A rundown of the top box sets in rock, pop and country, arranged in descending order of importance.
“The Complete Hank Williams” (Mercury). “Nobody had a talent for making suffering enjoyable like Hank Williams.” So says Kris Kristofferson in the liner notes to this richly detailed and richly deserved survey of the country legend’s pitifully brief but enormously profound career. It’s doubtful Kristofferson would have thought the same if he had been able to hear the entire contents of “Complete,” which consists of 10 CDs chronicling not only Williams’ official recordings, but almost unbearably plaintive solo demos. Also included is an apology to his fans Williams recorded a year before his death. In it, the bed-ridden singer stoically discusses the debilitating spinal pain that led him to cancel a live appearance in Washington, D.C. Even as he scored hit after hit, Williams was numbing himself with booze and pain killers. His personal life a shambles, the singer died in the back seat of a Cadillac on the way to another gig. He was 29. “Complete” isn’t just a box of essential music, it’s a monument to an American tragedy.
“Nuggets: Original Artyfacts From the First Psychedelic Era, 1965-1968” (Rhino). It would be difficult to improve upon the end-to-end thrills provided by the original “Nuggets” double-album, compiled in 1972 from various one-hit garage bands of the ’60s by future Patti Smith guitarist Lenny Kaye, and this four-CD box set isn’t up to the task. Few of the 91 additional songs match the fist-to-the-face impact of the Kaye edition, reprised on disc one: the Standells’ “Dirty Water,” the Seeds’ “Pushin’ Too Hard,” the Shadows of Knight’s “Oh Yeah.” These tracks are the very definition of what rock ‘n’ roll is, was and forever shall be. But though the new musical revelations, such as Richard & the Young Lions’ “Open Up Your Door,” are few, the scholarship of the expanded liner notes is impressive–correcting some of the sketchy data in Kaye’s original essay and adding a trove of anecdotes from some of rock’s long-forgotten wild men.
Bruce Springsteen, “Tracks” (Columbia). For most artists, purging themselves of 66 rare or previously unreleased songs on a four-CD box set would be the musical equivalent of a junk sale. But because he put out a mere 11 studio albums in the last 25 years, Springsteen left plenty of gold in his private archives. “Tracks” mines much of the best of it, though fanatics are sure to lament the exclusion of crucial cuts such as “The Fever” and “Because the Night.” Nonetheless, what’s here is unassailable. From his solo audition under the auspices of the legendary talent scout John Hammond through his prolific 1978-84 writing period when he was consistently discarding marvelous tracks such as “Roulette,” “This Hard Land” and “Be True” because they didn’t quite fit with the concept albums he was working on at the time, the first three discs contain the core of three good-to-great albums. Disc four is more problematic, consisting entirely of ’90s outtakes that with rare exceptions strike a more contemplative mood, a la the Grammy-winning “Streets of Philadelphia.” Though a long way from the bold arena-rock of the glory days, the concise, understated beauty of these newer songs make a quiet case for Springsteen as the best singer-songwriter of the ’90s.
John Lennon, “The John Lennon Anthology” (Capitol). This four-CD retrospective of previously unreleased material is, musically at least, not the best introduction to Lennon the artist. But it may well be the single most compelling portrait of Lennon the man. The liner-note essay by Yoko Ono dishes like nobody’s business; she offers not only insight into her late husband’s art and life, she addresses matters such as their infamous early ’70s breakup with disarming bluntness. Not all of the music is as revelatory; it includes everything from raw demos and studio banter (including a priceless exchange between the singer and legendary producer-megalomaniac Phil Spector) to studio outtakes only marginally different from previously released album tracks. But Lennon’s willingness to lay bare his emotions is fascinating to hear unfold, whether exorcising his post-Beatles demons, pouring out his anguish over his volatile relationship with Ono, tending tenderly to his son Sean, or viciously satirizing Bob Dylan and Paul McCartney. Lennon is presented not as a rock icon or a genius, but as a man who never turned back from the truth, no matter much it hurt himself or others.
Genesis, “Archive 1967-75” (Atlantic). Half of this four-disc box, consisting largely of unreleased or hard-to-find recordings, is devoted to a live performance of “The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway” by Genesis’ quintessential lineup: singer Peter Gabriel, guitarist Steve Hackett, keyboardist Tony Banks, bassist Michael Rutherford and drummer Phil Collins. Though fans are grousing that this 1975 recording was heavily doctored to meet technical standards, it remains a mind-blowingly original work, with its literary ambitions, fanciful lyrical and musical flights, and grandly sculpted arrangements.
Frank Sinatra, “The Complete Reprise Studio Recordings” (Reprise). Here’s one for hard-core fans with a couple of hundred bucks to blow, drawn from Sinatra’s most musically erratic era. This 20-disc collection spans the September of Sinatra’s years (1960-88), and it is as much about the decline of his voice as it is about the enduring worth of his undeniable artistry. At his peak, Sinatra was the greatest interpretive singer of his time, but with the onslaught of rock ‘n’ roll, he was reduced to grappling for chart space in not always flattering fashion. Nonetheless, Sinatra’s ineffable mixture of machismo and elegance, swagger and melancholy, was intact to the very end. Those less fanatical about owning every last note he sang–brilliant, sad or indifferent–can easily settle for the earlier, four-CD “Reprise Collection.”
“Guilty: 30 Years of Randy Newman” (Rhino). “Golden Gridiron Boy,” the earliest song on this four-CD set, was recorded in 1962, long before Randy Newman was an established songwriter. “In his football uniform he looks 10 feet tall,” it begins, “All the girls run after him, and my girl’s in front of ’em all.” Clearly, somebody should have seen it coming: Here is a career based on a nearly pathological distrust of humankind’s ability to do the right thing. With a drawling, oafish voice and a sense of humor that could kindly be described as perverse, Newman is the cult artist supreme. For those who love his brilliant eye for the telling–and frequently hilarious–detail, his Fats Domino piano voicings and idiosyncratic orchestrations, the four-disc “Guilty” has its charms: a healthy overview of key album tracks (though no “Baltimore”), a dose of unreleased, highly uneven oddities; and an entire disc devoted to his well-regarded film scores (“Toy Story,” “Ragtime,” “The Natural”). But the early albums, from “12 Songs” to “Good Old Boys,” should be heard in their entirety, and are the best place for the Newman neophyte to start.
“The Look of Love: The Burt Bacharach Collection” (Rhino). Fortunately, listeners are spared having to hear the voice-challenged Bacharach croak, er, croon. Instead, we get three CDs’ worth of Bacharach’s compositions as sung by some of the greatest vocalists of our time: Dionne Warwick, Jerry Butler, the Drifters, Dusty Springfield, Jackie DeShannon. And, yes, Tom Jones. Bacharach, with lyricist Hal David, specialized in tricky time signatures, complex melodies and profoundly adult perspectives on romantic travail. Even as the duo’s sophisticated approach harked back to Rodgers and Hart or Cole Porter, their 3 1/2-minute mini-symphonies were duking it out with The Beatles and the Stones at the top of the pop charts in the ’60s. Butler’s “Make It Easy on Yourself,” Warwick’s “Walk on By” and Springfield’s “The Look of Love” are just a few of the dozens of classics included. Unfortunately, Bacharach was unable to sustain that level of excellence in subsequent decades, and the third disc is loaded with the schmaltz he co-wrote with his then-wife, Carol Bayer Sager (“Arthur’s Theme,” “That’s What Friends are For”). But with Bacharach’s recent discovery by a new generation of songwriters, his career–even at age 70–appears far from over. The final track is a recent collaboration with Elvis Costello, “God Give Me Strength,” that’s worthy of his ’60s work.
Zombies, “Zombie Heaven” (Big Beat import). Though mostly remembered for a handful of ’60s hits–“Time of the Season,” “Tell Her No,” “She’s Not There”–the Zombies were among the best of the British Invasion groups. Unusually adept instrumentalists, the Zombies stood apart from their peers by writing richly atmospheric tunes based on unconventional chords, harmonies and time signatures; in other words, they were an experimental band working within the confines of the three-minute pop song. If that sounds at all intriguing, you won’t be disappointed in this four-CD box, which includes their classic “Odessey & Oracle” album in its entirety.
Bongwater, “Box of Bongwater” (Shimmy Disc). “All your work is derogatory,” Bongwater’s Ann Magnuson chirps by way of self-criticism on “Joy Ride,” one of 91 tracks collected on this comprehensive four-CD set spanning the avant-rock duo’s lifespan, 1987-91. The worldview shared by Magnuson and her collaborator, Kramer, was indeed bleak, but it was cushioned by outrageous–and frequently dead-on–humor and mind-bending music. With Magnuson’s sing-speak social satire underpinned by Kramer’s dense, psychedelic soundscapes, the duo gleefully disemboweled the music they grew up on (Moody Blues, Led Zeppelin, Beatles), skewered self-important icons from Frank Sinatra to David Byrne and, in general, let their visionary skepticism be their guide as they stomped merrily through the pop-culture pumpkin patch. But Bongwater’s legacy would have been better served with a collection half as long.
“Have a Nice Decade: The ’70s Pop Culture Box” (Rhino). If you believe the ’70s were the “I’m-Jenny, fly-me” era, when kitsch and cocaine kicks reigned supreme, than this seven-CD package is for you. Though the majesty of such major artists as Al Green, Isaac Hayes and Stevie Wonder is acknowledged, they share space with the decade’s one-hit wonders and novelties: Ray Stevens’ “The Streak,” Lobo’s “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo,” “Disco Duck,” “The Bertha Butt Boogie Part I” (You mean there was a Part II?). Though the ’70s harbored tremendous creativity–Patti Smith, Pere Ubu, Brian Eno, Can, the Clash, Black Sabbath, Hawkwind, the Ramones, Television, Randy Newman, King Crimson, Richard and Linda Thompson, David Bowie, Roxy Music–the creators of this box have chosen to ignore those substantial artists and countless others in the name of perpetuating the myth of disposable silliness.
