Reviews:

Mysterious forces drive Bobby Conn. There's no other explanation for the Chicago-based glam/stoner/prog/funk prodigy's fifth disc, a concept album about New World Order USA. Conn runs on vapors hitherto uninhaled in this neck of the galaxy. A few familiar ones as well-something about him seems Phishy at first. Not stenchy so much as briny, oily, and not exactly newly dead (lower-case "d," please). His sunny guitar rhythms at the start of the album opener, "We Come in Peace," add greatly to the song's fancy albacore bouquet, as do its brisk, lightly pumping beat and chirpy vocal harmonies. Lyrically, verse one seems pretty barefoot in the head, too, a wisenheimer take on our imperialistic ways. Then, the chorus drops in a mighty falsetto cloud that suggests the Monkees as Prince tribute band and Conn reveals himself as purveyor of pastiche convoluted enough to make the Electric Six seem like Interpol. Prince's spirit is a recurring presence; it hovers steadily, if incongruously, over the nu-wave "We're Taking Over the World," as chief exec Conn deadpans "I am a Mason 33rd degree/ Third-generation Illuminati/ A pagan god from outer space/ Here to enslave the human race." But the purple funkateer plays second chair to David Bowie in Homeland's working pantheon. Conn even manages to sprinkle some Ziggy Stardust on his paranoid redneck assassin character in "Home Sweet Home." If Conn's appetite for appropriation is insatiable, he also makes excellent use of that which he swipes-Eddie Van Halen hasn't seemed so relevant in years. If ever.

"Mysterious forces drive Bobby Conn. There's no other explanation for the Chicago-based glam/stoner/prog/funk prodigy's fifth disc, a concept album about New World Order USA. Conn runs on vapors hitherto uninhaled in this neck of the galaxy. A few familiar ones as well-something about him seems Phishy at first. Not stenchy so much as briny, oily, and not exactly newly dead (lower-case ""d,"" please). His sunny guitar rhythms at the start of the album opener, ""We Come in Peace,"" add greatly to the song's fancy albacore bouquet, as do its brisk, lightly pumping beat and chirpy vocal harmonies. Lyrically, verse one seems pretty barefoot in the head, too, a wisenheimer take on our imperialistic ways. Then, the chorus drops in a mighty falsetto cloud that suggests the Monkees as Prince tribute band and Conn reveals himself as purveyor of pastiche convoluted enough to make the Electric Six seem like Interpol. Prince's spirit is a recurring presence; it hovers steadily, if incongruously, over the nu-wave ""We're Taking Over the World,"" as chief exec Conn deadpans ""I am a Mason 33rd degree/ Third-generation Illuminati/ A pagan god from outer space/ Here to enslave the human race."" But the purple funkateer plays second chair to David Bowie in Homeland's working pantheon. Conn even manages to sprinkle some Ziggy Stardust on his paranoid redneck assassin character in ""Home Sweet Home."" If Conn's appetite for appropriation is insatiable, he also makes excellent use of that which he swipes-Eddie Van Halen hasn't seemed so relevant in years. If ever.

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