The picture on the back shows an oddly-dressed man, with dyed white hair (or is that a wig?), leading a horse through a field. If this is Khan, then it would seem like getting laid is not one of his top priorities. However, if the album has any common theme, it is sex. The libido simply drips off the vocals, the beats scream ‘fuck me’ and with choruses like, “I got to / I got to / I got to do it to you,” well, I think you get it. Some of it feels a bit raunchy, and subtle it ain’t, but if you’re looking for the soundtrack to that dirty porn party you were planning, look no further.

Like I said, the main draw of this album is its fun factor. Whether Khan is hammering your ears with musical testosterone, grooving in smooth, jazzy beats, or simply taking you back to when Fatboy Slim was cool (although whether this was an actual time period is debatable), it’s a fun ride. The album does get a little tedious after a while; not really one that you could handle on repeat. However, if you need some energy for a drunken spring cleaning or want to throw a little curve ball into a dance party, Khan’s your man.

The tense moments I felt leading up to a telephone interview I conducted with Bad Religion bass player Jay Bentley were replaced, after the relaxed chat, with euphoric calm and controlled pleasure, and if ever there was the perfect album to listen to when in your own world then Wassabi Collective’s just released third album surely has to be a top contender. The yet-to-be-signed five-piece band from Nelson B.C. serve up a fresh flavour of music to chill to with their space-like guitar hooks and percussionist Melissa Meretsky’s strangely rasta-like, jazzy voice.

Perfect reggae for a perfect day is the best way to describe Wassabi Collective, but the band also incorporates tribal jazz, folk music and soul into their sound to create a positive vibe and progressive energy that make this album easy to listen to, and even more fun to groove to. The long instrumentals in between vocals keep the interest in songs going, especially with the breezy “Dune”; Meretsky’s soaring vocals coupled with Brent “Gisto” Hongisto’s Santana-influenced guitar solos bring a touch of psychedelia to the already diverse-sounding album. “Belly-Up,” one long instrumental, is the focal point of the album; a lengthy wild Western sound piece, akin to something off Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, the song fits in despite the difference in genre from the rest of the album. Other tunes such as the transcendental “Forever” and the straight-up dub reggae “Counterman,” with lyrics about angels, planting seeds and the earth, cement Wassabi Collective as pioneers of organic reggae.

At the end of the album there is an added piece where Meretsky raps over the band’s combined beat-boxing efforts, an impressive ending to a magically mellow album. Like the Easy Star All Stars hit album, Radiodread, or Michael Franti’s Yell Fire, Wassabi Collective’s Stories Not Forgotten is certain to be a major influence on the new reggae sound that is taking Vancouver by storm.

Considering the vitality of Smith’s previous transformations of traditional rock songs back in the 1970s (Van Morrison and The Who), this new compilation is a big disappointment. It is also an indicator of how an artist can go from a position of high regard to self-regard over a period of time. If the majority of the covers included are unable to refresh, or even add an interesting slant to the originals, the purpose of the enterprise seems superfluous. Overall, 12 exists as an empty vanity project when compared to the brilliance of her legacy.

Despite the stink of trite complacency, there are a few scant surprises. The Dylan number, “Changing of the Guards,” is fairly obscure and there are songs chosen by Tears for Fears and later-period Paul Simon. Only on Smith’s take of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” does any invention make itself apparent. Complete with a middle-eight poetry rendition, and composed as a bluegrass dueling banjo song, this version of very familiar material towers above its more routine neighbours. It is a shame none of the other 11 tracks were recorded in the same fashion.

Like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame itself, 12 can’t help but come off as self-congratulatory and maybe a little redundant. The vibrancy of music isn’t meant for the museum, or to be repeated with a lack of imagination. For an artist who used to be consequential, even when covering other people’s songs, this album is a bit of a blunder.

Reed has often been distinguished as contrary, but Hudson River Wind Meditations will not shock the listener, nor will it be as surprising as his Edgar Allan Poe concept album that came before it. For all the perversity and myth that surrounds the unholy noise of Metal Machine Music, it was nonetheless created as a serious piece of art (or, as Lester Bangs said, “to be taken every day like vitamins”). Now, there may be cynical guffaws over aging rock stars producing indulgent ambient soundtracks for the pace of their twilight years, but these new compositions are successful in moving beyond the more pedestrian constraints of the oeuvre. Instead of sounding like a soon-forgotten generator humming in the corner, where a stereo is situated, the aural textures of these pieces probe and surround to create the ideal atmospherics for a journey into inner spaces.

Hudson River Wind Meditations offers little for those who want a repeat of Reed’s previous art rock incarnations, or another chapter of his particular brand of street poetry. Two of the four tracks are around 30 minutes long, repetitive, and completely different from the other extended works in his back catalogue. There is nothing that resembles “Sister Ray,” or even “Street Hassle,” but as a suite of slow electronic pieces, the album delivers the subtlety and the detail required for meditation. It also exists as an engaging background, without the use of a crescendo of angry guitar feedback.

The whole album has a very dream-like quality to it. The first track is sparse and gentle, making the listener a feel they are being put under a spell or hypnotized. Once the energy builds up, and the first touches of drums come in halfway through the second track, it is with the feeling of laughter bubbling up to the surface. After this, one is truly under a spell and the Phonemes are free to whisk you away to a land of rainbows and daisies–where time moves at a slower pace, and images and ideas flitter in and out of consciousness. The album’s gentleness is interspersed with moments of childlike energy. Moments of percussion hit all that much harder since they are so rare. Every lull seamlessly transitions into a high.

If I have a criticism it may be that, since the album is so dreamy and hypnotic, some of it can easily float by unnoticed. I’ve listened to it several times and still I find myself hard-pressed to remember some of the songs in the middle. However, this is not necessarily because they are either bad or not noteworthy, it is simply that while listening to the album, one feels truly transported and it is easy to get lost in the spell it creates. If one ever strays too far, there are plenty of memeorable moments to shock one back, like the delightfully unexpected eastern European, Jewish, folky sounding “Lewis.” So, I guess my only real complaint is that, goddamn it, I just can’t stop singing the mantra-like chorus of “Pain Perdue.” Fuck the Phonemes.

Grow Up and Blow Away starts off with the bleak title track, featuring only the two original members, Haines and guitarist James Shaw (bassist Josh Winstead and drummer Joules Scott-Key had not yet been added), allowing the duo to experiment with electronics without the thumping basslines and prog-rock drumming they now have. “On The Sly” is an artsy plea for acceptance, not dissimilar to the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s signature sound; a cleverly-inserted guitar solo distances this song from the more 60s-influenced ‘summer of love’ feel that other songs on the album incorporate.

“Soft Rock Star” is sung in a very low key throughout. While that tune is hummable, perhaps the song may have worked better with Haines singing normally. “Raw Sugar” is possibly the danciest, most vibrant song on the whole album, with a beginning almost identical to Dr. Dre’s “Still D.R.E.” On this track, layers of Haines’s voice and simple piano crash the song progressively. “London Halflife” talks about Haines’s desire to get over her mid-life crisis, and the sombre, almost distant vocals compliment this song perfectly; it is a lonesome track full of regret and disdain at being beaten down by life.

There are a couple of other tracks that were originally intended to be on the album, but were withdrawn on the re-release. “Parkdale,” which used plentiful horns and a Deborah Harry-esque rap in a sea of mild dub/reggae, perhaps should have been kept on the album, because it is a far cry from the tub-thumping electro-thrash Metric now plays.

Despite these exclusions, it’s still obvious why so many of the loyal fanatics of the band have been lobbying for the long-awaited re-release of this album.

With this local roots songstress’ nods to the lineage of Kitty Wells to Loretta Lynn still as intact and as confident as ever, McRae’s music bridges the gap between such icons in the genre as Patsy Cline to Oh Susanna without missing a step or coming off glib. Meanwhile, McRae’s odes to music from our grandparents’ time make modern-day listeners nostalgic for a time that only ever really existed in Westerns and Gunslinger serials. But we don’t mind that at all.

However, this album would not be what it is without the group of local semi-regulars from McRae’s previous two solo efforts. It features Paul Pigat on upright bass, Canadian Country Hall of Fame artist Gary Fjellgard on background vocals and Stephen Nikleva on guitar and mandolin, among others. This is yet another McRae recording that has the easygoing feel of old musical pals getting together to jam for an afternoon, tell stories and reminiscence. We reap the benefits of the seeds of creativity she and her crew work diligently to sew.

It’s a little weird, then, that five years after New York nightlife impresario Jonny McGovern (better known as the Gay Pimp to his fans) blanketed gay bars across North America with “Soccer Practice”–a single-entendre-filled musical exploration of the erotic possibilities inherent in the men’s locker room–he’s managed to release Gays Gone Wild, a follow-up album which is not only equally raunchy, but also surprisingly listenable. The album’s twelve tracks, produced by fellow New Yorker, Adam Joseph (“Flow With My Soul,” “Faggoty Attention”), are a fresh blend of skittering electronic beats, crunchy synthesized bass loops, and gospel-influenced backing vocals. McGovern’s sound is much fuller, more energetic, and more upbeat than the booming, minimalist percussion of the current Top 40 singles he both aspires to and satirizes.

Gays Gone Wild, of course, is not for everyone. The album, although tongue-in-cheek, is entirely about gay sex and getting drunk with go-go boys. Even people who are okay with queer culture might not be entirely comfortable listening to songs like “Girl, I Fucked Yo’ Boyfriend” or “Dick Swang Out!” but for those who enjoy hearing about naked dudes, Gays Gone Wild is twelve tracks of dirty gay fun. The album’s first single, “Somethin’ for the Fellas (That Like the Fellas),” has been on the top spot on the Logo Network’s Click List for the past two months straight for a reason: underneath the sequins and raunch, Johnny McGovern has the talent to be more than just a one-hit wonder.

So what does that leave us with? Several songs are fairly straightforward in their fast, heavy attack, while elsewhere there are numerous exploratory moments. It seems to me like there could have been a lot more discretion in the track selection: at 16 songs, forced-artsy moments like “The Beach” (built around samples of someone crying) should have been easy cuts, but somehow they snuck in. The bouncy “Sex Raptor” incorporates elements of New Order and The Cure, but is too jarring a departure from the band’s metallic oeuvre. The horribly cheesy “Kangarooster Meadows” is just one more track better left unheard.

The album came along with a promo description, speaking of ‘epic soundscapes,’ evoking ‘the vastness and emptiness of the universe.’ However, its more inspiring moments—such as “I Think…” and its expansive range of sound, or the slow angst of “New York City”—don’t lock into any meaningful flow or concept. What HORSE needs here is more focus: either stick to simpler metalcore and curb the aspirations to high art, or fully plunge into experimentalism and leave behind all the one-dimensional riffs. The sad thing is, even in taking either of these approaches, what’s left of A Natural Death would be nothing to get terribly excited about.