Brian Wilson and Van Dyke Parks
Orange Crate Art
(Warner Bros.)

In his recent Beach Boys biography, The Nearest Faraway Place, Timothy White notes that the "unmanly" aspects of Brian Wilson's falsetto singing were "one of the biggest 'hangups' of his life." Still, the voice behind "Don't Worry Baby" brought an emotionality to boy music that has rarely, if ever, been matched. Few contemporaries could pull off the vocal range once called "castrato": Roy Orbison and Marvin Gaye handled falsetto with aplomb, but Frankie Valli sang like a premonition of Edith Bunker.

Though Brian Wilson once elevated such singing to new heights, he's down in the Valli on the title track of Orange Crate Art. Elsewhere on this "collaboration" with Van Dyke Parks, Wilson's 53-year-old voice sounds as perplexed and unremarkable as it did mangling "Do It Again" on a recent Letterman show. Die-hards have proclaimed this release Wilson's best work in years, the Smile sessions revisited. This is wist-ful thinking, to say the least.

During the recording of 1967's abortive Smile, Wilson's fellow Beach Boys complained about songwriter Parks' fastidious lyrical touch, claiming that Wilson's references to chandeliers and muted trumpets just didn't fit into the world the band had carefully created. No other pop group has ever defined a microcosm as succinctly as the Beach Boys' Southern California, circa 1963. On Orange Crate Art, the fact that Parks' song cycle is set in Northern California virtually shouts out a disclaimer: Wilson is way out of his element here. Though he gamely follows his colleague to Sacramento and the "Frisco" of the Gold Rush era, he's lost the moment Parks ducks into a store to trade "two bits for Cokes."

With no songwriting help from Wilson, Parks has orchestrated a precious version of adult-contemporary session music that leans much too heavily on steel drums. Parks is an avowed classicist, slumming Jimmy Buffett's stomping grounds; he has little regard for the double-picked guitars CR>that Wilson once used to balance his own barbershop/show-tune proclivities. One of Parks' new songs, "Movies Is Magic," offers the rejoinder "real life is tragic." In the recent movie I Just Wasn't Made for These Times, documentarian Don Was sought, to little avail, to make magic to prove Wilson's mental and creative health. On Orange Crate, each song is inadvertently more depressing than the last. The music Wilson makes, which no longer pursues universal truths, is now about Wilson himself, his famously jumbled personal life -- and our empathy.

-- James Sullivan

Emergency Broadcast Network
Telecommunication Breakdown

This newspaper, in voluntary cooperation with TVT, is conducting a test spin of the Emergency Broadcast Network's 20-track, CD-ROM-ready disc with accompanying interactive video liner notes. We have developed this system to keep you informed in the event that Telecommunication Breakdown, despite its telephone-book-size press kit and relentless promotion, should fail to measure up to federal, state, and local authorities' standards.

Most famous for its opening video on U2's "Zooropa" tour, EBN musically amalgamates Consolidated's industrio-political dance style with Negativland's megasampling techniques. Three members strong -- anchorperson Joshua Pearson raps from his "telepodium," spin doctor Ron O'Donnell works the turn-tables, and videologist Gardner Post orchestrates the TV monitors that backdrop live shows -- this collective stitches spoken samples scratched from docudramas and newscasts onto a spew of funk and techno, dovetailing each track together with clever splatter.

Produced by Meat Beat's Jack Dangers, Breakdown tunes to a variety of channels: "Super Zen State" could thump pumps in any dance club; "Get Down" kicks like Nation of Millions-era Public Enemy; and Brian Eno's remix of "Homicidal Maniac" is a Scorn-ish, groovy nightmare. Though EBN's political stance is pretty muddled, the trio addresses global warfare, technology, and tCR>he hypocrisy of world leaders; "Shoot the Mac-10" (the best cut, which features rapper Melle Mel and producer Bill Laswell) is a killer study of guns.

Had Breakdown been a real disaster, the review you just read would have been accompanied by official slags and belittlement, but EBN (probably an eyeful as a live act) manages to pull off a complicated project, the collages of sound and sight effectively commenting (and capitalizing) upon our culture's short attention span. This newspaper serves the interest of the Bay Area's musical community; this concludes the test.

EBN plays with Banco De Gaia Sat, Dec. 2, at the Trocadero in S.F.; call 995-4600.

-- Colin Berry

Cypress Hill
III (Temples of Boom)

Liquid Swords

On the final stop of the Lollapalooza tour last summer, Cypress Hill ended their performance by smashing their equipment and deflating the set -- a 6-foot-tall bong and a giant blowup Buddha that had stared down the assembled like the serene yin to the moshing yang of the crowd. Was such a traditional rockist gesture from this multiracial hip-hop crew symbolic of their biggest asset (their crossover status) or their biggest liability (their crossover status)? Was it the macrocosm of a peculiar image (merry pranksters gone insane in the membrane), or the microcosm of Cypress Culture (one nation under a groovy green Buddha)? Or did someone just spike their pot with PCP?

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