Three of the five original members of the Velvet Underground convened for a spur of the moment concert in Paris in 1972; the resulting performance has surfaced over the years as a legendary bootleg, now finally repackaged as an official release. Like with most bootlegs, your reaction to the album depends on just how much of a fan you are. The sound here is thin with occasional feedback squalls and microphone clunks, pretty much just a board tape, actually. Not a lot of banter going on between these three gloomy Guses, either; Reed and Cale speak rarely, Nico not at all. All three take turns singing and strumming: Cale and Reed back each other up, both chip in behind Nico, although most of the interplay is left to Cale, who sprinkles tasteful piano and viola parts throughout. VU classics like "Heroin" and "Black Angels’ Death Song" are performed with a kind of grim stateliness, while future solo material, like Reed’s "Wild Child," hurtles along on the acoustic guitar, lyrics practically spat out of Reed’s mouth. Cale’s turn comes with the improbably titled "Biggest, Loudest, Hairiest Group of All"; Nico is, well, Nico, and if her droning harmonium and equally droning voice quench some kind of inner need within you then this may very well be the perfect post-holiday gift to yourself. Best moment though, is Reed introducing "Waiting for the Man" as a song about a drug deal (thanks for the heads up, Lou!)

YELLO
The Eye
(Vertigo/Vivendi Universal)
***

After spending nearly a quarter of a century creating their very own Dadaistic universe of sound, the most successful electro hipsters to ever emerge out of Switzerland appear to be in danger of getting lost on their own roadmap.

On their twelfth album, Yello hesitate with one foot on the dance floor and with the other in the bar–drink firmly in hand and mesmerized by yet another femme fatale. Her name is Jade Davies–alias Heidi Pfau–the Austro-Bermudan one-time vocalist of the little known outfit Unique II. Dieter encountered her in a Viennese lounge and was so taken by the experience that he had Boris compose some music especially for her. Or so it seems.

Jade pairs Madonna’s tonsils with Pink’s delivery, and her contributions take up enough space to leave one wondering whose platter this really is. Luckily, there are sufficient bits of samba, electro, and techno present here to leave most anyone "feeling like a Buddha/feeling very, very high," indeed.

Yes, whether lollygagging in Rick’s Café, or attempting to penetrate the jungle in search of those monks who are trying to drum themselves invisible, the Yello mechanism keeps ticking along in circles.

MADRID
Warm Waters
(Aporia)
****

When I opened my eyes I was lying on a beach on a distant planet. The sky was an ebony-black speckled with the dust of foreign stars, the sea water a deep sapphire blue, and the sand a pristine sparkle of white. Music was playing in the wind–strange lulling melodies floating like the smell of the ocean, refreshing and cool. My toes were gently caressed by the backwash of warm foamy waves, and I followed the strange vibrations of the sound, my ears stuck in a trance. The music was Madrid’s Warm Waters, electro-ambient-pop eerily reminiscent of early Air with a twist, à la Boards of Canada. I stayed there for what seemed like hours, swaying in the sugar-coated textures of the keys, the hushed and whispered vocals, the finger-picked acoustic guitars. A bug-eyed waiter approached silently to offer me a multi-coloured drink in an asymmetrical glass, reassuring me that it was just a dream. I didn’t want to leave. The music swelled as my bug-eyed friend slowly turned up the volume by nodding his head. He simply said, "Relax. Stay as long as you want. This is just the soundtrack to a dream." I took a sip and floated away into Warm Waters.

CATCH 22
Dinosaur Sounds
(Victory Records)
***

Anyone who said ska was dead didn’t account for Catch 22. The New Jersey punk-ska combo, who sound like a watered-down version of Less Than Jake, are still skanking out the horn-laden tunes with their latest record Dinosaur Sounds. Sadly, their music is accurately described by their album title: old, out-dated ska music, punctuated with an occasional catchy lick.

A few solid tracks, like "Rocky," and "Good Times," make Dinosaur Sounds a worthwhile listen. But when the rest of the album sounds like a miserable journey through a world where the treble and bass levels have been irreparably messed with, Catch 22’s fourth album comes off as nothing more than the ramblings of a nearly extinct Skasaurus Rex.

WHITE COWBELL OKLAHOMA
Cencerro Blanco
(Slick Monkey)
***1/3

They’ve got 10 members–with names like Clem, Bubba, Mudflap, and Chainsaw Charlie–they play very tongue-in-cheek Southern fried rock, dress like the Village People on Dukes of Hazzard, and only do interviews in character. That’s White Cowbell Oklahoma’s big joke, and, hell, if you’re gonna go where Skynyrd, The Allmans, and 38-Special have gone before, you sure as dog shit need a sense of humour. Particularly if you’re from–no kidding–Toronto. Although the group, known for fire-and nudity-filled stage shows, are probably better live entertainers than studio musicians, they pull off the ’70s boogie-van sound with style, if not grace. Once you get past the annoying intro skit, Blanco Cencerro (Spanish for "White Cowbell") is a raucous good time. Goofy ZZ-Top-style riffage, honky-tonk piano, a cowbell (naturally), and back-up vocals aplenty make you wanna blow the speakers on a Trans-Am...or at least sing-along, with a bottle of Bud in your hand. At best, ironic songs like "Shot a Gamblin’ Man," "Put The South In Your Mouth," "Southern Grace," and "Black Mountain Top (Whiskey Woman)" are unabashed party anthems. At worst, "San Antone" and "Packin’ My Bags" drag out old clichés without doing much that’s clever with them. After all, even the most loyal devotees of white-trash style can only take so much "oh yeah" and "c’mon, baby." Does White Oklahoma need more Cowbell? Not at all.

ZEBRAHEAD
MFZB
(Egg)
**1/2

Trying to figure out whether this is an enjoyable album is about as difficult as figuring out what to wear to an outdoor hockey game in the dead of winter. Whether or not you’re going to like it is up to you. If you’re into pop punk at it’s fastest pace, then MFZB may keep you as warm as a pair of mukluks. But I’m still sooo cold! Zebrahead seems to use the same chord progressions and licks in every song. Indeed, the melting pot of musical influences we witnessed in the previous two albums is no longer present. There are no jazz or funk-bass rhythms, disco-inspired tracks, or fast paced solos. Seems MFZB have totally abandoned originality and put together an ordinary, meaningless album. But as far as pop punk goes... it’s worth a trip to the zoo. You probably won’t stay too long, however, on account of not wanting to get your mukluks knee deep in zebra poop.