By Cory Sklar
By Alee Karim
By Christina Li
By Dave Pehling
By Ian S. Port
By SF Weekly
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
History aside, let's turn to the big question: Are these records any good? If you bet that Lewis' tunes would be better, let's hope you only wagered a sandwich. All you really need to know is that Like a Bolt of Lightning begins with Lewis taking a breath and snarling, "Put it in my hand and tell me how much pressure it takes to get you off."
No, that's not sexy; it's dumb.
What follows are five very juvenile rock songs, tough as nails made of Play-Doh. "Shelter Your Needs" starts with jittery drums and intermittent guitar stabs, in between which Lewis yells, "Give it all, give 'em hell, that's your birthright/ Back in grade school is where I learned to street fight." The song then explodes into a thoughtful chorus: "It's a mad, mad world!" The next tune, "Coming Around," ain't much better, or different; it's the same just-restrained distorto-verse bursting into -- care to guess? -- "Yeeeeaaaah, I'm coming around!" If there's anything that points to the potential of the Licks, it's "Got Love to Kill," a driving post-punk tune that recalls Blondie, and finds Lewis singing -- which she can do, if she tries -- instead of snarling.
Minnie Driver performs at the Great American Music Hall on Thursday, Nov. 11; call 885-0750 or go to www. musichallsf.com for more info.
Indeed, what's redeeming here, if anything, is Lewis herself -- not so much her lyrics but her personality. She brings the same go-ahead-and-underestimate-me attitude to her music as she does to her film career. And she does seem pretty down-to-earth.
Says Lewis of the Warp Tour organizers, "[They] thought I was going to show up in a sedan, driving separate from my band, and complain 'cause there's no showers, and all this horseshit, and I'm like, 'Do you know the fucking movies I've worked on? I've worked 18 hours a day. I've worked in a prison in 120 degree heat, with rattlesnakes.'"
Driver, on the other hand, doesn't strike me as the kind of woman who would put up with a cross-country punk rock tour. In conversation she's polite and pleasantly effervescent, not the commanding personality you typically associate with either a hot-shot actress or a burgeoning diva. After listening to her superior album, though, this understated attitude seems appropriate.
Driver's record is about love, about finding it and losing it and figuring out where it fits. Her songs are atmospheric and mellow, with warm production and memorable melodies. "So Well," one of the older tunes on the record that Driver wrote years ago, begins in a minor key with a few plucked guitar notes floated over wispy synths; as the song moves into a major key, Driver confidently announces, "I will put your pictures in a wooden box/ I will find a heart next time with fewer locks." "Invisible Girl" is a lilting number reminiscent of Dido, featuring acoustic guitars over plucky drum machines and a chorus that would have blended well with the soundtrack of Sex and the City. Her piano-based rework of the Springsteen classic "Hungry Heart" is quietly poignant. And while the album is full of wimpy, overly sensitive folk-pop, it's good at being just that, and should find an audience.
"Oh, I say, dismiss it up," Driver tells me when I ask what she'd say to cynics who dismiss her project as just another actor-band. "You know, whatever you want. Whatever you want to do. I can't deal with prejudice on any level. Any kind of blind dismissal, I just tend to write that off as inconsequential. I look into the faces of the people that I play for and that's far more encouraging than a lame dismissal by someone who hasn't even listened to the record."
It takes balls to go off and make an album knowing that most of the civilized world is going to pan it based on precedent alone. Just about every actor who has dipped his toe in the water of popular music has humiliated himself completely, and I wouldn't say either of these attempts is a total embarrassment. (Although: "Tell me how much pressure it takes to get you off"? Sheesh.) Seriously, though, Travolta Fever -- you can't do much worse than that.