It is too soon to see if it will be true of me, but this is the kind of book that changes lives. In my pursuit of literature thusfar, I have found nothing else like it. The characters are real, the writing effective, the story compelling, and the sociological context heartbreaking. I was well aware of the circumstances of the depression and the great migration from the dust bowl on an intellectual level, but Steinbeck’s art makes me understand it in a much more visceral manner.

Although some are more fleshed out than others, none of the Joads seem like stock characters. I am far removed from their experiences, but Grampa’s stubbornness, Uncle John’s psychological issues, and Ma’s determination are entirely familiar. The only characters with whom the reader cannot sympathize are the sheriffs and city folk, and even their actions in their own self-interest are understandable.

Steinbeck is not prone to florid prose; most of the book is written in language that would not be overly difficult for his barely literate characters to understand. I do not know whether or not this is intentional. Unless I am missing them, Steinbeck does not make much use of literary devices, but simply tells the story. The exception, the title’s allusion to the Battle Hymn of the Republic and, through it, to Revelation, is quite clear to even the casual reader. In between those chapters of the novel relating the saga of the Joads and their acquaintances are short vignettes showing a different or wider perspective on the phenomenon, and while the story could have stood on its own, I find them very helpful in drawing the reader into the totality of the experience. I generally am annoyed when an author attempts to write out dialogue to mimic the accent of the speakers, but in this case it draws a stark contrast between the rural sharecroppers and many of the people that they meet.

The story of the Joads is, if the foreword to my edition of the book is accurate, based on the lives of real migrants with whom Steinbeck lived while doing research for the book. Thus, it is no surprise that their sad lives are so very human. Ultimately their story differs only in the details from those of their many fellow travelers and the “little folk” of all times and places. The way the novel ends with a climactic moment while leaving the entire story unresolved, just like the underlying realities of the Okies, is a stroke of genius.

The foreword to my edition was written in the midst of a deep recession, when the rich continued to enhance their wealth and everyone else suffered the cruel bludgeoning of the Invisible Hand. He wisely pointed out the similarities between his time and the setting of the novel, but what was true then is moreso today. Steinbeck seemed to be optimistic that in the near future a change would be a-comin’, and the oppressed of the world would rise up against their oppressors. While there has certainly been progress and few people in the United States are literally starving in today’s weak economy, I must imagine that he would be rather disappointed.

Lawrence writes beautifully; that I think no one can dispute. His style and character portrayals maintained my interest in the absence of any significant plot, which is no small task. There is something about these characters, their experiences and personalities, that does not ring true to anything I have seen in my own life. I recognize the son’s desire to make his mother proud and happy. I have seen the mother wanting the best for her son, fearing that his own decisions will never lead him there, and fighting against losing her centrality in his life. Paul’s relationships with Miriam and Clara, however, make little sense to me. How could a person have such a close intellectual and sexual relationship with someone, yet be unable to find any love or empathy for them? How could a person so easily vacillate between infatuation and disgust? The person of Miriam is equally foreign to me. Since the novel is apparently nearly autobiographical I must assume that people of this nature exist, but it does not provide a great deal of illumination of my own life.

The banjo and bass driven bluegrass tune “Travelin’ Prayer” seems an odd choice for a pop pianist to open his album with, but it works fairly well even with the tempo making the lyrics difficult to understand. The autobiographical “Piano Man” sounds like a cliche today, but only because it has been played so much. The descending harmony and low-key accordion accompaniment are a nice hook, but it is the sad lyrics about people drinking away their sorrows and disappointments to the sound of Billy’s piano are what make this song a classic.

A second thinly-veiled autobiographical song on the same album, “The Ballad Of Billy The Kid”, seems to be an absurd display of hubris, but the song is so good that this can be forgiven. The closer, “Captain Jack”, is one of the finest descriptions of teenage ennui ever written.

The remaining six tracks also contain insightful lyrics and impressive songcraft, although several of them sound rather dated. A fine slice of the poppier side of pop-rock.

Anthony Gomes has a great soulful voice and some impressive guitar chops. On this debut album he and his band swing through some serious boogie blues. The title of the second track, “Gonna Have A Party” pretty much sums it up. This is music to move to, and even on the slower tracks the rhythm should get any fan of modern electric blues out of their seat. The only exceptions are the delta-esque “Hard Year For The Blues” and “Monday Kinda Tuesday”, which are made by their lyrics and Gomes’s delivery.

AC/DC figured out the magic formula a long time ago. Phil Rudd keeps time. Cliff Williams plays pulsating eighth notes on the root of the chord. Malcolm Young plays great heavy guitar riffs with plenty of space. Angus kicks in a solo that is short enough to keep the attention of pop music fans. Brian Johnson yelps his way through lyrics about rock & roll with a big sing-along chorus. The guitars are produced like a metal album while everything else has a poppy sheen.

It’s a great formula, and when you have such a thing there is not much reason to change it. A formula can get overworked and bland, and it did for this band on several albums in the 90s. So what does AC/DC do? Wait 8 years, then come back with exactly the same formula but a new sense of energy and songcraft. Who cares that these tracks are all basically the same song with varying tempos and different riffs? They all rock as hard as anything the band ever put out.

Sure, they throw in some changes like Brian actually trying to sing and Angus playing with a slide, but those are only dressing. The body of the song is still the same old AC/DC. In a time when innovation is heralded at any cost, I applaud AC/DC for continuing to make the same great music they’ve been doing for 30 years.

The departure of guitarist/vocalist Kalnoky works out for the better, although the vocals remain the weakest part of this band. The horns are tight and the rhythm section good for the genre, but the melodies, lyrics, and vocal delivery still could be improved. Honestly, the best track on the album is the 18 second fanfare-ish “Intro”. The cover of folk song “Wreck Of The Sloop John B.” is also entertaining. The attempts at a ballad in the beginning of “Bloomfield Ave.” and the title track fail spectacularly because they put the spotlight on the band’s big weakness.

Let’s be perfectly clear about what I am reviewing here. This is not a Guns N’ Roses album, any more than It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere, Izzy Stradlin & The Ju Ju Hounds, or Contraband was. Axl may have legal rights to the name, but he should have credited this to “Rose N’ Hired Guns”.

In spite of my bitterness over the name and Axl’s antics and the ridicule Rose has faced over the decade in which this album was in production, I had some high hopes. A friend of mine who is also a long time fan praised the album extensively, so I checked it out. Unfortunately, it did not meet those expectations.

The complex arrangements, crushing guitars, gentle piano leads, and wailing remain from previous records, and this is good. Now, however, they are mixed with a techno drumbeat in nearly every track, awful synthesized sound effects, and hip-hop style sampling. Every track has some great parts, but very few are not marred by serious defects. In particular, at least half of the tracks have intros that make me wince.

The piano-driven ballads with obligatory slices of heavy rock thrown in (“Street Of Dreams” and “This I Love”) work best. The solo on “This I Love” even sounds like something Slash might have played. “Prostitute” is also very Use Your Illusion like if you can ignore the drumming. The other ballad, “Sorry”, uses some sort of terrible ambient music as accompaniment.

There are also some decent rockers, including the title track, “Catcher In The Rye”, “Better”, and “Scraped”. None of these, however, has anything compelling me to listen to them again. “Shackler’s Revenge” goes too far over the line into industrial to be redeemed by a decent guitar solo, and the main bodies of “There Was A Time”, “I. R. S.”, and “Riad N’ The Bedouins” are not interesting enough to make up for their introductions.

“If The World” and “Madagascar” actually have good introductions, featuring Spanish guitar on the former and horns in the latter, but then quickly fall into the same techno trap.

I get it. Rose wants to be thought of as an artist, not just a rocker. I just can’t find this enjoyable. If you tore apart the best ideas from these songs and reduced them to what they probably were before 15 years of tinkering, you would probably have some pretty good material. I think the endless tinkering buried the rock & roll behind layers of crap.

Although I was a devoted fan of the ska-punk scene in the late 90s, I could never get into this album. I think the biggest problem is that Kalnoky’s vocals are simply terrible. Beyond this, the entire album sounds very amateurish. It is possible to stick to punk’s do-it-yourself ethos without sounding terrible.

There are a few good points, notably the bass lead on “Walking Away” and the jam at the end of “12341234” in which the band members introduce themselves and give shout outs. It does not, however, redeem this CD from being borderline bad.

Any novel about a defendant in the Moscow Show Trials would be interesting based on the unusual setting alone. What makes Darkness At Noon fantastic, however, is the characterization and attention to detail. The way Koestler describes Rubashov’s pacing, communication, and physical tics puts the reader in the mindset of a prisoner nervously awaiting the inevitable sentence. The conflicts in Rubashov’s mind about his past treatment of Richard, Little Loewy, and Arlova and the ethics of revolution and government make him real. The repeated image of the less sun-damaged rectangles where the picture of the Old Guard had hung before they were renounced as traitors symbolizes the bleakness of dissent against autocracy more sharply than anything in Orwell’s literature. Highly recommended for anyone interested in the history of the 20th century or human nature.

There have been jam bands before, but the sound on Blues Traveler’s debut album is fresh and invigorating. The music is not particularly bluesy, but it does borrow the improvisation over a fixed form style of modern blues. John Popper’s harmonica playing is excellent, and brings the oft-maligned instrument further into the pop spotlight than it has been since Chicago blues dominated the charts. His singing is not fantastic, but he is full of energy. His choice of melody is sometimes questionable, especially on the opening “But Anyway”, where that repeated line is repeated irritatingly. Kinchla, Sheehan, and Hill lay down some serious rhythm tracks and acquit themselves nicely in their few lead roles as well. The album’s best moment is on “100 Years”, where a soprano saxophone and background vocalist fill out the sound.