sad Eyes" and the desperately moody "Off to One Side," it achieves escape velocity with a concentrated blast of guitar power, tunecraft and sheer guts. This is a disc you won't soon forget. (RS 655) ROBERT PALMER |
