Pray That Seether Finds Tighter Material

Too soft core too often best describes "Nobody Praying For Me", the latest from Seether's "Isolate and Medicate" release. I'm not putting the song down so much as I'm insisting there's not enough juice under the hood to justify spending too much time with it. Shaun Morgan's got plenty on the lyric sheet to suggest his band would be better off if he put heightened feeling behind the words. You'd best put the kiddies to bed right now 'cause it's about to get bone chilling. Is there a world record for most dispiriting references in one verse? I nominate Seether due to how it opens the wrapping paper on any and every forlorn reference you could imagine. I'll run through these piece by piece. See how many you can digest before waterworks become inevitable. If you're not up for being made to feel marginalized I'd exit the room at this juncture. We open with warmth personified in "I'm a whisper lost upon wind." We work down this path to meet up with "I'm the ember that will burn you down." How delightful. Picking up the pace we sojourn along to "I'm the water that will drown you." Not my preferred out clause from planet Earth but that's one homosapien's opinion. Are you in a fetal ball yet? Then you won't mind "I'm a star that's just a black hole now." You aren't going to get much uplift going forward, believe you me. However, what you do get is harrowing word craft. Shaun doesn't bring along an intensity to match the emotional exhaustion on the page. This common theme within his band's playing pops up constantly. For example Shaun doesn't crackle and pop much on guitar. Ditto Dale Stewart's bass. "Nobody Praying For Me" desperately wants to say something profound but misses the mark. One of the many classifications Seether falls under is alternative metal. Would that Seether roared with the braggadoccio that's metal's ace in the hole. You don't get that impression here. John Humphrey doesn't put his back into the drum kit quite the way the material warrants. "Nobody Praying For Me" suffers because of that. In the second verse Shaun needs some love for coining the sentence "'Cause if I stand up, I'll break my bones and everybody loves to see a fall unfold." Firstly I count as one member of everybody and I don't love it but I digress. It's a visually engaging piece of self-expression. In verse three he assumes the guises of fungus and a lizard. How undeniably charming. He's also the bullet in a loaded gun. NRA fans rejoice. I'm most disappointed in how laid back the guitar playing is when righteous chest beating would serve the situation far better. If you're going to load a lyric sheet with emotionally charged content you'd better bring the instrumental know how to match. There's unrealized potential under the hood. Too bad "Nobody Praying For Me" sounds content to scratch the surface rather than go deep. We'd all be the benefactors of a richer listening experience if Seether put pedal to their metal by showing a little mettle. "Nobody Praying For Me" comes off as too far gone for holistic healing.

Pitbull and Chris Brown Aren't Much Fun To Be Around

Latino baller Pitbull and bad boy Chris Brown have joined forces in their quest to have fun. Did it work? The back beat's irresistible. You go above and beyond the two drink minimum and a good time seems in the offing. Chris Brown hasn't exactly been putting the ardor in my larder since "Run It". He's been a wee bit too busy making headlines for the wrong reasons (Right Rihanna?) If Chris was aiming to restore his career credibility by teaming up with Pitbull then I do give him the nod for showing off some business acumen. Pitbull doesn't waste any opportunity to demonstrate why he's the 2010s hot ticket at present. The ladies adore him for his tight package. The dudes know they stand a better chance of getting past first base with Pitbull on shuffle. Where might his charisma stem from. Truth be told, delivery tells the tale. From shades to suit to tie Pitbull reflects a swoon mandating masculinity that you'd only equal with a performer in the league of a Justin Timberlake. Pitbull about edge whereas J.T. comes from smooth central. Pitbull wants nothing other than to have fun, cut loose, let it all hang out. It's not beneath him to coax a woman into an impromptu strip tease which I don't imagine too many femmes would say no to. At the opening, tag partner Chris yearns for the shadows where he and his lady can get lost. Under a hazy moon's cover he wants to express himself to the fullest degree, booty call style that is. "Fun" does bring with it lightweight thrills but after that third margarita or lime shooter are you really going to pay it much mind? If what you really seek to achieve in a marvelous evening is a few steps higher than light beer jollies then "Fun" may be the disappointment you're desperate to avoid. The marketing brass linking this twosome together wasn't short on horse sense but in today's short and getting shorter all the time attention span marketplace pushing two marquee names together thinking buzz is imminent won't wash. Not only does Pitbull try to undress the chicks with his eyes he gives us an itinerary of the globetrotting locales he has stamped his brand name on. Monaco? Oooh...Miami? Aaaah...The boy and and a limo come off like a match made in paparazzi heaven. Enrique Iglesias gets his very own name drop as well. It's telling how far Chris Brown's stock has fallen in such a relatively short span of time that has to take spotlight commanding sessions from Pitbull but, that's the world we currently live in. Chris doesn't get much to do past the opening verse. Again. marketing at its most calculating. You let Robin stay by the Justice League trouble alert headquarters in case something goes horribly wrong but you let Batman handle the heavy lifting. "Fun" looks better on a playlist than "Mild Diversion" but the latter tells this lower wattage tale. Pitbull gets reduced to barking pitifully on the porch, Chris gets mere ear candy billing and we the general public reap at best minimal rewards. Too cheap to merit much cosmic airspace. You'd likely have a better time visiting Pitbull's Miami home turf than giving this single anything other than passing fancy status.

Highly Suspect Is Guilty of Rock With a Sawed Off Edge

Upon listening to Brooklyn threesome's Highly Suspect's "Lydia", I get that cold chill which could only come from hearing octave climbing guitar applied at its juiciest. You're hearing hard rock sawed to its harshest nub. Johnny Stephens packs some artfully agitated pipes, particularly when he gets his guitar cranking at a mind-melting level. Rich Meyer does bass justice. The stay hungry look curves coupled with ample testosterone makes his bass growl much like an angry dog does after too many whacks with a stiff stick. Ryan Meyer drums as if his next breath depended on it. The fervor clings to your bones and refuses to give much traction. Also, there's a dreamy spot where the core components pretty much fade away and the slightest trace of sound keeps us on the appropriate path. You figure the ominous smoke hovering over the tune get its start from the direction the lyrics point to right from the get-go. Throw in black ocean up top and you can be pretty sure we're not zeroing in on a song that's destined to turn that frown upside down. Johnny assumes an apparent role as a shark who's hungry, fast, and merciless, three things a shark must be if it wants to keep breathing. In this psychodrama up pops the only girl who could talk to him. Alas, she couldn't swim. At the forefront Johnny imbues his playing with the drowning in the undertow vibe derived from someone for whom breathing has grown increasingly difficult. Brash youth takes the spotlight in the second verse. For Johnny said point in the life cycle represented his better days. From there we're treated to Johnny's barbaric rise in frustrations. This couples nicely with the decidedly minor chord guitar selection. As tonsil flashers go Johnny allots the attitude that makes Brooklyn the sassy locale we've heard about. You could liken the guitar octave climb with an instrument breathing, a guitar huff and puff if that's the comparison you're high on. It's trying to pump out whatever mojo is on display to get it up those stairs. Shark surfaces as the featured animal but angry wolf makes greater sense. Does Ryan drum to impress? No. I'd say economy's the word to look out for. Enough stick wizardry to enchant but not so much that you believe he's showing off just to flaunt his talent in our faces. Harley keyed up and ready to rev. "Lydia" for all the world appears to be an exciter that would surely be an excellent fit for smoke-filled lounges populated by folks coupling that habit with an alluring alcohol buzz. Verse two presents us with what has to be the first time tears were colored black. Dark mood equals dark location on the color wheel. It's bad enough she's crying she's also tied to the tracks. Not only harsh but cruelly so. The third chorus shows our male lead aiming for the sun, gun cocked. How jarringly dramatic but to outstanding effect. "Lydia" the song can be described similarly. Highly Suspect earns the right to inspire repeated listens. "Lydia" is one eye appealing lady.

Halestorm Goes Balls To The Wall For "Amen"

Halestorm's Lzzy Hale has fast demonstrated herself to be one of the big league rising stars of heavy metal. "Amen" makes you want to kneel and thank your lucky stars she travels amongst us mere mortals. The woman's intense. She's all in, all the time. If I was to describe how "Amen" strikes a visual rather than an audio pose I'd ascertain to guess said visual takes the form of one unrelenting, burn a hole in your stomach gaze. Go from the first lyrics forward and the equation's clear. Lzzy knows who she is as a rock goddess. Not only that she doesn't need your approval to be her awesome self. Joe Hottinger serves notice on guitar. He's laying his brand on this moment. He maximizes the muscle to gain maximum credibility. Lzzy's brother Arejay hasn't been reduced to an afterthought but he doesn't have a heck of a lot to do here except make sure this party's on course for night to remember land. Are you an office desk jockey? Lzzy goes mild mannered day job throughout the video. There's that clock on the wall. There's that office restlessness so many of us could sing the words to in our sleep. If ever anyone could spell out the whole "Don't call me baby" vibe it's Lizzy. She's aced marginal day to day world 101. It's the very many little things that add up to a glorious whole here. Somewhere a fire burns. Somehow the world keeps turning. It's hard to keep your heart from freezing in apathy. That's truth learned the hard way. You wouldn't think "Amen" a joint clocking in at not even 3 minutes would manage to hold your attention span but Halestorm makes the most of what it has. Josh Smith has this otherworldly sense confirming the meter's running so he doesn't waste energy much like a boxer doesn't waste punches because that's how he's got ammo left for the later rounds. "Amen" doesn't do much chord shifting. That's definitely working for the bunch of them. Remember I said relentless gaze? The guitar playing matches that don't take your hands off the throttle uncompromising Halestorm ethos. Lzzy throws the kitchen sink in with the rest of the kit and kaboodle on the wordsmith sheet. Lzzy's not afraid. She can look long odds in the eye without batting an eyelash. She delves into polar opposite meanings as you scroll down the score sheet specifically the line "The truth is gonna lie." You've got white lies which quite often are said to cushion blows. Then there are people claiming to know the absolute truth but lie to serve their unwholesome purposes. I take Lzzy to task for "Faith is gonna blind" because blind's usually the adjective going hand in glove with faith. That adjective needs to be outsourced to the retirement home for overused rock cliche lines. That pairing needs to get kicked to the curb. So there...my lone nitpick against this song. Lzzy gets to the point which many rock lovers like because who has time for the War and Peace version of rock fundamental awesomeness. Did you go prickly all over when Lzzy let fly a barbaric snarl at the bridge? Shame on you if the answer's no. She learned well from heavy metal pantheon legends to get that shrill tone just right. "Amen" isn't as animated as "I Miss The Misery" and that's fine. Where the former excels is getting the most bang for the rocker buck. "I Miss The Misery" was about leading one to believe man/woman knock down drag out war was a thing of beauty unto itself. Lzzy's will be done because she's dubbing it her kingdom come whether you like it or not. To which I and scores of other headbangers can say...amen.

Pulling Back The Veil On Kamelot Brings Massive Rewards.

Let's carry on to a little something different. Tonight we visit the power metal hemisphere. Accompanying us is a band out of Tampa that formed when George the Elder was our prez, specifically 1991. "Veil of Elysium" unabashedly nails what's lasting about the genre. This stuff's overblown and doesn't care whether you approve of it or not. The combined weight comes at you like a hurricane's eye. We're made to fasten our seat belts. To do otherwise would be courting certain disaster. For power metal to live up to its ample hype you need a vocalist who's not afraid to wallow about in its hyperbole. Tommy Karevik fills the bill nicely. Thomas Youngblood gives the metal masses everything they could ever hope for at the bridge, namely a searing guitar solo which doesn't hold back on the camp value. So what does Tommy have to tell us. Would you be in any way surprised that Death figures into this scenario. For gosh sakes you're talking about the heavy metal community's ace in the hole. I'm afraid I'm not much use in explaining what a rose of obsidian is but it sounds cool on a lyric sheet. "Death comes to all. In a heartbeat only silence." Nothing you and I haven't heard dissected a billion times before but give Kamelot one point in its favor. Its symphonic convergence method to madness gives you mileage to spare. But now onward we go with the haunting words. "One day I know we will meet again in the shade of a life to die for." That's either highly bleak or gilded with the faintest optimism. One selling point the Reaper has going for him is dwelling in the hearts of the soon to be deceased happens to be the hopefulness coming from the idea they'll be reunited with long gone loved ones in Heaven. The fear of Death is universal so anything to soften the blow gets my vote. The concept itself usually goes part and parcel with heavy drama and Kamelot brings the thunder. The speed angle makes you think doom is imminent. The boys hammer away like they're Olympic gymnasts trying to nail a dismount so the final word on their prowess as musicians will be favorable. You've gotta have potent drumming to fuel such an unrelenting fire. Enter Casey Grillo. He goes about his business a man possessed (Satanic reference anyone? The pitchfork toting scuzz surely has his own wing in heavy metal's pantheon of character reference. I salute power metal for being '80s metal over the top without tits and ass lyrical obsession. There's not exactly an impeccably designed road map for its marquee names to follow. You essentially grab onto the reigns praying this bronco won't kick you off, leaving you irreparably scarred. On the video side who can argue with a rocket ride back to olden days. Sean Tibbetts rumbles in defiance thanks to a bass that'll happily shove you out of the way to get the golden doubloon reward awaiting in the distance. On the other end of the audio assault Oliver Patolai inserts his keyboards into the thorn filled fairy tale. From that inclusion the legend only grows deeper, wider, less likely to be ignored. I have to present Kamelot with a split decision victory. It's to their advantage that their musical take no prisoners spark outweighs the latest musings on what's waiting (or not) on the other side of life. You'll be making devil horns and bouncing your in need of trim metal mops too vigorously to wonder if you should be worn down by well mined topics like this. "Veil of Elysium" drops the lyrical ball by only serving us reheated leftovers. That's not a damning indictment harsh enough to throw out baby and bath water though. They are well schooled power metal powerhouses. I refer you back to Thomas and the vicious guitar tear he goes on. That and a bottle of Jagermeister ought to quell the beast within.

Blur Seeks To Keep You Company

Into the mix plops the goodness. Keys, guitars tuned up acoustically, lightly salted whimsy join forces to produce "Lonesome Street", a chewy treat from this long time, reformed six years ago outfit's "The Magic Whip". Cruising with them resembles waltzing through a windy, unpredictably complex tunnel. You never know which direction you're headed but that in no way, shape, or form bothers you (or should anyway) because the boys refresh continually. If some notes get champagne bubbly then so be it. If guitars rule the roost that's not so terrible either. Blur does complex song geometry justice. Not only that they pull it off with flair to spare. You'll delight in the cheek pinch worthy humor aroma therapy jolting you in the video. Who out there digs eccentricity in any tinge you can get your hands on? "Lonesome Street" won't tolerate the boundaries you erect for it. You might yell "Aha!! I've nabbed me guitars that want to wine and dine. Sorry, wrong answer. You'll appreciate towards the end when there's a higher keyboard element to boast about. Alternative rock back in its MTV infancy days had its eye raising non-pigeonhole factor. Those who swore by 120 Minutes when it hit airwaves on Sundays are bound to catch my drift. "Lonesome Street" wants to pal around with you. Singer Damon Albarn isn't even trying to project clarity into the mike. See how exotic the video clip is? That's proof that his way of vocalizing matches the textures perfectly. Let's lift up the lyrical hood, shall we? Reminder...don't expect something you could easily translate into plain English. To get my meaning across let's open with "If you need a yellow duck - service done this is a place to come to, or, well it was. So there you have it...equal parts let's remember fused with a reference to water fowl. Lost yet? Out...standing. You can rest easy knowing it's only going to got odder going forward. I know a hot spot crossing on the guillotine. One part method of execution brought to simmer. Uh...huh. Why don't I cut right to my opinion, the very reason you're absorbing eye strain to follow my word play (insert knowing wink here). "Lonesome Street" does stand out from the pack. Well defined asset. On the flip, this effort could be accused of being too artsy precious for folks like you (or not, depending on the crowds you've observed) due to lyrics only Brits knowingly nod their heads to. Alt music from its inception had its mind set on eviscerating boundaries. Radio wouldn't touch it without a cattle prod. As history has shown us REM, The Cure, and Depeche Mode wore down radio resistance to score big. Blur does not walk on that side of the street here. Alex James turns on the juice in the bass guitar department but "Lonesome Street" isn't a gears, cogs, nuts, bolts guitar song. In equal argumentative fashion Damon's keyboard exhibitionism won't sell you on the idea we're witness to some coquettish new wave throwback that penetrated the prison bars. Drummer Dave Rowntree isn't out to hog the spotlight either. Blur fine tunes its artistry on its terms as you'd hope bands of all persuasions are emboldened to do. Commerce counts but creativity works well too. So is "Lonesome Street" creative? I'd say oddball in an avuncular sense. Believe me the arena rock tribes aren't going to have their worlds blown away. Perhaps nostalgic MTV age alt rock holdovers shall be deeply smitten. You'd need a language translator to make heads or tails of what the video's trying to communicate. Don't have a Blur to mere mortal translator on hand. So what's my verdict? Tea time hello goodbye with Blur this go around sounds laudable. Bringing the relationship into longer term status could be a risk you're not emboldened to jump at. "Lonesome Street" needs to shoot for acquaintanceship elsewhere past tea and scones because the song's a tea and scones ready shot in the arm but not the permanent answer to the loneliness you aim to keep at bay.

X Ambassadors Pretty Mild For A Renegade Bunch

Gentle flowing stream summarizes "Renegades", a track from Ithaca, NY sons X Ambassadors. I'm fairly certain affable background noise isn't what the band had in mind as a description. Putting it frankly there are a lot of household chores one could do, vacuuming excluded with "Renegades" playing. Maybe this could be young son's intro to music. In my mind the younger they start the better. We're not given much key variation either. Very warm notes designed to bring your defenses down after one of those pressure cooker days. Sam Harris, Casey Harris, Noah Feldshuh, and Adam Levin sound in sync vocally. The lyrics take us right to the flowing stream where we can let the sunlight wash across our tense bodies. From word one we're invited to frolic like nobody's business. "Run away with me, lost souls in revelry." The invite's tempting. The earnest lilt can't be questioned. However, I'm not sensing fresh terrain charted. If you're not looking for your sounds to bop you over the head but smooth out the angst a day of number crunching might give you then "Renegades" plays to your highly specific wants. Carefree youth spruces up the next two lines, namely "Running wild and running free. Two kids you and me." Anybody wanting a cuddly visual? Well then how about leaves being thrown up in the air only to watch them fall back down in true gaiety. See that's what "Renegades" can make happen in nanoseconds. You could pull out far worse meditation grooves. Imagine you and your significant other (or insignificant depending on how much action you guys got in the sack last night) out on a garden stroll. There'e the perfect light breeze blowing your hair strands around like a mischievous five year old who loves to tousle whatever he can get his hands on. The two of you give your best you've got my undivided attention stare. Then it's supreme lip lock time. As an added bonus why not throw in these X Ambassadors original lyrics "Long live the pioneers rebels and mutineers. Go forth and have no fear, come close and lend an ear," as the post kiss magic crystallizes. What? No lute being strummed. The most recently mentioned lyrics do bring up days of old when knights were bold. You'd think these dudes would entertain the thought of sporting jester's hats. Anyway, back to the bard dissecting at hand. One of the genres X Ambassadors is connected with is electronic rock. There isn't much electricity to boast about here. Only the implied waterfall, golden raindrops falling one by succulent one. "Living like we're renegades" sounds suspiciously like the day to day of many modern Americans. It was Tom Petty who said "You don't have to live like a refugee." X Ambassadors claims you ought to live like renegades. Excuse me while I stroke my long in the tooth goatee and wistfully concede how times have changed. What isn't working in X Ambassadors favor is that the sound is so light it doesn't compel you to want to join the merry renegades. By comparison Tom and band never failed to be aggressive in their message. I know. I know. That's like comparing apples to oranges but the delivery counts for a great deal. If you want a successful delivery put a little fire in the hole. "Renegades" projects more extinguisher than fire. Repeat jaunts don't appear likely. You shouldn't lull people to sleep in the process of taking them on some game changing voyage. They throw up a quaint backdrop but the potential appeal stops there. "Renegades" needed to cut loose the shackles. Instead we're left imprisoned and the results don't rise above dull roar.

Devour The Day Uses Its Faith To Shoot Straight

Tight hard rock minus the pretensions and overdone swagger. That's the basic 411 on Devour The Day's "Faith". The guitar shreds. The drums pop. The vocals grind enough to get palates salivating at the drop of a hat. Tell what you're going to tell them, tell them, then tell 'em what you told 'em as it gets communicated in writing circles. Faith looms large on the diner's menu. It's worth making the ultimate sacrifice for. According to lead singer Blake Allison you can't kill inspiration. He welcomes one and all into the congregation to take heed of his message Are you ready for a reason? Do you desire something to believe in? This Memphis band makes smoke plume enhanced sounds that can make an aimless wanderer testify like he had the message to end all messages to share. The rock walk saved them, pulled them out of their ghost town malaise. If presto change up gets your blood churning you'll cherish the naughty bass Joey "Chicago" Walser cranks out. Something to drop trou by I imagine and why not. There's one drawback to "Faith". It would be that the chorus tastes watered down. That's not to deny the sincerity the band brings to the tent but the pep in the step stays at bay, for reasons I know not. When Blake pounds the drums you know he's thundering from a really possessed locale. Likewise his rhythm guitar lets a fine weave effect guide the passion along. I'd be a little less snooty were the vocalists injecting even one third of the juice the instruments themselves do. We're not being primed for much roller coaster action in regards to chord progression. That's a plus because it makes Devour The Day's story easier to follow. You don't get much more devout than "Music is my God. My records are Jesus Christ." Put Devour The Day behind the pulpit and I'd imagine the sermon snoozing would be kept to a minimum. The Goldilocks porridge comparison works nicely in the song pacing arena. Not too fast or plodding. I concur music has a way of bringing background ghost souls to the foreground. As you might expect redemption plays a vital part here. Did I hear someone hint at transcendence? No? Then I'll drop name. At 3 minutes, 24 seconds "Faith" isn't as long winded as what your friendly neighborhood pastor would lay on your head some Sunday. I know from experience. There can be a slight stamina issue with some preaching. Devour The Day stays on message which benefits everybody who comes for the message and stays put for cohesive dynamics that have the stones to lift people out of their seats and keep them standing. "Faith" is one audio reading bound to plant butts in the seats of this sanctuary.

Dawes Makes Sharp, Smart Rhythms Happen

LA folk rockers Dawes have created what I'd like to call a corn on the cob tidy little jam with "Things Happen". On the front side you get a magnificent drumroll. On the backside you also get the exact same drumroll. In between I'm struck dumb in a tingling sense by Taylor Goldsmith's guitar, most specifically how he finds the avenue to make his instrument veer into the most ear opening depression spiral you'd ever want to come across. I have to confess I haven't heard a G-chord wrung out for maximum effect quite like this. Meanwhile, over on drums, Griffin Goldsmith taps, taps, taps in the slow method turtles and snails crawl. As audio plot devices go that's how I come to the conclusion "Things Happen" represents downer in the key of walking away from promise and all that a new day possibly ushers in. Yeah yeah, the accompanying video clip isn't populated by individuals who've forgotten which muscles to use to push a smile to their faces. Matter of fact the costume designer deserved a raise, free booze, or the sexy siren of his choice for permitting Dawes to flaunt its whimsical side. That works wonders for audience perception because it runs counter to the barely holding back sobs mindset the guitar chords rip open, a flesh wound made to look mean as possible. Don't turn to Wylie Gelber for assistance since he's too busy lunging his bass into the festering sore we're uneasy witnesses to. Taylor has essentially cleaned up the whole "Shit happens" take on life as we know it. He definitely has a point thinking that the past can't ever stay dead and buried. Dealing with it's the only means to subdue it if not make it bearable. You're taken aback at how Taylor delves into the memory bank, specifically what might happen were he to wring out every last drop. Important concept memory. Our bodies are comprised of atoms. Our souls are comprised of memories, the tangible proof we aren't just transient beings. We left our hand prints in front of Earth's rotating Mann's Chinese Theatre through the fun, somber, and everything in between moments. Those moments give testimony to the notion we weren't spectators in this life. We made noises, joyful, somber, you name it we inserted our soundtrack and pushed go to blast off. Anybody striking an aggrieved tone at how life has turned him/her inside out recognizes the blunt force trauma behind the statement "Let's make a list of all the things the world has put you through." For the majority of us a proper recitation to take several hours, hours we may have deposited in too many of the wrong places anyway. Similarly acid tongued we get "Let's raise a glass to all the people you're not speaking to." Burning bridges strikes me as a waste of cosmic bling but some folks do a bang up job of pushing away every strand of connection that might have redeemed them. What unvarnished truth. The words are as uncompromising as the melodies. If you're not exhausted on some level after you've taken a listen then you have my unqualified respect. It was a supremely wise move not allowing Tay Strathaim's keyboards to gain much all access pass level stage presence. He says hello then promptly recedes into the background so the bass and drums can sap what reserve energy you'd amassed up until then. "Things Happen" makes its artistic concept reach full flesh by staying pretty matter of fact. We may not like the outcomes but who can deny the conclusion. Things do happen. Lives get altered forever. Destinies curve in ways you'd never imagine they could. You wish you could throw your arms around the bass and lend assurance everything will turn out fine. In place of that you follow the weary notes crossing fingers that the last gasp isn't imminent. Best wishes to Dawes. May its last gasp be equally off in the distance also.

Meg Myers Need Not Apologize For Her Bone Chilling Presence

Wow. Psychotic females must be all the rage presently. Florence let her inner mental patient fly during "What Kind Of Man". The Machine had to have been holding its collective breath, crossing fingers their female leader wasn't about to go in full on flame out mode. This needs be a lesson for the listening audience. Bottling things up is a recipe for disaster. Tennessee wild child Meg Myers gets that loud and clear. "Sorry" runs the apologetic gamut but throws in a sprig of defensive uncorked cat claws for good measure. Nothing about this textbook display of intensity ever comes close to easing off on its prey. As usual love or in Meg's uncoiled case, love tragically lost takes center stage. Got an appetite? Might wish to skip past the opening lines. Not amenable to hunger. Her heart is "wasted and cut up like a drug". That's a bit mixed message for my tastes. If her heart's wasted then how can it give her any pharmaceutical benefits? Next line has us imagining tears taste like something other than salt. A little blood and vinegar to go with the main meal? Why hasn't Paul Newman's salad dressing company gotten in on this action? Following on down watch out for choking conversations. So loosely put not only does "Sorry" begin life as an appetite suppressant it manages to market itself as being a trifle hazardous to your health. You can tell Meg's at her wit's end come chorus time. She says sorry in a fashion where you sense she's worked her way beyond fed up on the road to breaking necks. "What do you want from me? "Fine! Blame me!! I ruined our love until the end of time!" In a later lyric she admits "My voice is twisted. Never would've figured that out from the quivering mass she packages her voice in. She's surrounded by ambience guaranteed to roughen up the softer corners of the song. Guitar headed for slow burn status. Keyboards ripped from a B-grade slasher flick. Drums relentless in pounding home the message. That screw turns and turns and turns until it hits bedrock. In the video Meg gets us inside this angst embossed suburban home tour. To add to that wanton destruction of property lends a complementary visual to the hot mess Meg's plowing through. Watching Meg resist exploding makes for periscope lens yuks. For the record "Sorry" treats audiences to a break from open hostility tirades of relationship dissatisfaction like Halestorm's "I Miss The Misery", I song I think's engrossing but leaves no dysfunctional relationship fragment unfurled. Truth be told Meg settles down after the carved heart tears as salad condiment barrage of indelible imagery. I don't know if she's snarling her way through bearing 100% of the responsibility or concealing the wish that her guy would sprout a pair and own up to some failure himself. She does grab steady amounts of attention and that's what makes her hard to turn your back on. "Sorry" isn't scream therapy. It most closely resembles wounded beast lunging out of her corner to at the very least defend herself. "Sorry" ought to be a little less hard on itself. However as power pop fireworks go the skies have gotten undeniably lit. Meg has shown having a brusque childhood hasn't prevented her from losing focus on her craft. No sorry needed, Meg. The ones who will be sorry are those who haven't given your current quest for the spotlight an honest listen.

Panic! At The Disco Strikes Up a Firm Hallelujah Chorus But Not Much Else

Quirky describes Panic! At The Disco to a tee. Remember "I Write Sins, Not Tragedies?" Amusingly enough the title was nowhere to be found in the lyrics. Shows the Las Vegas based act plays by its own rules. The thing holding the current "Hallelujah" back from other efforts isn't lack of humor. Try avoiding the stupid broad grin while hearing the main chorus. Up front you receive drumming worthy of the congregation busting allure the band's trying to shepherd into plain sight. If "Hallelujah" was a meal I'd say it was something on the order of a slightly jazzed up rice crack rather that the appetizing buffet singles like "I Write Sins Not Tragedies" push front and center on the sonic palate. A mere two members comprise the 2015 version of the band, said two being Brendon Urie the mastermind behind lead vocals, rhythm guitar, keyboards, and piano along with Dallon Weekes on bass guitar, synthesizer and backing vocals. Does "Hallelujah"'s chorus offset the dearth of meat to put on the bones? Unfortunately I have to disagree. It's peppy no lie, but what's in play here would be a too short song with not enough of a solid gimmick to buoy interest beyond a set slot. "I Write Sins Not Tragedies" skipped along gleefully, you could say with a dash of malevolent octane tossed in for good measure. "Hallelujah", using a horse reference during Kentucky Derby month, gets stuck in one trick pony territory. Unofficial band mate Dan Pawlovich gets my respect for how he applies due style to drumming and in so doing gives us reason to suspect larger flights of fancy are on their way. You know how you receive word about a fabulous new restaurant and can't wait to taste what the buzz is about for yourself? You try out a main entree only to discover it's not worth the sweat equity farmers labored with to bring the food to your table. Similar wagging of finger could be applied to "Hallelujah". Upfront you're led to believe you best get ready for a tour de force of power packed harmonies. Instead we're given chorus overload. True it's a likable chorus but certainly not one of those confections you'll want swishing around in your mouth weeks, months, years later. To show I'm not fixated on negative conclusions I'll admit the band members are in sync on the chorus which makes you want to root for them. Musically the two avoid sliding into overwrought bombast terrain. They get cutesy without thinking what they're imparting constitutes the message of a lifetime. Good time rock means good times ought to factor somewhere in the cook's broth. That it does. At the close instruments go silent save piano. The dramatic snap isn't diluted as a result. Brendon Urie now stands as the only original member remaining in the band. He's as stalwart a vocalist now as back in day one. No overly imagined frills. No screeching into the mike. Quite simply makes his statements then allows the climactic "Hallelujah" to carry him home. "Hallelujah" shouldn't be condemned but please, watch how effusive you get with the praise. Not much is warranted.