Extraordinary Machine: A

I'll be the first to admit it: I love Fiona Apple. From my first introduction to her music - the melancholy, wry and beautiful "Paper Bag" - I have been perpetually hooked by her voice, her instrumentation, and her superb (always self-written) lyrics words. But more than that, as an artist she is a continually evolving wonder; from the opening rage of "Sleep to Dream" to the quiet finale of "I Know" Fiona Apple has taken an old standard - torch music - and constantly re-shaped it.

I may have listened to Tidal, her debut album, and thought that I was hearing a strong musician if not an exactly sophisticated and organized one (although to any who have listened to "Shadowboxer" or "Criminal" on repeat, feel free to disagree) but I was entranced at this 18-year old's large amount of talent. Next came When The Pawn..., her dazzlingly disturbed sophmore album, which managed the hefty feat of taking everything right in her music and separating it from everything wrong; it is no small thing to say she managed, and no smaller thing still to say the result was such an experience - jagged, raw, sincere, witty, dark, tragic - that I may never forget it.

Needless to say that after these two albums I was quite devoted to the Cult of Apple and then, nothing. She dissapeared from the music scene for six years until, finally, re-emerging with 2005's Extraordinary Machine - an album so true to the definition of "extraordinary" that it's been in consistent rotation on my stereo for going on two years.

It isn't so much on her third effort that Ms. Apple changes up her core formula (her anger is still front and center) so much as she has the window dressing. But in that minor change - if by minor I mean a new producer, Mike Elizondo, which I do - there is so much to love. This isn't to state that I found her previous collaborator, Jon Brion, to be of any offense but I've listened to those leaked tracks of his from the original Machine and let me just say: the result was not nearly as shimmeringly joyful, caustic, and memorable as this. From the soaring heartbreak of "O' Sailor" to the defiantly whimsical "Waltz (Better Than Fine)" the music surrounding the singer compliments her with delicious ingenuity.

And yet the singer taking center-stage is as worthy of recognition as her musical fancies. Her voice - a stewing, sullen, rough, cloudy, pouty, angry and sarcastic mix - still retains the impact of her two earlier albums (say what you will of her music elsewhere, but this girl can sing) while managing to add a surprising layer: happiness. Indeed on songs varied as the "Waltz", "Window" and the titular track, our classy damsel-in-distress now sports a measure of joy to go along with her spiky wit.

And of wit there is much (as well as a few other notable, necessary emotions). She throws out one-liners (better that I break the window/than him or her or me/especially me!) and put downs (I opened my eyes/while you were kissing me once.../and you looked as sincere as dog) with the same level of admirable blase and her narratives practically ooze sardonic venom. Don't think she isn' without heart - no, Extraordinary Machine is as much of a heartfelt confession as it is a scaborous tale of uplift and defiance. It is a ironic little secret that Fiona Apple is as much of a wounded romantic as she is an undiscovered protege of Dorothy Parker but there it is. She piles on the emotions onto her latest CD until you think she may sink from all that emotional baggage...and then she stays afloat.

But then she has always been a walking paradox hasn't she? Then to me what makes her such a talent and an enduring performer is that she parades her paradoxes, her confusing mental conondrums, with far more bruising honesty, droll wordplay and densely inventive arrangements than other similar self-conscious singer-songwriters. The final product, you'll doubtless find, is nothing less than wonderful.

Begin to Hope: B+

Regina Spektor, with her voice full of quirks and delicious turns of mood, has always been a rather off-putting artist. In 2004's "Soviet Kitsch" - her first cult success - her voice waxes and wanes with all the natural force of a hurricane. Her instruments clang-bang with a sort of delirious fervor, a devilish assault on the eardrums that invokes a certain ecstatic intoxication. Equally so her songs ebb and flow like the tide, some cresting beautifully ("Ode to Divorce") while others taunt you with their psuedo-novel playfullness ("Ghost of Corporate Future") while others still drag on, dying with a slow painful whimper ("Chemo Limo"). The common thread of all of them - and it may be the only thread in a C.D. this wildly theatrical - was her striking (albeit developing) talent as a nimble, crafty singer/song-writer. In "Begin to Hope", her most accomplished album yet, she matures - a thing to be lauded surely - even if it isn't completely.

I must concede at least that she has finally seemed to abandon those frustratingly opaque musical choices that have turned even some of her more fascinating work into drivel. Her first commercial hit, "Fidelity", has a lilting string tune so danceable, so charming that by the time her vocals burst triumphantly on the bridge your face just about breaks. More still, she has ramped up her once diminuative skill for narrative power, which leads to "Samson" - her first truly great song. The story, one of slight poetic melancholia, has a fascinating allure and once combined with her slow thoughtful (and blissfully bare) piano, the effect is like tonic: cleansing in its quiet statement that yes, yes there is a twenty-something hipster who can sing about something other than herself.

Her vocal and lyrical quirks still pop up. Except oddly enough in "Begin to Hope", they provide more cheeky fun than self-conscious wierdness. Take "Hotel Song" and "On The Radio": two strangely indecipherable tales about bees and knees and Orca Whales (don't ask about that last one till you hear it) that add up to a surprisingly enjoyable, oddly sharp kick; its like "Us", Spektor's smashingly thrilling ballad off of "Soviet Kitsch", revamped and redone into commercialized bliss - which, thankfully, allows most everyone to sample this woman's strange and abundant talents.

I won't say that she is perfect ("Edit", "That Time", and "Lady" still remind me of whonked-out crazy Regina) but when she is working at her best, or even on her newly found tragic dimension (e.g. "Field Below", the aforementioned "Samson"), she has a uniquely indelible force: creating whirlwinds of music at turns caustic, funny, creepy, insightful and - dare I say it? - brilliant. Regina Spektor has finally emerged, nearly 5 years after "11:11", as a true talent. Each creation is like a dream, melting away half-way through but leaving you with a great feeling none the less.

The Black Parade: A

Think you know everything there is to know about My Chemical Romance, that hugely successful emo-metal band behind such tedious, drippy ballads as "Helina" and "Ghost of You"? I'm here to tell you that you ain't heard nothing yet. On this third studio album, a veritable explosion of talent (supposedly "made" as a debut album by MCR alter-ego The Black Parade), MCR has revamped their image to the point of deletion. In place of jet-black hair of lead-singer/writer Gerard Way is a new, shorn, bleached blonde 'do. That same theory of experimentation carries over to The Black Parade and what results is the glorious equivalent of a shot of Jack Daniels: it sears your nerves and leaves you with a slow, sinfully good burn.

Cosinder the opening tracks on the album (those that set the stage for the fall and death of the unnamed, cancerous protagonist). On "To The End", Way ravages and snarls his way through a claustrophobic melody about a suicide attempt at a wedding and his recklessness and abandon are addictive (say goodbye to the vows you take/the hearts you break/and all the cyanide you drank). Immediately following is a track so gleeful in its deprication of emo-rock that who isn't surprised it's entitled "Dead!"?

Evolving also is Way's talent as a frontman. His soulful mourning for a lost-lover ("How I Dissapear") and swan-song ("Disenchanted") tackle wildly different emotions and materials, two things above and beyond the nature of a regular "emo band". It is a testament then to MCR's power that they handle both with strength, compassion, intelligence. To say it is compelling to hear would be an understatement. The band's dense, dark, vibrant arrangements manage to astound as well. There is great arena-rock ("Welcome to the Black
Parade") and snappy, rollicking fun ("Teenagers") both in the same package.

The highlights of the album are unforgettable. "Mama" - our hero's letter to his hated, estranged parent - is so darkly hilarious, so emotional, so powerful that the moment that Liza Minelli shows up to contribute her husky voice it's as though all the stars have aligned. "The Sharpest Lives" exerts a smiliar enthrall. The crashing beats hook you from the start and the sociopathic charm ("Juliet loves the beat and the lust it commands/Drop the dagger and lather the blood on your hands Romeo") keep you there. And who could forget the song's middle feast? "Welcome to the Black Parade" is both a soaring tribute to "Bohemian Rhapsody" and a musical revolution all its own.

Hopefully, My Chemical Romance doesn't revert to it's old ways of emoting and soul-sobbing. After having a taste of what they can really do when they put their minds to it, I doubt I would be able to stand such tastless sludge. After hearing those parting words of the album ("Nothing you can say can stop me going home") though, I'm pretty sure that won't be the case. MCR, let us hope, has ascended to its place as a rock powerhouse.

When The Pawn...: A-

Take a deep breath and repeat after me: "When The Pawn Hits The Conflicts He Thinks Like A King What He Knows Throws The Blows When He Goes To The Fight And He'll Win The Whole Thing Fore He Enters The Ring There's No Baby To Batter When Your Mind is Your Might So When You Go Solo. You Hold Your Own Hand And Remember That Depth Is The Greatest Of Heights And If You Know Where You Stand. Then You'll Know Where To Land And If You Fall It Won't Matter, Cuz You Know That You're Right". You've just repeated the longest record title in history, and the tile to Fiona Apple's second album. As a follow up to her striking debut Tidal, this CD impresses on just about one hundred different levels. First off, Tidal suffered alittle for it's more poetic lyricism however Apple has taken out all the stops when writing this second album. From "Limp", where she conjures justifiable, disgusting punsihment for her current lover, to "Fast As You Can", a song about the speed at which her (also) current lover should run from her and her seemingly secret alter ego, one would get the sense that she is out for blood. As always the songs are a mixture of blunt emotional trauma with a heady case of introspection and spiked with some rueful wit, it's songs as theraphy and there is no one who does it better than Ms. Apple. However there seems to be a certain maturity about her, with songs like "I Know" and "Love Ridden" popping up just before you call the loony bin. These peaceful, tranquil, tragic songs seem to balance her lunacy. Although in no way should she balance it for those of us with stronger tastes. Yes, the words can get mixed and mashed faster than you can say "Fiona did you take your Zoloft today?", but the beauty of her CD is that her own brand of (witty) insanity is never forced. It simply is, and when her dark voice exists along such perfect musical accompaniment (better even that Mike Elizondo's beats on Extraordinary Machine) that mixes a fusion of jazz, chamber pop, blues, and noir than how can you even turn away. It's one quite beautiful, complex, and twisted car wreck.