Birthday Blogger's Gift Registry

Since today's my birthday I decided I'd act like a rock star flush with cash and be self-indulgent. Upfront apologies to anyone who thought my last blog was pitifully brief compared to the previous classics of blog pontificating I've thrown at y'all (Yup...only kidding). It's a day to soak up some true American originals, namely five songs containing what to my mind are moments of brilliance. I promise I won't be creating an online version of War and Peace, a Gore Vidal memoir, or anything else that's only apparent purpose was to cure you of insomnia. With any luck you'll get the hint that I'm not merely a casual listener but a music worshiping fiend of the highest order. I breathe three part harmonies and power chords. Strip me of that and I'm wandering around the cosmos stumbling my way along like everybody else. Five 18-carat gold gems brought to you as my old Concordia Lutheran College prof. Milton Reimer would have put it "quick and dirty". "Superstition" wasn't the Eighth Wonder of the World's biggest hit but I dare you to cue up any that were pound for pound funkier. I selected this live from Sesame Street version for the very best reason, namely it's the first time I heard it in brash, knock you out of your spit shined penny loafers living color. For kicks check out the red shirted child shaking it way up high atop the stairs. Wonder what he's doing now? In any case he got a stellar cultural education, as did I. From drums, to brass (it was the '70s so forgive the gentleman on the far left for his fashion sense), to that resounding voice, "Superstition" started my lifelong admiration for one of the foremost artistic talents that ever lived or is ever likely going to have lived. Steve Perry was Journey's ace in the hole from day one. The band's Behind The Music episode left me disheartened. What a great run and it came to a screeching halt thanks to the torn ACL of older people, the damaged hip. (Sigh). "Any Way You Want It" allows us to revisit happier times. That '70s carryover long hair is enough to make me projectile shoot milk from my nose due to laughing. Neal Schon's on the short list of bona fide guitar Gods. In this video he's also sporting a white boy 'fro. He came off like a bit of a prick on Behind The Music but if I based my music library on how close to sainthood the artists got I'd have a collection as gaunt as my bony frame so that's between him and whatever deity he prays to. I can't enough of the climbing, climbing, climbing, climbing octave straddling Neal does towards the end. I'd have gotten up from the beat banquet table at that point yet here comes Steve to seal the deal with "ANYWAAAAAAAAAY! ANYWAAAAAAAAY!" "Any Way You Want It" is proof that a prime perk of car ownership back then was the brand of cruising music you could shove in the tape deck. Extreme is not some sissy glam metal band. Got that? If you want to say Poison is a sissy glam metal band I can deal. If you want to say Nitro is a sissy glam metal band, have at it. If you want to say Enuff Z'Nuff is a sissy glam metal band, get the guillotine ready. But don't think you're going to label Extreme a sissy glam metal band without encouraging any kind of counter response from me. Extreme can bring the licks, shove 'em up 'yer arse and keep right on walking as if no wrong, no act of civil disobedience had been perpetrated. "Get The Funk Out" is 100 percent bang, no buck. No bucking any comers. No bucking the license to rock hard, loud, and gorgeous. Nuno Bettencourt is one more legend of the guitar game. Know anybody else who can make their instrument sound like a siren whisking sick people to the hospital? If Nuno was an automobile the Five-0 would be writing up enough tickets to fill three glove compartments. Gary Cherone can sing. Better yet he doesn't howl like Sammy Hagar or rip his larynx to shreds like Tom Keifer of Cinderella. Paul Geary pummels you with his sticks. Pat Badger's bass rumbles instead of merely keeping the engine motoring along. For good measure the band lights up their space with their own Tower of Power horns section. The only thing wrong with "Get The Funk Out" is there's no other rock band out there ballsy enough to try a cover version. Simultaneously it's one of the many right things. To the very last I get chills. Pat Benatar puts so many other female performers to shame. She's a tough as nails rock chick who doesn't covet your sympathy. "Precious Time" is what a romantic relationship in free fall sounds like. Neil Giraldo's opening note yells "Duck!!" The bomb is dropping. The fuse has been lit. There won't be survivors. Come to think of it there won't even be a body for the coroner to examine. Pat on the warpath is the very best kind. ADD sufferers be warned. You've been put on notice. 3:24 mark. That's why "Maneater" is on this list. Blink and you missed. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups tandem of chocolate and peanut butter aren't the only two things that taste great together. A well timed drum guitar one-two leaves behind an aftertaste for the ages. Up to then the keyboards, Daryl Hall's blue eyed crooning and G.E. Smith's candy coated sax symbolized keen appetizers. It took the one two to elevate this to cultural touchstone status. Well, that's some of what "she" wrote anyway. Unless I get amnesia and therefore forget I'm a blogging man on a blogging mission future enlightenment is on tap down the line. Until then..."HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! HOW THE HELL DID I MANAGE? I TURNED FORTY THREE. DON'T ROLL YOUR EYYYYYYYYES!!

Nicki Minaj Cures Her Whacked Out Persona

Nicki Minaj and level-headed don't tend to occupy similar turf. I agree with Tim Duncan saying "Who wants to be normal?" but Nicki has often pushed it off the ragged edge. That said I think her new "Pills N Potions", despite "I still love you" being sung too much, and despite repetitive choruses being one prime turn off to any song, succeeds at taking the prize as Nicki Minaj's most sedate effort to date. Orchestral it definitely is. Even the rapping itself benefits from restraint. Anyone who's been close enough to someone else's iPod can attest to how sometimes it's hard to tell whether Nicki is animal, vegetable, mineral, or space alien. That doesn't hijack the song here. She takes the moral high ground throughout in dealing with niggas who haven't earned the respect they believe is coming to them. She doesn't wish on death on them...she reflects on them. The title pretty much screams drowning one's miseries in booze and pills. How she manages to keep anger at bay even though she's at odds with her man is a mystery. Now then, though I applaud Nicki's cranium not being set on that high frequency only dogs can hear I fear that's the highest praise I can give "Pills N Potions". I likely won't remember any distinguishing features a week or so down the line. It sort of floats along like the cotton candy you get at the state fair. She sings the title with some grace, again a relief from her rivet machine type of subtlety. I'm sure that the subject matter doesn't fly over my head what with my being a bony square white guy ignorant of the travails of minority youth in the hood. What it lacks is urgency that your A-list rap stars preternaturally exude. Preening black youths are hardly a novelty concern. For me to really dig a song a prominent hook must be part of the bargain. No such good fortune here. The melodies aren't loathsome and that's a point in the song's favor. Unfortunately some oomph behind the wheel would've helped "Pills N Potions" succeeded in reaching a level of artistry that doesn't sound phoned in. In its final format "Pills N Potions" doesn't even rate the revulsion that comes from having icky meds flushed out of your system. No flavor to be found. Only mild leaf rustling in an inconsequential wind.

Foster the People's Latest Is User Friendly

Friendly? You betcha!! Rollicking fun? You so much as doubt it? Puhleeze!! Foster the People haven't taken long at all to carve their own unique niche. "Pumped Up Kicks" was a slam dunk when it broke wide open in 2011. Up next on the agenda for the LA indie trio is its new "Supermodel" album. The lead single goes by the moniker "Best Friend". It has the distinction of culling disco flashbacks and laying a gaping rock wound threadbare. Someone needs to up bassist Cubbie Fink's on the basis of this song alone. Juicy, juicy, juicy. The fever pitch goes on seemingly forever. The adrenaline rush is pretty tough to beat. Lyrically there's enough enigmatic twists and turns to keep the ever shrinking attention spans engaged. "Pumped Up Kicks" turned out to be a mere taste of what they could do with an infectious riff and enough studio time to make the practice worth the effort. And let me tell you Mark Pontius is fire, brimstone, and a smidge extra in the firepower department. Vocalist Mark Foster sings of what it means to be the above mentioned best friend. You don't let them crack under the stress they're under. Often sleep like imagery runs this little shebang. Technical scientific terminology such as "Waves in theta, slipping into dreams" are pretty regular players here. "Best Friend" comes to bear full fang with a lights out technicolor blast shaking your eardrums to their very core. Why is the song a winner that deserves to be called such regardless of how well the album sells? Foot tapping mixed with arousing inhibition loosening dynamism. Club land teems with this brand of melody. Cue the disco ball but make room for working up sweat like you've never imagined it before. One thinks Mark is a highly reliable friend. He'll follow him to whatever color his mood ring turns. "Supermodel" is a title suiting the single perfectly. "Best Friend" strikes one magnificent pose. Lock in on the whole "celestial being" concept for a second. Top to bottom Mark and Cubbie nail the right moves. Together they're appealing allies come what may. As I alluded to before the tempo is flat out electrifying. You would be willing to follow them to whatever place, light or dark this crew of sound sculptors choose to go. It only gets better as the chords intensify. "Pumped Up Kicks", as you who look closely at lyrics ought to know, was not exactly cuddly in the subject matter arena. "Best Friend" doesn't get up in your grills either. To its credit it is someone you could converse with for hours or, until you grow hoarse, whichever comes first. Let me not make the mistake of flashing a broad grin for the brass section (or its pre-recorded kissing cousin) that livens up the party that Foster the People are throwing without them even being aware we're willing to RSVP. Putting both "Pumped Up Kicks" and "Best Friend" under glass for a closer examination. "Pumped Up Kicks" leaned closer to the sing-a-long throngs. "Best Friend" is the tingling rock sensation you blissfully trap yourself under a la the waves Mark sings about. With every subsequent return to the chorus you benefit from the demons unlocking part by part until the monster's front and center in the concert hall. "Best Friend" earns its stripes as a musical best bet.

Natalie Merchant's Wizened "Ladybird" Embodies Grace

Today I'd like to enter the creative force that is Natalie Merchant. What an intelligent spokeswoman. You'd fit right in having coffee house conversations with her. Unlike a lot of people you encounter day to day you actually come away having learned something profound. Her self-titled album of entirely new compositions brings with it "Ladybird". To most Texans that word applies to former president LBJ's environmentally conscious wife for whom the former Town Lake is named. She'd have approved of the song. That's because it's graceful from first note to last. Natalie gives the avian creature room to grow into its wings. As dishes go you're not going to taste heavily flavored notes. You'll enjoy the quiet aftertaste but it's not likely to leave you bloated, groping for antacid pills due to overindulging yourself. Natalie has never shied away from global perspective topics. As lead loon from 10,000 Maniacs part of her claim to fame comes from having been participant in excellent standing on "What's The Matter Here?" an uncompromising glimpse into child abuse and the excuses both casual observers and abusers make for why it should have to continue existing. "Trouble Me" was stately, dignified, and fit for enjoyable high tea pleasantries in one package. Let's not forget how amazing her band was in executing reverent covers of Cat Stevens' "Peace Train" as well as Patti Smith's "Because The Night". The definition of a marvelous cover song is that you have no idea someone else thought of it first. These artists leave an imprint that respects of those before them. "Ladybird" dives beak first into love long since extinguished. A clean break isn't an option because, as Nat puts so tersely, there's much to lose. Many mouths need feeding. Ah, the heavy weight of caring for and raising a family to become responsible socially aware citizens. Despite the tethers, flying away from such a hot mess hasn't lost its allure. The subject matter is Jack Frost icy. Because of that I give credit where it's due to Natalie for bathing her artistic statement in stabilizing warmth. Listen carefully to the musicians who have her back. Not one of them bolts out in front of the pack. Each puzzle piece is measured delicately. Slow, faithful unified front allows "Ladybird" to fly above a fray that for other winged warriors could be too much to overcome. You do hear guitar strumming now and again but it's only a companion piece not the featured oil on canvas. You'll also be able to pick out soulful background songbirds. Again, they know not to overstep their bounds and, what's more, they're serene about that. Serenity preceding emotional quandary. That's Natalie Merchant's key toolbox talent. She gets what "say it, don't spray it" is about. Dignified storytelling may not move product but it does give way to reveal an even bigger reward...a clearer sense of what makes someone else tick. Unlike a great many songs, "Ladybird" doesn't have a clearly mapped out bridge enabling listeners to catch their breath. Late in "Ladybird" the investment grows larger. We who buy into the premise come away from the card table richer in substance if not in pocketbook. Flying away from an interpersonal situation that's lost its zip represents a fork in the road moment not to be entered into lightly. Even so, Natalie never fails to insist through her characterizations that something needs to be done before whatever dignity was brought to the love match skitters away on the breeze. Sometimes a self-titled album may mean a new artistic beginning is in the works. For example Heart's self-titled project arose when the Wilson sisters were at the vertigo inducing corner of do or die time in their band's career. The result was an album spawning four top ten hits ("What About Love?", "Never", "These Dreams", and "Nothin' at All", and the banished to the ashes insinuation that Heart needed to fold at that time. Natalie's last album of brand spanking new material was brought to the world stage in 2001. 13 years is a lifetime and then some in the music business. Whatever prompted her to eschew fresh creative visions for such a long time it's wonderful that she's returned to the roost. "Ladybird" won't tell eager fans or first-timers anything that might not already know about her style but it goes a long way towards reminding us why any week with new Natalie Merchant music is a week that wasn't lived through for nothing. "Ladybird" is out of its cage and deserves the chance to fly as high as her broken wings can carry her.

It's Time For Cherries Jubilee, Southern Rock Style

Them Southern boys sure know how to whip crowds into a frenzy, don't they. Lynyrd Skynyrd may have created the template, but if you look carefully you'll notice there are some willing students of the class aching to soak up whatever deep fried influence they can. Hailing from Edmonton, Kentucky, Black Stone Cherry go full on nasty with "Me and Mary Jane" which promises to get you excited enough to tear some apparel from your body if not someone else's. The early going riff 'n' raunchiness festival instigated by lead vocalist/lead guitarist Chris Robertson apologizes to no one. Don't expect much subtlety. Crank the volume up to eleven like a good little heathen and let the cards fall where they may. Chris aces straddling the line between wholesale smarmy and technical excellence. His ax bends to reach places a regular joe couldn't, shouldn't, but probably wants to in the worst way. You can't aspire to this pinnacle of buzz without a bass lubing the way. Enter Jon Lawhon who'll grind for as long as you can take the boot knocking. Drummer John Fred Young allows the flavor to last until whenever forever's supposed to be. Someone broke his leash and dared him to run as wild as possible. Mission accomplished. In fairness you'll probably not be able to entirely grasp the weight behind his talent until the closing assault, 4th of July fireworks only earthbound. Mad displays like this take percussion to the next next level. Throughout "Me and Mary Jane" he's adaptable. He wiggles his way through an obstacle course fit for only the fittest. His mates unfurl sex set to playback ready mode and he's right there encouraging balls, bombast, and barnstorming stylized rock. "Magic Mountain" produced Pandora screaming from the box. Plenty of magic to go around. You hanker for a big finish much the same way a gymnast nails the judges attention via a solid dismount. No need to wait that long for pulse accelerating excitement. We should be tossing confetti in the air each time the chorus comes into view. Chris twangs higher higher and then let himself drop back down into the lusty mix he helped create. There are too many footloose references to name without your eyeballs falling out or me getting acute carpal tunnel pounding this out. They tip their gimme caps to Lynyrd Skynyrd early on. Ideal cruise crunching to spare. Chris has a weekend party to crash. As his guitar ascends the ladder he will shortly jump from we know how badly he wants to take the edge off the unplanned dreck his week has dumped on him. Which spirit he and his Mary Jane are getting blitzed on is hardly prime importance domain. Getting there's a supreme delight. You never really expect anyone with a Southern pedigree to mess around, to stand on ceremony on the way to an honest sentiment. Black Stone Cherry doesn't have a use for beating around the bush. Uncork, release, repeat. That's their formula for a legendary night anyone would be glad to say they participated in. "Me and Mary Jane" hits it way out of the park for you, me, and anyone else whose toleration for life shit has his middle finger firmly planted in the upright and locked position.

Get Into Trouble With Tori Amos

Tori Amos is nobody's dummy. She tests your mind in a temptress probing fashion. You won't get away with Cliff's Notes when putting her under the microscope. From "God" to "Spark" to "Caught a Light Sneeze", Tori pulls you out of your comfort zone. To her credit you want to pay closer attention to lyrics. Right from the jump she'll uncork a lyric that gives you pause. In "God"'s case the opening statement is "God sometimes you just don't come through". Not exactly something many would turn and walk away from without some rigorous debate. "Spark" starts with "She's addicted to nicotine patches". Essentially Tori has introduced a curious character who demands further exploration. Bursting onto the scene from her "Unrepentant Geraldines" album is "Trouble's Lament". Dust off the hardback classic literature of yesteryear. Tori's spinning her extremely, dare we say excruciatingly complicated yarns again. Trouble grabs the attention in this theatrical opus. It definitely gets an in-depth back story. One learns early on that she's an orphan of sorts, that she's looking for a home. She had a falling out with Satan (who among us hasn't, right?). How thoughtful it is that it warns her when Danger's on the loose. Sally Field's Sybil would be right at home sipping tea and swapping stories with Tori's British proper gallery of demons. Tori channels her witchcraft from a special "on" inspiration that would have Salemites too intimidated to crucify her for any reason, however justified it may be. Tori's piano,like a witch's brew, stirs and stirs to an agreeable simmer. Not that she's going to have you resting on her creative laurels. The tempo pulls off a nifty change up which leaves pipe and slipper comfy behind, swapping in rugged hair on the chest machismo not out of place at a longstanding rodeo roundup. It's here where the session drummer grabs onto Tori's train of thought, succumbing to the brief ride he's peeking in on. Tori Amos doesn't have a resignation bone in her body. Who else would brashly accuse God of not doing his job properly. Come to think of it how is it that Tori remains in the land of the living after that sassy little exchange? It can't be because He's thinking to himself, "Maybe she has a point". So color me perplexed that Tori insists that her peer group cry no tears over Danger's dogged pursuit. He knows where to find her. She's prepared for whatever tricks it has up its sleeve. If Ke$ha is community college level female performance then Tori represents the suits at Harvard. She doesn't have to stoop to your level. It's you who must meet her mind on her terms. Her high notes sound possessed, not by the devil, but but devil may care submitting to the thrill of artistry. Tori hasn't lost much inner seductress during her twenty years and counting foray into the music business jungle. Yeah, she's not hard on the eyes. Don't ever let that keep you from allowing you to by distracted by the sexiness between her ears. She's carnal lusty orgasm for the Mind Floss magazine set. I take my figurative hat off to her. The trouble she's unleashed could potentially leave us whispering for days. Either she's fully involved or ensconced in some private bungalow reigniting the cosmic magic which makes her tick. The only identifiable trouble is ascertaining what Tori plans to do for an encore. That's also the implied subliminal thrill.

St Paul & The Broken Bones Dial Up a Winner

Vivacious as the dickens is my conclusion from listening to "Call Me" a deeply soulful, if ever too brief joyful noise from Birmingham Alabama seven-piece St Paul & The Broken Bones. Old school technique meets new school charm extending for days. It's very much new school 'cause the boys have only been around since 2012. Leading the charge is vocalist Paul Janeway whose elastic mannerisms make "Call Me" a delightful buzz worthy dazzler that you should stay on the line to hear for as long as possible. We're talking simple, run of the mill phone call but Paul showers it with so much soul you're pretty confident you like the odds that it will bloom into something that makes heads turn and has the special power to do so at any time. Of course it helps to have a dynamic brass section to pack up your pronounced pipes. Paul has a pair of ace teammates in trombonist Ben Griner and trumpet tickler Allen Branstetter. Their handiwork makes for highly exuberant after hours compress with a choice martini background bubbles. Don't think drums aren't getting their turn in the spotlight here. Andrew Lee displays a back beat equal to the task of keeping the festivities in full flower. Brown Lollar lends a steady hand through a guitar complement that has built up the right sweat to assure he isn't over thinking his performance. The pickings are not even close to slim. Buffet portions would be accurate. To my liking this band is pretty athletic. They haven't operated as a unit long enough to have entered the married couple orbit of knowing each other so well that they finish each other's sentences but, that being said, their timing easily clears the impeccable high bar. They're scattering magic across the lounge therefore it's ok for you to loosen the collar and breathe in soul that luck holding out for the guys who quite literally had entered one last chance territory before figuring out that they clicked could become a talked about incandescent palate cleanser that goes far deeper than taste buds. We should breathe a sigh of relief that they didn't decide to abandon the whole music as vocation thing before trying "Call Me" on for size. This number results in shiny, laid back electric grooves any way you slice it. I'm thrilled that sporting an attention grabbing moniker hasn't been spoiled by a sound that lacks pizzazz. Call it a hunch but "Call Me" bodes well for the future success of the full length project "Half the City". This is one soul revival meant to enervate the most numbed off listener.

Theory of a Deadman Drowns Under Bloated Melodrama

Drowning, not exactly the way I'd want to exit this world. Chocolate sundae or french fries maybe but to be submerged under water, left drifting like so many leaves scattered to the wind, gives me the shivers just thinking about it. You can't fault British Columbia four piece Theory of a Deadman for probing that waywardly watery exit clause. There's much mystery behind the mental state possessing someone to walk into the water and keep going until the undertow has him pulled under. "Drown" makes you sick to your stomach with its imminent vitality drain. The heavy weight's definitely been dropped into the cauldron. Why did the agony have to been stretched out taffy pull style when the material isn't glimpse worthy enough to keep our national short attention span extended a hair. The most unflatteringly attention grabbing part of "Drown" is the chorus. That word sounds whined. You want your listeners to taste the surplus bubbles clogging key arteries but whining's too much of a response indicating the physical specimen hasn't graduated to a flight in corpse class. The lady isn't the only one who doth protest too much. Creep factor reigns supreme. Tyler Connolly doesn't sound quite right in the head. This is the type of song where urgent squealing might have served it better. One compliment I'm willing to pay is for the lyrical juxtaposition of sunny skies over what's soon to be a watery grave. A sunny demise couldn't be terribly uncommon. Most of us associate sunny with a certain level of emotional balance. Yin and yang doing the tango, tan lines waiting to be baked into the naked flesh. Nothing is left to the imagination as Tyler gives us graphic footage of the water's hijacking of his organs. As illustrations go Tyler's a fleet-footed word wizard. Alas, it's the chorus which short-circuits any momemtum the unfolding heartbreaking scene serves up for us. Why couldn't Tyler be somewhat disgusted with his plight and screech like the scorned lover found in numerous other musical gems? My lone guess is that Tyler knew full well he wanted to do himself in and therefore didn't bother playing up the melodramatic and, dare we forget sudden taking of his own life. Tyler, along with rhythm guitarist Dave Brenner widen the cold chasm Tyler, zombie like in his focus, resigns himself to. Scary as it sounds Tyler makes drowning sound like a carefree jaunt to parts unknown. "I'm having fun under the sun wishing you were here" shouldn't fool anyone into thinking Tyler out for a basic breathtaking dip in a captivating lake. The pace is stuck on "lumbering". Depending on your point of view that's either agonizingly apt or simply lazy song script. Garnering sympathy for Tyler's doomed anti-hero isn't so easy. The sphere occupied by the players doesn't spit out a hook, line, and sinker characteristic which would make a casual listener or a Theory of a Deadman diehard (yup, play on words intended) sink much energy into hearing Tyler's abbreviated saga out. Dean Back's bass gets submerged under the piled on pathos. Joey Dandeneau's drums get stripped down to afterthought status. He's there to keep the crank turning, nothing more. "SaVages" will hit shelves, iPods, etc... in the first portion of July. With "Drown" opening up the passion play I fear coming up for air after digesting the entire package won't involve much muscle strain.

Seether Wields Its Words Convincingly

I love an album title that gets right to the heart of the matter. A big reason why music, both listening to it and blogging about it, gives me such a heady rush is the art of making an album title. Some are legendary because they make no sense to mere mortals. The Waitresses are a prime example. "Wasn't Tomorrow Wonderful?" could've only been birthed through copious drug use. Why? If tomorrow has yet to exist how can we tell if it's going to be wonderful or not? Other titles tickle me because they serve a wish fulfillment aim of sorts. South African alt-metal maestros Seether give us "Isolate and Medicate" a textbook example of one way to chase away the blahs and blues. Up first from said album is "Words as Weapons", a conceptual statement that pops up over and over again in daily life. One needs look no further than disgraced NBA owner and possible Hugh Hefner wannabe Donald Sterling for proof that this weapon can be socially destructive if it falls into the wrong hands. This hard charging stallion is comment worthy on numerous levels so I'll pop right into the fray. For starters, the direction lead singer Shaun Morgan's vocals take on a chord scale bring up somewhat chilling comparisons (in my embattled mind anyway) to "Mad World" the hypnotizing psychic probe brought to us by Tears For Fears three decades ago and later used as a star making vehicle for very gay, very proud, very fascinating Adam Lambert on American Idol. Whatever happened to that guy (stifled chuckle)? Listen carefully to a portion of the initial lyrics, namely "You keep living in your own lie ever deceitful & ever unfaithful. Then rewind to Curt Smith's defeated claim "All around me are familiar faces, worn out places, worn out faces." You get the same bouncy little progression loop dot-da-da-duh. Difference is Shaun jumps to the lowest rung on the ladder where Curt stumbles down as if he fell from a winding staircase. You have my permission to hint that I should be packed off to a rubber room for making comparisons that couldn't possibly exist except in the mind of some neurotic psychopath. For the record I resent your intimation. I'm not a psychopath (BA DUMP BUM CHING!!) Thanks folks, there's plenty of additional hilarity where that came from. Moving on to added enlightenment "Words as Weapons" scores worthy accolades as an engaging metal dagger to the gut. Reason being that at no point does this trio fail to stay on message. Focus, man. That's what helps put championship banners in the rafters. Seether lures you in, ups the ante, then bombards you with its awe inspiring intensity. The rules are either get out of their way or get trampled. John Humphrey bashes out a battle cry you'd be unwise to bet against. His adrenaline never sinks into the red. To sum up you get tons of miles to the gallon riding along with him. Shaun's singing pulls back from over the ledge histrionics. You don't need Cookie Monster vocals to get your point across the port bow. Shaun passes the test and, if you really want to know, throws some additional leverage into it. Dale Stewart pulls back audience reluctance thanks to an acoustic guitar designed to make frailties addressable. He climbs the fret effortlessly and that allows Shaun's intellectual argument to avoid getting lost in translation. As the trail winds along, John transforms from unbowed soldier to barely composed maniac. The stick tricks inch up in intricacy. John's rage serves to magnify Shaun's merciless ego carvings. Don't inconvenience Mr. Morgan with words honed to a laser sharp fineness. "Words as Weapons" draws blood regularly. Simultaneously it sets the stage for a healing process that promises to grow as it goes.

Big Data Not Even Menacing

Eccentric goes a long way in my book. It jazzes up the day to day so it's personable. In that vein we get New York based electronic twosome Big Data, comprised of Daniel Armbruster and Alan Wilkis. "Dangerous", to put it kindly, is a misleading title unless it was given to us tongue in cheek. Personality it has in spades. What it doesn't have is lasting appeal. The drumbeat is nothing if not consistent, footsteps that tread self-assured wherever they go. The lyrics scream "I'm a paranoid outcast who really doesn't feel at home in this or any other social scene." Much emphasis ls placed on "creeping eyes". Fill in the blank with the prying eyes looking through the window, voyeurism at its most pronounced. Setting the scene is a buzz saw short keyboard mixture that only adds to the enigmatic nature of the vocals. "Watching all my windows" doesn't even closely resemble someone who's content to let anything slide by without at least some analysis. The video is theater of the grotesque odd. Anybody remember Billy Idol's "Eyes Without a Face"? Try face without a face and you'll see how Big Data doesn't have a problem stooping to macabre levels to get its point across. The saying says "Variety is the spice of life". Musically Big Data doesn't bother to add much to the table. Synchronized drum and keys and that's the only thing working its way down your gullet. The bridge deigns to inflect serenity into the pot. Merely a distraction from this oddball creation that isn't really going to have many people whispering about it five years down the line. While we're sniffing this specimen it would help my learning curve if someone were to tell me what "take me to the court" is supposed to mean. Is that a basketball court, a court of law, that arena of the weird where people sometimes try to bring utter ruination to a fellow creature's life? Maybe it's a royal court. An interplanetary language translator would have reaped huge dividends but, alas, no such good luck. For a relative newbie act such as Big Data which has only been active since 2013, a larger lure might have brought huger numbers of ears to the festival. The video has to overcompensate for the unsatisfying soft pencil job "Dangerous" does as a single. Big Data's artistic focus is the increasingly complex relationship between humans and technology. The eerie uneasiness takes up residence in the song's unsteady beating heart. On the plus side "Dangerous" doesn't suffer from an identity crisis. Yet there's a crisis touched off by a song that is tentative about asserting said identity. Certain personalities in your life you remember long after the last time you see them. "Dangerous" won't leave anyone thinking its creators are steeled for anything other than a fast fade. It barely breaks the skin. To add to that Big Data seem a little late to the conclusion that man and machine have this increasingly complex dynamic going on. The way new technologies sprout up practically overnight we've long since left complex waving its handkerchief at us on the dock as the rest of us sail off seeking even bigger seismic shifts. In 21st Century America you don't even have time to adjust to the last innovation before the latest one pops into view. Dangerous? No. Toothless? Hate to admit to it but, yeah. These observations leave me declaring that, at least at this moment, Big Data is no big deal.

Resist the Temptation To Label Sebastian Bach a Has-Been

Personally I always thought of Sebastian Bach as a miniature version of Axl Rose in the screeching vocals department. Doubt that I have a point? Flash back to "Welcome To The Jungle". Then take a listen to Skid Row's "Youth Gone Wild". Both guys had the don't give a crap chip on their shoulders which made their contributions to the '80s metal scene so memorable. Only difference I can think of between the two is Axl's pipes sound like he blunted them with a chainsaw whereas Sebastian's resemble the finished work of well applied sandpaper. No matter whether he's making news with his acid tongue or his still savage skill in front of a mike stand, Sebastian remains a force of nature. It would be wrong to accuse him of having mellowed out since he hit his forties. Anybody who comes to the party with an album called "Give 'Em Hell" should not be considered fit for pasture land. Possibly contextually linked with said title is "Temptation", a perspiration laced number that shows off Bach's intensity both in wicked wail or bottled huskiness. To be sure I believe the gunslingers Sebastian has backing him pack a larger punch than Skid Row did back in its heyday. It wouldn't be out of place to say the guitarist's work is downright lecherous. The drummer maximizes his poundings so you're certain that migraine saddled metal hangover couldn't far around the corner. If there is a tamed side to the tiger it appears during the chorus. Sebastian can go from shiver inducing to sexually provocative before you've had the chance to blink an eye. He's on the short list of hard rock/metal vocalists who don't let you out of their sights even when their voices aren't slicing your insides to ribbons (begging your pardon if you were sitting to dinner right as I typed that last autopsy unsettling passage). What did you expect from a guy who can now add performing in legitimate theater to his list of talents. Apparently pissing people off with his Twitter feeds also ranks as some sort of talent. But back to the "Temptation" at hand. The video is crudely calculated to appeal to the basest hormones in us. We have to wait forty seconds before the nails come out. When they do the construction job leaves nary a chipped sliver of paint unattended to. If hair metal leaves you weak in the knees the fashion sense has held steady. Specifically that Adonis like flaxen hair surges to and fro. His stylist must be getting a butt load of money to successfully insure the upkeep on those follicles. "Temptation" demonstrates that inhaling Sebastian's essence is, as the title hints, irresistible. Call it narcissistic if you want but I do appreciate when the artist appears genuinely excited about the product he's putting out. Sebastian praises it wildly like some proud papa who thinks his kid could beat up everyone else's on the playground. If you give into "Temptation" you'll be rewarded handsomely for your efforts.

Timeflies Dispenses An Above Average After Hours Cocktail

After "Start It Up Again", the first track off of Boston based duo Timeflies' "After Hours" kicked into gear there I was muttering to myself "Oh great. The latest pre-processed hip hop party in a box window dressing gussied up to look awe-inspiring." Could you fault me for my pessimism? Waiting in track 3 was T-Pain who's responsible for "Low" to the consternation of some and to the giddy delight of others. That was hard to get out of your system. Trouble is I'm not guessing the great majority wanted it in there in the first place. Billboard said #1. Doesn't mean the grand total veered towards universal thumbs up. Katie Sky, another myth making celeb was nestled within track 6. Off to the urban side of the tracks. I have so many frequent flier miles from visiting that slab of terrain that most of the major air carriers should not only be giving me discounts but fill my mailbox with seasonal Christmas cards complete with adorable kith and kin mug shots. Those sentiments embodied Rockin' Robert before "After Hours". You know something? Rockin' Robert after "After Hours" has softened his stance considerably. No, you won't get fresh perspective on modern life from a roll in the hay with Rob "Rez" Resnick and Cal Shapiro. The reward that does await is an above average hodgepodge of both shindig enhancing heady times beats and gentler acoustic gilded homages to man's potential to be sensitive. Rob and Cal are the twin engines that make Timeflies go but Katie Sky is of considerable worth to "Monsters". If you just finished the worst day, weel, month, or decade of your life Katie's the one you'd want in your corner. She stresses that it takes bravery to stand up to problems, your own or that of your peer group, and then vow to scare them away. This track is calibrated for maximum conviviality. Nothing seems insurmountable with Katy's shawl softness draped around your shoulders. Those of you who are on Team T-Pain, you won't regret your affiliation. Mr. Pain has the right steamy setting to throw down his lyrical know-how. Coming to represent track 3 his word waxing exemplifies the necessary contrast between sexually emboldened hip hop and making hay while the sun shines jubilation brought to the fore by track 1, "Start It Up Again" and track 2, "All We Got Is Time". Table any claims that Rob and Carl are phoning anything in. Ma Bell would shake her head in incredulity if you did. Cal isn't revelation personified but his vocals don't lack for sincere, honestly intended male sensitivity. "Fall" is a song you learn to fall into, as if you were the test guinea pig for a team building exercise. In order not to lose your mind you must first learn how to relinquish control. Lots of acoustic wholesomeness to fill your seldom satisfied belly. "I Choose U" returns to the arena of "Everybody needs love." Been there, heard that. The messenger is debonair enough to keep doors from being slammed in his face though. "Swoon" likes the skin it's in. Furthermore it's not shy in letting you know how badass it claims to be. "Yeah" is marigold yellow heartwarming. A feather in the cap of each song that leans heavily on programmed magic to keep the show progressing in a winning fashion is the beats aren't stuck on trademark foot stamping. "Crystal Ball" could've easily been plucked from the blueprints of an Aladdin's Castle arcade video game, circa 1982. "Beast" knows where to aim its intense snarl. "Alkaline", the closing number for this sojourn to the bar cradles human vulnerability in its hands and demands you pay attention. Our shortcomings are brought into focus on a deep molecular level. Timeflies successfully avoids being lumped in the controlling volume of street walking hip-hoppers under the delusion that one needs only dot their albums with wee hour revelry to keep hip-hop on the frontlines of the cultural battlefield. "After Hours" isn't the best cocktail you've consumed but the aftertaste leaves you under the impression you spent some time with a pair of good listeners.

Nico & Vinz Have The Right Idea

Vitality abounds on Norwegian duo Nico & Vinz's "Am I Wrong?". They know how to settle into a vocal range that works wonders for them and as a result for we the people getting our first listen. There's not a blasted thing about the tune that's anything other than lightning harnessed in a bottle. What a crackerjack group of session musicians backing them up. Horns gleam as if they were fresh polished and delivered to the studio yesterday. The guitars are fancy free, content to go where Nico & Vinz's ambitions take them. Percussion gives your toes the extra tapping they need to be released from surface world troubles. The two of them started performance life as Envy which is what you have every right to feel. They maintain purpose. It comes through at that spot in the diaphragm where breath comes easily but with a pronounced kind of authority. The question posed on "Am I Wrong?" are common to many of us. Ours is a culture where it offends the powers that be if someone dares think outside the box. Nico & Vinz question if it's wrong to cut loose from those stifling parameters. The individuality that either makes or breaks us assumes a prominent role in the discussion. Kind of brings you back to a maternal conversation where she asks, "If your friends were jumping off a bridge, would you do it, too?" Nico & Vinz clearly opt to set themselves apart from the pack even if the pack turns up its collective nose. They are prepared to fall, get back up, and keep going after whatever prize they seek. It's easier said than done this call to walk the walk and don't look back. Such is both the history lesson and cosmic curse of having a past that comes with having walked a mile in your shoes. It's still wisdom worth drowning out the din to listen to. "Am I Wrong?" is personal affirmation brought to the highest mountain. Think about the many pieces of yourself you often have to comprise in this corporate go along to get along universe. Anybody who manages to scrape together any semblance of their honor deserves a medal of valor. If your kids or wives aren't demanding something, then it's likely the boss whose apparent job is to wad up your will to live and toss it mean-spiritedly back in your face. Nico & Vinz boldly predict world domination. I like the strong upward projection of their aims/ambitions. These guys may sing to the heavnens but their wingtips are firmly planted on terra firma. The boundaries, forced or self-inflicted that they strive to escape don't stand a chance in the face of a restorative dance worthy return to one's true identity. "Am I Wrong?" might not have the trappings of luxury the way a trip to the day spa would, but the inner cleansing you receive justifies time spent, responsibilities postponed. They aren't wrong to question, to defy labels, to follow the path that suits them best, to come by their truth honestly. My hat's off to them for being the masterminds of a song that purges toxins from head to foot. It's textbook right place right time.

Birds of Tokyo Light The Way With "Lanterns"

A steady influence in life is important. It can come from a variety of places. Perhaps the teacher who made you love to learn? Quite possibly the friend you can't live without? Aussie stars in training (hopefully to them I presume) Birds of Tokyo, in springing "Lanterns" on the discriminating (or not) public, show they're capable of extending a steady hand through delicate lyrical pieces that fit to make an equilibrium establishing whole. If Birds of Tokyo was the embodiment of a parenting style it would most likely be firm backing up of one's beliefs instead of the less appetizing spare the rod, spoil the child mentality. The unknown can be intimidating. We stick with the devil we know rather than the devil we don't. "Lanterns" epitomizes the slow inhibition loosening pied piper affirmation that's perfect when a day's rough edges are a bit too unwieldy. Ian Kenny sings peacefully. He's respectful of the buttons you don't want pushed anytime too soon. The march Birds of Tokyo has us participating in isn't sprint race short but you grasp that they'll get you there somehow someway. Glen Sarangpany plays a featured role largely because his keyboard playing spreads soft twinkles across the highest limits of the musical depth of field (Sue me. I had a photography class in college. Has to be some spot I can drop a cool reference point from those faintly halcyon days, right?). Argument can be made that you could get your fussy two year old to bring down the volume upon a solid listen to this inescapably touchable effort. Cinema enthusiasts know Sybil had multiple personalities. Birds of Tokyo has two faces named Ian. With any luck, and as my old Magic 8-Ball might put it succinctly, "All signs point to yes". both of them have their wits about them the majority of the time. You've heard me chat about Ian the vocalist. There's also Ian "Whitegoods" Berney, bass player who's the unwavering oar powering this cosmos spanning canoe. A great deal gets said without making the mistake of leaving the amplifiers set to "puree". In the two's company vein you've already been introduced to I give you two Adams, one being the guitarist Adam Spark (please let that not be a stage name!!) and the other drummer Adam Weston. His brand of stick smacking comes as a fine palate cleanser on the heels of many a muscle flexing power display other drummers unleash, kicking subtlety to the curb and warning us never to tangle with them again. Tap after gracefully executed tap. The working parts of Birds of Tokyo achieve optimum sync. Now about them there words. Each drop of youth emphasized potential allows this craft to maintain steady course regardless of the turbulent waters up ahead. We're not privy to the final act of this particular tale but we know, when the time is right, these lads will stand for who they are. "The weight of being so much more" plays up possibilities yet to be realized. Many's the youngster, either through bloodline or self-inflicted madness, who carries the heavy weight of expectations on his shoulders. Motivating factors aren't a bad thing so long as words of encouragement emerge from somewhere. "Lanterns" paints a consistent picture of four guys offstage, crooking their benevolent fingers, urging us to walk the path with them. At story's end some magical surprise could make us glad we exerted the extra effort. We won't know until we pick a course to follow. "Lanterns" is the initial offering from the Perth pack's fourth album "March Fires." It's unquestionably okay to stand in the glow of this light. Whatever edge your day has had, "Lanterns" does a fine job of slowly peeling it off.

Winger's New Ride Low on Spark

As I bet most of you are fully aware, the heyday of the heavy metal party ended long ago. Band members either got married, got religion, got families, or some steadying mix of the three. Even still here in 2014 Winger wants to pretend it's 1989 again. "Seventeen" is a real guilty pleasure type clinic in riffs. You wouldn't speak of liking it around the water cooler. Your girlfriend wouldn't be too comfortable with it, particularly since cradle robbing is the subject matter. The lure was how sleazy it got as well as how much sick pleasure could be had wallowing around in the muck with the guys. Reb Beach's guitar solo soared at speeds no radar gun could do justice to. Kip Winger relished in being the perv. A likable craftsmanship carried "Seventeen" into Billboard Magazine's Top 20. 25 years on these guys haven't lost their technical proficiency. It troubles me to inform you that what it's in service of is passe at best, unintentionally chuckle worthy at worst. Everybody's entitled to a fine romp in the hard rock way back machine. You could pick a better vacation spot than the band's new "Midnight Driver of a Love Machine". Are Kip and his pals trying to be stone cold serious? Is Reb's occasionally jarring selection of sounds hinting at living on the razor's edge danger. Are they merely trying to get through the recording session so they can cash their royalty checks faster? Mystery men can be exciting. Mystery material is annoying like a gnat buzzing in your ear. You'd like for a deciding moment to emerge so you can get on with your life but Winger's too tongue in cheek bad ass to grant you mercy. Any more writhing sex games and Trojan condoms would've had to have been made the corporate sponsor. Relax, blog buds. You'll get an explanation. Motley Crue or Judas Priest wouldn't seem too ridiculous uttering these quasi-immortal words but originating from the crawl space close to Kip Winger's uvula they're trying way too hard to convince anyone who'll listen that yeah, it's still OK to admit to liking Winger. "She starts her motor when the sun goes down" doesn't require me to connect the dots for you, does it? "Her body rocks this place like she's from outer space" meets the requirement for that unintentionally chuckle worthy title I alluded to earlier. Kip knew what he was getting into so no pity for you, suspended in adolesence no longer so young man. How about a little love in lyric land for the couch potatoes? "By remote control she'll save your soul". Barcalounger loungers rejoice. Kip's got the arousal inducing remedy you desire. Are you really going to cop a boner with the likes of "She runs on sex and gasoline. She's the midnight driver of a love machine?" If that was any cheesier the Wisconsin Dairy Board would probably demand a third of the net profits. On the flip side the fine folks employed there would likely have the presence of mind to send Kip and his band thank you notes. I bet they weren't expecting Winger to up their profile a hair. Predictably for a song called "Midnight Driver of a Love Machine" a feverish clip is the star attraction. Winger's tripled parked but who really knows or cares where they're dying to get to. If you needed appeasement, here it comes. Yes, Reb Beach remains a mighty guitar slinger. Metal years flashbacks good. Old enough to know better glory period salivating bad. High school reunions can be among the most social awkward experiences you'll ever have. The 2014 version of Winger lands right in that wheelhouse. "Better Days Comin'" is their hot off the drawing board album. "Midnight Driver of a Love Machine" could have benefited from a tune-up before hitting the open road. A better song comin' this isn't.

Avenged Sevenfold's War Drags On a Bit Too Long

Epic metal songs are as much a part of the genre as long blonde tresses or skin tight jeans. When performed right they take you inside the molten center of a band. Think "Enter Sandman" or "Nothing Else Matters" from Metallica's "Black" album. How could you not get chills down the neck from "Sandman"? Sure it helped that the video was lousy with the various landscapes people explore in a dream world such as snakes and falling but the song was so eerie that the video was a mere cherry on the psychotic sundae. In contrast "Nothing" was massively inspired because you got an up close and personal sense of the band's esprit de corps. They combined their trademark power licks with about as gentle a touch as you're likely to ever hear in a Metallica song. What I'm driving at is there are some bands whose image lends itself well to long, Citizen Kane saga material. Avenged Sevenfold isn't exactly in that league. Their current rock chart climber "This Means War" could've been edited by a few minutes and still lost no octane. Instead vocalist M. Shadows and his posse lead us through the trenches as it were. Not a whit of angst is spared. In most metal circles that's not a bad thing. Here it veers into the arena of posturing, high drama short on the climactic payoff that would make repeated listening the only logical next step. Synyster Gates is given plenty of room to work his guitar god wonders whether as the backbone of the song or the wise guy laying waste to a solo that had to have been chemically enhanced on some level. Arin Ilejay drums with an iron fist. His is an exercise in conserved energy. He'll only contribute at the pressure points where it's needed. Johnny Christ's snarling bass lets you know you're not exactly experiencing friendly fire. "This Means War" is lifted from the foursome's "Hail To The King" album. After the sessions for this song what's left defies the needed economic jolt that comes with knowing we got value for the money. Avenged Sevenfold has its fangs armed for bear but there isn't enough blood to fit the context. M. Shadows lives up to his last name this go 'round. What he communicates leaves he and us standing in the shadows. It's not easy to watch a man slowly but surely come unglued. Mr. Shadows is unraveling and we'd be more likely to offer condolences if he and his band didn't keep their collective foot off the gas so much. M.'s wounds are ever fresh, always in need of a cathartic mix to lessen the reliably nagging sting. He salutes his ugly side rather nicely. The surrounding dialogue tells us to what degree the psychological scars equate to a grenade going off in the solider's head. No way you can mistake the unrelenting cruelty of "mental holocaust". Essentially says survivors are nowhere to be found. Another sobering admitting of defeat comes with "I left me long ago". How truly devastating it is when you look in the mirror and the guy staring back at you appears unrecognizable. As warranted as empathy is in each nook and cranny of "This Means War" the content doesn't compensate for the instruments and their insistence on a grinding, churning out way too much for so little reward pace. "Enter Sandman" left you begging for the victimized dreamer to wake up so he could be reminded his skull was playing tricks on him, a set of optical illusions in a very minor key. "This Means War" only makes you want to nag M. Shadows to either take a pill, log some couch time, or man up. Action decides direction. Unmasked mewls of pain only get you so far. His pain is vivid. If only the dam were allowed to burst behind him. "This Means War" shouldn't be regarded as anything other than a minor rock skirmish. The whites of their eyes flat out don't grab much attention.

Jack White's "Lazaretto" Appeals On Multiple Levels

Jack White steps into the role of mad chemist with his new single "Lazaretto", the title track from his June release. He's got the Dr. Jekyll strut and unhinged Mr. Hyde angles working equally well. Don't you wish the higher level of social encounters were this all-inclusive? Are you browsing for something in a smoking guitar persuasion? Jack's getting you hooked up. Is bass your thing? A funkier scene you will never make. Perhaps you like some crackle on your drums? Surprise!! That's part of this highly arousing package as well. The mid-song guitar solo flexes its biceps before you, daring you to turn away, the perspiration dripping off the chest. Yes, if you must taste hints of keyboard you won't be turned away from the feast harrumph heavy disappointed. A mere human couldn't have the sense of precision Jack has with them. At this rate I'm going to be so caught up in the first act of Jack's career that I won't even have time to catch my breath long enough to realize we're now staring at the second act. Cards on the table I swear. "Lazaretto" is genius, backwards and front. The universe needs to prepare to say its most sincere thank you when he exits the building. This song is a shining example of what people can do when they get inspired to put their best foot forward. Jack's obviously multi-talented. He gives each instrument its own showcase wing. The bass starts things off in pulse pounding fashion with a little bit of panties off thrown in for good measure. The keyboards wander in knowing there's no place they'd rather be. After "Lazaretto" has cleared the half-way marker, the fun slows down so you can lick your chops at molecular level force of nature awesomeness. But don't nap on the remainder of the ditty because soon it's off to the races we go again. Where does Jack find leftover juice to ply his mandolin. A magician never bares his secrets. That's okay. The fun comes from knowing there's some mystery behind his madness. Notice that I haven't even gotten to the words that come tumbling out of the wunderkind's mouth. Rest assured the oddball persona of the words match the oddball persona of the song structure. God gets a fist bump a few times. Makes sense since, like I said, this beauty isn't the work of your garden variety bloke. Entering the dialogue is God as a female. She has fewer plans than he does. Nice to see Jack wants to race to the finish line, exhausted yet unquestionably satisfied with the voyage. Do I completely get what he's talking about (insert Gary Coleman as Arnold Drummond line here)? Not exactly, but I'm too caught up in the frenzy to pick nits. So what is a lazaretto you ask aside from a cool looking Italian sculpted word? Promise you won't retract your appreciation for the song after you hear the answer? Good deal. It's an isolation hospital for people with infectious diseases, especially leprosy and the plague. In other words wholesome family entertainment. Guess that would explain the tormented side bubbling from the cauldron. I shall select a passage from The Book of Jack to put in bold focus how quizzical his newly christened beast truly is. "And all of my illegitimate kids have begotten. Thrown down to the wolves, made Pharaoh for nothin'. Quarantine on the Isle of Man and I'm trying to escape any way that I can." Plain English to me. So what if you're scratching your head at the lyrics like some poor soul with the worst dandruff problem in the history of hair. Dr. Jekyll's running the show. Mr. Hyde's a mere wing man on standby. "Lazaretto" has something in common with Goldilocks' verdict on Baby Bear's porridge. Tastes just right. You'll want your best cutlery knife and for good measure, a well-traveled fork. "Lazaretto" drops jaws with its multiple personality masterstrokes. As unsettling as the voices seem you don't mind delving deeper. Your efforts won't go unrewarded.