Adelita's "Dog" Holds No Bark

Adelita's Way has musicianship to burn. That much I've noted in this space previously. What the new single "Dog On a Leash" lacks is bona fide bark. What you'd expect from a rock song is present and accounted for. Rick DeJesus channeling Chad Kroeger behind the mike stand. That's either going to underwhelm you or excite you to fits of Beatles era screaming. Robert Zakaryan bobs and weaves for what sounds like eons on guitar. That his pattern of chord selection doesn't stand in one place is to his credit. That it doesn't particularly mine any fresh terrain isn't so wonderful. Trevor "Tre" Stafford bangs his little heart out on drums. Effort isn't the problem. The end result didn't cause my eyeballs to leave their sockets. Surely I'm not jaded. I haven't circled the orbit of "been there, heard that" music listener. Could be what passes for chart hits these days (hip hop in particular) has my standards ratcheted to the ceiling. "Dog On a Leash" isn't a song I'd wish to listen to until a hole had been worn in my cochlea. Here's where I spin around to cast glance on the words part of words and music. I know there's logic floating around in there somewhere. Trouble is how do I coax it out of the brier patch. I believe "chain" refers to the dog leash. The letting go hints at an impending separation. As for "It was all in my brain", we're lucky it's in Rick's because it's not registering in mine. On to "There's something living in the house tomorrow 'cause you don't even wanna hold their face." Whuzzup with that? Smacks of selective aphasia. Words pop out but the brain's not picking the right ones. Stroke the face I get. Caress? That's plausible. But hold it? You hold a catcher's mitt, a timely reference if ever there was one. I'm envisioning a woman's face being pawed at by a simian whose libido far outweighs his intelligence. "I don't even want to help the chase." Probably the games people play when they're smitten. The vocabulary book's open but how come the fire and brimstone aren't bubbling up from the surface? Why did there need be "No one will stop you savin' my soul". Is there something inherently undesirable about that. You could pack a Sunday school auditorium with people who would doubt that. "Killing the dream" is another wonderful, highly trite lyric. Aren't movies supposed to be lousy with lines like this. Adelita's Way comes from Las Vegas, the heart of the slot machine district. "Dog On a Leash" doesn't lay its cards on the table in a particularly convincing way. Throwing curves makes life an ever present challenge. In a rock song the same trajectories have the potential to make said song amount to an ear pleaser that won't make you feel stupid for having spent four minutes of your life on it. Andrew Cushing wields his bass competently, that's it. The bridge is a little overkill. You start to wonder when Rick's going to continue on with train of thought requiring a translator either from Mars or the U.N. depending on which way your sensibilities lean. As far as amplitude goes Adelita's Way has phoned in a ditty that's more amp and less 'tude. "Dog On a Leash" should have been given freer reign. What we get back is a neutered mutt who isn't commanding anyone's attention.

Lana Del Rey Smolders Like a West Coast Sunset

Whatever the therapist (probably imagined by me) has done for Lana Del Rey it's paying off in spades. "Born To Die" has to be one of the great buzz kill (pun not intended or worth salivating about) album titles ever. I know what mindfulness can do to a person. That said, I am happy the chamber pop songstress has opted to direct her intensity to something we can enjoy as an artistically astute collection of quirky folks. "West Coast" sweats from every pore it's got. To add to that there are two speeds to this merry-go-round. Commence the kick start drums. Lana's sort of teasing us. At first she's laying her cards out on the table. The horse trots out of the gate to enthuse us with a cocktail hour orgasm. If Lana's voice were any steamier it would disappear into the drum/guitar combo that's keeping the drinks bubbling along. It doesn't take a Freud to comprehend what "the music in you" must be. Who cares, right? Grab your zoom angle lenses, peeps. We're going to watch Miss Del Rey set the table for what's bound to be a sprinkler activating horizontal connection. Wait a minute. The show shifts gears from randy to fogged up glasses slow, slower, slowest. How ingenious. The alternating tempo does a perceptive job of illustrating what happens when love's mystery changes shapes. Any of us could view stanza four through booze colored specs. Very wobbly but noticing enough to not be too quick to deposit the foreplay on the out piie. Plenty of literary intelligence to sate sound seekers who prefer their feast on a iPod gourmet style...not whipped up to unrecognizable mush at the Mickey D's drive through window. For a brief nanosecond Spanglish language enters the realm. Anybody not so proud that they wouldn't admit to knowing about or liking Gerardo's "Rico Suave"? Yeah, I know. By today's standards that was muy cheesy but it did show off its Spanglish side openly. By comparison Lana Del Rey teases us with a blink and you missed it version. Only adds to the emerging feminine mystique Lana has done such a laudable job crafting. She's certainly done her homework on what the West Coast, past, present, and probably future is about. Icons, silver starlets, groupies, you name it. Whatever reputation it's gotten as a sordid pleasure paradise Lana revisits. "West Coast" always returns to the loose buckled music that he's possessing. So much scenery, Hollywood insider glamour. They're in their own dimension. For sure the moment is the only one that holds any sway, sway being an excellent connective tissue for me to sprinkle praise on the "sweet boy swayin'" visual. It's gentle like the breezes coming in off San Francisco. Lana skillfully fuses perfect minor chords to go with the carnal delight. Mind you in the early going she's setting up her Cubano amor for an at arm's length bond. The time spent shifting between soaking up their surroundings and burning the eye sockets off of each other is admirably equal. When Lana sightsees, you can tell because the jauntiness mirrors a tourist trying to get the deep appreciation where she can find it. The slowed down shot glass weightiness complements the curves on their chemical energy. As Lana makes plain, voyeurism has its privileges. "West Coast" is sweet nothing naughty regardless of where on the globe you're listening. Its emphasis on brainy ruminations acts as the bonus which makes it possible for Lana to remain unique in a crowd of interchangeable pop parts.

Hello Hardcore: Skate Punk Avril Sprouts Talons

In record catalog terms, Avril Lavigne and I do have at least a seven year history. "Sk8er Boi" and "Complicated" were adorable in their own way. "Keep Holding On" which stemmed from both the Eragon movie soundtrack and her "Girlfriend" album demonstrated that Lady Lavigne could hold her own in sweeping epic territory and therefore signaled a deeper level of interest than mere passing fancy. "Girlfriend", the single kept Avril in teen angst mold, and that's not a bad special effect given she was in her early twenties at the time. Enter "Hello Kitty". Believe me...this kitten has its claws out. It aims to scratch your eyes out if you get close enough to allow it the opportunity. Never in my Avril observing life have I heard her sound so aggressive. Remember when Britney Spears got up in our faces with "Piece of Me"? There was enough jingling background clattering to set off the most battle tested metal detector. Where was the cell block guard? They put the title refrain through countless vocal shadings. Go high the producers begged. Go bass tone the producers begged. At its tempestuous center was the then fresh off headlines made for the wrong reasons Britney shining a light back on the record industry's own hypocritical moral high ground. One thing "Hello Kitty" shares with "Piece of Me" is a predominant D chord. As is foreseeable from a woman married to Nickelback frontman Chad Kroeger, "Hello Kitty" has every dimension of guitar blaze thundering from the floor. Get the drift of how Ritalin kid rainbow the color scheme in the video is? Well sir, that's how much audio assault the tune itself represents. The drums kick as a high level of ass as the guitar. Throw in some keyboard parlor tricks for good measure. Fresh out of the oven comes not so much ear gorging as it does warfare on the glass stomach that might not be armed for battle against such a wide variety of bang 'n' clang. Where possible I try to place direct pats on the head to lyrics that aren't as disposable as the diapers your newborn did his extremely dirty little business in. Avril doesn't disappoint. Sure, the obese among us might scream "That's degrading!" Their point is taken. However it's the playfulness assembled after those lyrics have had a chance to spin around in my cranium that does the trick. "Let's all slumber party like a fat kid on a pack of Smarties?" I've been heads over heels smitten with music for ages and I don't recall Smarties ever finding their way onto a lyric sheet. I guess there really is a first time for everything. What's next? Rush Limbaugh actually thinking before he opens his mouth? Nightly news programs not cutting away to half a dozen pharmaceutical commercials after three minutes of news? To be fair I bet thin kids like Smarties too. "Someone throw a cupcake at me" is worth its weight in time insensitive lard. Nothing shy about the sexual innuendo grinding over the chorus. "Come come kitty kitty. You're so pretty pretty." Being coy with sex references isn't a shiny new concept. Madonna pretty much burnished her career longevity with it. Avril's your remedial reading version. I don't see what the hullabaloo is regarding the video. Gwen Stefani surrounded herself with Asian gal pals in "Hollaback Girl" and nobody asked for her skull on a platter. The planet's way too edgy on a number of fronts these days. Any cultural swipes "Hello Kitty" takes, real or imagined, don't even rank in the top 100 list of things to get your undies in a wad over. Avril cavorts merrily. The beat drill bits relentlessly. I mop the sweat from my brow happily. Now please go back to chasing after your retirement money. "Hello Kitty" not only greets you playfully...it arouses you head to foot without leaving you stricken with morning after guilt.

Mary Lambert Generates Oodles of Warm Fuzzies

Are you in the mood for a song that lovingly holds you in its arms? Seattle's Mary Lambert is here to satisfy whatever comforting you may need via "She Keeps Me Warm". The trick of her trade? How about a piano that'll have you reflecting on the bubbles that come out of a hot tub. Prepare to relax on a level that's brilliant thanks to the simplicity that went into its creation. The lyrics promote the joys of same sex cohabitation. I give a big thumbs up to anyone who's clever enough to admit she's named her lover's eyes "Forever" and "Please don't go". Given how full of fantasy emboldened, logic defying devotion a great many love connection tunes are Mary has in fact brought a little refreshing novelty back to the highly trodden terrain. As for the female for whom she speaks in such magnificently flowing terms, I'd like to meet this friend who embodies what that concept means. According to Mary said confidant thinks she smells like safety and home, both of which are concepts that a great bit of the time sound like sexy yet deceptive illusions. Aiding the song's highly at ease framework is a steady, assured drum beat. As in a hook up that doesn't move faster than its participants are prepared to do. Love usually is delicate territory. I'm not saying Mary handles the topic with excess kid gloves but she respects her partner enough to allow the breathing room to take in each delectable sentiment. Mary flies the flag for people whose DNA makes it impossible to change stripes. Isn't that how the truest love should be, a kind that doesn't go under the hood in a feverish attempt to fix the supposedly incompatible elements. Being a Big Bang Theory fan I recall Sheldon trying to use chocolates as reinforcements for Penny exhibiting behaviors he thinks are appropriate. Leonard doesn't wish to change her eccentricities because they make her who she is. Spoken like a guy who wants to be in it for the long haul. Mary echoes that conclusion. Even if she tried, she couldn't change who she is. She's comfortable enough in her own skin to not require anyone's else's approval for her continued existence. Further on down the lyrical lane Mary returns to the classic universal claims about what real love is, namely that it's both patient and kind. Mary doesn't cry on Sundays, a fitting tie in to the picturesque scene of a church and two smitten lovers getting ready to take the plunge. The second stanza following the first choral refrain goes heavy into the getting acquainted phase. The Q & A ranges from place in the world posers like "Do you hate your job?" to less taxing brain pickings like "What's your favorite word?" For the record one of my favorite words is "conundrum". That's because it bolts from the tongue with a steel blade edge. It's also a word you might want to inject into a conversation to convince others you're a scholarly bloke/lass. From childhood sexual abuse to bipolar disorder our heroine has been roughed up by life pretty good. Her strength comes from the words she has the courage and vivacity to get on paper and then transfer to microphone. No less a pair of players than Macklemore and Ryan Lewis have worked with her in the past. Her savvy on record comes through due to these production wizards. "She Keeps Me Warm" succeeds in stepping into the vibrations of a congenial hug that is no way patronizing. On the contrary it applies generous healing to broken places and might even reawaken your belief that love isn't something dreamed up by Hallmark to rip your hard earned cash from your overwrought weary hands. Guess it's safe to conclude that Seattle isn't merely an incubation point for cloudy brooding and rides to the Space Needle. Go ahead and treat yourself to an anticipatory smile. Love doesn't judge either.

A Catchy Choral Refrain Holds Rixton's Broken Heart

You know how it goes when singers utter the chorus for what sounds like half a million times. By the time you're finished listening you question what it was about that song you found so hard to ignore in the first place. I've got good news and even better news for you. Since there's no downside to the equation I won't even ask which you'd rather have first. The good news is Manchester's very own Rixton brings the harmonies. Anybody wistful for chipper pop on the order of 'N Sync, Backstreet Boys or this decade's pin-up idols One Direction is going to be swept up in joy despite the fact that "Me and My Broken Heart" by virtue of title alone tells you the subject matter isn't vintage champagne sparkling. Jake Roche leads the bracing bunch in their take on the search for a little loving to ease the chill regardless of season. To his credit he makes heartache sound like less of a painful ordeal than a child slowly tearing off a Band-Aid. I'd chalk that up to how positive the orchestrations get when backup vocalists Charley Bagnall and Danny Wilkin sprinkle in lead guitar, bass, and keyboards. Lewi Morgan drums up upbeat enthusiasm to bolster Jake's heartstring motivated scavenger hunt instead of projecting himself as some poor waif who's hand every door imaginable slammed in his face with nothing extra to say. Returning to the chorus, although it's very easy to shout, "Oh come on! Not again!! Didn't he just sing that!" be aware that a little charm goes a long way and Jake gives off that glow in spades. All he needs is a little love in his life, a little love in the dark. He seeks to kickstart himself and his broken heart. He craves the touch only a woman can provide. Rixton can replace whatever spring in the step you've lost. I'd also like to plant the seed in your heads that Jake's natural elan allows said chorus to permeate the room. Studio buffing there is in spades but knob twisting only contributes so much to the end result. The rest has to come from an as yet pristine place. Scars haven't had time to form. The chase still has a self-explanatory value. The mixer earned stripes and ducats in equal measure. He's brought out the best for each band mate. Love gone sour can be all night bender subtle. Brixton goes the fleet of foot route. Jake knows what he wants and has enough left in the tank to hold out doggedly for a suitably warm body. You're sure to be rewarded for the three minutes and change you dedicated to this head turner. Love that is taking itself super seriously wears out its welcome too fast to be believed. "Me and My Broken Heart" carries the day thanks to the chorus that won't bore us. Not only that, it cleans up nicely.

Manchester Orchestra's Coping Strategies Lack Clarity

Wrongly or not, in pro football, a team's fortunes rise and fall with the play of its quarterback. He's the most public face outside of the coach and he tends to be the guy who gets blamed when the team can't take it to the next level. In rock circles the front man is the quarterback. If his efforts aren't up to snuff, the band can kiss its long-term prospects goodbye. Atlanta indie rockers Manchester Orchestra have much going for them. Throughout its "Cope" album the melodies go in unpredictable directions that keep you guessing at every turn. Bassist Andy Prince proves himself astute enough not to blow all his firepower in the early going. The beautiful ruckus he instigates alongside lead guitarist Robert McDowell for "See It Again", the next to last track, brings shiver to body, knocks on the spine, and then jams it slowly through so as to maximize the demonically inspired effects. Drummer Tim Very is, if you'll pardon the blatant use of his last name to induce cheap yucks, very gifted. He jets from fleet footed to devastatingly potent as if it was a mere day at the office. We come around full circle to the front man position. I realize Manchester Orchestra hints at Manchester, the region in England, but the pea soup thick voice of lead singer Andy Hull can be a distraction, not a particularly favorable one either. Show of hands out there indicate to me how many of you find a man singing in a peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth tone alluring? When he's not testing my patience there, he does so by dashing in and out of aurally legible, like someone who rapidly turns a radio knob from soft to loud and back again. About the most I glean from "All That I Really Wanted" is that a woman in his life gets fucking drunk way too much. "Indentions" is the 9th track out of 11. That's way too far into the mix to start catching the ear of your listeners but Andy finally marries his Brit-heavy chops with bandmates who give him room to compose, deliver, and then step back to note the consequences of his thoughts. The grooves are as tight and enticing as one could ask for. Andy's indentions refer to the trace of memory anyone will have of him when he expires. The title track comes last. Lucky for us the entire enterprise clocks in at under 40 minutes because the fuzz, unpredictable turf shifting, and absence of an Andy Hull to English translator are going to leave you chronically exhausted. "Cope" the single is menacing. You can tell right away claw marks are slowly asserts their presence along your back. "Every Stone" won't likely elevate you from the funk you've been fighting. "Top Notch" opens things off the right way. Thunder rolls due in large part to Tim Very's eagerness. "Trees' unloads choice bombast worthy of the majestic titular landscape ornaments. "The Ocean" easily jangles not to mention lends weight to the band's tendencies towards laying down a lick, and then dropping in another that goes in the opposite direction from where your comfort zone might be. As an indie rock act they get a little license to maintain the underground enigmatic pelt that makes groups of this variety an endlessly captivating live draw. Nevertheless, we'd have a degree of immediate access to Andy's anguished deliberations if he didn't take the Manchester half of his band's name so literally. I think Brits are as interesting a people watching session as the next guy, but Barry White said it best when he opined, "Too much of anything's not good for you baby." Well played. "Cope" sees the Atlanta tribe coping by resisting an easily discovered route to universal connection. If we could better understand the language spoken in Andy's soul we might be tempted to root for him. As it stands "Cope" doesn't appear to have put any aspect of its past behind it.

Three Days Grace Is Back With a Killer Track

Pain and Three Days Grace go together like hand in glove, or so it would appear. Muse on this. In 2006 "Pain" was released as a single from the album "One-X". Such a dazed composition. The first few bars sound like then lead vocalist Adam Gontier had been bashed on the head with a crowbar prior to the recording and we could see the stars, exclamation points, and little tweeting birdies flapping around. If that screw job is what led to his severed artery singing, the cry of the wounded beast, it worked nicely for the Ontario, Canada outfit at that time. I say "then" lead vocalist because damn those winds of change, there is as of 2014 a brand new tonsil flasher who's hopped aboard the ship. Matt Walst, brother of co-charter member Brad, lends slickness to "Painkiller" which compared to Adam's self sadism which contended that too much pain was never enough, looks at the hopeful side of those boo boos we've accumulated somewhere down the line. Although the track doesn't tell whether the extended shoulder to cry on is coming from a friend or a paramour, either one would work fine. By the way, the new album isn't in its completed stages yet so we'll have to quench our Three Days Grace thirst with "Painkiller" which proves itself a delectable swallow. The collective gusto hearkens back to "I Hate Everything About You", another "One-X" track that teetered a bit unsteadily off the spool. Of course any hard rock/metal fan will tell you you've got to be a little cracked at the start to venture forth into this fang bearing genre. Take a real close listen to lead guitarist Barry Stock's efforts there. The clearly rattled chords he plays teem with the battle worn ravages of a man who doesn't just dislike the woman he's taken into his inner circle, he detests her. Love and hate can charge up many a relationship but in this instance the plug's frayed, the socket is dangerously on overload mode. "Painkiller" demonstrates how the 2010s Three Days Grace cleans up really well. Barry gets his full weight behind the guitar, conveying relationship loyalty instead of holding the chainsaw he's going to use to destroy fences. Drummer Neil Sanderson, like Brad Walst, has been with the group since its founding 16 years ago. His relative comfort level bashing skins shines through from his splendidly amplified core. You'd be justified in thinking that unlike the now defunct period where Adam was fronting the band, Neil's beats assume a role of joint ownership in whatever flight of fancy the band is now taking. He and Matt bounce off each other. Matt vows to lessen the devastation of the wounds, and Neil hammers home affirmation of that promise. To me at least it's refreshing to hear the band get their surplus energy wound around renewed strength rather than lying in a ditch somewhere playing the wronged party to the hilt. Bassist Brad sports a steely resolve no one would dare question. On other fronts you know Matt's pouring his heart out for a worthy cause if he's willing to be "the dose you die on". He'll numb you off. He'll be your soothing salve. Better yet he can drive his point in 3 minutes on the snoot. "Pain" was about down for the count defeated resignation. "Painkiller" tells the cosmic rulebook "I'm going to take your script, rip out a few choice pages, and reignite the juice that makes me so damn awesome!" These guys have replaced a limp spark plug with souped up jumper cables. The finished product leads to the highly believable claim that Three Days Grace can bring the electricity needed to treat fans and newbies to a long term power cruise. "Painkiller" is pleasurable on levels too numerous to count.

Sam Smith's Soulful Crooning Stays With You

Could Sam Smith be the female version of Adele? If the UK crooner's "Stay With Me" is any indication that's a valid enough argument. Given his cousin is none other than Lily Allen of "Smile" fame there's definitely performance chutzpah in his bones. "Stay With Me" is one of the most delicate flowers I've listened to in an age. He's so approachable it's almost painful to hear his agonies unfold. He's a mere man and, therefore, love is required to make sure his world hasn't fallen off its axis completely. From the jump the piano sinking in behind him can penetrate even the most jaded of ears. Sam's vocal range lays threadbare his pulsating open heart wound. By mid song the focus has shifted from a classical R & B sound to something more along the lines of an organ grinding gospel catharsis. He's definitely got a way with keeping his intentions short and sweet. What he and his lady of the moment have going on isn't clear to him but he'd like for her to stay with him anyway, to lay down beside him. To this song's credit the pathos is laid down steadily, giving you and I the chance to catch our breaths before seeing where Sam's going with his drama. The guiding hand is steady, pitch likewise. As the night of possible intimacy takes shape Sam asks himself why he's being emotional for men's men don't act like that. He demands of himself the needed self control so the evening as a whole doesn't become a hot mess. If "Stay With Me" was to be compared to a form of weather I'd have to go with steady chill, possibly wintry flurries whizzing through the air. In other words a gentle form of weather for a gentle call for closeness. The debut album this comes from goes by the moniker "In The Lonely Hour". "Stay With Me" is an ideal song to chase away those lonely night blues.

Head Shrinking a New Christina Perri Album

Philadelphian and we pray immune to the sophomore slump artist Christina Perri has the knob on her palpitation worthy vulnerability cranked up to ten, going on eleven throughout "Head or Heart". If you've been anywhere near adult contemporary hits radio you already have a pretty fair assessment of the delicate at times frightened girl whose brave heart beats inside the now 27 year-old artist. "Human" lays it out there. Not that we haven't used plenty of pop minstrels to remind us that yes, if you prick one of us, we do bleed and yes, if we fall down, we will also shed blood. Christina uses the piano as a version of an invincibility cloak. She's got the confidence to bare her soul to the world but doesn't lose out on the accumulated dignity in return. Along this pebbled strewn path she manages to find time for frivolity, a welcome refresher for Christina who's adept at making fairly clean breaks as well as spinning around with giddiness as many a woman in love shows a propensity for doing. Usually Christina's instincts shine through in performance. The only misstep that begs for reconsideration is "Shot Me In The Heart". The melodies coupled with the apparent chipper nature of that skip in the step become unbridled cruelty when you listen to the words closely enough. You might have been expecting rose petals. What we got stuck with is a bunch of thorns painted over to look presentable. Christina isn't a happy child. She shoots from the hip about what love he lost. That title alone leaves little room for doubting the debilitating impact of a man who let Cupid's best offering slip through his fingers. The deception brilliantly matches the completely puzzle in "Lonely Child". The cherry on top is a spicy little "cha cha cha" conclusion. The water's excellent so dive in for a breathtaking dip. Here comes Ed Sheeran to up the cuteness factor on "Be My Forever". If you're one of those scorned by love sorts who isn't beneath ripping the wings off butterflies I'd take a detour leading me past this portion of Ms. Perri's probing exploration of matters of the heart. Her daintiness sets the lure, Ed's convivial personality puts that bass in the boat where we're set for whatever affectionate glances, kisses, and what not are positioned down the road a spell. "Run" is straightforward, the implied aches reverberating off pore after pore. There's no booze present but you already know the cosmic hangover's going to be a pisser. "Butterfly" is voiced in the fragile manner its subject deserves. Here elusive and illusion join at the center for a jaunt that's high frustration yet doggedly pursued anyway. "I Don't Wanna Break" leaves a searing mark thanks mainly to the echo of the instruments she and her backup mates employ. The bookend tracks, "Trust" at the front and "I Believe" at the rear of the parade show how smart an advertiser of her wares Christina is. "Trust" demonstrates how she's at the very least fumbling towards a state of being to trust herself. By the time "I Believe" comes closer she's not only found her stride, but affirms to the reluctantly swayed as well as to people already in her corner that they haven't heard the last of her. This is the beginning, not the end. In the end "Head or Heart is going to satisfy both organs. There's a generous assortment of mood change-ups to assure lethargy isn't going to tag team with traces of the art critic detested sentimentality. Christina's head and heart are in the right place and that's going to leave that damned sophomore slump a disgruntled beast cursing its rotten luck.

The Used Launches a Defiant Cry For The Romantically Disenchanted

Dry your wearied eyes, blog buds. Orem, Utah's greatest and quite likely only ass thrashing rock band The Used have resurfaced. Ever since "The Bird and The Worm" creeped into my faint heart these guys have mastered the art of both keeping and maintaining my attention. First up from the soon to be (possibly?) part of your music library "Imaginary Enemy", is "Cry". The title shouldn't have you thinking "Perfect. Yet another pathetic open wound whine-a-thon revolving around some guy's crushed heartstrings." The intensity The Used carries around their necks as a badge of honor has lost no luster. "The Bird and The Worm" was a fun, if not white knuckle promoting song because it gave you a really firm idea of how off his rocker singer Bert McCracken truly was. The chorus and subsequent refrains could yank the hairs to an upright position on the back of your neck simply because you didn't know when Bert's madness would subside. All you had going in your favor was the assurance that yes, Bert would at some point run out of gas. The strings brought shivers. The keyboards dimmed the comfort level you had in your own skin. When he wasn't screeching his helpless travails, he was vainly trying to keep some lid on his thinly veiled nuttiness. On "Cry" Bert learns how to keep time with his fury. "Cry" makes you run like gangbusters to catch up. You're fully grasping that Bert's mad at his woman and wants her to bleed a little bit before attempting to wriggle back into his heart. For gosh sakes, in the later stages of the song he insists the girl's going to have to ask him nicer than that. Love is a ticking time bomb she's better know how to diffuse or pieces of her heart will be strewn everywhere. "The Bird and The Worm" wasn't urgent. Unsettling is more like it. "Cry", on the other hand, moves at too much of s breakneck pace to have the time to unsettle anyone's body or soul. Life in this fast lane works to the band's advantage. They've traded in parlor games for unrelenting power punches. Drummer Dan Whitesides lets rip blow after uncomprising blow. You'd think it was his girlfriend that was screwing him over. Instead he takes Bert's jagged barbed wire denouncements and spins them into percussive mastery which definitively lets the record show if you play games with a man's heartstrings you'll have to deal with the fallout at the other end. Bert doesn't nibble with his keyboard chord sequences... steadily he tears away at his woman's self-assuredness, real or imagined. Jeph Howard maintains a spirited bass pace. He knows The Used are above and beyond the sum of their parts. The bridge is where Bert maximizes the escalating dramatic effect of his fractured love. Quinn Allman winds up and down the fret of his guitar frantically. His role in "Cry" is one of oxygen supplier to Bert's wild man contention that: "Love is not a battle, it's a ticking time bomb." Being the nervous system specific listener that I am I've got to tell you Bert's more menacing when his snarlingly whispering that belief rather than testing the outer bounds of his vocal range. Bert's cooking up one menacing quiet storm. If you've glanced at a news headline lately you know it's the supposedly quiet ones that could be hiding past cosmic hurts that unleash themselves on an unsuspecting public to change the contexts of communities great and small. The Used sustain their united front magnificently. Since the lady made Bert cry, she's going to have beg for a place in his good graces. Subtlety gets hurled out the window, and the results ricochet of every quadrant of your brain. File this under short, sweet, and satisfying. Say it, wrap it up, and leave others to sweep up the wreckage. In rock circles that formula equals reliable success. No Kleenex needed here. The Used are miles away from victim status.

The Arctic Monkeys Hit a Glorified High Point

The Arctic Monkeys illuminate the finer points of interpersonal kookiness with "Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?" They deserve credit for knowing the right mood to set to illustrate what a drug-induced migraine must feel like, banging around the cranium as it does. Alex Turner strikes the notes you wouldn't necessarily want to encounter in a dark alley, personal posse otherwise engaged. The calendar says it's April, but the melodies spring forth from the Halloween portion of the yearly review. Crowning the spooky factor is Alex's fuzz-enhanced depth. He sounds like he's got his lips wrapped around brain scrambling substances while his girl asks his girl why his phone calls are confined to moments when he's not in his right mind. From the guitarist's end, we're fumbling around ourselves, joining Alex in his social awkwardness. Turning to the drummer's perspective, Matt Helders cracks home the goose pimple quotient as if he was trying to imitate the impatience of a steadily unhinged screen door. I feed off of this vulnerability. Whatever uncertain strides Alex is displaying I want to go where he's going, grasp the aha moments he does, if he ever comes down from the chemically heightened state he's in. The Arctic Monkeys, by adding "Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?" to the musical landscape, the Sheffield, England foursome succeed in painting the stoned individual in a totally different stripe than other tunes with "high" as the primary adjective. For example Survivor, the '80s band that scored a top 10 hit with "High On You" brought a studio slick sound to the dance. Not only that the video had enough striking blue light bulbs to make Benjamin Franklin jump out of his bloomers. In the "oughts" came Afroman's goofball charmer "Because I Got High" in which the guys demonstrate beyond a reasonable doubt how stupid it is to get high in the first place, particularly when you stand to lose both everyone and everything that's important to you. Tal Bachmann's "She's So High" flew over the din, using his dashingly belted words and plucky (pun not nearly close to being intended) guitar to cast his woman in a flattering role. The Arctic Monkeys are the most sonically accurate in their depiction. Survivor's high was fairly benevolent. Afroman is a close second primarily because you can hear the dumb asses drugs produce. Sure, it's deliberately overblown to amp up the comic effect but it worked so who's holding that against them. "Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?" zeroes in on that raw nerve ending zone, the real estate where even an encouraging statement needs coffee to sober up the senses. Alex doesn't sound like a very good paramour, nor does he have his mind on common sense things like going to bed at a reasonable hour in prep for work the next day. I doubt his three o'clock calls are going to win him many brownie points either. She's appealing to his responsible side. He's sliding down a slippery slope, time running out, options narrowing by the second. Nick O'Malley gives Alex something to keep himself propped up. His bass represents conscious awareness at its most desperate. The song makes for a oddly enigmatic juncture to the band's "AM" opus. Truth to be told "Why's You Only Call Me When You're High" is PM radio in a shaky shot glass. The Arctic Monkeys convincingly reveal that, in some cases, high notes turn out to be the best notes a fella, blitzed or sober, could ever hope to hit.

The Killers Are Back With Just Another Pulsating Rocker

Fear not, friends. The Killers you fondly remembered from the age of "Mr. Brightside" and "When You Were Young" shows no ring rust whatsoever on "Just Another Girl" one of two new cuts from the band's "Direct Hits" compilation. Beautifully woven the song grabs the reins of its steadily building momentum and knocks out a rock adventure that is sure to leave you gasping for air. This Las Vegas act shows respect to the new wave keyboards that back then ushered in a future we could have only dreamed about in movies or sci-fi TV. Brandon Flowers giddily forgets he's the leader of a band whenever he steps to the mike. Some of your higher grade A-list vocalists, Freddie Mercury chief among them, succeeded in mixing theatrics with leather clad bombast. Brandon leans towards stage dynamics in large part. "Just Another Girl" inserts Brandon into agony's uncompromising clutches. The story revolves around the garden variety girl his friends insist he should ditch post haste. He himself is convinced he'd be better off alone. Besides in this huge world there are plenty of other potential hook-ups he could try out. Mark Stoermer bears down on his bass. Our reward for his labor is playing that plunges to the marrow of what can be accomplished with said instrument. Ronnie Vannucci, Jr. keeps his drumming at a very admirable level of virtuosity. For certain The Killers successfully look and sound the part of a rejuvenated foursome that doesn't really need to go greatest hits package on any of us but sagely brought a new prime entree for us to nibble on while we await their latest delectable disc. Brandon shows why The Killers wouldn't pack the same wallop without him. If someone were brought into the fold who relies on a snarl, rasp, or too many gymnastics the band's identity would suffer greatly. "Just Another Girl" doesn't resort to insanely implausible guitar solos at the bridge to get its message across. This broth doesn't have too many cooks. Keys, bass, drum, and vocals are equally seasoned ingredients in this rave earning taste treat. At the bridge Brandon comes to the conclusion his friends would be wise to understand maybe he doesn't want another girl, any old temptress in a pleasing shape. Why rearrange the furniture in one's personal space when the decor is fine as is. The Killers excel at not playing the aloofness card with their listeners or the powers that be that play a role in deciding what kind of career longevity they're bound to have. There's bite but little in the way of imposing blood drips along the studio console. As a ear-motivating jigsaw puzzle the pieces mesh convincingly to make a dashingly glamorous whole. "Just Another Girl" isn't just another rock single. The Killers have made good on any unspoken promise to rejoin the rock fray with yet another engrossing addition to their already commendable catalog.

Wild Cub Lowers a Thunderous Boom

Nashville's becoming a bigger and bigger hotbed for rock every passing month. Add quintet Wild Cub to the list. The brains behind the mask are Keegan DeWitt and Jeremy Bullock. Keegan handles the chief songwriting duties whereas Jeremy is your jack of most trades multi-instrumentalist. Early on drummer Dabney Morris grabs the spotlight as a unrelenting spitfire. Initially the impression one tends to get is "Oh, rhythms that insist upon an epic social event." Then, Dabney settles down and we're privy to the inner workings of a song riding an agreeable wave rather trying to top one crest with an even more logic defying crest. Clapping along is a must here. The collective group vocals tingle with heartfelt honesty. You're not going to discover a band setup where, inevitably someone's going to come down with a pronounced case of LSD (Lead Singer Disease). Perhaps that last observation is premature because Wild Cub has only been making the scene during the 2010s. There hasn't been enough time for bassist Harry West to declare that's he's grown weary of the life of a touring rock band and would rather dedicate his energies to being a session musician for hire. That would be a shame because in the recording sessions for "Thunder Clatter" Harry strikes heavily, underscoring where this thunder gets its roots from. If you say to yourself, "How shiny the production is," and I'm guessing only a Frasier Crane type really sums up his glee in that exact way, you can thank Eric Wilson. He's the primary reason why "Thunder Clatter" has the even-tempered glitz of one of the cutesy "80s synth bands. Eric's job title with Wild Cub is keyboardist and synthetist. Jeremy strums at a feisty pace. Eric drops down the dazzle, lending animation to a song storyboard steeped in vigor that backs up the assumption that rock is a young man's game. Each man's notes pop off his respective instrument. After the quintet gets to the meat of the vocalizing matter we've made the relationship commitment. Rooting value is so paramount to a musical act's lasting power. Again, too soon to tell if lessons learned from this recording session will lead to "remember when" conversations about which of us caught Wild Cub in its infant stage and how we knew they possessed intangibles for long term, hotel room trashing success. Back here in the infant stage they've sown the seeds of unshakable momentum. "Thunder Clatter" spins the yarn of sad boy meets sad girl. Two lonely sparks searching for a valued cosmic connect. A lot of the lyrics centered on the two lost souls fumbling around in their individual dark crannies lurching for the perfect light switch to rid them of that nagging empty void. Is this storyline's payoff worth the back history? No doubt in my mind. The last stanza shows Wild Cub leaping off of the page and into tenderness's inviting grasp. In the previous stanzas we'd been instructed to gaze politely, enraptured by the cuddly beats and their affectionate pink ribbon. In the home stretch we're out of the pews front and center for this suddenly celebratory revival tent minstrel mash-up. "Thunder Clatter" is what very likely could be only the first of many '80s throwback desserts from this Nashville gang's "Youth" album. Losing love has proven itself to be devastatingly easy throughout the annals of recorded music. High fives to Wild Cub for milking the joy out of the moments where we're granted the ability to look it straight in the eye and plant a messy smooch. Wild Cub steals no one else's thunder. Instead it demonstrates a way with banging out a convincing rumble of its own.

Too Cool Black Keys Run Their "Fever" With Dazzling Grace

Quirky is an adjective that, depending on who or what it's applied to, can be flattering. Take the Black Keys for example. Their style has a tongue so firmly embedded in cheekbone you start wondering which gifted surgeon is going to be called upon to detach it again. "Turn Blue", is the band's new album set for a May 13 release. First up from this hopefully swinging set is "Fever". Dan Auerbach plays everything including the kitchen sink in service to the band. Bass tones are sumptuous. I surely do pay compliments when I note that the bass's direction hints in no small measure at The White Stripes and their bad ass "Seven Nation Army" effort. Jack White and Dan obviously have been well schooled in the fine art of '60s go-go dancer worthy hip swaying. Jury's out on whether the keyboards that prance on top of the bass do the overall sound any favors but hedging my bets I'll contend you'll either think of them as precious novelty or irritating in the manner of that pesky fly swooping around your ears. Drummer Patrick Carney's content to let Dan assume the lion's share of the attention. Pat's merely the gatekeeper through which any enlightenment must pass or, at its most aggressive, barrel right through. I appreciate how "Fever" perches itself on one chord long enough to allow us to enjoy the ripple effect then flits down a peg where we again can sway in time with the lovably retro leanings, and so on..You might want to focus on the hipness quotient since the lyrics run the risk of making anybody comfortable who has either had a recent fever or knows of someone who has. Dan asks so much of his fever I'm surprised it hasn't ratcheted up the growl to where it's really going to bite him on the fanny. "Fever, where'd you run to?" For starters that's disturbing. Only someone running a fever would be motivated to ask where it ran off to. Fevers aren't known for being too wonderful to experience. The second verse teeters back towards believable sentiment. At this moment Dan's a slave to the fever. Medical practitioners you can rest easy. Aching goes with fever also. Eventually Dan hops from trying to pinpoint fever's location to asking if it can hear him. There's no discernible female lead in the mire but nobody's going to label you stupid if you interpret it that way. Compared to the MTV favorite "Tighten Up" "Fever" lets the action wash over it rather than assume a confrontational pose. "Tighten Up" derived its back alley glare from the way Patrick committed child abuse atop his drum set. "Fever", appropriately or not, contains drumming paralyzed by the bygone era vortex. Dan's vocals aren't exactly borderline unsettling, a questionable decision given the song title. Possibly it's a sexual heat he's bringing to the surface, a heat which elevates inspiration over perspiration. The Black Keys would hardly be confused with an "Aw, isn't it cute" pop making machine but stroking the scamps on the head for reminding people what spunk is about wouldn't be objectionable. "Fever" carries the day not by spiking temperature but by keeping the adrenaline steady as she goes. In the run up to "Turn Blue" the Black Keys strike notes sure to bring a knowing smile back to their established fan base as well as turn many heads belonging to what promises to be new faithful in the blues rock congregation.

Linkin Park and Rakim Found Guilty of A Bone Chilling Metallic Eruption

I remember Linkin Park from their "Hybrid Theory" roots. Rock and rap taken to a new millennium level. "Crawling" and "Closer To The Edge" showcased lead vocalist Chester Bennington at his psychotic best. One minute keeping a steady simmer on his escalating rage, the next exploding at the expense of any surface dweller who dares cross his path in an adversarial way. Since those early days this nu metal outfit has hovered at or near the top of Billboard's Rock Charts. Along the stepping stones of their career they've burnished credibility as rockers who radio programmers don't treat like a dinner platter so straight out of the oven that it's extremely hot to the touch. "The Hunting Party" album isn't going to amble this way until June. Until then "Guilty All The Same" will do as an appetizing sampler platter. Put on the big boy pants folks because this song's bristling pace is going to have you begging for an EKG reading. Notice how the accompanying video features swirling clouds? What excellent imagery and well choreographed to fit the song. Doesn't even matter that the amplification comes down just enough for old school rapper Rakim to drop science on your posteriors. The band's fangs bite equally hard. Hold on a second while I figure out which metal band's uncompromising zealotry they borrowed from. Rob Bourdon gallops along at a mile a minute, drumming like someone forgot to remind him this isn't 1992 anymore and he's not making a guest appearance on that year's "Unsung" LP. Brad Delson is beastly wild. Did he or did he not quaff down some PowerAde before letting rip with chord after chord of relentless punch? If not he could've fooled me. Rakim's presence is especially appreciated during stanzas where Brad reloaded, hit his intended target, and now desperately needs to refuel at the oxygen bar. Usually Mike Shinoda raps commentary writ large but Rakim's very much up to the task as rap purists no doubt recognize. Right on time for an era when the U.S. is fragmenting and may precariously slide into the abyss altogether, Rakim expresses the unspoken sentiments of many of us out there working merely to keep from drowning in the undertow. We're thinkin "I want to be rich" but the fill in your own adjective here we slave under has his designs on being wealthy. The music business itself isn't safe from Rakim's accusatory delivery. Make the dough then watch it get sucked back into the studio system. Chester on the other hand takes the spiritual approach to Q & A. He's a seeker who wants answers but knows he's really going to have to drop the throttle down in order to have any hope of getting some. Methinks a supreme being's hidden hand lingers at the core of his discontent. He has what we need. We're doomed to be unclean. Show us how you would have us live our lives. Chester's style of singing goes far deeper than the diaphragm. In the abiding manner of your no quarter given NFL team, he goes straight up the gut. You can bet his uvula gets an indescribably rib shaking workout. NFL is a team game. Linkin Park goes the length of the metal field, each bandmate leaving it out on the turf. I'm a writer/blogger. I should know what to say in the face of a pulverizing display of horsepower. Simply put, "Guilty All The Same" is as electric as the chair that's fried so many societal deviants. I sentence you out there in the audience to upward of three listens. I'm a noble judge so believe me when I say this is going to get more seismically wonderful with each new hearing. "Guilty All The Same" makes good on uncorking crunch all the way.