http://www.rollingstone.com/news/story/9474465/new_cds_pretenders_fagen?rnd=1145567587520&has-player=true&version=6.0.12.872Pretenders Pirate Radio (Sire/Rhino/Warner Bros.)
There have been many Pretenders, but there is just one Chrissie Hynde: a walking combination of Fifties rockabilly, Sixties girl-group soul and Seventies punk who created some of the greatest rock and pop of the Eighties and beyond. The five-disc box set Pirate Radio documents the fluctuations of the Pretenders -- through good albums and bad, and through a series of lineup changes -- with Hynde serving as the immovable object. Blessed with an emotional range as broad as her musical interests, this Ohio-born, London-based songwriter possesses one of rock's most charmed voices and a no-bullshit charisma that has inspired nearly every female rocker who has followed in her path.
Before the Pretenders became little more than Hynde's backing group, they were three Brits and an expat singer, and most emphatically a band. In the few short seconds of his "Tattooed Love Boys" guitar break, James Honeyman-Scott condenses decades of rock soloing. Elsewhere during the Pretenders' first two albums, he lays down unconventional chords, pedal effects and layered guitar harmonies that U2, the Cure and countless other acts built upon for years. Drugs soon claimed the lives of Honeyman-Scott and bassist Pete Farndon, and Hynde continued with competent but less crucial bandmates, even firing drummer Martin Chambers after 1984's triumphant Learning to Crawl before bringing him back during 1994's cautious but frequently transcendent Last of the Independents. This instability makes patches of Pirate Radio very spotty. But if Hynde's songwriting sometimes falters, her singing rarely does. From a punky 1978 "Precious" demo to adventurous Loose Screw cuts from 2002, Hynde radiates both erotic vigor and uncommon sensitivity.
Among the box's rare and previously unreleased tracks are several gems, but its DVD of TV appearances and raw concert footage is even more fascinating: It affirms that Hynde kept improving her performance chops into middle age. During the reciprocal domestic abuse of "977," the most lyrically disturbing and yet most musically beatific song of her complex career, Hynde applies her vibrato as thickly as her trademark eyeliner, staring down the camera as if she had nothing to hide. Which, of course, she never has. (BARRY WALTERS)