Sufjan Stevens

Thursday, September 22
Mississippi Nights
Doors at 7 PM, Show at 8
Tickets: $14

Sufjan Stevens is what you might call a “college degree” rocker. Not only did the gentle-voiced Michigan native receive a degree in creative writing from the New School in New York, but he fills his songs with sly historical references and brilliant turns of phrase in the manner of a grade-A essay. That doesn’t mean he lacks emotion, however; his best songs are likely to move the listener to tears. It’s this special blend of intelligence and songcraft that young Sufjan (pronounced “Soof-yahn”) is bringing to Mississippi Nights this Thursday, September 22.

Stevens is currently touring in support of his new album “Illinois,” out on Asthmatic Kitty Records. For those who don’t know, the record is part two of a presumably fifty-part endeavor in which Stevens plans to devote an album to each of the fifty United States. Judging from the excellence of the first two, “Illinois” and the earlier “Greetings from Michigan,” we could use forty-eight more. “Illinois” effortlessly combines sparse piano ballads, exuberant bells-and-whistles celebrations, and banjo-plucked love songs. Particularly outstanding is “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.,” an ode to the serial killer that is neither condoning nor entirely condemning. When Stevens sings of his victims, “Even more, they were boys / With their cars, summer jobs, Oh my God,” it’s hard not to get goosebumps. There are also Illinois references galore, including Frank Lloyd Wright, Carl Sandberg, the Sears Tower, and the lyric “Stephen A. Douglas was a great debater, but Abraham Lincoln was the great emancipator.” The guy’s apparently done his research.

In addition to so much intellectual name-dropping, Stevens isn’t afraid to explore another, decidedly non-rock ‘n’ roll, aspect of his life: his Christian faith. His 2004 acoustic album “Seven Swans” addressed the issue directly, but religious references pop up all over “Illinois” as well. However, Stevens has said in interviews that it’s simply the background he brings to the table and he can’t be held responsible for all of Christianity. And that’s a reasonable request: we often enjoy musicians despite their political or social views, so why should religious views be any different? Stevens isn’t here to proselytize; he’s not exactly Creed or P.O.D. He is one of the best young artists in the country, with a style completely his own. His show at Mississippi Nights on Thursday will be part history lesson, part school pageant, part religious testimony, and wholly excellent.

You can’t accuse the good people at the Gargoyle of slacking in their duties. Next Tuesday, Mallinckrodt’s very own CBGB will host four of the independent scene’s most promising young acts. Minus the Bear, These Arms Are Snakes, Thunderbirds Are Now! and the City on Film represent a number of different styles, records labels and subject/predicate constructions, but all can be counted on to rock.

Two of the groups involved share a common connection in their musical odysseys. Both These Arms Are Snakes and Minus the Bear emerged from the ashes of two other Seattle groups, Botch and Kill Sadie. (Others went on to form Pretty Girls Make Graves, who open for Franz Ferdinand later this month.) Out of this frothy sonic stew came some of the hardest, most complex rock ‘n’ roll around, owing much to hardcore pioneers like Fugazi and newcomers the Blood Brothers. But if These Arms Are Snakes represent the serious, stoic end of the musical spectrum, Minus the Bear are the merry pranksters, spazzing out with song titles like “I’m Totally not Down with Rob’s Alien” and “Hey? Is That a Ninja Up There?” Their sound is similarly brain-addled, with enough change-ups and melodic surprises to keep audiences guessing. These Arms Are Snakes prefer to continue in the tradition of At The Drive-In by keeping things impassioned and earnest. Their riffs will rock the socks off the most jaded hipster.

Speaking of ATDI, Thunderbirds Are Now! know a thing or two about high-pitched vocals. In fact, they’re happy to give credit to Drive-In survivors the Mars Volta, who they say inspired their current sound. Fans of Les Savy Fav and Brainiac should also take note and expect the same brand of tight, synthesizer-laden rock. Finally, City on Film will supply the emo element to the evening’s equation, with Hey Mercedes vocalist Bob Nanna going solo to deliver some introspective acoustic ruminations. Consider it a fine cleansing of the palate before assaulting your senses with more slabs of bloody-rare rock. Shows are rarely this solid from top to bottom, but the Gargoyle is beginning the year batting 1.000.

What Van Sant does manage to accomplish, however, is the further canonization of one of the greatest musical figures of the 20th century. Kurt Cobain, even before his tragic suicide and martyr-like apotheosis, was truly the bard of his times. His heartfelt lyrics and conflicted struggle with fame struck a chord with a whole generation of slackers and skeptic Gen X’ers. To this day there’s hardly a better summation of feeling than a line like “I am my own parasite, I don’t need a host to live / We feed off of each other, we can share our endorphins.” Though he died a “rock ‘n’ roll clich‚,” as Van Sant has Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon say in the film, he’s a clich‚ whose portrait fits nicely in the long line that runs through Dylan, Reed, Costello, Rotten, and Morrissey (ironically, none of which are dead).

Since 1994, Cobain has remained the last scion of that lineage. Sure, recognizable pop stars come a dime a dozen, and it’s quite possible (though shameful) that the average Rolling Stone reader could identify Fred Durst just as easily. But the ’90s and ’00s have yet to produce a legitimate heir to Cobain’s throne, the throne of the artist whose work is incalculably earth-shattering and genre-crossing, and whose genius would have shone through no matter who the band backing them up-no offense, Dave Grohl and Kris Novoselic.

I know where I’m at fault here. I’m giving too much merit to terms like “canon” and “genius” and “Fred Durst” (you can never not be giving Fred Durst too much merit), when in fact such thinking is outdated, chauvinistic, rock fanboy claptrap. Pop music isn’t made by exceptional people, it’s made by the various scenes and movements and environments that produce it. “It’s not made by great men,” as the Gang of Four might say.

As it happens, however, you really can document the number of artists that picked up a guitar because they heard Dylan singing “Like a Rolling Stone,” or Lou Reed doing “Heroin,” or Patti Smith playing “Gloria” at CBGB’s one night-just ask them. Kurt Cobain is no exception to this tradition, although I’m not sure whether to thank him or kidney-punch him for groups like Silverchair and Bush. (No wait, I’m sure.) The only comparable band since has been Radiohead, but notice I say band; nobody’s going to forget Thom Yorke’s pasty, lazy-eyed mug, but he’s simply not an individual force like Kurt. He’s the lead singer of the band Radiohead. (Where have they been for the past three years, anyway?)

Any other contenders? If you squint hard enough, Coldplay’s Chris Martin is Thom Yorke and Bono’s bastard love child, but Martin isn’t rock god material for the same reasons that Bono fails to be. You’re more likely to see him on the cover of “People,” kissing Gwyneth, than anywhere else, just as Bono is probably shaking hands with Desmond Tutu while simultaneously fundraising for the Chronic Bedwetters Fund as you read this. You can admire them for their art and philanthropy (and I do appreciate what Bono has done with his success), but they aren’t tortured, introspective geniuses.

As Van Sant’s tedious film shows, Kurt Cobain is such a genius, still worth thinking about, and probably the last. Will there be another like him? We’re still waiting.

Don’t think that such a claim is an exaggeration, or that music (and the arts in general) isn’t an integral part of the college experience. Hopefully, before your time at Washington University is up, you’ll stay up having late-night dorm conversations about the Pixies and the latest Wes Anderson film, in addition to Shakespeare and the existence of God. You’ll have the time of your life at WILD, lose your mind at concerts, and listen to a CD that makes you cry. “I heard a record and it opened my eyes,” goes a song by the band Pretty Girls Make Graves.

That’s my story, at least. I came to school with what I thought was a pretty decent CD collection; I was soon proved very, very wrong. All it took was a floormate on Koenig 1 with a copy of Neutral Milk Hotel’s “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” to show me what music could be. (My eternal thanks, Rischall.)

Pretty soon I was trading with everyone-my roommate had the ska and dub, and my fellow writers at Cadenza turned me on to more good sounds than I could name in one sitting. And let’s not forget Direct Connect, or The Downloading Server That Must Not Be Named. It’s long since been dismantled, but before it went under I probably burnt 200 albums or more (hello, RIAA!). DC may be no more, but seek and ye shall find a network.

Unfortunately, the musical opportunities at Wash. U. aren’t always fully utilized. Despite the smart crowds that assemble at Graham Chapel for freshman convocation every year, “musical adventurousness” is rarely a high priority compared to pre-med courses and discovering Frat Row. It’s hard for an old codger like me not to get all reactionary, but more and more it seems music appreciation is becoming music consumption, especially with the rise of the iPod.

Rather than buying the new Coldplay or Common or Sufjan Stevens record, students are buying the singles on iTunes and adding them to their workout or party mixes. Far from it that I should demand for everyone to become a nerdy record collector (although you can email mssimont@wustl.edu for tips on where to get good vinyl), but good Lord, people, look at all the options you have:

-Read Cadenza for the latest music news, reviews, and previews. Like what you’ve been listening to lately? Write a CD review for the paper.

-Listen to Wash U’s own KWUR 90.3 on your FM dial or streaming live at www.kwur.wustl.edu. The little station that could, KWUR has won awards for “Best Radio Station” from The Riverfront Times despite its criminally tiny reception radius.

-Attend concerts at the Gargoyle, the little dungeon-esque venue in the basement of Mallinkrodt. Shows are usually free for students, and past acts have included Broken Social Scene, DJ Scratch from the Roots, Q and not U, and the Wrens.

-Hit up the Delmar Loop, where you’ll find Vintage Vinyl, one of America’s top 10 record stores, according to Rolling Stone, along with Streetside Records, the Pageant Theater and plenty of smaller venues, like Cicero’s and the Red Sea.

-Start up a band of your own. The members of Wash. U.’s last successful group, the Hatch, have all graduated, so the title of “campus band” is up for grabs. Play your cards right and you could open for the act at WILD.

And that’s just the tip of the ol’ iceberg. If the campus scene is not to your liking, there’s always stuff going on at clubs like the Creepy Crawl and Mississippi Nights. The music is out there; all you have to do is reach out and grab it by the lapels (or the torn t-shirt or spandex bodysuit, as the case may be).

Enjoy your freshman year.

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“Sonic Reduction” is a weekly music column written by former Cadenza editor Matt Simonton. Despite its academic-sounding flair, its name comes from the Dead Boys’ punk classic “Sonic Reducer.”

Your musical taste is under attack. Even as I type there are forces at work bent on telling, nay, dictating to you what is cool. Unfortunately, their identity is no longer so clear. You used to be able to round up the usual suspects with ease: “TRL,” Clear Channel radio, Now That’s What I Call Music volume 67. As long as you had your favorite independent record store and a subscription to CMJ, you could rise above such conformity of taste.

Not so anymore. In fact, I don’t even know if such a condition ever really existed in the first place. It’s probably a myth. But the fact remains that now there are two very dangerous trends that threaten the sanctity of your taste, and they both revolve around what’s always been called “indie.” I’d even go so far as to say that the rise of “indie” music is probably the greatest threat to truly independent-minded music fans today.

The first is a double-edged sword: the reception of formerly underground bands into the major label scene. I’d just bore you if I took the time once again to illustrate the ascent of Modest Mouse, Franz Ferdinand, and a host of others who have slowly infiltrated TV commercials, movie soundtracks, and frat party Winamp mixes. There are obviously a lot of positive aspects to this “selling out”: the fact that I can walk into Old Navy and hear some decent music on the PA being one example. But then there’s what I’d like to call “the great ‘O.C.’ hijacking”: the deliberate selling of a distinct “indie” look, a skinny, Lacoste’d Seth Cohen look with Death Cab for Cutie on the side. They’ve figured out that indie rock is marketable, and they’re using the image, however faked, to sell records. Hence the Killers. (Can anyone honestly tell me the difference between “Mr. Brightside” and Jimmy Eat World’s “The Middle”? What are the Killers anyway, except mall-punk done up in designer clothes and eyeliner?)

The second factor at work is even more insidious, because you can always count on the corporate rock scene to be crafty and profiteering. I don’t really hold it against them. What’s really shameful is the traditional indie community. The iron grasp it holds on the lives of music listeners everywhere is just painful, especially since I see it every day, and most of all because I see it in myself. I’m talking about the powerful nexus of Pitchfork Media, countless webzines and the supposedly “alternative” press, who never fail to ape each other in one big echo chamber.

If anyone should doubt that their word is sacrosanct among the hipster community, take the example of the Fiery Furnaces, who were just recently at our very own Gargoyle. When their “Blueberry Boat” record came out, I waited patiently for a reviewer who would have the nerve to call it out on what it was, namely a hookless, off-key exercise in pretentious wankery. Among all the glowing perfect scores, it took the somewhat conservative reviewing hand of Rolling Stone to call a spade a spade. I had sold my copy back long before. The same goes for similar Pitchfork favorites Animal Collective (tuneless faux-folkers who probably weren’t even on drugs when they recorded their abortive record) and Bloc Party (an average band riding high on the incredible power of “post-” words). To be sure, this dull smiling and head-nodding on the part of the underground community has invaded my own writing in Cadenza: my new purchases are more or less perfectly in line with the rest of the Converse-sporting set. So do as I say, not as I do.

Before you leave thinking I hate everything, you should know that it’s perfectly okay if the Fiery Furnaces are your favorite band of all time. More power to you. But don’t ever capitulate to the dictators, the ones who question how anyone could ever *possibly* dislike their picks of the week. Just like whatever the hell you like, and be ready to share your own honest opinion. That’s what I’ve loved about Cadenza – former editor Travis Petersen’s passion for both black metal and Prince, Dan Carlin’s record club meetings, Jess Minnen’s jam band faves and Tyler Weaver’s partiality to cute, piano-playing songstresses (not to mention his outright contempt for critical darlings Wilco). These people have introduced me to countless great bands, and I can only hope that I was able to do the same. And they’ve successfully avoided the indie vacuum, where nothing original is ever uttered.

So, any last parting thoughts…? Well, of course – if I can allow myself a bit of blatant partisanship (which I’ve always been pretty good about avoiding). Cadenza is the best part of the paper, and hopefully always will be. It’s been sad to see it wither into a three-page-a-week shell of its former self, but there’s no changing that now. What’s important is that you’re still reading, and perhaps one day writing. It’s true that no one’s going to steal 200 copies of the paper over a movie review or band interview, but you could share with someone a bit of music that meant the world to you, and I know personally that that’s a victory in itself. And that’s sonic reduction.

You can call me a creep, an immoral, favoritist fanboy, but damn it, if Michael Jackson would just make me groove again, I’d let him babysit my future kids. This is the guy who once gave us 10-minute zombie music videos, single gloves and the “Moonwalker” movie, co-starring Joe Pesci. There was a time when he could do no wrong. Alas, those times are long gone now. Remember “Earth Song”? (I hope for your sake not.) Remember “You Are Not Alone,” with its Lisa Marie Presley music video and (supposedly) a camera shot of MJ’s junkage up his towel? Remember the roughly 85 compilation albums he’s put out since 1992? To think that I used to sing along to “Dangerous” back in third grade carpool.

Come on, you know that if Michael still had the magic you’d be one of those fans holding signs outside the Santa Barbara County Courthouse. It’s just that you know better: he sucks now. In truth, I’m not surprised that crazy devotees would rally behind the object of their obsession. I’d probably do the same for James Brown or George Jones or any of pop music’s cooler convicted felons. But who likes Michael Jackson anymore? What are people proving by loitering around a courthouse, waiting for that has-been weirdo to show up 30 minutes late? If you’re going to disregard legal justice in the name of celebrity and fandom, why not devote your services to R. Kelly, still awaiting trial for child pornography charges? At least he gave us “Ignition Remix.” You’ve got to ask yourself: what has Michael Jackson done for me lately?

Not a whole damn lot is the answer. Apparently the man’s been too busy dangling babies out of windows and having naughty slumber parties to write a halfway decent pop song. Come on, Michael, I’m not asking for a lot. It doesn’t have to be another “Wanna Be Startin’ Something”-I’d even settle for an imitation “Jam” (just leave out the Heavy D rap verse). But I think you’d find you’d have a much easier time through this whole ordeal if you’d just give the people something to care about. People will support anyone if they’ve got a song on the charts. Just check out illiterate thug 50 Cent-his posse shot someone in the leg in a public place, but he enjoys two top 10 singles. Getting out of jail free is easy, MJ; you’ve just gotta sing the right tune.

It’s hard when you realize you’ve finally crossed over into the realm of “addict.” Perhaps it comes one weekend afternoon when you find yourself burning to buy a Deep Purple album, even though you think “Smoke on the Water” is the dumbest song ever recorded. Or perhaps it comes on a Tuesday (that’s when the new releases come out!), when you’re flipping through the “new arrivals” rack and think, “Hey, I heard about these guys, it’s worth a shot,” only to sell it back three week later just to get your grubby hands on Spin’s latest favorite.

Then you’re stuck. You start collecting albums by genre, starting with “alt-country” and moving through “glam” and “post-hardcore” to “shoegazer.” (And let’s not forget “beard-folk!”) Soon you’re buying artists you never thought possible, like Thin Lizzy, Frank Sinatra and Rod Stewart. Country music is all of a sudden extremely appealing. Elvis Costello lyrics might as well be the wisdom of Confucius. There are small shrines in your apartment dedicated to Morrissey.

It wasn’t always this way. There was a time when buying an album was a special moment, a well-considered decision based on personal taste, your budget, and a vigorous mp3 listening process. Now you move CDs like stocks and bonds, acquiring huge amounts of music at a time in an effort to bolster your expanding knowledge. Food and personal hygiene become irrelevant. A $0.99 burrito from Taco Bell will tide you over while you spend the extra cash on that T. Rex album you’ve had your eye on. When you’re cooped up in your bedroom spinning your newest purchase, even Howard Hughes at his most reclusive had nothing on you.

There are gambling addicts, wine connoisseurs and Red Sox fans, but the music fanatic is a completely different species. It’s an intensely private hobby, requiring only a record player, a pair of headphones (optional) and a small but steady cash flow. I imagine there are some who live on the street with only their Discman as company, washing enough car windows every week to afford that rare Otis Redding live recording. And if you’ve got an iPod, well, it’s like the world’s never-ending crack rock, keeping you lifted for weeks on end.

“Then one day she turned on a New York radio station, couldn’t believe what she heard at all / She started dancin’ to that fine, fine music, you know her life was changed by rock ‘n’ roll.” Truer words were never spoken. Lou Reed had his own chemical dependencies to deal with, but he knew that even a few notes of guitar, a steady drum beat or a snarled vocal could get a person hooked for life. That’s what rock ‘n’ roll will do to you. It can be exhilarating and addictive and possibly bad for your health. But enough; I don’t want to write any more “from Underground”…

What: Lysistrata
Who: All Student Theater
When: Today and Saturday, 8:00 p.m.
Where: Brookings Quad, Beaumont Pavillion
How much: $5 in advance, $6 at the door

The SWA protesters aren’t the only ones pitching tents in the quad these days. Glance over at the stage, and you’re likely to see members of All Student Theater sporting their own, well, members. No need to be offended; it’s all a part of the group’s spring production, Greek comedian Aristophanes’ “Lysistrata.” The hilarious wartime sex romp has been underway since Wednesday, and this Friday and Saturday are your last opportunities to enjoy the show.

In Aristophanes’ original version, presented in 411 BC in Athens, the crafty and courageous title character devises an ingenious way to get the Athenians and Spartans to stop their perpetual warfare: a sex strike, with the women refusing the advances of their horny husbands. With the men properly sex starved and brandishing giant phalluses (hence the creative stage props), they are forced to try to reconcile their differences. It’s not as easy as it sounds, however, since the women turn out to be just as randy as their male counterparts.

Back in fifth century Greece, “Lysistrata” must have been truly shocking. After all, the Athenian statesman Pericles famously said that the proper honor for women was “to be least talked about by men, whether they are praising you or criticizing you.” By thrusting women into the forefront and putting their sexuality and power on display, Aristophanes was undoubtedly toying with social norms. But even today, with the advent of feminism, the play is still as funny and as pertinent as ever. The wartime setting, for example, will probably strike a chord with audience members. “A lot of associations will probably be made with the war in Iraq,” says director Aline Gray, “but I didn’t want to make that association. That’s why I set our version in 1916 France.”

Indeed, the setting is neither ancient Athens nor the present-day Middle East, but World War I-era France. The Athenians have become Frenchmen, the Spartans German soldiers. The costumes and accents reflect the new characterizations, but Gray says the script remains unchanged. “All the Greek names are still there,” she says. “And the dialogue is still much more conversational than poetic. I basically thought, what would people in 1916 do if they put on a production of ‘Lysistrata’?” And although, admittedly, “there was no such thing as feminism when Aristophanes wrote the play,” its central themes still ring true with a modern, feminist-friendly audience. “It’s true that now we have women do more than stay in the kitchen,” says Gray, “but I really liked the idea that one woman could change everything.”

Despite all its topical ideas, the “Lysistrata” remains, primarily, an uproarious time at the theater. Phallic jokes abound, and old ladies threaten to castrate shocked politicians. There’s also a particularly funny scene involving a flirtatious, teasing wife and her amorous husband, who just wants to get some action. Asked to sum up the play in three words, Gray responded that it was “Sexy, hilarious, relevant!” (It’s also worth mentioning that there’s a giant, penis-shaped fountain on the set.) So be sure to reward All Student Theater’s (ahem) hard work and come out to the quad, 8:00 p.m. Friday and Saturday, for a mere five dollars in advance, or six at the door. “Everyone’s welcome to bring their blankets and picnic,” urges Gray. Dick jokes and high culture rarely go so hand in hand.

The Decemberists
Picaresque

Final word: When they’re not too smart for their own good, they’re perfect.
Download these tracks: “The Engine Driver,” “We Both Go Down Together,” “The Bus Mall”

Picaresque means “dealing with sharp-witted vagabonds or rogues and their adventures.” No wonder the Decemberists picked such an adjective for their latest album. These quirky rhapsodies delight in stories of Spanish princesses, government spies and vengeful pirates. On “Picaresque,” they’re as playful as ever, led by bookwormy man-child Colin Meloy. This time they both indulge their literary fancies and rein things in for more concise pop songs. It’s an uneven record, but its high points are the Decemberists’ greatest yet.

“We Both Go Down Together,” for instance, is a three-minute love song about a man of “wealth and beauty” and his “tattoo’d tramp” lover. Over Petra Haden’s violin work, Meloy caps off a whole short story’s worth of character development with the simple, beautiful chorus “O, my love, my love!” Then there’s the sublime “Engine Driver,” a down-tempo lover’s plea that sees Meloy and a female vocalist harmonizing over the refrain “And if you don’t love me let me go.” The melody, bolstered by tasteful accordion, fits the lament perfectly.

It’s at moments like these, when Meloy inhabits a character like he’s really lived it, that a true emotional connection is made. “The Bus Mall” is a shining example of this, a tribute to a male prostitute. We don’t believe for a second that Meloy ever whored himself, but lines like “We huddled close in the bus stop enclosure, enfolding / Our hands tightly holding” give the song a stirring, intimate quality.

Not so with some of the album’s more extravagant tunes. Opener “The Infanta” is a typical thesaurus piece full of words like “folderal” and “palanquin.” Similarly, “The Mariner’s Revenge Song” is a tedious, nine-minute excursion, a Melville-meets-Poe mashup of whaling and murder. Right now, the Decemberists remain best suited for English grad students. With a little editing, though, they could be as enjoyable as one of Meloy’s obvious favorites, the Smiths. They’re on their way to a perfect mix of acumen and accessibility.

Kasabian
Kasabian

Final word: A good idea quickly tires on the dancefloor.
Download these tracks: “Club Foot,” “Reason is Treason”

One look at Britain’s Kasabian, with their scruffy hair and tight-fitting jackets, and you’re thinking, “Hello, newest Strokes/Interpol/Franz Ferdinand hopefuls.” Amazingly, though, Kasabian (who took their name from Charles Manson’s getaway driver) mine a retro trend that not many have attempted. While other bands look to the ’70s for garage rock and post-punk influences, Kasabian are content with the so-called “baggy” scene of late-’80s England, when bands like the Happy Mondays and Primal Scream married Ecstasy-fueled guitar rock with dance-floor beats. When they’re good, they’re groovy, with enough cocksure swagger and sweaty-but-stoic cool to keep the party going, but Kasabian just don’t have the mojo to keep it up.

Things are a bit monotonous but still fun during the opening moments of the album. “Club Foot” emerges from a synthy intro into a hard-hitting bass line, and the band follows suit. Kasabian use typical rock instruments-guitar, bass, drums-but then augment them with synthesizers and programming for a trip-hoppy vibe. Lead singer Tom Meighan has an urgent but unoriginal vocal style, and the rest of the band often chimes in with repetitive chants, reinforcing the trancy feel. It’s a potent radio single formula, and at least one commercial has already picked up “Club Foot.”

Only three songs into “Kasabian,” though, and the band starts running out of steam. “I.D.,” “L.S.F.” and “Running Battle” are dull and meandering, sounding more like Radiohead outtakes circa “Amnesiac” than actual songs. The rest of the album is a loose mess, with no solid tracks to anchor it down. The closing cut “U Boat” is another Radiohead rip-off and even segues into a reprise of track three, “Reason is Treason.” Talk about a lack of ideas. It’s a shame, because Kasabian have the look and the attitude to live up to their “future of rock ‘n’ roll” rhetoric. With a few more original ideas, they could really cross the pond in a big way.