10 Years' Latest Should Not Be Filed Under Miscellaneous

Nashville leaps off your geographic Rolodex when the state of Tennessee gets mentioned right? The music history comes out of the walls constantly. You shouldn't let that get you thinking Dolly Parton, Hank Williams, and Merle Haggard alone. The alt-metal handiwork of 10 Years stems from there as well, and has been doing so since 1999, the year teen pop and the Latin invasion were dominating the Billboard charts. "Miscellanea" zeroes in on its target and pummels it repeatedly with a devilishly fine hostility that proves these aren't little angels who always donated copious cash to the collection plate. You can divide this song into the "inhale" portion and the "exhale" portion. "Inhale" is comprised of lead vocalist Jesse Hasek screeching until his tonsils threaten to detach. That's pure suffering for your art. Not that what he's "singing" about wouldn't require an alien to English translator but that's not enough to spoil the view from our wide angle lens. He's amplified to the maximum level. That bonus juice carries over to the rest of the band. It frees up room for lead guitarist Brian Vodinh to load up on uncompromising anger. And what about his drumming? Any of you outed/still in the closet WWE fans know what a pile driver looks like. Imagine Brian's pummel barrage coming off the raw recording bearing much the same merciless disrespect for human sanity. Ryan (Tater) Johnson keeps impeccable time on rhythm guitar. Turning our attention to "exhale" you'd be best suited locking in on that toxin releasing piano sequence. You can't stay on dialed up intensity forever. I'm a poet who loves literary name dropping but "Miscellanea" takes its book smarts beyond typical nerd territory. Closing in on line two "You've got the womb I love to intrude" ventures into TMI turf with nary an oops to excuse their social indiscretion. Later on in this story out comes "Screaming sirens sing the blues. We play to lose." You remember how "Seinfeld" garnered that rep as the big hit show about nothing. Well my friends, "Miscellanea" doesn't cleave to any consistent plot line either. This outfit's ace in the hole focuses squarely on the musicians' dedication to their craft. High salary sports stars get accused of taking a down off. 10 Years could never be accused of that. The drums punish. The guitars tear at your insides sadistically. The vocals grab you by the scruff of the neck, pin you to the wall, and repeatedly remind you that resistance is futile. Easing into the piano presents physiological sensations similar to both entering and exiting a whirlpool bath...you're refreshed top to bottom. Toweling off from either vantage point has sizable benefits. Confessedly it can be fun sticking around to hear the intellectual ramblings of a mad man. 10 Years doesn't lose traction because Jesse wears his tormented heart well. It's about the playing, no more, no less. "Miscellanea" doesn't crater under the weight of book scholar journal note scribblings. Lean into the testosterone with all you've got. That's how you'll fully appreciate the pep 10 Years inserts into your shoes.

BORNS' Infectious Enthusiasm Is Simply Electric

The skies open up! Energy comes at you from everywhere! When the chorus drops in you could've sworn that was a long time friend paying you a long overdue house call! As if that wasn't tempting enough why not toss some mirthful keyboard fills for extra insurance. Michigan native BORNS warrants credit for injecting you with those lighter than air properties. "Electric Love" operates at a voltage never lacking in compelling art space. I promise you won't be disappointed if you take his hand and follow the brightly lit path where he's going. BORNS addresses the painter's canvas like there wasn't a limit to be had. Restraint goes right out the window and, I must say we benefit from that. I doubt too many women would beg off of the sticky sweet sentiment BORNS conveys here. I'll give you the benefit of Exhibit A if that's fine by you. This woman he's speaking to comes complete with a spellbinding metaphorical connect. To him she's like lightning in a bottle. That's something a chosen few in any field can say they know how to do. Artists go their entire careers never quite stepping into that sweet space. Pro QBs try to capture what they had in prime form that elevated them to the upper echelon. Anyway, the lady sounds like she's a real head-turner. New to the poetic reference arena we have "You make my heart beat like the rain. Didn't know rain had a pulse. Please enter that under you learn something new every day. Isn't it nice that BORNS gives us an agreeable antidote to the general angst this country's prisoner to. It's easy for him to reach those levels of ecstasy because the musical palette behind him gladly trots to the warmer ends of the painter's color wheel. That chorus echoes newborn babe beauty. It's a million voices hung together in a dynamic collage. I grant that the chords stand stock still. However you know how it goes in airports when you step onto one of those machines that convey you and your baggage along while you stand there breathing everything in. Why ruffles feathers that look fine the way they are? The mirth on display isn't overblown. A little drum kit pops up here. A little keyboard sprinkled about there. BORNS represents the centerpiece for this scrumptious audio table setting. I admire how he lets his voice gently glide over the harmonies. There isn't this sense of so much to do no real tangible time to admire anything. You want your tour guide not to have you on speed mode exclusively. Late in the song that lightning imagery assumes less of a vicious persona with "Feel your energy rushing through me." Holding onto the theme enables we the listeners to have an easier time following his messages. No doubt about it..."Electric Love" gives you high wattage positive vibes that play well with any audience.

Saint Asonia Punches Out a Better Path To Sonic Destruction

Here on the 'ol blog circuit I do declare it's supergroup ID time. Saint Asonia consists of Three Days Grace lead vocalist and guitarist Adam Gontier. His band gifted us with "Pain" and "I Am Machine". Our ears maintain the sting. Guitarist Mike Mushok comes to this table from Staind, the band responsible for "Right Here Waiting" and "It's Been Awhile". The latter tune claims a place on my all time favorite rock song list. Behind the drums we've got Rich Beddoe of Finger Eleven. I could go on and on about how deeply I adore "Paralyzer". Similar bone jarring machismo leaps to the fore in "Better Path", Saint Asonia's hello pleased to meet you leap into the rock fray. One other person makes his presence supremely felt. That would be Corey Lowery from Eye Empire. There's not a acre of landscape that he doesn't own in this instance. "Better Path" benefits from Mr. Gontier's agonized voice. You know he's giving the naysayers the royal kiss off and means it down to the last syllable. Rich puts his body behind his select beats. He explodes as needed and subdues himself just enough when that's called for. Chords stay in one prime location which is not a liability as it so happens. The notes do inch up a little bit at the chorus but Adam's worn to the nub mental exhaustion exerts its will regularly. At its core lies a pervasive message. Adam doesn't like towing negative energy in his wake. He vows not to forget, to cut this person out of his life permanently. Essentially "Better Place" amounts to a gigantic kiss off set to a smoldering riff wall that you'd be a fool not to invest energy in. Mike ingratiates himself into Adam's vocal zone but what he adds to the gravitas can't be measured by a mere lyric sheet. Color Mike's instrument the sultan of snarl. The viciousness within matches Adam's commitment to bad air out good air in. Rich equally drives home fury tied to lethal sticks. I'm not sure "Better Place" qualifies as bombast rock. The overall fusion of players is too disciplined. Bombast tends to fly all over the place waiting to see if anyone's going to peel it off the ceiling. You'd be given a pass for dismissing "Better Place" as a diary rant turned up too loud and conveying too little new under the sun. Absolutely the working parts fit together nicely. That separates blah from ear grabbing. The chorus grates but in pleasing fashion. Everyone involved is committed to putting maximum focus into the project. The non chorus passages deliver slight variation in theme but not so much you forget Adam's a driven dude taking out the socially air reducing trash. I'd conclude that "Better Place" doesn't suffer from too many cooks spoiling the broth. In truth you can hear what makes each participant a giant presence in his own band. Adam inspires sympathy for his me against the world displeasure. Mike slow cooks bass in direct intensity consistency to his work in Staind. Rich pulverized his kit throughout "Paralyzer". A fraction of that spark lands in "Better Place". I do declare the fraction was all that was necessary. I plead ignorance in Cory Lowery's case. I'm not familiar with Eye Empire. The ears have it as to how large a contribution he makes to "Better Place" though. Prickly heats take aim from front to back. It's unclear how long Saint Asonia will be prowling the walk but "Better Place" hints at what a smartly assembled rock force can kick out when hearts and minds are in the right place.

Duran Duran Steps Back Into Its '80s Heyday

You can try anything known to man that can kill another man. That won't work on Duran Duran. Three decades plus and England's esteemed Second British Invasion perennials haven't come anywhere close to slowing down. It doesn't matter what configuration it's in. Duran Duran has staying power that most inventions of any stripe could never hope to equal let alone eclipse. If you're Gen X like I news of the new Duran Duran project "Paper Gods" probably had you squealing like you had Willy Wonka's golden ticket which afforded you a front row pass to one of their upcoming concerts. The Durans smartly worked themselves into the same air space as Nile Rodgers and Mark Ronson. Disco fiends know the former from his stint in Chic. He also was the chief brains behind "Notorious", the first album finding the band pared down to Simon LeBon, Nick Rhodes, and John Taylor. That album, not surprisingly was heavy on funk contours. Duran Duran kept succeeding despite former and once again drummer Roger Taylor becoming increasingly fed up with the music business and Andy Taylor anxious to explore uncharted waters. "Pressure Off" starts off the "Paper Gods" parade in high style. The elements you loved about '80s era Duran Duran remain front and center. Want to satisfy your dance jones? By all means get that sweat worked up to its maximum effectiveness. Like urbane pop in a frosted martini glass? Welcome to a footloose incendiary time my friend. Do you respect artists true to their core vision who also know full well what year they're in? Duran Duran never was moronic about their artistic footprint. These guys hold up under any fire levied at them. As an added piece of icing on the cake Janelle Monae injects her unique vitality into Duran Duran's come hither whirlpool bath jets. She made .fun's "We Are Young" the raw rush it turned into on the pop charts. Simon LeBon hasn't lost the transatlantic man of mystery appeal that gave Duran Duran the nickname "Fab Five". Whatever Duran Duran's formula is it knows what to sprinkle where and at what level. It's been suggested Duran Duran doesn't get enough credit for the quality product it has put out over the years. The guys haven't shed the globetrotting magnetism that has the public clamoring for new stuff over and over. Nick Rhodes continues to strut his keyboard skills proudly. John Taylor's bass has a tale or three to impart behind the fret. Let's be frank. America circa 2015 isn't exactly the happiest place on Earth. Racial tensions here, delayed or aborted retirements there. Someone had to put feel good pulse back into the nation's collective body. This chorus demands you take action. The vocals demand you rise out of complacency and march towards the future you've always aspired to have. Whatever tapestry comes together results in peak hour revelry. "Pressure Off" probably won't solve your problems but it can separate you from the crash helmet for a little bit while you plan your next escape route.

Pop Evil's Footsteps Not Worth Following In

Depth...if the lyrical depth matches the stage presence a band has a shot a long term success. That would not be the case for Pop Evil, Michigan's contribution to the audio landscape. Its new "Footsteps" talks big but doesn't bring the noise sufficiently. Musically there's a rut afoot. It tends to get wound around the D chord a little too much for my liking. Sorry to subtract credibility ducats because this band has chops and shows them off, fangs arched, combined motors running. Nick Fuelling and Dave Grahs make pulse enhancing noise when their guitar pizzazz gets brought to the forefront. Leigh Kakaty proves an able-bodied front man. He gets right the dictate that you've got to project to the back of the room so the harder of hearing (your Pete Townsend subset) can make you out. Joshua Marunde, Chachi Riot behind the kit keeps the action tight as '80s hair metal spandex. He doesn't seek to overwhelm, merely to settle into an optimum groove and let the rhythms flow effortlessly through his sticks. Matt DiRito holds his own in the bass portion of the pool. They've got to do better than follow the trodden path bread crumb style until they're dizzy from mismanaged effort. To their credit the lyrics lunge forth with notable bang. Much effort goes into keeping one's battle scarred heart from turning to stone. Leigh refuses this defeated posture at all costs. The belly fire refuses to be denied, ignored, mutilated, or spindled. We return to lonely souls and paths worn down by persistent shoe leather. Not telling us anything earlier tune peddlers haven't done with heightened verve. I guess when you've circled this orb of ours long enough you grow weary of tasting the same soup, all the while being convinced by your chef that he's come up with a concoction which makes sliced bread seem quaint, passe, and not worth maintaining much long term memory. Because it's the currency we have in common, time again proves of the essence. What does tomorrow bring? Possibly nothing...possibly the greatest day of one's life. The wrap hasn't been taken off that present yet. The chorus really pushes nuisance levels. Not that the sentiment lacks a heartfelt side but the longer into the song it gets, the more you grow to wish Taylor would gravitate towards something bound to compel attention deficit ravaged ears and minds a little bit easier. Footsteps equal steps on a journey. Said journey can wear even the stoutest man to a nub. Been there, heard that, wanting uncharted terrain now. Pop Evil's liability here lies with how they're treating a rock song like it was disposable, like a wad of expired chewing gum. Rock endures and, over the decades has made doubters sit up and take notice. How sad Pop Evil's latest carries the moniker it does. The band doesn't leave any footprint, carbon or otherwise, in the rock sand. Any crack at lyrical content holding up well as the minute hand strolls along got beaten to the turf on impact. Pop Evil has nicely chiseled tools in its box. A stronger hammer and a commitment to leaving the shallow end now and then would've strengthened its case. "Footsteps" treads too lightly to warrant a thumb's up.

Cold War Kids Should've Taken Care Of First Things First

Repetition's a great tool for learning things. In fact it's how I learned a good many things as a lad. Long Beach denizens Cold War Kids don't win brownie points for repetition. That doesn't work so well in sculpting a tune capable of doing anything other than annoy potential audiences. The pieces fit together nicely. What those pieces are conveying barely registers a blip on the radar. Joe Plummer drums his little heart out. Bully for him. He's plastering over what his band buds aren't communicating so adroitly. Matt Maust offers little to gripe about. The bass has mean intention scrawled over it. Ditto for lead guitarist Dann Gallucci. He goes along his chosen path with nary a concern to ask why he's doing it. Standing out front we get Nathan Willett. The ebb and flow goes on his shoulders. Frankly ebb and flow would have been nicer compared to what the song "First" places before us. The combined noise isn't unlike one of those singular dimension marching bands that kick drums itself down the street with purpose but not much buoyed interest level. The Allandale Neighborhood has a legendary 4th of July parade which takes months to plan but makes you pay for taking a bathroom break. "First" doesn't wow the same way. Give Nathan a hug. The troubled soul cries out for it verse after verse. The linchpin gripping the pieces together? Playing and falling hard in a lover's game where trust becomes the usurped prize and worry the primarily unhelpful aftershock. Usually I'm not a stickler for vastly deep meaning but "First" requires it to overcome the dearth of chord creativity on the table. Nathan thrives in the whole bar hopper climate. His lady love doesn't fare much better. I give a supportive nod to the polar opposite psychic baggage Nathan writes in verse three. He's "flying like a cannonball, falling to the earth. Heavy as a feather when you hit the dirt." Nathan gets that the waiting game can be excruciatingly cumbersome. He refuses to wait around forever. That's reassuring. Who among us wants to endure that. Nathan etches his dark night of the soul poet side into the turf. Back we go to ticking clocks and gravity's inevitable victory. Again, I beseech someone give Nathan a hug. an anxiety drug supplier, or both. He deserves it because if you were to subtract him from the mishmash "First" wouldn't place or show in this race to get to consumers shortening attention spans before the next big thing taps into the picture. "First you get hurt, then you feel sorry." That's your drill into the brain recurring theme. Noble? Maybe. A bit of excessive protestation? You might say that. Place blame wherever it's appropriate but "First" loses its edge in a hurry and never finds the handle again. The foursome's nothing if not eager to lay out its harshest sound so as to mark a none too quick to exit the cranium impression. The clanging cacophony angle works against them. "First" isn't primed to last. The Cold War chill factor is unavoidable.

In The Valley Below Isn't Terribly Peachy

You've got a problem when the most creative element of your band ends up being the title. In The Valley Below hails from Echo Park, California. Happy-go-lucky temperament. "Peaches" doesn't lack for offbeat effects. Keyboards are humorously infused. The guitar work demonstrates neither member of the group relies on anything other than a tongue-in-cheek approach to their craft. The sticking point lies with how the main chord arrangements loop around and around. Variation becomes an alien concept. Both Angela Gail and Jeffrey Jacob can be proud they are so ingratiating on delivered vocals. Seduction carries them far. I say we're looking at a split vote. The harmonies click wherever, whenever. Tensions dissipate thanks to lyrics that open up a visual can of worms or three. I don't mean to hint that full bodied optimism guides this ship. Far from that really. I hone in on line two..."Everybody got disease maybe it's alright." Human condition reference much guys? The second stanza won't likely talk a suicide risk off a ledge either. "Working on a feeling, breaking down the ceiling, digging up a deep end, freezing on the beaches. Very heart wrenching. Angela's tolerant of a great many things, be it his drinking all week or stepping on her. Her in stride response continues to be "It's alright". These two have a funny side. You can tell from the video. They possess dedication to their art. Together at the mike they're in sync, a cohesive united front. I hate that those chords staying stuck in one note tedium rob "Peaches" of what might have been a touchable bond between artists and audience. At times the whole "baby it's alright" commentary gave me flashbacks to "Road To Nowhere" the zestful Talking Heads song which also used an offbeat vid to widen their presence as a unit. Regrettable how omitting a few chord modulations sinks "Peaches" Him with his facial moss plus her with her gorgeous and mysterious dark hair. There's something unsettling about someone tearing you apart in the dead of night. That's grist for any town's local police blotter. You talk about suggestive lyrics leaving little to the imagination. How about "Reaching for the sweetest peaches." The inner caveman in you knows what I'm driving at. It's nothing like the fruit The Presidents Of The United States of America referred to. Their fruit lived and died off loose-jointed silliness. We hint at the not so forbidden fruit in Angie and Jeffrey's case. Life could be best breathed into "Peaches" were the musical flourishes allowed to break loose with regularity. Instead the one trick pony chord threatens to submerge anything that could be even remotely thought of as novel. In closing "Peaches" may not be the pits but as part of a balanced musical diet you'd be wise to fill your grocery bag elsewhere. Man cannot live off innuendo alone. Nor can music enthusiast.

Jamie Foxx and Chris Brown Changing For The Worse

I respect people wanting quality sounds for a brisk romp between the sheets. Lamentably Jamie Foxx and Chris Brown have not bottled the right formula with "You Changed Me". Nothing about it couldn't have been dismissed as a dashed off Post-It note notion. I'm not implying there's no merit to a grown man coming right out and thanking the woman in his life for making him a better version of himself. I don't see how any lovers, ebony skin toned or otherwise, could work up much sweat using raw confessional as a background. The billowing curtain audio behind both men plays up sex appeal. Jamie doesn't have to go to great extremes to convince anyone he's a player or that he can set a mood with the best of them. His star turn in "Ray" made questioning that a moot point. He goes on at length about how his woman changed from a player playing the field to a one man monogamous homeboy. If the orchestrations were a bit grander I might not be dismissing "You Changed Me" as scribbling on scratch pad sans eroticism needed to lube any and all transitions to the bedroom. We know how six pack ab amazing Jamie is. What does the on again off again bad boy Chris Brown have to contribute. Judging by lyrical content I'd venture to guess not a huge deal. He's apparently "fiendin' for your kisses". Golly...not close to Halloween and we're already dragging out ghoul references. He doesn't care where he can corner her. He's lickin' on her body. Here comes that long awaited bucket of cold water all over the sexcapades. Anyone out there want the current version of Chris Brown licking on any part of your body? That's what I thought. Moving on, one nugget in particular has me scratching my head. I think it's supposed to flatter the girl but the message mixes left and right. What to make of "Girl I love it when you get on your knees. You make me disappear like magic." The hint I get is that the sexual rituals are so satisfying Chris disappears into the procedure. Caveat to Chris though...some might think the woman isn't lusty enough to sate the appetite, thus he disappears from the bedroom ruing the wasted paramour connection he was trying to achieve. Achievement...it's a good word to say you were part of during the course of life. The only thing "You Changed Me" achieves is the nagging desire that this player stop using superlatives to describe how noble he is for not being a wild child schmuck who refuses to be tamed. Change direction fellas. You want to lure couples into the bedroom, not leave them bored at the prospect of doing the nasty.

Godsmack's Next Chapter Reads Powerfully

Powerful chords predominate. This is the stuff seas of lit video cameras are made of. Godsmack needs to take a bow. Nary a sliver sounds watered down about "What's Next". Strong riffs crackle in every nook you can place them. On the tempo tip it's delivered just right. Drums explode propulsively. Sully Erna has pipes meant to make you quiver from the top down. What's more, Godsmack remembered to not get stuck in one guitar chord. That makes "What's Next" stand out from the rock pack. These guys waste no time immersing themselves in the fray. Shannon Larkin brings the skin bashing octane early and doesn't give an inch. Tony Rombola carries out pulsating guitar driven in that rock god manner metal enthusiasts embrace heartily. Robbie Merrill isn't light in the loafers when it comes to zeroing in on the right bass notes. Such vast rumblings from a guttural place. True to the form for many practitioners of the metal genre, musings on Death grab center stage. Chief among the questions is the familiar "Is this world all there is?" The opening freezing imagery details nothing short of corpses and rotting bluish skin. Godsmack isn't making history posing these time honored questions but the gusto with which it asks refuses to be denied. Don't look for any overtures towards machismo elevating guitar solos. "What's Next" gets its crunch from the steady punishing bulldozer relentlessness embedded in the lyrics and high wattage instrumentation. Godsmack has its sensors set to wrath and how grandiose are the goosebumps that setup generates. Existential questions are in great supply. Sully has us rooting for him to track down some trace of an answer. His James Hetfield-esque snarls are primarily responsible for how smooth purring this engine runs. Each man clearly gets his turn in the spotlight. No in your face drum solos. This marriage screams "equal partnership". If only most marriages worked that well. Why are we blind from our certainty? That's a probing question. Proves all we really know about this life is we know far less than we'd like to let on. "What's Next" defines right now immediacy.

Faith No More Does a Super Job

Mike Patton has music's beautiful mind. His band Faith No More should thank its lucky stars every day for that truth. After a mind short circuiting 17 years out of the metal scene's harsh glow "Sol Invictus" has arrived. Single number two calls itself "Superhero". Mike's Herculean in execution for sure. Faith No More earns credit for melding the funk/rap/metal hybrid before anyone quite knew that's what we'd stumbled upon. Soft touches merge with brutal force on "Superhero". You don't put Faith No More in a tidy box without suffering a few bruise marks. No mellowing out over the years either. Jon Hudson gets his entire body weight behind guitar. His instrument crackles in speed metal relentlessness. Mike Bordin, as usual, has his drumsticks armed for bear. He sets them down in jigsaw puzzle methodical manners. His sticks keep "Superhero" from arching into flights of fancy turf. Good thing too as too much hyperbole would distract from allowing Mike Patton's endearingly twisted mind from stretching out to maximum potential. One burning question may soon be answered by the listening public. Has Faith No More circa 2015 forged a disc that's going to attract audiences other than ones bellying up to the nostalgia circuit table? I swear that was piano I heard washing over Mike's mad vocalizing. Looking back a bit "Epic" launched Faith No More back in the Stone Age of 1990. The song was and for my money still is fantastic but that flopping fish in the video may be going down in history as the detail that overshadows Mike at his demonic best. Other cuts that show how Mr. Patton's gorgeously majestic melon carries this band's fortune on his shoulders include "Falling To Pieces" and "Midlife Crisis". You could posit this debatable notion that the willy nilly devil may care go for the throat of youth birthed these gems but I'd say the discography's consistent on down the line. If Faith No More's trying to stay lucid on into old age they've got a handily winning formula. Brains like Mike's probably are good for octogenarian or longer. Not that he'd necessarily be up on stage by that point...not without sizable assistance anyway but, back to the point. "Superhero" isn't Faith's best work but the ability to spread musical paint can art freely from the color wheel means forgettable this caped so and so is not. "Leader of men, get back in your cage" appears repeatedly on the lyric sheet. Mike Patton in self-declaratory mode. Probably not but you'd forgive me for making the comparison. Faith No More never has shied away from fearlessness in its lyrical presentation. That continues to be the case here. "Makes a mean cock grow" gives new meaning to the notion of descriptive video service. Whoa Buzz boy what's up with that statement. You see being a PBS supporter from the jump I remember at least one program leading with "The following program contains descriptive video service on the SAP channel for KLRU audiences who are visually impaired". Media cross reference folks and...thanks for allowing me tangential air space. So as metal goes "Superhero" soars to imaginative heights. Nobody is likely to rank it higher than "Epic" but that wasn't a prerequisite for openers anyway. "Superhero" happily lets us ride on its flowing cape to far out regions of the galaxy.

What Really Hurts Is Maroon 5's Nonchalance

I can't expect Maroon 5 to be amazing every time can I? That expectation's been dashed courtesy of "This Summer's Gonna Hurt Like A Motherf****r". I suppose this band earned the right to coast a hair since its catalog stuns me due to how wall to wall gratifying it's become. Riding its coattails isn't hard to imagine. From "Songs About Jane" onward Maroon 5 delivers the goods in a fashion that would make the Pony Express green with envy. Was it vanity? Was it some aching need to uncork a summer specific jam? Maybe Adam Levine and pals uncorked a brain fart that wafted to the rest of us poor unfortunates. I guess we'll never know the motivation. Not that Maroon 5's technical abilities take it too strongly on the chin. PJ Morton steps forward to claim his due. That's because his keyboard gleams all over with studio sheen. You're not going to get guitar controlling the air space. That Adam has room to roam on this track should surprise no one. Maroon 5 and Adam Levine's star wattage are inextricably linked. The troubling aspect of "Summer" boils down to a hard to escape fact. You could put the choral refrain in the mouths of any one of a number of contemporary bands and never be sure who you're listening to. Maroon 5 can be summed up proudly by several adjectives. Sexy works as does breathtaking as does erotic. I'd never thought I'd see the day when disposable would be used also but here you have it. It's like James, Jesse, Mickey, and Matt are only given any notice at all during their contribution in the chorus. Adam's lust for the female form remains a theme he's used like money in the bank either against a woman's attitude or on behalf of her charms. He's a Romeo whose libido goes to globetrotter mode repeatedly. Usually that's working to his advantage. "Her body's like the summer" gets points as good use of simile but nothing a high school freshman couldn't have texted to someone during homeroom, the modern day equivalent of passing notes. We get to apply the periscope lens a bit easier when Adam elaborates that "I see her dancing in the streets, sipping champagne on the beach." At last we're part of the movie instead of getting a peripheral glance in passing. The man says "I see her when I go to sleep." Funny...many of the lyrics sound like they were the product of someone in a sleep like daze fumbling for the a-ha light switch moment. I'm afraid to tell you that never happens. Adam's charm can't save the sophomoric sentiments from dragging the project down like the ill-fated Hindenburg. Stanza three tells all you need to understand about why I make the insistence. He says "I'm ripping off that bandage." You know how it goes after enough time has passed following a doctor's pin prick. You're aching to rip that bandage off pronto. There's nothing bodice ripping about "She wants it all. She's always taking something and now I'm left with nothing." Cologne scented pablum bottled by the master. He's the guy to peddle the product but it's dross anyway. I have fond recollections of "Hands All Over". Groove after groove registered in a major way. "This Summer's Gonna Hurt Like A Mothetf***r" is for all the world Adam's excuse to foist a gimmicky summer anthem on the public. Foist he can do. Buy the snake oil I'm not. What hurts is Maroon 5 wants to take me for a fool. I've heard them at their best. This is a million light years from that.