Chris Connelly - Phenobarb Bambalam

Wiping off the industrial grit, burning flames and sleazy sampler ooze of his night jobs in Revolting Cocks, Ministry and Pigface, Edinburgh-born/Chicago-resident singer, guitarist and pianist Chris Connelly (not the MTV film show host/onetime Premiere magazine editor but the former Fini Tribe member) has made three restrained solo albums that increase the peace and are, at heart, more pop than anything else.
Phenobarb Bambalam, which Connelly recorded in the aftermath of his girlfriend’s suicide and dedicated to her memory, cuts back on the Walker/Bowie devotions for a bit of the sterner rock aggression and dance rhythms of Connelly’s other endeavours. (Although the downcast ’60s inflections of “Too Good to Be True” and the guilty feedback miseries of “Heartburn” do follow Whiplash Boychild‘s lead; a dramatic cover of Tom Verlaine’s “Souvenir From a Dream” introduces a new design entirely.) Keeping the sound pressure beneath drastic levels, Connelly sounds like all the wind has been sucked out of his sails; the bleak record winds along aimlessly on auto-pilot, avoiding sharp turns and great ambitions, often letting the grooves shape the song writing rather than the other way around. Although hauntingly effective in conveying gloom, Phenobarb Bambalam shunts much of the suffering in the lyrics away; Connelly’s resigned singing leaves the album’s emotional door wide open, and all the claustrophobia in the music rushes right out.

Chris Connelly - Whiplash Boychild

With his reputation as a neo-industrial shouter long since established, Connelly went a long way toward completely confounding all expectations of him with Whiplash Boychild, a commanding and often quite surprising solo effort of equal power and delicacy. The opening track, "Daredevil," sets the pace. Connelly's commanding, Bowie-like croon -- delivering either a sourly romantic lyric couched in political terms, or vice versa -- soars out over an arty groove, making for a fine start. Calling Boychild Connelly's cabaret album wouldn't be that far off the mark, especially given his vocal-and-piano cover of cult crooner Scott Walker's "The Amorous Humphrey Plugg." Compared with Marc Almond's splashy theatrics, Connelly is a little more abstract and restrained, approaching his material with a certain calm. Occasionally the music is extremely avant-garde: "Ghost of a Saint" consists of a curious rhythm loop and violin, while "Confessions of the Highest Bidder" is nearly ten minutes of static, white noise, and unintelligible vocal samples. Things are mostly straightforward, though: from the clean, forceful pound of "This Edge of Midnight" and the elegant, dancefloor-pitched lead single, "Stowaway," to the minimal keyboard-and-atmospherics of "The Last of Joy" and "The Hawk, the Butcher, the Killer of Beauties." Connelly's studio band discharges its duties well -- especially the rhythm section of bassist Stuart Zechman and drummer William Rieflin -- while the production is remarkably clear, without ever being sterile or losing the impact of the music. Add to that the occasional off-kilter sample from unknown Spanish or French sources, and Whiplash Boychild makes for a fine solo debut.

Review by Ned Raggett