HAIM Creates A Beat Heavy Confection That Will Linger Forever

Girls can out and out rock. Since Heart mopped the floor with guys club narrow-mindedness in the '70s, the door for women has practically been ripped off its hinges. Add to that proud roll call HAIM (rhymes with "time"), an LA foursome that owns the studio. No lie the four of them are wunderkinds. Their current single "Forever" serves as gripping reminder you're on notice they shall dominate the scene for however long they're compelled to do so. Better still they have smarts to burn. Sisters Alana, Danielle, and Este Haim pack free flowing spunk into an almighty wallop. Since music is a hits driven industry it's worth noting this act goes to the head of the class where viable songcraft is concerned. From the opening whack of the drums from lone male Dash Hutton, you're in for rock fusion prepared to a high gloss zest. It's not easy to place a ready made label on the band although comparisons to Fleetwood Mac have been lobbed across the port bow. Fleetwood Mac is in a league of its own, therefore there's no shame being compared to them. From my view by the speakers I believe it's a misguided comparison. Vocally, Danielle lands in stride with '80s songbirds like Sheena Easton and Teena Marie. HAIM does bring rock credentials to the dance. The stitch work amazes in any and every way. Sit back and enjoy Danielle shred at the bridge. Not the efforts of a shrinking violet for sure. Este's a heavyweight bass player in her own right. However she's special because her mastery shakes and bakes like R & B Soul Train booty call yet flaunts its rock toughness welded into its undeniable core. Alana's rhythm guitar injects vivacity into a track that wasn't starved for in your face ball busting. Danielle calls out how she's had it with love that doesn't provide the correspondingly fit pieces to her jigsaw puzzle social circle. "Can't you make this sane?" She asks. That love often leads a good many of its team players to the funny farm isn't a novel suggestion. Danielle's question comes as a unique tilt on the topic. "Insane" is usually the overarching element in romance. "Can't you make this sane?" pencils in drawings of embattled lovers trying to fit square pegs in round holes. As a completed project the lyrics are supporting players compared to the smoke rings wafting from vocals, guitars, and drums. No matter who you are the good fight takes a lot out of you. You can't talk people away from the ledge if they're bound and determined to plunge to their doom. Danielle doesn't shy away from the notion that love is a tried and true area where practice can and does in fact make perfect. She doesn't care what outsiders gossip about. She also prays her other half doesn't give a fig either. You're bound to blown away not only by the bridge section guitar talent on display but that which dives after your jugular vein later on. Dash puts the kick in kick drum. Looking for an object to compare his technique to? That's what you'd get if you bottled the sound of a backfiring car engine at the exact right spot. Bang...bang bang bang. First impressions count in sound circles. Dash chipped in a jolt. The EP that "Forever" comes from has been around since 2012, but American audiences are only now getting their crack at this song. Prince said at the opening of his monster #1 classic "Let's Go Crazy" that forever's a mighty long time. That stripe of forever is how long I hope HAIM puts out sturdy singles like this. HAIM can take a group bow and indulge in a group hug for having created a song that's got the stamina to muscle its way into timeless territory

Sara Bareilles Lays Down Choice Chops

Time for everybody to lighten up. You suspect Sara Bareilles was thinking that when she went into the studio to record "I Choose You"? Single number 2 from "The Blessed Unrest" charms the pants off of me. How could it not when it tosses in a fetching smorgasboard ranging from winsome background harmonies to nattily plucked strings to Sara's wisely stepping away from the aggressive pitch she wielded for "Brave". That only stands to reason since that opening single was rooted in throwing off limitations. Call to action was its major concern. "I Choose You" delights in the sweet spot two lovers find when they're at last on the same page. Over and over we've been told love is so darned messy. What goodness it is to be bathed in the rainbow spangled glow of romance performed at optimal sync. Sara coos joyfully throughout which makes her praise fun to live through vicariously. Her newly kindled belief bursts out of the starlet. There's a spot in some performers' vocal range where innocence harnessed becomes optimism renewed. An excellent example of that would be "Guardian", a single from Alanis Morrissette. She throws aside any reservation which could have her resisting love's multi-pronged message. Here also the band musicians emboss her cloud chasing sprightliness with sunbeams you'd want to meet full on, total glow unleashed. What I've admired about Sara from day one is she always can be counted on to guide the parameters of her voice to match the material in front of her. "Love Song", her firm refusal to just belt out a love song cause her label asked her to carried with it the patented Helen Reddy "I Am Woman" lioness ferociousness. "King of Anything" similarly paints Sara in the role of empowered female unwilling to tolerate bollocks. "Brave" had a freeing edge. "I Choose You" stands out as Sara's gentlest track to date. Listen in closely to capture the full effect of Sara singing from the rare pinnacle of inner contentment. Not that the believing in love question hasn't been kicked around quite a bit in song. Do give Sara the nod for addressing it in such a sequined dress incandescent fashion that the question is worth musing on for the umpteenth and change time. Little touches come up big. That smorgasboard effect I touched on higher up on this page? Never is it heavy handed. No air time is spend going on tangents that don't lend credibility to the song. If "I Choose You" puts a healthy shine on your core being thanks go to how adorably located each side player is. The backup singing inches in rather than hogging the spotlight. The string players? They only exist to frost this cake with extra meet cute. "I Choose You" merits consideration as one of the better hand clap tunes currently in rotation on A/C stations. True love is elusive, the rarest diamond a jeweler has at his disposal. Sara shouts to the world that she and Mr. Right finally got it right. Magic absent a black hat and rabbits has been achieved. Sara has done an outstanding job making a name for herself as a top notch singles artist. "I Choose You" is an excellent selection if what you're looking for in ear enticement is warm going down, increasingly tasteful after repeated glassfuls.

One Listen To 311's "Five of Everything" Is More Than Enough To Satisfy

Kudos to 311 for successfully staying current in this climate of hyper disposable culture. The Nebraska band served notice that it would be a massive force in 1996 when "Down" streaked across rock airwaves. These guys combine rap, rock, and reggae to come up with a hybrid brand name that's distinctive. "Come Original" was astounding regardless of what chemical enhancements you had in your system. "Beautiful Disaster" racked up mileage thanks to homegrown lyrics that proved 311 never was taking itself too seriously. It was their party and you were handed an all-access pass. Somewhere along the way they managed to credibly cover The Cure's huge smash "Love Song". 311 put its own fogged up spin on it. The results were entrancing no end. 311 returns with "Stereolithic". From said release springs "Five of Everything". What diehards have come to deeply dig about 311 is evident across the board. Nick Hexum and Tim Mahoney pack some kind of one two punch on guitar. Their defiantly overt ways along the frets mirror one of those action sequences from the classic Pong video game (Yes, Ear Buzz guy has been circling the sun for a while now. Don't chuckle too much.) Up and down, in and out, hither and yon, to and fro, any way you paraphrase the unrestrained manic energy it lives and refuses to die by guitar. Big plus to them for allowing us to gorge on enough ear candy to make every other organ inside of us rot away in record time. Nick Hexum plays psychological lightning rod to the hilt. Thankfully he's not too Saturday Night Live Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey about it. What is it about the unquenchable thirst that keeps us forging ahead in the morning. It's never satiated but we're bound and determined to stem signs of a drought anyway. Doug "SA" Martinez, the hombre who made "Down" one for the 1996 rock books, does get his macho on but you'll have to be patient. Not until the bridge does he remind us that his band was the original rap/rock hybrid before Chester Bennington and Linkin Park made it an art form worth investigating. Depending on what your take home pay is, Doug's picked a fine space in music history to remind us what a drag our culture can be at its most superficial. So much time is either wasted or satisfyingly employed stripping away the artifices to get to what's really worth running life's race. Each of one of us pursues something. The seed of a dream resides inside each of us. Nick picks up on this urge to run, to get carried away by the rising tides of insisted upon mass consumption. As much as some of us try keeping up with the Joneses, once we're within reach of it getting the bling doesn't seem as much a victory as the chase to obtain. If 311 has thrived on its rep as fusing the genre elements I described earlier, make damned sure drummer Chad Sexton gets some love. Behind seemingly every vintage quality reggae tune there's a tight drum section to give it the wings it needs to orbit the stratosphere and then some. The reggae drum uncoils, then pounces like a venomous cobra. For 311, Chad's value comes from how firm a grasp he has on giving his instrument the proper cocktail hour enthusiasm. He shakes things up without getting falling down drunk at the bar stool. Familiar friends matter because of their trademark characteristics that let us know we're never too far away from each other. When that friend comes within earshot we embrace the essence full on. 311's essence is brought to full apogee through chord spanning adventures that spit on label applications. To 311's undiluted credit, "Five Of Everything" is one engrossing flight of rock/rap/reggae fancy.

Mali Music Crackles With The Beautiful Side of Life

Jamaal Pollard, Mali Music on stage, practices what his current single "Beautiful" preaches. It's to his credit that he's not weighed down by overproduced backup. Each player in the ensemble buoys how beautiful the world Mali's creating really is. Since the melodies are pleasing overall and there's not much justice I can honestly bestow upon this song other than giving you a sincere thumbs aloft, I'm going to tell you, in opinion's name only, what kinds of urban settings "Beautiful" would liven up. Let's start with drumming. Say you're in a metropolitan area with tons of wonderful opportunities for window shopping. The drums kick instead of slap in the breeze as some R & B inflected projects do. You really have a fine night to remember if there's a cool breeze thrown in for good measure. Next, there's the piano. Where Elton John would dive into the eighty eights like some overeager pre-teen launching himself into the swimming pool, Mali's backup ivory tickler waters carefully. The zingy result is a flower blooming in carefully measured real time. We can watch with rapt gaze as the seedling becomes the affecting blossom which is a complement to any decor. There's no drop-off in chutzpah on the bass end of this throwdown. Many artistic creations benefit from the addition of body. That spreads across many kinds of expression. Whether we're talking the legs on fine wine, the variety of hops in beer, the deeply seared grill marks on choice sirloin, or a bass guitar swiveling lustfully, body equals life. "Beautiful" is a bonafide elixir useful for anyone whose jaded take on the world has deprived them of much reason to celebrate. The last time I noticed the "head up to the sky" pose for human daily existence was in 1995 when Des'ree inescapably commanded radios everywhere with "You Gotta' Be". While catchy, that song was overly nagging. Mali Music's message suits any setting where one's guard could stand to be loosened up. He finds it a blessing when people have their heads up to the sky. That means htere's anywhere from a glimmer to an entire gold mine full of hope. Right on time for an age where less energy could be wasted carping about the discombobulated way the world is and more could be spent working up some enthusiasm regarding possibilities for how the world could be given sharp focus. Mali could be accused, lovingly so, of dropping throwback imagery in his lyrics in the form of that concert standby, the lighter held in the air. Nowadays I think that's been replaced by the cooler than you glow of cell phone screens. Retro isn't a useless tool beside Mali's captivating spring waters. The lighter serves as a beacon for two hearts drawn together, then pointed in the same presumably right direction. After an arduous day at the office, slipping into comfy clothes and slipping Mali into the iPod rotation nets you positive steps towards a wholesome, revitalizing backdrop to replenishing dinner. Raise your hands high with Mali. He's trying to remind us how beautiful we are after peeling back the layers of the modern wilderness we traverse every day. We forget too easily. Mali needs big ups for popping the proper attitude back in our minds.

Heaven's Basement Places a Can't Lose Hard Rock Bet

Like a battering ram, the UK's Heaven's Basement pulverizes sensitive eardrums with a smartly layered hard rock assault that's catnip for Old School metal masses and New School neophytes who can either began or enhance their education on the subject right here. "Nothing Left To Lose" is executed urgently, as if the foursome really did have everything to lose. Methodically lead vocalist Aaron Buchanan, lead guitarist Sid Glover, bass guitarist Rob 'Bones' Ellershaw and drummer Chris Rivers strut their way down the razor thin line separating rational thought from core meltdown. You'll spend many an hour taken in by the two fisted result. Alienation shouts out begging to be heard. Everything about the guitar's Spandex tight evolution nails the silent scream ethos down to the last anguished cry for acknowledgement. Sid ups the ante on the scale of hoodlum menace, his instrument echoing the defiance Aaron wails about. The exhausting trip along rusted razor blades pauses only long enough for Aaron to emphasize how very not wanted we the disillusioned are on this orb since we...you know...don't get to rent the real estate indefinitely. Vulture drown us out. Silence closes in, thick blackness the only ally we have left. Chalk one up to Heaven's Basement for keeping the torch of chip on the shoulder hard rock impressively lit. This foursome knows its purpose. They're not above bobbing and weaving through the guitarist's bag of tricks either. To hear Aaron tell the tale defiance is pretty friggin' noble. Even though the odds are deeply stacked against us, even though we've always been and always will be playing with house money we're brazen enough to spit in the universe's face anyway. Taste the saliva drifting from his agitated bottom lip. Succumb to Sid's electrifying guitar showmanship. Surrender full on to Chris's pectoral flexing choice of strokes behind the kit. The whole life is pointless since it's impermanent schtick is worth swallowing one more time simply because these messengers clearly have their game faces on. Spookiness ensues from the image (or lack therein) of nightmares follow not being able to open one's eyes. Makes that whole impermanence thing come into deceptively vivid technicolor. You've likely never seen anything like it which is exactly how these lads love to serve it up. It's been a shade over a year since the release of "Filthy Empire" the full length album where you'll find "Nothing Left To Lose". Fingers crossed Heaven's Basement's following grows exponentially. "Nothing Left To Lose" allows us to gain a reminder that hard rock with the gas tank locked and loaded still exists in 21st century music.

A Keen Longing For The Old Days Is Automatic For Miranda Lambert

Country music is about the earthiest of music genres. Gritty subject matter dots the landscape. Broken, cheatin' hearts are the order of the day. Enjoying a well deserved drink gets touched upon regularly. One of country's current "it" girls, Miranda Lambert brings warmly spun nostalgia to the table with "Automatic". The title speaks of how what you get in this life isn't worth nearly as much when you have the accolades handed to you. At its best quality country tunes weave comfortable guitar picking in with whatever moralizing, sermonizing, or heart mending is on the table. So it's the case for Mrs. Lambert. She doesn't get on her soapbox too sharply. As a matter of fact there are a lot of fun cultural reference points to satisfy even the most jaded of people. Wanna bet your grandparents will smile ear to ear if you sit them down with the song? Bringing up the cassette tape surely makes me feel like I've been orbiting the sun quite a few times but I definitely don't mind. I stand by my collection of tapes. Many's the fun hour I've spent soaking in what they had to share with me. Ever hung laundry on a line to dry? You likely know someone in your family that has and that would choke up with nostalgia at the mention. There aren't any tears in her beer though. Looking back at your salad days doesn't always have to stand in as an excuse to get depressed about the perceived tastelessness of the here and now. Miranda's gentle tones make it easy for you to sway in her mothering arms. Behind her the drums skip at a sprightly pace that does ideal justice to the series of remember when imagery. I'm not ashamed to admit I write to family and friends, postage stamps included. Of course I'm faster on a keyboard but I haven't forgotten how wonderful it is to receive something personal via snail mail. You're not a mere occupant, a placeholder if you will. Even though my countdown show was American Top 40 circa 1983, I dig Miranda's flashback to the country countdown she had to record due to lack of funds needed to buy the whole shebang. You can't shake the fondness Miranda sings about. No two ways about it we're well in the middle of a hyper sped-up culture. Once in awhile there's real merit in revisiting culture moments of the past when we didn't have relentless appointments to keep and no way to touch ground, check in, or do anything resembling a personal inventory. Sure we were always busy but this multi-tasking universe doesn't leave much room for deep breaths which we need to have the lifeforce to resume being so busy. The chorus drives home the lesson that you'll appreciate what you get more if you've actually put in some elbow grease rather than coasting. I've never exactly been smitten on message music but Miranda doesn't let moral high ground impede her progress along a path laden with singularly touching memories. Her new album "Platinum" streets in June, a perfect time for the sunshine warmth of "Automatic" to gel head on with summer's authentic heat. "Automatic" flashes its remembrance pedigree admirably. On any one of a number of summer sunset days it's bound to be a lovely finale one can enjoy teamed with homestyle lemonade and a rocking porch.

Ray LaMontagne Dazzles With "Supernova"

Today's let's shuffle the iPods to adult contemporary artists.Nashua, New Hampshire's Ray LaMontagne deftly occupies an effervescent world of his own with "Supernova". One of the best things I can point out is you're transported deep through space without leaving ground. He's made good use of the entire range of keys. Vocally his style lands in the ballpark of a James Blunt although I doubt the song is memorable enough to get overplayed like "Beautiful" did in 2006. His chops are husky, manly, not to mention totally focused on the dizzying kaleidoscopic voyage. As "Supernova" hurtles through space he's comfortably ensconced in one set of chords which do a good of helping us to mellow out. I advise you not to let the familiarity of his upbeat range lull you into a comfort zone. Down the road a pace there's a lightning fast sequence that this video accentuates nicely. Ray's got you hooked but has the sense to shake you by the shoulders to demonstrate how committed to winning you over he is. While at the piano he's teddy bear gentle. He'll drop notes in with the delicate grace of newly drifted snow. Yes, bad image if the 2013-14 winter has had you screaming for the season of shoveling driveways to please end. Ray has a pretty solid respect for the folk genre he belongs to. In fact his brand of whisper soft dreamy floating cloud delights puts in good company with '70s stalwarts like James Taylor, Harry Chapin, and Peter, Paul, and Mary. Each of those acts combine an earthy friendliness with serious adult content, in Mr. Chapin's case the bittersweet apple doesn't fall from the tree motif. Harry's protagonist discovers that the son he didn't have time for way back when is now too busy to check in himself. The lyrics are the stuff of starry eyed nights and delicate physical contact. How often have we as listeners been returned to two souls who want to escape whatever one horse town they're confined to. Ray has his lady on a steep pedestal. Regardless of whether that's out of uncommon devotion or the need for unconfined fantasy escapism is unimportant. I doubt many women would be insulted with a comparison to a supernova. Such a woman likely has grace, energy in each phase of a relationship, as well as those intangibles that many a head coach can tell you can often times help win whatever game we weekend warriors are observing. The album of the same name comes our way in May. As the old rhyme goes, "April showers bring May flowers". In this case I wouldn't say pretty posies are on top but a dazzling view of two people in love taking that breathless flight through the passion cruise heavens is. As a newcomer to LaMontagne's orbit I can without reservation claim that I detect quite a gentle giant milling around in there. I also can tell how it makes sense Stephen Stills is named by the man himself as being a prime influence. The drumming and fierce shifting of guitar sensibilties would make the Texas-based quarter of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young proud. "Supernova" is a song you sink into as the jacuzzi bubbles comfort your aching limbs. The deeper you immerse yourself, the zippier your mood becomes. At least for a shade under four minutes being earthbound isn't coming across as quite the same daft punchline. We can enjoy calm oases now and again.

Say "Yeah!" To Fuel's Wicked Airheaded Hard Rock

I am a bored human being. I seek entertainment. I have standards but if the right source came along I'd be there in a heartbeat. Enter Fuel, the band whose "Hemorrhage (In My Hands) touched a divinely sensitive nerve back when the millennium was new and boy bands hadn't been summarily hauled away to the gas chamber. Take note, if "Yeah", the first cut from "Puppet Strings" is any indication, the Fuel of 2014 is a different make and model. That can't be devil horn sign flashing hard rock can it? You bet your ass it is. You may seek comfort in knowing you won't learn anything from the song, except how to air guitar like a beast. Andy Andersson wails away, leaving gallons of sweat in his wake. Bassist Brad Stewart hits his stride immediately. You could likely do an effective mattress shaking to that dexterously assmebled slickness. And what fun would a headbanging party be without a maniacal drummer behaving as if the sedatives hadn't set in for an inexcusably long stretch. Thanks Shannon Boone for zapping us back to the '80s for a lid lifter you're not likely to see duplicated anytime soon. To add some factual depth to this review I'll mention that Fuel, based in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, has been around since 1989, which could explain why hard rock explosions were an effortless fit on "Yeah". Fuel's current lineup has had less longevity. Brett Scallions has been the lone mainstay. He's got chops for sure. The intoxicating bad boy image common to a lot of metal singers shows up clearly in his performance. Grizzly around the edges, aching for action. Back to Andy. He's been a gear in the band's supersonic machine since 2011. He's proven a quick study if the bridge solo is any indication. He goes so fast and so fancy free one ought to him arrested, the charge being possession of excess awesome. We average folk couldn't ascend to his level in a month of Sundays. Shannon Boone hopped aboard Fuel last year. Obviously he has fifth, sixth, and even seventh gear of his kit figured out. Don't waste time musing about how he puts it together. Be glad he has the toolbox armed and ready. Brad's been crafting his inner macho since 2010, the same year Fuel reformed. That long haired lady in a dress popping up in the lyrics comes to us straight from the backstreets of Penelope Spheeris's metal documentaries. Fishnet hose optional but not a must for loosening libidos. The "something more" in the second verse requires no translation. Thankfully neither does the chorus. Why does unabashedly caveman rock music hit my sweet spot easier than unabashedly caveman hip hop? Only the most mysterious reaches of the universe know for sure. Chords fly about at the right spots, thus kicking complacency in the balls. You buy the ticket, you deal with the mysterious hairpin turns of the journey. The refueled Fuel purrs like a optimally satisfied sex kitten. After you've taken this doozy for a test spin you'll be chomping at the bit for another joyride. One exclamatory rallying cry adds up to prickly heat inducing pleasure. I have become a much less bored human being.

Rick Ross and Jay-Z's Collaboration Blows...And That's No Lie

We've got to stop meeting like this. Me and my ghetto resistant pompous self. I don't hate African American expression. Really I don't. Jay-Z getting called in to help out on one of Rick Ross's "Mastermind tracks doesn't make me shiver in fear either. You can dress up a pig as many ways as you want but in the end it's still a pig. The backing music for "The Devil Is a Lie" sounds like what you'd play out of respect for a car that has come down to its last gasp. Any decade's rap represents the format better. Did either one of them think that all it took was for Rick to morph into a maniac each time the title words were mentioned and that would be enough street cred to help push the song to new heights of greatness. Sorry, but that notion is sinking Titanic-style. It might have helped if I had a faint clue of what statement they were going for. Horns I'm grasping. Street corner programmed percussion is in place. There's some hood chick holding down a...(ker plop). Oops...must have ripped an artery trying to come up with a description for what she was trying to do. Maybe brothel chanting? Pre-foreplay heat? I get it. Forget about Weird Al being white and nerdy. I take the prize because I'm so uncool for not grasping the urban grit lifestyle. I can't relate to writhing about in that dimension of hell. "Big guns and big whips". Subtle in a Mack truck way. "Double up on that blow, bitch". Nothing says I'm a man at the top of his game quite like doing a few lines on the console and then waking up in detox with no idea how you got there. Again rich niggas, big talk. And the dumbing down of America continues. How I fear the day when we're made too stupid to know how to turn on a lamp. So Rick is making a comparison between himself and a red shaded evil icon with horns and a pitchfork. If you have to stoop that low to prove you're not firing blanks in bed then something's not right in Delusion Land. "Nigga's stick dirty but his dick clean". I need a shower yet I've been absolutely nowhere but this computer keyboard over the last 15-20 minutes. Didn't want to know about how my soul bro's johnson was doing. Sadly the question "Who would?" comes ready made with a unnervingly crushing answer. Jay-Z's easier to swallow than Rick but a language translator would be nice. "White Jesus?" Cocaine, right? Anybody? Anybody? My loathing for "The Devil Is a Lie" fulfills every perceived notion that I am a square white guy stuck in his own link on the music loving food chain. I could ask my primary doctor to give me a lobotomy so I could better grasp how Rick and Jay-Z have joined forces to set the world on fire. I presume fixing hangnails would be a more worthy use of his time. The lyrics are cryptic. The sound effects behind them, to say they're annoying is about as obvious as saying Cinnabons are high in fat. Good rap, bad rap. It's a ploy I tells ya'. Take a superstar guest appearance, add the most dentist drill uncomfortable background combo imaginable, throw in raps that are cliquish in a reverse discrimination vein (black folk keeping white folk out of the loop. Exclusionary entertainment's never been high on my list of joyous experiences.) Let simmer. Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, puppies and dogs, kittens and cats, the sludge that results isn't fit for consumption by beings with either two legs or four legs. I'm setting the record straight here. If this stab at human achievement indicates "I just don't get it", then that's okay by me. At this point in time I'm not getting the flu, ulcers, palpitations, or any one of a number of other unfortunate maladies. Score points for ol' Rockin' Robert. I thank Rick and Mr. Z for stopping at migraine level discomfort but that's about all the peace on earth goody two shoes schlock I can muster up for them. The devil may be a lie but my contempt is irrefutable truth.

Justin Timberlake Slides Back Into Perfect ('N) Sync

Justin Timberlake may have shed his boy band roots eons ago but "Not a Bad Thing" happens to have qualities hearkening back to those "innocent times". For starters there's that breezy melody top heavy on warm fuzzies. The predominantly G-chord sounds are suitable for listening to in the comfort of one's boudoir, on a sailboat, on the beach, or any other hangout that lends itself to unguarded life moments where love's radiance can penetrate with minimal if any distractions. 'N Sync always has my respect for gifting the world with "I Want You Back". It's impossibly catchy. Everything about it hits at pre 9-11 better days. "Not a Bad Thing" hands us a mature version of the tunes those guys owned the charts with circa 1998-2001. Justin knows his way around soulfulness. Add to that the abundant charm that surely had lots of people suspecting he would for a fact become the huge breakout star of that band. The result is ecstasy. He succeeds in throwing bones to the portion of his audience that hungers for nostalgia while at the same time satisfying the appetites of the portion that wholeheartedly approves of the thirtysomething JT's confident artistic direction. As rooting value goes he casts himself as a figure hard to go against, especially since he pushes the right buttons with the woman he's addressing. For every night they have, he wants to see her smiling face staring back at him. You'd think there was only one right way to begin a day. Who's blaming him? He's gotten past her defenses by assuring him he knows how people promise and then can't conceivably live up to them. The imagery of a heart being cut open with a knife isn't novelty value sentiments but I, nor should the rest of you, hold that against him. Call him courtroom lawyer pleading his case that yes, there's nothing bad about being his woman. Much credit to the musicians buoying both of their spirits. He's willing to be in this love match for the long haul. I bet chemistry between this pair wasn't hard to obtain. "The 20/20 Experience - 2 of 2" promises to show little sign of slowing down commercially thanks to this fourteen-carat sparkler. Not a bad thing indeed. )

Kings of Leon Make Playing The Waiting Game Worth Every Second

Kings of Leon are in such a tight groove right now envy is the only appropriate response. "Wait For Me", the latest brilliant burst from "Mechanical Bull" is gift wrapped in guitars of all persuasions and each one makes you want to chase after the song's unrelenting crispness of textures. Matthew Followil starts the show with his riff virtuosity. Baked in the countrified sass that Nashville natives surely take for granted on occasion. Lead vocalist and cousin Caleb isn't far behind poking through the chunky chord dynamics with a jabbing rhythm guitar. Like a seasoned boxer his jabs hit the right spot, get in, then get out. Rather than stage a brotherly feud their frets complement each other. They're raising their game as the harmonies wend their way along. Caleb likes it raw. Vocally he aches in places where an antiseptic won't reach. That's certainly to his credit. Often a band leaning so heavily on deep fried guitar like Kings of Leon does resorts to that logic defying guitar solo at the bridge to seal the deal. In "Wait For Me", the dueling guitar run-up is the main course, the bridge based guitar reduced to a smartly illustrated afterthought but an afterthought it does remain. You may have heard good things come in small packages at some time during your Earthly travels. "Wait For Me" doesn't overindulge itself where scenery-chewing pathos is concerned. Again...jab, get in get out. Caleb bears the scars enough to prompt the inquiry bombardment that's sure to follow. Like an obedient soldier he's going to do as he's told, eat the pain, and get on with it. Michael Jared Followil, yet another sibling, is the bass bountiful glue holding Caleb's wounded heart and thus, the track as a completed work together. Ivan Nathan Followil hammers away sparingly but when he does he maximizes his studio stretch. Rock radio and Luby's have something tangible in common. Both under the best of circumstances can treat listeners to a mouth watering buffet experience. "Wait For Me" gives you meat and potatoes. No fancy dressings, no amuse bouche, no highbrow pretentiousness. Stick to your ribs feedbag contentedness is bound to ensue. You're happy for Caleb's insistence "It's all better now". His step springs rather than drags along with his tail behind him. The future again tingles with too many possibilities for a single night to make good on. "Wait For Me" shows why Kings of Leon has rightfully garnered a reputation as appointment listening. Vital rock should never be kept waiting for too long.

Coldplay Unveils Its First Ghostly Tale As The Clock Strikes Midnight

Chill-inducing. That's about the best adjective I can come up with for "Midnight", the new single from the changeling of the charts, Coldplay. Have you personally ever heard a single release of theirs that sounded exactly the same as any other? Me neither. "Yellow" is melancholy rock. "Clocks" sounds like free falling through the space-time fabric. "Speed of Sound" possesses the hooks that drive radio programmers wild. I could go on but I bet you've got other things to do with your evening that examining the case history of a band that has amassed worldwide success via a style you can't shoehorn neatly into one style. "Midnight" stems from "Ghost Stories", their upcoming album which is no doubt going to be on everyone's "must download" list before St. Patrick's Day rolls around. Remember how "Clocks" came at you in waves? Piano stretched on for miles. Guitar jabbing you on the way down? Drums slapping you around to see if you were paying attention? "Midnight" reminds me of that inescapable epic's creepy cousin. Instead of falling through space, we're slinking cautiously through total darkness with only Guy Berryman's keyboards there to help us maintain our solid footing. Yes, during the second half the color wheel lands on a little perkiness but for the most of part you've got to stay nimble on your feet because we don't know how long this blackout's going to last. Chris Martin loses himself in the abyss convincingly. You'll be disappointed if you think there's a power chord or five waiting to burst through the malaise. Seasoned followers know to expect the unexpected. Guy does slow cook a mean bass, though. There's the presence going bump in the night. Chris spins the yarn I hope doesn't visit me until my lifeline has more good ol' days stories than I know quite what to do with. Want a creepy life imitating art scenario. We'd wet ourselves if a deranged asylum patient was caught wandering about uttering these lyrics: "In the darkness before the dawn. In the swirling of the storm. When I'm rolling with the punches and hope is gone, leave a light, a light on." The other scene I imagine "Midnight" receiving top billing could be by your grandad's bedside while he's fighting for his survival in a hospital bed. So there you have it. Chris Martin, the FTD floral bouquet of sunshine optimism. Judging from the way the keyboards sprout wings around the closing turn I'd say "Midnight" has a shelf life as well. Before we reach the lamppost lighting our way to a less ominous end of town, we're again flung full force backwards into the keyboard bass unsettling morass. You want to run from Chris's descent into unfathomable despair but watching him writhe is oddly fascinating. The second batch of deflated poetry doesn't relieve us from his roiling turmoil. He's continuing to run only those track shoes are being eaten up by quicksand at an alarming rate. The Christ complex is completed with: "Millions of miles from home in the swirling, swimming on. When I'm rolling with the thunder but bleed from the thorns leave a light, a light on." To cry or to run while my respiration is easy to access. That is the pair of options at hand. Whether you place yourselves in the like 'em or lump 'em category, Coldplay has earned its stripes as a band of artists, not merely musicians who happen to have perfected the science of stage and studio chemistry. A Coldplay release is as close to an industry event as you're going to get. Only Muse commands the same level of curiosity when someone notices its name on an upcoming release schedule. I like it that Coldplay keeps people guessing. Goodness knows that there's enough formulaic sounding treacle on the charts right now that we don't need another song from an outfit trying to pass itself off as original. Coldplay wouldn't know how to be cliched on its worst day. "Midnight" deserves exploration whenever the mood strikes you.

Jhene Aiko Doesn't Provoke Enough Reaction, For Better or Worst

"The Worst", the opening track from the forthcoming "Souled Out" release, represents Jhene Aiko's tongue lashing to a guy who, to say he's done her wrong, is like saying Spandex is a bit tight around the buttocks region. Scanning the lyrics calling her effort the worst R & B scorned woman jam is harsh as well as far from accurate. You see, whenever I eat something, whether in an eatery or at home, what I'm eating usually gets a rise out of me one way or another. I'm the fish caught on their hook or I'm swimming away to bluer waters. "The Worst" at most manages a shoulder shrug. Try as the background urban conflicted vibe might, it falls short of portraying the steady erosion of a woman's heart and sense of independence. Is Jhene trying to convince public enemy #1 that she's done running from the likes of him, or is she trying to convince himself she's got the stones to seek out and lasso a better way of life? As is no doubt true for so many women in abusive relationships they turn away only to be drawn back to the man. Lack of confidence is one culprit, our society's insistence than after you've eclipsed a certain age you cease being desirable is another. Jhene Aiko, for those including myself who wouldn't be able to pick her out of a lineup most of the time, is a 25 year-old budding (possibly...we shall see) starlet from that breeding ground, like it or not, of most things entertainment culture, Los Angeles, California. The accompanying video displays LA nightlife in all its implied grit. I ask the following question from the perspective of somebody who confessedly does come across as naive in affairs of love. What exactly is meant by "If you cannot stay down"? There you have it, people. This blog space proves its not beneath its dignity to go after a possible one question Q & A format. To be down with something, to my memory means you're digging the scene, you're into whatever or whoever's being talked about. But might staying down mean down as sexual positions down, as in "I want to be on top." A little mystery isn't necessarily a bad thing. In Ms. Aiko's case it's advisable. Other more high wattage divas like Rihanna or Beyonce have put that fiery freak of nature I am woman act on display. Same vocal range placing them above the fray they're denouncing. Same ember burning just enough to let the played out playas know they haven't exactly blown away in the wind as yet. My point and yes, there is one, is Jhene isn't telling us a story any more profound than "Another rough night on the streets of Compton". Many states in the US have their rough ends of town that you venture into after dark at your own risk. Jhene's neighborhood suspiciously places us in the company of a crowd we swear we've talked to repeatedly yet, as Jhene sings about in "The Worst", we can't bring ourselves to pull away either. Blame the contemporary music climate for that one. Different packaging, same result. I'm not cold-hearted. Women aren't to be used as punching bags, derogatory images, or anything setting the human race back about 500 years give or a take a decade, but I flat out don't work my heart into a lather over a female lead character who's busy trying to convince herself to skedaddle before her heart is totally ripped to ribbons. He shows up where he's not wanted. She's supposedly non-plussed. She clings to this douche anyway. Another culture curiosity. "If you was really the realest?" Realest? Wouldn't most def have been linguistically correct hood wise? Lots of babble leading us to not much concrete watch my butt get smaller 'cause I'm so outta here action. I never asked for your life story. Why do I feel like you're giving it to me? Besides which it's not even the portion of your life story that compels me to stick around. Sure, watching someone's hours long home movies of a place you'd never dream of wanting to visit could be less appetizing, but not by much. "Worst" is a categorization that doesn't leave anything to the imagination. "The Worst" isn't the worst R & B single ever, but to its detriment it lands squarely in the forgotten crawl space known as vanilla bland.

Pop Evil Tears Your Heart Out Methodically

I know this is a standard question we get any day of the week but are you looking for a song that sounds like lowering a loved one's body into the ground. In some twisted way our prayers have been answered. "Torn To Pieces", a heavy hearted slow shock to the system emanating from Grand Rapids Michigan's very own Pop Evil fills that heretofore missing bill. Since it clocks in at a mere 3:19 you'd better off categorizing this effort as pulling off a Band Aid in slo-mo. In rock music there's lots positive to be said about good old fashioned syllable articulation. Lead vocalist Leigh Kakaty got the message going in. You're unlikely to sit in your listening nook, hung up by stung silence, and not know intimately Leigh's angst. When maple syrup pours slowly what you get in return is the breathless anticipation of flapjacks given a sticky sweet boost you'll gobble up as if they weren't whipping them up anymore. When "Torn To Pieces" unfolds, a slow car wreck that meets the needs of the acutely voyeuristic what you're left with is the transferred glass shards around your bleeding heart. Nick Fuelling plays not just sympathies but also guitar slices meant to maximize cosmic impact. That's proof blistering rock doesn't have to soar from a studio processed launch point. It's not until the chorus when Nick shifts octane levels from salt rubbing delicate chord sequences to blade under the skin agony. In the meantime Leigh is tormented by the face connected to the body he knows isn't coming back. His faltering manhood is in question here. Will he ever evolve or will he be reduced to a sub-par simian who defined productive hours by the number of pretzels he manages to free from their slavery between the couch cushions? Funeral procession where the knife blade blood hasn't clotted yet. For the most part the song is conducted in the often selected, somber, it's never sunny A minor chord. Somehow if there was a contest for Most Tormented Male Rock Performance, Pop Evil would be on the nomination ballot on the strength of this song alone. Poor Leigh can barely breathe. He screams his perceived inadequacies to the heavens. The worst part of such self-loathing is the male may be blind to the reality that his best really was good enough. In a grief-stricken state, logic flies right out the lavishly endowed rock star's penthouse window. I bet Leigh didn't even bring an umbrella. He's catching pneumonia encouraged death while choking on the salt of his tears. Drummer Chachi Riot (AKA: Josh Marunde) doesn't have to apply much physical exertion to kick this abandoned lover. Persistent taps get the job done easily. Matt DiRito's bass stretches out the thunderhead clouds making it easy for Nick to agitate the paralyzing storm from his alto end of the spectrum. Having a one track mind allows "Torn To Pieces" to maintain a focus point. No life altering wound is ignored. No nasty scar is swept under the rug. What I haven't revealed up to now is whether I enjoy the song artistically. Truthfully I'm going with no, not really. The harshness of Leigh's voice has been better utilized by bands like Shinedown or, horror of horrors (to the people who can't stand Chad Kroeger anyway) Nickelback. I don't fault Pop Evil for being savvy enough to grab the blueprint and run like demons. The glaring error lies in sticking with one flavor of meat on bones that are already caving under the weight of their, as Leigh amply spotlights in the repeated verses, misery. I give the nod to Nick's haunting fade away riff, but to the detriment of the band the smolder comes too late to merit my recommending the song as something you must download or risk looking stupid in the eyes of your peer group. "Torn To Pieces" can be found on the band's "Onyx" LP. I'm not so torn about my verdict. "Torn To Pieces" is one track wired to leave you crushed beyond recognition. Let's place some tasteful roses on the gravestone and move on.

#SELFIE Is Self-Serving Junk From The Chainsmokers

Well...that'll teach me to get the idea in my mind to review a band based on how interesting I think the music will be because the band in question has a slightly titillating name. The Chainsmokers are an NYC DJ duo consisting of Andrew Taggart and Alex Pall. There's nothing wrong with promoting house dance music. There IS something annoying about a ditty wrapped entirely around the latest cultural habit that one person starts and other people like Rhesus monkeys, join in on in an attempt not to feel uncool. What is it about snapping a picture on the camera in one's phone that's so very necessary for the proper evolution of human existence? Taking pictures is fine. Making memories is far from objection worthy. But a selfie has to be one of, if not the most self-serving "Hey look at me! I'm special patterns of behavior that's ever rolled down the pike. It's sort of on a par with texting to provide commentary on the most bland details of one's everyday life. Listen people, and trust me you'll thank me for sharing somewhere down the road, I, for starters, don't text and, for finishers, wouldn't text someone about something as TMI as, oh, say, the shape of my bowel movements because a private life is called a private life because it's...how to drop this bombshell gently...PRIVATE. Now then..."#SELFIE" does contain dialgoue from two heretofore anonymous young women. They're discussing such world altering concepts as why is the DJ playing Lorde's "Summertime Sadness" when it's not even summer. They also wax judgmental on the short girl who's tacky enough to be caught dead in a club wearing cheetah. Mensa material if ever I heard any. I have reason to believe Andrew and Alex might be basing their mad skills and flammable fiesta sounds around joining with me in making fun of airheads who honestly think selfies make them part of the vanguard of totally cool chicks. In the second verse one lady wants her caption to be clever as the dickens. She also comments about how she's only gotten ten likes in the last five minutes. There's something that'll keep you up at night in utter misery, huh? Andrew and Alex's "sound", if you can call it that, isn't anything more substantial than whatever Lady Gaga or Ke$ha performs to. Electronica? For sure. Anything better than disposable electronica? Not on your life. Didn't need the echo effect of the word "selfie" either. Don't really care how it's voice modulated either. As usual in these sorts of tracks there's the dance crazed drumming, the percussion cousin, not once removed of a balloon being inflated to where it unavoidably pops. The manufactured buildup of intensity lifts higher and higher and higher until the cosmic clouds burst. We're supposed to get caught up in the magic, the pixie dust, the aural illusions but instead the trick of ear is neither sound nor fury. How many of you out there thought The Chainsmokers hinted at a performing arts act that was going to alter your reality forever? Me too!! So why are we stuck with skinny white girl conversation and club mishmash that really deserves a better showcase than this? Ask Adam Alpert. Who dat'? He's the guy who runs their management company 4AM. I'd have to be listening to "#SELFIE" at 4AM, in an exhaustion induced haze no less, to conclude that this song has cultural relevance on any level at all. The Chainsmokers blow way too much smoke, and fail to leave a tangible, amusing listening experience in their wake. You'd be better off indulging your yen for a pack of prime cigarettes. But hurry.CVS may develop a new pang of corporate responsibility any day now.