By Anthony Benigno

As hip-hop gets more and more ornery, there’s something refreshingly old-school about three of the greats working their magic over bare-bones beats. “Wu-Massacre” isn’t a proper Wu-Tang record, but it’s almost better that way; the Clan’s troubled ’07 album “8 Diagrams” faltered amongst reports of clashing egos, so having just Method Man, Ghostface and Raekwon show up on “Wu-Massacre” means less cooks in the stew, which translates to a much more efficient album.

And clocking in at a half-hour, “Wu-Massacre” is nothing if not efficient. The verses are fast and furious, the beats are sparse and vicious, and familiar guest stars (the Wu’s Inspectah Deck and a bizarro cameo from comedian Tracy Morgan) pop up for some great cameos. Hip-hop fans who grew up in the Auto-Tune era are likely to hate “Wu-Massacre,” which plays out a lot more like a ‘90s rap record than one from the 2000s. There are a few samples here and there – the MJ one on “Our Dreams” is particularly effective – but that’s about as gimmicky as it gets.

Instead, the album is anchored in Meth, Ghost and Rae’s lyricism, which hasn’t diminished a bit. The guys spin B.I.G.-esque yarns on “Miranda” and “Pimpin’ Chipp,” and the finale “It’s That Wu Shit” is a great throwback gem. It’d be a lie to say the whole thing doesn’t seem a bit outdated as rap moves further and further away from the gangsta trend, but that doesn’t diminish the precision with which the guys go about their business. The time for an album like “Wu-Massacre” may have come and gone, but it’s still pretty nice to have it all the same.

By Anthony Benigno

Like any punk band worth their salt, the Dropkick Murphys live are loud, rude, and crude, which makes for great mosh pit antics but has the unfortunate effect of drowning out their (well-constructed) music in sound and fury. So the most remarkable thing about their live record, “Live on Lansdowne, Boston MA,” right off the bat, is how fantastic the whole thing sounds. The production on the album is phenomenal; the songs sound rawer and rock harder than they do on the studio record, yet listening to them is a much softer experience than if you were actually at the show.

Recorded during their six-day, seven-show stand in Beantown on the week of St. Paddy’s Day 2009, “Live on Lansdowne” captures the Murphys at their most powerful. The track list favors the songs over band-audience banter, so it’s tough to get a sense of the group’s fabled camaraderie with its fans. An easy mistake to forgive here, since the album is a catchy listen all the same.

There are a few things to nitpick at. Sometimes the mix exaggerates the Murphys’ Celtic accoutrements over the rock n’ roll ones (Tim Brennan’s guitar gets shafted early and often by the tin whistle and pipes), which doesn’t work as well as you might expect. The accordion on “The State of Massachusetts” is jacked up to 11, which makes the song sound more like a pirate jig than the welfare-anthem it happens to be.

Luckily, there’s little time to dwell on the record’s faults, since the Murphys are barely out of one song before they blast into the next. Fan favorites like “The Dirty Glass,” “Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya” (the heaviest thing here) and “Captain Kelly’s Kitchen” sound great, and singer Al Barr’s craggy voice sounds full and powerful on the album’s best track, “Bastards on Parade.” The whole thing is a ride worth taking despite its polarizing heaviness – the album barrels along its 20-track length with no respite for the weary but is accessible enough for non-fans as well. By the time hell breaks loose on the finale “I’m Shipping Up to Boston,” you’ll either be begging for mercy or a bona fide believer.

A couple of weeks ago I saw the Dropkick Murphys in New Jersey. It was my fifth time seeing them in three years, and despite a revamped setlist and an increasingly impressive set design, the experience remained basically the same: everyone in the place knew the words to every single song the boys sang, fans jumped onstage at various points in the show to fraternize with the group, singer/bassist Ken Casey posed for iPhone photos at the end, and lead singer Al Barr took the time to yell at a guard for manhandling an errant crowd-surfer, only to later reach out mid-song and shake the guy’s hand by way of a man-to-man truce.

Direct interaction with the crowd? A singer yelling “hey, Glasses! Let go of the kid!!!”? People literally piling up onstage alongside the band for the grand finale?

Try seeing something like that at a Britney Spears show.

Call it the Cult Band Phenomenon. You take a group without a big mainstream following. Maybe they’ve got a decent hit or two; maybe their song was used in a movie or in Madden 07 or something like that. Whatever the case, they’re well-known enough that you can hum their signature tune and people will have heard of it (but probably not the band). But for the most part, these bands’ fandom spreads by word of mouth. Groups like the Dillinger Escape Plan, the Gaslight Anthem, the Script, Theory of a Deadman, and a whole lot of others I can’t name off the top of my head.

Ever hear of them? Chances are, no. Every so often, a cult band makes it big, like Phish or the Grateful Dead. But for the most part, they keep bubbling just below the radar. The Murphys, for example, tour almost nonstop and maintain a fantastic, almost co-dependent relationship with their fans to keep themselves relevant. Their last studio album came out two and a half years ago (although they did just put out a hell of a live album).

They may never fill up Madison Square Garden on their own, but the news of another show couldn’t be better for the fans. Every time I want to see U2 or Springsteen, it runs me an arm and a leg. When the Murphys come to town, it costs all of 30 bucks, give or take, to go to the show. And I’d say I like all three of those acts more or less equally, so in essence I get to see one of my three favorite bands for roughly one-third the cost of another.

Besides the fact that it’s easier on your wallet, as a fan of a cult band you always know you’re in for a good experience with the crowd. No one’s there for the pedigree, of being able to say “I saw So-and-So!” Everyone there either loves the band or was sold on the idea by a friend, so they really get into it. If the band in question has a heavier sound, there’s a lot of male bonding going on, too. You’ll get punched in the face by some 200-lb drunk guy and be doing one of those plastered, back-and-forth sways with him not ten minutes later once your favorite song comes on. Come to think of it, you might get the same experience with a woman as well. And for the most part, the venues are intimate, so there aren’t really any bad seats in the house.

At a Big Band show, even if you’re on the floor, the whole thing is so regulated and controlled there’s barely any spontaneity, even from the band. The setlists are uniform; a parade of hits one after the other. The best thing about cult band concerts is that these guys have the freedom to be loose and random with their shows. There’s no pressure to play the hits, because everyone there knows them already. You’ll almost always come away with an interesting story from a cult band show. And if you happen to catch one of those elbows to the head and take a nasty spill, everyone around you will literally stop what they’re doing and hoist you up off the ground. It’s incredible.

They do it because you’re one of the guys. You’re on the bandwagon, You’ve drank the Kool-Aid. Together, you’re all practically with the band.

Everyone wins.

By Anthony Benigno

Three albums into their career and a lot of people still aren’t sure what exactly Gorillaz are. They should just be the guys who wrote “Feel Good, Inc.”…but they’re cartoons and therefore can’t really write anything. It’s possible that they’re just Damon Albarn’s pipe dream-version of a side project, but they’re getting to be really good songwriters and musicians, so it’d be stupid to write them off that quickly. The only other possibility is that they are actual gorillas, but that’s a stretch.

Whatever they are, Albarn’s Gorillaz are still going strong nine years into the proceedings. Their third album, Plastic Beach, is, much like their previous two (Gorillaz in 2001 and Demon Days in 2005), a crazy-ass hodgepodge of musical styles that sometimes soars, sometimes sinks, but is, for better or worse, unlike anything else out there.

The boys are starting to get some clout, too, judging by the amount of guest stars on the record. Mos Def and Bobby Womack (whoa!) elevate the oddball single “Stylo” to greatness, and Snoop Dogg delivers a dizzying rhyme on “Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach.” Even Mick Jones from the Clash stops by on the title track.

Sometimes the whirlwind of synths and strings and Lord knows what else does get tiring, and at 16 tracks, Plastic Beach could have benefitted from some editing. In fact, there’s some kind of enviro-friendly parable/concept album in here somewhere, but good luck deciphering the whole thing through the layers and layers of effects.

But the band is at its best when they turn things down. The breeziest, saddest and possibly the best track on the album is “On Melancholy Hill,” a lonely little heartbreak ditty with distorted vocals and a sparse, boppy synth line. As Albarn (or 2D, or Murdoc, or whoever) sings “well you can’t get what you want, but you can get me”, it’s a sentiment that every lonely heart romantic can relate to.

Those Gorillaz! They’re just like us after all.

Life after fart jokes has been a bit of a rough one for Tom DeLonge; his second band Angels & Airwaves launched in 2007 with lots of fanfare (DeLonge predicted they would change rock n’ roll forever) but mixed results. Despite a minor hit or two, the grandiose-sounding group never found the same success as Blink-182 did. However, you’ve got to give DeLonge credit: now three albums in, it’s clear his Angels & Airwaves aren’t just a one-and-done side-project; they’re the real thing, at least in principle. He’s committed to keeping them going.

And Love, the band’s third outing, is a big step forward for them. For the first time, A&A don’t sound like they’re trying to be U2; instead they sound like a group with a style all their own. All of the songs on Love are immaculately structured; the production this time around is airtight, and the album flows together very nicely. If radio stations ever get a hold of the rather lovely “Shove,” then who knows? DeLonge’s boys might just have a chart-topper on their hands.

The problem, as it has always been, is that the guys still take themselves a bit too seriously, and the whiff of pretentiousness that has always surrounded A&A is still there. The opening instrumental “Et Ducit Mundum Per Luce” is really quite good, but its name, in Latin, translates to “and lead the world by light.” Erm, OK?

There is one notable improvement here: the band has finally figured out to properly structure their songs around DeLonge’s voice, an element which has frequently tripped up their proceedings in the past. Everything sounds fantastic, even if the lyricism is sometimes hit-or-miss. On the bright side, the closer “Some Origins of Fire” proves that DeLonge does have at least one great arena ballad in him. Love may not be a many splendid thing, but it’s still probably Angels & Airwaves’ most important record to date: they sound like they’re starting to finally turn into the real deal, even if they still haven’t quite found what they’re looking for.

What?! St. Paddy’s Day already happened? Crap. Well, in any case, here’s a handy guide to creating your 2011 St. Patrick’s soundtrack. I’m Italian you say? I have no reason/right to be writing this? Never you mind that. Just pour yourself a car bomb with your Lucky Charms, pop in the Boondock Saints DVD, and make sure you bring a camera. Erin go bragh.

Dropkick Murphys: “(F)lannigan’s Ball”

-Not particularly Irish-sounding, but this reinterpretation of the traditional “Lanigan’s Ball” is basically the “Kung Fu Fighting” of drinking songs. You’re likely to get a contact buzz and a black eye just from listening to it.

Great Big Sea: “The Night Pat Murphy Died”

-A song about a dearly departed fellow whose funeral goes tragically, alcoholically awry. Needless to say, the events described therein sound like an absolute blast. You know, provided you’re not the dead guy.

The Dubliners: “Whiskey in the Jar”

-The G.O.A.T. of drinking songs. If you’re not plastered by verse 2, something is terribly, terribly wrong.

The Pogues: “The Irish Rover”

-The Irish Hall of Fame, if it existed, would likely be comprised of shepherd’s pie, James Joyce, and this song (side note: doesn’t Ronnie Drew look like Sean Connery?).

Flogging Molly: “To Youth (My Sweet Roisin Dubh)”

-Nevermind that the phrase “roisin dubh” isn’t pronounced anything like you think it is; the fiddles, flutes, horrendously depressing lyrics and lead singer Dave King’s soft, Celtic brogue is enough to transport you to the fair glens of Ireland. Or, ya know, the nearest Guinness tap.

Two years ago, Lil Wayne’s cockamamie plan to make a rock album called Rebirth has raised a lot of eyebrows and a lot of questions. Does Wayne know the first thing about how to make a rock song? And even if he does, would it be any good? And even if it were, why would the self-proclaimed Greatest Rapper Alive decide to try his hand as an axeman?

The answers: more or less, yes, and because he felt like it. Wayne can structure a solid rock song as well as he does with rap; it’s his lyricism that needs work.

For the most part, Wayne takes a page from Fred Durst’s book and spins emo-esque tales of a high school loner and the girls who reject him. “Prom Queen,” the album’s first single and biggest hit, sounds like a seventh-grade dork anthem: lost, hurt, and a little confused. In other cases, it seems like he wrote a bunch of hip-hop lyrics and tried to sing them, which can make for some awkward moments. Rapping the line “hey Barbie/are you into black men?/hey Barbie/well I can be your black Ken, ” is a feasible task; it’s the kind of clever wordplay we expect from Lil Wayne. Slathering Wayne in Auto-Tune and having him singing those lines is a less appealing idea.

Still, even with the missteps, Rebirth is a mostly positive endeavor. It’s hard not to admire Lil Wayne’s tenacity and passion even for a project that, at least at the moment, is a little outside his range. And, when a song clicks, Wayne fires on all cylinders (why the eerie, funky “Hot Revolver” was dropped from the album remains a mystery). “Drop the World”, for example, is a solid rocker (minus that terrible hook) and features a furious guest spot from Eminem.

There’s also “Ground Zero,” the album’s best track and one of the few that manages to blend his rap lyrics and rock-star style into something that works. Over a pounding drum beat and squealing guitars, Wayne snarls, “walk on air/show me to the edge and I’ll walk off there.” Maybe that’s a clue as to why he tried something like Rebirth; who knows? In any case, it’s applicable. He doesn’t quite fly this trip off the edge, but chances are he’ll take the leap again, so it’s probably best to think of Rebirth as a test run of sorts.

Ready to shock-rock like it’s 1999? The late ‘90s are long gone, but Rob Zombie, one of the patron saints of horror metal, is still hard at work pumping out kitschy, thumping arena-shakers with titles like “Werewolf, Baby!” and “Mars Needs Women.”

As if to illustrate his point, he’s named his latest record Hellbilly Deluxe 2, a sequel to his 1998 solo debut. These days Zombie is less known for his music than his budding career as a cult filmmaker, but HD2 shows he’s still going strong as a rocker.

Granted, there’s nothing here as iconic as “Dragula,” but Zombie at least does the smart thing and overloads the record with as much schlock as he can; the big misstep of ‘06’s Educated Horses was trying to play it straight.

This also means that nothing on Hellbilly Deluxe 2 is particularly new. In fact a lot of it is basically retread; most of it has been done better before by Zombie or others. Still, there are pleasures to be had. The single “What?” is perfect mosh-pit fodder, and in a perfect world, the chorus “Mars needs women/angry red women” would be the new “Pants on the Ground.”

It all adds up to about what you’d expect, which turns out to be both a knock against the album as well as a mark of its success. Hellbilly Deluxe 2 is kind of like those cheesy haunted houses at carnivals: they’ve long lost their luster as something genuinely unsettling, but there are still worse rides out there. In any case, it’ll make the Ozzfest crowd go nuts just the same.

For me, the answer is usually “I’m a Bruce Springsteen fan.”

Now, in an age where MGMT (who I can’t stand, by the way) pass for the best band in the country right now, I might as well be telling my prospective lady-friend that I have the swine flu. It doesn’t matter if she and I have the same major, three classes together and live two floors apart from each other. Being a Springsteen fan actually loses me points.

To be fair, the responses aren’t always that harsh. Sometimes, I get the following:

“Well, you are from New Jersey. I guess it makes sense.”

So apparently, the only thing that absolves me from having the cojones to declare myself a fan of the Boss is the fact that I’m from the same state as him. Cold as ice. Also, nonsense.

I’m a fan of Bruce Springsteen because, quite frankly, he’s the best singer/songwriter/performer out there right now. Yeah, that’s right, I said it. I’ve been to a hell of a lot of concerts and I’ve seen a lot of different genres performed, but none of the acts I’ve seen can compare to what Bruce Springsteen did the last time I saw him, at Madison Square Garden last month.

What he did was perform his 1980 album, The River, in its entirety. For the uninitiated, The River is a freaking double-album that’s 20 songs and about an hour and a half long. Just listening to the thing is an exhausting experience. Not only did he play that bad boy to perfection, but he played about fifteen other songs beside it. And he’s sixty. And his bandmates, for the most part, are as old, if not older, than he is. Even a young man would have trouble pulling it off.

Hell, let’s see anyone pull it off. Phish play for 4 hours at a time, but they take an intermission. Springsteen took no breaks at the River concert. He sang his heart out alongside his (heart-stoppin’, pants-droppin’, hard-rockin’, earth shockin’, booty-shakin’, love-makin’, Viagra-takin’, history makin’, legendary)* E Street Band, spinning stories about fathers and sons and death and dreams and the occasional Cadillac ride.

He loves what he does and I love watching him do it. It’s perfect. It’s borderline magical. Seeing him perform brings grown men to tears (I’ve seen it). And listening to his stories is a rare privilege in a scene where so much music is sound and fury signifying nothing.

The best part about Springsteen is that he’s not always trying to make a statement with his music. Sometimes he’s just talking, playing, and spinning fairy-tale love stories that began at a bar with two people talking about music. I wonder what they said they listened to.

* Sorry. I couldn’t resist.