Just back from an exceptional gig in Florida and a ‘helluva trip’ to Disneyworld. DzReam have seen their most recent release. ‘Unforgiven'. charting and the LP. DsReam 0n 1. is imminent. Live act and master remixers for the likes of EMF. Baby June. Duran Duran and Deborah Harry (with a remix for Jean-Michel Jarre in the pipeline) this is one duo moving ever onwards and upwards.

The new LP is extremely listenable and has a couple of very un- D:Ream-like tracks; their next double-A-side single even features ‘Star‘. a warming ballad. ‘What we wanted to do with the album was to break it up a bit.‘ says Al. the Edinburgh-bom DJ. ‘Side one is more party- orientated. while side two has a couple of mellower tracks. giving it an overall different feel.’

As well as the LP. the single. the possible Jarre remix and a two-month AIDS awareness tour of America in October. they have plans for doing a lot more than that. ‘Peter's got over 200 songs. He‘s been writing for about fifteen years and we‘re always writing new material as we go along. We’ve also got other ideas and are toying with some heavy trance sounds. but we might not release it under the name DzReam. it might come out under a different name or might just come out as limited edition white label EPs or something. Who knows what we’ll end up doing? We’re a melting-pot of ideas. Peter's from a rock background and l‘m from a dance background. so who knows? We don’t particularly have a set direction. we just want to make good records.

‘We have been really busy and the American trip was pretty hectic. but then that’s the way we wanted it to be. we liked it like that.’ (Joe Lampard) D:Ream play the Universe. Coarbridge and Expo. Kilmamock. on Fri 13. The Area, Paisley, and The Tunnel, Glasgow, on Sat [4.

I— rma FAT LADY smcs

Johnson (east/west) They’re best at their extremes. The Fat Lady Sings ooze intimacy when they whisper ‘Drunkard logic’ and ‘Horse Water Wind’. They parade sheer bigness, flash their pop grandness, when ‘Show Df Myself’ steals in with razor-wire guitar and ‘Boil’ seethes like a psycho.

After the latter track, Hick Kelly pants, having scoured and purged

' himself and given his all to the cause

of his muse. This is the Fatties’ saviour, this ever-palpable passion. Their downfall comes when passion

clouds vision and songs wallow in a mushy middle-ground where earnestness comes politely and goes immemorably. ‘Johnson’ isn’t as culpable here as its predecessor, 1991 ’s ‘Twist’, and credit must be given to producer Steve Osbourne - provider of edge and trimmer of tat. But then, even on otherwise humdrum tracks like ‘Alien’ and ‘Johnny Sunrise’ Kelly’s voice, which

manages to sound like a fabric, coarse

and comforting, and Kelly’s lyrics,

: prosaic and keen, elevate the Patties


above the throng of the merely melodic and the politely poppy. (Craig McLean)


The Program (Mercury)

Watley and more.


For the benefit of the uninitiated, flew York’s Dave Morales rates as highly in the ‘DJ as international remixer and producer’ pantheon as Zeus in the Greek version. With a knack for wielding both a commercial wand and an underground whip in the studio, his contented clientele includes Madonna, Pet Shop Boys, Shabba, Jody

Rut poor Dave felt constricted by the limitations of the club-scene’s fixed agenda and the reflected glare of other stars’ publicity. Hence ‘The Program’, with supporting roles from a cast of thousands including Sly and Robbie, Ce Ce Rogers, chirpy ragga-

dude Papa San, wherein an upbeat collective vibe is supposed to waft through Morales’ affectionate dues- paying to Jamaican dancehall and gay East Coast disco. Unfortunately, ‘The Program’ is woefully short of the blinding iconoclasm many have come to expect of the man. ‘Sunshine’ and ‘Games’ are lightweight Garage froth that wouldn’t be out of place on ‘True Blue’, while ‘ln De Getto’ and recent single ‘Gimme luv’ rarely stray from the stylistic boundaries of pounding lovers’ ragga. Throughout, there’s a tangible sense of point-proving, not scoring, which even the wily drive-by thump of the title track and the deep strobe-light wooze of ‘Work That Body’ don’t make up for. But give the man a weekend’s hard graft in a Berlin techno squat and he’ll no doubt be back. (Calvin Bush)


Siamese Dream (Hut) Records don’t arrive much more energisingly than this. ‘Cherub Rock’ has that parade-ground drum tattoo, that bowel-deep bass throb, that tanking guitar ferocity, and Billy Corgan’s beelaebub howl. Sheesh. There’s 62 minutes of the bugger. Thirteen exercises in primal scream therapy, jet-fuelled rock, malignant melodrama. After everyone realised ‘Gish’ was no run-o’-the-mill, johnny- come-lately g"‘ge-out, Smashing Pumpkins were handed the poisoned chalice and the tag that said ‘new Hirvana’, even when there was still


; nothing wrong with the old one.

i Ho doubt Corgan couldn’t give a fig,

' feeling no pressure. But their eagerly- ! anticipated ‘Siamese Dream’ sounds

i pressurised, wracked, buckled, bent.

‘life’s a bummer,’ he howls. ‘Today is

the greatest day I’ve ever known, can’t live for tomorrow,‘ he walls. ‘Siamese Dream’ is anomie and

nihilism, and nothingness never

sounded so good. This charged

intensity is encapsulated in ‘Hummer’, , where cliffs of riffs are topped off by i Corgan’s chillingly child-like vocals.

Rock that looms large and staggers wildly. An album that is as tall as it is loud. A king-hell rock rocket, ‘Siamese Dream’ has just left the stratosphere.

(Craig McLean) [— CYPRESS HILL

Black Sunday (Columbia)


Hardcore hip-hop can be claustrophic hell: the urge to walk taller, kill faster, die harder that permeates so much respected American street rap often suffuses the music with a steely, driven monotony. And Cypress Hill revel in it - ‘Wanna Get ngh’, ‘Hlts From The Rong’, ‘Cock The Hammer’ and ‘like A Shot’ need no explanation - yet, on this, their second album, their joint ‘waste and get wasted’ manifesto swaggers and lists Its way towards genuine excitement in a cool- handed fluke we had no right to expect after their atrocious live shows with fellow soul assassins House Of

Still, the brattish whine of rapper a-

Real bristles and grates like steel wool on nerve ends. Still, the nightmare nursery school rhyming chills down to the marrow. Still, DJ Muggs’ cataclysmic bone-breaking beats lack sufficient seismic metaphors to do them justice. There’s a seam of malevolence running through ‘Ain’t Goin’ Dut’ and the mashed-up intensity of ‘lnsane In The Brain’, while ‘Hits‘From The Bong’ and ‘Wanna Get ngh’ are slyly, insidioust good-humoured. And above it all is Cypress Hill’s goofy celebration of the essential uncool of the self and all that causes it - dope, guns and fucking, the classic themes. ‘Black Sunday’ dumps fag-ends on the cause of political correctness, but its bottom-line advocatlon of smoking our way from societal distress is almost starting to appeal. ‘llve and die wrecked’, indeed. (Calvin Rush)

84 The List l3—l9 August 1993