In the 1960s, as bedrock blues performers played to rapt audiences of white folkies, African American listeners were moving on to soul or funk two generations removed from its Southern roots. Now the classic gospel-derived R&B sound turns up mostly on oldies radio while black pop music is dominated by rap and ìnu soul.î Is old-school soul in danger of becoming more collectible exotica for white hipsters? Perhaps, but the power of the music might be enough to save it from irrelevant nostalgia, as two straight-up modern-day R&B records prove.

If anybody would be likely to hoke up the joint, itís Fat Possum, the Mississippi imprint thatís carved a niche turning regional bluesmen into frat-party blaxploitation heroes. But the label performs something close to a public service with the aptly titled Donít Give Up on Me, the new album by legendary soul singer Solomon Burke. Recording live with producer Joe Henry and a crew of sympathetic players, Burke testifies on ready-mades commissioned from Tom Waits, Bob Dylan, Elvis Costello, Van Morrison and Nick Lowe. If this A list sometimes submits A-minus to B material, Burke still invests each song with a mortal urgency that removes any trace of revivalism. When he gets a song as great as Dan Pennís pleading title track, he doesnít turn the clock back to his glory days with Atlantic Records; he stops it here and now.

By contrast, the too-cute packaging for Dap-Dippin With...Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings (Daptone) tries to make it appear that time stopped in about 1968: The cover resembles a hi-fi artifact, right down to the ìstereo compatibleî logo. Once you get past the retro hootiness, Georgia R&B belter Jones blows the art-directed dust off the grooves, whipping a hot young band through the kind of sweaty regional funk that sends turntablists trawling through garage sales. The best cut sends Janet Jacksonís ìWhat Have You Done for Me Latelyî through the wayback machine to emerge with a Sly & the Family Stone barnburner.

Collectively, Jones and Burke bring more than a century of life experience to these records: Sheís a 45-year-old former prison guard, while the sexagenarian Burke is an ordained minister and funeral-home owner. Their longevity helps to explain the hard-won joy and passion in these records—and why classic soul music will outlive the trends and tastes of the moment.

—Jim Ridley

Full Circle, the eagerly anticipated Arista debut from Boyz II Men, is an overproduced, mediocre disappointment. After 14 years, Wanya and Nathan Morris, Michael McCary and Shawn Stockman are polished vocalists, and their strength remains thematic interpretation, not songwriting, arranging or producing. Most of Full Circle is overloaded with limp, dreary romantic ballads and forgettable club tracks. Strangely, R&B heavyweights are responsible for the setís weakest moments: Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewisí ìOh Wellî and Babyfaceís ìThe Color of Loveî both combine feeble lyrics with feeble arrangements. Evidently, company honchos thought they might subtly enhance Boyz II Menís appeal by spiking their music with hip-hop beats. But despite executive producer and label head Antonio Reidís hype, Full Circle wonít be the disc that restores Aristaís urban clout.

—Ron Wynn

This may sound cruel, but Aimee Mannís songwriting shouldíve benefited more from the tension created by her constant battles with the recording industry. Along with Wilco, sheís become a mascot for the abuse of artists by major labels; while Wilco signed to another major after being dropped by Reprise, Mann started her own Superego label and got just about as much publicity. Alas, the story behind her new album, Lost in Space, turns out to be more interesting than the music—and in the long run, the relative comfort of running her own label may not be so beneficial to Mannís work.

On the surface, Mann often sounds like other generic female singer-songwriters, but her music usually contains a vital urgency. That slow-burning intensity present in classic Mann recordings like ìBuild That Wallî and ìWise Upî is now missing. A guitar-dominated surface often hides relatively elaborate instrumentation and arrangements, influenced by the same sort of í60s orchestral rock Mann pursued more overtly with producer Jon Brion on the Magnolia soundtrack. Itís not that sheís repeating herself, exactly: ìHigh on Sunday 51î and ìThis Is How It Goesî expand her musical palette by including bluesy slide guitar, while other tracks go for spacey atmospherics. Nevertheless, Lost in Space is the kind of album that sounds fine while one listens to it but leaves nothing to digest. Itís the musical equivalent of having salad for dinner.

—Steve Erickson

During the mid-í90s, John Bunzow made a Pete Anderson-produced album for Liberty Records titled Stories of the Years. The disc never was released; Liberty imploded, eventually becoming the Capitol Nashville slaughterhouse. Bunzow revisits some of the songs from Stories on his latest, self-produced CD, Darkness and Light (Sideburn), and perhaps because the Portland, Ore., native has had his share of personal and professional knocks during the past few years, he now sings with a passion and resolve only hinted at on the Liberty recordings. The heartbroken trucker song ìDesolation Road,î long a pile-driving staple of Bunzowís repertoire, sounds like it was written the day it was cut.

Darkness and Light rocks harder than Bunzowís previous work, though its Music Row/Dire Straits-circa-1992 production values sometimes hamstring the record. Whereas the Anderson sides were stripped-down and crystalline, the new CD, despite being recorded in the basement studio of co-producer Brian David Willis, possesses an occasional in-your-face instrumental swirl that detracts from Bunzowís vocal immediacy. Still, the more recent, damn-lucky-to-still-be-around material on Darkness and Light demonstrates that, as a writer, Bunzowís digging deeper than ever.

—Paul Griffith

In brief

A consensus of trend-spotters is that the future of rock looks more like the energized neo-garage of The White Stripes than the featureless metal-lite of Nickelback, Silvercrush or any of those other bands who sound like they picked their name by pointing randomly at words in a Radio Shack catalog. The rush to find rock that actually rocks has led to some overvaluation and misunderstanding, though. The Vines have garnered comparisons to Nirvana, Supergrass and The Strokes since their early singles began drawing a buzz in the British Isles last year, and the confusion over how best to describe the Australian modern-rock power trio underscores the absence of anything extraordinary about them. The Vinesí debut LP, Highly Evolved (Capitol), comes across with a reasonable amount of gut-shot strut, soupy harmonics and grunge-affected sing-along pop. The tracks, however, tend to start promisingly and then become undone by shoddy construction. The bash-first, ask-questions-later style (dampened by a Big Rock sound) shows only a little promise, and no more than could be claimed for 20 other recent overseas rock saviors.... Better to stay in New York, where the disciples of edge possess both ambition and affectlessness while raising a glorious racket. Sonic Youth keep holding the line for the exploitation of pop culture white noise on their new album, Murray Street (DGC), bringing aboard Jim OíRourke as a fifth member and burrowing into a set of warmer, quieter, more reflective songs. The first half of the record is lovely, and establishes a context for the more raucous second half, where the band prove again their willingness to tease and provoke for the sake of cheap, listenable art.... A band of Big Apple comers currently prepping their first LP, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs have rereleased their jaw-dropping debut EP on Touch & Go. The self-titled disc dwells in the distorted, bluesy, how-loud-can-just-a-guitar-and-drums-be? aesthetic familiar from countless indie rockers, but the trio have an elevating element in lead singer Karen O, whose bratty taunts and worldly boho posturing melt together Chrissie Hynde, Lydia Lunch and The Waitressesí Patty Donahue. The Yeah Yeah Yeahsí EP is assaultive but self-aware, even vulnerable at times, and next to The Walkmenís sublime Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone, itís the New York art-punk record of the hour.

—Noel Murray