High Praise Hard To Come By For Tom Petty

Tom Petty is a true legend among songwriters. His band The Heartbreakers has been helping him keep the indescribably cool melodies going since the decade of disco. Lest I be considered a blasphemer for saying anything not even close to flattering about the man's work I want to inch carefully into this conversation. Tom's one of the few individuals who could make reading the ingredients off a cereal box sound like the highest of high art. However, "You Get Me High" as is closed to phoned in as I can remember him being. As usual The Heartbreakers excel at musicianship. What else do you expect from a band with such an illustrious history. Even still, the guys backing Tom are covering up that fact that he's merely setting an average sounding conversation to a rock steady bang. The song is from the Floridian tribe's "Playback" box set. It has never been part of the fabric of a Tom Petty album be it solo or with The Heartbreakers. I regret to say I can see why. Tom's back story assures me complacency is not part of his vocabulary. I suppose you could say after 38 years the chance to coast is well deserved. Tom's reliable way around a story gives me no reason to think he is sliding along right now, giving the paying customers what they want, expect, and/or demand, no more no less. A new Heartbreakers album "Hypnotic Eye" is due later in the year. Perhaps "You Get Me High" was only meant as a nibble to tide people's appetites for when the full banquet comes to the table. As it stands "You Get Me High" more closely resembles agreeable background filler that allows Tom to basically pop off some laid back dialogue that any beer juiced Southern boy could do as easily. For the duration of the band's career Benmont Tench has been nothing short of the Rock of Gibraltar for Tom. Again his inspiring mastery of the piano helps one forgive that sort of lackadaisical vocal style. Mike Campbell, the other steady presence since '76 ensures bass doesn't get relegated to the province of afterthought. Steve Ferrone, the drum delivery boy since 1995 (pre '95 Stan Lynch manned that battle station but his way of being the resident schmuck in the band got him tossed) packs punch behind the pads, once again a huge relief since the only communication going on at the mike involved packs of menthol, beer, and the drugged out haze of conversation which rolls on for hours. Not that there's nothing noble for that social scene but what makes that conversation the necessary part of something Tom Petty breathed life into? Specifically the third stanza, an infectious cigarette fog already permeating the atmosphere, revolves around Tom getting a female companion to expand her cigarette horizons a bit. It's time for her to explore the wild world of menthol. They went from a pack to an individual cut away menthol over the course of half a stanza. Whether with beer or Pall Malls Tom's an equal opportunity druggie. Tom's not satisfied with merely singing the title. In fact that's nowhere to be found. He virtually spells it out. True he also did that somewhat on his solo hit "Won't Back Down" but in that instance he was singing, not mouthing them as if they were tablets sent on high from Mt. Fill In The Blank Here. "You Get Me High" isn't an insufferable place to visit. Problem is once you arrive the conversation goes in a circle that only die hard partakers of smokes and foam based beverage would insist go on for the many hours Tom devotes to it. In short, "You Get Me High" is an artistically empty low. Let's cross our fingers that "Hypnotic Eye" will remind us of why Tom and buds have had this rock 'n' roll gig stoked for so long.

Put Your Hands Together For Charli XCX's "Boom Clap"

Youth under extreme adversity, in this case a doctor's diagnosis of the dreaded "Big C" demands a movie soundtrack that digs beneath the heart-rending situation to unearth the hope that still has a chance to grow. British 21 year-old Charli XCX does her part with her contribution to "The Fault In Our Stars", "Boom Clap". Nothing about the single hints at anything besides stand fast in the face of danger. As has been immortalized through song many other times, it is love that proves an elixir capable of reassuring that yes, dawn does appear after the darkness. The time machine is clearly set on '80s alt rock as Charli works sorcery The Cure would likely approve of. As is true for Robert Smith's fade to black fashion sense, Charli's feisty vocals make their way to where you're most vulnerable. From there even though you don't know where the artist is taking you, like with any quality action movie, you're willing to suspend disbelief until the murkiness gives way to a scenario you can make peace with. For this review I'm going to point out how many instances Charli's lyrics enable the inhibited to break free from their shells. Right off the top "picture perfect blue" is a trustworthy icebreaker. "Sunbathing on the moon" definitely shows not only how cosmic opposites attract but follow a tranquil logical progression. As eerie as the imagery can be given it is youth cancer we're talking about "stars shining as your bones illuminate" does put a positive spin on a potential cobblestone road to hell you wouldn't exactly wish on anybody. "drug" and "magic in my veins" continue the ICU inclinations but do so in a manner where you're assured a rooting section is waiting at the other end of the chemo cavalcade. You probably have heard of the slogan "Stand Up To Cancer" At Charli's chorus her attitude places that defiance head and shoulders above the young amorousness. It's one step, then another step, then another. Before we know it this trip has proven to have paid for itself in karmic wealth. "Boom clap, the sound of my heart, the beat goes on and on and on". There's fragility in spades. There's also no shortage of the real commitment true blue friends and white hot budding lovers show each other. Unplugged for a brief spell Charli's appeal only ups the ante to reach full bloom. Charli first caught the public's eye and for the matter is undoubtedly continuing to do so as co-conspirator on Iggy Azalea's Billboard chart topper "Fancy". In planning and execution that title tells the only story you'd ever need to bone up on. "Boom Clap" tells it like it is. That's the thing about youngsters of all stripes. They can be cruel, but at their best they understand loyalty before they've had a chance to figure out what the dictionary definition of the word is. There's no fault whatsoever in putting Charli on the roster of "The Fault In Our Stars". We'd be wise to put our hands together for the executive decision that led to Charli getting a phone call. Synth and drums join forces adroitly. Retreat isn't in this particular deck of cards. Charli lowers the boom on any would be cancer survivor too despondent to avoid putting his/her tail between his/her legs. Down does not equal out. You remember that when you hear this song and you'll resume embracing life at the expense of cheapening it with endless "what ifs".

OK Go Writes Up a Brilliantly Colorful New Tune

Bouncy pop high on sass. That's a apt enough description for "The Writing's On The Wall", the latest from recent LA transplants OK GO. I say "transplants because their original home base was Chicago, Illinois. FYI that's a city in my home state, Bloomington being my birth city. Damian Kulash treats us to singing meant to sustain your energy. As power pop goes it certainly does rate high on the user friendly scale. If you're not dazzled by the accompanying music video unabashed creativity then I feel sorry for you. Whoever told you you have a soul misled you cruelly. Why does it not surprise me they went all out in putting it together. This is the band responsible for leaving us the famous/legendary/quizzical treadmill video for "Here It Goes Again". I do believe you're witnessing a multi-faceted jigsaw puzzle popping into place. But back to the song it goes part and parcel with. The way Andy Ross frosts this pastry with a luscious mix of keyboard and guitar has plenty of shelf life to back it up. The chorus is very engaging. True we're wading back into "Woo hoo" territory but still they knew what to do with the "woo hoo" if you catch my meaning (please say yes!). The chords OK Go opts to use are reliably consistent until late in the game when they do that drop an octave magic trick I never tire of. Damian's the guy you want tugging at your heartstrings. How so? Damian and lover have had a rough go lately. In his defense he has highly honest, noble intentions. You don't suspect him of fleeing to higher ground at the first sign of trouble. "It seems like forever since we had a good day", claims Damian. He wants his gal pal's eyes to be pleasure-filled. No doubt there's genuine sparkle to be had. Dan Konopka keeps his drumming spunky like the love match that's unfolding before us. Damian gets too hot, his girl gets too cold. They fall apart. Not a recipe for long term cohabitation success. After the second round of the chorus skitters into the rear view we get a very nice body mind juxtaposition. "Then you bring your mind to rest against mine but the mind has no say on affairs of the heart. That's what I call mind meld. Thoughtful lyric with an equally thoughtful conclusion to boot. The video never ceases to be busy. Watching their imaginations run wild is pleasing through and through. Its conclusion is as clever as the boys who were game soldiers during its creation. Its degree of mechanical ingenuity can draw comparison to the eye teasing glory of a Rube Goldberg device. You want to follow them with binoculars as they extend their flight of fancy. "The Writing's On The Wall" is stripped down sass pop. The meet in the middle artistic vision makes perfect sense. You'd be happy to take Damian out for a bite or, for you easily excitable femmes, a nibble on his ear as he coos reassurance to you. The album "Hungry Ghosts" won't be available for download until, appropriately enough, October, just in time for the Halloween treat the music lover in your life isn't expecting. Word for word, "The Writing's On The Wall" manages to scare up some appreciated vivaciousness.

Don't Forget To Place Ed Sheeran In Your IPod Shuffle

Ed Sheeran's way around a dance hook and a nice cup of tea have something in common. The two are very approachable. "Don't" succeeds in laying on significant charm which is only going to help the man's overall cred both on and off the street. Upping his likability quotient here are nasty rhythms that don't make you shudder in their presence. This is all in good fun, as Ed indicates from one connecting rod to the next. If cute percussion is your thing you came to the right place. Ed also inserts some winsome piano licks that wouldn't sound out of place on a Maroon 5 single, a compliment if ever I could offer it. "Don't zeroes in on Ed trying to avoid a romantic tryst he'd just as soon do without since hers is one cold heart of hearts. As one might expect from an early twentysomething gent the sexual content is highly innocent at its core. Thrown in, among other things are gin and a takeaway pizza. She craves time between the sheets but also wonders why she didn't come out and ask for it before. The great Aretha Franklin receives a sweet name drop even though I wouldn't classify Ed as contributing to the soul fabric she has plenty of yarn attached to. Seriously, "Don't is best served up as part of the infancy stage of a relationship. The chorus, centering around the highly pointed directive "Don't fuck with my love", doesn't lack for that sweet spot encompassing blush worthiness and hip shaking due to the dance friendly framework. Any guy who puts Ron Weasley of Hogwarts in one of his videos can't be lacking in taste by that wide a margin. Ed's female co-protagonist has a real problem with how much distance she wants to keep between them. For openers the text message route is all she can manage. Before long she's staying at his place and "loves the way I treat her", quoth Ed. If "Don't were to be compared to a sporting activity I'd think wrestling is the closest match. Much of the content is about establishing whether the two of them should be avoiding the five foot perimeter of closeness or pushing their relationship to something resembling a next level. In a sense that justifies the macho/feminine mixture of sound that is bound to get you shuffling your feet a little bit. That way you can digest both his and her perspective. From the frequent flier miles they log they manage to keep busy anywhere and everywhere. "Four cities, two planes the same day"? Rigorous scheduling only recommended if you've got the horses in your tank to keep up. Time and again "Don't wavers between off again and off again dalliance. He's not happy she took another to bed. She comes off as one serious basket case. The reward comes in watching both of them grappling for position. Eventually this tilt ends in a draw. Such is the course of young love. There's still that unshakable rush buoyed by emotions that won't always fit the situation they're connected to. In other words, the hullabaloo doesn't fit the degree of intimacy they're presently favoring. Luckily Ed's easily homestyle charm can win us over while they decide whether there's any shit left to get together. They'll agonize, you can get lost in the quirky chord progressions. After that last drop of tea wriggles to the bottom of your gullet you can wish Ed and his issue-prone ladylove a concerned but nonetheless fond farewell. "Don't" racks up points as a winning number in the equation known as his "X" ("Multiply") album. You'll know you had a soothing beverage after you get up from this table. Don't forget to invest some prized quality time on it.

Rise Against Teeters On The Brink of a Fall

The boys in Chicago's brethren Rise Against sure don't sound like happy campers if the none too subtle hints dropped on "I Don't Wanna Be Here Anymore" are any indication of the color of their collective mood ring. Right out front I'm impressed with how they shift gears from the opening notes which feature your standard solid rock crispiness to the sawed off aggression influential bands like Blag Flag would approve of wholeheartedly. At that moment MPH is front and center on their priority list. Toss in how fed up they are with the way the world is spinning and you'll hear my point of how Rise Against is ready to turn in its walking papers and exit the planet Earth. Vocalist Tim McIlrath gives wing to his outfit's frustration. For many of us getting out of bed in the morning, positive motivation in hand is no mean feat. On quite a few rungs higher than the so called so many words Tim kicks those makeshift reasons and rationales to the curb. Existential angst has him and his mated by the nut sack. The oxygen gets thinner. The walls grow thin. Were it not for the regular tempo change-ups throughout "I Don't Wanna Be Here Anymore" you could easily dismiss this effort is Willy Loman Death of a Salesman ranting, the screeches of an oaf with too much pride to go quietly but not enough backup support to carry through on his threats of tangible change in his life or that of anyone else around him. Whatever intensity level you crave, it's right here. You're also granted passages where you can catch your breath long enough to confirm that yes, Tim's really that out on the last limb. At the bridge Zach Blair draws blood and snidely allows it to run deep without so much as a hint of calling in the ambulance squad for help. Reliable as always drummer Brandon Barnes pounds the message home in case it hadn't sunk in convincingly enough already. Tim's dismissive tone isn't necessarily uncommon. This earth has been labeled paradise, but many of us "endure" as Tim does. Often it feels like a paradise in which the haves slap the have-nots around which requires you have a steel will to get through let alone partake of any of the sumptuous scenery. Tim doesn't find anything worth staying for. That's not an encouraging sign. Many attempts at suicide likely start with this harrowing if not necessarily reality-based claim. Many of us try to "fight the good fight". We play by society's role hoping somewhere perseverance topped off with a healthy dose of moral fiber will elevate us to bigger and possibly better things. The hope and illusion don't likely match though. "I Don't Wanna Be Here Anymore" comes to us from the forthcoming "The Black Market" release. This first salvo certainly has the black sphere of darkness covered. Joe Principe locks in his bass to eviscerate mode. No prisoners can expect to be taken. Their group exhaustion is hard to miss. Tim awaits his rebirth but realizes he has to disappear to get those seeds sown. Another common artistic theme is the search to locate "a better way". I don't think in the 43 years and change period I've been rotating on the planet with y'all that I've ever gotten some clarification on what that better way is comprised of. No quibble I guess. Simply added fuel to Rise Against's inextinguishable fire. Conceptually it's been said before. Musically it spews plenty of venom. It's delivered in a prickly package you'll cotton to before the last chords play out. "I Don't Wanna Be Here" wants to capture your attention for the fleeting time you and I have to pay attention to much of anything substantive. Their artfully manipulated meltdown is worth sticking around for.

PSY and Snoop Cause An Aspirin Worthy Hangover

Looks like Mr. "Gangnam Style" gets 5 extra minutes of fame. Too bad it's being squandered on a straight to the landfill excrement slab like "Hangover". The digitized voice treatment only makes it worse. Snoop Dogg deserves a better dance partner than this. If only the song involved the same level of eye-popping detail the video has then maybe we wouldn't be rifling off the demerits at this point. To add extra fuel to the barf ignited fire the synthesizers explore varying methods of irritation. You have the Katy Perry larger than life synth. There's the infant formula dropper plinking keyboards here, there, and everywhere across Snoop Dogg's rapping which is about the only positive going here. I'll admit since I don't drink I'm not the best judge of what makes a great drinking song but really I think "Hangover" is so ridiculous that they should use it as part of AA meetings. That would make even a lifetime drunk reach for moo juice in no time flat. To anyone (and I gather to most of the planet that applies) who knows a hangover's sting I doubt a hangover is that much of an experience worth re-living. The coffee industry gets a jolt but it's murder on the sufferer. Yet PSY's jagged repeat of the title hurts on levels too numerous to analyze brick by brick. Poor Snoop. He's gone from "Nuthin' But A "G" Thang" and "Sensual Seduction" to this? Snoop's career shouldn't be derailed but PSY better have other offers lined up. On display is some really shower prompting imagery. "Caking and baking, raking the cheese" for example. The smell of vomit has to be one of if not the most unlikable odors you'll ever have the misfortune of coming across. "Caking and baking" slaps you across the nostrils with that distasteful scent. Did we really need a primer on getting wasted, on taking it to the outer limits. I think the beauties in lockup downtown would be Exhibit A screaming a big fat "NO!!!" To put this in some brand of cultural context, the rising distraction in this country would appear to be texting and driving. But wait, here comes our old societal nemesis drinking and driving back to prematurely end lives that had some hope in hell of going somewhere, maybe not to the moon but possibly somewhere good enough to be life affirming. PSY and Snoop cavort around on screen, glorifying the greatness that is being shit-faced drunk. Nice to know they're setting up a fresh stew of societal fallout where the booze matters more than the family, faith, sex, you name it. And no, Snoop. It doesn't matter that you see that behavior as part of the superstar life. Is a permanent criminal record tasty? Do the women flock from all angles to share your vibrations? Are you actually reveling in your ability to repeat the same behavior day after day until your liver's not only pickled, it's on its way to being char-broiled. Pardon my Perils of Pauline moralizing but you can lay down tons of video glitz, get the dancing moves down to a science, make certain the eye candy is distributed impeccably. It merely covers up that these two dudes are excited about letting a little potion in 3 wheel motion reduce them to incoherent nabobs. AA might be the benefactor but damned if I know who else gets the windfall. PSY makes me sigh. Snoop drops a Dogg turd. That post hangover headache is due penance for you after taking this misstep close to your bosom.

Chrissie Hynde Shines Bright Behind Her "Dark Sunglasses"

For me any occasion to hear a Chrissie Hynde composition whether it be with her stellar outfit The Pretenders or going the lone wolf route is cause for a big ole' Texan "Yee-haw!!". "Stockholm" is her first voyage into the latter and what a to be expected classy outing it is. "Dark Sunglasses" is jammed pack with the piss and vinegar Chrissie has delivered over the decades. You know you can count on an intelligent listen when Chrissie steps up to the mike. Let's pull back the curtain for an introspective discussion. It appears that the words behind this music speak to dignity and how you manage to maintain it when the odds, law of averages, or both find you only flirting with it instead of taking it in your arms and laying the biggest smooch on it ever viewed by human eyes. It's hard getting your groove back when you've been beaten down for so long you wonder what your groove ever was in the first place. "Sleeping in the van" is one of those familiar rock and roll lifestyle snippets in time. You can tell the trajectory from weed smoking rocker to dyed in the wool adult complete with pension plan and homeowner's insurance. To her credit Chrissie still rocks with fervor despite dabbling in decidedly grown-up subject matter. She strums like a woman who's weathered many storms but refuses to give up the ghost on her so called charmed life. She refers to the titular dark sunglasses as "A kind of glamour you can lend yourself." Anyone who remembers "My Baby" the nurturing yet uncompromising track off of The Pretender's 1986 "Get Close" album can recall "I know I'm a peasant dressed as a princess, but that doesn't mean you have to take my clothes away." That line too was an example of a downtrodden person merely craving the chance to play dress up in royal garb not befitting her unfortunate station in life. I'd be hard pressed to recall a juncture in Chrissie's career arc where she didn't have a kinship with the folks who simply get used to being disenfranchised in spite of living in a country where freedom is spoken about, defended, and yes, even died for. "My Baby" was a rollicking affair. It was a big a presence in the recording studio as The Pretenders are on stage. "Dark Sunglasses" grasps for mellow air and nuzzles into its likable glow soon after. The drums used here echo a celebratory presence that goes with wearing sunglasses you know belong to someone else's airspace. The guitar is not an angry defiant fellow. In fact the fun is in putting on the costume and that seems to sustain her. You'll gladly notice Texas landscape in the accompanying vid. Chrissie runs down the role call of the trappings worn by the upper crust. "Shaving, wearing a tie, isn't sacrificing much" is the conclusion a housewife might draw upon reaching the boiling point with her husband who can't bring himself to lurch past the casual dress stage of being out in the world. Chrissie hints at the idea the ruling class not only has its own social caste but its own distinct unmistakably tantalizing taste too. I feel the pacing of the drums reveals a person who's almost too beaten down by the odds to muster up more than a slight nod to celebrating the image juxtaposition. In the tail portion of "My Baby" the drummer kicked up the song's attitude a notch or five. Here he is content to run through the lawn sprinkler in his front yard rather than reach for a limelight he knows won't be seeking out his address any time soon. Class and cadence are two ideals Chrissie has employed in her song structures from day one. You'll notice you're the better in the long run for having paused to try on her particular dark sunglasses.

Mariah Carey Lets It All Hang Out

As any quality card player worth her stripes would do, Mariah Carey brings a host of captivating tricks tucked firmly up her sleeve for "Me. I Am Mariah...The Elusive Chantenuse". Sometimes the hands she plays work better than her wildest dreams would indicate. For example "You Don't Know What To Do" which features rap stalwart Wale, sends her full throttle onto the dance floor she knows a thing or two about from past soft hearted confections like "Someday" and "Honey". Nice shift of focus from the beginning installment which has us thinking the song is going to be upper level serious then the crowds head en masse for shameless gyrating. You'll have plenty of opportunities to marvel at Mariah's glass shattering, logic defying, upper upper mezzanine grabbing octave range. After hearing it in "Someday" I knew this woman belonged in the singular talent category. Know this before you plug into what amounts to over 65 minutes of Mariah and the lenses through which she view herself. Mariah knows what a glitzy spectacle should look like. Throughout the project she's miles from the caviar circuit slick sounds of "The Emanicpation of Mimi" "We Belong Together" rolled out the red carpet for her comeback. She'll get sweaty with Latino hunk Miguel during "Beautiful". She can pull of elevating a pretty toss worthy trifle like "Thirsty" to a single where most of the reward lies in watching the insecure little girl inside of her pop to the surface for unveiled exchange of sentiments. Not that she doesn't veer into territory that's best left to posterity in the name of the artist who made it stick previously. Back in another lifetime our fair Mariah opted to remake Nilsson's "Without You" which launched her into Billboard's Top 3. On her latest disc is George Michael's record catalog she chooses to raid, specifically "One More Try". I get that hearing it from a female's perspective is not without intrigue but I never thought it was meant to have a tricked up street smartened edge. George's original was so impressive because it measured all notes for maximum impact. He managed to make a 5 minutes plus psychodrama tasty bliss for anybody with a set of binoculars who wanted to spy on the man's sexual torment. Mariah's apparently chosen to throw this '80s classic into the hopper for the same reason a lusty man divorces his long time wife to pursue a newer model...because he/she can. I'm not insisting her version spits on the craftsmanship of the original. What I'm trying to put across is a lesson movie makers could or at least ought to learn from as well. Just because there's a song/film on the boards that could be redone or stretched out into a sequel doesn't mean somebody has to. Leave the original artist some dignity. Now that I've milked this here soapbox for all it's worth let's continue with the post. "Make It Look Good" executes class via a judiciously embedded harmonica. "Supernatural" with the help of the oft cooing Dembabies isn't tethered to terra firma and therein lies the jaw dropping sorcery. "Cry" puts Mariah back in the gospel wheel house she laid part ownership of on "Make It Happen". "Heavenly (No Ways Tired/Can't Give Up Now)" shines the brightest light on our heroine's unfaltering resilience. Militant in tone and probable conception, Mariah knows she'll meet us at the other side of the steep but not unbeatable mountain she's climbing. "Dedicated" permits room for music history flashbacks courtesy of special guest Nas who longs for the hip-hop halcyon days of '88, citing The Fat Boys and Whodini among the tastemakers who helped elevate the form out of the shadows and into the mainstream's ready cross hairs. The closing "The Art of Letting Go" drops the fourth wall allowing us to have an obstructed glimmer of face time with the woman who for what will be 25 years as of 2015 has essentially assured herself a place solidly planted in the firmament of female singers whose pipes don't ever stop short of otherworldly. If I had a quibble with "Me. I Am Mariah...The Elusive Chantenuse", it would be that "Cry" and "Faded" aren't the most pulse accelerating tracks she could have picked to lead with. Luckily we're cruising along before you know it. The sights and sounds along the way are top heavy on theatrics. For your bucks you get Mariah the unabashed spectacle as well as Mariah the seasoned siren of the concert stage. By laying herself out there for our benefit she's widened the window to her own creative hemispheres as well. Mariah knows her strengths and by and large plays up to all of them. The smorgasboard of backdrops might prove overwhelming initially but after you've allowed the water to splash in your face a little you'll recognize Mariah aces the class in giving her numerous supporters exactly what they want. That Mariah chiseled street savvy into her pores along the way can only help move more units. The final analysis is likely a ways off, but at this moment Mariah and the pleased crowds should succeed in renewing their lucrative partnership.

Linkin Park Doesn't Waste Its Hyperactive Energy

Succinct. That's Chester Bennington front and back. For "Wastelands" the newest acid-tongued fireball uncorked from Linkin Park's forthcoming "Hunting Party" release, Bennington is in a place his band's supporters are intimately familiar with. He's on his knees. The hope has been cruelly batted away. The landscape he sees as he looks around does nothing to take the sting out of his soul. Thankfully his artistry is a reliable conduit for the frustration that would tear a lesser creative force to ribbons. Mike Shinoda again brings to this dance his tag team partner rap swag. Chester's open wound wailing combined with Mike's intelligent rap schooling put the Linkinites on the rock map in the first place. Mike slides down his name dropping fire engine pole like a guy who easily knows how to do it with his eyes closed. You'd have to be blind not to recognize the chilling political sentiments coursing through stanza 1. We've got war but where are the weapons. John with no Yoko shows off proper respect for music royalty. "Murder with no killing" turns the trick as an image that wiggles its way into numerous heart saddening bleak situations. Later in the stanza Mike works his mike in the classic defending one's turf bent. "Every rap is made in fact to act as a delayed attack, every phrase a razor blade, and save it 'til they play it back. How did "In The End" log so many frequent flier miles as a top Linkin Park draw both in studio and in concert? That happened for the same reason it's bound to happen due to the electricity generated by this rock rap mixture. Separately Chester and Mike have undeniable gifts and credibility. Together their joint ire could single handedly rip a huge hole in the ozone layer. Key difference is Mike's fury is on low heat whereas Chester lets it fly straight from the jugular. When he claims today's wastelands have nothing to lose you know you've seen at least a segment of the terrain emphasizing he's correct. You shiver because you're aware his rapidly disappearing future shares something with your own. Brad Delson punches his fist through to unforgiving bedrock on the wings of guitar shredding that really turns up the stove's sizzle past the 2 minute mark of this compact 3 minute 10 second testament to what Linkin Park wrote the book on, the rock/rap interplay. You're disturbed by their escalating insanity until you remember these intoxicating gents run the asylum and do so at a controlled burn. Unlike cuts from "Hybrid Theory", otherwise known as the joint that started it all, "Wastelands" doesn't haze your ability to marvel at their musicianship. Translated the emphasis comes less from the amplification and more from the superb self/global awareness the guys toss into every note. Linkin Park's other trademark is dropping you into a world that in the early going doesn't appear to offer a soft landing as its reassuring conclusion. "Crawling" straddles psychosis engagingly. "One Step Closer" proved high rage tantrums can work out for the best if the people giving off the sparks know how to aim their venom. Likewise "Wastelands" starts off leaving you unsteady on your feet, dangling you over the choppy waters until they're ready to plunge you into the undertow. Dave Farrell "Phoenix" pushed the appropriate bass boost buttons. Joe Hahn works the samples library to convincing effect. Drumming it cool as if the criminal mastermind quadrant of his brain had taken over, Rob Bourdon juggles stone cold seriousness with the horse sense not to steal Chester and Mike's unbeatable constantly rolling thunder. Linkin Park does whip up its maniacal signature sound to perfection but shuffles the deck enough so you, I, and anyone else residing in Linkin Park's devoted fanbase won't rest on their laurels thinking we've squeezed all the juice we'll ever get from them. Devoting some oxygen to "Wastelands" isn't a waste of energy. Mike smartens you up. Chester strings you out. That's some one-two punch that sustains your appetite long after everyone's left the banquet hall.

Reject, Discard, Refuse New Powerman 5000

If there's a rock song out there with the sonic waywardness of say a child flinging finger paints at a wall then the latest Powerman 5000 number, "Invade, Destroy, Repeat" certainly fits the bill. Frankly, there's much volume that doesn't amount to a hill of beans in the self-expression department. If I wanted something in a Hitler like loyalty cheer I'd have gone to the genuine article. Spider One, Michael Cummings to the rest of us surface dwellers chants the title like a guy about to submerge himself in the middle of a soccer riot to kick some serious ass. Zer0, Richard Jazmin informally lets rip plenty of evil on guitar but again if you want meat on the bones you're in for a horribly rude awakening. Judging from the lyrics, mercy isn't in the cards. Enough with the mistake making. It's time for celestial justice dished out ice cold in a sturdy flask. You see the ominous red skies? Not that they're raining blood...yet. However, you could get quite claustrophobic if you breathe the words in too deeply. They think of destruction as being fun and games. "Let's have some fun?" What I consider fun and what they consider fun are two completely unrelated things. "Invade, Destroy, Repeat" fails to escape its narrow chord sequences. As action scene amplitude for a big budget summer popcorn movie I could see how treating the music like an increasingly frightened rat bouncing around in a cage would make sense. Boston's a gritty place so you need Powerman 5000's similar no attitude spared battle cries to get the momentum rolling forward. They left out Part 2. We've got the solidiers marching off to some God forsaken nightmare probably to meet their , unfortunate doom. X51, otherwise remembered as Gustavo Aued drops down thunderous bass to set the scene for what's likely to be a carnage fest. Dj Rattan, Rattan short smacks around the drums with the blackened soul of a wife beater who wouldn't touch anger management classes with a thirty foot pole. So what do the dogs of war have us lunging for? From my view on the hill, not much worth swapping stories about. On this tribe's resume is a contribution to the Bride of Chucky soundtrack. I give them credit for astute marketing. "Invade, Destroy, Repeat" would curdle your last drops of blood. Industrial metal is this band's stock in trade. You can hear belching smokestack relentlessness if you perk your ears up close enough. What's the one angle "Invade, Destroy, Repeat" has going for it? After three minutes of your life have been dedicated to it you can renew your optimism and fill some of your hours with cultural pursuits that actually do merit your attention. Powerman 5000, as band names go, hints at a sleek driving machine or a superhero you can fold six ways from Sunday to make new, compelling machines. If only this new single had that brand of vision to bring to the fore. No dice though. "Invade, Destroy, Repeat" doesn't invade sensibilities regarding what industrial metal could be. It doesn't destroy your jaded yawn. Least of all it doesn't merit repeat listenings. The air is hot but no redeemable energy is given off. This is one Powerman (5000) that could've used a finely tuned power surge.

John Mayer Knows His X's And O's

Beyonce wouldn't mind. Imitation being the highest form of flattery. He's managed a reassuring cover of her "XO". Everything about the way he's playing guitar here is designed to put the attention squarely back on the moment. The moment, such as it is, begs for an easier pace to life's carnival. As usual John's voice sounds like well forged bronze. There are rasps in all the right places. His ability to get femmes to swoon hasn't lost its pull. An added attraction would be his harmonica. Let's size up John's technique with Stevie Wonder, a guy who clearly knows his way around the instrument. John's content to stay in one arc of the rainbow, that of affectionate yellow amber. I'd argue that one of Stevie's best harmonica solos wasn't even on one of his records. In 1985 The Eurythmics had a mid top 40 hit with "There Must Be An Angel (Playing With My Heart)". Stevie let it rip. The playfulness Stevie embodies on stage was on full, incredible display. Other instances found him programming different moods into the harmonica. For instance "That's What Friends Are For" puts the harmonica in a porch swing frame. On the other hand "Isn't She Lovely?" makes it as playful as the courtship ritual itself. One size does fit all for John, though which is nothing to quibble about. John's bluesy while Stevie is prime R&B. Beyonce's urgent pleas for making hay while the sun shines get a bigger mike presence when John lends his touch to it. The hourglass sands keep trickling out therefore maximizing opportunities for love is not only prudent, it's a top choice reward in and of itself. This remake is light years away from the ball of confusion characterization of "Paper Doll" Instead of intimacy at bay there's open encouragement lest the chance slip through their fingers. Love's brightness is positioned to cut through any storm that gets unleashed. No crowd will keep him from seeking her beauty and companionship "Daughters" washed the raw edges away like a bubble bath you might have enjoyed as a kid. In "XO" that daughter has grown to respectably buxom proportions. What puts John Mayer in the pantheon of exceptional vocal talents is the soothing balm his voice constitutes tends to boost whatever background instruments he blends in. He makes "Daughters" sound like a reflection on paternal love. "Your Body Is A Wonderland" becomes even more playful in his care. He gave "Waiting On The World To Change" a super sized spring in its step. His take on "XO" heightens the sex appeal for both the song and the man. It'll be a long while before folks of either gender grow weary of his golden brown tenderness. When he draws these X's and O's on the chalkboard a triumphant night of passion is sure to follow. You'll be winners in this game of love.

Tove Lo's Way Around a Pop Hook Proves Habit Forming

Sweden has a number of things going for it musically. For one thing that's where ABBA came from and you need only ask my mother for a story of how great their danceable pop is. Metal band Europe is either liked or loathed for bringing "The Final Countdown" into existence. No one's mistaking their sound for Judas Priest but something about them was undeniably steeped in delicious USDA Grade-A certified cheese and who outside of the lactose intolerant wouldn't benefit from extra cheese in the diet. When the '90s rolled around in came Ace of Base, an act that easily earned guilty pleasure status thanks to "All That She Wants" and "The Sign". Nothing Ken Jennings mind-expanding about either song. The ace in the hole for both was a tendency towards candy sweet hooks that made the lyrics a blissful afterthought. Place either song in spitting distance of your not so friendly neighborhood curmudgeon and I swear he or she will don an apron and start baking cookies like those your grandma staked her own reputation on. "Barbie Girl" brought Aqua's name into the mix in 1997. You can take or leave them and I'm siding with leave not because I think it's the biggest creative manure pile ever released but because it's a bit too goofy to warrant clapping your hands like a trained seal when you hear the first few bars. Tove Lo is a Swedish starlet on the hoped for rise who's now stepping into the cultural arena with "Habits (Stay High)". She's got my attention all right. How did she maintain it? She manages by pulling her pipes to what sparse arrangements she's given to work with. The starving in Africa are met with greater generosity than Tove is at the mixing board. Rather than shirk away from the spotlight's intense heat she makes the most of her turn at the mike. I hand it to her for knowing the difference between desperate and cloyingly needy. "Habits (Stay High) gives the account of a lonely Swedish girl who needs to stay high constantly to beat back the loneliness that's part and parcel to not having her special someone close at hand. Twinkies lovers listen up 'cause your favorite snack craving gets a fist bump. I regret to inform you that they come out on the wrong end of binge purge session which lands right in Tove's bathtub. Gross, gross, triple gross. As a guy who knows how they inject the nutrition starved creme filling into those suckers I'm truly appalled. From touch, to smell, to taste, Twinkies were not meant to hurled either physically or internally. Show some respect, Tove Lo!! There's something to be said for Tove Lo's implication that money tastes lonely particularly at the bottom of a bottle. The instruments getting top billing are two in number, drum processing machine, and keyboards, also whipped into the Cuisinart. Like I said heightened breathing room allowing Tove to hammer home how lonely she is. My takeaway from her spirit saturated loneliness is she hasn't come to the end of her rope yet. Is it a Swedish charm thing? The Swedish Chef from The Muppet Show was hen-pecked more times than I can count but you still felt compassion for the man because he could never complete a dish without the entree making his life miserable. Here we have Tove, damsel bleeding out vulnerability, somehow not getting us to throw up our hands in disgust at the pity party she's practically bought balloons and pastry for. Sensitivity not pushed to the brink saves her behind. Lately there hasn't been quite as much tender pathos stemming from an "Ooh-ooh" as the one she brings to the forefront. Tossing the potential appeal to "Habits (Stay High)" in my gourd a bit I believe she's nailed the moment where liquor has stripped her defense enough to up her likability and therefore our hope that she's not this down in the dumps too much longer. Tove Lo is travelling through a harrowing wind tunnel. We wish her the best in seeing her way to the other side before the weight of her despair dismantles her battle readiness for good. She picks up daddies at the playground for gosh sakes. Channeling one's inner strumpet doesn't tend to end well. I know the lure of play pretend where the fun ain't got no end. The video is your tour guide through Tove Lo's embattled horror house. Had she practically squealed the words out we may not have been encouraged to care on quite a measurable level. At the musical movable feast there's always room for a creatively divergent appetizer. Tove Lo gets an A in Knife Handling 101 even if the blade is teetering dangerously close to her already battered heart. This girl's habits are definitely ones you want to make your own.

MAGIC! Revels In Being Rude

Is it possible for pre-marriage proposal dramatics to be stretched out into a reggae cute pop phenomenon? The answer it would appear is yes. Here now to provide a respite from Justin Bieber doing everything possible to alienate as many people as possible is MAGIC!, another Canadian act that does taffy pull contortions with the basic act of reacting to a parent turning aside a request a young man has to take his daughter's hand in marriage. The question of the hour is "Why you gotta' be so rude." Not an unusual question but there is a little novelty quaint to the way MAGIC! brings it to the table. Bonus points for giving Dad various ways to get to the same standoff point. The first time vocalist Nasri Atweh pops the familiar question Dad says "Tough luck, my friend, but the answer is 'No'." This prompts the chorus question shown above. You could react in one of two ways. Either the question is dressed up in reggae finery to cover up the fact that in living rooms, basements, kitchens, possibly even bathrooms across the world this self same question is being asked and therefore the uniqueness has been stripped clean away or MAGIC! has found a way to take crushing parental rejection after rejection and ease the sting as it were. Nasri's not going to slink away, tail between his legs. Second turn at bat and Dad says "Tough luck, my friend, 'cause the answer's still, 'No'." It wouldn't hurt to inject polite applause for Alex Tanas, the drummer who really lets those Jamaican sensations fly recklessly in the breeze. Mark Pellizzer works his guitar like hands kneading taut muscles in a massage parlor. Meanwhile bassist Ben Spivak sets his dial to slow cooker and the outcome brings an expected queue to the spicy aromas. "Rude" is misleading as titles go because the implication is it's only Dad who's being rude for not letting the waters of true love run their delightful course. Not so folks. Nasri not only asks Dad three times, he essentially lashes back with "Fuck you, I'm going to marry her anyway." The F-bomb never dropped but that was his attitude coming away from the conference. Nasri assumes his role as the latest in a line of defiant casanovas who will stop at nothing to win the affections of the fair damsel. At first you'd suspect "Rude" has the makings of graduating straight to one-hit wonder status or the latest "Now That's What I Call Music!" compilation. Check back with us in six months and we'll see if this effort has enough staying power earwig wise to promote lasting career success. It's refreshing to see MAGIC! acting silly. Shows us the old man's getting tweaked gently rather than having his hat handed to him. You could rant that Bob Marley and Peter Tosh would be rolling over in their graves if they got phantasm wind of how MAGIC! is dumming down the genre they took great pains (literally) to staple to the musical map. Two different horses with two different stripes to match. I tend to long for Maxi Priest if I want caffeine free reggae in a sparkling pop glass but MAGIC! can take a bow for having stylized an everyday question so any of us jaded onlookers aren't rolling our eyes and muttering to ourselves, "Right, like this love connection's ever going to last! Maybe next time MAGIC! will revolutionize the fast food worker's query, "Do you want fries with that?" MAGIC! doesn't punch a rude awakening into the pop landscape but with "Rude" it does snatch up a little real estate time in the cultural sun.

Asking Alexandria's "Walls" Don't Have Much To Say

Metalcore is the land of Cookie Monster vocals. Relentless are the rhythms. Awash with blood on the teeth are the drum sections. I am pleased that York, England's Asking Alexandria singer Danny Worsnop isn't channeling his inner Cookie Monster. In fact for a metal subgenre not known for speech clarity, this outfit does rise above the din. What a pity that when the mouth opens not much to command attention spans comes rolling out. If metal the music can be compared to T-bone steak the dinner option then "Break Down The Walls" doesn't succeed in registering anything other than "rice cake" on the Richter scale. Where's the crunch that grinds your wimpy little self to a fine paste? Where's the fear that you get from knowing you don't want this band as an enemy.Phoned in throwaway tripe is harsh for sure, but I can't get past that impression. The boys could have easily demanded that their label simply cut them a royalty check for services rendered so they could hop a Brit double decker bus on their way down to the local pub. "Break" is too weak to merit a slot as filler material on a summer movie soundtrack. Every aspect of the song progresses at a breakneck pace far too imposing for one to be able to claim any kind of investment with it or the guys who make it happen. Danny's verses, while noble to a fault, don't compel you to trust in him. Maybe that's because he's so caught up in the Ritalin spiked inner demons of his brothers in artistry he forgets most of us try not to live our lives at 78 RPM. Hand your hopeless over to Danny. He understands. He can carry the pain if you're broken. He won't stop until he's clutching his self-orchestrated world in his hands. I'm never to be accused of turning my nose up at the "Us against the cruel world" motif namely because the revolving ash tray we're borrowing time on, this cosmic condo at times hasn't been a BFF for me either. In fact the only way to stop it from taking my lunch money would be to forego eating altogether. But live to eat, eat to live I suppose. Shame to the nth degree that the stalwart battle-ready pose brought on by this motif turns water weak in the mouth of Danny's stuck in the middle of the pack delivery. Over on drums James Cassells is sufficiently maniacal. Once again, if Danny managed to match dollar for dollar the perpetual motion his convictions hint at those skins would slap the melon on your neck a lot harder. Diluted dashing doesn't inspire hero's idolatry. Ben Bruce contributes on lead guitar. Note I said contributes, not blossoms into a wunderkind you won't soon forget. Cameron Liddell mans rhythm guitar to no particularly resonant effect. Sam Bettley certainly brought his bass to the slaughter. Too bad one beef entree does not a thoroughly satisfying meal make. It's a letdown that the handiwork behind Asking Alexandria doesn't measure up to the creativity of the band's name. Imagine you open a Christmas present (People living in sweltering southern states will thank me for the winter image) that has highly colorful wrapping on it. What you'd like to discover is an amazing gift. What you end up being stuck with is another pair of socks from Grandma. Functional? Yes. A gift for the books? Um,not exactly. So it goes with Asking Alexandria. That name points to literate gents, astute tea sippers who shed their proper English leanings long eough to jolt your peripheries with metalcore steaming at its molten core. That music is low impact low calorie prepackaged gruel. Asking Alexandria sets its sights on breaking down walls. Instead it barely scratches any surface it deigns to come in contact with.