Hey, you sent them in

A look at the latest releases from the talented and the . . .

by John O'Neill

It's once again time to reach deep inside the Phoenix mail sack for another fun-filled trip down the local music lane. It's also a chance for your music scribe to look the impending generation gap straight in the eye to say "not yet, baby." Unless your band happen to sound like that crazy Marilyn Manson chick. Some things you'll just never understand. Bombs away . . .

Jim Porcella, If I Could Dance Like Fred Astaire (Seaside) 12-song CD

Porcella, a native Bostonian, is well-known here in Worcester for his years of gigging and for his endeavors to bring jazz and cabaret music here. What many have yet to realize is that Porcella is one of jazz's hidden gems.

With the release of his latest work, If I Could Dance Like Fred Astaire, Porcella once again knocks a home run with a release full of well-paced, self-assured numbers from the American Songbook. From the smoky and warm Dick Haymes-like ballads "The More I See You" and "Body and Soul" to swinging scat reminiscent of the early-'60s Columbia catalogue of Buddy Greco (who, for the record, was killing Frankie at his own game at the time), Porcella delivers 12 songs of distinctive, yet traditional jazz.

While some jazz vocalists have a tendency to be, well, too jazzy (again, check out some of Sinatra's almost annoying phrasing with Nelson Riddle), Porcella is able to keep a lid on stylistic overkill in favor of a more dignified and, as a result, relaxed approach. It never sounds forced, and it washes down smoother than a snifter of warm Courvoisier. For lack of proper descriptive, it's the equivalent of being the Harrison Ford of jazz. Solid and dependable, yet never straying too far from his origins. If there's such a thing as lunch-bucket jazz, Porcella's the guy in the hardhat marked foreman.

Porcella celebrates the release If I Could Dance, June 5, at the Acton Jazz Cafe.

Overcast, Fight Ambition To Kill (Edison) nine-song CD

Local favorites Overcast return after their unceremonious dumping from Metal Blade Records with a CD that makes one wonder what exactly Metal Blade was thinking. In a genre that's chock-full of enough derivative crapola to choke a small army, Overcast actually manage to sound relatively fresh and extremely listenable. Kudos to Philly-based Edison Recordings for having the smarts to rescue our boys from the trash heap, and for giving them some well-deserved exposure.

Fight Ambition To Kill may suffer from the raging "I'm fucked so fuck you, too" lyrics prevalent in most metal/hardcore music, but these guys ultimately win where most come up short by being able to shift gears pretty easily; and that makes for interesting listening. The instro "Styrofoam Death-Machine" segues from quasi-psychadelia to blazing power-chord bashing; and "Dousing This Flame" shows vocalist Brian Fair is more than just a nut-busting screamer.

In the end, Overcast show why they're so highly regarded in the underground with an album that's strong enough to send your mom running for the exit, but smart enough to appeal to more than the diehard fan.

Tremble, Deprived of Silence

(Forrest) 11-song CD

Hey, it's Overcast extra-lite! Remember the above talk about derivative crapola? Well these cats are walking an extremely fine line between singing about being led like a cow in a herd to slipping headfirst into the dung left behind. Deprived of Silence is kinda this half-assed almost-concept album where we get to check in between songs with this dude and his mental-hospital psych appointments. When it works ("Deprived of Silence," "The Darkness Within"), it's an okay listen. When it doesn't (the rest of the album; though, we will give a nod to "Hum a Different Tune" for the blatant sexist idiocy factor), it's a slow spiral down into some pretty-hairy territory. The music is actually tight and melodic and the singing is fine, it's really the flat-out-rotten lyrics that sink this otherwise ambitious project.

In the end the guy, only known as "6917," shoots himself out of desperation after initially being found incoherent and mumbling to himself. Somehow I can identify.

Planetarium, Warts and All

(Self-release) 14-song cassette

"Songs never written by a band that doesn't exist" is the billing on the tape and Warts and All is indeed a collection of spontaneous improvisations done by three maniacs with no rehearsal or discussion prior to recording. Still with me?

The amazing part is that things are so screwy that it actually works well. At least better than it has a right to. From singer Ed Daley's nasal Neil Young-meets-Bob Jordan vocal vibe of "Rodeo Clown," to the TV-game-show-theme-meets-cheese-funk of "Leonard Cohen," Planetarium, offer a batch of mostly listenable stream-of-consciousness wandering. Warts and All does have several incredibly grating moments ("Aunty Scadoodles" is painful), like Jonathan Richman at his most self-indulgent to the third power.

Planetarium may not be for everyone, but it beats the hell out of trying to trim the cats claws on a Tuesday night.