Black Rebel Motorcycle Club Stuck Between Revved Up and Numbed Off

You know how hot sauce comes in mild, medium, and extra hot? The same descriptions could be said for "Specter at the Feast" the brand new project from San Francisco's Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. In their case you could speak of their tunes as being either "booze drenched" "funereal gray" or "criminally insane". The song I liked most was "Let the Day Begin" which dares to be optimistic. Leah Shapiro does a bit of showing off on drums. Robert Levon Been is not skimpy with acknowledgement of several fractions of society such as dreamers in the bars and preachers of the sacred word. By the time he gets around to the lonely people everywhere you can't call him out for not being all-inclusive.Waking up to this selection after a good cup of java wouldn't exactly harm your forward momentum and might in fact prick your veins with newfound optimism. That frame of mind is an overall anomaly when held up against the rest of the tracks. What's maddening about "Sometimes the Light" isn't necessarily the grim lyrics ("Sometimes the light is all we know." "Sometimes the fallen is all we know."). It's the way the song hovers in the highest rafters of the church where not even the fifty foot woman could reach it. If the band's intention was to assemble a song that appeared ghostly and haunted the listening audience then congratulations. You succeeded beyond your wildest expectations. Left as is "'Ghost" can't even be saved by the rich chorus of Robert paired with co-vocalist Peter Hayes. The lightness goes well as a counterpoint to the somewhat mood killing messages that are hinted at but there's only so much depression one can stand before the navel-gazing gets painfully tiresome. Taking a side trip to the sexually-charged part of the creative gene pool "Fire Walker" has Jack Daniels and trips to the back office for a quickie written all over it. Synths take up a comfy residence, Peter marvels at how his femme fatale has wept a thousand tears and therefore has no use for his. Once more, we're not exactly hearing sentiments that would make a call to the suicide prevention hotline not sound like a smart idea, but at lease there's the odor of booze to remind us all that there's quality liquid octane to wallow around in. "Returning" to its credit is aided by Leah's insistence on pounding out a percussion version of bread crumbs that her compatriots can follow should anyone lose his way. Robert returns to Deep Funk USA by saying "How much time have we got left. It's killing us, but carries us on." I feel anguish at the mention of these words primarily because I know how fragile we the people are and have little to no tolerance for wasting time on the wrong people or things. Therefore a reminder of our collective futility to break out of our private prisons doesn't exactly open the locked chamber where warm fuzzies may visit. "A part of you is ending. A part of you holds on." Relatable but not exactly swimming in an upbeat stream."Hate the Taste" lays a thick coat of premium of Peter's bass over a world where Peter has claimed he's "tired of livin'." You know all this resignation-based thinking sucks the oxygen out of the steady doses of macho bassline. Want to climb to the edge of the roof again? Try these lyrics on for size: "I got a traitor's heart. I'm tired of livin'. With a tattered soul I got no one to blame. Gonna fall apart if I leave it to decision. She's the only one that can take it away." At least they've got guts venturing into the heart of darkness over and over again. "Let The Day Begin" must have been conceived only after somebody's meds kicked in all the way. Feeling sorry for yourself only takes you so far. But I digress, if only for long enough to have you guys wondering, "What's eating him?" More like what was eating them. "Teenage Disease begs for a fight. The guitar rise and fall gets in your face and dares you to knock that nasty chip off its shoulder. At last there's some defiance on display. The last track, "Lose Yourself", in my estimation is way too belabored. Clocking in at just over eight minutes it reminds me of one of those conversations where you're checking your watch every other minute just wishing the snore bore who's trying to commandeer your attention with his woeful story would just go home. The tale smacks of a plea for loosened inhibitions but around the 6 minute mark you're about as drained as one suspects the wounded female Robert sings about is. If all over the map purgings are your bag then "Specter at the Feast" is delectable. Otherwise just skip the angst cruise, cheer yourselves up by visiting the nearest Build-A-Bear workshop and get on with your business.

Phosphorescent Isn't Your Average Light Source

Matthew Houck, the one man show who goes by the stage monniker Phosphorescent throws himself into the canvas of emotions he's painting. During periods of "Muchacho", his new CD, this works to nifty effect. Take "Sun, Arise! (An Invocation, An Introduction). If I didn't know better I'd swear I was hearing cuts off of New Age star Ray Lynch's "Deep Breakfast" which is lousy with gently applied backdrops designed to ease you into your morning instead of leaving you in perpetual fear of when the alarm clock's going to roust you from your momentary serenity. He who lives by the Gregorian motif dies by the Gregorian motif. "Song For Zula" brings to the forefront the nagging recurring question of what love is. Heart firmly pasted on sleeve, Phosphorescent files love under "fickle" and "burning", both of which veterans of the romance wars would agree are valid adjectives. As for the dude himself, as tough a task as it sounds, he vows not to be broken. This goal, while laudable, is about as imposing as trying to juggle ten knives at once. Where Phosphorescent tacks on bonus points is with the echoing of the drums and keyboards. Stretching them out adds gravity to his ongoing quest not to have his heart skewered. If it sounds like he's inching down a long potentially ink black hallway, that's because he is. Want to hand clap on the open highways and byways? "Ride On/Right On is the drug pusher you want to drop dinero on. The bass guitar has that succulent T-Bone steak beefy attribute that makes this road trip worth the cosmic airspace. "Terror In The Canyons" is great for foot stomping. Here you find myself perched at the intersection of country and rock. If their SXSW showcase was any indication the sweaty young masses ate this up, cued up grateful belching and all. If a piano passage can be described as exhausted, "A New Anhedonia" does the trick. Phosphorescent gropes for the last ounce of energy in his possession. You hope he can rise from his lethargy because watching him agonize is brutal. He's battling more than doldrums. He's scrambling for the rudder that can lead him to crystal blue sky.   "Down To Go" screams honky tonk. Of course not too many honky tonks stake their artistic reputations on elegant horns but here Phosphorescent clears off shelf space for them. Piano figures in heavily here. Last call at the barstool sets in. One man's bleeding heart assumes prime control of the spotlight. Phosphorescent is worth the risk if you want to roll the dice with him and see if his fortune lands on "boxcars". Given the complex voyages he goes on you'll need either a power nap or some Power Bars to push your equilibrium back over to the "Satisfied" portion of the energy meter. To his credit it's not draining in an detrimental way. Getting to know him better does come with a solid upside.

Audio Adrenaline's Kings & Queens Royally Showered With Unshakable Conviction

Kentucky foursome Audio Adrenaline is astute enough at this stage in their career (ninth album) to realize different folks like their uplift served in different flavors. Like your spirit movement in an excitable dance frame? "He Moves, You Move" certainly will motivate even the most coordination deprived to break out in giddy gyrations. Jason Walker infuses this on high hullabaloo with sprightly keyboards. Crispness of arrangements gets this lovely jewel from "Kings & Queens" off to a promising start. Newbie vocalist an former DC Talk member Kevin Max asserts his presence early. What a stalwart companion to seek deep answers with. The tail end of the set, "The Answer" distinguishes itself with a rare mash up of rap and rock. At its vivacious core Kevin doesn't skimp on electricity. "Seekers" opens its outstretched arms to many disenfranchised quadrants of the population including heartsick widows. You could take his hand fairly confident he wouldn't drop you. As a foursome Audio Adrenaline ambles forward with the courage of their convictions but are thoughtful enough not to lurch forward into evangelical preacher territory. "King of the Comebacks" zeroes in on the zones of our brains that love underdog stories. Get ready to shuffle those feet again. Kevin's anticipation of a game changing miracle is infectious. Even skeptics would be hard pressed to swipe his hard-fought time in the sun. Behind the skins, Jared Byers keeps this valiant quest for enlightenment and peace on track. "I Climb the Mountain" exemplifies fortitude at its burliest. What sharp hooks it possessed as well. Kevin once again demonstrates what a quick study in earnestness he is. You don't question his resolve. You know there's no obstacle big or bad enough to shake his depth of focus. It's a common theme throughout "Kings and Queens". Confidence that God shall provide what's needed is the other. All the inner purity Kevin had on display as a member of DC Talk serves him magnificently with his new bandmates. Good intentions aside religious zealotry can be a turn off to people not wanting to part of a guerrilla campaign to bring sinners, real or otherwise, back to "the flock". Luckily Audio Adrenaline doesn't alienate potential converts but instead is right there, ready, willing, and able with 10 songs that, when assessed as a total package, fit snugly hand in hand like a hearty handshake.

Now Bon Jovi Sounds More Like a Brand Name

The foot-stomping anthems Bon Jovi diehards have come to expect from their New Jersey brothers in arms are very much in evidence throughout its twelfth album "What About Now". The boys rank right up there with Bruce Springsteen as champions of the fallen, marginalized, underappreciated links in the chain that make up the American society. That, oddly enough is also what the ongoing problem threatens to be. Having listened to "Now" all the way through Bon Jovi, though in no way running the risk of being a corporate entity a la The Rolling Stones, does toe the fine line between deeply moving calls to action and a Disney squeaky clean version of a band that bleeds patriotism down to its deepest marrow. "Because We Can" the leadoff rock hit is a good example. I'm not saying I don't appreciate Jon Bon Jovi's commitment to not just being a wave in the ocean, nor do I resent him bringing that impulse out in the masses. However, a little too much of a spotlight shined on the folks groping for a painfully limited supply of momentum building oxygen does get heavy handed regardless of the number of mini stage plays set to a rock background that are put together assembly line style in a way Henry Ford himself would've approved of. The role call of shout outs to struggling segments of the population employed in "What About Now" appears to touch on just about everyone save the janitor in the coffee shop who probably makes even less per hour that tourist bauble makers having the sweat drained out of them in a Mexican sweat shop.You can rest easy if your tastes run more to Jon's continued fascination with the opposite sex and how he and she can beat the odds regardless of how daunting the situation they face. "That's What The Water Made Me" is awash in that all hands on deck testosterone engulfed chorus that struck me as novel during the "You Give Love a Bad Name" and "Born To Be My Baby" days but in this case sounds more like five guys trying to prove they've still got it or trying to prove to themselves they never lost it in the first place. The most unshakable image to be culled from the album stems from "Thick as Thieves" one of the starry-eyed orchestral creations whipped up by our strumming chefs. In this classic boy meets girl story even on the electric chair love never dies. The female lead merely sits on her honey bunch's lap and waits (eagerly?) for the electric chair to zap them off to the great beyond. Did Romeo and Juliet get less of a raw deal? You be the judge. "Amen" and "The Fighter" are two other tracks that pump the spirit of human drama to the hilt, beyond the hilt, and defies us to even relocate where the hilt sauntered off to. The latter is a bit tedious in that it sort of winks at Simon & Garfunkel's "The Boxer". Jon claims he's not a boxer by trade much the way Paul and Art sang about their protagonist who was "a fighter by his trade". Possibly I'm nitpicking. If you're going to cross reference a pop duo to lend your project weightiness why not the twosome that elevated pathos to another realm entirely with "Bridge Over Troubled Water" four plus decades ago. I'm sure there are many women out there who buy into Jon's dreamboat version of the sensitive male right down to the drops of cologne wriggling down his chest. Don't mistake me. I have no problems with Jon as a human being or as a rock 'n' roll thespian. What bugs me is that his band's overarching themes only run to two channels. If you're down and out and ready to throw in the towel Jon's got your lifelines. If you're a woman who craves reminders of how beautiful she still is Jon's got you covered. But if you're looking for a band that's shaken off the image of being too comfortable in their style of lyricism, like that well-worn pair of slip on loafers your father owns I doubt you'll walk away from "What About Now" sensing Jon (Bon Jovi), Richie (Sambora), Dave (Bryan), Hugh (McDonald) and Tico (Torres) have chiseled into their body of work any sign of sprouting bonafide ambition. Uniformity might be okay if you're McDonald's and all its customers want out of the deal is a ready to wolf down burger and fries. For Bon Jovi, a band whose golden age is officially threatening to occupy the real estate far behind the rear view mirror it's an uneasy rut to find them stuck in. To their credit Richie has his metallic moments. His solo on "I'm With You" slams a pulse into what could've been a belabored, world weary song. Tico still possesses a wicked touch on drums, particularly on the likes of "Because We Can". Jon's sincere vocals aren't at issue. It's the insisted upon name brand that threatens to pull them under. Bon Jovi needs to return to its roots if it wants to continue hanging with rock's big boys. I can live with them wanting to ixnay any and all plans to revisit those bottles of Aqua Net hair metal bands staked their reputations on, though.

Cloud Cult's Droplets of Wisdom Build You Up From The Inside

Listening to Minnesota outfit Cloud Cult's "Love" closely resembles sitting around the dining room table with those nearest, and we hope under the best of circumstances dearest, to swap stories of how the day went. If Clarice the nephew was having problems understanding what her full potential might be then Uncle Max could assuage her worries with "You're The Only Thing In Your Way". Gliding along unencumbered by worries of this earth, she'd come to understand potential never truly is out of one's reach so much as we push  it away with needless head games which didn't appear needless at the time. Daniel Zamzow adds bottomless moral substance with his mighty cello. Shannon Frid-Rubin brings violin to the mix. Her notes give "Thing" the weightlessness a sky's the limit fantasy often requires. Arlen Peiffer drums as if he knows the right path is his for the pursuing. Suppose Aunt Mona is passing around the biscuits and grape jelly. She senses this treat would fit nicely while her son Bradley grapples with uncontrollable moodiness of the sort proposed by "It's Your Decision". Jekyll and Hyde are slugging it out not just in lyrical context but in the way the instrumental jigsaw puzzle comes together. The first half is all about rising thunderhead clouds. At the midway point the dam breaks, and rain comes crashing down. Sarah Elhard-Perbix's keyboards, Shannon's violin, and Arlen's drums inject a pronounced boldfaced type into the heightened anguish. Brad's bout with strum und drang inspires no strings sympathy. Max's highly rebellious twin brother Derek trembles with the outrage meter at 7 or higher. He'd feel better about inhabiting his own skin after a strong dose of "1 X 1 X 1". Of all 13 tracks it  veers into take no prisoners territory the most. Arlen stays in fifth gear. Rolling with the punches is the implied  message. The fictional family I've cobbled together from scraps has reached the main course, a pot roast that appears generous enough to feed every family of four on the block. The brood starts getting nostalgic over the best friends they ever encountered. "Good Friend" would be a fabulous musical go with. Cloud Cult gushes over how's it 's all anyone really ever needs in a tumultuous world that's locked, loaded, and determined to bump you off. Shannon's violin playing represents proper social grace, whereas Arlen's boisterous drumming signifies the playfulness of jumping in newly compiled piles of leaves. Dad would be a little put off but he'd soften after seeing his progeny bask in the silliness of their guileless pursuit. "Meet Me Where You Going" delivers salt of the earth plainspoken respect between man and what hopefully is soon to be wife. The long time couples will be more likely to stare into each others eyes knowingly while the unsteady newbies riding the marriage go-round will start to feel less ill at ease. Wiping the instrument slate clean at the close works wonders. Nothing to come between listener and wannabe married couple except a folksy hint of a capella. Gravitas and punch intersect with "It Takes a Lot". Craig Minowa, the teller of inescapable truths throughout this collection poses the question, "Why do we get what we've got?" Delicateness of source material up top. Relentless rumble beneath. "The Calling" barrels ahead with piercing affirmation of how we're not just here as twisted comedy relief for the man upstairs. Shannon's violin strikes bittersweet chords. Arlen's bravado extends for days. Craig conducts himself with an unshakable sense of self at the epicenter. All the melodrama pays off handsomely. Much like the family assembled around a gingham blue tablecloth to spin yarns, tell tales, and chew basic fat, you too will be treated to a full banquet thanks to Cloud Cult. No empty calories here. Only captivating stories visited and revisited by a tribe of minstrels who are versed enough in direction finding that you're highly confident bread crumbs aren't necessary. "Love" is lovable on a variety of levels.

This Zombie Was Very Much Alive

In tribute to Saint Patrick's Day I'd like to honor one of the best songs an Irish recording act has ever come down the pike with, or quite possibly ever will. In 1994, The Cranberries released their sophomore album "No Need To Argue". The first single from said album was "Zombie". Few songs step for step exhibit funeral hearse worthy heaviness at quite the same level "Zombie" does. Each heart ripping juncture in the road is played up for maximum ire. Dolores O'Riordan squeezes a great deal mileage out of the question: 'How can you just close your eyes to the violence circulating around you? That won't make it vanish." According to Dolores the song was inspired by a child's death. The child fell victim to the explosive aftermath of a bomb being planted in a London rubbish bin. It's an act of territorial saber rattling not at all uncommon between Ireland and the United Kingdom. The year 1916 connects to the time frame of the despicable act. Each of the instruments plods along as if the last drops of oxygen were just moments away. From the minute I first heard it I was stunned. You'd need to take a few cleansing breaths just to reclaim an "All's right with the world" optimism. Dolores employed an astonishing level of restraint to keep the obvious outrage in her voice from bubbling up to catastrophic proportions. Fortunately, even though the beginnings of each passage found her tamping down her consternation, raw nerve endings won the day. To hear her come unglued fragment by fragment was a watershed moment. Fergal Lawler drove the downbeat point home with his drum work. You knew the overhead skies were begging to unleash a torrent but, as can be the case with Texas storms, Nature left us waiting in agony for the ozone hole to rip open. Michael Hogan's bass playing glowered from whichever sound system the masses received this song through. Brother Noel's lead guitar cried: "Enough already!" He pasted a portrait of souls beaten down, struggling for the trickle of light showing the way out. Certain songs need elbow room to make their presence felt. Five minutes and six seconds was ideal. "Zombie" scooped generously from the inky black end of the color wheel. It's certainly not an easy listen, but  you couldn't ask for more of a bracing display of musicianship. It would appear even zombies have humanized souls. In its own way "Zombie" rocks just as hard as Irish brethren U2 do on their masterful "Sunday Bloody Sunday". Difference is "Zombie" smolders until the only smell listeners could make out was thick smoke. The foursome slashed those old wounds wide open until you couldn't help but shed tears at the needless bloodshed. In my opinion "Zombie" deserves to be thought of as one of the top 20 songs from the '90s as well as a perfect argument supporting music lovers who think the mid 90s was the least truly great period for contemporary music. "Zombie" beat you down slowly, surely, conclusively. No argument was left unapproached. In the end there was nothing left to say. When your point gets made as succinctly as was the case here why should you complicate the facts?

My Jerusalem's Latest Not For Everyone

In honor of South by Southwest I'd like to lend my impressions of "Preachers" the title track from this Austin transplant's new album. It sounds unsettling, a swirl of madness set to the slowest, most deliberate pitch possible. Anyone out there who is amply skeptical about the intentions of preachers in an organized religion context aren't likely to feel any less at ease. It's Michael St. Clair's keyboards that amp the icky meter a notch. Grant Van Amburgh taps away on drums with.no wasted movement. Geena Spigarelli's bass inflections let you know an ominous presence is lurking. What I regret to share is that there's lost potential from this song because it tends to linger around the same series of angry chord arrangements. Varying this would make the theme harder to shake and less like a quizzical novelty. Vocalist Jim Klein acknowledges the record as a collective is darker that past material. Unfortunately there's little room to explore in the song as presented. Admittedly I haven't had the chance to hear "Preachers" front to back simply because I haven't been able to find a suitable upload point but if this track is any indication My Jerusalem falls victim to treading the same ground repeatedly with no indelible imprint to show for it. I chose to discuss this band because it's one with Austin ties that's performing at an Austin fest. However I can't really recommend it based on its inability to spread its soiled wings.

Fall Out Boy's Darkness An Alluring Spectacle

Listening to Fall Out Boy's collective body of work isn't merely a brief chunk of time hunkered down with new music. It's a trip into a series of captivating dream worlds. In fact "Dance Dance" is the closest the band has really come to a straightforward pop rock ditty. I've found it best to focus on the collective spark among the four rather trying to get to intimate with the lyrics, as literate as they often are. You've got one camp pinning its loyalties to Patrick Stump's angst riddled thoughts while the other gets stunned by how the arrangements seem to grow higher by the second. "Thanks For The Mmrs" was pretty damned thrilling due to the through the looking glass infectiousness that coursed through its veins. The dudes offered you a ride on their jet ski and you couldn't help but say yes. There was that hint of a sinister side but that only fueled the curiosity factor. Here in 2013, Fall Out Boy has returned from their three-year hiatus with "My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark", which deserves to be an early front-runner for best title for a song in any genre. Whatever hooch is their hard stuff of choice they need to keep imbibing that. As in efforts past the lyrics zero in on relationship drama. Can't take my ears off of: "A constellation of tears on your lashes. Burn everything you love, then burn the ashes." Okay Pat, maybe not so much hooch for you. Your intense stare is starting to not only make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up but I swear they've sprouted mini parachutes so they'll have something to help aid in a safe landing once they hit the ground. Pat's certainly got the ability to haunt with this voice but it's an undiluted cut the crap sound. There's no raspiness to block the raw magic. Truth be the told this is a beautifully silly number. The chorus merits one shaking one's midriff in a guilty pleasure style, shades pulled, veneer of adult respectability thrown to the breeze. Andy Hurley tosses in a thick beat behind the kit. Pete Wentz, the lyrical brains behind the rock moxie enthralls on bass. I'd say this effort has a little bit of hard rock/metal camp without any distracting attention being lofted at what the band looks like or whether or not any of them cuts the lady's man figure. Take a few listens to "I'm on fire!!" as it's uttered here. If you don't have at least some semblance of a goofy grin on your face then you, sir, have something not quite right in your cranium. Pace wise things the band takes the time to savor the twisted landscape. "This Ain't a Scene, It's an Arms Race" was a uninhibited carnival with Pat acting as possessed sideshow barker. There was certainly a massive backwards journey through time at its core. That song teased you with the promise of going into fourth gear at any moment until, in short order, it lived up to that promise. "Songs" stomps along with the kind of measured potency that's appropriate for a time when a lot of Americans are hesitant about learning when or where the next shoe will drop but for the sake of getting some sort of answer they push forward. It's win-win when you mix fun in a bombast blender with fright factor. The forthcoming "Save Rock and Roll" promises to be a gas if this set is top heavy with strangely endearing creations like this.

Steven Wilson & Friends Present a Raven You Mustn't Refuse

Oh the memories you could stoke 'round the crackling fire with Steven Wilson's stunning exercise in well fleshed out ambition "The Raven That Refused To Sing (And Other Stories). Each of the 6 gems on this exhilarating necklace of notes serves a totally self-contained chapter in a thought-provoking opus. "Luminol" is about the most agile sampling of musical fusion cuisine you'll feast on in this still fairly young 2013. Theo Travis's flute flies high, catching any and all tailwinds in his general direction. Not only is Steve a modestly engaging storyteller his bass is a swarthy marvel of technique. Adam Holzman's keyboards are drug addled delectable. As a whole the pacing leaps trapeze like from one instrument fusion to the next. Imagine if you will a small child turning a kaleidoscope and you have a pretty good idea of the shape-shifting at work. Guthrie Govan's lead guitar refuses to be tamed. Marco Minnemann slaps his drums with malevolent aplomb.  "Drive Home", despite the unsettling main plotline of a man having serious trouble coming to terms with his wife dying in a car accident, is approachable due to a gelling persona that one might want to get to know better on a woodsy stroll. Steve's finest lyrical moments come with: "Clear away the jetsam in your brain." He reminds us that we can be imprisoned by loneliness despite the conclusion of a recent dark situation. This brand of contemplation is quietly agonizing but due for an agreeable caress all the same. Big hugs seem inadequate but hearing the protagonist's awkward struggle you want to at least give empathy a try. "The Holy Drinker" is severely eerie. You've entered the parallel dimension of a guy you'd be wise to avoid bumping into in the dead of night. In this case the baddie's a highly pious televangelist who has the audacity to tell others by not loving God they're living their lives wrong even when he himself is caught in the grip of a highly mortal affliction...alcoholism. The sinfully incredible bass licks are brought to us by Nick Beggs who '80s music aficionados might remember from one-hit wonder band Kajagoogoo which reached #5 in Billboard with the keyboard eargasm "Too Shy". Nick hasn't lost a step since those halcyon days. Theo Travis takes his sax off its leash for "Pin Drop". That state of falling many people have experienced in their dream states commands the room. Here's a plunge which isn't so much alarming as it is a focus point of idle curiosity. Unlike in dreams this fall might lead to an appealing alternate playscape. Lamentably the typical content explores convenience male-female couplings where love definitely isn't the answer."The Watchmaker" brings pathos to the center ring buoyed by Adam Holzman whose dignified strokes of piano lend some sensitivity to subject matter such as a watchmaker who never had any clearly defined emotional wellspring to visit throughout he decades of his life. At no point was a violent outburst part of his package. As for the title track it's achingly fragile as you might expect when the content deals with an Edgar Allan Poe bird that the elderly protagonist is hoping is the reincarnation of his long dead sister who has come to whisk him away to the next life. This song is best eased into gracefully much like you'd ease into the bubbles of a hot tub. Don't just plunge in. Allow some time for the cosmic temperature to allay your darkest fears first. I have a great deal of respect for this effort. That's not necessarily because he and his musical entourage of kindred spirits delve into raw topics that aren't all butterflies and teddy bears. It's more to do with how he carries himself with dignity. He drops the right shadings into the mix regardless of which of the varied instruments he's employing to get his point across. Steven the vocalist is merely the humble storyteller. The musical instruments speak far more than he'd ever try to even at his most embattled. "The Raven" sings, trills, bangs, strums, and above all things, connects in a way where you're drawn into this orbit from head to foot. Maybe not an easy sell for mainstream audiences but that's its loss really. The heart beating from this "Raven" barely lets up at all even though the broken characters depicted here often seem like they are dangling from the thinnest of lifelines.

For Paramore, Being In The Now Not Such a Good Thing

It's amusing to watch bands, rock in particular gallivant from a raw energy to a project that has to have had a fair amount of studio, major-label courting influence. The one band in particular I'm singling out is Paramore. To make my case and, to avoiding bringing out the notion that I'm on a first name basis with the band's entire record catalog, all I need do is draw your attention to "Misery Business", the opening single from 2007's "Riot!" album. What drew me to the band was this song. I was floored by the lethal level of energy. Former drummer Zac Farro was amazingly tight. That's an example of channeling your emotions for maximum effect. Definite machine gun pulse at work. Hayley Williams was as snarling at the mike as former guitarist Josh Farro was on guitar. Hayley's lyrics dripped "woman in search of getting her just desserts". Nobody left a single inhalation or exhalation unaccounted for. You may call it guilty pleasure but I call it surgically memorable. Once the song concludes you know you weren't entertained by some posers who were trying to fool you into thinking they knew what quality rock ought to sound like. Fast forward to "Now" the title track to Paramore's new self-titled effort. There's a gloss to the overall sound. Not only that there are one too many examples of a repetitive chorus that's trying to hard to become the earwig you can't shake from your skull. "Don't try to take this from me" gets tired real fast as does the truism 'There's a time and a place to die, but this ain't it." Ditto for "If there's a future, we want it now." I'm no dummy. One of the main ingredients to a successfully selling song is lyrical content that won't let go of your imagination. However a fine line must be balanced between a repetitive chorus you're eager to be reunited with and one that runs a risk of getting on your nerves. "Now" falls pretty squarely into the latter category. Hayley has lost some of the fire that made "Misery Business" such a giddy release of voyeurism. Charter member and lead guitarist Jeremy Davis has dialed himself down some, too. Studio drummer Ilan Rubin performs competently but I wouldn't go to much farther than that. It's a subjective conclusion but I bring you back to "Misery Business" (before) vs. "Now" (after). Maybe it's a bit early to say Paramore has become soft as its evolution has moved along but I haven't been knocked out of my seat the way I had been with "Misery Business" era Paramore. I hope they inject some swagger back into their work because Hayley Williams is a female vocalist who brings with her a firestorm of spunk. What she needs most is a collection of songs that show off that asset to its best effect. Paramore deserves not to fall by the wayside only four albums into its career. Raw ass-kicking is as necessary to rock as an ice cream cone is to butter pecan. Paramore is too talented to just melt away.

Atlas Genius Latest Single Bulging With Danceable Hooks

Well-crafted dance hooks are bursting all over the latest single from South Australia's own Atlas Genius. "If So" is one of those kinds of grooves you can settle into without reservation. Michael Jeffrey's impeccable drum timing makes being a wallflower near impossible. Michael's brother, Keith, the second of the Jeffery brothers in this outfit dishes out a guitar sequence that provides just enough aural stimulation to make people want to stay on their feet long after your run-of-the-mill dance flavor leaves them in search of the exit door in short order. Steven, the third and final Jeffrey brother, drops bass melodies that are seamless. As a total package, "If So" is one smart cookie worth taste after taste. These Aussies have already gotten their foot in the door with "Atlas".Said door will likely be broken off of its hinges with this song. "If So" seems centered on people who don't know who their true selves are so they spend laborious chunks of time trying to fake a persona around the outside world. Keith presents the notion that a lot of the time that act is easily exposed. "When It Was Now" ought to keep its powerful sea legs swimming along feverishly with "If So". Excitable propulsion would appear to be the name of this game. The foursome birthed a song ripe with engaging personality. It's hard to see how any self respecting dance music lovers would push the song out in the cold.