Aug 2, 2002 By "busted Stuff," Dave Matthews Band 5 min read

Dave Matthews is just experimental enough to make conservative music fans feel daring though not so staid that more alternative types can’t consider him a guilty pleasure. He and his band have an excellent tradition as a riveting live act, with enough improvisation to appeal to some jam-band fans but also enough pop structure to steer clear of monotony. Matthews also attempts a little depth with his lyrics, and his charismatic vocals are engagingly quirky.

It doesn’t add up to a wholly rewarding “Busted Stuff,” however, though the new album is a familiar good time.

Most cuts on the release are re-tooled versions of rejected tracks from the group’s previous studio work – some of those original songs have even made the rounds on the Internet and found their way into the band’s shows. The only all-new songs are the muted-intensity first single “Where Are You Going” and the disconnected (and hard to follow) “You Never Know.”

The group is usually at its best when subdued, as on the sultry arrangement of “Captain,” where Matthews employs a near-subliminal vocal to sing of “curious hands and fingertips.” And there’s the funereal reflection on a lost relationship, “Grace Is Gone,” where Matthews calls for “one drink to remember and another to forget” while Boyd Tinsley and Leroi Moore combine for an evocative pairing of violin and saxophone, respectively.

Yet “Busted Stuff” is bookended by more spirited, and equally effective, opening and closing tracks: an earthy title cut that finds our infatuated hero flipping into falsetto at just the right moment (“When she moves, she moves so cool/Got me feelin’ just like a fool”) and the grandiose closing epic, “Bartender.”

Must of the rest of the release is marginal, from the simplistic riffs of “Grey Street” to the boring instrumental “Kit Kat Jam.”

Hey, it’s hard to be reliably comfortable and nonthreatening without getting a little dull from time to time.

Rating (five possible): 3

“Worship and Tribute,” Glassjaw

Hardcore rock bands sell themselves with the illusion of chaos – that sense that the group is on the verge of losing control at any moment – when in fact these acts are just as composed and precise as Celine Dion.

Glassjaw truly seems out of control on “Worship and Tribute,” which is alternately fascinating and grotesque.

Produced by new-metal mentor Ross Robinson (Korn, Limp Bizkit), “Worship and Tribute” plays successfully off the threat of impending discord. The Long Island band’s lead singer, Daryl Palumbo, is an unforgettable mouthpiece who amazingly withstands the slicing menace of dual guitarists Justin Beck and Todd Weinstock.

Palumbo does so with a freakish Joe-Jackson-like delivery, wringing out long, undulating notes and seemingly oblivious to the metallic mayhem that closes in around him. He’s also given to more psychotic screeching and shrieking, but those stretches are mundane compared to his weirdly expressive, otherworldly lounge singer who normally dominates the mike.

Fans of original punk music – not the namby-pamby neo-punk that poses as punk today – might be entranced by Glassjaw. The anguished and anti-stylized arrangement of “Tip Your Bartender,” the escalating agitation of “Mu Empire,” the fanciful singing on the furious “Cosmopolitan Bloodloss,” the unsettling steady-on vocals that defy the aural corruption of “Pink Roses” … It’s all packed with palpable tension that mocks the disingenuous assault of conventional “heavy” rock.

Yet Glassjaw shifts from compellingly anti-establishment to simply ludicrous. The hideous improv-jazz aspirations of “Must’ve Run All Day,” for example, and the faltering momentum of “Trailer Park Jesus” create an uneasy feeling akin to watching a bulldozing addict come off a high, and “Worship and Tribute” is left rocking helplessly on its own blocks, impotent and absurd.

At that point Glassjaw is essentially engaged in self-parody, and the joke is on the listeners.

Rating: 3

“Sirena,” Cousteau

Cousteau takes a big step backward into the proverbial sophomore jinx with “Sirena,” a wan follow-up to the group’s sleek, suave and sophisticated 2001 debut.

“Sirena” is no less polished than its predecessor, yet the mix of piano, strings and horns is more enervated this time. And the release suffers a near-fatal opening trio of mopey fussiness with “Nothing So Bad,” “Talking to Myself” and “Heavy Weather.”

Fortunately, there’s a measure of recovery and redemption as smooth-crooning vocalist Liam McKahey and the rest of the band glide into the tranquil elegance of “Peculiarly You,” “Please Don’t Cry” and “After the Fall.” That cosmopolitan charm may be a bit affected and harder to come by, but it hasn’t completely vanished.

However, Cousteau sinks again down the stretch as its Burt Bacharach-ish stylings get mired in lethargy with only stray memorable melodies seeping through. There’s nothing wrong with florid sounds, but some of “Sirena’s” cuts are as alluring as an arrangement of white plastic flowers.

The music industry could use more cultured pop acts, and Cousteau needs to rediscover its magnetism to lead the way.

Rating: 2.5

(Chuck Campbell is the entertainment editor at the News-Sentinel in Knoxville, Tenn.)

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