Swervedriver / 99th Dream by Jarrod Hood Zero Hour Evolution. It's a strange concept, a quintessentially modern one, but the core of our cultural perception. Think about the emphasis given in any history class to this notion that things change gradually over time (government, music, art; the list goes on). Evolution saturates our every encounter with culture, the capacity (indeed, the compulsion) to draw comparison with what came before; it's our cultural yardstick. It depresses me. Let me just say that I'm not very good with endings, the steady march toward the unknown (there's that pesky void again, staring back into me) that is my inheritance, the gift of futility and instability and ... sorry, I get carried away. The point is, like any other cultural institution, music evolves, from the sacred music that shaped the early Western Musical tradition to the socioeconomic beast that is popular music today, the permutations have been nearly innumerable (don't worry, we'll make it to the album sooner or later) and Swervedriver is just another cog on the wheel. "OK, asshole," you say, "what's your point?" Look, what depresses me about this whole idea is that there is a qualitative change tied to this evolution, wherein things supposedly improve over time until they reach a ceiling, and then begin to decline in quality until they just cease to be. That's it. I've peaked. I'm on the way down (no Catherine Wheel jokes please). How can I prove it? The instituions whereby I have defined my (musical) tastes are sinking into the oblivion of yesterday's cool. And here is where Swervedriver fits in. Like the majority of my seminal, formative musical dieties, Swervedriver's stone visage has begun to erode, as the Youth Of Today (being myself) are replaced by the Youth Of A Time When I Am No Longer Cool. The story of Swervedriver is an appropriately frustrating one of disappearing members, corporate fickleness, and the struggle for distribution. Close your eyes. think back to a time when Van Halen was the last word in rock and roll, and Debbie Gibson hadn't hit puberty yet. The scene is Oxford, and a group of youngsters, brothers Adam and Graham Franklin (guitar and vocals, respectively), Paddy Pultzer (drums) and Adrian "Adi" Vynes, sit around listening to Iggy and the Stooges all day, and decide to form a band. Shake Appeal, named (appropriately enough) after a Stooges song, recorded a single, but around 1988, encountered the new wave of American guitar rock such as Sonic Youth and Dinosaur Jr. Now, remove Graham (who left to do dance music) and Paddy (joined the band Jack), and add Jimmy Hartridge (guitar) and another Graham (Bonner) on drums. Presto-change-o, the first incarnation of Swervedriver appears. Their first recorded effort, the "Son of Mustang Ford," blended the Detroit petrolhead rock aesthetic with shoegazer guitar noise and an obsession with American car culture in a quirky pop format that landed Swerve-driver a place on Creation Records, home of My Bloody Valentine and previous home of the Jesus and Mary Chain. The band went on to release a few E.P.s, until 1991 saw their first full-length effort, Raise, which prompted an American tour. While en route to Vancouver for the band's Canadian debut, Bonner stepped out for a sandwich and never came back, at least not until the border guard dragged him back into the States. After finishing the tour with a temporary replacement, the band returned to England. 1992 saw a suprising return with the Never Lose That Feeling E.P., and 1993 saw the release of the band's second full length Mezcal Head and new drummer Jez. 1995 brought the band's third full-length Ejector Seat Reservation which never got released in the U.S., due to problems with Creation (Swervedriver got dumped), who wouldn't supply masters to tentative supporter, David Geffen Records. True to form, before 99th Dream could be released, Geffen dropped the band, who searched for nearly a year before releasing the album through U.S. independant, Zero Hour. It is light of such a history that 99th Dream is so disappointing. Swervedriver has never been a band with an immense ability to construct a coherent, well-crafted album. However, amongst the rabble and filler that has plagued their full-length recordings, there have been moments of pure high-octane genius. These moments were enough to live for, when each instrument functioned perfectly in its own space, working around an arrangement that seemed to be dictated from the heart of whatever it is that lends transcendence to any human enterprise, and driven by the pulsing heat of the road, of tons of iron and steel hurtling across the tarmac. This is precisely where 99th Dream comes up short. Although it is a more coherent and approachable album, the moments are not present. Gone is the shuddering intensity of "Blowin' Cool" and "Son of Mustang Ford," replaced by a placid pop more along the lines of Oasis's limp stylings. Gone is the firm resolve of "Girl on a Motorbike," "Duress," and "Rave Down," and the album is left with a weak, more radio-friendly submissiveness. Instead of the metric intricacies, hammering drums, and quirky phrasing of songs like "For Seeking Heat," 99th Dream offers more homogeneous, formulaic compositions; more accessible, yes, but without the intensity of previous albums. It is as if someone filed off all of the sharp and rough edges that made previous work so intriguing, if somewhat hard to swallow -- like Swervedriver on Zoloft. The trademark layers of swir-ling guitar are left with no solid foundation, without a song around which to grow. Tracks like "She Weaves a Tender Trap" and "Electric 77" fall flat with their impotent sentimentality. Still, 99th Dream is more solidly written than Ejector Seat Reservation, and there are brief glimpses of light. The opening and title track shows a little promise, but lacks the driving rhythmic energy of earlier songs -- more appropriate for an ending track than an opener. Or maybe not, considering the album on which it appears. Flannery O'Connor said it: everything that rises must converge. It seems to have happened to Swerve-driver as well; the corporate rock machine has swallowed the band with the worst luck in history. The need to pay bills seems to have superseded the desire to create. Or perhaps the engine that was once Swervedriver could not last at full throttle. Maybe it's just evolution. Whatever. Swervedriver's valves are rattling, its clutch is slipping, and its radials show their steel belting. I guess it happens. I'll not bother to change the radio from the local Z! station, and just watch as rock and roll (or whatever the hell you call popular music these days) emerges with new feelers and appendages; tries its new and drying wings.

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