The first few seconds of “Santa Claus” gesture towards use of robotic electronic accompaniment à la Men’s Recovery Project. This effort, however, is quickly abandoned, never to be attempted again. Bleachmobile’s failure to exploit any sort of electronic avenue is particularly disappointing considering their roots—other Japanese hardcore bands, such as Melt Banana, have produced first-rate hardcore through such manipulation.

Detonator is solid, but unremarkable. It will induce head-bobbing in the average hardcore enthusiast for exactly 23 minutes, before it is set aside along with all the other mediocre debuts not worth repeated listenings. —Thalia S. Field

Greatest Hits The Cure Robert Smith et al’s third compilation album after two “Singles” collections is a cane-twirling traipse through the kitschy lipsticked sound of the Cure over their 20-plus year career. The difference between a “Singles” collection and a “Greatest Hits” album can be fuzzy, and the resulting selection may not represent the most recognizable Cure songs. They might have included “The Caterpillar” or “Hot Hot Hot,” for instance, and “Killing An Arab” was probably pulled for obvious reasons. Yet there is hardly a low moment on the 18-song disc, which includes the obligatory two “previously unreleased” songs: “Cut Here,” which sounds slightly tossed-off, coming across as an amalgam of “Let’s Go To Bed” and “Why Can’t I Be You,” full of chiming guitars and keyboard samples that sound like they want to be horn sections. But this is supposed to be a retrospective disc, right?

“Just Say Yes,” on the other hand, rejuvenates the headlong, Peter Pan aspect of Smith, the infamously uncrying boy, with one wicked guitar hook surfing the prominent bass lines that are pure Cure, and toying with an array of nouveau rock electric effects. The guest vocalist Saffron spurs Smith to heights worthy of a star-struck 14-year old, as the two of them holler, “Say this is it / Don’t say maybe / Don’t say no.”

The companion “Acoustic Hits” disc is a bit of a dead-end, apparently motivated by the 80s belief that any music based around an acoustic guitar automatically gains extra kudos. The truth is that the songs, stripped of goofy studio effects, start to sound washed-up. The exception is the sublime parody “Love Cats,” whose deranged music-hall sound blossoms in the stripped-down arrangement. The brilliance of the Cure is their ability to play fantastic songs while giving the convincing impression of playing throwaway music. Pinning their hits down on one disc is a genuine treat. —Andrew R. Iliff

Motherland Natalie Merchant Natalie Merchant, formerly the voice behind 10,000 Maniacs, is in great form on her new album’s first track, “This House Is On Fire.” An oriental-flavored, reggae-styled track, “Fire” gives her plenty of opportunity to show off her distinctive, back-of-the-throat voice and its impressive power. If only the rest of the album had as much attitude. The transition from the valkyrie voice of the first track where Merchant sings, “Soon come the day / When this tinder box / Is going to blow in your face,” to the domesticated, Mediterranean post-card song, “Motherland,” disorients the listener like holiday jet-lag. Merchant ensconces herself amongst accordions and harmlessly strummed banjos singing, “Motherland, cradle me / Close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep / Keep me safe, lie with me / Lay beside me, don’t go.” This is great music to play to hyperactive three-year olds, but the pleasures are few and far between for anyone who finds the pastoral vision of Merchant on the album too maternal for a rock album.

But Merchant takes pains to prove that she’s not just someone’s mom, as the stolid drum sample on “Saint Judas” shows. Despite the gimmick, “Judas” is the best update of Merchant’s mellow alterna-country sound. With vocals that prove that the teen-queens don’t have the monopoly on kick-ass voices, “Judas” has a sly swagger, though Merchant eschews sex appeal almost entirely on the album.

Motherland has some other good moments when Merchant ventures into the smoky, downbeat territory of the Cowboy Junkies. But mostly, the album is unremittingly bland, lacking the instrumental highs and energy of her work with the Maniacs, which is only approximated in songs like “Just Can’t Last.”

This is a great album for anyone who misses their mom.

—Andrew R. Iliff

MTV’s TRL Christmas “Here I sit waiting out by the T all by myself,” moans Weezer’s Rivers Cuomo, Class of ’95-’97, in “The Christmas Song.” Is Christmas really that bad? The full range of 20-something angst and frivolous desires plays out on MTV’s TRL Christmas, a compilation that will either have you jumping around and dancing as you decorate the tree or throw you into despair about the cheapening of Christmas. “Gimme gimme gimme,” sings Willa Ford on the very first track, no doubt looking forward to today’s true meaning of Christmas.

The album includes some updated Christmas favorites: Christina Aguilera’s overdramatic “Angels We Have Heard On High,” an upbeat “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” by Bif Naked, “Sleigh Ride” by TLC as its composer, Leroy Anderson ’29, would never recognize it, and Sugar Ray’s Beach Boys-esque rendition of the Beach Boys’ “Little Saint Nick.”

We also get some new holiday related cheer from other TRL regulars. Blink-182’s “I Won’t Be Home For Christmas” complains, “It’s Christmas time, again / It’s time to be nice to the people you can’t stand all year / I’m growing tired of all this Christmas cheer,” in traditional Blink-182 sing-song fashion. Smash Mouth and ’NSYNC also make their standard contributions. But as well as these songs fit within the TRL genre, none of the album’s non-traditional material has a snowball’s chance in hell of achieving the status of Christmas classic.

Speaking of snowballs: The most random track on the album is not the token traditional piece, “Christmas Canon,” performed by the ever-reliable Trans-Siberian Orchestra (and really, what’s Christmas without an orchestral suite by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra?), but rather “Snowball,” in which the versatile Jimmy Fallon imitates a bad high school garage band vocalist with his screams of, “Snowball snowball snowball fight!”

Christmas…cheapened? No way. —P. Patty Li