James Bay Possesses a Soft Touch On "Let It Go"

Making so much with so little. James Bay has that down cold. If "Let It Go" is any indication he's successfully orchestrated the template for an adult contemporary-based career that can only get better as it goes along. It's nice to be eased into the ideal mood rather than pushed headlong. Enter one super delicate guitar and you've got the makings of a truly exquisite number that can rock your frazzle nerved baby through whatever slings and arrows come her way. Not long after an endearing drum pops into focus. The end result? Congratulations...you've located an indestructible happy place. Lyrically James Bay does much to enhance the watercolor soft strokes his instruments encourage. The message hit upon repeatedly is "Come on let it go. Just let it be. Why don't you be you and I'll be me." Who else are we supposed to be one wonders. The backstory reads as follows. Many a rough night has led to boy and girl dangling at the precipice of relationship disaster. "Walkin' home and talkin' loads." Ears burning every which way. Not exactly sure what "nervous touch" refers to. The stayin' up and wakin' up with you angles I grasp completely. This dude sounds like a prince among men. Poetic to its marrow we're treated to the line: "Everything that's broke leave it to the breeze." Letting go isn't easy regardless of the relationship construct at work. It's a wise idea anyway. It tends to lessen the cosmic baggage you truck around over the years. Sooner or later that baggage could easily give you a hernia. "I used to recognize myself" rings true for anybody who has watched him or herself disintegrate into someone not particularly likable. At the sight of becoming something else he declares: "I think it's time to walk away." When the essence of the attraction wanes that's likely your best bet. Break ups entail a tactful touch which Mr. Bay exhibits to endearing effect. I'm reminded of other adult contemporary singles along the order of John Mayer's "Daughters". It too conveyed so much pathos all the while using nothing but a well-worn guitar to deliver his sentiments. Time will tell if James reaches John's level of heart melting approachable technical richness. Any lady would consider herself lucky to have James let her down easy. James realizes when a problem's too heavy to hold. His answer? Let it slide. Being comfortable in one's own skin takes practice. It's a craft much the same way as painting or photography or cooking. Julia Child made it OK to be error prone in the kitchen, to accept that the whoops moments are part of the attraction. The audience she reached out to was allowed to be comfortable in its collective skin. Her legions of admirers are and always will be grateful to her. James grasps that emotional honesty is paramount in grooming a healthy robust relationship. Next time you're seeking freshness to boost your iPod to enchanting heights give "Let It Go" a try. Letting go of the calm caress won't be so easy. You won't want to either.

Modest Mouse Pulls Back The Curtain To Reveal a Stage-Savvy Sound

Modest Mouse shows off its flair for the theatrical throughout its new single "Lampshades On Fire". Right away you know these guys are skilled at reeling you in. What's true in the case of both albums and songs themselves is a clever bit of wordplay ups your chances of luring potential listeners in. They're forgiven for not panning the spotlight over to drummer Jeremiah Green. We need that extra space to prepare for what's going to be anything but your average alt-rock creation. "Lampshades On Fire would position itself quite well as a track from any one of a number of New York theater productions. That's because it's got a ragamuffin scrappy to it that dares you not to be on its side as it quests towards impossible victory in the face of insurmountable odds. Not uncommon to other alt-rock bands' playbooks is the gradual downward spiral of guitar chord selections. When lead guitarist Isaac Bruce does it he adds curiosity to a track that already makes you enter this band's shop of unusual delights wondering what you've stumbled upon. Bassist Eric Judy's earned his right not to be some unsung hero. You eliminate him from the equation and the body of "Lampshades On Fire" vanishes without a trace. Modest Mouse isn't out to enlighten you. They don't want to get your brain power elevating to Mensa proportions. Leave that to some other busking for change unit. Let it be declared Modest Mouse seeks pleasure, a good time, a fanciful potion to neutralize everybody's workaday blues. The opening lyrics remind you they're not proceeding with malice aforethought. That is unless contributing to the lunacy of their own festival of strangeness counts as lurid criminal action. Drink this in if you'd be so kind. "Well, the lampshades on fire when the lights go out. The room lit up and we ran about. Well, this is what I really call a party now. Packed up our cars and moved to the next town." The only person missing is Mr. Running With Scissors guy. How many of you out there celebrate existence in practical darkness with only a flaming lampshade to guide you? Didn't think that would be a high number. "We have no shame at all" scores as the most accurate character assessment in this lyric loony bin. Why else would they go to another celebratory site and ignite a lampshade all over again. My how their folks must be beaming with pride. "Lampshades On Fire" doesn't have any of the alt-rock special effects that would instantly hint that you had a potential attention grabber on your hands. To me that's why it's charming as the dickens. You know how many of us have that one friend who steps into our lives whose aura tells us this is the one in a million guy who is actually making the world better than when he found it instead of boasting about what he's going to do? Even today actions still speak louder than words. The band's earlier effort "Float On" strode right into your living room, bopped you over the head and made you notice how deeply it wanted to impress you. "Lampshades On Fire" inches into its bag of tricks. Think of the drumming from the earlier going as the ignition stoking this flame. Momentum officially having been increased there's nowhere to go but upward. This burn is controlled and comes out of the chaos better off. Do you want out of the ordinary? Do you champion theater over thrash? "Lampshades On Fire" holds out its hand and rewards with rock walking on the ragged edge.

The Smashing Pumpkins Go Deep For Tiberius

Smashing Pumpkins frontman Billy Corgan strikes me as cerebral. A memoir could be upcoming. Until then his band has unleashed "Monuments To an Elegy". Opening single "Tiberius" puts on ear-popping display the many reasons why Mr. Corrigan remains relevant two decades after grunge and alt-rock settled in as music's fashionable flavors. Gently he ushers us into his fragile piano realm. We're not fooled for a second. Billy's got reinforcements on the way. He lays out guitar in sweeping epic surges that are going to make the masses who championed "Oceania" be glad they came back for added helpings. Very few can multi-task instrumentally but Billy executes each task with phenomenal aplomb. The bass pummels both your ears begging you to offer some resistance even though you and I both know that'll be hard to come by. Jeff Schroeder, the only other constant member in this bunch knows how to drain maximum willies creepiness from keyboards. Ever been too spooked to run for your life as if your next move could be your last? Jeff's here to reinforce how powerless you really are. Often an epic needs Led Zeppelin like space to unfold, to use its hooks to compel us to visit its twisted, layered dimensions. Well, let it be said that's myth, myth, a million times myth. Three minutes and two seconds is all it takes for Billy and Jeff to take the measure of this hefty piece. At their most effective the Pumpkins don't allow you to catch a breath. No sooner have the keyboards instilled that uncertainty of footing within us than Billy rips our hearts out with guitar that knows how to eat away at the rough edged spots. Billy has lost none of the enigmatic charismatic showmanship that boosted both "1979" and "Tonight Tonight" to the upper depths of the alt-rock stratosphere. Not to mention a touch of hairs standing on the back of the neck discomfort that was responsible for making "The End Is The Beginning Is The End" one sound reason for disallowing the sentiment that "Batman and Robin" was the link in the Caped Crusader chain that royally screwed over the franchise (I, for the record, seem to be one of the teeny handful of people who didn't write off the movie as top of the line garbage with a jolt of skunk spray thrown in for bad measure). Billy knows his way around methodical sound construction. He's been around this block long enough to know if it's a war of attrition the public's after then that's what it's going to get. "Hush my love, don't bite" for all the world makes you imagine vampire man and wife trying to make each other less ill at ease in a world that doesn't welcome them with open arms. Any marriage traditionalists out there? Feel free to hold your noses in disgust at "What is love if love obeys". I assumed love, honor, and obey were the big three of the matrimonial mishmash. Don't make waves with the bald vocalist who likely won't ever have enough cranial space to fit the myriad grand ideas he has. Apparently his lover is naive to the ways of the world but he loves her anyway. Unconditional nookie thy name is Corrigan!! I'd love to know how much air space Billy's spent on reading or drawing inspiration from classic poetry. The dark corners of the human psyche come through with astounding clarity in his lyrics. Best of luck to him on getting his paramour to embrace stillness of mind and heart. Some folks never fail to fascinate. Billy comes through time and again. After visiting "Tiberius" you'll definitely say to yourself "Did I just go through that?" Whether through his sense of vision or technical proficiency Billy Corrigan refuses to slink off into the shadows of the circumstance beaten horizons he's brought to life. I dare anybody to see or hear that as a liability.

Madonna's Living It Up and We're All Invited.

Madonna has never claimed she's got a top drawer set of pipes. There's reason to buy that contention. The one time Material Girl is sure she knows how to get everybody's attention. For better and numerous times for worse that's been the template stenciling her career. What you can be sure of is Madge, as she's called colloquially, knows her way around a dance floor. Early 2015 shall herald the arrival of "Rebel Heart". Smashing in its role as appetizer we're gifted with "Living For Love", a house scented fragrance that gives Madonna free reign to play the throaty vamp and the excitable schoolgirl. Early on you don't get the impression she's going to let loose with a club banger that begs for jello shots at the least, Chablis Blanc at the most. In fact her backdrop doesn't stray too far from the piano end of the spectrum. No need for impatience my little Madonna-holics. Not far from the starting line this bass heartbeat pumps at the right tempo to get the uninhibited in top form. Simultaneously wallflowers get ample motivation to be part of the action. Madonna's giving respect to each end of her career. There are traces of the budding diva who brought us "Vogue" and "Dress You Up". The well rounded woman responsible for "MDNA" rears her defiant head too. Usually Madonna doesn't cast herself as the victim in her romantic tete a tetes. Lyric stanza one from "Living For Love" ends with Madonna having become captured by a man's wiles only to find he put a shot through her heart (Nice homage to Bon Jovi's "You Give Love A Bad Name"). Her dalliance starts out promisingly enough. What's not to like? Girl loves boy. She lets him into her life. He empowers her, makes her strong. Eventually she feels she can do wrong. How mistaken she turns out to be. Where were the alarm bells? Out of sight out of mind I figure. She went from flying high to alone in the dark (Bonnie Tyler, she wasn't trying to cheapen your "Total Eclipse of the Heart"). The dance mayhem gets cranking after Madge gets up off the ground, dusts herself off, and vows not to give up. Euphoria replaces the pervasive bleakness of the previous stanza. The more she liberates herself, the smokier the club atmosphere becomes. Later on, she commends herself on not wallowing in bitterness. She's giving herself license to salute her growth as a human being. The killer lyric in this risen from disaster ditty has to be: "I deserve the best and it's not you." Remember Madonna at any phase in her carries the same weight as E.F. Hutton did in those commercials of yesteryear. People do pay attention when Madge kicks some schmuck to the curb. Unless you're taking up residency on Mars, you're aware that Madonna thrives as the ultimate culture chameleon. As an ingenue she racked up the pop hits. As a sexual rebel she turned heads both in her favor and, as her Sex coffee tabled styled read hinted at, away from her. Joyous motherhood (or is that Madonnahood?) informed the "Ray of Light" outing. By the turn of the new millennium she got back to crowding dance floors with "Music" and "Confessions on a Dance Floor". It's nice to see "Living For Love" carrying on that beloved tradition. Madonna's inner rebel comes out to play in this instance, and the results should serve as reminder to today's dance divas that it was she who carried the torch. Any residual flame represents her generosity of spirit. "Living For Love" isn't apt to die off anytime soon.

Lilly Wood and the Prick Teeter On a Wing and a Prayer

Tonight I bring before you an example of how repetition both destroys a song and elevates a song to a new level. Here to help me we've got, straight from Paris, land of baguettes and an unusual Jerry Lewis fixation, Lilly Wood and the Prick. They come before us with a story that if it were any more depressing would send the rate of lost souls jumping off bridges to unprecedented heights. That story calls itself "Prayer In C". First let's talk about the repetition element that gives the song its captivating jolt. Yes, electric guitar, I'm pointing straight at you. A chord, C chord, G chord, D chord. Over and over, not ever hard to put up with. This harmony swerves across your brain pan like it owns the property. No matter whatever sound textures get thrown into the soup the taste is intoxication with a capital "I". Trust me the passageway has lots of quirky components gluing it together. If you've been dancing along to "Prayer In C" I get why. Upfront the Euro house blend punctures aural taste buds left and right. Bored with one percussion strain? The beat goes beachfront in this nugget's later stages. Now...I did promise you the negative, detrimental side of repetition. That's Nili Hadida's fault. It's true her unique tonsil flashers make it impossible for anyone to avert his gaze completely. Then again you'd likely be able to say that about four eighteen wheelers collided end to end on IH-35 at rush hour so don't wet your pants too much over the excitement value here. Her voice haunts on its own distinct plateau. Even scarier is the doomed, bottom of the barrel, no opportunity to advance upward psychological prison Nili paints. For openers she rips into her main man and, who I'm guessing has been demoted to ex-love interest. He didn't send her no letter so forgiveness, I'll have to ask you to leave. Want rays of sunshine to pop up soon? You're not going to find them in verse two. The world is slowly dying. Always a mood lifter. I appreciate that she wants to get down to the nitty gritty of living but her raspy, I need a glass of something, ideally in liquid form turn at the mic leaves me worried that Nili should have been taken off life support eons ago. Next we get the well duh aging road markers (gray hairs and wrinkled up hands). This lyrics are a booze dispenser version of winning the lottery. Moving on down this highway of gee whiz Nili tells us the children sitting in the ashes that used to be home sweet home, empty bellies only salting up the pain, aren't in a forgiving mind set. You wouldn't be either if your stomach was bitchy and your address was a big fat question mark. How sadly ironic. The song's called "Prayer In C" but the guitar playing doesn't stay in C. Also, I can't make out anything close to forgiveness. Every group of human beings in this song right down to downtrodden Romeo in his final hours lashes out at Romeo. Did he cause the kids to be hungry and homeless? Did he cause seas to ravage continents and wipe out mankind? Then give the poor dude a break. "Prayer In C" plays the merciless chord too often for anybody to think overkill beyond the pale. What's broken isn't clear. What is plain is that there's Hindenburg sinking gloom as far as the ears can hear. Two points to Lilly Wood and the Prick for demonstrating they speak gloom like natives. I don't suppose the Prick was so named because that's the descriptive noun Nili was hoping to elicit from listeners. Well played. We'll always have that swoon encouraging guitar to remember this trip to Paris by. Otherwise I'm not itching for all this bitching. With savvy judgment you won't be either.

Follow The Pretty Reckless To a Skull Crunching Thing of Beauty

Flavors...choices...make day to day life interesting. The Pretty Reckless do a tremendous job giving the heavy metal inclined options by strapping on their guitars and belting out "Follow Me Down". If you want your guitars extra crunchy this crew will not disappoint you. If subdued suits you better the chorus portion holds back on the reins while keeping the intensity white hot to the point of creating an inferno. If you wish to pursue something along the lines of a deranged inmate, then the guitars pull back immediately. Taylor Momsen lets fly with her most snarling vocal display to date. Ben Phillips gets credit for how sharp edged the guitars become. He loads us in his truck and takes us on a spine melting ride that doesn't no any equals. Meanwhile Mark Damon's bass licks are melt in your mouth incredible. Jamie Perkins kicks the drums into high gear right off the bat. His relentlessness puts any doubters on notice that he's the master of his domain. He and Ben feed off each other's psychotic pent up aggression. What a bonus for the rest of us. A great deal of hard rock comes down to a release. I don't care what walk of life you come from. To have that release as a pressure reduction valve amounts to a gift that you could never in a zillion years put a price tag on. "Follow Me Down" fills the bill. As is also the case in hard rock the pacing doesn't hang around waiting for sissies to decide whether they want to board the train or not. Viciousness from top to bottom fuels the engine. Another strong selling point, at least for me, comes from how the way the guitar is incorporated into the overall framework of the song's shape shifting attitude. Let me clarify for you all. The lyrical tale of the tape opens with: "Since I met you I've been crazy." Ben plows into the guitar like a man who has various screws either loose or in the process of coming loose. Taylor's ongoing query of "Have I lost my mind?" matches Ben's octane chord for chord. Then we're going off onto the dirt road side street for "Follow me down to the river. Drink while the water is clean. The acoustic perspective sizes up nicely. Acoustic is stripped of guitar's tendency to get the listener in an off guard crouch. I'm in favor of the swamp swing acoustic adds to this mix. Water purifies or, at least at its best it ought to. Soon enough Taylor's vowing to be on her knees by the river. A touch of ritual cleansing works well with unaffected acoustic guitar. Later on in the song Taylor lets her inner spooks out for some much needed air. She mentions that as a youngster you take what you can get. Whether this is a Sybil complex talking I can't be sure but we get a peek into this vocalist's fractured psyche. She knows now that there's a different way to die. One suspects the man in her life who has been driving her crazy plays a big part in that equation. In this uneasy twosome she can in fact have a beating heart but not be alive. What's not to root for? Taylor's on the ledge. We cross fingers that a positive influence will make its way to her in short order. Invest some time in this bruising scorcher lifted from "Going To Hell". Follow Me Down" stakes its claim as a compelling reason why the New York hard rock collection proves itself worthy of an expanded following.

Whole Damn Year a Big Damn Cleansing Experience For Mary J Blige

Walking away from the wreckage of a previous segment of life. Not an easy assignment. But if you put Mary J. Blige behind a mic and give her room to unfurl you can see confidence behind the vulnerabilty. You see, none of us sets out to have the survivor label. Soon enough we discover it's foisted upon us somehow. Grace plays a large role in Mary's act. Using Nadia's Theme, otherwise known as the theme to The Young & The Restless (Yes, soaps still exist), Mary laid down how she wasn't looking for drama in her life. On her present single "No Damn Year" drama knocks her ass over tea kettle in a number of ways The seasons of the year take on a Jaws like life of their own. Spring punched her in the stomach for cripes' sake. What a horrific crash and grab scenario. Summer's no better. It senses blood in the water and, to the surprise of nobody, leaps in after it. By the time autumn hits the scene poor Mary's left with nothing. Don't drown yourself in pity for Mrs. Blige though. In the twenty plus years she's been on the scene, she's flowered into a majestic woman. She's come far from the ingenue featured on "Real Love". The percussion backup moves with appreciable stealth. It's not too dissimilar to the path a thief in the night takes to sneak up on his intended victim. Delicate shadings grace the piano playing. If there's a minus to be had in this whole proposition it's that the recitation of the big bad four seasons gets highly repetitious. In Mary's hands there's no doubting the sincerity of a soul who's been through many battles and come out the other side the better for it. Featured in the accompanying video are shades of real time London, the bustle of a big city that's rich in pageantry. Baby steps figure prominently in "No Damn Year". That Blige can summon up the courage to belt out the vocal chops to the degree that she does is this side of miraculous. For openers she's thoughtful to explain to her offscreen lover why she's being aloof. On the surface all's fabulous. Beneath the surface she's coming apart and fast. She's had to endure five years of unimaginable misery. If it's cold in the bedroom, there's your culprit. I get that Mary doesn't appreciate being whisked back to Hell with her man. "Bad to the liver" hints at some serious time with a bottle of hooch. Mary's a force of nature despite the odds weighing her down. This song was culled from "The London Sessions", an appropriate connection between atmosphere and mood since London's known for being a gray, gloomy spot. "Whole Damn Year" counts for a whole damn lot in terms of giving Blige's femme fan base the ability to slowly, surely liberate themselves from the relationship drama wreaking havoc on both body and soul. As spokeswomen go Mary has no peer.

Paramore's Heart Is Definitely In The Right Place

Holiday season 2014 is upon us. Need something designed to soothe on impact. You'll learn that Paramore has stepped in to play the part of Secret Santa. You can subject me to a lie detector test all you want but I swear the band responsible for the in your face "Misery Business" and, as I pointed out in a previous blog post, the juvenile taunt "Ain't It Fun" can take credit for "Hate To See Your Heart Break". It'll be the perfect relaxant on a par with hot cocoa stirred with a time treasured spoon. Hayley Williams turns in what has to be the most mature, self-assured performance of her band's career. She sells the chorus wonderfully. Not a trace of phoniness to be had. Joy Williams proves a worthy partner in adult contemporary excitement. As you'd hope for from a song displaying such thoughtfulness, the bass parts don't bowl over the rest of the immaculate arrangements. Jeremy Davis is heard from but his studio politeness is duly noted. I respect the slightly orchestral pathos sprinkled about judiciously. That's certainly not art for the sake of sounding or appearing book smart. What an add on does is tell the audience that "Hate To See Your Heart Break" swims the nettlesome love waters bravely and with a commitment to coming away with something conflict resolution related. From the first stanza to the last Hayley emphasizes compassion over conundrum. At the very start she does the intelligent thing by admitting "There is not a single word that could describe the hurt." She's employing modesty to convincing effect rather than blurt out that she wrote the book of love and knows every counter spell known to man that can cure even the most vicious strains of heartache. Joy and Hayley together to sing the title refrain? Magic sans the hat, rabbit, and wand. Simply put their gentle strokes ease chafed nerve endings. You learn that it's not impossible to learn how to get comfortable in your own skin. Hayley calls people who expect perfect movie script romance on the carpet. She knows that's at best a delusional construct. She can tell sometimes the bad among us get the good women. She's there to remind you that pain isn't exclusively negative. Au contraire. Those harsh sensations remind us hearts can heal. "Hate To See Your Heartbreak" gets you out of those wet clothes and into a cuddle worthy robe. As you can see in the video there's plenty of camaraderie to enjoy vicariously. The hugs at the end sum up the song better than I likely ever could. "How were you to know?" Hayley asks a gesture of concerned friendship. I trust she means how was her friend to know the dull knife's merciless edge would hurt so bad. Whatever the subtext "Hate To See Your Heart Break" affirms how reinvigorating love's warm embrace can be. In this instance we're not talking about amour gone sour. In fact it's sisterhood rounding into top form. Paramore wears its maturity well. Consider this heartbreak a lucky break if you appreciate romantic offerings from the heart instead of some playbook smothered in wronged damsel histrionics.

Chevelle's Island Not Very Inhabitable

You've got two choices when listening to Grayslake, Illinois' Chevelle's new single "The Island". You can marvel at the brass knuckles toughness deeply injected into the band's playing or you can ask yourself is lead vocalist Pete Loeffler trying to sound like he's impersonating The Deftones "My Own Summer (Shove It)". Pete alternates between whiny agony and the unsettled soft whisper Chino Moreno lends to The Deftones single. In a nutshell Pete craves an island, a getaway refuge. We would like to think it's not something highly alcoholic or illegal on city streets. There's definite chemistry in Chevelle. The drums pound you senseless. The guitar backs you into a corner and has you begging for your life. The bass is executed with the nothing to lose ferociousness of a wounded jungle animal. As a unit these guys mean business. Pete's plenty cryptic with what his lyrics are conveying. What creature displays the fangs described? Darned if I know. And what's with the directional inconsistencies. One minute it's "Some little island is all I ask to put you on. The next he's trying to force his prey to go. "This fun is near the end" doesn't give me warm fuzzies. "You've worn out your welcome way too fast" makes me think of the live fast die young crowd rock 'n' roll's landscape has been populated with throughout its history. Chevelle's alt metal techniques are crunchy. Sam Loeffler excels at making his drum kit growl at the listening audience rather than be content with its playing a passive role. The troubling aspect of this tune is that the musical heaviness provides a tarp to throw over the notion that all that's being said is Pete needs an island to escape to. That's the food equivalent of burying an entire shaker of salt on a perfectly serviceable sandwich that didn't need to be suffocated with such overdone condiment. I'm sure lots of us could use an island to escape to. However you don't need a motorcycle rally's aggressiveness to ram that point home. This is metal so I get that "Speak softly and carry a big stick" isn't going to cut it but there's not a lot of depth to what Chevelle's communicating. The track originates from the "La Gargola" album. "Gargola" if Wikipedia is to be believed, is Puerto Rican slang for "someone who likes to party". "The Island" isn't exactly party conducive material. On the contrary on the basis of Pete's vocals alone it's highly unsettling. Towards the end we get some of that knife jabbed in the skull shrieking that metal stakes its bread and butter reputation on. So to review there's a whisper aspect, a whiny trapped animal aspect and an inexcusable pain aspect. Too bad none of them adds up to a single that gets past the curiosity factor stage. "The Island" needs to be vacated at all costs. Seedy neighborhood, little reward, no meat on the bones.

Young Guns Fires Off a Track Bound To Leave Listeners Wanting More

Young Guns' sound has been compared to The Killers. There's merit in that when you consider the supposedly limitless bombast of "I Want Out" to The Killers' "When You Were Young". The former can't be contained by four recording studio walls. Gustav Wood's voice has the shooting for the cheap seats vigor you'd expect from an area rock level band. As appears a common trend on the scene these days Young Guns drop in philosophy to go with the twin guitar assault of Fraser and John Taylor. Refusing to be confined to a background role we've got Simon Mitchell whose bass guitar stares you down and dares you to make it blink first. Kansas already reminded us of out relative insignificance with "Dust In The Wind". Young Guns provided not one, but two opportunities to hammer that exact same message home. Gustav turns to leaves rather than dust (thoughtful of him to treat nature as a supportive pal rather than a condemning prison). Later he puts a biological slant on his message, specifically that we're mere breath against glass. Add to that how we're ashes in a fire fading fast and you have a guy who the alcohol industry loves because he's putting their offspring through college. Ben Jolliffe's no slouch in the drumming department. He slams home rhythms with authority. This collective foursome earns its spotlight when we arrive at the chorus refrain of "Cause if this is love baby I want out." There's a real hefty he-man chorus at work here and as the refrain takes deeper hold that straight through the roof style I mentioned bears its entire rainbow of kaleidoscopic colors. Classic poetry gets a fist bump with "Rage against the dying light". I'm not sure if Dylan Thomas would've approved or not or even if he'd have regarded himself a fan of Young Guns. Whatever the motivation we've jumped back into kind of melancholy musings about how fragile we are as above ground creatures. Not earth-shattering nor a way to talk the troubled out of a dark hole. On the musicianship side of things the foursome have a great intuitive sense of what makes great timing. The dominoes fall at exactly the right moments. They're on the run. You want to take the journey with them. Gustav holds the choral notes beautifully, drawing them out enough to achieve maximum impact. If you're into a wall of sound that locks and loads at the expense of your heebie jeebies button "I Want Out" will make you very happy. So be it if you want to accuse Fraser and John of noodling around a fair bit. If you have the chops there's nothing wrong with giving casual listener and experienced Young Guns vet a taste of what their dollar is going to buy them. "I Want Out" pulls listeners into the conflicted vortex of existentialists looking for a little human warmth to make the rough spots easier to bear. You'll be oddly taken with this calibrated shock to the system. Melodic and moody mix together in perfect sync. Young Guns deserve numerous chances to reload and slay the unsuspecting listening public.

Beyonce's "7/11" A Triumph Of Convenience Over Substance

Queen Bey hasn't treated her royal subjects to anything worthy of a regal salute this go 'round. "7/11" sounds like some cheap processed food item you'd purchase at a 7/11. Sure, you get to watch Beyonce frolic all over the damn place in the video, lucky break for us but, was this really worth the presumed effort? I say presumed because you'll have to excuse me for thinking Beyonce's coasting on her brand name here. Too common in urban songs these days is the stutter beat vocal. You catch the drift? Where she...talkas...ifshe...hasan...implant...inher...voicebox (cue artificial drum samples). "Drunk In Love" showed us the sparkling romantic. "Singles Ladies (Put a Ring on It)" had balls out the yin yang. "Crazy In Love" brought the spice people have come to expect from her. "7/11" would be her version of phoning it in. Beyonce enthusiasts please hold back your righteous indignation. I don't deny she has mainstream audiences of all stripes eating out of the palm of her head. She's had that star quality from the first note. "7/11" is far from a prime example. Beyonce goes aerobic dance instructor has its meet cute moments, however it's annoying above all adjectives. For instance how many times can we "smack it in the air" before somebody starts to think "this nut's having motor coordination issues big time." Worn out from smacking it in the air. Beyonce's not done with you. Next, in order to get her approval you must "clap clap clap like you don't care." Personally I stopped caring about this dance move eons ago. Y'all couldn't have gone through life on this planet without having heard "Wave your hands in the care like you just don't care". It's Beyonce's gift wrapping but the overwrought call to action needs to be given a mercy killing. Beyonce shouldn't be allowed to use her corporate brand recognition as an excuse to reactivate a dance floor mood igniter that's been tread so many times it doesn't merit your shifting much cosmic energy in that direction. She does an awful lot of pointing out about how she's putting her foot up. Were either you or I to do that we'd be met with shrugs of indifference. But in the world we live in anything Beyonce does, no matter how pedestrian, has a thousand watt bulb on it constantly. She'd be doing herself a favor by reconnecting with better processed samples than what's on display in "7/11". Like the lyrics, laziness has the upper hand. Moving right along she gets excited about having her hands up, spinning her hands up, standing up with her hands up, etc...Okay. How does that sound like anything other than a low-fi workout tape's sequence of dialogue? The answer? It doesn't. One plus I glean from the video. It captures the queen's inability to stay in one place for long. Perpetual motion and Beyonce go together and I suspect always will. Nobody's demanding she give us a Destiny's Child update but she's more of a professional than this. A little flash would help things noticeably. "7/11" needs not be a stop on your musical itinerary. You've got more engrossing pursuits to entertain.

New Politics Has Nowhere To Go But Up

Aggression for aggression's sake has its place. The bitch of New Politics' current single is there's not much under the hood besides aggression. I can appreciate that, fresh out of the starting blocks "Everywhere I Go (Kings and Queens)" gets the Jolt Cola full on rush vote. Translation: These guys take the wheel early on. Behind said wheel they're unrelenting to the point of us wishing someone would inject downer pills into their veins. There's a bend in the road leading to the chorus where the band kind of sneaks up on its connected chorus. Then, it's pounce time. Vocalist David Boyd yells out the title, not a compliment really. His voice curves at "go". Not graceful art. He's veered over into that territory of the grating sound made by a persistent alarm clock. Pre-chorus Dave gives what I guess amounts to shout-outs to his friends that didn't give a fuck. In this instance I don't much give the previously related to fuck either. Limp Bizkit and New Politics couldn't be further apart on the musical spectrum but, what they have in common is calling out to people who don't give a fuck. Shock value doesn't help New Politics artistically or financially so why go there when odds are they're not going to like what they find? Too bad nobody put a speed trap close by Louis Vechio. His drumming ought to be on some banned substances list. What's in his pee? I suspect Denmark beer with a few chasers thrown in to make sure he goes from zero to exploding in one fell swoop. Among other classifications New Politics falls under the dance rock banner. The video spotlights a great number of people living it up in style. It also shows some poor soul's head decapitating. Something for the kids to enjoy. I'm all for family entertainment. At the end there I think Manson's the family in question. Good for David for sharing with us his having smashed the window on a Lexus. A VW Rabbit wouldn't have been as compelling. Judging from stanza three we can guess which air carrier's forever bound to be grateful for the ad plug. "Higher than United" sounds pretty high. Pharmaceutical companies are going to have a field day on that imagery. Even when Soren Hansen and Mr. Vechio allow programmed syncopation to run the city much like the kings and queens themselves the MPH stays in the warning track big league ballpark zone. I don't consider myself an out of step stick in the mud but "Everywhere I Go (Kings and Queens) cries "Look at me!! Look at me!!" too much to prevent its credibility from sagging into shameless self-love territory. The threesome jumps into its zingy madness but they needed to have smoothed out the prickly edges. In its completed form "Everywhere I Go (Kings and Queens) brings the party people but forgets to supply a reason why any of us should be celebrating this. As a result the song goes nowhere fast. New Politics ought to be on the lookout for novel ideas otherwise its candidacy as a lasting voice in dance rock will gasp its last breath before it had its chance to shake hands and kiss babies.

Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars Co-conspire To Create Uptown Ecstasy

George Clinton, please don't be mad that soul brothers Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars made flesh a game plan you wish you had wrote. The twosome's "Uptown Funk" smokes the joint Towering Inferno style. Tell me something...is Bruno out to get to legend status even faster than Justin Timberlake? Between "Locked Out of Heaven" and "When I Was Your Man" he's shown himself on the fast track to career longevity. Nobody's confusing "Uptown Funk" with "Sexy Back" but Bruno knows his way around a slithering funk playbook. So much of what comes through in this performance basks in gussied up to the nines strolling down the uptown district, looking really pleased with yourself and the gang surrounding you. I'm certain we're in 2014 but the throwdown tempo of the song has me thinking I done gone and stepped into a time machine and landed back in 1974. Mister Shaft himself Isaac Hayes would be pleased as punch with the horn section. How you could shun dancing to this revelatory brass barnstorm job puzzles me. You couldn't have an adequate party buzz in action if your drums weren't equal to the task. So it goes here. No half-assed displays. When we arrive already sweating to the nth degree at "Don't believe me just watch" those drums act like they're backing icon Stevie Wonder. As much bounce as you can handle, there it is to be swallowed in all its amphetamine laced glory. There's a linguist's feast at work on the lyric side. I don't believe in the history of recorded music will any of us above ground dwellers ever hear "I'm too hot. Make a dragon wanna retire." For one, I didn't think dragons had financial interests to look out for, That sort of headache is usually the problem of the dragon's victim. You've also got to call in the police and the fireman with Bruno on the case. Everywhere you turn you've got "Doh doh doh doh doh doh doh doh." Hence my reference to George Clinton. Doesn't this make you shiver at the recollection of "Atomic Dog" You know? "Bow wow wow, yippy yo yippy ay?" You millennials are likely looking at these words as if the guy who composed them is short a few cards. Good for you. Shows you're paying attention. Anyway, there's much to be say for 40-proof funk that doesn't mind shaking its booty in your face and acting like it's the only jam that matters. I don't suppose Michelle Pfeiffer's hit career doldrums lately. True or not Bruno does the "Fabulous Baker Boys" starlet a solid by bringing her hat into his tight blue jeans ring. There's not a sour note to be hit. If you're worn down by Ebola, ISIS, immigration, or the very real possibility that Bill Cosby flushed his legacy down the crapper, "Uptown Funk" grants you permission to feel all's right with the world again. If, after lo these many years you still want the funk Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars have the perfect tonic to set you right from head to foot.

Hozier Travels to Eden For a Power-Packed Ditty

Who wasn't blown away by the heaviness wrapped around Irish troubadour Hozier's "Take Me To Church". You and I practically got alter rail rug burn from his spine-tingling testimonial. This budding talent returns with "From Eden". His aching ticker remains on full, unapologetic, unabashed display but, to the benefit of those faint of stomach, the songcraft isn't calling rock bottom gut bucket blues home. His guitar moves by his side in a strident tone. Added in for steady hand effect we get drums that patter rather than show off their wares a la Buddy Rich, a drummer's drummer if ever the term could be coined. As a poet myself I must say lyrically Hozier's in full lock and load mode. Take a peek at the numerous adjectives he uses to describe his we presume troubled ladylove. "Something wholesome about you." Therein lies the positive part. In the same breathe we're treated to "there's something so lonesome about you. "Magic" and "tragic" get a turn in the poetry rhyme go round. A lot of what comes through in her characterization is a damsel too weakened by the world she inhabits to cultivate any variety of response that shows she's anything other than indifferent. Hozier's screwed no matter what direction he turns. She doesn't have time for him. Tired sighs smack of entirely too much effort. What about vacant stares? Not a drop. Look what Hozier does to the oft lost innocence we supposedly have jettisoned in some way, shape, or form for generations. To Hozier's way of thinking it's dead. Don't expect idealism to be too proud of its lot. It languishes in prison. Chivalry became the victim of a sword's unforgiving wounds. What happened to the vacant stares and who cares affectations. Like I said when you struggle to figure out which way is up you don't have the inner strength to stress your dissatisfaction. Poetry in the name of learning what makes her tick. That Hozier cares enough to inquire about her well being demonstrates that the maimed chivalry is not mortally wounded at all. Biblical temptation images run deep. Whether engagingly or not Hozier contends "I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. Overall the harmonies maintain steady pace. You aren't left gasping for air trying to keep up with the direction the thoroughbred is racing towards. Hozier paints "From Eden" in shades of "Let me appease the darkness that threatens to pull you under. In comparison "Take Me To Church" was a crucifixion soundtrack cut, thorns and all. It succumbed to the darkness. Hozier's to be praised for keeping his slowly weeping poem intact without sacrificing mellow vulnerability to get there. "From Eden" can best be classified as heaven sent and because of this it's a triumphant addition to his ever swelling body of work.

Linkin Park Leads a Rebellion

Boy Linkin Park looks great in System Of a Down's shoes. Why would I utter that sentiment? Because right along side the California lads, on loan from Serj Tankian no doubt, is its guitarist Daron Malakian. To the surprise of positively nobody Daron riffs his way to a frenzy, strapping us unsuspecting souls in for what's a pretty sweet ride. Linkin Park's Chester Bennington proves again that he can be deceptively subdued and ram piercing shrieks down our throats with equal, bone jarring dexterity. Crave a life simplistic? Chester knows what you're going through. In verse he points out how easily we're imprisoned by the things we own. Van Halen summed that up in 1992 as part of "Right Now" specifically with "The more you get, the more you want". The claim to jump at here is that conspicuous consumerism has a way of being an addictive drug unto itself. One hit satisfies, or so it would appear until you get antsy about making a beeline for the next must have item, and so on and so on. Such decisions are how credit card debt burrows into one's gut. "Rebellion" has the unresolved anger issues that go along with having scads of energy yet finding no ready outlet to place it. As has been shown by Daron's System Of a Down tribe Linkin Park's latest effort gets the hairs standing on the back of your neck through their shifting from racing to the edge of insanity over to a soup concoction that slowly, steadily reminds you these boys aren't necessarily playing with the full 52. There's this connecting passage where the intensity doesn't falter but the volume knob's pushed down just enough to keep us off balance, kind of like we don't mess around with a sniper who would appear to in fact be the smartest guy in the room, hence the description "criminal mastermind". "Rebellion pelts us from every conceivable angle and does so unapologetically. Rob Bourdon bashes drums maniacally. Whatever direction Chester's compromised cranium goes Rob's right there matching him stride for demented stride. That lower level demonic thrill I hinted at earlier wouldn't have been nearly as mesmerizing were it not for Dave Farrell whose bass reaches down to the darkness reaches of human comprehension. Mike Shinoda and Brad Delson have their aim directed right at the solar plexus and may heaven help you if you get in the way of their rapid fire annihilation approach. Chester has been Linkin Park's ace in the hole since its 1996 beginnings. He hasn't lost his way with grasping the right notes at the right time. Mental confusion is no small player in everyday life. Chester's desire to have it washed clean rings true for everyone who has a pulse at present. Making sense of the carnage takes up a lot of time in our lives, especially since a lot of what we see doesn't make much sense. Although wanting reasons for tragedy sounds like a Don Quixote undertaking at best it's a completely understandable reaction to tragedy. "Rebellion, rebellion we lost before the start." We're doomed to fail before we even sit down. "The Hunting Party" becomes a desirable social outing when one realizes "Rebellion" is on the menu. Rebels against oppressors never loses its cache, no matter where it stems from. Linkin Park's alliance with System's Malakian serves their overall cause well. In rebellion you need someone brazen enough to lead the charge. Daron comes out guns blazing merely asking Linkin Park to trust his instincts. Sounds like trust was earned, and therefore guitars were shredded. This rebellion's worth the sweat it costs you to participate. If you enjoy tired in a nice way, you'll savor the flavor through and through.