Being Drunk The Only Way To Swallow New Beyonce

There are a few things in the music world you can be sure of these days. First of all, Beyonce should be on her way to running the world by the end of the next decade. Second of all, we've known from early in her solo career that Beyonce songs are production numbers, not little dashed off songs that are as disposable as the paper plate you just ate last night's leftovers off of. I'm scratching my head following a go around with "Drunk In Love" which teams our heroine back up with Jay-Z with whom she sang "Deja Vu". She certainly has her carnal lust ethos working here. Lots of rim thumping beats in play. The usual galaxy of techno programmed keyboard effects. Beyonce belts out the chorus "We be all night, in love, in love". with the authority of an Amazon woman holding court over her subjects. No dis coming from the Ear Buzz camp surrounding her ability to get her audience sufficiently aroused. Insert Tarzan/Jane loincloths here. What's troubling is in the end "Drunk In Love" amounts to all blow and no show. Beyonce lovers feel free to boo, hiss, or both at the mention of even the slightest disparaging remark towards one of this century's reigning chart queens. I didn't find "Didn't mean to spill that liquor all on my attire". all that appealing. In fact tastelessly slutty would be a better description. Was "Can't keep your eyes off my fatty" necessary?" I realize as a red-blooded American male that image is supposed to make my tongue come sliding out of my head like something out of an old Looney Tunes cartoon. In fact it makes me want to take a shower to wash off the icky sensations I'm getting. All the same I do give Jay-Z two points for not rapping "bush" as part of his contribution to these proceedings. Your grandma would surely blush. Not that Jay-Z is church choir pure either. Need some proof? Why not consider: "We sex again in the morning, your breastetests is my breakfast. Oh goody. Makes my Cheerios breakfast sound ultra conservative. And who really needed a music history rewind to Ike Turner, wife beater. The justice is Anna Mae Bullock, Tina Turner to you and I, certainly has outlived him in every way that it counts. "Foreplay in a foyer?" "Fucked up my Warhol?" Was he attempting to line rhyme foyer with Warhol? (Deep cleansing breaths. Deep cleansing breaths.) The two of them can throw in whatever methods of tonsil hockey they want and litter the landscape with as much pop culture history as they want. It doesn't cover up the fact that the production is more massive than the song itself. "Single Ladies" had sass. "Irreplaceable" laid down the law. This is Rihanna-level smutty. True, both woman have a long list of chart hits but that doesn't mean going for the lowbrow shock and awe response is beneath them. For someone with the global entertainment influence of Beyonce, "Drunk In Love" represents what to my way of thinking is her first career step backwards. Make no mistake, Beyonce is the type of girl who could easily have nine lives in this business. Besides which hip hop is chock full of singles that pass themselves off as larger than life when in fact they're no more imposing than the frail old man behind the curtain in The Wizard of Oz". It's as if the top stars of today are all overcompensating for something. Maybe it's actual profundity. Maybe it's the constant masculinity check. Who can say. I don't have nearly enough time to do a psychological inventory on them. Long story short, "Drunk In Love" might be best digested after a nice concentrated shot of whisky because it's quite jarring without alcoholic additives. I'm pretty sure her core faithful will be all over this and the eventual "Beyonce" album like the proverbial white on rice. However, to my way of thinking the woman who time after time has brought sizzle to the charts has brought us a song that's a little burnt to a crisp. She would be best advised to show instead of tell.

Ed Sheeran Does a Slow Burn For An Explosive Hobbit Movie

Ed Sheeran has got an incredible gig at this moment. The London transplant has a smoldering single stemming from an appointment view holiday Hobbit movie (Peter Jackson, you could retire in style right now, you do realize that,yes?) and at 22 one suspects the good times haven't even begun to stop rolling. The song in question is "I See Fire". Lots of understated manly goodness to it. Raw power as brandished by Ed and his trusty acoustic guitar. The trend of holding back the hard charging emotion can also be felt within Ed's presentation itself. In fact in isn't until the last portion of the song that he ventures far beyond the whisper soft level of communication. Good move. These are Hobbit creatures in battle mode. Let's not yuck up their quest with too much heart on the sleeve vulnerability. One thing anyone who's seen The Lord of the Rings series knows is that a great number of titanic battles are waged in the name of what's right. The movies, while eternally enjoyable, aren't exactly for the faint of heart. Ed's contribution to The Desolation of Smaug respects the Rings/Hobbit pedigree. He's created the picture of a band of brothers who are going to die with their boots on if it has to be. Naturally fire is everywhere. Look at those burning trees? Look at the mountain. I tells ya' the humanity of it all!! Blood in the breeze, too. Climactic confrontations are made of poetry like this. Gently Ed strums along stopping along the way for one maybe two chord shifts tops. By the time he pours on the electricity late in the melody making the full weight of what the thespians on screen are doing starts to sink in. "I See Fire" continues the tradition of pairing epic musical compositions with movies that merely demand you add a plus-sized popcorn and stir. Sheeran, responsible for captivating fare such as "The A Team" and "Lego House", the latter of which has an adorable video featuring Rupert Grint, Ron Weasley from Hogwarts to we on the pop culture cusp, has every reason for optimism. His boyish face is definite catnip for the female half of the population. "I See Fire" is going to give the male section, particularly the feelings challenged a nice little slab of raw meat to nosh on. Christmas definitely came early this year. Mr. Sheehan has come up with a possible career statement here. That statement is "I'm on my way to the top of the mountain so get used to it."

Brother, I Can Spare a Few Minutes For Avicii's Inspired Partnership

From this end of the blogosphere I wish all of you a Merry Xmas. If it has started out well I hope that trend continues. If it started out badly I hope you or someone you know found a way to restore your holly jollies. If you wish Christmas would go away already I'm afraid only Father Time can assist you there. He is good at taking those kinds of requests though, so hang in there. Now then, for those in the "up with Xmas" frame of mind I've got this little musical stocking stuffer for you. Address your thank-yous to Swedish mixmaster Avicii who came up with the genius idea to pair his everything including the kitchen sink found instruments technique with the salt of the earth pipes of bluegrass Bubba Dan Tyminski for "Hey Brother". I applaud the timeliness. I'm also in favor of its capacity to buoy flagging spirits. This guy takes the good samaritan cake for sure. Ever helpful and curious of mind is he. He professes that even if the sky comes falling down he'd be there to lend a hand. He asks his fellow men if they believe in one another. To sister he asks if her believe in love exists. Deep ponderings for the holiday but not exactly out of place. Dan has a voice that likely projects well atop any of this world's mountains. The beat moves with purpose. I'm thinking Mumford & Sons only graced with heartland folksiness. On to Avicii. This 24 year-old whose Clark Kent everyday world name is Tim Bergling (I guess Tim Bergling doesn't look as bad ass on a concert hall marquee, huh.)is generous with the spices he ushers into his mix. The percussion pounds. There's a richly manufactured horns section at work. If you blink you'll miss this parade. You'll find the song on his current "True" album. What Dan is harmonizing about couldn't be any truer. Perhaps the anti St. Nick throngs are going to think "How cheesy. Didn't we get force fed enough of this fluffy goo in 1997 when Aqua foisted "Barbie Girl" on us? There's no comparison. If niceness has gone out of style then I'm glad to be a resident in good standing of Squaresville. Not every tune in the universe has to be about political unrest or the latest batch of societal ills threatening to drag our planet into an insurmountable abyss. Dan says "Hello, I'm here for you." That's enough of an olive branch for me. Avicii's gift for us is lurching into fourth gear in a regret free state of mind. Helping others doesn't sound so much like a society mandated slice of punishment. If you have momentum and the willingness to act on that momentum possibilities sprout up where there weren't any before. "Hey Brother" is the bull antsy to kick up a ruckus in the china shop. We'd be best advised to let it run free. Congratulations Avicii and Dan on a sentiment executed with sizable vigor. Maybe Dan's performance here will entice some record label to gift him with a credited gig next time. "Hey Brother" possesses the power to lift you from your funk whether your a brother, sister, mother, father, grandparent, or beloved house pet. That's a present too important to bury in glossy wrapping paper.

Broken Bells Indulge In The Kookier Side of Life

Broken Bells isn't your average side project. It is a Los Angeles unit comprised of Brian Burton from Danger Mouse and James Mercer from The Shins who have been on my "One To Watch" list since they uncorked "Phantom Limb" back in 2006. The first single from this twosome's soon to be released "After the Disco" album is called "Holding On For Life". It really does grab you as an artistic statement steeped in clinging to the IV drip of whatever vitality's nearby. Somehow you'd not be stared at were you to play this song in a graveyard. Scooby and pals would lap this thing up. Space rock is one of this band's categorized genres. Plenty of "we are not alone" unsteadiness pervades the material. This is how you wield a bass. Steady as a Timex watch. Good thing there's a steady pulse here because the lyrics only give off vibrations of cold comfort if any comfort is given at all. Loneliness is glorified which to me makes no sense. I realize it's a big world and with so many millions of people milling around it's easy to get lost in the shuffle. But James trumpets it as if there's an honest to goodness crumb of delight lurking somewhere. He's a good host encouraging his female acquaintance to sit a spell. Maybe in a 60 minute span he can get to the bottom of her ills. Since nobody's calling and nobody's home James concludes, "What a lovely day to be lonely. Such a defeated sentiment holds true to the artist's credo that usually infects the world of motion pictures too. In order for a critic to like a piece of art it has to leave its audience unsettled, hopeless, worthless, you get the picture. Joyous nostalgia trips and gifts with ribbons on top aren't part of the package. Is there really ever a lovely day to be lonely or is that the bitch deal you've been handed because either your standards are too high or everyone around you has standards which are too low? Anyway, this day, not the sunny day sweeping the clouds away that Sesame Street introduced many children to, is responsible for the sense that this poor female lead in the passion play of existence is holding on for life. The outer space techno creepiness fills a substantial role. Whether you want to see this as audio confirmation that the poor soul is about to flatline or not is up to you. You've probably had moments during the day when you've been physically present but your head is a million miles away. "Holding On For Life" could easily be the soundtrack playing in your unsuspected wanderings. The drumming inches the eeriness factor up a few degrees. It's holding us hostage, begging us to enrage it enough to carry out one of those "things you can't take back" moments. The pistol's cocked at our heads. Circumstance has brought us to a perilous precipice. As a unit Brian and James did their homework on what it sounds like to be groovy. You wouldn't mistake the song as a dance classic but sweating the night away is a real possibility even if you decide do use the track as a horizontal mambo inducer. I can't speak for what your preferences are. I can only suggest. "Holding On For Life" is a song that encourages listeners to unearth what makes its shaky heart beat. As the prime curiosity in 2013 music's curiosity shop the possibility of endless fascination lingers on for hours. This is music you disappear into and, what's more, you're not likely to ever be the same. Broken Bells is to be saluted for daring to be way out where the buses don't run.

The New Single From Childish Gambino Definitely Not An "Internet" Sensation

Into the rap breach we go once again people!! It really is a shame when an artist's stage name is more interesting than the single he's promoting. The culprit is one Childish Gambino whose mild-mannered daytime persona is Donald Glover. There have been at least a few eye-popping Glovers in the entertainment world during the past three to five decades. There's Roger Glover from classic rock kings Deep Purple and Danny Glover from the Lethal Weapon movie series. Methinks I'd rather spend my free time on one of them. Childish Gambino's "3005" single does nothing to elevate the hip hop scene or pop culture in general. He's rapping in front of noises closely resembling a woodpecker pecking out notes. Either that or a snake whipping out his tongue to snap keys. Snake reminds me of pro wrestler Jake "The Snake" Roberts who, at least in a fictitious sense hailed from Stone Mountain, Georgia. Stone Mountain, Georgia's where Childish Gambino's from. Why is it some of these rappers boost their songs with the impression that they're being hurtled through space rather than bowling you over with their artistry? Once more it's all about fucking those other niggas. Were it not for the sentiment he vows to be by his girl's side until 3005 I'd put him on the out pile right now. "3005" is the first single off of "Because The Internet". Because the Internet what? He doesn't even have an album title that brings with it the promise of some brand of closure. It hangs there, stifled. "Got no patience, cause I'm not a doctor." Mr. Gambino is a comedian (for real) as well as a rapper. With material like that he's at least sensible enough to drop the open mike mike and turn his attention to rap. Wait a minute. His mind doesn't have a sharp focus on that front either. Our tour of game changing wordsmith demonstrations continues with the likes of, "Girl why is you lying, girl why you Mufasa?" I'm pretty sure the creators of The Lion King weren't thinking to themselves, "Maybe if this movie captures the imagination of enough people maybe years from now some rap dude will name drop some element of it in his song. And what's with "got a stripper like Gaza"? I didn't bring my hood logic to English translator with me. File that under "things I'll always regret." All I can ascertain is that the brother was simply wanting to find some word, phrase, clause, gardening rake, phone app, or fake vomit that kind of rhymed with Mufasa. Could've shown some respect to the burgeoning Latino audience by rhyming Mufasa with masa, which means "dough" in English. Not the dough Childish thinks he'll make butt loads off of this song. It's the dough that can be used to make tortillas, and eventually tacos. Trust me. If I didn't at least try to inject some humor value into this review I'd have begun and ended by proclaiming, "This song bites. Have a pleasant evening." Lucky for you all my eyes are always on the prize. Hold on a sec. You're right. He did say, "Mi casa su casa." Again I ask why didn't he slip masa in there? You think that audience is going to feel valued if he ditches them within the same stanza to cozy up to some Egyptian territory? Can't be all things to all people. Multi-tasking doesn't tend to end well for anyone. Anybody want to explain away "Got so high off volcanoes, now the flow is so lava?" Unless Childish Gambino is trying to cleverly send a message to kids that inhaling rubber cement will give you permanent brain damage there's zero noteworthy point behind these lyrics? LSD, sure. Crack cocaine, you betcha. Volcanoes? Um.....okay. He can't just fling things against a wall and call that art. A four year-old's finger painting has more substance than this. And "we spit that saliva" is TMI all around. You add to that a later passage that works overtime to drive home the bleakness of a lifeless future. "We all just ticking time bombs". Thanks O Childish One. If it wasn't for the fact I've been cursed with this pesky survival instinct thing you've given me enough motivation to leap off a bridge. Is there anyone who wants anything more out of life than to reminded of how futile it all is...or appears to be? More inspiration and less perspiration (over the goings-on in a year he won't even be around for)would have been appreciated. Childish Gambino, for the moment anyway, is the rice cake of rappers. Little about him is tasty. You don't get that full feeling. Plus you're left wanting more...of just about anything else. I'm not saying this is the spot where my aural love affair with Drake got accidentally stoked but Drake does deserve credit for sparking revulsion. "3005" is Shrug City. Even the energy required to shrug my shoulders looks wasted. Childish Gambino's foray into the rap market isn't suitable for people of any age.

Share Some Deep Fried Synthesizer Sorcery With Chvrches

Before I put four on the floor for this review I must indicate that the last word in the subject line is not a typo. Yes, the word is pronounced as you think it is. Altars, choir boys, chalice wine, the whole nine yards. It's the plural for that building. Okay opening bit of business kicked to the curb. Now for synthesizers ample enough to fill a room with wide ceiling acoustics. Phil Spector had his wall of sound decades ago. Glasgow, Scotland's Chvrches is doing a bang up job personifying one of its own using "The Mother That We Share" as its demo. Since the late 1970s' when Gary Numan strode into the barely pre-MTV music landscape, synthesizers have garnered this reputation of being detached from human feeling. The programming fools us into thinking there real human hands playing real drums, guitars or whatever. But make no mistake, synths could bring anybody in the mood for a cultural debate into a conversation regarding how the dehumanization of society was predicted by the musicians of this time frame. In Styx's conceptually ahead of the curve pop smash "Mr. Roboto" Dennis DeYoung asserted that "Machines dehumanize". With all of us continuing to age during an age when noticing people constantly buried in the activity of their smartphones isn't a rarity anymore who's to say Dennis wasn't a genius who spotted the trend before any of us knew it would grow up to become one. Even though synths aren't necessarily the stuff of bold artistic statements, in Chvrches's hands they bring an intoxicating moodiness to its work. That delicate flower you hear perched ever so gently at the tip of those synths is Lauren Mayberry. She's got no small measure of intelligence in terms of how she opts to let the sheet of techno ambiance guide her along as if it was wind at her back. The close your eyes and inhale sequences make me think this trio's representative sound is a cross between early low level angst Cure and The Temper Trap. "The latter's Sweet Disposition" mirrors the whole outer space head tripping fantasy. Iain Cook and Martin Doherty assist Lauren in whipping up this attention grabbing brew which, like the porridge Goldilocks chose, is neither too hot or cold. In music language that's more like not too fast and indecipherable nor too slow and overwrought. This single originates from an album titled "The Bones of What You Believe". Apt choice for a synth outfit. Synth notes settle in the eardrum, the bones for what ideally sprouts into compelling songs that don't beat you over the head with their steady hum as much as they grab you by the hand and allow you to sink into their isolationist warmth. Call synth music a beanbag chair for the soul if you want. Lyrically this song suggests blood ties that have reached their limit. "The mother that we share will never keep our cold hearts from falling". Good times, huh? Keep the Kleenex handy. You could cry your eye sockets loose after digesting, "I'm in misery where you can seem as old as your omens". I did in fact posit the equation Synth = emotionless. Lyrics like these turn the trick of injecting a slowly weakening heart into a space where vibrancy doesn't thrive all that easily. It's been my understanding (possibly a mistaken one) that the Irish are known for drinking and fighting for the most part. Not a people high on mirth. For me Scotland's prime export, Americanized or not, would definitely be Groundskeeper Willie of "Simpsons" fame. I'm not schooled enough in the verses of Robert Burns to rank him high up there. The message I'm attempting in clumsy fashion to convey to you is "The Mother That We Share" wears the tattered cloak of loneliness, darkness, and cosmic desolation. In short, the synths have done their job gallantly. Perhaps reviewing this song during the run-up to Christmas was a savvy bit of marketing on my part. After all there are large numbers of people for whom Christmas is just another day. "The Mother That We Share" might not fill the void of a warm blanket but its abiding gray pallor ought to be a suitable companion for the misery loves company contingent.

Pentatonix Marches To The Beat of a Different Drum

Of all the Christmas songs that have made the rounds over the years, "Little Drummer Boy" earns a distinction for having a pretty drawn out melody. There's gravity to being that methodical. After all this is the Prince of Peace we're dealing with. Reverence is the least we mortal musicians can do for him. Between the intermittent bells and the chorus I get this sensation that in the hallowed version made back when the earth was cooling and dinosaurs roamed free that it takes every ounce of energy this bunch can muster up to keep the tune from cratering before it hits the finish line. What I'm asking you, the quite possibly Xmas music bombarded, last minute gift buying, I can't keep up this pace anymore throngs is, "Need a break from the War and Peace heavy weight of the chestnut "Pa rum pa pum pum" classic? How about y'all slip into Pentatonix's take on it. Pentatonix is an a cappella group hailing from Arlington, Texas, Texas Ranger baseball territory. This fivesome hooked up with stardom after appearing on the NBC talent show The Sing-Off. Here's a primer on who's who. Scott Hoying is the clean cut guy. Mitch Grassi is the suave man about town guy. Avi Kaplan has that mystique enticing facial hair. Kevin Olusola is the lone black dude on board and he employs his beatboxing skills to convincing effect. Kirstie Maldonado rounds out the bunch as the tender, sweet young thing. Songs of the faith ought to be well...how best to put this without pissing off any well-wishers I may have accumulated to this point...inspiring. You shouldn't be obligated to lug the weight of the world around, look around for the funeral procession you figure must be around here somewhere. Pentatonix gives "Little Drummer Boy" the shot in the arm it needs. When framed in the right light you could actually dance to it. Each member gets a turn to shimmer. Avi's voice surely does fly with the wings of an angel. Scott unleashes his power straight from the diaphragm. Kirstie adds to the celebration with her own prickly heat inducing clarity of pitch. I'm heartened by the fact this drummer boy doesn't go sloshing through the mud until he's reached the steps of the church. Not only do these five talented folks not drag out the mood, they have the spunk needed to play around with the material. We're soaring on a cloud of goodness. Each player displays unsullied athletic grace. The mystery of faith candle shines brightly. For some respectful and by the Good Book is the way to go. I contend Pentatonix's decision to reignite the magic of the season was/is a stroke of genius. On the choice "Pa rum pa pum pums" they kick around the refrain like hang loose collegians might kick around a hacky sack during a recess in the courtyard. Their message is buoyed whenever they weave in and out of each others paths. Thank you Pentatonix for reminding all of us that if you take good care of it, the human voice is capable of producing some incredibly majestic works of art. This holiday fireplace companion benefits greatly from a fresh log being added.

Queens of the Stone Age Sit By The Ocean With Moodiness

I must say Queens Of The Stone Age know how to drain the life out of love. "I Sat By The Ocean" goes the extra mile in the breathtaking arrangement area. Both the bass and electric guitar are a dreariness coated disfigurement,wobbling from one point on the chord scale to another. Michael Shuman gives us bass that has no qualms about flexing its muscle. Meanwhile Josh Homme's guitar drops in that much needed angst crucial to making the song a curiosity you have to stick around for even though deep down you're saying to yourselves "Whatever predicament this man and woman are in it can't end all that well." That the universe of the song doesn't stay in one place staring at its navel makes it that much easier to want to care for the two people involved. There's this understated crescendo that builds as Josh flits from note to note. The end of the storyline arc is so satisfying. If I was to connect a weather condition to this song I'd say steady rain with precious little chance of things clearing up any time soon. These two are like ships passing in the night. Sympathy? Don't bother giving it to him. The potion he drinks to erase her doesn't achieve the desired result. Crying isn't going to cut it either. I guess the central leading man is as far away from content as one can be. Eventually the passing ships crash. The open flesh wounds bleed out. The Titanic of meet cutes this most definitely is. Jon Theodore doesn't put much strut on display behind the kit. His version of skin bashing is familiar to the interaction between an overwrought soul and his friend who isn't sure how close to come before he's unintentionally making the agony worse. "Time wounds all the heals" is a notably sinister warping of the old "Time heals all wounds" saying. In Josh's way of putting it Time rips open all signs of psychological closure. As breakup songs go this beauty isn't too far away from downbeat violins which are loathe to leave minor chords. "I Sat By The Ocean" is suitable for those lonely nights when basic brooding won't cut it. The Palm Desert, California group's current "...Like Clockwork" album could be deemed heavy rock on the basis of this track alone. Check out the rest of the set only if you have enough reserve energy left following the futile yet needed cry you're bound to have after reaching out to these fractured folks.

A Little Slice of Heaven From Boston

Certain bands have a signature sound. With the changing decades certain bands like Heart and Foreigner traded in '70s open highway appropriate blasting off the speakers rockers for the more polished '80s studio engraved way of making music. As is true with any art form it's comforting to know some outfits stay as true to their core essence as possible. Nobody's gonna tell them how to make their music on their terms. Boston is one such group. Since the 1970s car stereo classic "More Than A Feeling" erupted into the stratosphere this band stays true to its guitar oriented rock. You could easily contend what Boston gives the audience is comfort food for the ears. "Heaven on Earth" the first single from "Life, Love, and Hope" promises to satiate your rock urges in the space of 3 minutes, 38 seconds. You know you're getting smoldering, manly vocals to go along with riffs that would sound right at home in 1976. The lyrics summon up yet another mishmash of lover's angst. You know the type...that whole "I thought love would be enough for me in this life" sort of theme. For good measure we're treated to the image of a tormented soul out in the rain who's so desperate for the need of his woman's touch that he doesn't even feel the rain. The song's framework doesn't incorporate any widespread outbreak of cutesy tricks either with guitar or drums. No matter who's called in to service as musicians of the people, bands that dish out nothing more than a solid belt of FM radio goodness don't fade away as the trends twist this way and that. Boston has something in common with that other big time Beantown band we know as Aerosmith. Aerosmith's sound has and always will revolve around Steven Tyler's weather beaten voice and Joe Perry's blazing guitar. Although Brad Delp's rocking out with the heavenly arena goers at this point, his influence on "Heaven on Earth" can't be denied. Curly Smith does the drummin' thing admirably. He's a prime example of a guy in a band who's not trying to blow the other members off the stage/out of the recording studio. He's a role player comfortable with the shoes he has on. One can reach for optimism and hope the rotating roster of members doing vocal duty on the album, one which apparently began its journey from newly hatched to full grown adult back in 2003, works in the bands favor. Not only does founder Tom Scholz take a turn at the mike but so do Brad, Tommy DeCarlo, Kimberley Dahme, and David Victor. "Heaven On Earth" smartly follows the hard rock formula of success. Give the audiences enough juice to bring them to the edge of their seats but don't forget you're nothing if not workmanlike in how you work the crowds into that lather. There are definitely times that, at the end of the day, all you want from your rock is meat and potatoes. Grab a sturdy knife, guys. Dinner is served.

More Power To Britney's Sis

Don't expect to hear the same sort of slick pop or dance stylings springing from the lips of Britney Spears' sister Jamie Lynn. She's opted to travel the country music trail. Looking at the video for "How Could I Want More?" I have to giggle a bit when Jamie sings because the face is very much in the Britney mold so it's forgivable I would think for me to half expect "Oops!...I Did It Again" or "Toxic" to push forth. The woman does come from Kentwood, Louisiana, which makes her choice of genre easy to fathom. The voice is pleasingly delicate and, for a woman merely 22 years old, it's got a worldly wise sensibility to back it up. The lyrics come complete with the drama you've come to expect from her more famous sister. There's the usual "Maybe I should let the poor man go, like a caged bird that needs to fly." The man sounds delicious. He treats her like a princess. He hangs on every word she says. Bonus points if she's a boring conversationalist. The problem she's having is she still seems to want more. In other words, if he sounds too good to be true, he probably is.The arrangements for the song are admirably dialed down. All it takes to light this fire is a delicately strummed acoustic guitar and Jamie Lynn's honky tonk poetry. She suspects there could be more fire and feeling than what he's letting her take a peek at. I've always been convinced that, at the heart of country music there's this simplicity of sentiment, a lack of ladling on so much bullshit that there's more show than show me. At this stage of the game I have to say that Jamie Lynn's done the right thing be giving her audience, potential and established, a little taste of what she can bring to the table in more reliable quantities on down the line. The love him but am sorely tempted to leave him dynamic is well played in Jamie Lynn's hands. There's no lack of youthful vivacity either. If you like precious snapshots of life you can hardly top "lying in the green grass underneath the blue sky". Simple pleasure winning the day. Thumbs up to Jamie Lynn, whether her management team decided for her or if she consciously voted that way, for not deciding for the easy string of hits route big sis Britney raked in the dough with. It gives us all a chance to watch her career blossom on her own terms. We won't be dealing with the saga of the dueling Spears pop tarts. Jamie Lynn's her own woman. No problem with that whatsoever. "How Could I Want More?" demonstrates Jamie Lynn is more than just Britney's sister. She's a performer whose star appears poised to rise.

Enrique's "Heart" Is In The Wrong Place

The new single from Enrique Iglesias lacks heart. That's saying something considering the name of the song is called "Heart Attack". It's not his vocals that have me scratching my head. Relax, ladies. They're still swoon worthy. I could have done without the pandering voice modulation tricks. Even if Enrique is a spicy young Latino there's no need for him to Benjamin Button has artistic bent back to the late teenage years. The other major gripe I have is that this song is apparently supposed to lean heavy on the unrequited passion side. Yet the general aura permeating through the song has me wondering "Since when did Enrique Iglesias compromise his ethics in a bid to scoop up the Neon Trees audience?" To better grasp my meaning flash back to "Bailamos". That sounded true to both his Latino heritage and paternal bloodline. Now listen to Neon Trees "Animal". If you listen closely that sound and what Enrique's given his spirit over to are alarmingly identical. And another thing, given that heart attacks are one of the top exterminators of human beings, why are the rhythms so chipper? Heart attacks usually come with dry mouth, weak legs, and nausea. That's not exactly a thrill ride of the upbeat variety. Yet there's Senor Iglesias getting all mega sensitive ultra emotive on us while a peppy beat races behind him. Can you say awkward? This is a heart attack in the relationship context but that's hardly grounds for the brand of foot on the gas tempo this song gives us. Enrique plays wounded lover to the hilt. Tall drink of water that he is, the role fits him nicely. Said heart attack is motivated by the girl who left him. Living in a world without her is the ultimate agony. What's agonizing to me is hearing Enrique try to thrive using a musical toolbox that doesn't match his full-bodied artistry. Any one of a number of twentysomething flavor of the month bands could've been enlisted to put their spin on this theme using deceptively playful key selections as their paintbrushes of choice. That Enrique did the honors instead leaves me fearing that he's becoming the latest artist forced by the record industry to phone in a sure thing hit prospect instead of showing us his genuine persona. Pop radio may devour it but I'm not planning on coming back for seconds.

Wrap Yourself Up In Kelly Clarkson This Christmas

One of the biggest challenges for any artist covering revered, or repulsive (depending on how you view the season) Christmas songs has to be breathing fresh life into a catalog of songs that often grows tedious by about the third time you've been forced to listen to it while going shopping through Wal-Mart, Best Buy, Marshall's, or any one of the number of other U.S. retailers that descend upon us, begging us to buy like there's tomorrow with money a lot of us in this country don't necessarily have. Kelly Clarkson steps up to the plate for said challenge and knocks one out of the park and onto the unsuspecting windshield of someone's newly bought automobile from start to finish of "Wrapped In Red". There are so many highlights I'm not going to do you the disservice of attempting to do justice to one and all. For the purists out there for whom some chestnuts crackle more resoundingly than others I can tell you right now the Texas native does "Silent Night" proud. Her pipes are strong in all the right places without failing to drop in a little hint of respect for tradition. It's not the by the book church organ ditty you're probably accustomed to. "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" sparkles as an evening of gently falling snowflakes might. If you'd rather the rock octane pop starlet make an appearance, no problem. "Run Run Rudolph" reminds you of the Kelly with fangs from "Ms. Independent". She's always been a cut above some pop songstress. I wouldn't claim she's on the rock end of the stick but her grittiness lends itself well to that genre. It's not inconsequential fluff. "My Favorite Things" is an unabashed delight. Even during a peak hour last minute shopper's meltdown it's highly unlike hearing this song piped in over the Macy's speakers will contribute to unfurling the Grinch that holiday stress feeds on. Kelly's reintroduction to those whiskers on kittens goes down magnificently. The musical ensemble backing her jazzes up the proceedings whether with stylish piano or an electrifying brass section. All you really need to do is insert close friends or curious children and you've got the makings of a fun background collection ideally suited for trimming the newly copped Christmas tree or having a catch-up meeting with the friends you haven't laid eyes on in what seems like forever. You won't be let down by the pep brimming from "Underneath The Tree". The title track possesses a romantic bent that lights a candle, then lets the latest batch of memories burn as a featured attraction in an evening lousy with what one only hopes is undiluted love. "Wrapped In Red" merits consideration as a first class stocking stuffer for the yuletide audiophile in your life. For that matter it would make an excellent reward for your having crossed off all the people on your list, be they easy to buy for damned near impossible. Three cheers to Kelly for not phoning in a project which lends itself to a round of "Just cut me a check and let me get back to actually perfecting my art since these songs are just creaky old cobweb gatherers." Kelly Clarkson doesn't do anything halfway. "Wrapped In Red" proves that goes for Santa stuff as well.

One Direction's "Midnight Memories" Too Easily Forgettable

If there are any One Direction fans out there in the blog reading audience I beg you please don't go postal after reading this review. The newest batch of boy band wonders has a new album "Midnight Memories" in the pipeline and its title track doesn't amount to much more than some peppier than usual wallpaper. Sure the harmonies are agreeable but there isn't any extra firepower to make me want to add it to the repeated listening pile. For the uninformed it is Niall Horan, Zayn Malik, Liam Payne, Harry Styles, and Louis Tomlinson who make up One Direction. They come to us from London. Who knows if they'll ever inspire hoards of screaming girls the way The Beatles did in their day. Yes, I know. That's kind of like comparing a trike to a moped but we shall see if the One Direction followers outgrow the fivesome. On the lyric front all the trappings of the pop star high life are evident. There's the plane to new hotel Point A to Point B. Harry's responsible for providing us with this glimpse into their orbit. Louis then chimes in with the claim that he's at the age where he knows what he needs. Truth be told he's all of 21 years old, street legal to put that in slang term. I went on a vacation trip to New Orleans. I was into my first year of classes at Austin Community College. I definitely did NOT know what I needed backwards and forwards. The strutting tactic I'm sure goes over well with the youngest of the young ladies. The chorus focuses squarely on the titular midnight memories. Young man and young woman stumbling in the street. Then Liam pops in with the eye popping description of his ladylove. She's "five foot something with the skinny jeans". He wants her to follow him rather than looking back. Niall doesn't care how much money gets spent. Tsk tsk...No retirement worries for you lads? Methinks not and, besides, why yuck up a picture of adorable bliss with something as wretched as reality. Ah yes, being with the best buds and fueling the economy. That's what it's all about. On the plus side parents everywhere aren't likely to launch conniptions upon getting wind that their daughters are listening to a delicate truffle like this. On the other hand they won't likely sense the emotional growth of still somewhat impressionable young minds. "Midnight Memories" is cotton candy light on the musical tongue. Too bad it, like the common circus show candy, fades away in the breeze quicker than a song in the library of a momentum gathering 21st century boy band should. The pop music game is all about staying front and center in the public's imagination. I'm afraid One Direction doesn't cut the mustard in that department.

Avril's Not Too Grown Up For The Room

If you miss the skate punk Canadian Avril Lavigne who blasted onto the musical world stage with in your face teen scream standbys like "Sk8er Boi" and "Complicated" you'll be happy to learn from me that the now almost 30 year-old's latest collection holds no shortage of that natural fiery spirit. Only several seconds into "Rock 'n' Roll" and already you'll be able to rest reassured that, regardless of whatever twists and turns have entered her life she hasn't forgotten to return to her feisty roots. "Here's To Never Growing Up" already has proven itself to be as footloose as any ditty playing up the wonder of youth and the fierce determination to hold onto it as the years pass. "17", the number that for the teen scene usually symbolizes drama it is apex as high school graduations draw ever closer, long time bonds grow apart, other bonds move in to lessen the sting, displays Avril's unexpected ability to tell a story so concrete in imagery that you'd be hard pressed not to smell the cigarette ash, to own the fizz from the soda pop cans in the corner store. Avril'a ace in the hole is that she's never been an artist who veers past being PG-rated family friendly. The Marilyn Manson aided creepiness of "Bad Girl" aside, Avril won't alienate the scads of fans who got her where she is today. The just mentioned track does hint at the close that you can tell Avril was having fun goofing around with the '90s era shock rock titan. That's the cutesome laughter of a young woman who was merely humoring her urge to let her wild side come out to play. I classify that as PG-13 but nothing that would give Grandma a coronary and make Mom wonder what she could have possibly been thinking of when she agreed to conceive the demon child who considers this suitable children's entertainment. "Hello Kitty" is weird, but I don't say that disparagingly. It's more of a benign whisper soft free fall through Avril's gentler side. "You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet" supplies a reinforcing shot of Avril, strong twentysomething powerhouse, reminding us that there this chamber of heart that's going to remain eternally young no matter what. She is chomping at the bit to show her faithful what she's worth, and how even more valuable she could potentially be in the future. All that "Sippin' On Sunshine" really needs is a sandy beach. Of course cocoa butter suntan lotion along with the special someone who makes your heart skip beats couldn't hurt. "Bitchin' Summer" encapsulates all that is perpetual motion about a group of youngsters counting down the seconds until the freeing of their academic institutional chains. I don't think it's right to crucify Avril for keeping herself enmeshed in territory that teenagers find infinitely palatable. I do wish she hadn't uttered "Mutha fuckin' princess" during "Rock 'n' Roll" because that strong declaration of self already reared its head in "Girlfriend", one of the heavy hitters from her earlier "Best Damn Thing" set. I know six years is a veritable lifetime's gap in the product demanding music business but she could have kept that zinger in the scrapbook until the nostalgia factor perked up a little. One type of song you won't find here is the enormous epic a la "Keep Holding On". If anything that demonstrates Avril's more committed to affairs of the heart and letting your self loosen up than she is gifting her followers with ready made inspirational wisdom. Fellow Canadian Chad Kroeger, he of Nickelback, the group people either adore fervently or want to tear their hair out upon a fresh listen pops in for "Let Me Go". The steam between the two is loosely contained. This is no octave spiraling contest. His huskiness and her pop princess character play off each other well. "Hush Hush" ends the spunky collection on the finality of a relationship that at one point seemed destined to go places but at this advanced juncture appears headed for the scrap heap. Avril's career certainly isn't earmarked for the realm of yesterday. You can cry "artist development relapse" all you want. I see a shrewdly marketed female who nobody had to force to wear this particular assortment of hats. Perhaps a Behind The Music episode will one day tell us all how poor Avril wasn't happy playing the riot grrrl who wasn't allow to let her teenage history drift into the rear view mirror because her record label saw nothing but dollar signs when she played that part. I prefer to focus on a young woman who isn't so grown up that she's willingly deposited her most loyal fans in the garbage while on the prowl for subject matter that's a little more edgy. A comfortable in her own skin Avril fits perfectly.

Being Baptized By Daughtry Is Sure To Leave You Cleansed

Chris Daughtry, American Idol alumnus, knows how to give his legions of fans what they want. His band's practically brand spanking new album "Baptized" is, in the true spirit of a holiday season gorge fest, stuffed with all the elements of performance that not only answer the question, "What was all the fuss about in the only recent way back when?" but prove Chris and his chums went to and excelled at graduating class in the art of dishing out exemplary pop/rock hooks. The first radio nugget, "Waiting For Superman" has this pinch the cheeks quality about it. Try to be Grinch like after zeroing in on the image of some love starved female pondering the notion that her dreamboat in the red cape with the "S" on his chest merely got hung up at the laundromat and will be along to whisk his ladylove away from her life of high dudgeon at any moment. Keyboardist Elvio Fernandes is to be commended for using his keys to pump up the dreaminess in this unwavering fantasy scenario. If adult contemporary sensibilities aren't the water fountain you scramble to for artistic nourishment you could always test out the title track. It employs the battering ram school of drumming through and through. So you see...Daughtry can be both a gentle and gritty band within the parameters of the same album. Robin Diaz hammers away like the "I've got something to prove tag" is still very much emblazoned in his DNA. Turning to Chris Daughtry's vocals. He knows when to let it all hang out. He's got a pulse pounding instrument that operates on both sides of the affairs of the heart fence. I give him credit for not allowing his audiences to get too comfortable with tunes threatening to cave under the weight of their own vulnerability. In fact "Traitor" has the potential to be downright nightmare inducing. What the heck happened to the gentle giant who admitted his failures without apology on "Broken Arrows". That so and so is ready to reholster his Cupid arrows and head off into the unfulfilled sunset. This hooligan wants to pin his betraying femme fatale up against the wall until she grows hoarse screaming for mercy, mercy that if you're tuned in to this song with any degree of concentrated attention span, you know he's not exactly chomping at the bit to give her. I find myself taken with "Traitor" for this reason and hope the experimentation gets your blood pumping too. "Long Live Rock & Roll" is quite simply a respectful tribute to the greats of the genre and the amount of time well spent debating, among other things, who's the bigger badass, Motley Crue or GNR. All that name dropping for people like me for whom music is as essential a part of daily life as food, water, air, and shelter is a wicked trip down memory lane. The drums electrify. Josh Steely, Brian Craddock, and Josh Paul, the trio comprising the meat of the guitar section, mine this time tested motif for all it's worth. Everyone's laughing, reflecting, possibly clinking cold ones. To add to that the Journey/"Don't Stop Believin" reference is a fun tip of the hat to one of the all time memorable arena rock standards. Ten feet tall coming right up, sir. If I had a personal favorite of the batch it would be "I'll Fight". The way the song zooms from chord set-up to chord set-up with lightning precision and not one false footstep excited me from the outset. If you want to get my adrenaline cranked to insane levels work some sorcery with those chords. The same ooh and aah you'd hear from a crowd of thousands watching fireworks go off on the Fourth of July you can get from a well plotted series of guitar chords. "18 Years" wraps up the set. Its focus is on youthful nostalgia and how the first 18 years zoom by in a blink. Not groundbreaking but cut Chris and friends a break. The 11 tracks that preceded it gave us all a stunning emotional workout. If they want to stamp their own imprint on the whole "Time is fleeting" theme, then give them their due. "Baptized" is salute worthy for assembling one crisp slab of smartly executed pop/rock after another. Even after you towel off, this is one baptism you won't soon forget.

Stryper Deals Out a Devilishly Melodic Hand With "No More Hell To Pay"

Stryper's sound, (1990's baffling "Against The Law" not included), has been rooted in the unwavering tenacity of its faith. In their 80s heyday they'd emphasize said point by tossing Bibles to the crowd, a far cry from the highly uncensored debauchery of a Ratt or Motley Crue. 2013's waning moments usher in a new project "No More Hell To Pay". It's a privilege to announce that lead vocalist Michael Sweet, bassist Timothy Gaines, lead guitarist Oz Fox, and drummer Robert Sweet have lost none of the vigor that made The Yellow and Black Attack such an incomparable force to be reckoned with. On the might of Oz's guitar magic I'd say taking a listen was very much worth the effort. You can tell the esprit de corps between the Sweet brothers, when left free to rejuvenate a room, can do so in spades. Robert commands authority one pectoral flexing beat at a time. Michael's urgent yelp-embossed vocal delivery has never sounded more believable. Timothy Gaines' bass pierces defenses with spectacular abandon. Tracks like this make it easier to forget "Honestly", the band's grab for radio accessibility. As any follower of the '80s metal/hair band scene can tell you, schmaltz sold. If your band had a female audience wooing power ballad, chances were you were laughing all the way to the bank. "No More Hell To Pay" returns to the heart of what puts Stryper in a class by itself. The riffs astound. The drums captivate. The singer reaches into the core of his soul to unleash conviction with a capital "C". Let the Aqua Net fueled nostalgia trip begin. I wouldn't advise devil horns though. These guys definitely play for the other team.

This Blast of Alt Rock Marksmanship From Young the Giant Proves Timely

It can be said that when all the parts of a team are functioning as a cohesive whole the results can be, at the very least, satisfactory to complete the task at hand and, at most, potentially game changing. The Irvine, California alt rock team known as Young the Giant demonstrates with their new single "It's About Time" that they know their roles and execute them to as close to perfection as mortals get. Payam Doostzadeh imbues his bass guitar with a rumbling quality that only gets better the longer it remains in the mix. For me it's the audio equivalent of a deep, intense back massage. This applies comfort and relief to all the right pressure points. On the other side of the fret spectrum, Jacob Tilley displays a track star's agility with his lead alto guitar. You'll notice more of that as the song scampers its way to the chorus point. As a general rule the bass guitar represents the brawn while alto constitutes the brain power. With Payam and Jacob hammering away all lead vocalist Sameer Gadhia has to is deftly apply his politically charged musings over the top with the delicate but not easily cowed touch of a baker applying icing to his latest master creation. Sameer's to be praised for blowing the doors or eardrums away with his singing. Earnest would be a better adjective. He knows his mind. He doesn't lack for the conviction needed to speak it. Francois Comtois locks the sum of these enticing parts in place with a sharp kick behind drums. If you look at the history of rock music the great ones seem to have a first rate timekeeper around to, if nothing else, make sure the energy of his bandmates isn't flagging. The Stones have Charlie Watts. Metallica has Lars Ulrich. Young the Giant has Francois Comtois. Even though the band hasn't been around for more than ten years yet, give them time. Francois has the makings of a trip to the pantheon of percussion greatness. Looking under the hood of this engagingly clattering car the lyrics don't lack for tension. Today we live our nights on the wire, or so Sameer claims. If you detect more than a trace of sociopolitical danger in the air then good for you. You're obviously more than the tits and ass lyrics strain of music follower. It can't be easy to declare yourself born to be angry, Sameer. Anger's a powerful and, at the right times, justifiable emotion, but history has shown us that it has disastrous consequences when not employed judiciously. Still, Sameer lives on a tightrope. That statement likely sums up what the vast majority of people in this modern global economy see themselves having to do, like it or not. I feel their angst. We're a mighty nation at the mercy of group grieve. I'm won over by the stark shift from four way bang it out musicianship at the outset to pockets of air at the chorus where Francois is momentarily declawed in order to make way for Jacob's supposedly resistance free glide through time and space, notes raining down like mystic gifts from the heavens. Young the Giant opens the door to a mysterious labyrinth of impending danger. This brand of rock isn't uncorked from the sidewalk safe side of the avenue, that's for sure. "It's About Time" won't let you come up for air until you're glistening with the sweat of a crowd of rock devotees that knows it's been topped off with a firm swig of the good stuff.

Cher's World Is High Intensity Dance Personified

Happy birthday to Mom. Mom loves Cher. For this reason we'll chew a little of the proverbial fat about her single "A Woman's World" lifted from the "Closer To The Truth" album. This album is loaded with sweat cranking dance goodness. She learned her lesson well from 1999 when "Believe" became her biggest solo hit ever, spending a solid 4 weeks at #1 on the Billboard chart. Personally I'm not as smitten as she obviously was with the Vocoder device that makes her pipes sound technologically jazzed up. My belief is there's no breathing being on this earth with a voice like Cher's so why would she want to distort it in some way? Ah yes, but that's the question explaining why she's a multi-platinum selling artist and I'm a music fanatic who lusts after the lifestyle of a multi-platinum sellng artist. After taking a peek at the video for "A Woman's World" you'll come to be reminded Cher hasn't lost her way with being the ringmaster (ringmistress?) in her own electrifying universe. Fashion has always been a big part of Cher's mystique. The song does a fine job of putting that tendency in its most flattering light. Cher makes a beeline for the girl power aesthetic that past artists such as Helen Reddy("I Am Woman")Annie Lennox & Aretha Franklin ("Sisters Are Doin' It For Themselves") and The Spice Girls (any hit single of theirs covers it)have mined to lucrative effect. It's a little amusing to note that if Madonna is the dance diva for the newly christened AARP set then that makes Cher a charter member of the AARP elite. Good for both of them for sticking a tongue out at any tendency to box them in a corner because continuing to be alive has worked out so swimmingly for both of them. What I appreciate about "A Woman's World" in comparison to "Believe" is that the world orchestrated on the former isn't so aware of its own technological wizardry. It all sounds pleasingly organic. Although Cher does play some little voice head games on the CD ("Dressed To Kill" is unintentionally humorous in the way Cher's echoing voice paws with the word "kill") there's lots of the real persona bubbling under, percolating around, and slamming through the surface. When flashing back to her earlier work ("Half Breed" for instance) the dance stylings were, appropriately enough, the standard "let's put a classical music savvy cast of crackerjack musicians behind her and let the awesome nature of her colossus-like presence take the money to the bank from there" business model the '70s hit paraders were legendary for. From the "Believe" era on there's much more of a freewheeling curiosity of experimentation. With "Believe", as I imagine could be said for Madonna's "Ray of Light" and "Music" efforts, Cher dipped her toe in the higher beats per minute vein of dance music. Throughout "Closer To The Truth" Cher flamboyantly (as if she was even capable of being any other way) churns out dance spectacle for all it's worth. She's comfortable enough to keep this party going now that she knows how to crank the explosiveness to 10. Cher fearlessly probes the essence of her highly documented scar-laden battles in the game of love. Similar to the plot for "Believe" "A Woman's World" addresses Cher's continued ability to rise from romantic ashes, get the hell on with her life, and bask in the abiding glow of Cher-hood. As pop culture females go, only Oprah Winfrey has that same knack for being so E.F. Hutton in that when both women talk, people listen. With Cher it's been a far longer carnival ride. She still racks up record sales, and keeps the public's curiosity piqued so the biggest "Well, duh" response I can think of is she must be doing something right. She has longevity because she doesn't quit easily. There's not one part of the soundtrack to my life that she hasn't found her way into. "A Woman's World" is the latest example of how Cher owns a room when she enters it.

Jake Miller Displays Singular Focus Throughout "A Million Lives"

Jake Miller, a 21 year-old rapper hailing from Weston, Florida, doesn't bring anything earth-shattering to his genre with "A Million Lives" the second single from his debut album "Us Against Them". Unless you count a focus on matters removed from the gangsta lifestyle that reached a crest in the '90s. Kudos to him, his production crew, his wardrobe consultant, or whoever was responsible for bathing him in a sparkling pool of sunshine melody. All the man has to do is insert himself in a grouping of stamina testing real life situations and bang...defenses come down. The courage to embrace the warmth of another person comes into sharp view. In the first verse, Jake tells the story of Nikki, a girl whose cancer diagnosis jettisoned her dancer lifestyle. She tells him how much his music meant to her, right down to the very act of keeping her heart beating. The chorus consists of Jake explaining that, no, he hasn't made a million dollars, but that's not really such a sticking point when you consider the millions of lives he's touched. So many faces seen. So many hands shaken. The camaraderie of his fellow man represents the life force which propels him to highs that seem to grow higher with every passing hour. In verse 2, it's bullying that takes center stage. A 7th grader named Dillon is being mercilessly picked on. In this day and age,thanks to technology permeating pretty much every aspect of our lives, the young can't even count on that as an escape from the cruelty their peers can be capable of. Once again, Jake's rapping is the bright light which allows Dillon to reach for confidence, for the inner strength to somehow co-exist with his tormentors. Being a person who wears glasses, I sympathize with bullies who have this penchant for breaking them. Glasses can make you a really easy target. In verse 3 Sami's the name of the girl who shares her appreciation for Jake's influence. She and her brother listened to him every day until the day he passed away. The music gives her a special feeling, as if her brother was still by her side. So many quality songs stem from simplicity, from a genuine uncluttered message, from the belief that there aren't a million layers of bullshit separating the artist from the listener. Keep in mind that Jake's just getting started in his career. There's nothing wrong with a song that is the mental equivalent of a hearty hello split into three thoughtful mini-dramas. He wants to get started building that all-important fan base. We'll see if he's versed in Greek theater at some future point. For right now Jake merely wants to open his arms to the general public for a reassuring hug. Here's to Jake for having the common decency to think about giving us all a light bulb to make the darkness less of an ominous presence. He sure has laid out a smartly measured blueprint for whatever future success comes his way.

Celine Dion's "Loved Me Back To Life" Is Inhabiting The Wrong Body

That siren to top all sirens, Celine Dion is back with a new studio album. This is a special announcement for many of her most ardent supporters, not to mention people who are curious to discover what all the fuzz has been about since she burst onto the scene in 1991 with "Where Does My Heart Beat Now?" I regret to inform you that you still might not get the clearest picture of Celine's majesty as a performer if "Loved Me Back To Life" is what you base your initial knowledge on. That's because the song channels the dramatics of a younger performer such as Avril Lavigne or Christina Aguilera. When Celine sings the title words I don't get the reminder of the Celine who belted out "My Heart Will Go On" or her remake of "The Power of Love". Instead I am reminded of Christina's massive vocal range. Celine's earlier hits combined with the smooth almost classical music savvy of the musicians surrounding her made her chops a supremely one-of-a-kind MGM Grand Las Vegas worthy tour-de-force. The processed tune set forth here merely hints at a woman trying to see if the market she pretty much owned from 1991-1997 still has a passion for her. I know artists like Madonna aren't beneath teaming up with more contemporary artists like MIA to cater to the latest youth movement. After all, being a changeling has been a Madonna trademark since the innocent days of "Lucky Star". But why should Celine have to kowtow. Smart marketing maybe but it's just as much an example of attempting to fly without a net as when Madonna leaned in that direction with the "MDNA" release. I daresay Celine caters to more of a mature audience than Madonna and is less inclined to resort to modern artificial sounds as background enhancement. Celine, like Madonna, is larger than life. However, Celine hasn't quite hit the level of "getting away with" image altering that Madonna has employed as a relentless marketing technique. Besides which Celine strikes me as being too earthy a soul to do anything other than be the truest self she can be. Record buyers have responded well to this untainted portrayal. I shudder to think what they'd do if they realized Celine's sort of straining to be hip. When she sings "night after night" my ears find it a little heavy on the bravado. I still picture her in Vegas hamming it up to buffet motivated tourists who go for this kind of dinner and a show. Let me be clear. I'm not dissing Celine, the woman. It's her shocking detour from authentic expression of self that has me both scratching and shaking my head. This is one member of the adult contemporary club who doesn't, shouldn't, and flat out ought not to feel obligated to cater to the lowest demographic rungs. That's the face she usually brings to the world to this point anyway. "Loved Me Back To Life" is living out its days as an impostor. Give me a dingle when the real Celine reemerges from the fog.

Sky (Ferreira) Knows No Limit With Her Debut Set Of Dance Pop

New to the dance ranks is 21 year-old Sky Ferreira whose enchantingly energetic pop radio accessible debut "Night Time, My Time" comes at you with the boundless freedom of a young woman finding her way in the world. Granted, the action doesn't assume the four on the floor position until track three, the big city bustle of "24 Hours". "Boys" and "Ain't Your Right", tracks one and two respectively, represent more of a crooked finger overture to shuffle your tensions away. "Boys" possesses a swarming heat bolstered by a layer of inebriated mystery from the instruments that hints at a witching hour throwdown you'd be foolish to let pass you by. "Ain't Your Right" employs a cornucopia of electronic pixie dust as its ace in the hole. Returning to "24 Hours", I'm taken with the acrobatic cord change-ups. Few things about music are less appealing to me than an artist or group complacent enough to ride one chord and only one chord to million-selling glory. "24 Hours" marinates in Sky's undeniable audio presence. The chord changes give her a bubbly pedestal to stand on. There are some teeth bared amidst "Nobody Asked Me (If I Was Okay)". Punk attitude nestled at the core of a splendid pop carnival ride adds up to Ms. Ferreira demonstrating she's no one trick pony. On rare occasions the subject matter can get a little out where the buses don't run. Track six, the quizzically enigmatic "Omanko" makes reference to a Japanese Jesus. That's kind of a left field buzz deflation when examined alongside the cuts I delved into earlier. Heaviness has its place, but not necessarily in a set where the hooks flow with the legs of a vintage bottle of Dom Perignon. Another enticing example of hooks priced to move is "I Will". From this batch of dance-pop cuisine here's the beauty that nabs the prize for best chorus of them all. I could easily envision the track holding up under repeated listens. "Heavy Metal Heart" could end up in one of two camps. Either the burly beat and persistent chorus are going to drive you batty or encourage you to fist pump when nobody's watching. Either way it's a tough earwig to shake loose. "Love In Stereo" nails the whole "meet cute" dynamic. The title alone has "puppy dog eyes" written all over it. When Sky uses the dance friendly vibrancy to her advantage the result has the potential to make veteran adults yearn for age twenty one and bolster the effortless vigor stemming from those presently answering to that number. For the most part "Night Time, My Time" spells good time.

MellowHigh Hits What Could Be An All-Time Low

I'm now going to hit you with the skinny behind American hip-hip trio MellowHigh's debut self-titled album. For starters, based on what I heard, barring some major miracle, I sincerely want this tripe to also be the seedlings of their last album. I mean...do these guys get paid $1,000 each time they drop the f-bomb? If so then Hodgy, Left Brain, and Genesis Domo will be millionaires by this time next year. I'm going to label this reliance on said word as their "fallback fuck". It's the word they use to let their peeps and the uninitiated know that they're serious about their craft...if that's what anyone with the IQ of a grape would actually, without holding back giggles of incredulity, call this insult to intelligence. The ghetto menace background sounds behind them aren't even put together with anything resembling elbow grease. Whether that's the record label budget's fault or MellowHigh's resorting to laziness remains an unknown variable. Either way, unless you've lived the hard knock life they're making reference to, you're not going to cozy up to their lyrics. I'm too busy reinserting my eyeballs back into their sockets from all the profanity and par for the modern course hip hop swagger to have much reserve energy to swallow the imagery of bleeding eyeballs. What's that you ask? Is there reference made to bleeding eyeballs? Yup. A little something to make sure you have nothing but nightmares when you lay head to pillow tonight and for several tonights afterwards. I take it those out there who had a bedwetting problem as a child are pretty comfortable in the reassurance that you won't regress at this point. Think again. Domo Genesis aims to propel you into TMI land all in the service of talking about the glories of smoking weed. Let's put this slab of..well...what I'm thinking of starts with the same consonant as slab and...well...visualize a toilet in action and you'll get my drift. "I can't give a fuck 'bout what you saying, what you talking. I be sparking, nigga, I just tryna smoke my weed. Blowin' on some gas in a Swisher with some hash in the middle. Dawg, I'm choking, homie, I can't breathe. Got me screaming. Fuck them other niggas cause I'm down for my niggas. Keep on smokin' it 'til my eyes bleed." What about that doesn't scream "good old fashioned family entertainment?" Again we've got the whole social conundrum where young blacks are tossing around the word nigger as if it somehow became an acceptable word between the time I went to sleep last night and the moment I woke up this morning. As was previously pointed out the f word plays a big time role in their "artistry". Visiting the world of rappers like these is akin to blasting off in a spaceship and visiting a whole other world entirely. It's not a world I'd want to revisit but it's there to be explored by whoever's bold enough (or puerile enough as the case may be)to give it a try. "Get'n Drunk" gives me confidence about the future of our much maligned country. The whole get drunk 'til I pass out thing makes me glad I'm a childless person with no interest in trying to teach a child why it's not a great health prolonging idea to engage in such risky activity. The same priniciple applies to sniffing glue, sniffing rubber cement, or, as we local Austinites learned on the news courtesy of a sixteen year-old girl who's got issues different from the ones I'm wrestling with, launching yourself out of a moving school bus. "Roofless" is here to teach us exactly the social skills we should adhere to. Remember...if you do not give a fuck punch that nigga' in the face. One thing seems certain. There aren't going to be too many young black men on the streets of the ghetto in the future because they all will be brought up on assault charges for punching their contemporaries in the face. It's okay to tear your hair out now. I won't tattle. MellowHigh, if it's the hip hop act poised to lead some sort of modern revolution in rap makes me want to ram myself into an actual brick wall until I lose consciousness. At least sweet nothingness should be a welcome respite. I feel saddened not only for the people who dash right out to buy this album, or scramble to load it on iPod, but for the record industry that thrusts this onto the public without so much as a pang of a guilty conscience. Rap lovers, art lovers, hell...anyone who spends their days walking around on two feet deserves better than this. The public's introduction to MellowHigh constitutes a low point in hip hop culture.

Who Switchfoot Is These Days Earns Respect

San Diego's Switchfoot first got a major toe hold in the door of major league success in 2003 with the album "The Beautiful Letdown" and its two singles "Meant to Live" and "Dare You to Move". The singles moved at more of a methodical pace than "Who We Are", the first single lifted from the soon to be part of your iPod shuffle (maybe?)album "Fading West". I believe that switch to a more uptempo sound is a plus. Why you may ask? The shift into third gear gives us the chance to hear the very soul of what makes this band compelling. For starters, give Chad Butler the nod for the talents he uses on drums. The technicolor dazzle on this record is due in no small measure to the playful way Chad moves his way around the kit. Personally, the chorus and subsequent refrains have a zippy demeanor that says "Wouldn't this song sound in its element if performed by members of the cast of Glee? It's not hard at all to fathom. The cast would be singing about how there's still time enough to choose who they are. The segment involving "the fever of our youth" is tailor made to be uttered by a member of that cast. It would be a mistake to pigeonhole Switchfoot as strictly a Christian rock outfit, although that's one of the genres they've been associated with. They can wield the pop rock goods just as easily and with the same level of compelling verve as any one of the current crop of pop-rock outfits out there. Kudos goes out to the crew working the production helm for performing the neat trick of giving this band a highly affecting spit and polish job when the chorus is sung. The glittery, newly washed imagery is hard to shake. It's as if they're bathed in the most incandescent of lights and not even the darkest of hours is going to spoil that for them. Drew Shirley electrifies on guitar. It's his noteworthy presence on this record that opens the door to the unrestrained aggression of words and rhythm. At the opener his contribution sounds like it's levitating in a quadrant of outer space somewhere. When it does re-enter the earth's ozone the results are astounding. Tim Foreman's bass work is the solid ground lead vocalist Jon Foreman's voice rests on. The two meld with a seamless ease that moves the storyline embedded in the lyrics along gracefully. One section of the lyrics I find particularly poignant is that of "the child unbroken by the wheels gone by". If adulthood and the insisted upon burdens therein leave you wanting to gag (and who isn't feeling that vibe on occasion?) you'll take to these words like a duck takes to water. I'm nodding my head in approval at the reference to adults who say to their kids, quite possibly because they have no more of a clue how to escape the rising tide than their offspring, "It's complicated". Also, we hear about how it's the fight, the struggle that makes people who they are. Switchfoot is declaring victory of a sort over adversity. This band has graduated from the cautious steps of ten years ago to a sure-footed confidence that agrees with them in every phase of their interaction as a unit. "Who We Are" reveals the blissfully divine answer that...they are a dynamic fivesome churning full steam ahead. It'll be a real treat seeing what direction they go from here.

There's No Body Behind Lady Gaga and R. Kelly's Performances

Much of love has to do with chemistry. If you either are someone or are related to someone who watched daytime soaps you know the love match has to sizzle on screen for it to be convincing. On paper putting Lady Gaga together with the more chart and libido tested R. Kelly seemed like a good idea. The lamentable fact of the matter is their "Do What You Want" collaboration doesn't amount to much more than a slightly down tempo way to work off those pounds acquired after a self indulgent dinner of fast food. Don't misunderstand me. The background is plenty sweaty enough. But all that's left behind the scenes is some street tough posturing from R and the grating after several listens caterwauling of "Do what you want with my bo-dy." I doubt there are too many people who warm up to a solid dose of nagging, in the bedroom or otherwise. Repetition is what makes a song hook inviting. The more instant reaction that is attached to this hook is "Pardon me folks, I'm closing the door on this thinly veiled stab at innuendo." If it makes R more at ease in his own skin I'm not one of those haters he's motivated to rough up. Believe me I've looked in the mirror lately. There's no way I'm winning that smackdown. On to more analysis of this reverse cougar relationship duet. Anyone out there bored with hearing about the trials and tribulations of being a glam celeb for whom the glare of the spotlight has become a strain? If so, that's easy to relate to. Poor dears. All the cash and acclaim and attention and heavy breathing must result in some hideous beast of a migraine. We can do what we want with Gaga's body. Leave her heart and mind alone. At times it's a good thing Gaga knows how to sell her rather elaborate image because lyrics like aren't a convincing overture to my wanting to first undress her with my eyes and then proceed to the visual demonstration of manly aggression. You'll notice it's got just the right tempo for plugging away on the Stairmaster, albeit at the slowest or second slowest speed. If you focus hard enough you'll agree there's something about the mood of the song that calls out for a headband, a fresh towel, and a bottle of nearby Evian water. As one of the reigning pop divas I'm sure Gaga needs to constantly put out at least a small pebble of artistry to ensure her "little monsters" that their queen hasn't forgotten to nurture them properly. Too bad "Do What You Want" barely advanced past the stage of fluffy appetizer. Maybe R. Kelly was trying to inject his aura back into the public eye. After all "Sex Me" was, in music trend terms, a lifetime ago. "Do What You Want" hopefully won't take you nearly as long to forget. A fresh concept is in order. Yeah, we get that you're not bothered by what the media rags print about you. Yes, we see you writhing in anticipation for the desire to rip your clothes off. How sad it is to be a jaded music listener. Don't put on a makeshift exercise tape with your unavoidable celeb hoof prints on it and expect I'll melt like ice cream in the hot Texas sun. Not for a second is this the condemnation of a man who's set in his musical ways. I'm merely saying that the wide gulf between the slot on the Best Buy (those do still exist all you app navigating young whippersnappers!!) shelf and a slot in my music library only gets shortened when the talent involves doesn't whip up a batch of the gyrations I've had placed on my table too many times to mention. Once in a while it would be nice if substance triumphed over style. "Do What You Want" is not one of those times.

The Fray Barely Manages To Stay Off Life Support

One thing The Fray has had a grip on throughout its under ten year recording career is how to sell the drama. "Over My Head (Cable Car)" was lousy with tension that was impossible to turn away from. The line "With eight seconds left in overtime" drove the urgency home. Ditto for "How To Save a Life". There was this compelling mix of skillful ambience and enough heart dragging melodrama that, like with any good romance novel, you couldn't put it down. For its new single "Love Don't Die" these guys have managed to pull off a feat that I don't think many bands can equal. They take a life affirming concept and still make it sound like it's barely managing to breathe. For example the chorus harmonizing makes me think of ghostly spirits that have sprung from the former site of the body. I know. I know. "Love Don't Die" demands that at least some element of the song be eerie. To his credit Dave Welsh is a piston on lead guitar. Momentum builds, or gives us all hope that it might. The linchpin message is...well...see song's title if I fail to be witty enough to push the point across. The first verse teaches us that, in love (how might that be different from any other area of life might I ask?) actions speak louder than words. The Egyptian pyramids aren't as old as that truism. In other words no reason to reinvent the wheel, is there fellas? Ben Wysocki eventually adds his brand of ballsy on drums. Just when we where getting comfy with the guitar. Later on in the song, lead vocalist Isaac Slade introduces the notion of love as some kind of twisted chain letter. That's the unintentional take away I'm getting anyway. "She can break it up, shake your money down, you can box it in, bury it in the ground. You can close it off and turn away, try to keep it down, six feet in the ground, but love don't die. There first ideas in place hint at a woman who either wants to put the skids on the relationship or take her man to the cleaners. Fair enough so far. It is kind of darkly humorous that the band waxing harmonious on how to save a life would now be tossing off burial imagery. Sure that's used in the service of proving the point that you can't kill love but part of the time it's as if they foursome is telling us to think of love as a bomb that one must toss aside before it makes fertilizer out of you. Ever played the game hot potato as a kid? Welcome back to those heady (or not) times. Why not just say you can't fold, mutilate or spindle it either. That's an awful lot of emotional contortion work for something that's miraculously pure of heart and intention. There are songs I've heard during my music listening years that are just long enough to get their points across before politely conceding to the blissful (yes it does exist) sound of silence (No offense or copyright mangling intended for Simon and Garfunkel). "We're The Same" a track by Matthew Sweet from the '90s is one example. Creates all kinds of '60s retro yummy and then at a hair over 3 minutes, disappears impishly back into the music miasma. Another is "Spirits In The Material World" from The Police. Not even 3 minutes before the three of them decide they've conveyed what they meant to convey. What's creepy here(yes it's post Halloween now but bear with) is the layout of the beat isn't even clear until after the bridge. Then you realize how your brain was supposed to processing the flow the whole time. "Love Don't Die" suffers from the problem that even 3 minutes 4 seconds is too long for what's strictly a drawn out tribute to a theme that's been trampled on so much I wonder how it has the life force left to lift a pinky finger. This song can be found on the band's new "Helios" effort. I have a hard time managing to figure out why you'd want the album if the energy level remains this tepid throughout but that's one for the court of public opinion to decide. In The Ear Buzz jurisdiction I find The Fray guilty of not managing to work up a worthy enough lather for their return to the scene. I sentence them to listen to the collected works of AFI. There's a band that can remind people of how you induce the shivers in under 3 minutes. Want Exhibit A? Listen closely to "Love Like Winter". "He bit my lip and drank my war" ranks high on the yick-o-meter but revulsion counts as feeling something. In the history of recorded music "Love Don't Die" deserves a mercy killing.

No Big Shock...Motorhead's "Aftershock" Is a Metal Masterpiece

"Aftershock" is Motorhead's 21st studio album. Digest that tidbit for a second. Twenty-one albums. Music trends come, go, then resurface in the spirit of what's old is new again so for any band in any genre to be able to say it's put out 21 albums is nothing short of miraculous. What much less surprising is that "Aftershock" lacks one solitary dud track. "Heartbreaker" has all the power riff goodness guaranteed to whisk you back to their '80s days and then cause you to do a double take, asking yourself, "Hey wait a minute! There's no real difference between then and now. As usual Lemmy abrasive chops screech with all those hard days on the road that he's accumulated over the course of a career that to say it's been an enviable run is about as well duh as claiming the sky's blue (storm cloud days notwithstanding) and the grass is green (Texas may get a pass during summer months because the color of grass, at least where suburban lawns are concerned, is more likely to be brown). "Coup de Grace" channels brute metal strength. This is definitely an example of a track that makes one think of the '80s metal days. Lest we forget the band can get bluesy with the best of 'em, "Lost Woman Blues" is your open and shut case. The song comports itself with a definitive strut. It knows it's got the best grind of any of the metal pretenders in the room. Why be afraid to flaunt what's an ample gift, right? "End of Time" goes into all out ear assault mode from the onset. Props of course go out to Phil Campbell for the unapologetic barrage of guitar wizardry. If Lemmy's the stone that does make Phil the undisputed sorcerer. Speak of Lemmy he's not shy about getting excited over his belief in the power of rock 'n' roll. The potent "Do You Believe" is pretty gleeful, if Lemmy does in fact have that giddy emotion in his psychological bag of tricks. I praise him for being a no bullshit kind of guy. In a world where much supposedly adult discourse is ladled with enough bullshit to successfully sink the Titanic, it's a breath of alcohol-enabled fresh air to hear Lemmy tell it like it is. You know something? I see why Lemmy is an easily acquired taste. Getting someone to be straight with you is some impressive gift. "Dust And Glass' produces a quintessentially metal line. Being that metal has never exactly been one to steer clear of dark corners who out there could possibly be shocked to hear Lemmy to claim we're born in pain, end in grief. How uncompromising can you get. Mikkey Dee lets it rip from every conceivable angle of his drum kit. Although he's not the original skins basher his prowess could easily convinced newbies and vets alike that's he's been with them since the dawn of Time. "Aftershock" won't allow you to get complacent about what you're digesting. It's as if they're insisting, "Today's music is too half-arssed! Let's show today's young ones what true artistry is really all about!!" Lemmy doesn't know how to cut a toothless record. The result is a victory for anyone who needs to let off more than a slight bit of steam after an exhausting work day, argument with the wife and/or kids, you name it...Get set to tingle with fiendish delight. "Aftershock" is primed to buckle your knees, rearrange your brain cells and, if a few dishes fall to the floor with a penetrating crash, that's the added bonus telling you the masters were hard at work. No bones about it...this is a masterpiece of epic proportion.

Red Fang More Bark Than Bite

Hailing from Portland, Oregon, Red Fang does prove itself capable in the musicianship category. Numerous moments throughout the new "Whales and Leeches" album feature drummer John Sherman uncork a barrage of beats certain to have the metalheads in the listening audience going air guitar crazy and flashing those devil horns as if the secret to eternal life was found therein. Not all news is good though. I'd like to single out "No Hope" as a track with a refrain high on the redundancy meter. So in a way Bryan Giles leaves me hopeless going on ad nauseum in saying "hope". There's not even a hint of real menace to it. Sometimes that's what's really wrong with this effort. When the four of them get on the same page, as is true for the likes of "DOEN" and "Dawn Rising" the results turn into some very complex metal. Stoner metal is the sub-genre Red Fang falls under. In other words this is the kind of material you want cranked up if you're wasted or giving it some serious thought. At other times, say, during the chorus portion of "This Animal" David Sullivan's guitar is stuck in the craw discordant. I realize metal music falls smack in the category of shock and awe. They're not trying to send you off to bed with a reassured smile on your face. These purveyors of uneasiness want you to squirm. "This Animal" only does so because its moving parts don't seem destined for anything more than a disfiguring crash, victims of the haphazard way they were pasted together. You can find comfort in the fact the classic metal storylines pop up in one form or another. Death commands a place at the table as does the imagery of a wasted angel whose halo is broken. In a profound way an angel with a broken halo aptly sums up all of us chuckleheads. I found the reference to taking back one's skin, a concept illuminated in "Crows Before The Swine" to be resoundingly effective. That's where the angel adornments came from too. Some angels fly back to heaven easier than others I guess. "Behind The Light" bears the undeniable weight of hollowed out resignation. "Whales and Leeches" is somewhat similar to a football team's inconsistent field performance. Some of the time it employs all its instrumental weapons, and at others locks in on phone it in status. To be sure there are overtures to vivid artistry but they threaten to crater into monotony territory way too much to be useful for anything other than a one off listener experience. Aaron Beam's bass is a prime reason why I declare "This Animal" jagged at best, disappointingly clumsy at worst. I mean no ill will towards the people of Portland. Au contraire, my visit to that fair city was delightful and highly recommended to anyone wanting to visit a portion of the country long on basic polite. Nevertheless I, in good conscience, can't raise Red Fang's new undertaking up to the level of scintillating art. Too many of the wrong ingredients combine to create a soup that suffers from the presence of a nagging aftertaste.

American Authors Fail To Come Up With The Best Example of Originality

One eye-catcher I return to again and again when testing the waters for great new music is the name of the band. South by Southwest is a literal carnival of traveling minstrels who could only have come up with their names while inhaling liquid paper or rubber cement. Brooklyn band American Authors is to be praised for passing that test. A great band name doesn't have to be overly demonstrative to be appealing in some way. "Best Day Of My Life" isn't a loathsome song. In fact if you're in the mood for something unapologetically peppy you've come to the right place. What's a little disheartening is how the chord adhered to in the song sounds exactly like that of Imagine Dragons' "It's Time". At this point what I know about American Authors could fill a thimble but I suspect having a single out on the market that is too similar to the rhythms of another contemporary band won't do their long term success prognosis any favors. That's too bad because zippy never goes out of style. There's something soothingly old fashioned about the strumming of a banjo. On the merits of that alone James Adam Shelley is doing a definite service to society. Zachary Bennett keeps the feel good sentiments rolling along with such pleasantries as: "I had a dream so big and loud. I jumped so high and touched the clouds." Isn't that a welcome relief from the Advil headache caused by your employer, your wife, your kids, or a combination of all three? This kind of lyric is the stuff happy places are made of. Zach's vocals certainly do get high marks for friendliness. You're convinced the clouds are withing reach for you since he's apparently found a way to access them. His eyes are on the future. Not a single regret in sight. Whatever state of bliss he's in he's a hero with rooting value. All he asks is that no one wake him from the incredible dream he's having. Who can blame him for that request especially since I could count on one hand the number of people for whom this fantasy comes anywhere close to reality. Although hard pressed to keep up with the pace James and Zach have set, drummer Matt Sanchez proves equal to the task. He's in a nice little zone that is difficult to shake. The longer it lasts, the easier it becomes to be impressed with him. Dave Rublin assures the vitality level will be maintained on bass. Maybe I'm jumping the gun too soon by wagging a finger at them for evoking an Imagine Dragons comparison. In truth Imagine Dragons comes at you with more of everything including the kitchen sink mindset. At least during this go round American Authors is content not to insist on so much complexity. Let's just say the canvas is waiting for this band to paint some altogether original color onto it. "Best Day Of My Life" is an agreeable starting point. Let's hope that's not where the story ends.

Paul McCartney's "New" Excites With Glorious Shades of Old

Make no mistake about it. If it's possible to age gracefully in the music industry, 71 year-old Paul McCartney has gifted us with a textbook example of how it ought to be done. He has the point in his favor that, even though it's not Beatlemania era anymore, he smartly weaves the wonderful language from that time in his collection simply called "New". Laugh all you want at an elder statesman trying to push that adjective past us, but he does manage to live up to that title. "On My Way To Work" is a picture book of bustling activity that rings true with all of us doing the one foot in front of the other, soldier marching to his cubicle routine (I know whereof I speak). Even in his more pensive moments, such as the closing chapter "Scared" it's very hard to think Sir Paul has run out of batteries. Bonus points to the piano player who has fully brought out the palpable fear of saying "I love you". If one were to envision Paul in studio bringing these words to life you might see his eyes frozen in terror as the words come out. Take any picture of fear you want in this case. You'll get the awe inspired brand of goosebumps listening to the track. The astute thing to do in making a video (yes, they still have those) would be to have Paul flanked on either side by smoke rising from a machine, strong, pure white light illuminating both he and his social misgivings. He plays the love game at other points such as "Turned Out". This cut is a showcase for the charm that was quite the match igniting Beatlemania. He was the ladies off their feet time then and, despite Father Time's intrusion, still gets their motors running today. "I Can Bet" demonstrates Paul channeling energy that would leave his contemporaries in awe. You honestly do a double take when you realize this man hasn't lost his vitality by a long shot. So long as the passion isn't faked I say good for him. "Road" is a million miles from the '60s. He's to be commended for hooking with a decidedly techno savvy team of note players. Daft Punk doesn't look like such an odd chart mate for him. It also signifies that, if Cher is the female musical chameleon, Sir Paul is her male equal. Try not to adopt the same facial expression you might give to a too cute puppy dog when sampling "Turned Out". In Paul's hands a declaration on the wonder of a good, strong love doesn't sound corny. "Get Me Out of Here" finds Paul having a little fun with his all-consuming celebrity. He could teach a master class on the mercilessness of the paparazzi. As an opening track "Save Us" is brilliant because not only does it usher us into Paul's continued ability to flat out rock, it fools us into thinking this is the only hat he'll be wearing. The Beatles were innovative with a capital "I". Paul hasn't lost his way with a song that reminds us that, where he's concerned, they really don't make 'em like that anymore. "New" blends roots based craftsmanship with an fearlessness for going forward. We're sort of united on being tentative around the unknown future. With Paul as our guide, being hopeful isn't dismissed as some juvenile mistake. He's a treasure who still symbolizes artistic cause for celebration. Prepare for a dizzying excursion minus the migraines dizziness conveys.

Spend Some "Alone" Time With Fall Out Boy

Nice to hear Fall Out Boy going old school on us all (if that's even an OK label for a band that's only been around for 12 years, toddler status in the industry). "Alone Together" currently rides on Billboard's Rock Singles chart. It has the sense of tight focus that was pretty evident when the guys uncorked "Sugar, We're Goin' Down". The speed is juiced enough that you need to follow them closely or they'll lose you at the next traffic light. By the same token you won't get any of the whiplash possible from "Thanks For The Mmrs". Getting nostalgic now? That puppy had a real death wish going. I very much appreciate how Fall Out Boy combines raw raucousness with crackling instrument playing and jocular vocals. Patrick Stump issues a direct call to the audience for not being lonely yet alone at the same time. Not only that he brings with him that very familiar temptation to stay young forever. This band has always struck me as an embraceable bunch of lugs who approach their craft with a tongue-in-cheek spirit that makes me think they have mastered the art of not taking themselves too seriously. Maybe it's the not too subtle charm of youth shining through. Beats me. In any case, Fall Out Boy continues to corner the market on their unique niche by marching straight ahead. The drums are sure of themselves at all times. All the credit goes to Andy Hurley who comports himself with all the power of someone who's been at his shtick for far longer that a decade and change. He's the embodiment of all that snap that lifts records like "Save Rock and Roll off shelves or plants them directly to iPods. Pete Wenz is his usual sterling self on bass. Patrick manages to bring his top form with guitar, too. No problem with planting the idea in our heads that feeling beautiful is a nifty way to feel. If I were to describe the overall momentum build on "Alone Together" I'd have to conclude it's one of those all access neighborhood parades that your friends will be talking about for weeks and will rip you to pieces on Facebook for not being a part. Deep thought has its place in music but so does reach for the stars electricity presented for the sake of reminding true blue music fans and casual listeners that it is in fact still possible. With "Alone Together" as part of this mix, rock 'n' roll doesn't, in any way, shape, or form, need saving.