Getting Closer to Cage The Elephant's Latest Likely Will Send Chills Down Your Spine

How about a disorienting head trip into the world of alt-rock? Here's something new for you to sink your teeth into. Anybody who's spent time at a Halloween party walking through a haunted house knows that part of the scare factor involves walking down a dark hallway not knowing what's going to join you in the nothingness. Will it be a skeleton dropped from the ceiling. A ghoul emerging from the next door you pass? Bowling Green, Kentucky's Cage The Elephant has done its homework on making the hairs on the back of our neck stand up. Single #1 from "Melophobia", "Come a Little Closer", is gifted with that unavoidable sense of foreboding similar to the train wreck you can't avert your gaze from. Good houses, be they brick and plywood or B-flat, C-sharp, need a firm foundation to stand on or else the house crumbles into dust, leaving passersby to muse, "What a waste of time and energy that must have been. No wasted effort from Cage The Elephant. Daniel Tichenor applied a menacing bass early on so we know the street we're about to walk down is about a million miles removed from the peace (imagined or otherwise) of everyday suburbia where the electric company keeps the lamp posts regularly lit full blast at night and all the stray dogs have been reunited with their worried owners. The initial framework of bass, lead guitar, and drums possesses the necessary spookiness to keep us engaged whether we're certain we want to be or not. There's this kaleidoscopic mood shift from the first chord selection (stalwart bravery) to the second (slightly less self-assured) to the third one (rattled but determined to see this disfiguring quest through anyway. So much is communicated just by a liberal back and forth interplay between minor and major chords. These shifts set up a sense of time and place, a setting for the theatrics to follow. I'll lay this nugget on the table for you from the get go. I can't say as I grasp what lead vocalist Matthew Shultz is saying. What does seem apparent is that Father Time has more than a walk-on role to play. I always knew it flew by. Hell, at the office I'm conflicted between wanting to let it fly by so I can run back home and corrode my insides with Twinkies and wanting the day to proceed just slowly enough to prove I was in fact an active participant. For the first time ever I'm being informed time shakes. I always thought time had no discernible human feelings. Turns out, at least according to Matthew it can shake. Shake equals fear. Fear equals running from whatever boogeyman is tearing your serene world apart. Matt deserves a pat on the back for actually humanizing the very dehumanizing thing that's slowly sucking the life force out of all of us. I feel at home working with the haunted house motif. That's time and again due to cryptic lyrics that hint at the idea that things in Cage The Elephant's current universe aren't what they appear to be. If you want to get deep philosophical literal about what's being sung you could pose the argument that "Come a Little Closer" is pointing the finger at society in general, the queue of players marching across the life stage that have this knack for blurring the line between what's real and what's fabricating to keep the public paranoid and groping for answers. Lincoln Parish picks his shots on lead guitar. Enough discomfort to keep us all clinging to Matthew in hopes that he can do more than ask us if we understand the things we've been dreaming. A lot of times when I'm staring at the inside of my eyelids I really don't understand what I'm dreaming. Frankly when the dreams involve weaponry, bodily harm, and the all-important scream no one hears, I'm just glad that nightmare has been stricken from the record. Jared Champion pounds out some blisteringly aggressive drumming that ups the ick factor by at least a few notches. All we as active listeners can do is keep walking down the hallway hoping we maintain enough of our wits to make it through to the other side with only minimal psychic damage. Matthew doesn't sing with a chip on his shoulder or unresolved anger. There's more of a adamant pleading. "Come a little closer than you seem". Bridge the fright gap that keeps us separated behind an unspoken barrier of misgivings. Why is it that time is flying by yet the role players Matt plants into his verses do nothing more than sing along. Does he inform us these masses are helpless to stop their own oblivion so singing along is the only way they know how to make the best of time and by association life passing them by. Those words alone are so eerie, so dismantling. It's as if a repeated wave of ice breath passes up the spines of the disenfranchised. They're resigned to it but, hey, at least the swirl of macabre is playing their song. Detachment is the order of the day. An isolation too heavy to lift with any level of ease contributes to the blackness in Cage The Elephant's house of horror. Brad Shultz does a stellar job steering this ship towards whatever indifference iceberg is at the other end of the hall. Quality rhythm guitar from a man comfortable in his role if not comfortable with the nausea-inducing direction the chords and their creators opt to go in. I personally am not nauseated. I'm just as guilty of coming down with that twinge of curiosity when there's a car wreck up ahead. I'm not part of the carnage so it's okay for me to ask myself, "What's the story behind that tragic situation?" "Come a Little Closer" crooks its finger, daring us to not be a little curious about what malevolent trouble we can get into. Cage The Elepant found the keys to its prison on this go round. The goosebumps are going to stay with you long after the hellish haze trails off. If sinus clearing night terror which is brutally effective 24/7 is attractive to you then "Come a Little Closer" knows where you live. Remember to have the sense to least entertain the preventative measure of sleeping with a light on. Delectably creepy to the last wince worthy installment.

Rich Homie Quan's Type of Way Not Worth Travelling

I'd like to open this post with a "breaking of the fourth wall". When I sit down to post a blog about a new cut or album, I honestly want to like what I'm reviewing. That I can't is probably due to in no small measure to the music industry itself which seems to like following TV's myopic vision of trying to ascertain what it is people want to hear? For instance if emo ever steals a large portion of the spotlight you can bet any and every label worth its salt is going to be drooling over potential bankable acts like a Pavlovian dog. Right now it would appear hip-hop, alone, or travelling in packs, is the prevailing flavor. By packs I mean so and so featuring fill in entourage of added rap acts here. Luckily we also have Imagine Dragons, Of Mice and Men, and Luke Bryan floating around to keep the bitch tally from getting ridiculous. I'm not going to elaborate on Miley Cyrus or her hit "We Can't Stop" because watching her blush worthy gyrations at 2013's MTV Video Music Awards spoke volumes, none of those volumes anything I'd waste a perfectly likable afternoon on. Okay Miley!! You is all grown up and wanting to flaunt your womanly wiles!! It failed. What you did do is lock a lot of raised eyebrows in the stun position. But what I'm trying to say with all this current musical events business is I really want to look at hints of today's music and future hits and say, "This sounds pretty neato to me. Glad I sat down and discovered this for the first time. In an unpredictable world where many of the surprises we get aren't exactly good ones, the promise of likable new music springs eternal. So off I went listening to Atlanta rapper Rich Homie Quan's "Type of Way" at least a little curious about whether Billboard's brass should be proud the song is the current #1 on its Heatseekers chart. In a word, no. In two words, hell no. In three words, bloody hell no. I could go on but you'd get tired of me, I'd go to the kitchen and pour my sorrows into a pint of ice cream, my health would start eroding, you'd feel pity/sympathy/revulsion. This blog is about the straight dope on yesterday's and today's music. Dope is a good word to enforce here. That's dope as in: "You'd have to be a dope to think Rich Homie Quan is breaking any new ground with his wordplay. Let's see if the signs of overused, done to death rap cliches are present within these lyrics? Got your under the microscope mentality working? Perfect. Mention of a really hot car worth more money than the house you're paying off the mortgage on? Check. In this case the ride is a Custom Breitling. At least I've never heard of the car. That's some novelty value. Still bragging about how the car is supposed to make me feel some type of way isn't. Be honest Rich. By be honest I mean in a way where the first grade intelligence of your rapping could somehow be overlooked. You bought the hip-hop Cliff's Notes didn't you? They told you what every bad ass rapper needs to say to convince all of three people that he's got mad skills and that he's someone guys want to be and that the girls want to ride like a mechanical bull at a classic country saloon. Is there even a hint of originality in the background beats. Tyler Perry needs to don his Medea persona, go to urban districts everywhere and tell the rap fanatic youths of today that there ain't no woman gonna marry you if bitch is the only description you have for her. Maybe that's a Pollyana sentiment but you'd have to be pretty low down on the self esteem scale if Rich Homie Quan arouses your loins. Every where you look his whole focus is how something made me feel a type of way. Sade should sue him for slander. It's supposed to be flattery but not when it's thrown up against: "This bitch I'm with got me feelin' some type of way. Is it because my homies rich you feel some type of way?" Stop...there's cliche number two...the ol' bedazzle 'em with bling. Just this once I'd like to hear an appropriate response like: "No, it's not because you homies rich. It's because you're thinking rubbing that in my face will transform you from some gutter thug into a person worthy of respect." It's a long shot dream but, if you don't dream, that dream has no chance of coming true...ever. Anyway back to Billboard's Heatseeker Champion (tepid bathwater bozo is more like it). "Some type of way, make you feel some type of way." Look into his eyes. It's getting creepy. He's subliminally planting the "some type of way" mystery heebie jeebies inside of you. Pretty soon you'll doubt your own sanity! EEEEK!! But bravely we must continue. "Heard she wanna fuck me, know you feel some type of way." Rich has incorporated step #3 in hip-hop Cliff's Notes...the brazen flaunting of one's fucking. To sum up we got a bitch. We got some bling and we got some pretty serious mattress tag going on. Now aside from being textbook hip-hop Cliff's Notes drivel what do these three cornerstones of hip hop hunk posturing have in common? None of them would make me want to download this flaking pile of excrement to my IPod. Not that I really have a working IPod but if I did I wouldn't insult the sanctity of said device by ramming this cosmic chowder blow down its throat. "I set it off like Queen Latifah?" Let me tell you something Rich. First of all, don't you dare drag one of the first ladies of rap into this botched amateur night bit of posing you're doing. She has a talk show coming out next month. You have a rap song that, if there's any justice in this unjust world, will be forgotten inside of a month. Again, possibly wishful thinking but I must let my own freak flag fly proudly and defiantly. Bad habits need to be curtailed before they blossom into full blown societal cancers that ruin lives, rip apart families, and fool the musical conglomerates into thinking people actually would waste a month's pay on concert tickets to see people like this. If alcoholism and smoking are bad habits and threats to the societal fabric of this planet, so is criminally idiotic rap. The interjection of some other bad boy interweaving laughter and the word "fuck" into the mix isn't raising this stink bomb any higher. Rich needs to suck on his own merits. He doesn't need some similar alpha dog vouching for the character he doesn't have. He's actually seen fit to include how he and his homies did some other man's ho and it made him feel...you guessed it...some type of way. If this drive by sexing victim wears gold chains and has a heavyweight pugilist's thick neck I'd say the brother feels mad enough to make Rich a permanent part of some ghetto issue brick wall. Hope his insurance premiums are paid up. The only type of way that "Type of Way" makes me feel is turned off. Maybe I'll have to die before a revolution in rap occurs where insecure males don't need to posture over everything right down to how my Granny could whoop your Granny. Revolutions take time I'm afraid. In the lead up to rap utopia, real or imagined, there have been and will continue to be casualties. "Type of Way" sets the cause back a good twenty years. Makes "Nuthin' But a G Thang" sound like a day at the symphony. At least The Chronic had the devilish beats to help you forget the vid didn't shy away from treating women like playthings. "Type of Way" is one Heatseeker that deserves to be stripped of its oxygen ASAP.

Washed Out Does a Commendable Job Pushing Cleansing Oxygen In

The front porch is, if you're fortunate enough to have a quality paper delivery service, the place where your morning news lies waiting to greet you (unless you look online exclusively in which case this was just a cutesy little stroll down memory lane). It can signal the new beginning to a new day. Ernest Greene who goes by the stage name Washed Out couldn't be presenting his persona in any less of an accurate light with his new "Paracosm" release. The definition of paracosm is " a prolonged fantasy world invented by children. You can make out the droopiness of a child's dream world on every single track. "Entrance" swings the guileless door upon to the familiar sounds of chirping birds and the natural wonders surrounding them. Washed Out does a great job preparing us for the disarming trip to come. "It All Feels Right" dilutes all show of sentimentality in the right way but trains its steady eye on friendship and meeting back up to rekindle the connections that never really ebbed regardless of where on the globe the players traipsed off to. "Don't Give Up" ushers in a street party level of handsome production but this jewel's really about grasping that spark of resolve to hang on to a romance that's seen better times. "Weightless" is just that, a weightless curiosity not unlike a balloon after a five-year old has been amused enough by it and is now ready to part with its novelty value. Being buoyed high above the hardscrabble fray is a valuable temptation in the employ of Washed Out. He likes to employ enough mischievous key strokes with this package to remind us we're visiting the corridors of a child's fantasy but, we adults if we possess the necessary bravery, are more than welcome to tag along for the ride. "All I Know" is a poppy, touchable winner bringing an engaging bass and tambourine sensibility percussion to the dream community. The keyboards here tug at the ears in innocent malevolence. It's all in the name of reminding us we're among friends. Time to take off the mask that adulthood forces us to wear to advance career, pleasure the spouse, or enforce the law with the children. Perhaps you have been waiting all your life to escape from it all? "Great Escape" senses you'd like to leave the world for a bit. The synths easily hearken back to "Electricity" era OMD. These keyboards are mere paint brushes meant to keep this overall fantasy realm from backsliding into unforgivable blandness. "Falling Back" doesn't skimp on the fantasy extravagance. This selection is just washed new car shiny, aglow in chipper guitars and sequined panache plucked straight from a moonbeam. "All Over Now' spells out the finality of breaking clean with one's fears. No feet touch the ground. High above the din, new directions are ready to be forged. Next time you pluck the paper from the mat on the front porch consider Washed Out's "Paracosm" to be just a crisp as that opening plunge into the new day, the new stories, the new potential. "Paracosm" is drowsy in spots but its take on the universe is refreshingly wide awake like the best moments of a new morning.

Strange Daze Indeed

It was Cyndi Lauper whose meteoric rise to fame began with a string of hits from a little old album called "She's So Unusual". It seems somehow appropriate to insert this cultural reference point up front because how else could you justify my proclamation that today we're going to salute oddball music by celebrating Strange Music Day. You people are in such luck today. I'm going to serve up three nuggets for the price of one. For openers we have Venice, California thrash metal pioneers Suicidal Tendencies. Suicidal? That's not strange...sad is more like it. Is that not what's churning in the ever patient melons on top of your necks? That I'm asking this question qualifies me for the foray into strange song singing. If you want to examine "Institutionalized" for its true artistic content you could say it was rap before hip hop exploded out of the box. Explosive!! Here we have singer Mike Muir in the 100% conversational role of Mike, a youngster for whom your garden variety meds are not going to be of much use. Ever had a chance to ride a roller coaster (Yes, Greg. "Love Rollercoaster" Please bury this horse already). No, I mean the sensation where the coaster is ambling its way up to the top, steadily, painstakingly, with a butt load of riders who are either waiting to crap their pants or boarding the cerebral express train to euphoria. That's what the opening portion of "Institutionalized" feels and sounds like. Mike tries so hard but things don't work out the way he wants. If only the other foolish mortals would leave him alone. And what's with his mom insisting he's on drugs? And no, Mike. A Pepsi wouldn't be too much to ask. We're a voyeuristic nation. I'll admit in this case hearing Mike's ongoing train wreck life saga jump the rails repeatedly is a not even close to being guilty pleasure. Why? From the moment Amery Smith's drums are locked and loaded this coaster's headed round the band. In fact Louiche Mayorga, in his capacity as bass player serves as little more than an innocent bystander cranking out one relentlessly earwig stylized guitar riff. Over and over and over. This is what a snapping brain pan resembles. The riff continues. Grant Estes lies in wait for the downfall with his alto guitar machismo. It all comes back to Mike examining Mike. No five octave range here. No vocal theatrics. Just a typical depression soaked suburban afternoon in California. I praise "Institutionalized" for repeating the storyline, resolution, payoff formula three times. I feel for the guy because the points he makes are valid. After all why is he the crazy one when he went to their schools, churches, and institutional learning facilities? If the young stop asking these questions of their elders we've lost our way as a collective species. We'll be nothing more than a bunch of bobble-headed dolls waiting to be told what to say yes to next. Pulse pounding. Metal riffs start slow, go faster and faster and faster until, ARGGGH!! We're inside Mikey's twisted mind. What's real? What's fantasy? Does anybody have a towel? I'm sweating away weight I can't afford to lose right now!! Mike's rapid fire breaking the fourth wall explanation to the listener is the icing on this cacophonous cake. Right after the word "myself", it appears the sanity ship has been righted but, only temporary folks. We've gone from frustrated to accused drug user wanting Pepsi, to flat out rebellion against conformity. I did say rap? That's the truth. No beatbox. No gold chains. Just some white boy angst bleeding all over the vinyl. You have to smile when Mike declares he'd probably just get hit by a car anyway. Each time before he slides over the edge Mike drops hints of what they do to the newly insane (brainwashed, bloodshot eyes, white shirt, copious drugs to avoid actual intervention,etc...) I never much cared for "Titanic" but the principal of enjoying the expected downfall of a sinking ship is just as easy to get behind here. You know Mike's failing to prop himself up. You know there's a sense that his gripes are justified, or are they? See when you're crazy, the line between fiction and reality becomes blurred. The mishmash of joyless noise at each bridge definitely sounds blurred together for a chowder blowing reason. Note to new parents. Please don't make "Institutionalized" baby's first exposure to music of any stripe. It won't be his last exposure to family therapy. In short, "Institutionalized" is a strange psychotic soup with a mental aftertaste. Compelling but cuckoo. Sorry if your dinners tonight started out life with fins, flippers, or the like. Couldn't address strangeness in music without taking a little time to chat up comedy duo Barnes and Barnes. "Fish Heads" is mercifully short. That doesn't mean I don't find it strangely endearing. Watch the video some time and perhaps you won't wince the second you see a fish head in some capacity other than helping us all meet some food pyramid requirement. Art and Artie Barnes are the personas for Bill Mumy and Robert Haimer. All I have to say is their obits are going to be hilarious if the one thing people remember about them is that they were those fish head guys. Too much helium inhalation. Of course do you have a better suggestion? They're...well...I guess I can't swear to the idea that they're singing. Chanting a chant in a bratty five year old fashion is more like it. I'm leaving the terrible twos and tumultuous threes out of this because I don't think they can grasp the concept of a fish head yet. Parents can be pretty amusing, sometimes unintentionally. Give 'em both points for getting their facts straight. Nope, fish heads can't answer all your silly questions. I'd pay money to see a fish head in a sweater though. And no, America's national pastime isn't something they're positioned to be all that great at. I guess Lars Ulrich's job as skins basher for Metallica is safe. They don't play drums either. Again, I'll part with some do, re, mi if you can give me an example of a fish head that does. It's gleeful the way that boys belt out: "Roly poly fishes are never seen drinking Cappucino in Italian restaurants with Oriental women." "Yeah". is the only response we expect to hear but it's funny anyway simply because we didn't need for them to remind us how useless fish heads are in any social situation, much less one where Oriental women are involved. The helium blissed out state sounds too contagious to be ignored. "Fish Heads" is intelligence insulting stupid. Pinching its cherubim cheeks all I have to say is...don't ever change. This moroseness is a victimless crime, unless you can be charged for making somebody die laughing Say the name Thomas Dolby to any one of a number of well-schooled '80s music buffs and the song that undoubtedly comes to mind I bet you is "She Blinded Me With Science". Fair enough. It was a Billboard #5 hit during 1983. The video shows why many people nowadays get nostalgic for when Jersey Shore was just a vacation spot, not a maddening reality show featuring some creature named Snooki. "Science" may have been the breadwinner tune but one tune that gets sorely overlooked IMHO is "Hyperactive" lifted from his 1984 album "The Flat Earth". To this day the man's still a wiz with technology. The opening words are wrapped in unsettling computerized drone speech. Unlike "Institutionalized" which has to come to a rolling boil before it takes flight, "Hyperactive" is the mental patient who's been inside this whole rubber room gig for some time and rightfully so. The track is blissfully heavy on funk licks. The drums have been given steroids. The bass is so beefy I'd swear you'd find a T-bone in the middle. Thomas gives us all a crash course in how he got so messed up in the first place. From age three he's been hooked to a machine so his mind wouldn't spout junk. As someone who really didn't take to math like a pig does to slop I can't say as I get behind the whole "division in my brain" concept. See what a terrible math teacher'll do for you? Granted the dirty rhythms in his blood saturate this effort. That Thomas has cranked the intensity level to 11 is what makes "Hyperactive" Mexican jumping bean fun. Was that a trumpet I heard at the bridge? Yup, this inmate's giving all the orders here. The sympathy vote is easy to come by. Thomas has much to offer the world. If only he didn't seem permanently tethered to the crazy house. The most enjoyable part of a video with no shortage of riveting set pieces has to be when Thomas and his therapist play word association. Anybody surprised when after the shrink came up with "melons" Tom responded with "boobs". This is lightning fast chess match of wills between the doctor and the patient who really is trying to say that he can't help being the space case he is. He's had an entire lifetime of experience with it. For the early '80s the vid had its share of groundbreaking aces to deal out. Thomas Dolby proves with "Hyperactive" that his fascination with science didn't end with "She Blinded Me With Science". Not only that the full gamut of his creative genius is on undiluted display. "Hyperactive"...oddball audio from a wunderkind talent who is plenty comfortable in his own skin, thank you very much.

Elton Is Brilliant at Going Home Again

Elton John can add yet another feather to his already burgeoning cap full of legendary songs he's gifted the world with over the years. This go round his message is solely about how, for all we observe and experience we just want to get back home. The piano arrangements here are nothing short of dazzling. His strokes are ever nimble. The warm passages and the chillier ones lock together ideally. The 3:28 mark is proof of how much haunting power he lifts from the cool end of the spectrum. Elton's notes ring out with the clarity of a man who knows whereof he speaks. In his search for serenity he goes on a trip through conflicting personas like a nightclub singer from '63, a viewer of once majestic seven wonders of the world that dominating nations have sent to their decline. So much gets conveyed. All it takes is Elton, some ivories to tickle, and a master craftsman's touch and the end result is a deeply moving jewel from Sir Elton's soon to be released effort "The Diving Board". If there are several other spellbinders in the works from this project, diving in won't take too much persuasion. It's grabbed the inside track for favorite song of 2013 in my estimation. Elton's proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that yes, it is possible to go home again.

Passenger Compels With a Beat You Can't Let Go Of

Mike Rosenberg, who goes by the stage name of Passenger, has quite the way with a somber melody at work in his current single "Let Her Go". It explores both how love and dreams build up slowly and go so fast. If you're a musician who has signed on to the rigors of the road there's no small grain of truth to the notion that you only hate the road when you're missing home. The anchor for this poignant song is a deep in the gut bass rhythm that wrenches every ounce of pathos possible out of the subject material. If you bring your ears in really closely you can quite literally taste the heartache dripping out of each bass note. As for Passenger's unique voice it isn't at all unlike that of an innocent child climbing out of the wreckage of the world around him to tell the adults in the room what he has learned to this point. The pacing is very definitely heavy of foot and bears the marks of someone on a journey where many pebbles are likely to take roost in his well-worn sneakers. The orchestral bent to this composition only heightens the high quality drama on display. Stitched together it is a pulsating ball of palpable anguish. If anyone remembers the Harlequin Romance novels this number would be an excellent companion piece to those. The single can be found on his CD "All The Little Lights". You'll definitely find this listening experience worth the effort.



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Stream of Consciousness Nuggets From Heaven

The music scene has served up many enticing ways to get to heaven. Belinda Carlisle radiated charm with "Heaven Is a Place On Earth". Of course there's the Jimi Hendrix classic "Stairway to Heaven" and the bombastic riff to top all guitar riffs. Eric Clapton touching "Tears In Heaven" was a gallant salute to his son who died after a fall from the window of a balcony. Then for you alternative rockers out there you can't help but name drop The Cure's "Just Like Heaven" which barely scraped into Billboard's Top 40 peaking at the absolute bottom rung (#40). If you want to get all dazzle me with your raw poetry you could do a lot worse than "Heaven In Your Eyes" from Canada's Loverboy. This was plucked from Top Gun the other movie that put Tom Cruise on the megawatt star map. If you like your celestial vistas spanning generations you could always drop a needle or dial in the IPod for "You'll Never Get To Heaven" from that classy diva Dionne Warwick who should be remembered as an artist and not for her dalliances with Psychic Friends Network. Ah yes, the '90s. Crazy social strata wasn't it? Dionne's out there trip ought to be nosed right up there with OJ and the storied car chase which sounded the death knell for soap opera viewership. I'm completely serious. Used to be you couldn't walk ten paces in either direction without bumping into one. Now it's General Hospital plus three (Bold &  The Beautiful, Days of Our Lives, and Young & The Restless).Returning skyward what about The Psychedelic Furs "Heaven"? Their vid featured lead singer Richard Butler and lots of rain. Poor lad could've had caught his death in that downpour. Maybe you're the sort who pines for The Beatles. That's an easy one to understand but some love needs be spared for Julian Lennon who to my way of  thinking never got the credit he deserved for his mid-80s hits simply because his stylings weren't quite in the deeply contemplative vein of dear old Dad. "Now You're In Heaven" didn't set Billboard on fire but this vid paired John's progeny by wife Cynthia with a ventriloquist dummy. Yes, I said a ventriloquist dummy. Jetting back to Canada who could possibly leave out Bryan Adam's #1 smash "Heaven". Oh misty-eyed reflection on those wild, free younger years. What blending of keyboards, a slightly hard-edged rock sound, and Bryan ushering no small shortage of his masculine wiles. Only fair to hearken back to summer 1985 since we're still amid summer 2013. Remember the beginning of "Heaven Helps The Man (I'm Free)?" Kenny Loggins injected that into the Footloose soundtrack. For me it sort of had that stealthily scaling a rooftop in the dead of night, a budding cat burglar perhaps. Very much middle of the road adult contemporary as if he hadn't left a prime imprint already with the titular song. Nobody really needed a remake except those in the audience who contracted a severe case of pop culture amnesia. What is it about the entertainment industry that sees fit to insult people's intelligence by serving up rehashes of things that were more than spiffy enough the first time? Should I assume there's that corner of the population that had an anvil dropped on them prior to having their tickets taken, their wallets fleeced? Okay thank you. Done with that 3-Minute Brand Oat rant. If you still groove to the laid back vibes of the '70s surely "Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel" by Tavares is enough to get a smile to break out on your faces. Three to five seconds in and you can already smell the pure air overhead. Light and devoid of earthly cares. That decade's prime hits all seemed possessed of a seriously driven orchestra section. But them's the '70s for you. Can't just hustle the hits out. Has to be this larger than life shot of camp value. It worked for me I tells ya'. That was roll the top down and cruise fare to be sure. So there you have it dudes and dudettes. I've always sensed music has the power to transport people to a higher plain. You've just been schooled on the many ways over the years that the land of harps and purity has gotten top billing in song form. May you all float softly as one of those heavenly clouds in blissful slumber as you reflect back on this list. If you're either nodding or smiling then that's a bonus for me and I appreciate you all for the visual implied. This earthbound oddity bids you farewell for tonight!!

The Backstreet Boys Still Haven't Figured Out What They Want To Be When They Grow U

Bless those daffy Backstreet Boys. Gone are the 1990s era monster hits such as "Quit Playing Games With My Heart" and "I Want It That Way". They're trying to shed their teenybopper image dagnab it. They are a male harmony band thank you very much. Trouble is when you're Howie, A.J., Kevin, Nick, and Brian and millions of teen girls have screamed at every syllable you utter, the past can be a cruel mistress indeed. Some of the cuts on "In a World Like This" commendably nudge their way into Norah Jones styled coffee house harmonizing. "Trust Me" is good natured to a likable extreme. The boys have kept their rust way at bay and it shows through and through. The kiss me, kiss you back loose limbed wooing only asks that you drop some fold worthy currency into their tip jar because there's plenty more where that came from if you ask politely. I admit the closing piano has all the earmarks of a java joint not named Starbucks. Jazzy inside out spells "Try". The wool could easily be pulled over our eyes with this gem since there's no trace of the background synthesizer drama that was the calling card for "Everybody (Backstreet's Back)" and "The Call". The first single from the album "In a World Like This" soars due to the vocals towering over whatever aural wallpaper has been draped behind it. "Permanent Stain" dials high up on the pathos meter. The harmonies in this case prove to be tighter than the '90s heyday. What unfurls is more of an uptempo melodrama affair. "Breathe" signifies one strike against the maturation process the guys claim to be after. For the masses who remember them when it's comforting. For those who have since distanced themselves from bubblegum pop this direction they'll be justified in insisting they've been roped into a dated time warp. The acoustic guitar present during "Madeleine" is too cutesy to convince much of anyone that these kids have decided to try on the threads their dads wore. If you run to guilty pleasure listening like Winnie the Pooh runs to honey jars then "Show 'Em (What You're Made Of) hands itself over to you and whispers "Pull the shades down. Who's gonna know?" The Backstreeters aren't shy about showing off their above the fray confidence in dealing with a world that specializes in erasing such nonsense. I could elaborate further on "Love Somebody" and "One Phone Call" but I don't sense anything about either that's going to situate either of them firmly in the pantheon of classic teen heartthrob material their earlier catalog is known for. Helps neither one of us on the street cred front. Moving right along to "Feels Like Home". It's 1994. Nancy Kerrigan got clubbed by that Tonya Harding skank. Prince was in that unpronounceable symbol phase of his career. And look, The Backstreet Boys are trying to foist this back roads, girls home grown lyrical tripe on all of us. Please grab your umbrellas. It's all the better to fend off the manure with. Nice to know they've got this way with turning back time. From "Love Somebody" on through "Soldier" any chance of The Backstreet Boys shining as a collective gets muted by the phoned in paint by numbers walls of sound erected to give the fivesome a better chance to strut their stuff. These gents have one foot stuck in adolescence and the other making tentative strides towards mature material flavored with the brand of chicory coffee comfort level that encourages you to hear them out before uttering to yourself, "Same Backstreet Boys, different verse."

Breaking Away From The Blog With My Thanks

To all Ear Buzz visitors, casual and frequent, I'd like to take the opportunity both to thank you for your participation and to alert.you that from August 3rd through August 9th I will be vacationing in Canada, Winnipeg to be exact. I hope time away from the screen will recharge my battery, provide some much needed calm to my mind and allow me the chance to re-emerge with loads of energy, inspired ideas, and a renewed focus on you my viewers without whom I would be sans blog. Thus far it's been my privilege to provide you with my unvarnished opinions on hits both recent and classical. If any of you has gotten a laugh, chuckle, guffaw, smile, or chortle out of what has graced these short bursts of what I'd like to believe is successfully masquerading as the work of someone who a.) knows how to write and b.) from time to time knows what he's talking about, then it's definitely win win all the way around. It's been my intent to give some love to the material that guided my younger years but also have an appreciation for the sounds shaping today's music scene. Music is one of the best things mankind has shared with this earth. That's why I, like a cat pawing at a ball of yarn, will most likely never grow bored expressing my devotion to it. Music is magical and I couldn't be happier to see what rabbits I can pull out of that hat. So...until I return to these United States of America, once again thank you for paying the admission price and coming along for what I hope has been to this point a very spellbinding ride!

Kings Of Leon - Supersoaker (Audio)

Kings of Leon Give Listeners a Major League Guitar Drenching with "Super Soaker"

Kings of Leon are back, in full unadulterated force. Take heed that its new album is called "Mechanical Bull". It will be out September 24th. That will give you enough time to wipe the heavy perspiration from your brows after one listen to leadoff single "Super Soaker". If you love listening to quality guitar playing and adore able minded musicians whose fret visions give audiences all over the globe something to sink their teeth into then I say pull up to the table, grab some silverware, place the stain repelling napkins where you must because tonight you'll eat like you're not one of the ninety-nine percent. The beauty of "Super Soaker" is in the reality that you don't hear Matthew Followill's lead guitar hogging all the glory. Jared Followill's bass locks in a flavor that most barbecue pit proprietors would rightly envy. Stride for stride these two guitars shape what is a aural feast you'll do well to lick clean. At the chorus the amp levels subside only long enough for lead vocalist Caleb Followill to put his uninhibited jones on a pedestal which, high up there, leaves nothing to the imagination. His defining declarative sentence is: "''Cause I'm the super soaker, red white and blew 'em all away with the kisses unclean as the words that you say". Nice imagery straddling one of those steamy Southern nights where your sanity and survival hinge on letting the screen door allow whatever sultry breeze exists to come filtering through. Caleb champions sentimental girls and begs them not to walk away from him. Drummer Nathan Followill, cousin of Caleb, Jared, and Matthew, works up a respectable lather as Caleb keeps the spotlight on those sentimental girls. I've always appreciated guitar players who realize the creative potential of the instrument, ones who jet from A chords, to C chords, to flats, to sharps, who aren't content to stay in a one or two chord primary loop because it makes the overall sound more of a commercially approachable project. Done well flipping about on the fret board gives us as listeners a chance to ramble through a fun house of twisted psychological shapes, contours, and levels of euphoria. There's no end to the vitality brimming from the song. I'm definitely looking forward to the other cuts on down the line. If they're anywhere close to being as incredible as "Super Soaker then "Mechanical Bull" stands a great chance of being one of those animals music lovers feel compelled to ride over and over until their cardiovascular systems insist they've found salvation. What a spectacular effort!!