Elvis Costello and the Attractions. Trust (Columbia, 1981; Rykodisc, 1994)

"Are you so superior, are you in such pain?/ Are you made out of porcelain?/ When they made you they broke the cast/ Don't wanna be first, I just want to pass."

From 1977 to 1982, Elvis Costello could do no wrong, and it wasn't for lack of trying. Beginning with the debut My Aim is True and ending with the baroque, Sgt. Peppers-esque Imperial Bedroom, this period was astonishing both in the quality (high to mindbendingly high) and quantity (seven LPs in five years, impressive by anyone's standards) of Costello's output. You'd be hard pressed to find any pop/rock artist past or present who managed to produce as many truly classic albums in such a short amount of time: the clever country-cum-pub rock of My Aim is True in '77, followed the next year by the timeless scorcher This Year's Model, followed the very next year by Armed Forces' livid new wave genius.

Costello could have stopped there and proudly called it a career, but instead he continued his campaign to conquer the freshly postpunk world with the Stax/Motown amphetamine reverie of Get Happy!! in 1980, the lush chamber punk of Trust and (and!) the underrated country tribute Almost Blue in '81, running out of steam (comparatively) only after the career highlight of Imperial Bedroom in '82 (and then catching his breath to release some pretty great records over the course of the rest of the decade). Whew. It's enough to make any aspiring songwriter hang his head in shame and just call it a day.

And of all the records released in this early Costello-as-terrifyingly-talented-enfant-terrible period, Trust is, I think, the most interesting. For one, it's a stellar collection, bursting at the seams with top-drawer songcraft and savant-level arrangements. However, it's also an incredibly giant step forward musically, stylistically, and conceptually. Prior to Trust, Costello was essentially playing Mensa-level punk and new wave, taking the vitriol and aggression of the Class of '77 and turning it inward, giving it a powerful emotional edge and a far more accomplished instrumental dimension. The songs on This Year's Model and Armed Forces are the Sex Pistols and the Buzzcocks as played by a pissed-off honors student with a boulder on his shoulder and incredible chops. And Get Happy!!, Costello's take on classic American soul and R&B, is the best party record ever made, primarily because he was able to deftly demonstrate that punk and soul are but a tempo apart.

But Trust is different. For one thing, the songs are much slower, generally speaking. With one or two exceptions, these are mid-tempo to down-tempo numbers. Also, though Attractions keyboardist Steve Nieve had been a fundamental part of the Costello sound since This Year's Model, his contributions had tended towards nervey, high-tension synth lines; Trust finds Nieve playing sweeping piano passages, brought to the front of the room by Nick Lowe's and Roger Bechirian's epic production. Costello's guitar, on the other hand, is pushed down in the mix, well below the as-always masterful rhythm section of Bruce (bass) and Pete (drums) Thomas. In other words, this is basically a piano-drums-bass record with guitar thrown in for flavor. And yet, Costello manages to retain his rage and amplify it using multi-layered, complex arrangements, the end result being one of his most engaging records ever. And that's saying something.

Track-wise, there's not a bad one on here, so I'll just hit the highlights (they're all highlights). Opener "Clubland" is a pounding, brutally rhythmic joy, marked by Nieve's echoey, shabby nightclub piano flourishes and Bruce Thomas's rubbery, insistent bass lines. "Thursday to Saturday/ Money's gone already," Costello shouts desperately. "Some things come in common these days/ Your hands and work aren't steady." "Lovers' Walk" takes Pete Thomas' tribal, octopus-armed drumwork as its starting point, and moves into a skittering, anxious shuffle before throwing a beautiful fit at the 0:58 mark, with Costello angrily asking the crowd, "Will you look what the lovers' done?" The mid-tempo, sadly triumphant gem "You'll Never Be a Man" is a razor sharp exercise in claustrophobic tension, and features one of Costello's best vocal performances; the way he sings the last several measures is a feat of phrasing and time.

"Strict Time" is one of the more guitar-oriented tracks, another excessively beat-driven burner. The rockabilly throwback of "Luxembourg" hints at the retro directions Costello would take later on in his career. "Watch Your Step" is an Attractions masterpiece, an enigmatically sinister slow-fuse of a song, with an impossible-to-forget creeping bassline and eerie big top organ motif. "Bye," croons Costello bitterly. "I send you all my regards/ You're so tough/ You're so hard/ Listen to the hammers falling in the breaker's yard/ You better watch your step." "New Lace Sleeves" is a dubby loper with a sterling melody, scratchy guitar work, and a nearly disco swing. "From a Whisper to a Sceam" finds the Squeeze's Glenn Tilbrook helping out on vocals, joining Costello on a good natured (for Costello) rave up. Closer "Big Sister's Clothes" is a sophisticated, haunting ballad with a stripped-down arrangement that shifts from elegy to jaunty toe-tapper in just over two minutes.

Trust is a pretty complicated record. Not in terms of enjoyment; it's easy to enjoy. That's simple. But it's complicated in terms of tone and intent, especially given Costello's output up to that point. It's as though Costello was saying with Trust, "Look, I've got a lot of bright ideas and I've got a lot of anger and resentment. And I don't need to play especially loud or fast to prove it." And he was right. Trust in Trust.

Versus. Secret Swingers (Caroline/TeenBeat, 1996)

"Be my island/ Be my lighthouse/ In the dark closet/ Look behind the presents."

While most of DC-based enclave TeenBeat's bands put the emphasis on the "pop" part of indiepop, Versus were a little different. While label mainstays like Velocity Girl and Unrest tended towards hyper-catchy, semi-saccharine sparklers tinged with bitterness, NYC's Versus were noisier, thornier, and bigger-sounding. Versus could craft kingsized hooks with the best of them, but there was always a blistering sonic assault lurking just behind the curtains. Maybe New York's cranky downtown noise scene rubbed off on the Brothers Baluyut (Richard, Edward, and James) and their bass-playing knockout, the impossibly named Fontaine Toups, 'cuz there's definitely some Sonic Youth and Television swirling around in there somewhere. Either way, Versus are responsible for some of the most memorable and immediate ruckus of the '90s, and 1996's Secret Swingers is their crowning glory.

The songs on Secret Swingers at first listen sound deceptively simple, built on solid melodic foundations that let the drums, guitars, and bass (with occasional help from organs and keyboards) build to great heights. But Versus consistently exceed expectations with ingenious instrumental flourishes and, again, surprisingly abrasive blasts of furious noise. And that's what set these guys apart time and again: their ability to shape and control chaos, making the maelstrom into something well beyond easy on the ears, planting a flag in compelling territory on song after song.

Let's take album opener "Lose That Dress." It's an impressive calling card: using a loose-wristed, hipsprung strum to set bright major key chords tumbling, the mid-tempo tune has sunny "yeee-ahhhh"s hanging in the background, drumming that shifts between ramshackle (dig the ride cymbal bell hits on the off-beat) and incredibly tight , and a bassline which refuses to be pushed around. The verses are sung by Richard Baluyut with casual longing, while the chorus moves into a slightly sinister sprawl: "I can really like you when you’re sleeping/ I don’t know what you’ve been dreaming," mutters Baluyut in eerie desperation, "I guess I’ll just call you up this weekend."

"Yeah You" finds Toups taking vocal duty, and its a barnstormer of a track, with abrasively pinwheeling rhythm guitars and a singsong cadence delivering barbed accusations of betrayed trust; at the 3:08 mark, the song hits the wall, going from mad dash to drunken stagger in a tangle of abused strings. It's a jarring dynamic shift, and another of Versus' bright ideas.

And then comes one of the best songs of the decade: "Glitter of Love," with its soaring, starry-eyed vocals, Ritalin-ready surf beat, and instantly endearing ricochet hook. The way the two guitars bounce off each other, mixing and mingling and arguing, while the drums -- handled by Edward Baluyut with effing untouchable snare rolls and an admirable sense of timing and invention -- stake their claim for "best part of the song" is thrilling, and makes for a fitting testament to the band. If Versus had recorded only "Glitter of Love" and then vanished forever, that song alone would have been enough to enshrine them in the hallowed halls of indierock legend.

Though "Glitter of Love" is (clearly) the high point of the record, the rest of the collection doesn't disappoint. "Ghost Story" plods along innocently enough for two minutes, and then lets loose the dogs of distortion and turns into a terrifyingly fierce exercise in sonic destruction. "Double Suicide" employs boy-girl vocals and slow fuse build-up to dramatic effect, with a guitar tone borrowed from Daydream Nation and a satisfyingly raucous payoff.

"Shower Song" is supremely unnerving, immersing a snarling vocal melody in buzzsaw guitar bluster, with relentlessly insistent drumming and awesome/horrifying lines like, "You're the lying king/ You're the number 13/ You're the death of fuck/ You just ran out of luck." It's an unchained act of melodic aggression, and it makes me want to put my fist through a wall every time I hear it. "Angels Rush In" finds Toups and Richard Baluyut trading vocals as the see-sawing track periodically trades pretty for tortured and the band guts the melody with dull knives. "A Heart is a Diamond" is a gleaming, chiming anthem, and ends Secret Swingers on a high note with crashing guitars and pounding drums ringing in your ears.

Versus were probably my favorite TeenBeat band, and were certainly one of the most formidable acts on the '90s indierock scene. Secret Swingers makes it clear why. Innovative, monumental songs spiked with caustic layers of expert noise? What's not to like?

Thin Lizzy. Johnny the Fox (Mercury, 1976)

"Don't believe a word/ For words are only spoken/ Your heart is like a promise/ Made to be broken."

Writing about Ted Leo last week made me want to listen to some Thin Lizzy, so over the weekend I threw on 1976's Johnny the Fox, the follow up to their breakthrough LP, Jailbreak. And in listening, I was reminded again of just how much these dudes brought to the table. The indie world has, for a few years now, been conducting a bit of a reassessment of Thin Lizzy, with the Pharmacists and the Hold Steady, especially, finding a lot to lift from the twin guitar fireworks, tightly controlled rhythms, and literate lyrics. Bassist/singer/key songwriter Phil Lynott was a singular talent, marrying the hyper-verbal storyteller style of Dylan and Springsteen to a muscular, Celtic-derived blues-rock sound founded on the incredible, intertwining chops of dual lead guitarists Scott Gorham and Brian Robertson. Plus, Lynott could more than find his way around a melody, producing some of the catchiest, heartfelt jams of the '70s.

These days, Thin Lizzy is regarded by too many as a beer commercial band, with Jailbreak's "The Boys are Back in Town" having been plundered by company after company to shill all manner of crap. The thing is, "The Boys are Back in Town" is an incredible song, with a champion hook and grin-inducing lyrics that have more than stood the test of time. It's just been overplayed. Which is too bad, because Thin Lizzy -- while a great singles band -- had a lot to offer over the course of entire albums, and put together collections that were largely devoid of the filler common to the AOR era.

Johnny the Fox is a perfect example, a stellar record overflowing with infectious grooves and ear-catching melodies, with a tendency to mix the sweetly vulnerable with the vaguely threatening in a way that makes the music incredibly compelling. There's nothing goofy here (well, almost nothing: last track "Boogie Woogie Dance" is about as good as its title suggests), and overall the LP has aged incredibly well. It's no wonder that bands today are looking back at Thin Lizzy as a valuable stylistic touchstone. There's a lot to learn here.

The album can essentially be divided into two sets of songs: the straight rockers and the slow burners. Both sets are pretty solid. As for the straight rockers, leadoff track "Johnny" sets the pace right away with a tense rhythm guitar melody and precision drum rolls, the lead guitar lines essentially going wherever they want to go, which in this case is to the moon and beyond. The wah pedal puts in some overtime, and the general effect is of barely controlled chaos, which is always welcome. The simple horn chords that come in about halfway through the song add a welcome R&B element that contrasts nicely to the sleeveless rawk of the rest of the tune.

"Don't Believe a Word" deserves to be a classic, a beautifully constructed, fiercely played warning to a potential conquest, with a vocal melody delivered by Lynott with a sadness bordering on anger. It's swaggering rhythms and lazerbeam guitar salvos (seriously, this is why Guitar Hero was invented) run rampant, but never overshadow Lynott. "Fool's Gold" starts off with a brief voiceover about Irish immigration to America and then (before things take a turn to the ridiculous) bursts into a brightly crunching glam stomper, complete with quicksilver solos and triumphant Lynott bellows. "Johnny the Fox Meets Jimmy the Weed" is marked by a lethally funky breakbeat and a evil acid scratch rhythm guitar, backalley music for getting up to no good, while "Massacre" is a frantic battle anthem played at breakneck speed, pausing only to let Gorham and Robertson blaze away.

The slower tracks on Johnny the Fox reveal that, despite the rock bombast they excelled at, Thin Lizzy was a damn fine soul band. Lynott's voice was capable of conveying wounded sincerity and intense heartbreak, while the rest of the band could slow it down without losing any of their power or finesse. "Borderline" is a countrified ballad dressed in a delicate acoustic lead lines and wailing electric solos. "Old Flame" is a touching exercise in regret and longing, with a punchy drum and bass bit, gently slashing chords, and a warm multi-part harmony chorus. And "Sweet Marie" takes an amplified sitar foundation and builds one of Lynott's best compositions on top of it; the way the chorus crashes into each verse as the tune goes from a soulful drift into a more focused attack is genius. Plus, I like how Lynott betrays his endearingly confused conception of U.S. geography when he croons, "Somewhere out in Arizona/ Such a long way from California/ I felt so alone there/ I was two thousand miles away from home there." Adorable.

If the last time you listened to Thin Lizzy was during a Coors Light commercial, you need to listen again. These guys were the real deal, and ahead of their time in a way that's only now being recognized. Johnny the Fox makes it clear how tight and focused Thin Lizzy could be, while also displaying both sides of their sound: scorching rockers and solid soul masters. Lynott and Co. have been grossly underestimated, as this LP will make clear upon first spin. Rediscover them for the first time and see what you've been missing.