James Bay Possesses a Soft Touch On "Let It Go"

Making so much with so little. James Bay has that down cold. If "Let It Go" is any indication he's successfully orchestrated the template for an adult contemporary-based career that can only get better as it goes along. It's nice to be eased into the ideal mood rather than pushed headlong. Enter one super delicate guitar and you've got the makings of a truly exquisite number that can rock your frazzle nerved baby through whatever slings and arrows come her way. Not long after an endearing drum pops into focus. The end result? Congratulations...you've located an indestructible happy place. Lyrically James Bay does much to enhance the watercolor soft strokes his instruments encourage. The message hit upon repeatedly is "Come on let it go. Just let it be. Why don't you be you and I'll be me." Who else are we supposed to be one wonders. The backstory reads as follows. Many a rough night has led to boy and girl dangling at the precipice of relationship disaster. "Walkin' home and talkin' loads." Ears burning every which way. Not exactly sure what "nervous touch" refers to. The stayin' up and wakin' up with you angles I grasp completely. This dude sounds like a prince among men. Poetic to its marrow we're treated to the line: "Everything that's broke leave it to the breeze." Letting go isn't easy regardless of the relationship construct at work. It's a wise idea anyway. It tends to lessen the cosmic baggage you truck around over the years. Sooner or later that baggage could easily give you a hernia. "I used to recognize myself" rings true for anybody who has watched him or herself disintegrate into someone not particularly likable. At the sight of becoming something else he declares: "I think it's time to walk away." When the essence of the attraction wanes that's likely your best bet. Break ups entail a tactful touch which Mr. Bay exhibits to endearing effect. I'm reminded of other adult contemporary singles along the order of John Mayer's "Daughters". It too conveyed so much pathos all the while using nothing but a well-worn guitar to deliver his sentiments. Time will tell if James reaches John's level of heart melting approachable technical richness. Any lady would consider herself lucky to have James let her down easy. James realizes when a problem's too heavy to hold. His answer? Let it slide. Being comfortable in one's own skin takes practice. It's a craft much the same way as painting or photography or cooking. Julia Child made it OK to be error prone in the kitchen, to accept that the whoops moments are part of the attraction. The audience she reached out to was allowed to be comfortable in its collective skin. Her legions of admirers are and always will be grateful to her. James grasps that emotional honesty is paramount in grooming a healthy robust relationship. Next time you're seeking freshness to boost your iPod to enchanting heights give "Let It Go" a try. Letting go of the calm caress won't be so easy. You won't want to either.

Modest Mouse Pulls Back The Curtain To Reveal a Stage-Savvy Sound

Modest Mouse shows off its flair for the theatrical throughout its new single "Lampshades On Fire". Right away you know these guys are skilled at reeling you in. What's true in the case of both albums and songs themselves is a clever bit of wordplay ups your chances of luring potential listeners in. They're forgiven for not panning the spotlight over to drummer Jeremiah Green. We need that extra space to prepare for what's going to be anything but your average alt-rock creation. "Lampshades On Fire would position itself quite well as a track from any one of a number of New York theater productions. That's because it's got a ragamuffin scrappy to it that dares you not to be on its side as it quests towards impossible victory in the face of insurmountable odds. Not uncommon to other alt-rock bands' playbooks is the gradual downward spiral of guitar chord selections. When lead guitarist Isaac Bruce does it he adds curiosity to a track that already makes you enter this band's shop of unusual delights wondering what you've stumbled upon. Bassist Eric Judy's earned his right not to be some unsung hero. You eliminate him from the equation and the body of "Lampshades On Fire" vanishes without a trace. Modest Mouse isn't out to enlighten you. They don't want to get your brain power elevating to Mensa proportions. Leave that to some other busking for change unit. Let it be declared Modest Mouse seeks pleasure, a good time, a fanciful potion to neutralize everybody's workaday blues. The opening lyrics remind you they're not proceeding with malice aforethought. That is unless contributing to the lunacy of their own festival of strangeness counts as lurid criminal action. Drink this in if you'd be so kind. "Well, the lampshades on fire when the lights go out. The room lit up and we ran about. Well, this is what I really call a party now. Packed up our cars and moved to the next town." The only person missing is Mr. Running With Scissors guy. How many of you out there celebrate existence in practical darkness with only a flaming lampshade to guide you? Didn't think that would be a high number. "We have no shame at all" scores as the most accurate character assessment in this lyric loony bin. Why else would they go to another celebratory site and ignite a lampshade all over again. My how their folks must be beaming with pride. "Lampshades On Fire" doesn't have any of the alt-rock special effects that would instantly hint that you had a potential attention grabber on your hands. To me that's why it's charming as the dickens. You know how many of us have that one friend who steps into our lives whose aura tells us this is the one in a million guy who is actually making the world better than when he found it instead of boasting about what he's going to do? Even today actions still speak louder than words. The band's earlier effort "Float On" strode right into your living room, bopped you over the head and made you notice how deeply it wanted to impress you. "Lampshades On Fire" inches into its bag of tricks. Think of the drumming from the earlier going as the ignition stoking this flame. Momentum officially having been increased there's nowhere to go but upward. This burn is controlled and comes out of the chaos better off. Do you want out of the ordinary? Do you champion theater over thrash? "Lampshades On Fire" holds out its hand and rewards with rock walking on the ragged edge.

The Smashing Pumpkins Go Deep For Tiberius

Smashing Pumpkins frontman Billy Corgan strikes me as cerebral. A memoir could be upcoming. Until then his band has unleashed "Monuments To an Elegy". Opening single "Tiberius" puts on ear-popping display the many reasons why Mr. Corrigan remains relevant two decades after grunge and alt-rock settled in as music's fashionable flavors. Gently he ushers us into his fragile piano realm. We're not fooled for a second. Billy's got reinforcements on the way. He lays out guitar in sweeping epic surges that are going to make the masses who championed "Oceania" be glad they came back for added helpings. Very few can multi-task instrumentally but Billy executes each task with phenomenal aplomb. The bass pummels both your ears begging you to offer some resistance even though you and I both know that'll be hard to come by. Jeff Schroeder, the only other constant member in this bunch knows how to drain maximum willies creepiness from keyboards. Ever been too spooked to run for your life as if your next move could be your last? Jeff's here to reinforce how powerless you really are. Often an epic needs Led Zeppelin like space to unfold, to use its hooks to compel us to visit its twisted, layered dimensions. Well, let it be said that's myth, myth, a million times myth. Three minutes and two seconds is all it takes for Billy and Jeff to take the measure of this hefty piece. At their most effective the Pumpkins don't allow you to catch a breath. No sooner have the keyboards instilled that uncertainty of footing within us than Billy rips our hearts out with guitar that knows how to eat away at the rough edged spots. Billy has lost none of the enigmatic charismatic showmanship that boosted both "1979" and "Tonight Tonight" to the upper depths of the alt-rock stratosphere. Not to mention a touch of hairs standing on the back of the neck discomfort that was responsible for making "The End Is The Beginning Is The End" one sound reason for disallowing the sentiment that "Batman and Robin" was the link in the Caped Crusader chain that royally screwed over the franchise (I, for the record, seem to be one of the teeny handful of people who didn't write off the movie as top of the line garbage with a jolt of skunk spray thrown in for bad measure). Billy knows his way around methodical sound construction. He's been around this block long enough to know if it's a war of attrition the public's after then that's what it's going to get. "Hush my love, don't bite" for all the world makes you imagine vampire man and wife trying to make each other less ill at ease in a world that doesn't welcome them with open arms. Any marriage traditionalists out there? Feel free to hold your noses in disgust at "What is love if love obeys". I assumed love, honor, and obey were the big three of the matrimonial mishmash. Don't make waves with the bald vocalist who likely won't ever have enough cranial space to fit the myriad grand ideas he has. Apparently his lover is naive to the ways of the world but he loves her anyway. Unconditional nookie thy name is Corrigan!! I'd love to know how much air space Billy's spent on reading or drawing inspiration from classic poetry. The dark corners of the human psyche come through with astounding clarity in his lyrics. Best of luck to him on getting his paramour to embrace stillness of mind and heart. Some folks never fail to fascinate. Billy comes through time and again. After visiting "Tiberius" you'll definitely say to yourself "Did I just go through that?" Whether through his sense of vision or technical proficiency Billy Corrigan refuses to slink off into the shadows of the circumstance beaten horizons he's brought to life. I dare anybody to see or hear that as a liability.

Madonna's Living It Up and We're All Invited.

Madonna has never claimed she's got a top drawer set of pipes. There's reason to buy that contention. The one time Material Girl is sure she knows how to get everybody's attention. For better and numerous times for worse that's been the template stenciling her career. What you can be sure of is Madge, as she's called colloquially, knows her way around a dance floor. Early 2015 shall herald the arrival of "Rebel Heart". Smashing in its role as appetizer we're gifted with "Living For Love", a house scented fragrance that gives Madonna free reign to play the throaty vamp and the excitable schoolgirl. Early on you don't get the impression she's going to let loose with a club banger that begs for jello shots at the least, Chablis Blanc at the most. In fact her backdrop doesn't stray too far from the piano end of the spectrum. No need for impatience my little Madonna-holics. Not far from the starting line this bass heartbeat pumps at the right tempo to get the uninhibited in top form. Simultaneously wallflowers get ample motivation to be part of the action. Madonna's giving respect to each end of her career. There are traces of the budding diva who brought us "Vogue" and "Dress You Up". The well rounded woman responsible for "MDNA" rears her defiant head too. Usually Madonna doesn't cast herself as the victim in her romantic tete a tetes. Lyric stanza one from "Living For Love" ends with Madonna having become captured by a man's wiles only to find he put a shot through her heart (Nice homage to Bon Jovi's "You Give Love A Bad Name"). Her dalliance starts out promisingly enough. What's not to like? Girl loves boy. She lets him into her life. He empowers her, makes her strong. Eventually she feels she can do wrong. How mistaken she turns out to be. Where were the alarm bells? Out of sight out of mind I figure. She went from flying high to alone in the dark (Bonnie Tyler, she wasn't trying to cheapen your "Total Eclipse of the Heart"). The dance mayhem gets cranking after Madge gets up off the ground, dusts herself off, and vows not to give up. Euphoria replaces the pervasive bleakness of the previous stanza. The more she liberates herself, the smokier the club atmosphere becomes. Later on, she commends herself on not wallowing in bitterness. She's giving herself license to salute her growth as a human being. The killer lyric in this risen from disaster ditty has to be: "I deserve the best and it's not you." Remember Madonna at any phase in her carries the same weight as E.F. Hutton did in those commercials of yesteryear. People do pay attention when Madge kicks some schmuck to the curb. Unless you're taking up residency on Mars, you're aware that Madonna thrives as the ultimate culture chameleon. As an ingenue she racked up the pop hits. As a sexual rebel she turned heads both in her favor and, as her Sex coffee tabled styled read hinted at, away from her. Joyous motherhood (or is that Madonnahood?) informed the "Ray of Light" outing. By the turn of the new millennium she got back to crowding dance floors with "Music" and "Confessions on a Dance Floor". It's nice to see "Living For Love" carrying on that beloved tradition. Madonna's inner rebel comes out to play in this instance, and the results should serve as reminder to today's dance divas that it was she who carried the torch. Any residual flame represents her generosity of spirit. "Living For Love" isn't apt to die off anytime soon.

Lilly Wood and the Prick Teeter On a Wing and a Prayer

Tonight I bring before you an example of how repetition both destroys a song and elevates a song to a new level. Here to help me we've got, straight from Paris, land of baguettes and an unusual Jerry Lewis fixation, Lilly Wood and the Prick. They come before us with a story that if it were any more depressing would send the rate of lost souls jumping off bridges to unprecedented heights. That story calls itself "Prayer In C". First let's talk about the repetition element that gives the song its captivating jolt. Yes, electric guitar, I'm pointing straight at you. A chord, C chord, G chord, D chord. Over and over, not ever hard to put up with. This harmony swerves across your brain pan like it owns the property. No matter whatever sound textures get thrown into the soup the taste is intoxication with a capital "I". Trust me the passageway has lots of quirky components gluing it together. If you've been dancing along to "Prayer In C" I get why. Upfront the Euro house blend punctures aural taste buds left and right. Bored with one percussion strain? The beat goes beachfront in this nugget's later stages. Now...I did promise you the negative, detrimental side of repetition. That's Nili Hadida's fault. It's true her unique tonsil flashers make it impossible for anyone to avert his gaze completely. Then again you'd likely be able to say that about four eighteen wheelers collided end to end on IH-35 at rush hour so don't wet your pants too much over the excitement value here. Her voice haunts on its own distinct plateau. Even scarier is the doomed, bottom of the barrel, no opportunity to advance upward psychological prison Nili paints. For openers she rips into her main man and, who I'm guessing has been demoted to ex-love interest. He didn't send her no letter so forgiveness, I'll have to ask you to leave. Want rays of sunshine to pop up soon? You're not going to find them in verse two. The world is slowly dying. Always a mood lifter. I appreciate that she wants to get down to the nitty gritty of living but her raspy, I need a glass of something, ideally in liquid form turn at the mic leaves me worried that Nili should have been taken off life support eons ago. Next we get the well duh aging road markers (gray hairs and wrinkled up hands). This lyrics are a booze dispenser version of winning the lottery. Moving on down this highway of gee whiz Nili tells us the children sitting in the ashes that used to be home sweet home, empty bellies only salting up the pain, aren't in a forgiving mind set. You wouldn't be either if your stomach was bitchy and your address was a big fat question mark. How sadly ironic. The song's called "Prayer In C" but the guitar playing doesn't stay in C. Also, I can't make out anything close to forgiveness. Every group of human beings in this song right down to downtrodden Romeo in his final hours lashes out at Romeo. Did he cause the kids to be hungry and homeless? Did he cause seas to ravage continents and wipe out mankind? Then give the poor dude a break. "Prayer In C" plays the merciless chord too often for anybody to think overkill beyond the pale. What's broken isn't clear. What is plain is that there's Hindenburg sinking gloom as far as the ears can hear. Two points to Lilly Wood and the Prick for demonstrating they speak gloom like natives. I don't suppose the Prick was so named because that's the descriptive noun Nili was hoping to elicit from listeners. Well played. We'll always have that swoon encouraging guitar to remember this trip to Paris by. Otherwise I'm not itching for all this bitching. With savvy judgment you won't be either.

Follow The Pretty Reckless To a Skull Crunching Thing of Beauty

Flavors...choices...make day to day life interesting. The Pretty Reckless do a tremendous job giving the heavy metal inclined options by strapping on their guitars and belting out "Follow Me Down". If you want your guitars extra crunchy this crew will not disappoint you. If subdued suits you better the chorus portion holds back on the reins while keeping the intensity white hot to the point of creating an inferno. If you wish to pursue something along the lines of a deranged inmate, then the guitars pull back immediately. Taylor Momsen lets fly with her most snarling vocal display to date. Ben Phillips gets credit for how sharp edged the guitars become. He loads us in his truck and takes us on a spine melting ride that doesn't no any equals. Meanwhile Mark Damon's bass licks are melt in your mouth incredible. Jamie Perkins kicks the drums into high gear right off the bat. His relentlessness puts any doubters on notice that he's the master of his domain. He and Ben feed off each other's psychotic pent up aggression. What a bonus for the rest of us. A great deal of hard rock comes down to a release. I don't care what walk of life you come from. To have that release as a pressure reduction valve amounts to a gift that you could never in a zillion years put a price tag on. "Follow Me Down" fills the bill. As is also the case in hard rock the pacing doesn't hang around waiting for sissies to decide whether they want to board the train or not. Viciousness from top to bottom fuels the engine. Another strong selling point, at least for me, comes from how the way the guitar is incorporated into the overall framework of the song's shape shifting attitude. Let me clarify for you all. The lyrical tale of the tape opens with: "Since I met you I've been crazy." Ben plows into the guitar like a man who has various screws either loose or in the process of coming loose. Taylor's ongoing query of "Have I lost my mind?" matches Ben's octane chord for chord. Then we're going off onto the dirt road side street for "Follow me down to the river. Drink while the water is clean. The acoustic perspective sizes up nicely. Acoustic is stripped of guitar's tendency to get the listener in an off guard crouch. I'm in favor of the swamp swing acoustic adds to this mix. Water purifies or, at least at its best it ought to. Soon enough Taylor's vowing to be on her knees by the river. A touch of ritual cleansing works well with unaffected acoustic guitar. Later on in the song Taylor lets her inner spooks out for some much needed air. She mentions that as a youngster you take what you can get. Whether this is a Sybil complex talking I can't be sure but we get a peek into this vocalist's fractured psyche. She knows now that there's a different way to die. One suspects the man in her life who has been driving her crazy plays a big part in that equation. In this uneasy twosome she can in fact have a beating heart but not be alive. What's not to root for? Taylor's on the ledge. We cross fingers that a positive influence will make its way to her in short order. Invest some time in this bruising scorcher lifted from "Going To Hell". Follow Me Down" stakes its claim as a compelling reason why the New York hard rock collection proves itself worthy of an expanded following.

Whole Damn Year a Big Damn Cleansing Experience For Mary J Blige

Walking away from the wreckage of a previous segment of life. Not an easy assignment. But if you put Mary J. Blige behind a mic and give her room to unfurl you can see confidence behind the vulnerabilty. You see, none of us sets out to have the survivor label. Soon enough we discover it's foisted upon us somehow. Grace plays a large role in Mary's act. Using Nadia's Theme, otherwise known as the theme to The Young & The Restless (Yes, soaps still exist), Mary laid down how she wasn't looking for drama in her life. On her present single "No Damn Year" drama knocks her ass over tea kettle in a number of ways The seasons of the year take on a Jaws like life of their own. Spring punched her in the stomach for cripes' sake. What a horrific crash and grab scenario. Summer's no better. It senses blood in the water and, to the surprise of nobody, leaps in after it. By the time autumn hits the scene poor Mary's left with nothing. Don't drown yourself in pity for Mrs. Blige though. In the twenty plus years she's been on the scene, she's flowered into a majestic woman. She's come far from the ingenue featured on "Real Love". The percussion backup moves with appreciable stealth. It's not too dissimilar to the path a thief in the night takes to sneak up on his intended victim. Delicate shadings grace the piano playing. If there's a minus to be had in this whole proposition it's that the recitation of the big bad four seasons gets highly repetitious. In Mary's hands there's no doubting the sincerity of a soul who's been through many battles and come out the other side the better for it. Featured in the accompanying video are shades of real time London, the bustle of a big city that's rich in pageantry. Baby steps figure prominently in "No Damn Year". That Blige can summon up the courage to belt out the vocal chops to the degree that she does is this side of miraculous. For openers she's thoughtful to explain to her offscreen lover why she's being aloof. On the surface all's fabulous. Beneath the surface she's coming apart and fast. She's had to endure five years of unimaginable misery. If it's cold in the bedroom, there's your culprit. I get that Mary doesn't appreciate being whisked back to Hell with her man. "Bad to the liver" hints at some serious time with a bottle of hooch. Mary's a force of nature despite the odds weighing her down. This song was culled from "The London Sessions", an appropriate connection between atmosphere and mood since London's known for being a gray, gloomy spot. "Whole Damn Year" counts for a whole damn lot in terms of giving Blige's femme fan base the ability to slowly, surely liberate themselves from the relationship drama wreaking havoc on both body and soul. As spokeswomen go Mary has no peer.

Paramore's Heart Is Definitely In The Right Place

Holiday season 2014 is upon us. Need something designed to soothe on impact. You'll learn that Paramore has stepped in to play the part of Secret Santa. You can subject me to a lie detector test all you want but I swear the band responsible for the in your face "Misery Business" and, as I pointed out in a previous blog post, the juvenile taunt "Ain't It Fun" can take credit for "Hate To See Your Heart Break". It'll be the perfect relaxant on a par with hot cocoa stirred with a time treasured spoon. Hayley Williams turns in what has to be the most mature, self-assured performance of her band's career. She sells the chorus wonderfully. Not a trace of phoniness to be had. Joy Williams proves a worthy partner in adult contemporary excitement. As you'd hope for from a song displaying such thoughtfulness, the bass parts don't bowl over the rest of the immaculate arrangements. Jeremy Davis is heard from but his studio politeness is duly noted. I respect the slightly orchestral pathos sprinkled about judiciously. That's certainly not art for the sake of sounding or appearing book smart. What an add on does is tell the audience that "Hate To See Your Heart Break" swims the nettlesome love waters bravely and with a commitment to coming away with something conflict resolution related. From the first stanza to the last Hayley emphasizes compassion over conundrum. At the very start she does the intelligent thing by admitting "There is not a single word that could describe the hurt." She's employing modesty to convincing effect rather than blurt out that she wrote the book of love and knows every counter spell known to man that can cure even the most vicious strains of heartache. Joy and Hayley together to sing the title refrain? Magic sans the hat, rabbit, and wand. Simply put their gentle strokes ease chafed nerve endings. You learn that it's not impossible to learn how to get comfortable in your own skin. Hayley calls people who expect perfect movie script romance on the carpet. She knows that's at best a delusional construct. She can tell sometimes the bad among us get the good women. She's there to remind you that pain isn't exclusively negative. Au contraire. Those harsh sensations remind us hearts can heal. "Hate To See Your Heartbreak" gets you out of those wet clothes and into a cuddle worthy robe. As you can see in the video there's plenty of camaraderie to enjoy vicariously. The hugs at the end sum up the song better than I likely ever could. "How were you to know?" Hayley asks a gesture of concerned friendship. I trust she means how was her friend to know the dull knife's merciless edge would hurt so bad. Whatever the subtext "Hate To See Your Heart Break" affirms how reinvigorating love's warm embrace can be. In this instance we're not talking about amour gone sour. In fact it's sisterhood rounding into top form. Paramore wears its maturity well. Consider this heartbreak a lucky break if you appreciate romantic offerings from the heart instead of some playbook smothered in wronged damsel histrionics.

Chevelle's Island Not Very Inhabitable

You've got two choices when listening to Grayslake, Illinois' Chevelle's new single "The Island". You can marvel at the brass knuckles toughness deeply injected into the band's playing or you can ask yourself is lead vocalist Pete Loeffler trying to sound like he's impersonating The Deftones "My Own Summer (Shove It)". Pete alternates between whiny agony and the unsettled soft whisper Chino Moreno lends to The Deftones single. In a nutshell Pete craves an island, a getaway refuge. We would like to think it's not something highly alcoholic or illegal on city streets. There's definite chemistry in Chevelle. The drums pound you senseless. The guitar backs you into a corner and has you begging for your life. The bass is executed with the nothing to lose ferociousness of a wounded jungle animal. As a unit these guys mean business. Pete's plenty cryptic with what his lyrics are conveying. What creature displays the fangs described? Darned if I know. And what's with the directional inconsistencies. One minute it's "Some little island is all I ask to put you on. The next he's trying to force his prey to go. "This fun is near the end" doesn't give me warm fuzzies. "You've worn out your welcome way too fast" makes me think of the live fast die young crowd rock 'n' roll's landscape has been populated with throughout its history. Chevelle's alt metal techniques are crunchy. Sam Loeffler excels at making his drum kit growl at the listening audience rather than be content with its playing a passive role. The troubling aspect of this tune is that the musical heaviness provides a tarp to throw over the notion that all that's being said is Pete needs an island to escape to. That's the food equivalent of burying an entire shaker of salt on a perfectly serviceable sandwich that didn't need to be suffocated with such overdone condiment. I'm sure lots of us could use an island to escape to. However you don't need a motorcycle rally's aggressiveness to ram that point home. This is metal so I get that "Speak softly and carry a big stick" isn't going to cut it but there's not a lot of depth to what Chevelle's communicating. The track originates from the "La Gargola" album. "Gargola" if Wikipedia is to be believed, is Puerto Rican slang for "someone who likes to party". "The Island" isn't exactly party conducive material. On the contrary on the basis of Pete's vocals alone it's highly unsettling. Towards the end we get some of that knife jabbed in the skull shrieking that metal stakes its bread and butter reputation on. So to review there's a whisper aspect, a whiny trapped animal aspect and an inexcusable pain aspect. Too bad none of them adds up to a single that gets past the curiosity factor stage. "The Island" needs to be vacated at all costs. Seedy neighborhood, little reward, no meat on the bones.

Young Guns Fires Off a Track Bound To Leave Listeners Wanting More

Young Guns' sound has been compared to The Killers. There's merit in that when you consider the supposedly limitless bombast of "I Want Out" to The Killers' "When You Were Young". The former can't be contained by four recording studio walls. Gustav Wood's voice has the shooting for the cheap seats vigor you'd expect from an area rock level band. As appears a common trend on the scene these days Young Guns drop in philosophy to go with the twin guitar assault of Fraser and John Taylor. Refusing to be confined to a background role we've got Simon Mitchell whose bass guitar stares you down and dares you to make it blink first. Kansas already reminded us of out relative insignificance with "Dust In The Wind". Young Guns provided not one, but two opportunities to hammer that exact same message home. Gustav turns to leaves rather than dust (thoughtful of him to treat nature as a supportive pal rather than a condemning prison). Later he puts a biological slant on his message, specifically that we're mere breath against glass. Add to that how we're ashes in a fire fading fast and you have a guy who the alcohol industry loves because he's putting their offspring through college. Ben Jolliffe's no slouch in the drumming department. He slams home rhythms with authority. This collective foursome earns its spotlight when we arrive at the chorus refrain of "Cause if this is love baby I want out." There's a real hefty he-man chorus at work here and as the refrain takes deeper hold that straight through the roof style I mentioned bears its entire rainbow of kaleidoscopic colors. Classic poetry gets a fist bump with "Rage against the dying light". I'm not sure if Dylan Thomas would've approved or not or even if he'd have regarded himself a fan of Young Guns. Whatever the motivation we've jumped back into kind of melancholy musings about how fragile we are as above ground creatures. Not earth-shattering nor a way to talk the troubled out of a dark hole. On the musicianship side of things the foursome have a great intuitive sense of what makes great timing. The dominoes fall at exactly the right moments. They're on the run. You want to take the journey with them. Gustav holds the choral notes beautifully, drawing them out enough to achieve maximum impact. If you're into a wall of sound that locks and loads at the expense of your heebie jeebies button "I Want Out" will make you very happy. So be it if you want to accuse Fraser and John of noodling around a fair bit. If you have the chops there's nothing wrong with giving casual listener and experienced Young Guns vet a taste of what their dollar is going to buy them. "I Want Out" pulls listeners into the conflicted vortex of existentialists looking for a little human warmth to make the rough spots easier to bear. You'll be oddly taken with this calibrated shock to the system. Melodic and moody mix together in perfect sync. Young Guns deserve numerous chances to reload and slay the unsuspecting listening public.

Beyonce's "7/11" A Triumph Of Convenience Over Substance

Queen Bey hasn't treated her royal subjects to anything worthy of a regal salute this go 'round. "7/11" sounds like some cheap processed food item you'd purchase at a 7/11. Sure, you get to watch Beyonce frolic all over the damn place in the video, lucky break for us but, was this really worth the presumed effort? I say presumed because you'll have to excuse me for thinking Beyonce's coasting on her brand name here. Too common in urban songs these days is the stutter beat vocal. You catch the drift? Where she...talkas...ifshe...hasan...implant...inher...voicebox (cue artificial drum samples). "Drunk In Love" showed us the sparkling romantic. "Singles Ladies (Put a Ring on It)" had balls out the yin yang. "Crazy In Love" brought the spice people have come to expect from her. "7/11" would be her version of phoning it in. Beyonce enthusiasts please hold back your righteous indignation. I don't deny she has mainstream audiences of all stripes eating out of the palm of her head. She's had that star quality from the first note. "7/11" is far from a prime example. Beyonce goes aerobic dance instructor has its meet cute moments, however it's annoying above all adjectives. For instance how many times can we "smack it in the air" before somebody starts to think "this nut's having motor coordination issues big time." Worn out from smacking it in the air. Beyonce's not done with you. Next, in order to get her approval you must "clap clap clap like you don't care." Personally I stopped caring about this dance move eons ago. Y'all couldn't have gone through life on this planet without having heard "Wave your hands in the care like you just don't care". It's Beyonce's gift wrapping but the overwrought call to action needs to be given a mercy killing. Beyonce shouldn't be allowed to use her corporate brand recognition as an excuse to reactivate a dance floor mood igniter that's been tread so many times it doesn't merit your shifting much cosmic energy in that direction. She does an awful lot of pointing out about how she's putting her foot up. Were either you or I to do that we'd be met with shrugs of indifference. But in the world we live in anything Beyonce does, no matter how pedestrian, has a thousand watt bulb on it constantly. She'd be doing herself a favor by reconnecting with better processed samples than what's on display in "7/11". Like the lyrics, laziness has the upper hand. Moving right along she gets excited about having her hands up, spinning her hands up, standing up with her hands up, etc...Okay. How does that sound like anything other than a low-fi workout tape's sequence of dialogue? The answer? It doesn't. One plus I glean from the video. It captures the queen's inability to stay in one place for long. Perpetual motion and Beyonce go together and I suspect always will. Nobody's demanding she give us a Destiny's Child update but she's more of a professional than this. A little flash would help things noticeably. "7/11" needs not be a stop on your musical itinerary. You've got more engrossing pursuits to entertain.

New Politics Has Nowhere To Go But Up

Aggression for aggression's sake has its place. The bitch of New Politics' current single is there's not much under the hood besides aggression. I can appreciate that, fresh out of the starting blocks "Everywhere I Go (Kings and Queens)" gets the Jolt Cola full on rush vote. Translation: These guys take the wheel early on. Behind said wheel they're unrelenting to the point of us wishing someone would inject downer pills into their veins. There's a bend in the road leading to the chorus where the band kind of sneaks up on its connected chorus. Then, it's pounce time. Vocalist David Boyd yells out the title, not a compliment really. His voice curves at "go". Not graceful art. He's veered over into that territory of the grating sound made by a persistent alarm clock. Pre-chorus Dave gives what I guess amounts to shout-outs to his friends that didn't give a fuck. In this instance I don't much give the previously related to fuck either. Limp Bizkit and New Politics couldn't be further apart on the musical spectrum but, what they have in common is calling out to people who don't give a fuck. Shock value doesn't help New Politics artistically or financially so why go there when odds are they're not going to like what they find? Too bad nobody put a speed trap close by Louis Vechio. His drumming ought to be on some banned substances list. What's in his pee? I suspect Denmark beer with a few chasers thrown in to make sure he goes from zero to exploding in one fell swoop. Among other classifications New Politics falls under the dance rock banner. The video spotlights a great number of people living it up in style. It also shows some poor soul's head decapitating. Something for the kids to enjoy. I'm all for family entertainment. At the end there I think Manson's the family in question. Good for David for sharing with us his having smashed the window on a Lexus. A VW Rabbit wouldn't have been as compelling. Judging from stanza three we can guess which air carrier's forever bound to be grateful for the ad plug. "Higher than United" sounds pretty high. Pharmaceutical companies are going to have a field day on that imagery. Even when Soren Hansen and Mr. Vechio allow programmed syncopation to run the city much like the kings and queens themselves the MPH stays in the warning track big league ballpark zone. I don't consider myself an out of step stick in the mud but "Everywhere I Go (Kings and Queens) cries "Look at me!! Look at me!!" too much to prevent its credibility from sagging into shameless self-love territory. The threesome jumps into its zingy madness but they needed to have smoothed out the prickly edges. In its completed form "Everywhere I Go (Kings and Queens) brings the party people but forgets to supply a reason why any of us should be celebrating this. As a result the song goes nowhere fast. New Politics ought to be on the lookout for novel ideas otherwise its candidacy as a lasting voice in dance rock will gasp its last breath before it had its chance to shake hands and kiss babies.

Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars Co-conspire To Create Uptown Ecstasy

George Clinton, please don't be mad that soul brothers Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars made flesh a game plan you wish you had wrote. The twosome's "Uptown Funk" smokes the joint Towering Inferno style. Tell me something...is Bruno out to get to legend status even faster than Justin Timberlake? Between "Locked Out of Heaven" and "When I Was Your Man" he's shown himself on the fast track to career longevity. Nobody's confusing "Uptown Funk" with "Sexy Back" but Bruno knows his way around a slithering funk playbook. So much of what comes through in this performance basks in gussied up to the nines strolling down the uptown district, looking really pleased with yourself and the gang surrounding you. I'm certain we're in 2014 but the throwdown tempo of the song has me thinking I done gone and stepped into a time machine and landed back in 1974. Mister Shaft himself Isaac Hayes would be pleased as punch with the horn section. How you could shun dancing to this revelatory brass barnstorm job puzzles me. You couldn't have an adequate party buzz in action if your drums weren't equal to the task. So it goes here. No half-assed displays. When we arrive already sweating to the nth degree at "Don't believe me just watch" those drums act like they're backing icon Stevie Wonder. As much bounce as you can handle, there it is to be swallowed in all its amphetamine laced glory. There's a linguist's feast at work on the lyric side. I don't believe in the history of recorded music will any of us above ground dwellers ever hear "I'm too hot. Make a dragon wanna retire." For one, I didn't think dragons had financial interests to look out for, That sort of headache is usually the problem of the dragon's victim. You've also got to call in the police and the fireman with Bruno on the case. Everywhere you turn you've got "Doh doh doh doh doh doh doh doh." Hence my reference to George Clinton. Doesn't this make you shiver at the recollection of "Atomic Dog" You know? "Bow wow wow, yippy yo yippy ay?" You millennials are likely looking at these words as if the guy who composed them is short a few cards. Good for you. Shows you're paying attention. Anyway, there's much to be say for 40-proof funk that doesn't mind shaking its booty in your face and acting like it's the only jam that matters. I don't suppose Michelle Pfeiffer's hit career doldrums lately. True or not Bruno does the "Fabulous Baker Boys" starlet a solid by bringing her hat into his tight blue jeans ring. There's not a sour note to be hit. If you're worn down by Ebola, ISIS, immigration, or the very real possibility that Bill Cosby flushed his legacy down the crapper, "Uptown Funk" grants you permission to feel all's right with the world again. If, after lo these many years you still want the funk Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars have the perfect tonic to set you right from head to foot.

Hozier Travels to Eden For a Power-Packed Ditty

Who wasn't blown away by the heaviness wrapped around Irish troubadour Hozier's "Take Me To Church". You and I practically got alter rail rug burn from his spine-tingling testimonial. This budding talent returns with "From Eden". His aching ticker remains on full, unapologetic, unabashed display but, to the benefit of those faint of stomach, the songcraft isn't calling rock bottom gut bucket blues home. His guitar moves by his side in a strident tone. Added in for steady hand effect we get drums that patter rather than show off their wares a la Buddy Rich, a drummer's drummer if ever the term could be coined. As a poet myself I must say lyrically Hozier's in full lock and load mode. Take a peek at the numerous adjectives he uses to describe his we presume troubled ladylove. "Something wholesome about you." Therein lies the positive part. In the same breathe we're treated to "there's something so lonesome about you. "Magic" and "tragic" get a turn in the poetry rhyme go round. A lot of what comes through in her characterization is a damsel too weakened by the world she inhabits to cultivate any variety of response that shows she's anything other than indifferent. Hozier's screwed no matter what direction he turns. She doesn't have time for him. Tired sighs smack of entirely too much effort. What about vacant stares? Not a drop. Look what Hozier does to the oft lost innocence we supposedly have jettisoned in some way, shape, or form for generations. To Hozier's way of thinking it's dead. Don't expect idealism to be too proud of its lot. It languishes in prison. Chivalry became the victim of a sword's unforgiving wounds. What happened to the vacant stares and who cares affectations. Like I said when you struggle to figure out which way is up you don't have the inner strength to stress your dissatisfaction. Poetry in the name of learning what makes her tick. That Hozier cares enough to inquire about her well being demonstrates that the maimed chivalry is not mortally wounded at all. Biblical temptation images run deep. Whether engagingly or not Hozier contends "I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. Overall the harmonies maintain steady pace. You aren't left gasping for air trying to keep up with the direction the thoroughbred is racing towards. Hozier paints "From Eden" in shades of "Let me appease the darkness that threatens to pull you under. In comparison "Take Me To Church" was a crucifixion soundtrack cut, thorns and all. It succumbed to the darkness. Hozier's to be praised for keeping his slowly weeping poem intact without sacrificing mellow vulnerability to get there. "From Eden" can best be classified as heaven sent and because of this it's a triumphant addition to his ever swelling body of work.

Linkin Park Leads a Rebellion

Boy Linkin Park looks great in System Of a Down's shoes. Why would I utter that sentiment? Because right along side the California lads, on loan from Serj Tankian no doubt, is its guitarist Daron Malakian. To the surprise of positively nobody Daron riffs his way to a frenzy, strapping us unsuspecting souls in for what's a pretty sweet ride. Linkin Park's Chester Bennington proves again that he can be deceptively subdued and ram piercing shrieks down our throats with equal, bone jarring dexterity. Crave a life simplistic? Chester knows what you're going through. In verse he points out how easily we're imprisoned by the things we own. Van Halen summed that up in 1992 as part of "Right Now" specifically with "The more you get, the more you want". The claim to jump at here is that conspicuous consumerism has a way of being an addictive drug unto itself. One hit satisfies, or so it would appear until you get antsy about making a beeline for the next must have item, and so on and so on. Such decisions are how credit card debt burrows into one's gut. "Rebellion" has the unresolved anger issues that go along with having scads of energy yet finding no ready outlet to place it. As has been shown by Daron's System Of a Down tribe Linkin Park's latest effort gets the hairs standing on the back of your neck through their shifting from racing to the edge of insanity over to a soup concoction that slowly, steadily reminds you these boys aren't necessarily playing with the full 52. There's this connecting passage where the intensity doesn't falter but the volume knob's pushed down just enough to keep us off balance, kind of like we don't mess around with a sniper who would appear to in fact be the smartest guy in the room, hence the description "criminal mastermind". "Rebellion pelts us from every conceivable angle and does so unapologetically. Rob Bourdon bashes drums maniacally. Whatever direction Chester's compromised cranium goes Rob's right there matching him stride for demented stride. That lower level demonic thrill I hinted at earlier wouldn't have been nearly as mesmerizing were it not for Dave Farrell whose bass reaches down to the darkness reaches of human comprehension. Mike Shinoda and Brad Delson have their aim directed right at the solar plexus and may heaven help you if you get in the way of their rapid fire annihilation approach. Chester has been Linkin Park's ace in the hole since its 1996 beginnings. He hasn't lost his way with grasping the right notes at the right time. Mental confusion is no small player in everyday life. Chester's desire to have it washed clean rings true for everyone who has a pulse at present. Making sense of the carnage takes up a lot of time in our lives, especially since a lot of what we see doesn't make much sense. Although wanting reasons for tragedy sounds like a Don Quixote undertaking at best it's a completely understandable reaction to tragedy. "Rebellion, rebellion we lost before the start." We're doomed to fail before we even sit down. "The Hunting Party" becomes a desirable social outing when one realizes "Rebellion" is on the menu. Rebels against oppressors never loses its cache, no matter where it stems from. Linkin Park's alliance with System's Malakian serves their overall cause well. In rebellion you need someone brazen enough to lead the charge. Daron comes out guns blazing merely asking Linkin Park to trust his instincts. Sounds like trust was earned, and therefore guitars were shredded. This rebellion's worth the sweat it costs you to participate. If you enjoy tired in a nice way, you'll savor the flavor through and through.

Pinch Me...Screaming With Sirens Jolts You Back To Life With On Target Anger

These kids today, huh? Such blinding anger. It's refreshing to hear it being put to use in a positive way. Visited the john already? Excellent. If you haven't you'll miss the guns blazing assault perpetrated on your impressionable ears by "Kick Me", a venomous blast of hard rock inferno baiting by Ohio postcore band Sleeping With Sirens. There's not much subtlety on display here. What does come out of this furious power push is repeated claims of how misunderstood vocalist Kellin Quinn is. He does make his point, hammer it into the ground, and yelp long after we the curious onlookers have pried our gazes away from the scene of the accident. "You don't know shit about me!!" That's the battle cry for tons of disenfranchised youth. Still rings true today, or so it is my understanding. But not only "shit". Nope, "shit, shit, shit". That would shit cubed to you science geeks out there. What goes nicely with a young dude letting his imprisoned soul hang out bleeding for everyone's amusement? How about pounding home the rant with drums that sound like some unwise so and so attacked its girlfriend plus guitars that slap you around until you're begging for the mercy you have to believe you're not worthy enough to merit receiving? Gabe Barham's a mad maniac of a male. He pounds away behind the kit as if he was playing on a last place team in the pro game with only pride on the line to play for. When there's nothing left to lose you tend to loosen your play up a notch or three. Gabe wears fast and loose very well. The anguish Kellin harbors comes through extremely clear in Gabe's stick scampering. I'm taken aback by how "Kick Me" doesn't resemble a two minute thirty one second outing. Maybe the culprit is how much dynamite they pack into such a confined space. Every instrument gets supplied generously. Vocals pierce your sensitive places. Guitar shrieks up and down your spine. Bass pounds up and down the legs barely holding you up. Drums hammer away at your defenses, leaving scant resistance in their wake. Justin Hills gives his bass a stellar workout. The attitude portion of "Kick Me" is largely a creation of Justin's twisted imagination. Here's to a guy coloring outside the lines. Since this foursome hails from Orlando we can imagine Justin's been on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Walt Disney World a time or three. How else to explain his fearless way with bass harmony. Kellin doesn't toss out the you don't understand me trump card because he's playing victim for all he and it are worth. Stanza five proves he's up to the challenge of making his detractors eat dirt matching them clod for clod. He warns them: "By all means put me through hell and I'll make you see I'll be worst enemy. Backbone and rock have a long history of going great together. "Kick Me" extends the legacy. Kellin cements a vow not to play the arbitrary rules game he didn't make to start with. "Hang the jury" he exclaims. Giving the bastards a dirt nap is on his agenda as well. Sleeping With Sirens doesn't play like a band built for speed. It gets its crunch from a regular diet of intensity. The boys follow that diet to the letter. Their primary care physicians would be proud of their due diligence. I'm thrilled to make the acquaintance of "Kick Me". Never has being slapped across the face by USDA prime rock roast felt so captivating. Screaming With Sirens refuses to be cast aside and, with this brand of electricity at its disposal why would you want to commit that sin.

Bahamas Spends Too Much Time On So Little Reward

Cuteness can only take you so far. That's the conclusion I'm reaching with Bahamas, an Ontario native whose real name is Afie Jurvanen. At least now we can likely guess why he has the stage name. "All The Time" comes off like it could've easily been tapped for use in any one of a number of modern ad campaigns because it sounds slickly produced, snail's pace deceiving us into thinking it's the most adorable thing we've ever heard. Couldn't be further off track there. I am not implying Bahama's musicianship isn't serviceable in a lo-tech style. I think he succeeds when he lets his turn of phrase do the talking for him. Basically he sings to a lady that he's got all the time in the world (Lucky him, right? Sounds superhuman doesn't it?) and inquires if she wants some. How generous. That's your ultimate all you can eat life buffet going on. I'd be a moron not to take that bet and raise it a by a few chips. Turns out she wanted none of it. What else might the persnickety prima donna give a thumbs down to? A supply of eighteen-carat diamond rings? Never ever having to do dishwasher duty? Moving back on course Bahamas passes the pluck test. He plucks his guitar lovingly with a benevolent similar to the way you'd stroke a cat if you were a pet owner. Breezy beach vibes flood this song down to its core. Tropical libations would go great with the song. The unfortunate element is that a drink could be your best chance to liven up the listening experience. Sober it's merely a guitar plodding along with no particular urgency in mind. That could be apt because we are talking about a guy with all the time in the world. There's a big difference between taking your sweet time and making your audience examine its collective watch repeatedly, mentally going over the checklist of those many things it probably ought to be doing. Nobody appreciates waiting for things to get good only to realize good as it gets territory is where we're at now. Fling the confetti. Blow the noisemakers. Time to party like tonight's our last chance. What's "my work" anyway. Is that a way of saying he's putting his junk out there? He gets honorable dude credit for saying there's something wrong with that. He puts his work in front of her. You've got vivid imaginations I'm sure. You color in the in between areas yourselves then. I'm pretty quick to zoom in on a song that while inoffensive enough doesn't rise to the level of appointment listening. "All The Time" matches the description well. At 3 minutes 55 seconds Bahamas takes an inordinate amount of cosmic space to weigh in on his time surplus and how nice it would be if his girlfriend joined him for a swim in it. Drawing out this coy behavior isn't copping a buzz. If I were the woman I'd be nervously tapping my freshly manicured nails on a table, demanding that he get on with it already. Time is always precious. Bahamas fails to put his allotment to acceptable use.

Papa Roach Gives Everything It's Got

Am definitely liking the energy surge bursting out of Papa Roach's new single "Face Everything And Rise". Hit the ground running gets you a great deal of play in the rock game. This California foursome raid the party as a collective. Translated I mean one band member doesn't waste space noodling in hopes that one of us is tremendously impressed with his virtuosity. So who's the main man clutching throttle for all it's worth? Credit goes to guitarist Jerry Horton whose no holes barred attacking style spreads confidence over note after note. Jacob Shaddix doesn't lack for self-assuredness either. His credo speaks to whatever brave part of our mortal beings possesses the wherewithal to rise above fear long enough to know we can have those awesome moments where ten feet tell isn't an impossible asking price. Never give up until your last breath has been publicized before but Papa Roach puts claws onto this kitty. Tony Palermo is equal to the task of keeping time for his empowered brethren. Like I said, collective conviction rules the day. You need not stray to the refrigerator too quickly or else you'll miss the brief blast of rock with generous metal mixed in for added menace. "I need a cure for the life I've chosen" speaks to a great many who wish a push of the rewind button we're possible. Either inaction or ill-advised action can take a life full of potential for big things and transform it into some other man's cautionary tale. Jacob's world seldom looks like glamour's embodiment, in other words it's the world as we know it writ large on a blood red screen. One theme that shows up for the second time involves putting a positive spin on pain. Three Days Grace claimed there was beauty in the bleeding during "I Am Machine". Papa Roach, in similar poetry poses the argument that "The pain, the rain, is a blessing in disguise." How you turn negatives into positives says a lot about the character and potential staying power of a person. I certainly give an amen to "Life hurts and there's no warning. I guess one way to look at it is if there was a warning about the cosmic dookie drench that we're subjected to there wouldn't be future generations because nobody would want to greet the world's cocked fist. So it's about population reassurance. In certain sports fields, boxing and football spring to mind, the participants lay it on the line, at times longer than their bodies can take. Many's the pro QB whose glory years have long faded into the rear view mirror. However the narcotic substance called spotlight clouds their minds into thinking Father Time has been asleep on the job. For the great many of us not blessed with physical skills like these, vowing not to quit sounds perfectly noble. If you have a belief, stand up for it or prepare to be crushed by the majority's oncoming traffic. I respect that compact sprays of intensity Papa Roach puts on display. Game clock management serves ball clubs well. For Papa Roach, it's the textbook well-followed study of doing more with less. "F.E.A.R. (Face Everything And Rise)" drops in January of 2015. "Face Everything And Rise" is worth getting on your feet for. Papa Roach rose to the challenge of crafting a hard rock record that shows self-help and searing guitar licks aren't a discordant combination. When they run stride for stride we're the ones out of breath.

San Antone's Nothing More Hammers Out Something Venomous

Missing a taste of home? Tonight's blog post is for you. Straight from San Antonio heavy metal foursome Nothing More has an ax to grind with corporate America and it comes through sharply on "Mr. MTV". This single lashes out at this nation's gotta have it instant gratification culture. If only we bought that trending trinket we'd at last be the envy of all our friends. TV, regardless of the channel changed to excels at making us think our woefully empty lives will be complete through vigorous consumer activity. Nothing More straddles the line between contained rage and toxic volcano masterfully. The angry sections are really seething. The quiet runs are build-ups gathering momentum to foment the next gathering storm. This band's passionate presence is written in large type all over their faces. For instance lead singer Jonny Hawkins lets his barbaric yawp soar to the rafters. We big boys like to call that conviction, the demonstration of knowing where you stand and maintaining the brash sensibilities required to go to the mat for the cause. Mark Vollelunga goes for the jugular whenever he throws his back into guitar. I sense he's the piece of the foursome that has to be restrained the most after he's built up a full head of steam. Respect also belongs to bassist Daniel Oliver. The ferocious aftertaste "Mr. MTV" has sliding down your throats wouldn't back as much punch without Danny knowing where to twist the knife. If you can get past the unsettling onslaught of images produced by the video you'll become aware of how much raw enthusiasm the track contains. That's dynamism you can't fake in a million years. Nothing More slithered onto the scene in 2003. 2004 brought the debut album "Shelter". Their latest release is self-titled in nature. Why not? Peter Gabriel built momentum with his first few albums by not giving them descriptive handles. Heart staged one of the biggest career boosts in all of music with its self-titled, four top 10 hit producing album. I'm driving at this notion, flawed or not that stipulates a band's really starting to get serious about its place in the music firmament if self-titled is the promotional route it's taking. Nothing More appears poised not to back down from a fight. Those of us, myself included, that get swept up in nostalgia for MTV's gravy days, are bound to grin ear to ear at the recalling of Sting's opening slant on MTV's trademark "I Want My MTV" campaign slogan. Then Nothing More yanks the rug out from under us. Game's on, people. They came to the table with a winner take all attitude. At the chorus they call out America for its dearth of honest to goodness inspiration. Each of us bows down to a corporate master on some level. These masters push drugs and sex before us knowing our thirsts are unquenchable. We've been broken down to the nubs. I'd like to keep fingers crossed that something else thought-provoking is set to emerge from these talented Texans. Nothing More proves its nothing less than a metal force to reckon with.

Banks Sports Some Nifty Threads

LA girl Banks puts her best vamp aesthetic forward to make "Beggin For Thread". Helps to have background chords working that play up the sweat-drenched, rip the shirt off mental foreplay the number's likely to encourage. As has been the case for so many femmes on the music scene Banks fancies herself the damsel in the distress which, as the title points out, needs somebody to give her thread to sew the hole in her head. Aren't there surgeons better equipped for that role? Could get pretty messy I'm sure. Banks has a voice that has the potency needed to arouse you regardless of what kind of day you are or aren't having. Go ahead and fog up the computer screen why don't you. You'd be forgiven for salivating like a dog on the prowl. Bringing out the inner dominatrix works to her advantage. You know those deep tissue massages designed to peel the stress away? The selection of chord shifts employed in the song get under your knotted high tension zones in a fashion that can best be described as magical. "My words can come out as a pistol" hearkens back to similar sentiments like Billie Jean's mouth being described as a motor in the one time King of Pop's "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'" In other words watch yourself if you end up in a heated exchange with her or your neck might separate from your head. In classic mental patient mode Banks declares that "My unstable ways is my solution". That's not the least bit comforting out on a date with the woman. You never know which of her Sybil type personalities is going to come out of its shell. I applaud "Beggin' For Thread" for being both nimble and sultry at the same time. Banks has her sights set on you so don't you dare get betrayal. "Goddess" is where you'll find the cut. Is that title reference to how she sees herself or how she'd like to be perceived as her career unfolds. It's fun to fantasize about what motivation she had in mind. So where would the best environs be to hear a steam pit song like this. Possibly wafting from a darkened alley, a lone lamppost there to keep the creep factor in the tolerable category. I'd leave out dance hall if I were you. The RPMs don't warrant that. LA has the reputation for its sunny climate, smog fueled atmosphere, and streets where many dreams are hatched but a precious few fly to the risers. "Beggin' For Thread" has the provocative card played to the hilt and it doesn't care that you know damn well. Make no mistake, these threads were meant for wash and wear. Fresh out of the dryer they go on your skin sumptuously. Banks has good reason to believe she'll be pocketing some quality money in the coming years. Her arousal appeal drips off the iPod. That's a nice beginning point for any female trying to climb the music mountain and one day plant her flag on top of the heap. You won't have to beg me to keep my ears peel for whatever new artistry Banks wants to send our way.

Bring Me The Horizon Pulls You Into Its Undertow

Break down the fourth wall...common in acting as a way to let the audience in on the world of a movie/TV program. For metalcore-slanted Brits Bring Me The Horizon their drummer proves skilled at getting us into their fractured psyches almost on contact. "Drown" hobbles on unsteady legs, managing to fill us up with its toxic ache in record time. Matt Nicholls is to be given plentiful pats on the back for knowing how to handle us after he's succeeded in grabbing our attention. Behind the kit he's an absolute battering ram. Rarely is there space employed to come up for air. Not a big deal. Matt lumbers away in such calculating fashion that his unseen glare would scare the crap out of lesser mortals. Then there's the matter of vocalist Oliver Sykes. You can tell he's Mister Glass Half Full from his opening comment "What doesn't kill you makes you wish you were dead". Somebody get this dude a ticket to Build A Bear Workshop...stat. He has an advanced case of the frowns. After the song trips into third and then fourth gear Oliver's palpable unease invades him top to bottom. His yelps aren't the work of someone whose elevator goes to the top floor. Lee Malia's very proficient with his guitar. His ace in the hole stems from his delicate strokes whereas his instrument's reputation lies largely on over the top exhibitionism. Not so for Lee. He merely tries to hold on tight like a water skier who fears plunging into the drink with every fiber of his being. Bassist Matt Kean commands a bigger spotlight since he's the brawn giving Lee an added kick in the pants at crucial junctures. Repeated in the lyrics we notice Oliver begging for us to save him from himself. Common enough plea. Who among us doesn't need to be tugged away from the dramas lurking inside. I am taken with Oliver's candor. He's got the stones to go against cultural type and claim no, things are not alright, things are not OK. Why the fist bump? How many times have you been in an ever so brief social encounter with someone who says they're alright when in fact there's something, or perhaps many things eating at him/her? It's not grown-up to be that out in the open. Suffer in silence...that's what real men do, right? Oliver shrieks what many of us wish we were that uninhibited to say. Reality flings plenty of less than okey dokey manure at us. The brave thing would be to say "No, I'm in several dimensions of hell!! That's not cool!! I don't care how I'm judged!!" Oliver represents the emotionally bottled among us perfectly. The video gives us reason to believe that these blokes have a sense of humor. Twisted or not that's useful in taking the jagged edges off of a composition featuring a Brit who's in a losing, one-sided battle with his demons. Another dip into the quill pen of "Gee, that's eight different kinds of depressing" comes to us in the shape of: "What doesn't destroy you leaves you broken instead." I bet he's loads of fun on a blind date. How much Valium would need to be milling around inside him to get him anywhere within spitting distance of jocular? Is it the British gray weather that gets them like that or is Oliver an especially conflicted young waif for whom "It's going to be fine" rings blasphemous? If "Drown" was ever put into vinyl format it would come out of the jacket with icicles on the side. That's how chilly the air is inside Oliver and, by extension his band mates. They certainly gel from one kaleidoscopic fusion of helplessness to the next. What punch gets packed connects authoritatively. "Drown" as titles go gets into oxymoron territory. Oliver, despite his naked vulnerability emits some undeniable vitality. Bring Me The Horizon gets you smack in the middle of its shit storm and, strangely enough the manure aftermath isn't repugnant. Way to go, boys. You make flailing around in the water look as elegant as an Esther Williams synchronized ballet scene. "Drown" has the crunch to make worrisome waters, at least in the short term, potentially navigable.

CHVRCHES Kickstarts Dead Air

Let's get one thing out in the open right now. The brass behind the upcoming Hunger Games movie isn't paying me to talk about the cuts on their soundtrack. I merely find it both timely and noteworthy. There, air cleared I can proceed like someone who resembles a functioning adult male. Scottish electronic trio CHVRCHES allows its presence to be known with "Dead Air". For a track with "dead" in the title there sure is a lot of bounce brought to the table. Amazing what keyboards can do to make it appear a genuine pulse is beating. Lauren Mayberry's voice keeps commendable time with the rhythms which echo the Hunger Games ethos of running for one's life because you never can tell when the shark in the water's going to discover blood, and you would hate for it to be yours. Average audio this isn't. At its greatest synthesizers are your express paid pass to a rewarding landscape. Stuck in neutral. The surround sound effects can and probably should be given considerable credit for lifting you out of those doldrums. Snap to life quoth the synthesizers. Keep running while energy courses through your veins. CHVRCHES locates the hope inside a film dynasty that really doesn't lend itself to anything other than mano a mano combat on the world stage folks can't take their eyes off of. Peeking expediently at the words behind the so the drama Lauren decries that enduring equals strength. Holding on to an idea for all it's worth. That qualifies as important in the scheme of things. Holding on to the idea that makes healing not a mere pipe dream. There's your global money shot right there. You can sense firm legs to stand on are omnipresent in the choral layout. Leap to a higher chord then eclipse that with an even higher combo. In your mind's mind a hero and heroine make the leap together. Both Iain Cook and Martin Doherty's talents chase the ennui out of the picture. They spread layers of intricacy into the synthesizers that make it damned near impossible for adrenaline rushes not to flow. Lauren's the bona fide heroine persona to this tale. Wherever the innocence ran off to you imagine the mere presence of her plucky voice would be useful in reclaiming it. In a recent post I stressed the raw star wattage involved through bringing Lorde on board the whole Hunger Games phenomenon. CHVRCHES are going to be helped career-wise in the short run by adding their names to the roster. Any idea needs a spark, an undeniable glimmer to lift it off the ground and transform it to a concrete, tangible reality. "Dead Air" lives and breathes among us. We are plenty richer for that being the case. The bounciness reaches nimble proportions. The trio runs for its collective life. We hop on board the synthesizers and hightail it after them. CHVRCHES dead reckoning is living proof synths aren't soulless leeches. They can banish darkness with the tiniest light.

Bush Knows The Electrifying Way Out

Right from the get-go, British rockers Bush demonstrate they know their way around an amp. Their new "The Only Way Out" interlocks ingratiating chord melodies that refuse to let you rest on your music laurels. The shifts are spread out steadily. Each member displays a full mastery of his art. Vocalist Gavin Rossdale commands attention succinctly. In the lyrics he's placed a hefty weight on his shoulders, namely that he wants to be the savior for some lucky lady. That's a large God complex if ever I heard one (thank you...I'm not at any known comedy club all week). Corey Britz stands out on bass largely due to the underlying warmth shimmering within the constant uncertainty of modern times. Drummer Robin Goodridge taps out the angst with authority. His band may be headed towards unknown terrain, but the travels are where much of the reward stems from. As choruses go, Gavin assures what he's selling is packed with appropriate potency. As we collective humans come to realize the only way out of hardship is to plow through. The unidentified lady of this outing presents a reassuring distraction, one that keeps any of us from slamming down hard on the crazy button and screaming as if someone jabbed a switchblade through our hearts. Gavin doesn't lack for articulate story structure, a gift that gives this little passion play rooting value. You want the guy to get the girl. You want to think the orbit is populated with familiar good guys in white, bad guys in black cast out. On the arrangement front you don't have a cacophonous din to contend with. Crisp harmonies are the right tonic to keep attention spans transfixed. Chris Traynor dials back the theatrics on lead guitar. The shining star really does center on Gavin's intelligent way with a sentiment. He gives us food for thought by reminding us that we pray to the gods of our own demise all the time. In issuing this statement one gets the feeling that he, as is the case for a lot of us, sees the mad carnival as the epitome of absurdity in action. Put him in close quarters with the woman of his choosing and he can ice out the existentialism for a spell. "Trip wires in your head" shines a powerful light on the universal fascination with what makes a person tick. What are his/her motivations? Do we ever stand a chance of figuring that poser out? The latest bead on the necklace that comprises their two decades deep body of work has been christened "Man on the Run". "The Only Way Out" leaves no doubt it's compelling enough to encourage you to stay in one place. This particular way out contains tangible cerebral rewards aplenty.

Truth Be Told, Gwen Stefani's Borrowing From Her Past Glory

Gwen Stefani's the fashion plate who loves to party. I have fond memories of "Hey Baby" the cocktail sipping star attraction from No Doubt's "Rock Steady" LP. She's had another baby, this one called "Baby Don't Lie". She manages to incorporate elements of "Hey Baby" with the sassy panache of "Hollaback Girl". The "am I getting warm" build up is proof enough. Gwen definitely adopts a different persona solo than she does with No Doubt. I'm of a mind to think Gwen's inner devil comes out to play whenever she goes solo. "Hollaback Girl" was her way of getting even with Courtney Love for insinuating her music is cheerleader-based in nature. Turns out that was sweet revenge. Went straight to #1 and served as catalyst for an Asian posse themed video. Gwen goes for unapologetic production values in her videos as "Baby Don't Lie demonstrates. The special effects should be praised no end. The minus side? "Baby Don't Lie" doesn't dress to impress harmony wise. I'm not sold on the way she barks out syllables either. Such a technique doesn't make me covet her bod. Far too much artificiality to convince me she's playing the femme fatale as it was meant to be played. "Hollaback Girl" skewed higher on the slap you in the mouth scale. "Baby Don't Lie's" background accompaniment makes itself at home in processed studio magic trick land. Her previous efforts ("Wind It Up", "The Sweet Escape", etc..) had a bite which took you away to a universe that you wouldn't mind making repeat visits to. Gwen's on a quest to unearth the truth behind those masculine eyes. The chorus gets on my nerves. Again, too trumped up. Gwen doesn't need to put on act like the contestants she passed judgment on during her stint on "The Voice". Oh Gwen, we hardly knew ya'! We recognize your imprints on the new track but, it unfortunately is an example of an artist treading water rather than bravely swimming forward to untamed conquest. I get a kick out of Gwen's vibrancy. "Baby Don't Lie" isn't difficult to listen to. Shame of shames it's also not difficult to go on about your business like nothing substantial happened. That's because, as I alluded to before, Gwen's guilty of pulling off a mash up of previous phases of her career. The chorus is "Hey Baby's" half-sister. The studio witchcraft calls out to "Hollaback Girl" era Stefani in the early to mid 2000s back when she was just starting to gain traction as a solo proposition. None of these reveals pose a problem if you are homesick for what Gwen laid out on the table at that point. Growth isn't in the cards. We knew Gwen was skilled at mugging for the camera which she does fashion mogul style at the open and close of the video. That's encouraging. Why the music didn't mirror the bold color designs puzzles me. I doubt a suitable answer's forthcoming. In truth "Baby Don't Lie" wins the charm school award but it's not likely to be a classic in any appropriate genre you can name.

OK Go Doesn't Let Anyone Down In The Charisma Department

I swear I'm having 1970s disco flashbacks. Who's the culprit? Place the finger on OK Go. "I Won't Let You Down" swings like nobody's business. Tim Norwind brings funk with a twist thanks to a bass performance that's snazzy in the right places. Drummer Dan Konopka's freewheeling approach gets the memorable night into fifth gear because you know his entire band broke from its perch on the front porch and there's not going to be any letup in the levity anytime soon. Adeptly nestled between guitar and drums is Andy Ross, the gent lightly flavoring "I Won't Let You Down" with keyboards meant to be whatever icebreaker you choose. OK Go's latest release "Hungry Ghosts" birthed this energetic bundle. As for the video, they're having the level of fun they want you to take part in too. What else would you expect from a bunch that easily elevated treadmills from their outdated status as torture chamber workout equipment. The first time I heard "I Won't Let You Down" I was less than psyched up about the title practically being drilled into my head. You can throw as much rainbow adorable color at me as you want. The smoke and mirrors does nothing to conceal how overplayed that hand became. Second time does prove to be the charm though and that's because the 70s flashback joie de vivre is so liberally spread I don't get migraines digesting the chorus. To put my notion in perspective I'd like to share with you another example of how a simple agility in chord movement or an addicting pattern of funk behavior can make a passable song worth cheering about when it gets played on air or loaded into iPod. In 1982 The Gap Band scored a top 40 hit with "You Dropped a Bomb On Me". At its heart there isn't a whole lot that would appear to make it a rare experience. Listen after listen I keep getting lured in by that captivating synth melody coupled with don't mess with me drums and outer space special effects. To some the repetition would be dental drill uncomfortable but to me I look at the synth like I would a Chinese takeout meal. I never tire of sampling. When I mean disco age I'm serious. Right down to the string sections that dotted every disco classic from the ubiquitous "I Will Survive" to "Heaven Knows" to "Funkytown" "I Won't Let You Down" demands playful appreciation. Vocalist Damian Kulash plays up how important trust is to any relationship worth its salt. I'd bet that's why the chorus is persistent to the degree you want to scream, "OK, OK GO I BELIEVE YOU! STOP NAGGING!!" Key to the pizzazz of the song is knowing when to shift chords and even then doing so judiciously. It's poison to play too many sonic tricks with your listeners. Depending on the kind of day they've had they may not be receptive to them. I want to follow their fanciful sojourn wherever that leads. Nice umbrella visuals in the video. I'm sure their fans shrug it off like they're as used to seeing OK Go go all out for the camera as they are seeing the sun rise. Even so style points count in the music biz. OK Go doesn't even come close to either letting down or slowing down. You likely remember kids in school who didn't want to be there. OK Go's extra effort demonstrates that not only do they want to be on stage but manly tears all around when the show stops.

Boyz II Men Put Their Better Half Forward

The romance you know and respect from 1990s a-capella hitmakers Boyz II Men has returned in the form of new album "Collide". Taken from said collection we get "Better Half" which finds the now trio (Michael McCarty you are missed) primed to be full fledged lady killers again. Prepare for the sheets to get an excellent workout. As a quartet the guys knew their way around harmonies custom built to get the ladies swooning. In the early 1990s they owned the #1 slot on the Billboard Chart with the monster smashes "End Of The Road" and "I'll Make Love To You". I took a shining to "Water Runs Dry". "Better Half" allows Nathan Morris and brother Wanya along with Shawn Stockman to spread their wings beautifully. To start the mood look no further than the sweat promoting percussion. Add to that a chorus that stares squarely at the now or never time frame. One of the strong points Boyz II Men has always had in its repertoire is the ability to make any tone on the vocal register sound like an invitation to go panties off. With "Better Half" baritone goes on holiday but alto is given the respect it is due. Another plus can be attributed to how the song would sound right at home in contemporary R & B programming formats but not at the expense of the slick stylings Boyz II Men brings to the table. The chorus message tosses out a caveat at waiting too long to jump into love with both hands expecting some ideal that might not be out there. The secret lies in the leap of faith taken for the chance to meet love on its terms and also reap the immeasurable rewards. We can come up with many reasons to be hesitant. In many cases there's justification in not running in blindly. However stay on the sidelines too long and you may miss the big prize that was worth waiting for. "Better Half" is the jazzy yin to "Water Runs Dry's" sedate yang. In the latter number you breathe in the inner peace placed in the spirit of offering. "Better Half" isn't urgent so much as primed to select act over react since that's the usual way business matters get attended to. The trio have matured in the right places. That doesn't mean there isn't some forbidden fruit tucked away at the core of their exalted ponderings. Would they release something as sultry as "Uhh Ahh" today? Perhaps somewhat dated for millennials and the company they keep. "Better Half" hits the musical palate in a friendship strengthening way, like brothers dropping back by the neighborhood to see, hear, and taste what's new. Paired with an exquisite zinfandel you have what promises to be an airy night soaking in the world and your expanding places in it.

Billy Idol's Back and Breakin' Down All Over

Billy Idol, the sneer that launched a thousand ships and pioneered MTV in the much longed for time when videos were the rule instead of the exception. He's successfully joined the rest of us in the twenty first century which you can hear in the amply polished tune "Can't Break Me Down" lifted straight from the man's new album "Kings and Queens of the Underground". Only he could get away with foisting a bouncy trifle on the public that Neon Trees wishes it had thought of. You aren't going to discover any of the grit which was a hallmark of his classic hits "White Wedding", "Dancing With Myself", and "Flesh For Fantasy". That shouldn't leave you hopping mad. There's loads of the dangerous flirt about town hidden beneath the neatly creased gent pictured in the video. Billy's smart to have updated his sound a notch so he doesn't come across like he's not done romancing his early '80s halcyon period. The drumming doesn't fail to propel the accompanying leave 'em gasping in the hotel penthouse brash demeanor Mr. Idol's wearing like a familiar pair of racing gloves. If this is Billy updating his image to project maturity we can tell it's "Rebel Yell" guy no matter what apparel he's draped in. As you'd expect from a Billy Idol project guitars figure prominently. You can take your pick. Either the electrified heart stopper or the saucy strings set to match Billy's never met a cocktail he couldn't imbibe ethos. Personally I'll gladly lap up any Billy Idol you throw at me. "Rebel Yell" to this day is one of my all time favorite outings. It offered me a glimpse into how pulse accelerating Steve Stevens could be. With Billy and Steve on the prowl you'd have to assume no London neighborhood was safe. Billy's donned the family dad tights off stage but his edge thrusts eternal. Maybe the video isn't one of those coffin riddled "White Wedding" nightmare fodder pieces. Nonetheless the vicious growl stays in place. Check out the first lyrical passage to restore your faith in Billy's ability to reach those uncomfortable places in your psyche. That whole knife in the apple image must have emanated from a particularly bitter spoonful of creative juice. Mention "devil" at the outset and you know the Generation X leader hasn't completely tossed his fangs into the wastebasket. The commitment shy ought to get reasonable mileage out of seeing chapels and Beelzebub referenced together. The woman he's parted ways with put his gut level survival tale into question. I'm not sure love and glory were the real subjects Billy sang about. Undiluted sexuality maybe but I've never gotten the impression glory was front and center in his mind. Wouldn't we like to know what exactly "cruelest inventions" is supposed to hint at. Kinky toys wouldn't be an off base guess. Billy Idol entertains whenever he's on the record release slate. "Can't Break Me Down" shreds phony hearts Cuisinart style and leaves the pretenders blurred by the anguish of their own tear drenched eye sockets. Broken down into plain English this idol deserves to be worshiped even if his rapscallion days of youth have long since disappeared into the rear view mirror.

Daughtry Fires Off Some Fan Friendly Fare

Goes to show you what kind of career not winning American Idol can land you. Daughtry has been going skyward ever since that bout of rejection. The latest in the band's catalog is "Battleship". It certainly sounds loose and ready to go kick some ass. The pacing satisfies without hitting the sissy low water mark. Must admit the chorus is too dopey to be believed but you can't deny (it would appear) the sparks that go off when the band clicks as a unit. Namesake Chris Daughtry's mug never fails to be camera ready as the accompanying vid shows. He certainly has the playfulness card working for him in spades. Although "Battleship" lacks the intense heat of an "It's Not Over" this single encourages audiences to unwind to the fullest extent possible. Chris and guitar co-conspirators Josh Steely and Brian Craddock bounce of each other as if this sonic marriage had gone down the line for multiple decades. Elvio Fernandes jolts us to attention early on with keyboards that'll have you wondering whose grooves we're privy to exactly. Josh Paul serves in fine standing as support player on bass. The relationship joust once again takes the front and center spotlight. Chris leaves no doubt he comes to this war, romantic resolve fully loaded. "Bullets coming off our lips" is a new one on me, not to mention a fairly disturbing visual that nobody with a weak stomach should be subjected to. Two points anyway for having the stones to put that down on paper and dare to approach a recording studio bigwig with it. Love's course doesn't as they say run smooth. Not that he intended to by any means, but Chris accidentally channels his inner Katy Perry with lyrics like "We're high then we're low, first it's yes then it's now. Comparisons to "Hot 'N' Cold" would be forgivable if not flat out encouraged. I wouldn't be surprised if the sound design was meant to sound all stout hearted man as if we weren't dealing with hunks peddling another chapter in the winds of love and war. You'll have to fill in the sounds of seaworthy vessels sloshing about at the mercy of high tides. Chris gets my vote for being humorously candid about how Daughtry came into being as a band name. Alas Rainbow Butt Monkeys, Chris confesses, was already taken. Gonna have to file that away permanently under "lost opportunity". Any rock show worth its salt feeds off of copious doses of energy. "Battleship" gives the crowds what they paid to see. That chorus could put you off if you're new to Daughtry's corner of the rock universe. However, devoted fan boys and girls likely aren't going to flee screaming in horror. Chris commands a mike, pure and simple. He knows this is the magical power he wields and he displays it to great effect here. From stem to stern "Battleship" promises to have you and your buds raising a glass to love and how very much it's worth fighting for.

U2 Cranks Out Another Commonplace Miracle

When exactly was the last time U2 turned out a bad piece of music? Not everything's been legendary but their track record for quality is head and shoulders above most bands on the scene. Ate up "Sunday Bloody Sunday". Found "Discotheque to be a blissful dance change of pace. Then there's "Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me" Rioting in the streets would've been fully justified had that song not ended up in Batman Forever. Thankfully cooler heads and even cooler marketing strategies prevailed. U2 straddles generations without losing its undeniable ability to stay culturally relevant. The newest example of my claim is "The Miracle (Of Joey Ramone) a sprightly homage to the fallen punk pioneer. I don't exactly equate the Ramones with bouncy, spring in the loafers fare but U2 manages to help one of the men behind "I Wanna Be Sedated" maintain his dignity. From the way Bono spins this yarn Joey is one incredible messiah who returned to him all that he thought was lost. This song comes to us from the "Songs of Innocence" album. That could explain the liberate tone the song adopts. Lest you get cozy imagining the band's resting on its laurels (an acceptable state given where they're at career-wise) Larry Mullen Jr. comes to play with Dublin forged drum chops militant in design but not stripping the playfulness down to a nub. U2 got its magical rocket ride to global pop success started in 1976 so issuing a tribute to Joey Ramone sounds to me like the boys are dabbling in a return to their roots. You can clearly inhale Bono's own innocence in the lyrics. Like many of us he was chasing down his dream before it disappeared (whereas Tom Petty runs it down but I digress). Dreams come in many shapes and sizes. Anyone who's had one and feared it was slipping away can see where he's coming from. The dynamic of not fitting in is the universal language among rock stars past, present, and probably future. Bono wanted to be heard above the din. With millions of folks on this planet, only a fraction of which come from Ireland, that's a pretty huge din. The Edge knows exactly where to strum. It's woven into the mix instead of screaming "Hey look at me!" He's comfortable both in his skin and with his workmanship so he doesn't need to rupture anything to get the job done. You'll recall in a recent Foo Fighters review I lauded them for how non cookie-cutter their musical opuses are. That also holds true for U2. There brew is heady, made to be embraced by stadiums full of benign insane asylum patients who treat this foursome like a legitimate cult that they'd be fools not to follow. Adam Clayton makes his bass hum in a manner not bound to be duplicate by any other artist. This band explores the complete palette of emotions before spreading paint onto their canvas. They can be deceptively toned down as was the case for "With or Without You" They can pick an optimistic direction as held true in "Beautiful Day". Their excellence comes from not blazing the same trail twice. Somewhere Joey's cracking a smile. From one artistic giant to another the mutual admiration society only grows stronger. "The Miracle (Of Joey Ramone)" is no miracle. Simply one more chart burning charmer to add to the pile of logs that U2 has made a life's work out of creating.

No Love For Fergie

The best thing in my estimation that can be said about Fergie is she causes less damage to the species at large as a member of The Black Eyed Peas. Flying solo she's so in love with herself you swear thank you letters from local chocolate shops nationwide must be blocking her front door. "L.A. Love (la la) again demonstrates that life truly isn't fair. She's had way more than the Andy Warhol prescribed fifteen minutes of fame. How has she used this generous borrowed time? To put her claw marks all over a single that's Pepsi to the nth power. Chug it down, toss it away, and forget about it. The usual artificially flavored goodies are accounted for. Bad ass synth fills? Check. Too silly to be imagined by mortal souls chorus? Locked, loaded, and set to rip your previously open minded soul to shreds. Stream of consciousness list of all the places she's gone globetrotting? Was there ever any doubt? Hold the Fergie ferry a sec. Came up with a second plus side to the femme who sullied the reputation of London Bridge for countless generations to come. "L.A. Love (la la)" is far too brief to result in any permanent scarring. If you want to be really generous you can play fantasy world with yourself and visualize you vacationing in all those places Fergie rattles off. To prove I'm not such a hard hearted guy I'll play travel guide for a paragraph or to. I'm not sure who Fergie stands to impress comparing herself to a gnat as she does when describing her jet voyage to New York. In any case New York has a few things to recommend it. Like legitimate theater? The Big Apple's there to be your bestie. Want some bagels as they were meant to be eaten? N.Y.C., you're the place for me. Next stop London. The Big Ben not playing football in Pittsburgh's sure to excite you. How about some fish and chips? That's good if not necessarily good for you snackin'. As for Brazil? Steamy samba and spirited soccer ought to cure what ails you. I don't have to dig deep to praise Quebec. It's Canadian which gets my vote given the many other spots in that country I've visited. I may yet get there myself in the future. You'll need to bone up on your French but that's a small price to play for rolling with the high style set. Now I shall return to Fergie flaying. As a member in questionable standing of this "whole damn world" I haven't taken effect to Ferg. I see her problem. You can't make whole damn world minus one sound street tough. "Come to represent" doesn't knock my socks off. Yup, still aiding my shoes commendably. As for the balance of the single I'll spare you the tension headache that doesn't satisfy nearly as much as brain freeze incurred from sucking Slurpees too fast. Fergie essentially has the globe saying la la la la la. Does Las Vegas have nothing better to do? Why not help the too far gone cure their gambling addictions. And Australia? Fascinating country. That the people there would waste one squirt from a water fountain to acknowledge her boggles the mind. Has Tokyo not succeeded in Godzilla proofing itself? If the motion picture industry is to be believed the answer's no. Nobody has accused or will ever accuse Fergie of trying to be Greek theater brainy. Consistency, you are Fergalicious. This time around nobody can accuse Fergie of putting out product worth upwards of five minutes of your precious time either. L.A. Love (la la)" lacks the chemistry needed to incite a massive pop explosion. Hate's a strong word, but steady dislike fills the bill.

Ella Henderson's "Ghost" A Repetitive Phantom That Won't Go Away

It's Halloween month. No better time to discuss "Ghost" the debut single from UK starlet in training Ella Henderson. Boob tube devotees might remember her from her appearance on The X-Factor. That chorus is simply too big a nuisance to take seriously after a time. Somebody greased these tracks with plenty of melodramatic sheen. Maybe the spirit (pun not actually intended) would work as part of the ongoing soundtrack for a telly program about the supernatural and the many who have a hard time buying into the concept. You can't place blame at the feet of Ella's voice (creepy biological juxtaposition, yes?) Anyone out there who took to Leona Lewis like ducks take to a pond isn't going to have much trouble being sold on the innate talent found in Ella's singing. She's an 18 year-old who's off to a promising start. Higher quality material is lacking. Had the powers that be in charge of her record label put as much thought into promoting her as the video director did in playing unchecked emotion to the hilt I might have been able to say Ella's path to US stardom is mere formality. The musicians backing her haven't distorted her style to blend into B-movie cheesiness. A lover's nagging presence gnaws at the heart of this composition. Stinging wounds resonate over and over. "Ghost" was co-written with OneRepublic's lead singer Ryan Tedder. The epic sweeps in instrumentation show his handiwork is unmistakable. But Ella Henderson's name is on the release. She was smart to pair up with him but whenever she lags in the momentum department we're back at the river praying for any one of a number of things. I pray she doesn't oversell the chorus on any other song that gets released. In the world of job interviews making a good first impression is of paramount importance. The first impression I get from "Ghost" is an unintended migraine. Too often the chorus keeps us from developing anything other than a surface relationship with Ella's sharply shaped voice. Lyrically sympathy is warranted. Obviously demons from her love life won't allow her a moment's pace. Imagine a book you've read that does a fine job establishing a mood, winning over your empathy when suddenly you're revisited by a plot device you thought had been stricken from the record eons ago. "Ghost" suffers from the same shortcoming. Her friends have figured out her lover's evil. Her own sanity hangs in the balance. She dares to leave the shallow end of the pool. Then it's back to the river for more connection with the almighty. In small doses that's commendable. Ladled on molasses thick that's a tummy ache granted an all access pass. "Bleeding Love", the ghastly named smash hit for Leona Lewis succeeded by combining a rock/gospel mix that brought out the most palpably vulnerable aspects of the song. "Ghost" doesn't show off that kind of daring. Not mellowed out melodrama. Not going to assume control of fleeting attention spans either. Like the apparition for which it's named, "Ghost" the song goes in the books as barely detectable. You sense a presence but it's too lukewarm to demand further investigation.