styles is made easier. And this renewed collaboration, as natural as any in rock & roll history, sends the requisite sparks flying.

Jones's primary concern remains in constructing a propulsive beat, and the inviting opener, "C'mon Every Beatbox," epitomizes his vision, incorporating layers of hard-rock guitar and a melody swiped from Eddie Cochran for a joyous hybrid of rock and hip-hop. Unfortunately, Jones's obsession with rhythm sometimes means that all B.A.D. does is record a spectacular rhythm track without penning a song worthy of it, as on "Sambadrome" and "Limbo the Law"; worse, the failed reggae "Ticket" is a lazy rhythm track Charles Atlas couldn't prop up. Don Letts's effects (mostly grafted dialogue that expands on narrative) work better and service the songs with more force than on the band's debut album: the DJ intro and outro in "V. Thirteen" frame the tune, and the allusions to gang warfare in the dialogue snippets of "C'mon Every Beatbox" emphasize its vaguely outlaw aesthetic.

No. 10, Upping St. chronicles the horrors lurking beneath the smiling surface of everyday life: the ease with which B.A.D. affects nonchalance and levity in "Dial a Hitman" is chilling. On "Beyond the Pale," a stubborn, admonishing immigrant's tale, the production gimmicks fall away as Jones recounts a tale of xenophobia and prophesies violence in terrifying fashion. And just when you think it's over, a soaring guitar solo (the only one on the LP) massages the singer's pain without alleviating it. It sounds like Jones and Strummer have reunited only to realize how much they have yet to overcome. (RS 495)

JIMMY GUTERMAN