The stand-up section of the album is taken from a live performance at Boston's Northeastern University. It opens with a rapid-fire chain of impressions ranging from a frantic Jerry Seinfeld to a spot-on Robin Williams -- complete with unintelligible muttering and lunatic shrieks. But the best material comes when Fallon takes aim at the music industry.
In the utterly ludicrous "Troll Doll Jingles," Fallon breaks out the guitar and delivers a series of funny stabs at artists including U2 and Dave Matthews.
Imagine your favorite Coldplay song redone as a sales pitch for those disturbing little dolls with the hyperactive hair and jeweled bellies.
And because no stand-up show in a college town would be complete without at least a brief look at residence hall life, Fallon fills several tracks with a rambling salute to the college lifestyle -- culminating in a hilarious sketch of Chris Rock as a resident assistant.
Ultimately, Fallon proves himself to be both listenable and funny. He might not be on the same level as Adam Sandler, but anyone who can make it sound as if Alanis Morissette is pitching troll dolls deserves a listen.
By Graham Parker
Aimee Mann
Lost in Space
4 Stars
The opening lines of Aimee Mann's Lost in Space are a wake-up call to anyone who expected the singer/songwriter's bitterness to wane after the successes of 1999's Magnolia: Music From the Motion Picture and 2000's triumphant Bachelor No. 2.
"Say you were split in fragments/And none of the pieces would talk to you/Wouldn't you want to be who you had been?/Well, baby I want that, too."
If anything, Mann has now hardened her resignation. She is so resolute in her steely demeanor that she has interpreted her newfound success as the last glimpse of a dying star rather than the meteor shower of talent finally come into its own.
Songs like "This Is How It Goes," "Guys Like Me" and the glittering title track are as cynical and vitriolic as anything Mann has ever laid down. But, luckily, they are also some of the sharpest showpieces in Mann's catalogue.
Though Lost in Space finds Mann retreading the same themes of loss, betrayal and revenge that have haunted her songs from the beginning, it uncovers a personal fragility that was missing from Mann's earlier songwriting.
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In "Invisible Ink," Mann redirects her scathing criticism from the recording industry to her own icy disposition. And "It's Not" is the most heartbreaking song she has ever written, only because -- like in Magnolia centerpiece "Wise Up" -- she can't find it in herself to get past her emotions and enjoy life.
Lost in Space is full of similar moments of Mann's concentrated heartbreak, and this consistency of despair is what makes the album so affecting.
But unlike the varied tapestries of Bachelor No. 2, the music and production now parallel the downcast emotions marked in her lyrics, making Mann's sentiments more potent than before.
If Lost in Space is not Mann's best album, it is undoubtedly her most consistent to date. Song for song, the hooks are stronger, the lyrics wittier, and nothing feels out of place.
But even if Mann can't find hope, in her agony, we are redeemed. No matter how low you think you are, when Mann sings, "I suppose I should be happy to be misread/Better be that than some of the other things I've become," cheer up.
Things could always be worse.
By Michael Abernethy
Pseudopod
Pseudopod
3 Stars
In the four-chord world of folk-pop, the difference between radio sensation and relative obscurity can often come down to the art of the singalong chorus.
It's a lesson the members of Pseudopod have tried a little too hard to follow.
On its self-titled debut, the band pulls out a full batch of catchy, anthemic choruses complete with all the trimmings of tight arrangements, smooth harmonies and lyrical hooks.
It's enough of a package to make several tracks on the album fit for the notoriously short life span of a radio hit.
The irony -- and some might call it tragic -- is that a full listen to Pseudopod reveals that the group is capable of so much more.
The deeper one gets into the album, the more it becomes apparent that Pseudopod is, at heart, a jam band, and a pretty good one at that.
With a little help from guest musicians on saxophone and trumpet, the group makes multiple forays into the adventurous territory of jazz and even prog-rock.
The musical standout on these occasions is lead guitarist Ross Grant, whose fluid guitar lines are enough to carry tracks like "Shrinks" and "Come and See the Light" almost single-handedly.
But every time Grant and the rest of the band are just beginning to extend their creative wings, they're slammed down to mediocrity courtesy of yet another formulaic refrain.
Lead singer Kevin Carlberg always seems poised to take his earnest but tame voice out of the cage in a passage of vocal intensity. Unfortunately, Carlberg's voice and mostly defiant lyrics are ill-fitted to sunny tunes that make a conscious effort to tie up all loose musical ends.
Although the push to be the next blip on rock's radar has watered down their musical output, the members of Pseudopod haven't given up on creativity. The album's last two tracks contain several experimental elements that showcase the band's potential to successfully defy musical genres.
But in highly sudden fashion, these creative sections bring the album to a abrupt close -- the duration of Pseudopod's musical stride doesn't last much longer than the shelf life of a generic radio hit.
By Brook Corwin
