Indigo Girls

All That We Let In

(Sony)

The Indigo Girls are still rockin’ the same old “stacking sandbags gainst the river of your trouble” lyrics and soul-warming harmonies on All That We Let In, the new record that’s got even better album art than Swamp Ophelia. For the most part, this album is exactly what you’d expect from the Indigo Girls; Amy Ray and Emily Saliers pass the baton back and forth like pros, belting it out or backing each other up like true friends. That’s not to say that you won’t feel a little sickly when Saliers sings about knowing that “the answer’s always in the question.” But if you’re listening at all, you’ve probably accepted the Indigo Girls for the sappy duo they are.

However, this record does present some serious obstacles to an enjoyable listening experience for even the best-seasoned I-Girls fan. The most annoying track, “Heartache For Everyone,” sounds like some sort of middle-aged nod to Reel Big Fish. And adding to their admittedly pretty voices and strummin’ guitars, there is more varied instrumentation on this album—but all the pianos, accordions, vibraphones, ocarinas, etcetera crowd the mix and obscure the main vibe the Girls had going for them. Plus, they’re no longer the two strong women on stage with the winds of wisdom blowing through their hair; now they’ve got some cheesy dude named Brady Blade tooting on the penny whistle in the background.

There’s more than enough on All That We Let In to satisfy a fan, a few songs to skip and some excellent fodder for anyone who likes to make Indigo Girls jokes.

—Lucy F. Lindsey

Tantric

After We Go

(Maverick)

Grunge-hangover band Tantric’s second album After We Go gives brooding discontent the perfect sheen of corporate rock. Ironic, given that their record company sent them back to the studio for a second and third shot at the album.

Tantric are the opposite of the sort of rock n roll anarchy purveyed by The Darkness. Replete with acoustic guitars, wooden basslines and earnest guitar solos, the music sounds as heavily produced as Britney. This is not an entirely bad thing—the music is smooth and even, exerting a vaguely soporific effect. This is the sort of music angry teenagers listen to in order to piss off the parents while catching a nap. The requisite heaviness, showcased on the cover of Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain” is offset throughout by acoustic sections, but the juxtaposition struggles not to sound contrived, each acoustic passage luring the listener in for the predictable punch of distorted guitars.

There are some tickling riffs. The lead single “Hey Now” opens with a single guitar tracing reverberating curlicues around singer Hugo Ferreira’s self-important basso declarations of incomprehension of a friend’s anti-social behavior. Tantric specialize in classic rock vocal harmonies, which they execute with aplomb, if not personality, and After We Go delivers these in spades. Tantric try for ominous, but end up sounding only sulky.

—Andrew R. Iliff

The Coral

Magic and Medicine

(Sony)

The Coral need to stop writing songs and convert to a mid-60s folk-rock cover band. There’s a substantial baby-boomer nostalgia circuit—my friend’s dad played bass for “The Grateful Dads”—and the Coral could own it. Seriously, the band has some fine musicians and competent vocalists, and they come across as very polished. I bet they’d do a rockin’ rendition of “The House of the Rising Sun,” but there’s no way not to suck given the songs they have written.

The opening track on Magic and Medicine, “In the Forest,” is supposed to be some kind of dream sequence about this guy finding his nymph in her element. But with lyrics like “From all the feelings that are making you blue / You’ll never know how much I…you,” it’s impossible to take this stuff seriously. “Gypsy Market Blues” is the band’s feeble attempt to emulate Dylan-style talking blues and “Bill McCai” is their take on social commentary. Think “A Day in the Life” as written by a first-grader. For its finale, the Coral give us the 6-minute “Confessions of A.D.D.D.” I guess this is their tribute to jam-rock; unfortunately, the band members are in no position to improvise. The result is a two-minute guitar solo based entirely on five notes. “Liezah” and “Secret Kiss” present some more memorable, if bland, tunes evoking the Byrds, but they don’t quite get close enough.

Oh, and there’s a bonus disc included in the packaging called Nightfreak and the Sounds of Becker. I took the liberty of not listening to it.

—Mickey A. Muldoon

Zero 7

When It Falls

(Elektra)

Henry Binns and Sam Hardaker, two British producers who go by the name Zero 7, have made a career of copying French atmospheric masters Air. The comparison was flattering to Zero 7 from the outset. With the release of their second album, When It Falls, it’s clear that this down-tempo outfit can do little more than imitate their musical superiors.

Zero 7’s 2001 debut, Simple Things, featured the great single “Destiny,” which got moderate play on MTV and exemplified what was to be the fad of “chill-out” music—electronic keyboards, acoustic guitars, a slow beat and that sexy, sexy female voice. Two years later, When It Falls tries to recapitulate the same feeling of relaxed, soulful bliss. The trouble is the whole chill-out thing feels weary and used-up. While Air and Britain’s Kinobe have moved on to more energetic, complex electronic sounds, Zero 7 seems to be stuck in a perpetual 4 a.m. after-party, coming down after a night at a lousy club.

That’s not to say this album is terrible. The music is lush, full of atmospheric echoes and acoustic guitars; electronic keyboards tinkle through most of the songs while the sound of strings hover in the background tastefully, conjuring the image of a dim room with couples draped lazily over each other. “Home” builds to an intense, layered sonic climax that really does leave you blissed-out. But tracks like “Passing By” ironically sum up the disposable melodic sensibility of the record—“I’m only passing by,” Sophie Barker croons soulfully. When It Falls floats by in an easy-to-listen-to haze, leaving barely any impression at all.

—Daniel M. S. Raper