Keyshia Cole Doesn't Quite Have a Woman's Touch

Keyshia Cole's "Woman to Woman" is weighed down by urban music stylistic cliches. For instance there's no shortage of keyboard that sounds like it was sprinkled on by Peter Pan's fairy, Tinker Bell. No authentic percussion either. What dooms this effort to bargain basement status are the lyrics Keisha has to work with. I'm not sure any red blooded male of any ethnicity would be moved to the pinnacle of passion by the sentiments found in "Wonderland". Basically she loses her mind when her boy toy takes her to his wonderland. Kind of a female street spin on John Mayer's "Your Body Is a Wonderland". It'd make a trippin' female response to that easy percolator anyway. "Hey Sexy" doesn't break new ground in African-American amorousness either. Keyshia psyches herself up about being rocked all night long 'til the break of dawn. How many times has this titillating time frame been espoused upon before across several genres? Makes one want to consider taking a vow of chastity. If songs centered on foreplay come off as stale are the odds any better that the act itself will exceed expectations? Even on tracks like "I Choose You" where the cheese quotient isn't off the colloquial chizz-ain Keyshia can't avoid overpowering the material. Her sin in this case is confusing belting with hollering. The chorus is obliterated so completely that I'm left wondering if being chosen by Keyshia is desirable at all. Turning to "Stubborn" Keyshia claims the only bruise on her person belongs to her ego. Somehow my ego would be subjected to the same fate if I was forced to admit I owned a CD containing hackneyed lyrics like this. As a whole Keyshia is little more than a likable homegirl with barely above average chops. She's not devoid of talent. I'm just saying Beyonce has nothing to worry about. "Woman to Woman" is meant strictly for urban music loyalists.

Deftones Weighed Down By The Heaviness of Being

Listening to The Deftones new "Koi No Yokan" sounds like the way a sore throat feels. To clarify you know how when you have a sore throat you've got this undeniably raw sensation working where to swallow is to consume the sharp feeling of a razor blade? Welcome to The Deftones world, especially this time around. To their credit they hurtle themselves through a canvas of minor chords blending spookily with major. The likes of "Romantic Dreams" is one of those rare exceptions. Here I present the image of a hot shower just completed. Steam has blanketed the bathroom. A white hot core of intensity propels this cut to the realm of that traffic accident impossible not to gawk at. Vocalist Chino Moreno gracefully comes unspooled during the opening moments of "Leathers". Here he commands all who listen to wear their insides out, to show the enemy what they look like. It excels with its primitive guitar rumbles as provided by Stephen Carpenter. Open confessional is the order of the day. Don't know if Chino ever had a thing for Buffy the Vampire Slayer a few decades ago but you can understand where I'd get the possibly absurd suggestion after delving into the lyrics of "Graphic Nature". To the female he's addressing he swears that "Your poison is glowing against the night". Not exactly love poetry, huh? If some guy told me that I'd probably slap him right then and there. The connotations are hardly encouraging. If you're into music to slay demons with this song is just the ticket. For most of the audience I imagine head scratching would be the obvious response. More tortured soul soup is ladled up in "Tempest". Accompanied by more awkward clashes between raw minor chords and lighter sonic flight patterns, Chino adds his conflicted two cents to the bash. He wishes to be taken apart from the inside. Anybody who has an upcoming date with the operating table isn't exactly going to take this slice of surreal life close to his bosom. Not that this commendably ambitious yet coked out weird doesn't have some instrumental highlights. Just pas the halfway mark of "Rosemary" Stephen plunges his guitar downwards into a below the Mason Dixon line level of dirty, bugs in the teeth, wind across the scalp brand of exhibitionism. Not long after that grunge fest is replaced by a soft, touchable acoustic sequence. "Gauze" finds Stephen and drummer Abe Cunningham setting off the sprinklers with an explosive tag team exchange. Unfortunately the trippy lyricism can't help but scare away anyone who's trying to broaden their musical horizons. Devoted Deftone folk will breathe a contented sigh of relief. Moreso if they hit the bong load before plugging in. The Deftones ought to be praised for the depth of their message. The overall sound is challenging in an engaging way. I just wouldn't expect any of the play it safe listeners to be sold so quickly.

Green Day's Second Time Proves To Be The Charmer

It can be said upon listening to "Dos!" the initial sequel in Green Day's pop punk trilogy that these guys know how to reel in the masses with undeniable hooks. They can be excused for watering down the album a bit with filler since they've more than compensated for that with three highly addictive gems. "Stray Heart" locks onto your attention span like that puppy dog that just refuses to get the hint that no, you're not going to take him in no matter how forlorn he appears. From the start Mike Dirnt's bass comes complete with this neon sign self awareness that calls out "Dude, I'm the hipster you couldn't be on your best day". It's the swirling backdrop of anticipatory disappointment Mike sets the stage for, coupled with Billie Joe Armstrong's begrudging declaration that she's the woman who possess all he wants and needs but can't have which elevates "Stray" to the status of a glimmering blink and you missed it nugget of heavenly delight. I feel Billie's thorny dilemma. Most of all I appreciate he fronts a band whose lyrics I not only hear but, on some primal level, comprehend perfectly. Green Day captures the beautiful people sinister world that springs to life after dark with "Nightlife". It's gorgeous and spooky rolled into one. Toss in some choice hip-hop wordplay as palate cleanser and you have the makings of a party you wouldn't dare RSVP your way out of. I know we're past Halloween now but this song wouldn't be too out of place on some best bud's soundtrack for the evening. Even though it's not necessarily an indication of saving the best for last "Amy" is masterfully placed in the closing slot. No over the top punk aggression. No seeking to further cement mainstream appreciation. Quite simply Billie Joe's front and center for "Amy", simple acoustic heartstring drama. The titular girl is the object of Billie Joe's quest for friendship. This sort of entreaty works best stripped of its electricity. You can't deny he's directing his offer of social bonding at her instead of right through her. Many fans might argue that Green Day's forte isn't melting away rigid exteriors but "Amy" is one of those undiluted story songs where you can't help rooting for both sides of the equation. Not that they've even remotely come close to stifling their rock salvos. Tre' Cool hammers away at the drums as if he's not sure how the love hate relationship he has with them is shaking out at the moment. His skins and Billie Joe's guitar team up to weave the intricately synchronized tapestry of grind worthy ear eroticism that is "Fuck Time". "Wild One" could've been banished to the cutting room floor were it not for the very catchy repetition of the title. This bridges all components of the song so they gel to form a convincing whole. In the mood for one punk rock kid's confessional of accumulated exhaustion? You'll flip for "Lazy Bones". The lyrics themselves should be relatable to anyone who walks around in a fatigue haze, whether by force or by choice. Billie Joe's too tired to be bored yet too bored to be tired. This level of day-to-day limbo strike a chord? I say how could it not. Following Billie Joe around while he struggles to recover his equilibrium never ceases to be a source of fascination. As I pointed out earlier, "Dos!" is not without some throwaway tracks masquerading as Green Day staying close to its roots ("Ashley", "Baby Eyes", "Lady Cobra"). However, the good and downright jaw-dropping outweigh the bad and ill-advised. With "Tres" waiting in the wings, Green Day demonstrates it can command the same level of excitement with a musical trilogy as say a George Lucas did back in the '70s and early '80s with his Star Wars trilogy. Let's all hope the group doesn't go Jar Jar Binks on us and uncork a genuine clunker. "Dos" gives us the caffeinated energy we've come to love about them and tosses in a few snapshots of what they sound like when they're in the zone.

Soundgarden's "King Animal" Is Royally Intense

If rock 'n' roll is primarily about explosions of attitude then let me approach my review of Seattle alt-rock mainstays Soundgarden's marketplace declared comeback album "King Animal" like this. One by one I'll pinpoint how the band members contributions are not unlike the prime elements necessary to make TNT explode. Chris Cornell's the often smoldering existentialist who continues to burn long after the point of detonation. Take "By Crooked Steps" for instance. He claims he's addicted to feeling. That's not an addiction easily reckoned with let alone overcome. On "A Thousand Days Before" Ben Shepherd's bass and Matt Cameron's sneak up on ya' drumming grab me right away with a steady diet of propulsion that wraps up with short bursts of percussive payoff. This duo lights the fuse that sends the foursome careen towards mind-melting status. By contrast there's no measured creating of the mood for opening single "Been Away Too Long". That was a sage choice to reintroduce the Soundgarden starved to their conquering heroes' fresh material because the bristling piss and vinegar from the opening shot is calculated strictly to inform any who were harbouring uncertainties that, yes, Soundgarden is in fact back with fangs flashed. Chris's general frame of mind is of one who's been away too long but never planned to linger once he returned. You could easily say he's in psychological limbo and has us hanging on by our fingernails during his grit-stained voyage. Then there's lead guitarist Kim Thayil. He's nothing shy of edgy throughout "Non-State Actor". He's the irresistible force which pushes ever harder for the kaboom at the end of the trail. "Blood on the Valley Floor" encapsulates the ready to bulge out of the packet riffs and at times mysterious lyrics Soundgarden have seasoned to perfection. More often than not unresolved tension lends fuel to this fire. The players reflect it. Chris's words confirm it. They have managed to remain savvy on how to perform as a tight unit. The studio athleticism hasn't dropped off one bit. Cornell keeps right on asking the tough questions he knows in his heart of hearts might not have the answers he covets. Matt handles deliberately bashing and we're off to the races speed limit breakers with equal ease. Word of advice. If you don't want to leave this listening experience overly depressed steer clear of "Rowing". Gets at least nine points on a scale of one to ten for honesty but boy is it ever not a pick-me up. It centers on mankind's commonality of rowing forward despite having been handed a deck loaded down with daunting odds. It's a place I too have visited but I'm not aching to make a down payment on long-term real estate in that area. "King Animal" is a hefty slab of what this Seattle foursome does best which is put their backs into their song sorcery. The swirls of mystery only make people want to scream for more. Sixteen years later Soundgarden shouldn't have to convince people it knows what kind of rock niche it wants to secure. The rock, rest, repeat formula has born the juiciest of fruit. I'm not saying the boys should split for another decade and a half but stopping to recharge has helped Soundgarden avoid losing its fire. Fires follow on the heels of explosions. Explosive is what Soundgarden continues to be.

All That Remains Is For a Unifying Sound To Guide This Band

The expression "Too many cooks spoil the broth" sums up what Massachusetts metal purveyor All That Remains runs the risk of epitomizing on its latest release "A War You Cannot Win". Many sides of the same story are exposed. Trouble is at the end of the day the listening public, whether it's the faithful throngs who've supported the band since its 1998 inception or newbies who wish to broaden their listening palate a shade, needs to be offered some kind of notion on which direction the band's heading in. That way they can reach a clearer decision on whether this incarnation is for them or not. Lead vocalist Philip Labonte has done his homework on hard rock lyrics meant to coax the inner rebel out of hiding. The title track is bursting with a scorching inner core of defiance that the metal community at large wouldn't dare try to do without. The guitar tag team of Oli Herbert and Mike Martin amaze at higher and higher levels of conscious awareness as the chord highways they pursue possess a zig zag auto racer's lust for both speed and that built in adrenaline rush. As thoughtful an inclusion as it is, metalheads who are artistically committed or need to be committed psychologically may not warm up to the contemplative "Calculating Loneliness". It's a beauty but maybe a little too much like a soft tender acoustic exercise that any one of a number of post-millennial hard rock acts could throw into their arsenal just to tickle the fancies of young women in the audience. Metalcore music doesn't score high marks for approachability. Lots of pent up hatred for political and private life evils tends to overrun the format. "A Call to All Non-Believers" is one such nuclear cauldron. Anytime your lead singer is grinding out dirty vocals (dirty as in language translator needed to even tell what the man/woman might be saying) in the name of casting out human subjugation and domination his band runs the real risk of alienating sections of the audience who aren't quite ready to enter the epicenter of darkness. Don't misunderstand me. Jason Costa is a beast behind the skins. Ballistic missiles with a capital "B". Jeanne Sagan's bass plucking corners you with its smokiness. When he's not overly involved coating his larynx with razor blades to produce that raw dirty sound which makes metalcore an extreme audio trip there's evidence Philip's got a very strong voice. Better yet it's one of those instruments that seems tailored made to soar through the heaviest cloud cover. "What If I Was Nothing" reenacts a man-woman relationship hanging from a tenuous thread. Enough tact is employed in the singing to prevent the teetering on the precipice spirit of unease from crumbling to the ground, a victim of an overdose of gritty melodrama. "Stand Up" remains rooted in the best lyrical metal basics. Perseverance has yielded the hoped for rewards. They're going to let you know that they've come too far to turn back or cringe at the road ahead now. Just the right blend of vigor and delicate fret muscle control. An uncluttered track means nothing's lost in this particular translation. All That Remains doesn't lack for vision. They would benefit from a visit from their current creative eye doctor, be it a veteran producer or whichever of the five of them has the clearest sense of where this hard driving machine should be gassed up for next.

Ne Yo's R.E.D. Is Incredibly H.O.T.

Ne Yo does an amazing job of stoking his growing reputation as his generation's consummate ladies' man. For his fifth album "R.E.D." he whisks us through a compelling assortment of gnawing romantic entanglements as well as snippets of proof that the mood is too right for the bedroom. I like to compare "Stress Reliever" to that increasingly content state of being one gets when easing into a bubbling hot tub. You have to adjust your though processes from the chilly surface air to the inviting whirl of escalating heat. Once you're there you know that's the seat of pleasure where you belong. Ne-Yo's lower register enhances the one of a kind joy of knowing you have a woman in your life who knows just how to ease your heavy head and heart. The bottomless spiral of divine melody epitomizes the vortex you don't want to escape from. Ne-Yo's choices of special guest contributors is nothing short of impeccable. Teaming up with the husky Tim McGraw, a reigning king of the country music realm prevents "She Is" from being confined to the stuffy label of "one more song where he's head over heels in love and it's all her fault". Ne-Yo's smooth and Tim's back of the flatbed truck conspire to lift this track to the level of easy-going strummer tailor made for reminiscing along the highway of unpredictable amour. Also worth making time for is "Unconditional" a sparkling keyboard-driven confection kept from assuming the role of free roaming set piece by the often reliable drum kit thumping. Ne-Yo wants his lady to know that his talk of emotional support isn't all blow and no show. He solidifies his case through rich choice of smartly controlled note choices. The twinkle in this song's eye speaks to the heart of a vulnerable woman's gut level insecurities. She wants to believe her man's not going to bolt when rough waters seem to be setting up. One track firmly grounded in the key of icy finality is "To Whom It May Concern". In this case Ne-Yo masterfully confronts the ebbing of what was once true romantic magic. You'll most likely need a heavy winter coat just to make it to the final notes. The sentiments send shivers along your deflated heart and are executed with wet Kleenex pathos. I had to relocated my displaced jaw after hearing "Should Be You", an R&B tour de force in which every instrument, every stanza of verse, every injection of depth is dropped in place at just the right location as if Ne-Yo and his homeys Fabolous and Diddy were coming together to solve a troublesome boy-girl jigsaw puzzle and intuitively knew where the pieces fit just right. A pox on the crib of the coulda, woulda, shoulda nigger who doesn't appreciate the value of a good woman. Trouble is the three guys are disturbed by the realization that the woman sleeping next to them is both there in body but troublingly absent in spirit. How chilling not to mention an unavoidable takedown for their tickers. Advanced word is encouraging. In a musical universe where style often trumps substance that's as it should be. Ne-Yo's bread and butter is navigating the slow jam R&B kingdom with a hypnotically gilded scepter. Although he does adapt nicely to more uptempo tracks as well as the occasional foray into club bangers such as "Don't Make Em Like You" featuring Wiz Khalifa, when he's in percolate mood trying to affirm to his ladies that he specializes in sincere romantic declarations, he is not only in a league of his own, one could be forgiven for thinking he founded the league rather than picking up a tip or three from past masters. "R.E.D." comes just in time for holiday gift giving. Trust me, Ne-Yo is for all the world a gift that will very likely keep on giving for years to come.

Aerosmith's New Dimension Sounds Out Of This World

Like McDonald's or Papa John's, Aerosmith is a reliable brand. You always know what you're going to see on the menu and, what's more, you always know you'll hit upon something tasty. After an 11 year hiatus, the Bad Boys of Beantown resurface with "Music From Another Dimension" which lands commodiously in the category of "a little something for everyone". Steven Tyler's venerable pipes are cranked up to full howl for "Street Jesus". The band's mojo runs to white hot fever pitch here. Tyler testifies and his fury leaves you hard pressed to take a pass on listening. "What Could Have Been Love" is a radio friendly adult contemporary rumination where no band member crowds others out. Love that should've and could've been but ultimately wasn't has Tyler searching for the why of it all. Classic Aerosmith from Joey Kramer's drums to the guitar backdrop. "Closer" is a stunningly sweat-drenched slow cooker blending Joe Perry's electricity masterfully with Tom Hamilton's equally arousing bass. Steven's wistful performance throbs with the conviction of an unrequited ache. He's wrestling with a lover's flame too imposing to turn off. No need for alarm if you're scared there are no bawdy free for all spine melting rock chunks in the set. Not only does "Lover Alot" annihilate from the jump, the none too subtle erotic imagery is boner bait for you virile or hoping to become virile guys out there. Steve plants praise before the female form by saluting both her hair and her "wet". Bounce that around in your heads next time you're primed to take a shower. Stem to stern "Alot" is a swagger showcase. Rock radio's opening present, "Legendary Child" features tried and true multi-part harmonies of the variety Aerosmith essentially owns the patent. Four decades in not one volt of ring rust can be found. All that time apart rejuvenated them to a massive degree. "Music From Another Dimension" stands out from the crowded rock pack as an out of this world triumph.

Parkway Drive's Atlas Is One Compellingly Twisted Set of Road Maps

I'm pretty much a neophyte to metalcore, the subgenre of metal most readily known for Cookie Monster vocals which is, true to form for the Sesame Street legend, raspy yet highly emotive almost to the point where one wonders if the singer/screecher can pull himself back off the ragged edge. What I do find highly sexy about the style is how driven the bands themselves can be. They launch their adrenaline higher and higher and higher until just when you think they've lost all sense of direction the zig-zagging comes in for a commendable three-point landing. Parkway Drive is an outfit best gobbled down as a total package. If the sum of the parts prove greater than any individual the band's brought its best work to the table. The New South Wales, Australia combo's latest goes by the name "Atlas". As most of us likely know an atlas is a collection of road maps helping its owner navigate countless national and worldly locales. Chalk one up for apt product announcement. "Atlas" succeeds at both crafting delicate grooves as well as the time-tested go for the jugular metal maniacal guitar passages and drum lid lifters. For example it's not possible to absorb the opening notes to "The Slow Surrender" without feeling the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. That's a bone-chilling introduction that leaves you curious about what's around the next bend. Luke "Pig" Kilpatrick should given a pat on the back for his mastery in mood setting. Within the bounds of that same song the guitar's pulse rate soars from the free and easy "watch me show off with some basic key carnage" to an unabashed machine gun delivery. It's like being caught in one of those immense flood situations only you don't exactly want to be possessed of the smarts needed to come in out of the rain. The sultan of guttural scream, Winston McCall's PreCambrian focus cleaves to fighting for one's life. He espouses remaining firmly in the moment for "Death is a heartbeat away". I remind everyone that the sum of the parts make listening experiences like this more likely to be planted  in the realm of compelling rather than that weird car crash we're glad we aren't playing the role of victims in. The ideally named "Dream Run" flat out pummels your skull with Ben Gordon's top drawer drum exhibition. No need to test him for steroids but, on the other hand, who'd blame you for inquiring. "Swing" contains another heaping helping of Ben unchained. It bears mentioning that these guys have an impressive way with designing their sound as melodic enough to be more mainstream accessible but not so pandering as to alienate die-hards who don't want their metalcore to be offered up to them as tap water weak. "Sparks" proves my point ably. Guitar in this instance is of a lighter acoustic stripe, all the easier to allow Winston to suggest that, "We are all sparks in a darkening world. Yet some things were meant to burn". Repeatedly Parkway Drive eases you in with powerful yet not unduly menacing note sequences and then, the demonic possession factor jumps up to eleven on the volume knob, twelve if you can believe that's possible. What's most exciting is Parkway Drive have apparently hit their full stride as a band in only their fourth full length CD. The evolution process should be endlessly fascinating. "Atlas" guarantees to take music listeners on journeys that leave them exhausted, but in the most rewarding of ways.

Toby Keith's Hope Is Beer-Fueled Paradise

Toby Keith deserves some country boy friendly applause for "Hope On The Rocks" the latest link in his sixteen album body of work which reinforces the widely held notion in country circles that a little beer with just the right head of foam makes the toughest of hoed roads easier to manage. Where Mr. Keith thrives is when paying homage to the kingdom of Shiner Bock, Budweiser and, since I happen to be a Texas resident I can't overlook this, Lone Star. On "I Like Girls That Drink Beer" he endorses a preference for women who aren't so caught up in their la-di-dah social standing, mansions and related opulence, that they can't hoist a col'one. The simple pleasure wins out over the silver spoon. The charm is in his unabashed honesty. You'll discover more of a randy homage to the perfectly curved woman in "The Size I Wear". John can have his pick of any woman he wants so long as it's not Toby's ideal heavenly sent creation. The drums jack up the machismo quotient a good bit. You know the two gents aren't coming to blows because they have this primeval understanding of territorial rights. Out of all 10 tracks this one's the most clearly realized instance of Toby out for a good time and the good women that such leisure implies. Women and beer...two thirds of the country music holy trinity and he hammers home the right snapshots. As if those weren't enough of a portrait of what Keith craves try on "Cold Beer Country". The loose jointed horn. The high kicking Full Monty for the roadhouse set attitude. Keith's a road warrior you want to bring out of the rain and appease because beer satisfies him so completely. Not that he's a one trick pony. "You Ain't Alone" is teeth chattering not because you'll be scared to sleep without a light on but because the echoed hauntings of what life's dished out to this point, coupled with a dizzying hyper shift of minor chords divert one's attention to the ever rotating kaleidoscope of circumstances we face in one flavor or another. Telltale signs of a homeowner who's spent more than a few twilights seeking out inner calm. The man is in one corner of the world. The women is equally restless in another. Try not to own portions of his bottled up intensity after a few listens. It bears reaffirming that the Toby Keith people went bat shit crazy for due to "Red Solo Cup" is the same relatable joe, quite possibly multiplied by one stein's worth of sip service. "Hope On The Rocks" goes down agreeably, bubbles and all.

Flyleaf's New Horizons Sound Sharp

Lacey Sturm's voice springs out with purpose throughout Flyleaf's "New Horizons" album. That heart on her sleeve teems with fire. Unlike Pink, who sprinkles mischief all over her performance style or Adele, who's a soulful belter, Lacey's ace in the hole is the clarity with which she uses her instrument. If you dare to dream and battle with the frustration of not feeling like you're getting any closer to achieving it as days pass then "Cage On The Ground" is sure to be one of your new 2012 jams. Lacey directs her energy all the way to the back of the room. Sameer Bhattacharya and Jared Hartman prove themselves to be a formidable guitar tag team repeatedly. Where the fret boards grab center stage is "Broken Wings". Comparing the chord progressions to a painter's color wheel, this song radiates gentle yellows and oranges. Lacey, ever grateful for friendship and the memories that often ensue strokes listeners with an ever so gentle caress. She assumes a defiant, steeled pose for "Stand", prepared to face the world with open hand and ears. Accelerated pacing toward the close makes the track a worthy anthem. Most eerie in this bag of alt-rock tricks is "Bury Your Heart". The slight quiver in her delivery is just unsettling enough to promote shivers. The song's focus seems to be on the difficulties of maintaining a lush life (references to gold and platinum, valuable markers of units sold in the recording industry). "New Horizons" highlights the importance of living in the moment. On the title track James Culpepper is at his beat-keeping best. This leads me to believe he's taking its message to heart. Lacey has since left the band to focus on her blossoming family. "New Horizons" demonstrates that she injected plenty of affection and raw vocal strength into Flyleaf before she opted to embrace the new horizons in her private life.

Bridgit Mendler's Debut Should Remain Nameless

Cheese is valuable in an American diet. However as a trait running throughout Bridgit Mendler's recording debut "Hello My Name Is" it makes me reach for the cringe button almost without realizing the impulse reaction has been executed. Time after time the lyrics are too goofy to be believed. Take "The Fall Song" for instance. Specifically I can't take my mind off her description of the boy in her life. He's "like sunshine with a chance of rain". In meteorological terms there's room for optimism. But why the chance of rain? Does Bridgit have herself on guard for the heartache she suspects will reward her devotion? "5:15" presents her as some sort of heartache cursed heroine with, as she puts it, "enough strength to flip a pancake". Thanks to the songwriting I'm not even showering much attention on Bridgit's attempts to sound street ("Where u be at?" from "The Fall Song") or the PG-rated softness even the dance oriented-numbers ("Ready Or Not") suffer from. Spelling out one of the words in your song's title, in Bridgit's case the "window" frame in "Rocks At My Window" isn't adorable or adorably menacing. Obnoxious would be the better adjective. I'm not won over by the subject matter either. Okay, so being cooped up in your bedroom fending off the loathsomeness of stupid people participating in reality TV sucks out loud. Nothing earth shattering there. Or how about Bridgit's desire to live like Oprah in "Ready Or Not". Pop culture icon reference? Check. Then there's "Hold On For Dear Love". She treated Mr. Possibly Right like a punching bag and used the worst words during her fit of pique. Homespun snapshots of teen suburbia just don't linger in memory after the CD concludes. It apparently flies with sizable pockets of the Disney Channel crowd because, as of this posting, it's taking up cozy real estate in Billboard Magazine's Top 20 Album Chart. Hopefully the overwhelming portion of that demographic respects well-articulated lyrics over scribblings that could have been pieced together over a drowsy morning in which the coffee hadn't managed to ignite a buzz. Any comparisons between Bridgit and Carly Rae Jespen are a little premature. Carly's "Call Me Maybe" did a paramount job playing off of the teen innocence whereas Bridgit lays her brand of charms a bit too thick. "Hello My Name Is" doesn't warrant much formal introduction.

Shiny Toy Guns Firing On All Cylinders

The word that Shiny Toy Guns followers are bound to keep returning to again and again in describing the sound of "iii" is "ethereal". I like to think of that word, at least when it's introduced in a musical context, as the sound of possibilities being explored. The road is wide open. The things you could do at the mixing console are endless. Just three bonafide studio albums in, this L.A. foursome linked to various genres such as indie rock, synthpop, and New Wave, dazzles me with the versatile ways it chooses to try and master the possibilities. Man and woman linked arm and arm escaping what reality throws at them is a theme that is returned to time and again. Nowhere is this truer than "Wait 4 Me". It pushes the six-minute mark but you quit nitpicking once you learn how fully committed to their cosmic travels they are. Co-vocalist Carah Faye Charnow presents herself as a heroine with rooting value. The opening moments of the song are marked by her whispered discontent for where she happens to be psychologically and geographically. Buoyed by a jabbing synth she conveys a wish to fly high above the din. Gregori Chad Petree, her romantic partner in crime feels entropy setting in on his soul too. Midway through the song the twosome merges to create divine shared harmony. Chalk up one for the camp which claims a problem shared is a problem halved. Their voices blend seamlessly as two pieces of the same puzzle finally in the right place right time, ready to stage a jail break. Not everything about this record beats a path back to the "us vs. them" story. "Speaking Japanese" leaves nothing to the imagination and that's a wonderfully catchy thing. Sounds like Gregori went out back and rammed some rough edges into his guitar to come up with a blunt uncompromising salvo of notes. Don't be scared, though. In this 3:08 nugget this blunt instrument gives way to Carah joining the legion of coy women of danceable rock calling out to the fellas, "It's my body and you can't have this!" Whether you or your dance partner is drunk or sober the track is wickedly grinding. Shiny Toy Guns has the talent to pull off an aching piano ballad amidst the installation of synth mattresses. I wholeheartedly believe "Take Me Back To Where I Was" is one of the best songs here. No macho testosterone flexing. No complex arrangement threatening to collapse under the burden of its own ambition. At this point one suspects the band has outgrown the club circuit. However, "Take" has the solace fountain jacked up to overflowing. It wouldn't be out of place on the set list for a humble piano player pouring his heart out for chump change. Gregori's decision not to sugarcoat how severely his heartstrings have been yanked on is commendable. Not only that, it's the chief reason explaining why the song has the power to slice through the most jaded, romance-opposed folks. The other song that no reviewer worth a lick should leave out of the Shiny Toy Guns discussion if he is giving shout outs to top drawer songcraft is "If I Lost You". If you can envision a vintage '80s Depeche Mode song only there's a female vocalist writhing in the displeasure that comes with knowing you're separated from the person who as Tom Cruise declared in Jerry Maguire "completes you" then you get the drift. Everything about this song sets the stage for a prime '80s New Wave flashback. Were you into prime mopey Cure? Did you marvel at the space alien hirsute Flock of Seagulls? You'll need to get a deep enough bucket to corral the drool that's going to fall once "Lost" permeates your eardrums. This is perfectly orchestrated '80s era synthpop. The angst quotient soars. The synthesizers keep the song blasting along the rails. Even the a-capella haze at the close will have you forgetting it's not 1984 anymore. Mikey Martin attacks the drum kit with relentless relish. Jeremy Dawson's bass mixes dark elements with a slick "I'm always watching you at every turn" aura of self-satisfaction. In our pop culture, projects with Roman numerals attached to them generally indicate sequels (Superman II, Rocky IV, etc...). It would be an inexcusable mistake to commit that crime with "iii". All the pieces gel to make an outstanding whole which deserves to stand alone as a artistic contribution of impressive individual merit.

Stone Sour Builds Its New "House" on a Solid Foundation of Complacency Shattering Rock

Corey Taylor isn't one of those guys I'd want to have to face off with in an alley. He's intimidating to say the least. As front man of Stone Sour his commanding presence puts him in rarefied air as a leading post-millennial spokesman for whom "life" has been replaced by "existence". "House of Gold and Bones", Part 1" is one enviably inspired undertaking. "Tired" scores on several levels. James Root's guitar carries with it the weight of the titular adjective. This backdrop of being pushed past reasonable limits extends its spirit of oppression as the seconds pass. Corey's voice conveys how fed up he is at a life with no exit to sanity. The highest praise I can muster up for "Last of the Real" is that it pounces on you with a fury Metallica employs to revelatory effect. No quarter given or taken. The diabolical fret theatrics spell out a headbanger's nirvana. In the case of "Taciturn" thought out ambition doesn't add up to lukewarm rock. This track's just as awe-inspiring as metal singles featuring guitars which leap off the front porch like a dog who's unsure where his next meal's coming from. Corey can no longer insist he parted ways with his sensitive side eons ago. The guitar riffs caress instead of pulverize. The resulting song is a stunner that makes me respect Corey's emotional range even more. Such indelible poetry from the tough as nails face of Slipknot? Wow is a gigantic understatement. You'll lap up "RU486" if fist-soaring anthems make you break out in celebratory prickly heats. By comparison "A Rumor of Skin" stands out to due to Roy Mayorga's machine gun style drumming and razor blade gruff guitar. What "Absolute Zero" says about Corey Taylor, regardless of whether the man himself is truly spiritual is that the God he prays to finds it quite kosher to get pissed off, to react when pushed. It's defiant in the superior tradition of metal. There's plenty to savor with part one. I'm counting the months until part two sees the light of day. Corey and friends have reasons to be impressed with themselves. Stone Sour is back, back with a vengeance, and back to kick the butts of all who question their carved corner of rock supremacy.