Reviews of three new releases   Mediæval Bæbes Worldes Blysse (Nettwerk/Virgin) Of related interest: Anonymous 4, Dead Can Dance, Loreena McKennitt, Society for Creative Anachronism This wins the prize for sheer marketing audacity--not to mention outright stupidity. I mean, "Mediæval Bæbes"? Think of the names that didn't make the cut: Tarts of the Dark Ages? Nymphs of the Round Table? Canterbury Tail? Let's peek in on the corporate Merlins who conjured up this gimmick: "Well, boys, it seems shabby-chic furniture is all the rage. Candle sales are through the roof. Delerium and Enigma are piped into coffeeshops the world over. And the Loreena McKennitt crowd--what demographics! Under 40, hip and rich!" Hence, Mediæval Bæbes, a dozen lovely ladies weaving Middle English lyrics into a backdrop of a cappella chants, undulating choral arrangements, bodhran-and-handclap percussion, wood pipes, recorders, dulcimer, zither, hurdy-gurdy, yada yada yada. The resulting tapestry (Bayeux, no doubt) is simple, pretty and so flat you could hang it on a sponge-painted wall next to the Michael Parkes posters. "Early music" is what Worldes Blysse wants to be. Our era, however, is the only epoch in which this silly "Dead Can Riverdance" simulacrum could be passed off as "historical." John Graham   Zeke Dirty Sanchez (Epitaph) Of related interest: Motörhead, Speedealer, Action Swingers Zeke, Murder City Devils, Valentine Killers, Catheters Crystal Ballroom, 1332 W Burnside St., 778-5625 9 pm Saturday, March 4 $10 Warning: Zeke doesn't write music. Never has. The 90-second nitro sprints it calls songs aren't evocations of the gracious Euterpean muse--just cheap excuses for mainlining an adrenalized cocktail of speed and combustive punk rawk. The vocals are tuneless, riffs repetitive and rhythms unoriginal. But it must be said--Dirty Sanchez totally fucking rox. (The x is for "exterminate.") If you're still reading this, you know what I mean: unchecked aggression and shameless thrash-mongering on a search-and-destroy mission against art, pretension and Fleetwood Mac (whose "Rhiannon" receives a particularly bloody bayoneting). Bodies collapse under relentless six-string bombing sorties. Brain cells surrender like the French before the biker-rock blitzkrieg. Entire towns (well, grubby niteclub audiences, at least) are annihilated. Survivors stumble away with inexplicable grins. For these drunken grunts of the Zeke army, war isn't hell. It's heaven. It's a wastoid thing--you wouldn't understand. John Graham   The American Girls Like the Movies, Only Slower (Trauma Records) Of related interest: Brit pop, heavy petting Marred only slightly by over-production, the bounding summer road-trip tunes of Portland's own American Girls walk that precarious line between catchy and cloying. Their sound prays to the Divine Pop Riff, a faith of expert craftmanship, sometimes leaning more towards Dianetics than Greater Nirvana. Cheery tracks like "Heavy & Struck" and "Across the Bar and Down the Hall" are emphatically positive, inoffensive dance anthems soon to debut at weddings, bar mitzvahs and SUV commercials near you. The poppy joy of these Girls (all guys, by the way, in case you haven't caught on) rarely comes unhinged as it rides its energy and likability. In other words, this is completely acceptable but about as audacious as going to Six Flags and hanging out in Kiddieland while your parents ride the Hellevator. The secret, however, is that when they shed their formula for the perfect riff, the American Girls can write a wickedly good make-out song. Sensuous vocal delay and almost clandestine guitar are destined to be the soundtrack for your next unexpected smooch. Jaunty bass, eyelash-batting harmonies, and drums like sidelong glances capture the ache that accompanies walking with a sweet paramour. These slow-striding, gazy-trumpet tunes will charm those of us who wax nostalgic about our lusty pubescence into overlooking the album's faults. Kind of like a crush. Julianne Shephard   - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Willamette Week | originally published March 1, 2000