ScHoolboy Q's Man of the Year Worth Only Three Seconds Of Your Time

ScHoolboy Q is a cute handle for a rapper to use. And that concludes the portion of the blog discussing what works about "Man of the Year". Now it's time to fire bullet holes into the rest of it. Hold onto your hats, rap enthusiasts, we're entering the village of titties. As I'm sure many of you already know, the village of titties takes up a great deal of space in a rap star's word flow. Females everywhere are supposed to "shake it for the man of the year." David Spade, back in his SNL Hollywood Minute days, might have responded to the lyric a little something like this: "I liked this song before...when it was called 'Hey Ya'...it's called original verses, find some." As for Greg Silver in his current far from Hollywood Minute days, he might have to consult his optician to do something about the spontaneous eye rolling that comes his way when he's confronted with the rap genre's latest twist on booty, booty, and more booty. "Bruh?" That's how the party starts is with a rolled out of bed version of the word "brother"? ScHoolboy Q has to know that if his lips are too lazy to utter an opening line than how can we be expected to wave our hands in the air like we'd like to care? His lukewarm bathwater attempt at "flava'" permeates through every area of the song. Hard to tell if that's a synth fill behind him but I like to think of it as what a screeching tire would sound like if was translated to keyboard form. And oh how it lingers uncomfortably in my eardrums. The only justification I can come up with for this black man's version of white noise is distraction from how little his lyrics are conveying that isn't a full on advertisement for Trojans. The company should pay him in lube jelly. Verse 1 is chock full of those ghettoized you had to be there moments. Firstly we've got: "Nigga', I ain't come for the beef". That's beef as in John Bender's "hot beef injection" (Breakfast Club fans raise a glass). Here's another family values selection: "When you round man the girls never lounge, man I heard you a hound. Bruh, man that bitch need a pound". So which is it Mr. Q? "bruh" or "man"? To my way of perceiving that's a bit redundant. We already know your homeboy's a "bruh". Was the synonym of sorts really necessary? Also, could you offend any more than 100% of the female population with the bitch pound connection? Bitch is already the sort of disparaging word that, if you called your mother that would get you slapped. The notion that pound refers to the dog lock-up is easy to see. But does he mean "That bitch needs a beatdown/pound?" Doesn't matter either way. In both cases that's hostile lyrical content that doesn't advance civilization in any way. Pleased to meet you again bitch. We keep popping up in these sorts of situations don't we? More of the now trademark macho posturing that makes a vigorous barf fest a foregone conclusion. Observe: "Bitch, I'm the talk of the town, make a bitch run her mouth. Go south for the boy. Pop down to the floor...bounce." Real men don't need to ramble on about how great they are. For someone named ScHoolboy, he needs to get to class more often. Wasn't it Teddy Roosevelt who said "Speak softly and carry a big stick?" Well Schoolie Q is speaking obnoxiously. Possibly because he's insecure about the size of the stick between his legs. I'm not a Harvard man but I have a pretty good idea of where going south is taking us. Couldn't this guy have found something admirable to do with the time he flushed down the studio toilet. The planet's full of pretty enjoyable hobbies. Maybe he could found The Society For The Wholesale Slaughter of Thug Life Dudes Who Endorse Misogyny In Deplorable Raps. It only takes one powerful voice to foment revolution. What he's fomenting at present is revolting. Pre-programmed drums? Limp as...well there's that quick to insert itself in feminine business stick again. The next to last line is accidentally amusing. You've heard of rappers bragging about their dope beats or rhymes. I believe I'm in the presence of an artistic first. Either that or I need to book the red-eye to Compton more often. How can you not struggle to stifle a giggle from: "This verse straight from the morgue". Gotta give him credit. After an entire track devoted to tits and ass lyrics it's nice to discover he's a salesman honest enough to sum up his product's real value perfectly. Dead...on...arrival. Let's take up a collection basket. Obviously in a country where medical horror stories aren't unusual somebody needs to raise funds to help remove the bullet fragments ScHoolboy Q inflicted on himself by shooting himself in the foot. Sad to watch but provocative nonetheless. "Man of the Year" isn't even man of the hour. Do yourself a favor and take the half a second required to lob this manure pile in the trash.

Beck's "Blue Moon" a Radiant Charmer

Few stars on the rock beat wear their freak flag as proudly as Beck Hansen, just plain Beck to you and I. I'll be the first to confess that I wasn't bowled over by "Loser", his first big hit from "Mellow Gold". You'll forgive me for not being won over by a song that has chorus sentiments such as: "I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me." Vince Neil of Motley Crue would be incorrect in assuming Beck's the one they call Dr. Feelgood. Thankfully as the '90s wore on, departed with a jovial heart, then gave way to the "aughts", Beck proved to us he was no one trick pony. "Odelay" was a riot, a testimonial to how rock can in capable hands live up to its potential. "Guero" followed that same formula in 2005 with astonishingly well realized depth of feeling. New to 2014's musical sweepstakes is "Blue Moon". I don't think I've ever heard a Beck track that has quite as approachable to radio formats across the spectrum. "Odelay" was full of piss and vinegar. This first cut from "Morning Phase" eases you into its grasp gently. The guitar sways inside your heart instead of opting for the cardio workout approach. If "Odelay" and "Guero" slanted towards an Andy Warhol school of bright colors put to music then "Blue Moon" is gentle dabbling with tempura paints. It's a night in which the darker ends of the blue radius complement the title's glowing orb. Drums are crucial to the sea worthy quiet strength that chooses to ride with the current. Any choppy sailing comes from his lyrical content. No doubt about it. Beck's a audiophile's troubadour right down to the last syllable. Loneliness is the overtly cast out evil in these lyrics as you can tell from his claim to have only known the harsh sting of penitent walls. Uniqueness in the setting up of a downer situation is something Beck shines at. Only he could utter: "Cut me down to size so I can fit inside lies that will divide us both in time. He's hinting that there's something oddly wonderful about being in a relationship even if lies are at its foundation. Arguing together beats stewing alone I suppose. It's the exchange between two people which generates passions sexual, intellectual, and otherwise. In sailor parlance what a sailor craves in harsh conditions is the ever critical lighthouse beacon used as an aid to find his way back to safe harbor. Beck, regardless of which combo of instruments he's tag team incorporating, never forgets that at his aching heart is the basic craving for that safe harbor. Getting back to my earlier claim that "Blue Moon" is one creation radio's not going to dismiss out of hand. "Loser" came at a point in 1994 when alt-rock/grunge were the cultural forces. Ergo, Beck's mud on the tires guitar variation suited the environs to a tee. "Where It's At" and "Devil's Haircut" both from "Odelay" as critically gushed over as they were, cast Mr. Hansen as a fawning devotee of the gritty incidental street sounds of the '70s. If you saw the vid for the "Devil's Haircut" you'll remember those spooky deep focus camera shots looked like they came out of some '70s era cops and robbers show like "S.W.A.T." or "The Rookies". "E-Pro" and "Girl" from "Guero" demonstrated that the love affair with those funked up soul serenades wasn't over. "Blue Moon" is, amusingly enough, has the potential to reveal a heretofore unknown mellower side to rock's resident idiosyncratic icon. You might not get to the safe side of the beach in high style, but you'll reach it safely. Plus you'll end up feeling like you've spent time absorbing the weather worn tales of a sailor whose lived the tales he's telling. The music arena is always an electrifying block of real estate to visit when Beck rejoins the party. Maybe it is a party heavy on light appetizers rather than sumptuous banquet kitchen wizardry. Not a problem though. That it's easier to digest, lighter on studio console calories, only makes it richer food for the soul.

Hey Paramore, What's Fun About Being Ostracized?

Don't you love opening up a bag of chips in anticipation of the salty goodness that awaits your taste buds only to find the whipped air that leaves your allotment of chips greatly reduced. What an advertiser's conceit!! I'm hinting that "rip-off" flashes on the Jumbotron screen in my mind when what the label proposes to give me and what I actually get turn out to be two different things. I get that artists evolve either by choice or to adapt to the always restless parameters of the music business but what..the...hell! I had high hopes for Paramore during the "Misery Business" era. Straight up the gut rock strutting that didn't care what you thought about its rotten attitude. "That's What You Get" kept the stream of hook inundated in your face rock going strong. Along came the voice that whispered in Hayley Williams' ear..."Oh Hayley, you and your band ought to come up with a thoughtful ballad. That'll bring the young lovers in like bees attracted to a hive." Thus we received "The Only Exception", high on sleepy melody, low on profound lasting power. What's brought about marked stylistic departure is the departure of founding brothers Josh and Zac Farro. Hayley herself implies as much. A tweak here a tuck there is one thing, "Ain't It Fun" is an entirely different ball game altogether. Let me get right to why for Paramore's true blue followers this effort is going to amount to one hell of a jarring culture shock. Hayley's keyboard work sounds as if was plucked straight out of the wheelhouse of any one of a number of '80s ingenues. Regina ("Baby Love') just called. She wants her share of the royalty money back. 1985 Teena Marie wouldn't have sounded out of her element had she flashed tonsils to this type of blow dried peppiness. You think Deborah (sorry Debbie is so 1987) Gibson didn't reach the heights of pop stardom with Diet Coke radio friendly first. Why not Martika? Before there was her stab at deep thought entitled "Toy Soldiers" she unleashed "More Than You Know" on the record purchasing hordes. Get where I'm headed? Paramore can lodge "Ain't It Fun" into the confines of a self-titled, "we're brand new as an entity but we're really the same rockin' fiends you've come to know and hopefully like a whole bunch" album but the onion in the proverbial ointment remains keyboards that belong in a retro Members Only jacket commercial. Okay, that's glaring inconsistency number one. Number two lies strictly in the blatant finger wagging tone of the lyrics. Not Hayley's voice. She hasn't lost her baby riot girl smackdown edge. It was her decision to give the keyboards star billing, though. Don't even think about getting up in Jeremy Davis' grills. He plays his bass as if he knows Paramore's basic credibility is going to tank if he doesn't remind us that no, his buds and partners in artistry aren't trying to outcute Katy Perry (No, outcute isn't a real word. It's called artistic license. I got mine and I'm cruisin in a way only Smokey Robinson and The Miracles could grasp). What a clinic in muscle flexing. Taylor York is content to play follow the leader drumbeat wise. "Misery Business" was crunchy in so many pleasurable ways. "Ain't It Fun" is the whipped air. Did it really take three minutes and forty seven seconds to tell off some poor simpleton who, if Hayley's railings are to be believed, thinks the world orbits around him? Paramore, please consult with your financial advisors. You need to file for creative bankruptcy. Carly Simon expressed this sentiment a shade over four decades ago ("You're So Vain") and she was far less irritating in doing so. I wish the song was nearly as "fun" as the video. Why you'd want to break records in the areas the vid makes reference to is a mystery but at least the visuals communicate, "Hey there people of the world! We're Paramore! We're back! We wanna rock!! ROCK!! (Please don't sue me Dee Snider). As an unwilling member of the billions strong adulthood club I can tell you that adapting is not an easy matter. You have to try somehow but it's an unenviable Herculean climb for some folks. Why Paramore deemed it necessary to sing about how if you stick around long enough, you'll start to realize how hopelessly alone you are in the real world (as if there even is such a thing as "the real world". Watched the news lately? Pretty damned unreal. Humans...a questionable idea since the time Adam and Eve had that dalliance with produce and horticulture)is between the band and their corporate puppet string bearers. Bubbly keyboards don't belong here. Unless it somehow makes humans feel bubbly inside to treat their follower planeteers like something the dog ejected onto the lawn. Nope, clap along choruses aren't livening up this rubbing in of moral failings, perceived or assumed by the society at large. "Mean Girls" is a Lindsay Lohan thing (So are hard drugs but that's not why I've gathered you here today, is it?)Na-neh-na-neh-na na!! That's it. One big slab of na-neh-na-neh-na na. I know we're expected to have reduced standards in the times we live in but obnoxious isn't commendable whether the economy is sailing through the roof or as flat as holiday fruitcake. I'm a sensitive chap. I have actual standards of decorum. "Ain't It Fun" isn't fun on any level. The dental cleaning I got last Monday was more enjoyable and, moreover it enhanced my quality of life. "Ain't It Fun" simply doesn't add up to time well spent. Hayley would be best served giving that keyboard back to 1984 before the space time fabric suffers irreparable harm.

Chevelle's "Gun" Deserves Full Blast Treatment

Are you up for a rock song capable of leaving you physically uncomfortable after you've listened? Might I suggest "Take Out The Gunman", courtesy of Grayslake, Illinois trio Chevelle. The only color your knuckles are bound to be is ghostly white. It's Pete Loeffler who maintains a high anxiety level by sticking to that one, heartbeat accelerating riff. He's the assassin who has his gun trained squarely on you. He's content to let you squirm while the wheels in his mind turn feverishly. Sam Loeffler shuns the sphere of head spinning drum posing that many a hard rocker uses as his bread and butter selling point. What force he exerts comes through with the tap on the cymbal portion of his kit. Steady as it goes it forces you to choose the lesser of the two demonic evils. Focus on the muscle part of the unhinged deviant (the guitar) or his finesse skill set (the drums). Pete proves he's well schooled in the area of how to draw your voice out to obtain maximum creepiness. You get inside the wacky wiring of a soul or, in this case an assortment of souls who realize opting for action over reaction would keep them all above ground. If you like capturing the numerous posterity moments on phone or, for any old school chroniclers out there, camcorder, "Take Out The Gunman" is the best possible variety of you are there probings of unsteady fellow beings. I applaud Chevelle for daring to put out a song that crooked its ravaged little finger at you, encouraging you to think before planning the next move. Pete calls the action with a pushed to the limits strain of unsettled nervous slow recoil that you fear isn't long for the domain of rational thought. From that first frame where unsettling light has our hero in full on "Where am I?" mode to his sizing up his armed adversary (knees, between the eyes, where do I aim this bad boy?)we've joined the in progress haunted house of a man fully committed to the moment only because to do otherwise could prove at best dangerous and, at worst, lethal. I can't really say this is a "legend of" story song. More likely it's a snapshot of your worst nightmare brought to uncensored fruition. Imagine you're in your bedroom chasing down lost snooze time when suddenly an intruder's presence eviscerates the alluring calm. Truth isn't merely stranger than fiction, it has leaped off the page and wants to claim your carcass as its everlasting prize. Dean Bernardini's bass intensifies the lit fuse so viciously that we're offically put on notice that Pete's saga isn't capable of allowing you to simply walk back out into the mist. This first round of ammo from "La Gargola" is explosive, oddly enough because of the long term way in which it smolders. No quick kills here. The agony lingers. The masochist in you won't be able to resist keeping your gaze trained on the buzzing drama Pete lures us into. "Take Out The Gunman" scores by coming in and going out with a sinister, pre-meditated bang.

KONGOS Crashes On Its Two-Pronged Musical Vision

Weird Al would be proud. The accordion is a front and center participant on KONGOS' current rock single "Come With Me Now". In fact its the first tap on the shoulder to greet you. A novel instrument is greatly appreciated. As much a fan as I am of your standard alto guitar, bass guitar, drum, vocals setup, it's nice to be reminded there are plenty of other musical fish in the sea. I'm happy this South African outfit named after the four brothers' collective last name likes to jazz up its approach to the craft. What concerns me is that underneath the glitz there isn't much in the way of lyrical originality. Wasted time and breath aren't new concepts. They're always poignant, but not exactly mind expanding on the most basic level. I don't care what country's heroes are peddling this message. Escapism is escapism is escapism. Creative lyrics can accentuate the variety of instruments a band plays. I'm afraid the aftermath of attempting to sell one's soul to the devil (Beelzebub isn't mentioned but the implication is there nonetheless) is about as great an example of scratching beneath the surface as we're getting. So in the interest of sharing with you why "Come With Me Now" gets a mixed vote from me, let's turn to the brothers Kongos themselves to show what's right about this song. Daniel's voice has "gruff" written all over it. That attribute works in his favor because it makes the desperation pumping through his veins that much more palpable. Dylan's bass is the industrial strength glue keeping the nuts and bolts riveted together. As for drumming Jesse swerves gracefully over, under, around, and through the smartly loomed efforts of his brethren. I also would like to give the foursome due credit for the shift in aura which takes place at the bridge. Up until then "Come With Me Now" was wedded to stew, savory musical stew left wisely on slow burn. Even though the pacing is slow, all hands are on the tiller. At the bridge those same hands let go, confident that their newly hatched creation can thrive without training wheels. Johnny's keyboard selections lend themselves to a ceiling impaired way out in space sensation that can tickle, titillate, arouse, and so much more. If only the words backed up what the cogs in the machine are churning out. As was the case with selling your soul to the devil, there's no actual woman Dylan waxes emphatic about. Still, unless Dylan is keeping himself closeted (and I suspect that's a big, fat, heterosexual no) the person he's wanting to come with him now is probably the female of the species. We're led to believe that as an artistic statement it's okay to come right out and declare your intentions behind the overt masculinity of a bass guitar yet it's equally fine and dandy to be coy about what the bare bones words themselves are trying to say. A split personality rock song is a task best left to masters. At this juncture KONGOS isn't part of that elite club. The lyrical tepidness detracts from the instrumental fluidity. They're dipping their toes in the water yet refuse to take the full plunge. Too bad. KONGOS obviously does have some fresh meat to toss on the grill. Would that we left the table feeling suitably full instead of deceptively empty. In the end "Come With Me Now" goes down as an African safari cursed with a tour guide who's not too keen on educating his visitors past the bare minimum.

Boy Is Ingrid Michaelson On Message

Anybody remember Gary Numan's "Cars"? That 1979 Top 10 hit was as cold and clinical as a surgeon's operating table. For its time it was the perfect introduction to the futuristic sounds that would end up sparking the technological side of the New Romantic movement of music, a movement that claims Duran Duran among its charter members. If you transplant the no bones about it language of that song into a 2014 accounting of the very time honored rituals of girls chasing boys because they can't get enough of a pretty face then the engaging little stinker you'd be receiving for your hard fought dollar would be "Girls Chase Boys" the latest from Ingrid Michaelson, an indie pop artist from Staten Island, New York. New York being the bustling metropolis to top all bustling metropolises you know more that a few broken hearts have been strewn to the wind. Ingrid's waffle free message is "Hearts do get broken. Let's try not to break down into high stress high stakes histrionics shall we. Girls chase boys. Always have. Always will. Let's move on and see if we can't better our status in the Cupid tinged ozone? Note for note Ingrid stomps along, a woman on a mission she's darned well going to succeed in executing. Minimalist tapestry weaving is a smart choice of accessorizing in this case. Had this song been more wedded to the messiness of love instead of the commitment to at least taking a stab at a clean break, it would not have left behind quite the same sharp impact. Be it piano, drums, keyboards, or vocals, Ingrid applies seasonings calculatingly, never once spoiling the broth with an overly generous spice. Ingrid is right up in her apparently now ex-lover's face insisting that they don't make things harder than they have to be. Ingrid's down but the tank doesn't read empty yet. Any of us would be justified in assuming "Girls Chase Boys" qualifies as an amusing paint by numbers exercise. Listen to how the framework locks in place. Ingrid knows how to make controlled chaos sound like that was her none too fiendish plan all the time. The backing drummer constitutes the easel holding her nascent artwork together. First comes a solitary piano note, then keyboards, and back again. Surfing atop the billowing wave is Ingrid, finger pointing at Romeo, laying down the law, laying it down with a quirkiness suitable to the tangled predicament she's trying to help them escape from. If "Cars" uses the fascination with automation as its focus, "Girls Chase Boys" zeroes in on the ABCs of being in love. The edges of her voice in stating her case are no slouch in comparison to the robotic manner Gary shared his tech-juiced mania with us. Daylight's burning. Let's keep the parade marching. No cosmic aura needlessly sacrificed on the altar of a meet cute that's quickly losing its cuteness. They're equally to blame because they tug on each other's heartstrings to hear the taut rhythms that result. In April her new "Lights Out" album sees the light of day. Ingrid demonstrates with its lead-off single that she doesn't hold onto her boy toys any longer than necessary. Get out those binoculars and prepare to delight in the unabashed bedroom window voyeurism.

U2 Emits Beautiful Bounce That's Visibly Stunning

U2 can channel its area rock partners in crime Coldplay without sacrificing a whit of what makes them great. No heavy political drama a la "Sunday Bloody Sunday" nor is there off the cuff goofiness in the vein of "Discotheque". This time Ireland's greatest musical export glides across the impeccably groomed pop rock waters with "Invisible". Control yourselves dyed in the wool fans. The album, untitled at this point, is headed in your direction soon. For now you'll have to be content with a divine slice of four guys comfortable enough in their collective career trajectories that they can serve up a song that's got a higher degree of bounce than bite. They're masters in the art of blending in rather than trapping themselves in the dated, of its time period spiderwebs. Although The Edge certainly wields his guitar like the vet he is it's his star turn at keyboards that enables the name Chris Martin (Coldplay's lead singer for anyone out there scratching his head in curious befuddlement) to pop into my cranium. Breezy's the prevailing pace, and that suits Bono to a tee. He can best ladle out his vow of self-affirmation when he's got the wind at his back. Not only is he standing up for himself in the relationship arena he's vowing not to be a carbon copy clone of his dear ol' dad. U2 has managed to hold onto the guttural fires for 38 years now, great fortune for you, I, and are myriad concert attending friends. Bono's one of the greats because he sweeps you into the palm of his hand, adopts a troubadour's savoir faire, and speaks directly to each quadrant of your heart. Whatever he's selling not too many people would pass on the pitch. Over and over, whenever they make ongoing course corrections they're rewarded by renewed sales both retail and at the ticket window. Larry Mullen, Jr. remains engaging with his sticks. The foursome feeds off each other regularly. Some bands may lean too heavily on one instrument, the equivalent of a basketball team relying on one superstar to vault them onward and upward to glory. Bono zeroes in on our vulnerabilities, The Edge shifts from one enthralling chord combo to another as if he was a schoolboy shifting the gears in a classic car, Adam Powell boosts those two with some of the sturdiest bass beats in the music world today. Certain bands have the awesome power to really excite its audience about its release date. Aerosmith does that handily. You always know what you're getting when an Aerosmith project pops up on the release schedule. U2's steady fans share a similar devotion. However U2 has proven since its mainstream coming out party album "The Joshua Tree" that in its collective soul beats the sensibilities of a chameleon. Despite or perhaps even because of this, it has long since ceased to matter what flavor of song they foist onto the general public. With startlingly regularity it's always, a la NBA hoops, catch, release, swish. "Sunday Bloody Sunday" was about the fiercest rallying cry ever set to vinyl. "Mysterious Ways" was surely an exotic curve in its body of work. Not once have they failed to be true to themselves. In any line of work that's saying a really big something. For U2 it means longevity on a level few acts before or since have proven capable of equaling or eclipsing. Not since the group's dalliance with The Dark Knight, "Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me" has Bono unleashed his claws so profoundly. "Invisible" is the latest chapter in the ongoing story of U2. Still as compelling as you remember them. I hope it magically appears as a prominent part of your iPod shuffling.

Run Don't Walk To Infectious Joy From Fitz And The Tantrums

How can you squeeze so much positive energy from something as basic as a whistle? If you're LA indie pop quintet Fitz And The Tantrums, the answer is with startling ease. I'd say "The Walker" has an incredible hook but that would be criminally understating things. The whole song is a glorified hook. It gets better the more you give in. As a declaration of self it's brassy enough to want to make you raise both hands in the air and shout a triumphant "Oh, yeah!!" to the rafters. Lead singer Michael Fitzpatrick does a great job playing the role of the lovable goofball. When he sings about how he loves to go 99 miles an hour, who is anyone to say he's pulling our chains? He's proud to be walking to the beat of his own drum. He's not crazy for diverting from the fluid yet established norms. We're crazy for being such sticks in the mud. The accompanying video would leave only the funny bone deprived unmoved to wet yourself peals of laughter. In my estimation the best adjective to describe "The Walker" is playful. The sax (Thanks James King for tossing caution to the breeze) comes off like something out of a Looney Tunes picture. Much the same could be said for the riotous clash between Mike and the cop in the video. His mannerisms in the vid clearly define the inner workings of a man who's been pushed way past reasonable limits and won't be kicked around anymore. John Wicks keeps the plentiful pep skipping along on drums. If society has super reinforced the chains, the preferred tempo throughout handily provides a lovable prison pass. Where Michael shines most is at the chorus. Nowhere is his self-image stronger. He powers his vocal chords to more emboldened and confident heights. As was intimated earlier the whistle is where much of the cheerful free spirit originates. Fitz and crew never stray far from this strain of jubilant silliness. Not only does "The Walker" obtain maximum impact as a pop charmer it could also double as one hell of a calorie busting workout tune. Half of LA apparently agrees if the video is any indication. I'm excited to point out another example of a song too happy to rise above the day-to-day murkiness of life and flat out revel in where one foot in front of the other takes you. Here's hoping "The Walker" satisfies the naysayers claiming a loose jointed confection like this doesn't have a place at the contemporary music table.

Hunter Hayes Puts A Scintillating Rallying Cry For The Bullied On Full Display

Hunter Hayes has successfully assembled a gift to everyone who's ever felt the stung of being a bullying victim. "Invisible" could calm down even the most hardened members of its ranks. There's a warm stroke of the hair. Brick by brick the walls start crumbling. People stop thinking it was something they did which led to the abuse. Of course you could easily apply the lyrics to any situation where outsiders get the short end of the deal. We are reminded that it takes gravitas to be different in a world where enforced conformity is the exception rather than the rule. We also are reassured that it will become possible to look back on the pain stronger, no longer chained to shackles, the pain rendered...well...invisible. He advocates not needing to resort to violence to win a battle or three. The flow of the instrument suits the sensitive material. If you've been bullied a good much of your life, the last thing you want is for someone to yank you out of your shell because, obviously you dread what might be happening after you're newly exposed. His drum patterns start off lightly graceful then kick start into more of an assertive tone in the second verse. His guitar is an equally gentle conduit for his reaffirming messages. The guitar solo midway jolts color back into what's never an easy subject to approach. There's plenty to like about the hallway imagery, the open cattle call most schoolchildren face on a daily basis. True enough it's not easy to be an individual in crowds like these. From experience I can tell you there's usually a clique mentality in high school. As much as we'd like to think we could mix effortlessly, many's the time jocks, nerds, the theater crowd, etc...fan out into their own segregated zones. Hunter implores us "Dare to be something more". Sage advice from someone who needs what he's preaching about. Inclusiveness is "Invisible's" ace in the hole. Not an easy task for social environments no matter what they answer to. Hunter's sophomore effort is headed our way in May, this leadoff song having been performed at the Grammys earlier this year. If sensitively written hits like "Invisible" are in store for us, Hunter, the country star, is bound to be a constant presence as 2014 gains momentum.

Austin Mahone and Pitbull Cook Up an MMM Tasty Toe Tapper

MMM, "m" cubed, m to the third power. One mid range letter of the alphabet sure has gotten some nifty shout outs from the music community. The Crash Test Dummies laid down one of the most quizzical songs of the '90s with "Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm" (those quirky Canadians!!) Hanson, the brother act that owes a huge debt of gratitude to South by Southwest" for their being discovered rose to the pop summit in 1997 with their so infectiously catchy it makes me want to scream smash "MMMBop". If you were anywhere near a radio in 1997 you likely were force fed that song at some point. Lucky that in many cases, my own included, giving into its homespun charm was a breeze. Now there's another teen hunk using the letter m as a fun time instigator. Austin Mahone calls nearby San Antonio his crib. I think's it's amusing I'm Greg from Austin (practically...I've lived here since I was 4) speaking about Austin from San Antonio (insert sound of booing nightclub goers, drunk or otherwise, here...thrown items optional). I won't even try to deny that I thought his "What About Love" was devour worthy, pop priceless that doesn't ask anything more from me than that I at least try to get into the groove. The chorus had zing, his voice sailed effortlessly over top of the hook. That said, it's not hard to believe he, along with the finger in every pot Floridian Pitbull have combined their mad skills for "MMM Yeah", a peak cocktail hour rave up that's long on toe tapping lip licking let your hair down celebration. You're in your car. You've entered a tunnel in the heart of the metro area. Somehow a raft of blissful harmonies have conspired to see you through to the sunny side of the traffic hodgepodge. Consider "MMM Yeah" to be a dish seasoned sparingly. Piano fills here, tap happy drums there. All the while Austin and Pitbull are having the time of their lives. Not every piece of art has to be buoyed down with unreachable expectations. Loosen up already, ya' tightwads!! The video plainly shows Austin in cut up mode. Even better he's embracing it like it's some newly discovered second skin. He's not taking himself, his role in the business at this hour, nor the video shoot seriously. You don't need a language translator to figure our the female object of desire occupies the front and center role in the lyrics. There's good cop and bad cop in the world of relationships. "MMM Yeah" comes complete with Austin playing the role of easily discernible lyric speaker whereas Pitbull is content to ride on the muscles flexed in keeping in real mode. You'll have to pardon me. I'm a wimpy white boy who wouldn't merely get pancake blocked by a linebacking corps...I'd get reduced to pancake paste. "Jordan and Pippen mane?" Okay I'm stupid. Ya' got me. Say what? Mane? Lion King? I know skinny white boy, just keep dancing and don't try to impress nobody. I think Austin deserves a boatload of fist bumps for obeying the journalist's mantra, K.I.S.S. (Keep It Simple Stupid). Keeps his currently wholesome image minty fresh. His open contribution to the word world is "When I saw her walking down the street she looked so fine I had to speak. I asked her name but she turned away. As she walked all that I could say was MMM MMM Yeah Yeah". See? To the point. English language from Mahone to the Mahone mavens. As we delve further into the wonderland of this girl's body she comes complete with those uniformly pulse pounding six inch heels clicking away to beat the band. Austin wants details. Where you from? Where you wanna go? In this bootylicious boxing match we're talking the feel her out round. At least he's not so forward he's already progressing towards feeling her up if you get my naughty little drift. Pitbull, as you might expect (No, not a clairvoyant. Merely moving the conversational ball forward.) brings a tiny drop of '90s name value to this fired up fiesta when "Move it like Kris Kross" jumps out from between his lips. Maybe that's in poor taste given that one half of that duo died not too many years ago but his accountant is likely dancing in the streets. Pitbull also revives the ghost of Gerardo's blink and you missed it chart reign by getting Spanglish on us. Observe..."Austin, man Armando acabando latinos y gringos gosando me entiendes. For those that thought we was (that's were, buster. There's such a thing as proper grammar) done they don't have a mind to think with, brainless (and repetitious). Most of them broke but they're famous. Some got hitched but they're nameless. Might fancy word shuffling there, Pardner. This intellectual jousting of psychological compass points boggles my sometimes boggle defiant bean. Simple, non bloat inducing pop entertainment. I ask, they deliver. That's a social contract that doesn't stop building on its already commendable luster. You won't miss those four minutes of your lives that much. You spent it in the company of two young dudes on the prowl who are reveling in the chase scenes. Place "MMM Yeah" in the win column for Team Mahone. It can only boost his growing perch in the pop culture limelight. Pitbull proves to be a affably daffy partner who matches Austin stride for stride in the goofy goober department. Seventeen has been a sweet age for Austin. At the rate he's going he'll have plenty more tasty triumphs ahead of him.

Birdy's Remake of Bon Iver's "Skinny Love" Takes Flight

Get to know the name Birdy even if that is a mere vocalist de plume. At 17 years old she's already got the chops belying her short life. Put those haunting notes up against the expertly applied shadings of the ivories. The result is "Skinny Love", a song originally performed by Bon Iver, an indie folk band stemming from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. In Birdy's grip it's become almost unsettling in its nakedness. Her wounded animal stance penetrates you from head to toe. Chalk another one up for the piano as a prime means of draining the mishmash of moods dry. The real life Jasmine van den Bogaerde certainly came by her love of song honestly. Her mother is a concert pianist. Birdy learned to play piano at age seven. By age eight she was writing her own music. At age eight I was having my birthday party at the gone but not forgotten Scampi's Organ Grinder on Koenig Lane. My apologies to any blog followers who have no clue what that is or what on earth that's supposed to symbolize. Scampi's had an organ as well as a cheesy monkey clanging cymbals. You can tell Birdy's pianist virtuosity shines through right away. I'm blown away by how intimate the connection between her voice and the listener is. As the lyrics attest things in her inner circle have a tendency to get ugly. Bon Iver is a folk outfit and, at least from my experiences with it (think John Denver or Joan Baez)the folk genre is very open fist, won't you be my pal while we explore the unexplored terrain the planet holds for us. Birdy brings the sink full of blood and crushed veneer to life. Adult reality has many of us wearing battle armor to keep from losing our livelihoods, wives, girlfriends, husbands, etc...Veneers come with the upgraded life description. Dare I say that Birdy's revelations of blood and crushed veneer are sharp as cut glass and have the power to make you nauseated reflecting on the very unavoidable depth of her hurt. When Birdy begs a paramour to cut the ropes she's not fooling around. Push the aching scars up any higher and you'd literally taste the blood dripping from her fangs. Piano and pathos, keys and cut to the quick. For me the piano is an old friend I never get tired of hearing from. Maybe that's because there's no obnoxious amplifier pointing out to us with the subtlety of a Mac truck that some important message is being conveyed. A bass exudes carnal lust. Drums can be hypnosis expertly applied. Piano takes a great bit of practice to ascend to the concert arena filling level. That's not meant to scare anyone away. I think the piano, as has been demonstrated by Elton John, Billy Joel, and Tori Amos, is about the best storytelling instrument there is. Best of all there's no limit to the expanse of stories that can be told. "Skinny Love" proves Birdy knows her way around the 88s. Her voice gets sucked up, tornado style into the vacuum of those enraptured keys. "Fire Within" is Birdy's second full length album. "Skinny Love" occupies important real estate on it. I have fingers crossed that Birdy's genetic inclination towards the arts along with her mother's imagined appreciation for the rigorous touring life bodes well for her future prospects. It's not easy being a child prodigy. Ask the Jackson and Osmond families. While we the audience reap the rewards. The performers themselves willingly climb into the fishbowl environment and that can wreak havoc on body and soul. For now we can enjoy the first steps Birdy is taking. "Skinny Love" qualifies as one self-assured step in the right direction. Clearly she knows which buttons on the piano to push in order to tug vehemently on an audience's heartstrings.

Young the Giant's "Mind" Is Beautiful Indeed

Irvine, California's Young The Giant has successfully attacked its artistic canvas head on with "Mind Over Matter" in which it's sublime pleasure watching the colors of the color wheel slowly bleed into what turns out to be an engaging mini masterpiece. Sameer Gadhia is nothing but supercharged behind the mike. He craves the reliable presence of his ladylove. His rooting value spikes with every passing, pleading note. Francois Comtois's drumming skips along in an uninhibited trance mode bound to spike the adrenaline of listeners everywhere. His beats accompany Sameer's determination in the best way possible. Payam Doostzadeh bass playing is millionaire's mansion rich, intricate, inherently passionate, as well as a steady rock which also aids in Sameer's love proclamations. Jacob Tilley and Eric Cannata dot the landscape of this winsome jewel in much the same way creamy frosting enhances the flavor directions for a celebratory cake. Sameer contends no matter what coast of this Earth he finds himself he's always got her, the woman whose presence makes the world spin a little more magically, on his mind. He's quick to change her apathetic perspective so as to make her see he's not going away quietly. As seasons change, will she still be there? Is she dependable and special in the same breath? The "Mind Over Matter" album was released a scant 10 days ago. This band has carved out laudable credibility as one schooled in the art of dispensing rock that digs beneath the surface and beckons you to approach it on its own intellectual level. Young The Giant's primary genre classification is alt-rock, the genre kicked into the limelight by the now defunct R.E.M., the constantly goth The Cure and the off and on drugged up misadventures of Depeche Mode. As was true for heavy metal during much of its early history, alt-rock was flying beneath the radar, that one hoped for prayed for brush with commercial glories out of reach for the foreseeable future. That isn't necessarily a bad thing. I don't join up with the ranks of people who scream sellout whenever one of their pet bands moves a few extra units off the shelves but nor do I deny that alt-rock free of corporate concerns can here and there produce glimpses of what music's potential as an art form really can be across the spectrum. Young The Giant is in that zone where contemporary radio may not be sold on their marketability yet that's noteworthy bonus points for we who aren't the business of the art of the music deal. How enthralling is the instrumental jigsaw puzzle after you've taken the parts out of the box, fit them into their proper niches, and then stood back long enough to take the measure of the artwork that has resulted? In the case of "Mind Over Matter" what we've got is a textural goldmine that leaves none of us the poorer for having made the time investment. Kudos to the members of the record buying public who are convinced enough of Young The Giant's importance as alt-rock seekers of the truth that they have rushed out to add the whole kit and kaboodle to their IPod must play libraries. If you're tired of the run of the mill celeb shenanigans from the likes of Justin Bieber, Miley Cyrus and the rest of the parade of recently "grown-up" stars who consume most of their energies trying to convince us of how adult their brand of entertainment now is, Young The Giant's new entry into the global marketplace ought to fill you up with prime rock nutrients, not empty crass calories masquerading as an entree that leaves you satsifyingly full. Eat up everyone. You'll be glad you dropped in for a bite.