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.