The Madden Brothers "Done" Good

Coolness radiates stem to stern from The Madden Brothers "We Are Done". In the dignity restoring vein of Teddy Roosevelt's "Speak softly and carry a big stick" routine this twosome rouses the lethargy out of any one of us Americans who hasn't grasped the notion that the time to bring about positive change in the world is now. Up front is a combo platter of cool mood enhancers. Rarely has guitar been used so playfully. Maybe that's a tip of the hat to you'd attract more flies with honey than vinegar. If you recall Jason DeRulo's smash "Wiggle" you're also aware the whistle has been making somewhat of a comeback in the 2010s. Flo Rida's display was affectingly sweet. The Madden Brothers insert an unshakable purpose behind theirs. The chorus merits high marks as well. You think you have its predominant chord dead to rights when all of a sudden there's a shift in the wind meant to put chills down your spine but in an artistically agreeable way. To rock genre enthusiasts Joel and Benji Madden are fist pumping familiar. That's because they make up two sides to the Good Charlotte story. As a duo they're quite good at knowing what to do when they get the ball. Run down the field with it and hope there's enough daylight to enable you to go the full distance. Good Charlotte's Dean Butterworth's drums have the prerequisite pop. That too reminds us the brothers are shuffling down the street with an unquenchable thirst to distribute their message to as many ears as will have them. The video below features many derogatory adjectives describing treatment people are "done" experiencing. Bullying and objectification of women are two of those character no-nos that get highlighted. Joel and Benji never get preachy to the brink of nausea. That allows us to bask in the easy to get behind main ideas. If you already enjoy Good Charlotte don't think for a second they're holding one arm behind your back pushing a moral agenda on you. Besides which are those the sun shades of two guys who don't know when to dial down the intensity for a spell? "Done with being a silent many. Every voice rings out and carries". The "rings out and carries" portion is especially delightful. Well executed chord change on "carries". That's what can take a song from fair to middlin' range and plant in the upper echelons of "this song is burrowing in my brain pan and refuses to leave. I like it anyway so I won't opt to go under the knife". "We Are Done" can be found on the soon to be (possibly) in your record collection effort "Greetings from California". Wise choice for a title. Ears perched closely enough you can make out the sumptuous California rays bursting out of the center of the sky. "We Are Done" has done right by any person who has lost the spring in their step and seeks only to get it back and make some pretty admirable hay while the sun shines. There's room to breathe in this region of the Golden State. Credit goes in generous measure to the Good Charlotte gents. I cross my fingers Good Charlotte's not done as a two man crew. They've got real potential in that configuration.

Meghan Trainor Unveils Body Talk In "All About That Bass"

As long as there are paying customers who like a little sassy with their sexuality, songs that sound an awful like Nantucket native Meghan Trainor's "All About That Bass" will always have a place on the charts. This is 2014 yet Ms. Trainor manages to go time warping in many ways. Her backup singers bright doo-wop harmonies back to the forefront. That saxophone fill you hear definitely hints at early 20th century throwback. Ms. Trainor's camera ready moves are very much of the moment. I sense one-hit wonder glory every which way. You could do worse than begin and end a recording career with a ditty like this. The video demonstrates the importance of not taking oneself too seriously even though the topic, in this case what defines an ideal female form never stopped being serious. "All About That Bass" explores the desirability of feminine curves, or the lack therein with panache tossed in liberally so neither you nor I feels too guilty over parading around the room, shades pulled of course, and letting our inner choreographer loose. Trainor wants to emphasize silicon Barbie femmes don't impress her too much. I guess Heidi Klum doesn't register so much as a blip on her radar screen. Whatever Meghan's long term prospects are her step one short term is benefited by an example of the chorus that's going to be driving nuts even under the supposed protection of those ever elusive forty winks. You know for a tune with a melody that's deceptively PG with regards to its potential audience I can sniff out one area that's strictly rated-R. "I got all the right junk in all the right places" lands in the ballpark of a concerned parent rushing to cover her offspring's impressionable ears before he starts using the line incessantly. There's a certain doe-eyed innocence as well bringing us back to TV dinners eaten in front of a 1950s set rolled into the dining room on a cart. "All About That Bass" is an impressive novelty effort. If you're going to lecture someone, in this case the entire listening public in the importance of not being so size prejudiced why not give them something that doesn't forget to bring class to the party. The costume designer in the video needs to have some bonus do-re-mi tossed his/her way. As colorful as it is that color serves how varying body types are colorful in attitude also. No matter what Meghan and her entourage are wearing. No matter how unapologetically silly her delivery is, let's not forget first, last, and foremost that the rhythm is primed to lure you in. Simple is the key ingredient. Ample focus on the value of a sense of humor contributes to anyone attempting to lend rooting value to Meghan's campaign as a pop princess on the rise. All about that bass returns to the mist as quickly as it popped out. For those 3 minutes and 10 seconds we had our pants charmed off. Of course without the burden of those clothes it's easier to see why bass is the only note you need to hit to be satisfied with yourself and others from top to bottom. As a social studies lesson here's one bass note that's right on the mark.

Chevelle Helps You Hunt Down Nightmare Inducing Notes

Whether in real life or fictitious realms, the longer a nightmarish situation is, the less comfortable we are standing directly in its path. Illinois hard rockers Chevelle have reemerged with "Hunter Eats Hunter", a squeeze it out uneasiness missile that you don't want to be on the receiving end of whether you're under the covers or totally lucid. Hard rockers know that's the ultimate compliment. Chevelle pushes your buttons on numerous stomach lining corroding levels. Dean Bernardini lowers his bass deeper and deeper into your craw until you're sure not even the finest surgeon ever produced could extract it, neck and all. Pete Loeffler runs his fret consumed fingers down your back. The comparison between his choice of metal insanity and vengeful fingers cutting a wide swath down your back is a deserved one. You writhe in agony while he doesn't know anything else to do but ramp up your misgivings. So what's the plot point causing the night terrors that rob you of a fresh chance to face new daylight replenished? In layman's terms the story of that boogeyman who has come out of the shadows because the evening menace agrees with him. Pete's cast as narrator and much of his energy gets spent keeping this real life nightmare at bay. When he sings the unfiltered misgivings towards his odds for survival become increasingly obvious. The brave warrior in him proposes staying to fight while the yellow stripe down his back mandates that he make a break for it. Can you build a case for Pete's protagonist's character after the first verse? That's a discussion you can have with the man in the mirror. Doom fills the air like the moisture rich climates of a Dixieland night. Pete clearly senses the breaths he takes this night might be his last. What to do. How best to manage. Since the "little creep" proceeds to grab his arm I'd screeching would be perfectly understandable. We don't get a clear gist of what exactly has Pete quaking in his boots. Is his imagination enslaving him? Is it the faint outline of a persistent ghost? Whatever the true identity comes out to be, Chevelle draws out the agony for as long as its chords, drumsticks, and vocal modulations allow. Pete's found himself a mighty unenviable long hallway to stumble across. What other choice do we have but to assume roles as peeping toms in his downward jaunt through the backstreets of Hell. This opening effort off of "La Gargola" takes longer than usual to meander its way towards the title's claim to truthfulness, namely that the hunter eats the hunter. Fine time to be again consulting the parameters of the food chain. Pete could be someone else's entree if we deliberate for too long. "Hunter Eats Hunter" doesn't arm itself with the macho strut of other rock songs whose composers aspire to plant a flag on "epic masterpiece" territory. It prefers to play cute, sadistic parlor games with one soul's psyche. The cosmic scar tissue piles up bit by bit. Pete has to take a stand or be obliterated for good. Watching him negotiate the maze factors greatly into why "Hunter Eats Hunter" is a horror story whose pages you are compelled to flip time and again until you have, for better of worse, owned a substantial portion of Pete's nightmares. The hunt for hard rock that shocks first, answers questions never is over. Chevelle's campfire chaos deserves to be stuffed, mounted, and displayed as the bloodlust saturated loincloth that it makes itself out to be.

alt-J's Left Hand Free An Oddball Song Out In Left Field

Some songs promote the piquing of idle curiosity. You're essentially caught up in how against the grain they are. You know the type, the tunes that march to the beat of a different drum. alt-J's "Left Hand Free" is one such item. The strike against it is it's too cutesy to have much of a shot at being taken as anything other than a hi and bye brush with head scratching fascination. There's some quality guitar strumming to be had. There's endearingly silly vocals going on. There's also a chord loop that sounds content to wrap around itself. At first it's an engaging sound because it's the chord blend that you don't really get tired of. As this song progresses though you wish it elevated its game above one trick pony status. You'll have to resort to picking at the Earthling to alien translation handbook for the following lyrical block: "I tackle weeds just so the moon buggers nibble. Although I likely will never reach the now I've heard everything level of life on this planet, unusual sentiments such as that make me think I've taken a quantum leap towards that position. Of course "Pick a battle eenie meenie miney moe. Hey flower you're the chosen one" is no less decipherable to your average listener. I know the '70s and '80s were the decades know for lines of blow everywhere you went but these lyrics couldn't have been fleshed into being without at least some level of contact high being reached. Are the lyrics enough of a distraction from the low-fi sound of the band itself? Not entirely but every little bit helps as they say. alt-j consists of Joe Newman on guitar/lead vocals, Gus Unger-Hamilton on keyboards/vocals, and Thom Green on drums. They came together in Leeds England in 2007. I'm somewhat shocked to hear England is their home stomping turf because "Left Hand Free" sounds like something Beck would put on an album of B-sides and outtakes. Couldn't hurt to blend in with an American audience by vocalizing in such a way that you'd think U.S. = terra firma. The Brits have placed their fair share of curiosities on these shores. I regret to say that "Left Hand Free" represents the Piglet character in the Hundred Acre Woods world of songcraft. The track is from the trio's "This Is All Yours" album. Hardly any of their effort seems to be all ours which is a integral aspect of why reaching their full artistic potential appears to be miles away from reaching fruition. If you like songs you can pipe up while changing the tires on your flatbed truck then lucky break indeed, but to return to my leadoff point curiosity is the big draw leagues above anything else. alt-J are at the four way stop but lack the courage to thrust themselves head on towards the other side where larger groupings of potential converts might be. "Left Hand Free" should've been composed with both hands pressed firmly on the throttle, ethos itching for a fight. Instead it's allowed to be something along the order of a middle finger, a "We're too artsy to be bothered with giving you anything other than a taste." This effort doesn't deserve a rumbling hand. Au contraire leave your accolades reduced to nothing besides a sarcastic spaced out monotone hand clap.

Fifth Harmony Shows Who's Boss

Strike up them faux horns why don't you? It's Fifth Harmony taking names, kicking butts, and serving notice with "BO$$". This girl glam act cites Destiny's Child as one of its influences. Not too hard to see why. They've got the same attitude in spades as the group the artist currently known as Beyonce used to pay the bills, bills, bills with. It's in the delivery. Whatever door lurks nearby, these gals have the moxie to kick them down. Fifth Harmony is comprised of Ally Brooke Hernandez, Camila Cabello, Normani Hamilton, Dinah Jane Hansen, and Lauren Jauregui. They formed on the second season of The X-Factor. You have to hand it to them for combining brass and playfulness in diabolically clever measure. "I want a Kanye-ye, not a Ray J" they insist. Well, that likely puts them head and shoulders above Taylor Swift who, if she never heard the name Kanye West again in her lifetime she'd be as happy as a pig in slop. Towards the end of that same first verse they give a lyrical shout out to Dr Dre, in keeping with their who's who in hip-hop name check. Fifth Harmony gets cooking at the point where they call a hollering baller on the carpet because these ladies weren't brought up like that. To be sure their work ethic sparkles like the rarest of diamonds. As was stated earlier the horns play a monstrous role in priming this no holes barred attitude party. Michelle Obama is dropped into the mix as well. According to this song her purse is all heavy getting Oprah dollars. Sure, Fifth Harmony could, and for all I know will be tagged as one of those studio manufactured clone girl power acts, same as when TV network execs get an idea for what the public likes they promptly go out and find actors/actresses to fill nine more shows just like it. That's how trends come and go in the blink of an eye. However I give the foursome the short term benefit of the doubt because the fierceness with which they throw themselves into this material is hard to pass up and, equally hard to ignore. If you've got a sly shit-eatin' grin on your face, be warned that the femmes of Fifth Harmony are poised and determined to knock it clean off. You've got some real hand clapping vibes permeating from the front end of the song to the back. If you work up a real lather once the song grinds to a stop, chances are you are doing right by the spirit and letter of the song. The Destiny's Child influence bears its head in undisputed fashion with "I pledge my allegiance to my independent girls in here". You may or may not recall (depending on whether Destiny's Child was your thing in the early 2000s) that the trio had a monster hit with "Independent Woman", a track off the soundtrack to "Charlie's Angels". Destiny's Child The Next Generation? You decide. Too early in the game to tell if Fifth Harmony is going to strike a consistently pitch perfect note with music aficionados and the casual folks out there but "BO$$" does a commendable job of putting the haters on notice. This four way tribute to what some determination will get you comes off the blocks fast. If they remember this music business thing is also not a sprint but a consistent marathon Fifth Harmony could be harmonizing all the way to the big time Benjamins bank.

John Legend Hooks Me and You With "You and I"

Call it boastful if you want but John Legend is one heck of an apt name. It's easy to see how women are putty in his hands after one listen to the numerous lovely bon bons he's planted in their ears in recent memory. "You and I" is his current missile to the heart, bow and arrow drawn a la cupid. No matter what atmospherics are placed in front of him he never fails to give the feminine side of the population what they want and then some. For openers there's this sensually arousing guitar that might mislead you into thinking the entire architectural dimensions of the song boils down to its warm, perspiration engulfed dimensions. You would be wrong. Before we're done he's slipped into jazz, keyboards, and an understated bit of percussion, which only seeks to demonstrate how multi faceted his play for the heart of women everywhere happens to be. You'd think the man had Sue Bee honey dripping from his veins after getting an ear full of such delightful sentiments as, "You stop the room when we walk in" and "All of the stars you make 'em shine like they were ours". Seriously ladies, don't you want to scratch out the eyes of whoever Mr. Legend's current arm candy is? He's put on some maturity weight since last decade when he was dotting the charts with "Used To Love U". His prickly needles have dropped around him ten years later. "All Of Me" was and still is a monumentally wonderful love ballad. That's one ten years down the line we're still gonna get goose bumps both recalling and listening to. "You and I' isn't as delicate but what it likes in tender loving soft it makes up for in long lasting sex appeal. When there's nothing getting between you and a crystal clean vocal performance as is true when John returns successfully, time and again to that sweet spot that gets women riled up in fits of ecstasy you're dealing with a world class talent who owns the concert stage, wherever he goes, for whatever length of time he plays. If you're convinced it's a heavenly gift I say you definitely have a point there. I'm convinced that no matter what tragedy befalls what person a little John Legend at the very least distracts you from the cruel sting of what your universe has delivered to you. He says you're his one and only girl and damned if you're not instantly hooked. John's not reinventing the wheel. He's simply giving women the attention they crave so much. John sings to each member of his audience like that one person was the only one in the room. They'd be guilty of assuming John wrote that song just for them. John's career arc has gone from modestly agreeable to flaming comet of late. His cornered market on beguiling balladry demonstrates why. "You and I" charms the pants off of romantics, hopeless or otherwise which is remarkable news for you and me.

Clean Bandit's "Rather Be" Is Rather Engrossing

Put your head forward to inhale the cleansing soup that is "Rather Be", a single from Cambridge, UK's Clean Bandit. This time we're dealing with an electronic genre band. The broth is toothsome on many levels. It pleases the tastes of various music lovers. Say you'd be satisfied with a healthy dollop of prime keyboards. From the very start I know you're gonna leave the feast smiling like the sweet nothings your wife whispered in your ear carry the promises of five-star Westin hotel bedroom sex later. Maybe you favor the dignity that classical music throws down for consideration. Thanks Milan Neil Amin-Smith for giving rich robust crumbs to this segment of the population. Don't forget the musical diet often requires steady piano to keep you primed and ready for action throughout the day. That's on the menu too. Is it an excellent choice as workout listening? You'd be doing yourself a large favor not forgetting it. The lyrics possess no shortage of vim. Guest vocalist Jess Glynne would appear to have sweet, tender priorities guiding her actions. She's found a man who she'd wait forever to be reunited with. As long as she's with him there's no place she'd rather be. He's her companion in the pursuit of inner peace. Said peace makes the opening snippet keyboards played magnificently by Jack Patterson an apt instrument. I think their bubbly nature could easily be mistaken for a xylophone. We're not talking Violent Femme's "Gone Daddy Gone" xylophones since those were far more menacing "stranger in an equally menacing dark alley" rhythms. Imagine a newborn's nursery, mobile hanging overhead, levitating so as to capture the tot's attention. Nothing but sun beams as far as the ear can hear. The momentum stays steady until Luke Patterson kickstarts his drum kit. The element that makes "Rather Be" an interesting puzzle to unravel is when the instruments mesh together to form a unique, not like any fusion presently on the pop charts hybrid. Each segment of the music loving throngs gets its moment or five of TLC. I mean...Grace Chatto brings the pep on cello for heaven's sake. For anybody out there lacking the money for time allotted to a massage table and a hulking brute named Sven who knows how to release the angst from your pressure points, "Rather Be" makes for a fulfilling stand in option. The strands on this woven loom come together to create a sturdy fabric that stands up to repeated wearings. You know the best actresses in cinema are the ones who, time and again, know how to lose themselves in the character they're portraying. Jess loses herself in the "simplicity of being is divine" mantra she covets so deeply. Clean Bandit deserves praise for not ladling on the cuteness factor too thick. Your skin can breathe thus ensuring it gets as much if not a tad more of the nutrition it needs. "Rather Be" is rather engrossing, a tribute to what happens when a brainy band uses its nerd leanings to full advantage. I'd rather enjoy it if similar truffles were positioned on my dessert fork. The aftertaste is delicate to allow me to let each flavor's distinct wonderfulness wash over me. Clean Bandit is clean cut dawn's early light breeziness you'll appreciate is it rubs your weary shoulders ever so gently. Sven is going to have to get over it.

Milky Chance Steals Some Tranquility

So mellow. Only a gentle guitar and clacking percussion to light the way. Welcome to Milky Chance's realm. Specifically Milky Chance is a two man German operation consisting of vocalist Clemens Rehbein and DJ Philipp Dausch. If you like fret playing akin to fingers releasing the tension from your overtaxed back then "Stolen Dance" is the single for you. It's laid back in a fashion you'd have to straddle back many decades to meet and/or beat. I'm fingering '60s psychedelia at the least. Clemens covets time lost. He wants the she in his life back by his side so he doesn't have to feel alone again. Who "they" happens to be isn't made so clear but that's hardly the major league quibble on the table here. For many of us time is the most important currency we'll ever own and sadly many of us live in a state of brutal poverty on that front. Clemens was smart to keep his guitar grounded in calm, unruffled vibrations. That acts as an effective counterbalance to the blooming frustration in his lyrics. Maybe the German Nazi tendency towards pain adds sting to one line of verses beginning with "Coldest winter for me. No sun is shining anymore. The only thing I feel is pain caused by absence of you. Suspense controlling my mind I cannot find the way out of here. Lab rat hopelessness at its bleakest. How could anything be that dire when you're dealing with a guy who pours guitar whirlpool bath style into his performance. The two lovers are stoned in paradise add vow they shouldn't stoop to anything as piffling as a deep analysis of their feelings. As usual dancing is a fine elixir used in chasing the blues and blahs away. The pair's debut album is called "Sadnecessary". Truth be told melancholy is beating at the center of this lonely little creature. Even still the lifeblood hasn't been snuffed out entirely. Follow the chord progressions as they descend down the flight of sonic stairs until they've reached that most forbidden of fruitful places. I'm sure you could get lost both in Clemens's eyes and that of his female companion. If I may be candid though this pair is of German origin the sound has more of a Latino flamenco heat building up from its emotionally charged center. You get left with a simultaneous jolt of "Hope doesn't exist anymore" and "Come into my arms and cry your little heart out 'cause nothing is as bad as it seems". Milky Chance is in its infancy stage now but, as it grows, it shall be fascinating to learn what full fledged concept emerges. Are these two a one trick pony or are there many facets to this diamond? As always time will tell.

Slash Lights a Fire Under The Heavy Metal Universe

All cylinders are performing at optimum level throughout "World on Fire", a devil horns encouraging blast it out featuring Slash our friendly neighborhood piston cranker from Guns N' Roses. I admire how the tune doesn't sacrifice lucid melody for the usual metal bombast, although there's enough of the latter to satisfy the healthiest of appetites. Standing guard at the mike is Myles Kennedy who complements Slash's no punches pulled guitar mastery excellently. He's bearing his teeth for our amusement. Color me highly amused. Everyone involved is wedded to that brutal rush to the finish line and they don't care how many brain cells get sacrificed in the name of true blue metal. Literary dramatics occupy their share of the lyric real estate early on. We're reminded of what tragic figures we humans are (some sadly more so than others). Certainly you've rubbed elbows or broken bread with the misfit, the sinner, the eve, and the fool. It's at the chorus where this project earns back every dollar that was plunked into it. The Conspirators, Slash's backup band channel their energies into one maelstrom of a metal swarm. Brent Fitz power drums like he was staking his legacy on this very performance. Todd Kerns chips in with a bass that's equal parts heavy breathing menace and laser precise machine worked through its paces down to a nub. Naturally Slash owns the guitar solo department at the bridge. He's had the frequent thrasher miles to back up his bravado, believe you me. The asylum patient is clearly running the joint. His ownership pays off for us in spades as he's seldom sounded as devil may care as he does on "World on Fire". It couldn't hurt that he doesn't have Axl Rose's colossal ego taking up a mammoth chunk of the stage. I probably wouldn't be wrong in assuming the song would go over really well on a concert stage. The second verse goes deep into the religious arena. Speaking in tongues comes right up front. Myles proposes to tempt the people with the evils of the flesh and so much more. He likens himself to a Babylon redeemer and a whore. Does a certain someone have self-esteem issues. Depends which part of his anatomy you're zeroing in on. The main thrust is as you'd guess setting the world on fire. Such action is a common in times of boredom. We're greeted with the latest carpe diem moment. "It may never be this good again". It's not the most subtle hint we know of and that's why the title refrain works its magic to the last sliver of pixie dust. As one expects "World On Fire" is built to thrill. It roars down the track without batting a eyeball to the spectators wondering who this maniac with a death wish might be. You wait around patiently for a let up in adrenalin but, gleefully, you learn isn't one on the horizon. Nihilism lurks behind "It's so dark, I can't see all the truth inside us. All I want is to feel something that's real before the end." Dark places are where heavy metal lays sinister eggs, then lies in wait for its progeny to hatch. Myles is appropriately unspooled from one segment to the next. No, he doesn't growl like the pit bull you'd give anything not to be on the same sidewalk with. His stylings are slanted towards the mad chemist aching for an excuse to go kaboom. Slash has chosen wisely. His mates don't need to be asked twice to crank up the volume and rip off the knob. "World on Fire" rates global respect across the board.

The Pretty Reckless Rocks Pretty Hard

Intensity thy name is The Pretty Reckless. "Messed Up World" has everything you're looking for in rock, including a woman willingly bearing her fangs to call out the world on what a dreadful state it's in. Cheers to her for sparing no expense on attitude. Mired in life's coarse edges The Pretty Reckless didn't leave out a keen ear for melodic sensibilities that translate well onto rock radio where it's already established a promising foothold. Each facet of the diamond that is "Messed Up World" shines brilliantly when Taylor Momsen backs her full weight into the chorus. "It's a messed up world. What do you get from it? Sex and love and guns like a cigarette." Isn't exactly a moonbeam fantasy is it? Nonetheless Taylor's indignation of sorts causes a ripple effect that elevates each of her bandmates to their A game level. Jamie Perkins does his best drumming whenever the chorus bounds into full swing. Ditto for Ben Phillips, who also kicks out his jams with aplomb at the bridge. This band's second project, the pessimistically titled "Going To Hell" shows it knows how to sell itself well. "Messed Up World" does do the limbo hop around the fire and brimstone side of the gene pool. "Banging little boys bugging me on the bus" is one of those images Dana Carvey's Church Lady would have had a field day with. Taylor deals out the borderline prostitution angle with "You ain't getting what you want unless you're getting it for free." I only hope she means Nature's free because a roll on the bus with her certainly doesn't qualify. Church Lady would raise eyebrows over "Back to these backdoor bitches begging me to behave, jamming Jesus down my throat, no I don't wanna be saved." Do I really have to put out that, again, good move on calling the album as a whole "Going To Hell" So is Taylor rebel without a cause or your garden variety rebel who finds the boy in every port and proceeds to leave 'em high and dry. I like my rock when it sustains my appetite for first breath to last. Put that down as one in the win column. Taylor builds up momentum, keeps from flagging, and malevolently brings us along for a super-charged thrill ride into her thoroughly broken world. Who knows? Perhaps Taylor might have you questioning if the world she's putting out and the world you occupy are one and the same. The video demonstrates from head to toe she's got a fashion sense to match her unchecked attitude problem. Each generation has its artists who enter the world, try their best to present their own unique commentary on the circus going on around them and then report to the rest of us lesser mortals. Not one note is airbrushed during "Messed Up World". All the better to inhabit your most unsightly nightmares my dears". "Messed Up World" is the title but in no way is its musical orbit anything other than shred worthy righteousness. Taylor's rough edges are her best quality. She shows us with a spit in the eye instead of a contained growl. Mark Damon gives her steady legs courtesy of a bass equally foreboding. Hell sounds lovely if this song is a contributing part of the soundtrack. "Messed Up World" deserves to be recognized as a prime example of how Pretty Reckless has a pretty firm grasp on what makes top-shelf rock music tick.

All Kidding Aside, Kenny Chesney's Got Himself a True Foot Stomper

Rarely has a country son enticed me to hand clapping jubilation quite like studly Kenny Chesney's new "American Kids". The gang assembled in the video looked to be having the time of their lives. It rubs off on Kenny's performance. As many country masterpieces do Kenny's cut is loaded with star twinkled memories that only get better as the years pass. Also true in many country songs is their simplicity. Somebody took the bells and whistles and placed them on an exceedingly high shelf. All that's required is a solid hand clapping chorus and you're off to the races. Behold these pleasurable nuggets. "Mommy and Daddy put their roots right here 'cause this is where the car broke down". That's equivalent to the old saying "Wherever I lay my hat I call home." Kenny excels at rollicking in the silly jaunt down memory lane. It's exactly what those field trips are supposed to do...lift you up to where the gray skies can't drag you under. Classic early day MTV fans can delight in the RCA Kenny's highlighting. I personally am less jazzed about the no A/C in the vents part. I wouldn't have lasted three seconds in the pre air conditioning days. Anyway...returning to Kenny's eye-catching scrapbook. "Yellow dog school bus kickin' up red dust" is a fine traffic signal mishmash. I clearly remember the former from my early primary school days. The fun quotient jumps nicely when Kenny starts up stanza two his lead-in being "We were Jesus save me, blue jean baby, born in the USA". Fast forward your comprehension to "Growin' up in little pink houses (somewhere John Mellencamp just flashed that cat that ate the canary grin of his). Makin' out on living room couches. Blowin' that smoke on Saturday night. A little messed up but we're all alright." That last lyrical foursome is where this whole enterprise gets comfy cozy. This is hair hang down pickin, grinnin' jubilation if ever there was some. The banjo was and is a neat homespun touch. Ditto for Kenny's guitar playing. We were already drawn to this flame but Kenny proves he's excellent at stoking the fires. The only complaint I have about the video, and it's a relatively minor quibble, is that there's way too much short attention span flipping through the childlike merriment playbook. Maybe that's to indicate kids have that sort of bouncing off the walls energy. In any case for me it makes it hard to inhale the full scope of their bliss. Dig the bus though. Stanza three's feature is the classic trying to make it to second base motif. You never made it all the way home but you want your peer group thinking you scored more often than Germany during its Brazil beatdown. There's that image of a shotgun brandishing papa none too impressed with the boy your sister brought home. If passion plays a key role in artistry "American Kids" has enough passion to fill an entire summer full of rom-coms. "The Big Revival" from which this foot stompin' ear pleaser came is headed your way September 26th. "American Kids" definitely gets one's whistle whetted. Equal parts sass and heart tugging reminiscence you can't help but shake some part of you in time to the infectious rhythms. As ringmasters go Kenny knows his way around the center ring as if he's taken notes on every circus that came his way. Diligence paid off handsomely.

Usher Kisses and Tells In Equally Glorious Measure

Wow. Look what we have here kids. It's that R & B sex machine Usher laying down "Good Kisser" a jam in which those funky '70s meet Broadway tarted up glitter. I get tingles when I hear someone take a commonplace topic like kissing and give it that like new whiteness. it certainly doesn't hurt that he has both a shit kicking five step drummer and Stevie Wonder league bassist backing him up. Here's the prime example of a done to death instrument gaining new life pretty much because of the novel position it has in the song. Usher gets us excited as he talks about how his lips have been pressed along the lips of many a fine looking female specimen in his day. BA-DA-DA-DA-BUMP. BA-DA-DA-DA-BUMP. Excuse me for that need to succumb to an eargasm. Arrest those guys for lethal ear wig in the first degree. Let's suppose Usher was a competitive springboard diver instead of a thick slab of ebony sweetness. That drum/bass one two punch I brought up moments ago? It gives Usher more bounce off the diving board which enables him to land, splash free as any quality competitive diver can tell you into a kiss convincing call to drop them trousers, roll under them sheets and pass the kiss level of close by a pretty sizable margin. I already was putty in his hands from the second he came slinking into the video. Trust me, you wouldn't necessarily expect the hubba hubba heartthrob antics based on the first five to ten seconds. Agreeable but not even close to high octane at that point. Then, Usher Raymond flicks on the switch. The longer it goes, the greater his stamina appears to be. The chorus gains momentum. The playful free spiritedness reaches dizzying heights that make lonely gals ask: "Where has this breed of specimen been all my life. You can sense Usher's having a ball being the center of attention. Lean in closer if you want to virtually taste the sweat coming off the screen. Whatever the female equivalent of a "woodie" is you can bet lots of gals would be prone to lean that way. The man's not even spread eagle on top of them and already the orgasm's set to "I can't believe this is actually happening." Usher's lady kisses like no another. Literally hers is a million dollar smooch. She fucks his mind? What about how shamelessly (in a favorable way of course) he essentially fucks every female in the listening audience who is within a five hundred mile radius. That bassist deserves sainthood status for his work on this track. BA-DA-DA-DA-BUMP. We can only hope that yes, he does kiss his mother with that mouth. No man can pull off something monumental all by himself. Since we're in the 1970s area code why not ask The Village People? Takes the village to get junior off to the YMCA right? Usher's drum/bass "villagers" pour it on with the thickness of freshly tapped maple syrup. Keys also make up a portion of the magic rabbits pulled out of this particular hat. If Usher's femme fatale doesn't get how much of a value-based item her pucker pouches are then she likely couldn't entertain a thought if ready access to a beer keg or set of wine flights were right in front of her nose. Her kiss makes Usher consider retirement. In other words, after this kiss prospects on the female front only get worse. Nowhere to go but down.I confess "starin' at your barrel" has me thinking Mason Dixon line portion of the anatomy but it's my bad for leaving my thoughts unattended in the gutter. Have the state declare me an unfit father and throw away the key to my jail cell why dont'cha. Usher's nowhere near that classless. The visuals are always launched with high flattery in mind. Spin the wheel and highbrow praise is everywhere. She pulls it out and opens fire. Is that anything like when the late, great, albeit in his later years weird, Michael Jackson called Billie Jean's mouth a motor in "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'"? Again, something to ponder if only briefly. Need a tour of foreign currency. Verse 2 goes globetrotting in impressive fashion. Dinero, euros, francs, and yen get a turn in Usher's lip lock. Who but Usher could pull off a line like "Pull the trigger, chitty, chitty, bang, babe". Up on classic family cinema and randy as the day is long. Usher's talents, sexual, spiritual, lyrical, conceptual, and intellectual know no limits from what "Good Kisser" is putting on the table. No drop in stamina for this guy. Usher succeeds in making the classic kiss look like he invented the wheel. Usher owns the patent. Anyone who follows can't possibly expect to measure up. Usher's kiss 'n' cavort escapade tells tales you'd need a month of Sundays to become even remotely sick. Extra special delivery indeed.

Train Gives Its Angel Wings That Soar To Incredible Heights

This is getting embarrassing to say the least. Once again a Train single is nudged in front of my ears. Once again I come away from the experience firing off so many superlatives you'd swear lead vocalist Pat Monahan was funneling me a share of the band's gross income. Nothing could be further from the truth. You know the notion that your dream job entails the activity you'd gladly do for free? Listening to Train masterfully meld rock, pop, and a dash of country to make the stunning "Angel In Blue Jeans" is one of those activities you don't have to drag me kicking and screaming to the iPod to be part of. We're only some five seconds into the track and already there's a defining smoke coming off the grill. If there's a cross section of music fans who aren't bound to be satisified with Train's teaser shot from "Bulletproof Picasso" might I suggest said individuals pursue some other hobby like yodeling or basket weaving. As a an added kindness Train tosses in a chorus that sounds lifted from the guts of any action/adventure soundtrack you can name. In the interim between the outstanding "California 37" and this single inner tumult has shifted the working parts of the Train engine around a bit. Gone is drummer Scott Underwood who was integral in the high flying fanciful rocket ride that was "Marry Me". In his place lands Drew Shoals who serves as a solid timekeeper on "Angel In Blue Jeans". Although the song lands squarely in the pop/rock camp (Yes, adult contemporary. I haven't hung you out to dry either) the High Noon shivering knuckle drama that old school country enthusiasts know well assumes a prominent background position, particularly when we're staring down the barrel of "Everyone came running to the scene. I was shot down in cold blood by an angel in blue jeans. There's enough passion play at work during the first chord Jimmy Stafford plays, and there's no letup in the several second interval thereafter. Can you taste the pistol smoke? Can you see the lifeless eyes from what was once a stout hearted man? Setting the scene is a gift Train gets better and better at demonstrating. If you trace their history from their first real hit "Meet Virginia", follow it along to "Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me), take a right turn at the fundamentally peppy "Hey Soul Sister" (big ups for tossing a Mr. Mister reference into the lyrics because yes, I own "Welcome To The Real World"). and then cruise over to "Marry Me" and "50 Ways To Say Goodbye", the latter enjoyable to me because of the Cheez Whiz level camp value of the mariachi horns, and one pebble of possible fact stands out. With each passing release Train has cranked up the riskiness level of what its trying to sell. "Meet Virginia" was an agreeable enough melody but pretty much stuck to the play it safe end. Adult contemporary audiences loved it. "Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me) would not have broken the band open the way it did if the legitimate stage theater dramatics arrangements weren't there. By the time "Hey Soul Sister" rolled around in 2009 Patrick started to loosen up. As a Behind The Music episode dedicated to the band shows there was quite a bit of backstage turmoil that had to be endured to get to the footloose stage. When they got there the payoff was miraculous. The first time I heard "Marry Me" I was blown away. Yes, folks. Have fun and leave the tear in my beer pathos to the Hank Williams stripe of performer. Crank up the car radio and let your hair blow in the breeze, mutha!! "California 37" sounded like Train's magnum opus. Track after track floated by. Not a dud in the bunch. I'm sorry if this review is coming off as too much of a music history lesson but, in my defense I'm only doing so to demonstrate the heightened respect I've acquired for Train over the years. The guys really got a handle on how to approach their art as if they actually enjoy what they do rather than simply use their talents as a necessary way to keep food on the table and roof over the head. Train has stopped analyzing the hell out of everything in favor of pure rock pleasure. Patrick's ability to tell stories has only improved. His command of language was never in question. Having successfully proven he knows how to add myth making to his skill set, Train avoids spinning their wheels and instead veers off into a different yet no less satisfying direction. "Angel In Blue Jeans" is certainly a heaven sent gift. Train's evolution remains front row seat captivating. Flash back to them in 1994, then see how far they've come in 2014. Broken wings clearly mended they're on a roll I can only pray shows no immediate sign of stopping. When an eighteen-carat jewel like "Angel In Blue Jeans" is the result, suspension of disbelief brings me unbelievable pleasure.

Self-Congratulatory Godsmack Has Nothing Under The Hood

What's so macho about patting yourself on the back for being badass? If your handle is Godsmack and you've got a single out there in the open waters that calls itself "1000hp" the answer is absolutely nothing. True, they've got the fist pump aspect down cold. Now if they could only bring inspired hard rock back from the dead. The lyrics are amateurish, and that's likely the kindest description I have for them. How's about a little sample, hmmm? Stanza one merely transports us back to 1995, the year this Boston outfit set out to symbolize a lean, mean, metal churning machine. As they walked its streets nobody was listening to them. Their star was hardly getting off the ground. Ah, but there was that one day when EVERY...THING...CHANGED...FOREVER!!! Moving along to the chorus we get added self-admiration, what the crowds at the time the rocket took off where demanding of the band. "Turn that shit out louder! Make it all go faster! Playing through the witching hour! Take it to one thousand horsepower! Yeah!" So tell me guys, when you proceed to lay out this masturbatory schtick does it really make you feel warm and fuzzy at times or do you know you'll have to take a shower to wash away the filthiness. Do your necks get tired after reaching around to kiss your own butts so much. Godsmack more closely resembles ass smack to me. How is it lately I've been bombarded by songs where the explosions don't measure up to the lyrics they're supposed to shore up? Shannon Larkin merits better poetics than these to justify the belt it out hardcore beats he ladles out. Tony Rombola's superior strength with guitar is wasted gift. Robbie Merrill is similarly put in the unenviable position of being light years ahead artistically when compared to the lines lead singer Sully Erna is putting on the table. Is there a searing guitar solo from Tony? Most definitely. You and I don't get to savor it for long because we're quickly yanked back to Sully basking in the love of his public. Here's something taken from the province of "this isn't a characteristic to be proud of". "1000 hp" could've easily been knocked out by a high school freshman bunch of metalheads trying to impress the girls with how into their craft they really are. For that audience the song makes sense because it gives off prime youthful braggart traits. But when you're dealing with four grown men who should be past waxing nostalgic over the honeymoon phase of their careers the self love wears thin quickly. I know other rock bands such as Bon Jovi have flipped back to the past in an attempt to appreciate their journey. Johnny and Gina from "Livin' On a Prayer" get a shout out 14 years later. "1000hp" doesn't have that special veneer of knowing maturity that would make the trip to step one of memory line appropriate. Yes, maybe comparing something Bon Jovi can get away with with something I say Godsmack cannot is like comparing apples to oranges. In spite of that my contention is you wouldn't necessarily want to gobble up a paying audience's time showing the rock concert equivalent of those slide show home movies invited party guests cringe at. Godsmack's devotees need their metal poured out WD 40 style. "1000hp" doesn't lend itself well to the open road. A tune up here, a tweaked wire there would've made a sizable difference. Fumes don't work for a prized auto or a veteran metal group. Godsmack fails to rev up my engine and I'm not optimistic about its chances for doing that for anyone else.