Good Grief! Bastille's Hotter Than Ever!!

I know "Good Grief", Bastille's first foray into its new "Wild World" album plumbs the depths of loss quite handily but c'mon, get those dancing shoes laced up because they'll be getting a first class workout. Thank Will Farquarson for that. His bass strikes me as epitomizing cool. Beautiful people only, please. It's nice to see this London outfit back in the saddle. I continue to have fond memories of "Bad Blood'. The angst, the highly grunge caked melodic structure, the chorus that plants itself onto your skull and refuses to give any quarter. But that was 2013, and here in 2016 "Good Grief" isn't afraid to mix tear jerking subject matter, in this case the loss of a dear friend, with memorable hooks that are bound to distract you from what an inherently bottom of the barrel depressing tune lies at the core. Vocalist Dan Smith loves each misfire embedded within the DNA of his fallen friend, but this, in finished form, bounces off my ears as a happy/sad hybrid, a point of reference Dan happily agrees with, as he's noted it to be a "happy/sad summer jam". Its compact under 3:45 playing time ensures you won't be stuck clutching a large funereal hangover upon song's completion. "Bad Blood" worked much the same way. It was moody on the inside, zestful on the outside. That's some kind of twisted talent, getting people exhilarated while you pop a pin in their balloon in the same breath. Bastille knows where to stick the needle and can they ever boost your zing quotient by leaps and bounds. Adding to the fun are snippets taken from the 1980s gem "Weird Science", This nod to the cinema of the decade of decadence demonstrates Bastille isn't all dark shadows and ominous lighting. Chris "Woody" Wood punches "Good Grief" into high gear on the wings of his sublime, ravenous drum opener. Then the bass swings into action as if the cue to arms was tailor made. Chorus harmonies between all concerned springboard "Good Grief" to a higher level, the sort of instantaneous release prompting all manner of "Welcome Back, Bastille!! Nice to notice you're back in the fray!!" Guitarist Kyle Simmons only adds his special sauce when called upon. In other words, he doesn't monopolize the show. Why should he when he's got brothers in arms helping him ride that taste tempting wave. In short Dan misses his friend who's now lost from the photographs around the house physically, but never in spirit. One chorus tells the tale..."Every minute and every hour I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more. Every stumble and each misfire I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more." Dan's heart's firmly pinned to his sleeve and he's one brave soul in the doing. Sure, looking st life through one's fingers can't be too easy on body and mind but, for those who don't grab life by the horns, it can work out like that at times. Dan's drunk on bittersweet memories but, that's not to drop down the blanket statement that they were exclusively bad ones. It comes back to amazement in the highly flattering sense for how Bastille makes dance conscious songs for your inner depressive commercially viable and able to court mass appeal appreciation. Theirs is a winning formula, so why alter the brew if most in the Bastille corner are buying into the proposition. "Good Grief" amounts to good quality dance rock sporting a pale gray bow on top. Bastille hasn't lost the beat and it's my hope they hold court with it for decades to come.

The Head and The Heart Know Quality Songcraft

Foot stomping grandiose edges perfect for the revival tent at your local church. Possibly ideal backdrop for one of those time-lapse photography looks at the past 24 hours of your local weather. Either scenario would do to sum up "All We Ever Knew", the new slice of brilliance from indie folk sensations The Head and the Heart, the band here to remind us that the mecca for Starbucks isn't merely the birthplace and eventual burial ground for grunge. The Head and the Heart stirs its stew pot convincingly to bring multi-tiered taste tantalizing satisfaction to the table. No mere vocal and guitar package for you lucky dogs. Consider yourself super lucky to hear Charity Rose Thielen doing her violin thing. She's worth the price of admission on this track and then some. For me it epitomizes the exhale aspects of a deep breathing session. The violin shall perform a deep tissue massage over your worn down lungs. Josiah Johnson has the voice of a dyed in the wool angel. He's happy, he knows it, and damned if he's not eager to clap his hands too. Summer in Texas can be a brutal misadventure as seasoned veterans can convince you in mere seconds. If you take a sip of the chorus which, obviously starts off with the shout out loud enthusiasm of the title track, then follows up with heaping helpings of "La la la la",at least for the running time of the song you'll forget you live in a steam pit ten months out of the year with a brief reprieve somewhere around April and then possibly Halloween. "All We Ever Knew" possesses much in the way of sunny harmonizing, dry heat sunny day harmonizing. Kenny Hensley's ably-timed piano contributions give some soft elegance to this effort, the kind best appreciated by a guy affectionately imitating the passage in an art gallery. Chris Zasche doesn't need to add much extra inner beauty to the song. He's quite happy to slip his talents underneath the radar. What a joy it is, though. Gives everyone else the needed lift so that their lights can shine at full wattage. "All We Ever Knew" counts as a mutual admiration group effort. Each player colors between the lines. Thus, the finished product's implied depth of opulence springboards off the lyric sheet. Speaking of which why don't we peruse what makes this pen mightier than the sword. True dream analysis factors in as part of the opening verse. Josiah concludes, "When I wake up in the morning I see nothing for miles and miles and miles. When I sleep in the evening, oh lord there she goes, only in dreams. She's only in dreams. Well, well my love we've been here before. Don't drag me through here again. We tried everything under the sun. Freud would have had a field day mining this gold. Not that there's much salubrious behind the message. Two hearts caught up in a dream that now need to wake up, reassess and get on with life. "All We Ever Knew" never scolds at all. On the table is what amounts to facing crucial facts, facts spread out over a blanket of sound fusions you don't digest on a regular basis from bands not named Mumford and Sons. Keeping the song in a predominantly C chord range makes the lightness of spirit easy to draw upon. You're not getting rocket science...merely young love accepting the turning point it has reached. Put all Nirvana-themed prejudices on hold for a spell. The Head and the Heart have arrived to remind you it's not always gray in the great Northwest. "All We Ever Knew" sends soothing rays straight for your hip pocket and buttons them up for safekeeping. Elegance in indie folk isn't dead, I can assure you.

Holy White Hounds Plunge The Switchblade In Deep

Gotta hand it to Des Moines' Holy White Hounds. It's not even July and they've already composed the ideal Halloween haunted house soundtrack thanks to the highly tooth chattering trek into the wild unknown called "Switchblade". Space oddball special effects, double demon guitars, drums that have you screaming "Get me the hell out of the way!" before your brain has the chance to formulate the thought. Not to mention the progression of sound kick starts into fourth gear towards the tail end. This band's rhythm section is nothing short of divine. Bassist Ambrose Lupercal settles in for the super intimidating voyage to the point in your heartstrings that are most vulnerable. James Manson scatters some guitar spookiness that's going to leave you on the edge of your seat in the way that a top shelf slasher movie would. Drummer Seth Luloff has outstanding impulse control. He'll dot "Switchblade" only when necessary. His work very much qualifies as the random cherries on a psychotic sundae. Vocalist Brenton Dean keeps us all on our toes. He has the cunning of a trained sociopath particularly when communicating his point to the opposite sex. Suckin' on a switchblade isn't my ticket to an appetizing evening but then again that's one blogger's opinion. Let's continue our stroll through Brenton's ravaged psyche, shall we? Trust me...it gets more interesting the deeper you dig. We get the TMI possible truth that "Your mama should have loved you but I know she's an animal. Tough love indeed. He goes on to imply, "Even if she loves you, shes riding with her hands full. Hands full doing what with whom is another matter entirely but fantasizing is a good chunk of the fun in "Switchblade". Brenton gets the ol' high sign for penning the sentiment, "Your lips are made of rainbows." I find that biological based quip endearing if not a tad creepy. I mean...imagining panoramic colors where one's kissing apparatus should be does make one envision thoughts of the naughtiest caliber but I can't help but like the visuals of rainbow trysts alongside unicorns and monarch butterflies. In essence he took his sweetheart to the wasteland, ingratiating man of the world that he appears to be. You won't get thrown into epileptic seizure mode watching the video's second half but hold on tight with all you're worth because the visual overload could drive you batty if you don't watch yourself. "Switchblade" zooms at you with the subtlety of said instrument. It's also as viscerally thrilling as that item. Plenty of meat on the bones being played. For my dollar Seth has the creative percussion market cornered. No Johnny One Tap by any stretch. He can be both reserved and jaunty in equal measure. Ambrose gets my praise for dropping the psychological temperature in the room. Breton's tone of voice smacks of unbridled passion brought down to the gutter where at least in this instance, it works best. Don't be mislead by the opening speed of the song. We get treated to horse racing gallop on a cranium level. You need the occasional dose of sweat soaked power rock to get you through a rough spot. "Switchblade" plunges that power into the atrophying parts of your body and you come away somewhat revived. This is one knife you don't want to see confiscated any time soon.

I Wish The Revivalists Would Put Out More Neo-Soul Like This

The Revivalists are here to help us recall those good ol' 1970s urges. They do this through their Day-Glo colorful ditty known aa "Wish I Knew You". This melody glides aloft a canvas of bright stars and won't let us surrender to reality for all the tea in China. As a whole The Revivalists sound like the galaxy they occupy isn't ours in the slightest. Rob Ingraham's saxophone add-ins make for some of the most delectable ear snacking you're likely to hear all summer. Frontman David Shaw beams radiance to the nth power because his voice gets you thinking about parties past, present, and future. Mostly, the video zeroes in on the class of 1965, the '60s being a popular let's remember era these days. David's flat out snappy and that's an attribute nice to have in anyone's bag of tricks. I'm quite taken aback by how the individual players know when to contribute their stylish ingredients to this meal. Zack Feinberg's guitar lends a firm backbone to a creature that was never all that skeletal in the first place. Big ups to George Gekas whose bass reminds you of the wispy pockets of smoke originating from your favorite BBQ joint. You know this brisket's going to leave a wide trail of appreciative drool wherever it opts to roam. I'm fond of rainbow liveliness. I am grateful for songs and artists that don't wish to remind you of how depressing the world can truly be in installments. Drumming his little ticker off, Andrew Campanelli takes his place as the functional yet not overwhelming seasoning which lends kick to The Revivalists spice rack of toothsome taste sensations. Michael Giradot is no slouch in the trumpet arena. He pours it on in sleek, wanna sit on my lap toots sexy fashion. Again, something revved up to add tingles to the shindig. The video's participants look like they're having a really wonderful experience on the whole. Does age stop them? No. Does physical limitation slow them down? Not hardly. "Wish I Knew You" blends in ideally with the likes of '70s throwbacks like KC & The Sunshine Band and Wild Cherry. Those acts let their hair hang down as well as that of everybody on the dance floor. You'd be hard pressed to locate a tempo as amenable to shuffling your feet as you can here. The chorus refrain gets plenty misty-eyed, longing for those elusive days of youth when he was majorly handsome and she turned heads wherever she went. Report to Nostalgia 101 class immediately for a briefing. The sax inspires moonlit balloon drops not necessarily because it's New Year's Eve but basically because there's a shortage of celebratory animated souls that could use some reigniting. "Wish I Knew You" symbolizes the type of gem you want to look at particularly closely to make sure the stardust it's tossing into your peepers is 100 percent genuine. No one band member tries to outdo anyone else. They created the impetus for this bash to get cracking and they're equally committed to sharing the load for cleaning up the beautiful mess as expressed in the few seconds to get that last gorgeous fade out off the ground. Summed up on a fairly fine point, The Revivalists, in this Trump overblown, highly dangerous world, have tapped us on the shoulder, shaken away the doldrums, and reminded us that somewhere on the planet the sun does still shine. "Wish I Knew You" certainly merits being turned into an affable companion for whatever evening's revelry you had in mind.

All You Need Is Some Quality Dirty Heads

Huntington Beach's Dirty Heads are back and they continue to cop their Jamaican party vibe, and to excellent effect I might add. The new "That's All I Need" proves perfect for doing some rim rattling around the block in that classic souped up car of yours. You're at that sandy white beach of your dreams and just think about it...never even had to leave the comforts of your air-conditioned home to do it. All chords lean towards sunny. Glop on that suntan lotion and let the laid back too hip mood seep into your pores. Co-lead vocalists Jared "Dirty J" Watson and Dustin "Duddy B" Bushnell take us on a glorious mind trip through the time machine back to momentous firsts in the old neighborhood. Shawn Hagood's keyboards really allow the SPF factor to burst through the outer layers of our galaxy several times over. Try to resist the urge to take a bite out of David Foral's fresh squeezed orange juice patterned bass. Tasty down to the last drop. Jon Olazabal does his percussion responsibilities justice. You're planted squarely on that beach wondering if now's a great time to be obsessing over the prospects of skin cancer. Turning to the words themselves you can feel the years come sliding off as Jared and Dustin revel in the buzz that was. Don't you love how they give the era of vinyl its due? Evidence comes in the form of lyrics such as, "Yeah, every crack in the vinyl takes me back in time to where my Catalina idled." Oh, yeah. I can cop to the joy I get from the addictive pop of vinyl LPs, well-worn and full of enticing memories. Those first drugs have to committed to a journal of some kind, right? Latino culture gets street shout outs through acknowledgement of "the bikers and vatos I grew up with trying to steal up my zapatos." Dirty J nails his portion of the chorus because it sums up what's inherently bubbly about the song. You wouldn't know we were closing in on a possibly toxic election with the laid back burden deprived message of "I'm feeling like old school, mixtape. That's all I need. "I'm killing that low ride Sunday. That's all I need. Everybody sing "oooh oooh oooh oooh." There ain't no place I'd rather be. I'm talking bout right here, right now. That's all I need." Does it get any more hang loose simple than that? The Dirty Heads aren't expecting to rock the music world off of its foundations. They merely seek to get you in a zone where the day's, month's, and possibly even year's cares melt away into the ether. In the video, everybody's in the best possible frame of mind. Smiles all around the way. Chords nowhere close to reminding you of the adult obligations that await. Bobbing your head certainly isn't required but it's at the very least appropriate. In verse 2, Duddy B waxes eloquent about cigars dropped in the back of a Cadillac along with choice tidbits from a party with the Bad Seeds. Then it's a return visit to the devilishly fun chorus. In short "That's All I Need" gives you all the sun splashed hedonism nostalgia mix you could ever hope to ask for.

The Deftones Haunt Quite Convincingly During "Phantom Bride"

Alice In Chains ax man Jerry Cantrell gets star billing for "Phantom Bride" the current single from The Deftones new album "Gore". What phenomenal fret work he does throughout this composition. Gave me chills just taking the necessary step back to fully appreciate the damage he'd inflicted on our tender ears. Don't make any mistake..."Phantom Bride" isn't for the faint of heart. Whatever agony there is to slog through, vocalist Chino Moreno makes sure we're plenty muddy. Not that we're not also bloodstained from the deep subject matter in the lyrics. But, let me remind you this isn't The Jerry and Chino Show. We've got a four alarm team effort going on and that's how "Phantom Bride" comes up big in the spooky spectacle department. If at least one listener isn't compelled to faint from too much stimulation, then said person has me beat where machismo goes. So...very...deliberate are the musicians. The pacing squeezes out pathos point after pathos point and never once apologizes for the uneasiness incurred along the way. This song manages to stay alluring and tuneful though. It's not one of those crash and shock experiences. I'd say "Phantom Bride" trickles into the empty spaces of your bones and has its way with them. Bassist Sergio Vega kills here. He rises under your back and dares you to draw even so much as a tiny breath. Abe Cunningham does enough drum work to remind you he showed up for the recording sessions but, simultaneously, he backs away from monopolizing the affair. I made reference to the blood left behind thanks to the lyrics. Time to prove my point. Chino spends much air space discussing how idling away your life in a dark void, life draining away isn't exactly good for one's overall health long term. The culprit making such a void look sexy is simple. Not feeling the tougher emotions does have its seductive hold to apply around the necks of the unsuspecting. Who wants sadness clouding up his fun time when euphoria, self-medicated or otherwise, would be infinitely preferable. The crowning touch comes at the tail end when guitar work employing the force of a Sherman tank punches up the intensity level. The Deftones already gave you the audio equivalent to cyanide candy, To top that off they bring back guitar and all its big gun explosiveness. To say that I was not exactly expecting this grand finale qualifies as the understatement of the blogging month. Sometimes surprises are pretty nifty. Jerry's attention to massive butt kicking fills that bill beautifully. What bravado. What potent chemical reactions. You're glad "Phantom Bride" stops short of the five minute mark. Much more of Chino's minefield of moping and you'd need either that best friend you could call in the middle of the night or a suicide prevention hotline. This go round The Deftones have hit bedrock, the lowest layer firmament of what their respective instruments can do. As an added plus, "Phantom Bride" blesses us richly thanks to multi-hued composition intelligence. Bluntly put, this candy comes in multiple flavors of heart-rending palate challenging. For my money "Phantom Bride" should not be left stranded at the altar. Kiss and make waves certainly beats kiss and make up.

Beartooth Has Earned The Right To Be Loved

I need a moment to pause to catch my breath. Beartooth schooled me on the joys inherent to ejecting an unwanted, toxic presence from your life. The band's "Hated" bears fangs, shreds innards, and flat out awakens you with a swift kick in the pants. "Hated" originates from the "Aggressive" album and that's a mighty fine hint at the mood "Hated" sends to your face in full blast vigor. Nobody takes a down off. The players sync up, the instruments grow increasingly foreboding. You shake your head unknowingly as if to admit to yourself, "Hell, yeah!! I know someone who won't let me be myself and it bugs the living crap out of me. The hardcore punk shadings lend themselves well to this material. Vocally Caleb Shlomo pulls no punches. He's out to do a little psychological purging and, shame on you if you've landed on his hit list. Taylor Lumley goes battering ram in his guitar's swerving mindset. He totally nails the discomfort in Caleb's orbit. It comes out best during the chorus in which we again learn how shockingly easy it is to be hated for who you are. "Be yourself," we're encouraged. In this digital era it's not that simple. Oshie Bichar plunges into your gut by way of bass that aims for your craw, locks on, and has lusting after the scars you know his frets are going to leave in their wake. Kamron Bradbury's rhythm guitar crackles like the home style fireplace you wish the calendar said it was OK to snuggle in front of. No fuzzy feelings generated anywhere that I can think of. "Hated" comes off assault rifle soulless, seeking out vulnerabilities, zeroing in on uneasiness, and then pow...the foursome fuses high drama at a fairly low stress level. Judging by the lyrics, I'd say Caleb has his anger issues to sort through. He appears to be loathe to participate in the forgive and forget foxtrot. Not only that he washes his hands of the scapegoat label. Not that he doesn't merit high fives and handshakes all around for sprouting a spine in that department. Who can respect a man who won't take responsibility for his or her actions anyway. For Caleb there's no better feeling than ejecting this bad influence from his life. I am surprised at how seamless the stitching is in this punk ready to thrash garment. I am also highly pleased. You can reach out and touch Beartooth. This band doesn't shy away from interpersonal messes. However they approach the content bathed in the smell of their own friendly fire. No doubt Caleb doesn't have that bullseye painted on his chest anymore. More power to him. Beartooth stays snugly within the posted speed limit which allows you to chew on, digest, and finally swallow the shaky legged thinking Caleb's working his way through. As I've noted Beartooth isn't going far and afield for the purpose of being that exotic band that Spin magazine is desperate to have as its cover story feature. No offense to the respectable publication but Beartooth doesn't sound like its history is out of place with the traditional tack flyers up everywhere within a fifty mile radius route to stardom. They aren't to be confused with glam pretty boys out for a babe of the week score. In my estimation "Hated" earns its love by daring to put authentic moodiness front and center. Artifice isn't part of the Beartooth package. Hooray for that lucid realization.

The 1975 Sound Has A Likable 1980s Ring

Uniquely enough England's The 1975 does a spot-on imitation of 1980s gloss pop on "The Sound". Think about it with me for a moment. Ross McDonald's keyboards have that glow of any one of a number of your guilty pleasure tunes from that decade. Vocalist Matthew Healy looks every bit the hunk as he takes his place behind the mike stand. Adam Hann knows when to turn on the spigot for his guitar. Conversely he has enough sense to stay silent. George Daniel could be accused of soft peddle drumming but that's why "The Sound" succeeds in its quest to evoke that Big '80s rock spirit pepped up on studio production that obviously cost a pretty penny to set in line this convincingly. Know this, Buzz backer pals of mine. Feet will shuffle. Bodies will hop all over the damned place. Maybe even a loose earring will wind up left on the bar floor before the night is over. I concur you'll have little trouble warming up to "The Sound" due to the "let's not be accused of taking ourselves too seriously" attitude the guys put in full view. The video spits out condemnation after condemnation of the band's brand of cater to the masses fare. Lyrically Matthew does get some winners jotted down. The third verse is lousy with inspired musings. For Matthew "It's not about reciprocation it's just all about me, a sycophantic, prophetic, Socratic junkie wannabe. There's so much skin to see. A simple Epicurean Philosophy. And you say I'm such a cliche, I can't see the difference either way. And we left things to protect my mental health. But you call me when you're bored and playing with yourself. That's priceless, no other way to put it. It's a key factor in "The Sound" not being disposable schlock but instead racing to the finish line as a bon bon that was and is well worth popping into your mouth a few times for the sheer pleasure of identifying the candy swimming around in your throat. One of the video's barbs tags The 1975 as "derivative". I don't see how that's believable because a lot of great art borrows from somebody else. There had to be a beginning phase in art history to get us to where we are now. "The Sound" doesn't lack for a lively back beat. This technique begs you to let loose, be in the moment, and be glad that you're you. And I beg to differ with the notion that Matthew lacks any charisma as a vocalist. Sure, he won't be accused of being the second coming of Michael Hutchence but he's not hard to look at. Again, it's his talent with lyrics that keep him from being easily tossed off and forever after being thought of as yesterday's reheated news. If it's a cosmopolitan night out you seek, "The Sound" can help you out courtesy of a zing laden backdrop covered in chewy 1980s goodness. "The Sound" comes in loud, clear, and convincingly dressed.

Wow Did Beck Go Multi-Color Wheel On Us Or What?

To many music enthusiasts of the '90s, Beck's "Odelay" was the quintessential masterpiece of its day. This wasn't a '90s cookie cutter rock pastiche but the '70s brought back in Looney Tunes styled technicolor. Well folks, here in 2016 this much I can say for sure. Beck's got a thirteenth studio album rolling down the tracks waiting to box your eardrums in October but while you wait we've got "Wow" to give you something tasty to munch on. As was the case with "Odelay" tracks like "Where It's At", "Devil's Haircut and "The New Pollution" "Wow isn't from this planet, a statement I make out of utmost respect for the most well-respected musical Minnesotan not named Prince. "Wow" dips into its paint bucket, smears shadings all over the canvas and then watches the organic luminescence come to full, opulent realization. Is it the New Age flute knockoff that gives "Wow" the tranquility not unlike that of a Californian beach just as the sun is going away for its momentary nap? Yes, there is that. Do the drum fills give Beck the patina of a man not keen on leaving your doorstep until his message has been received loud and clear? I would think so. Those are but a few of the links in the hypnotizing chain that make "Wow" merely another day at the office for one Beck Hansen. He's that rare reminder of what music can be when it lives up to its potential. It can be totally mind-expanding in any and every way that matters. You're not concentrating on chords or sequences or even lyrics when Beck pops his new project into the blender. You are amazed how often he does it without missing a well-placed beat. But, since you don't come to this space to wax philosophical I'll punch out Beck lyrics to mull over. There are telling signs that Beck has returned to his "Odelay" roots where his word choices are concerned. Feast your eyes on "Wanna move into a fool's gold room with my pulse on the animal jewels." Somewhere Gene Simmons and his own family jewels are having a queen sized fit. Not an uncommon strategy for wordsmiths but one Beck employs sans ulterior motive happens to be stressing getting the one life you've been given right. The emphasis falls to the here and now and what you and I opt to use it on. If you're not blown away by the watercolor uninhibited genius of the video then I pity you, you lost soul for your doses of artistic enrichment have been neither steady nor frequent. In my estimation I'm fortunate that I had energy left over from "Wow", the video to comment on "Wow", the single. Said single matches the imagery of a team of hyperactive best buds sitting around the campfire contemplating the big picture, how "Howard The Duck" was ever green lighted and various other sources of attention span reducing amusements. That flute could drain the upset from any agitated stomach whether it was food or a particularly contentious argument that bent it out of shape. Underpinnings of bass allow slight menace to creep onto this beach. I've heard many oddball opening song greetings in my day but "Giddy up giddy up" qualifies as a new Beck icebreaker. The man doesn't rest on anything closely resembling a laurel. He likely wouldn't know what a laurel was if it wrapped itself around his Scientologist throat. That attitude has resulted in a huge winning streak among critics and fans alike. A Beck release means "ordinary" gets ripped out of the dictionary and takes that pesky rule book with it during its enforced free fall. "Wow" boots the wow factor right up to ten and makes us think the wait for Beck October may be too cruel to live down.

Silversun Pickups Drop Effortlessly Into a Steamy Rhythm

You have to hand it to L.A.'s Silversun Pickups. They bring with them an arresting darkness to their compositions that's unmatched by any other rockers on the scene today. First up from "Better Nature" we get "Circadian Rhythm (Last Dance) which on its surface professes to drape you in mystical dance steps but in fact can creep or even gross you out. I say gross because I can't ascertain much innocent about what vocalist Nikki Monninger has to share. I mean, even when the woman's sleepwalking she loses connection with anyone who'd bring color to her world. The opening lyrics say plenty about how Nikki can be together yet far off the physical plain as one can get without falling overboard and thus landing on the other side. "Another night alone, a temporary dream. I came in through your window sleepwalking. Standing arm and arm, still so out of reach. Well, there's nowhere left to go. Stay with me. Stay with me." Nothing overly needy about this chick, huh? Joe Lester should be locked up in a house of the criminally insane due to the foreboding keyboard fills he injects this pleasingly unsettling track with. Usually bass raises hairs on one's neck or the ever popular lead guitar outburst but not this time. Joe's there to remind you you're dealing with Silversun Pickups, a band that doesn't build its reputation on allowing you to get comfortable in your seat. That makes the Californians part of an abbreviated list of bands that leave audiences groping to learn what parlor tricks they'll initiate next. Nikki's pipes bring the grease factor down a hair, a strong selling point for her because that then allows the hidden siren to push from behind the curtain. Her bass acumen isn't far behind on the praise list, and why not since it's the stuff of smoky dives, last call lounges, and bars where spreading your phone number to random barflies isn't a very great idea. You do get a highly sexed up set of dance moves in "Circadian Rhythm (Last Dance)" but they aren't meant to get you between Nikki's sheets. Sympathy would be acceptable though. I mean...look at this night creature, so alone in her inner world, grasping at the smallest straw for relief, release, or an insomnia resistant version of the two. The second verse expounds upon Nikki's dilemma. "Footsteps on the floor, your body's just a haze. In a rhythm of our own, just out of phase. Feel my body swoon to hear you say my name. I've got nowhere left to dream, so I'll just stay awake...Stay awake." To be frank this song feeds off of its penchant for drifting through a perpetual swoon. Silversun Pickups has to be one of the hardest bands to readily define. Students in the fading art of swoon fits like hnd in glove for this foursome. The video delivers some kill the performers' spotlights cliches but it doesn't do so at the expense of quality. Brian Aubert lends his own stubbly guitar and vocal gifts to the witching hour and beyond scenario. But, if we were being brutally honest about what we're hearing this is Nikki's prime time for chewing the scenery and, in her zonked out state who are you to insist on rushing the stage to stop her? Circadian Rhythm (Last Dance) lays out all the right comfort zone eviscerating moves. Be sure to have a hand rag available to wipe the sweat from your brow. Nightmares, even those assuming a pleasing form can perform a number on those glands.

Real Friends Milks Its Cold Blood To Perfection

Hailing from my home state of Illinois, Real Friends bounces all over the aesthetic wall for "Colder Quicker". Guitars glide effortlessly up and down the various notes, not a beat missed, not an emotion left unexpressed. Lead vocalist Dan Lambton gets his anguish out completely. He's the one carrying the burden but he ends up making us exhausted, but in a favorable sense of the word. This song originates from the album known as "The Home Inside My Head". Plenty of introspection dots "Colder Quicker". How do you think the choral surges got so mighty. You need a solid head of steam to get that level of strength accumulated. Many kindnesses can be bestowed upon drummer Brian Blake for his significant prowess but the adjective leaping past my gums happens to be "magnificent". He doesn't take a single moment to catch his breath and why should he. The boy's on a elite level roll. He's the magician and we're mere spectators in the audience waiting to be blown away. Together Eric Haines and Dave Knox form a guitar wielding spectacle that's too jaw dropping to be believed. At least we have studio proof to remind us that yes, this did really happen. The twosome assembles some crackerjack technique which gives "Colder Quicker" its unshakable muscle, Gold's Gym envious muscle. The lyrics paint a portrait of a guy trying to wrench out all that is unclean about him to varying degrees of success. We open our saga with him flat out admitting he's got complaints to air out. He bears the scars of a disillusioned chap whose world has been blown to bits thanks to the reveal that no one he valued in life turned out to be quite what he hoped for or expected. Everyone in his inner circle wore masks but, when the time came for the big reveals, the true colors were repulsive to Senor Lambton to say the least. In the choral section he scolds himself for not having thicker skin. He figures that, were he to combine that character element with thinner skin from the woman in his life, then he wouldn't have the need to retreat to some dark corner for some quality brooding. Guilt eats away at him mercilessly. Not only are his nearest and dearest not who he pictured them to be but, he's not who they pictured him to be either. Makes for a great deal of uneasy social exchanges. However, in commendable contrast, "Colder Quicker" is a cold blooded delight to try on for size. So what if it breaks a few speed limits. The petal to the metal attitude does the song justice, especially given its 3:03 running time. Real Friends demonstrate on "Colder Quicker" that they don't take the easy way out and gloss over nettlesome relationships...they lunge their group scalpel right towards the heart. The four of them aren't stupid businessmen either. They know how to treat a song like a tightly clenched fist...wad it up then let it go entirely, no grudges left twisting in the wind. The video encapsulates long hard thought. The tight shots let you know that somebody's in a state of chasm level torment and if that boil isn't turned down on the stove a bit the outcome could be horrific. Luckily Dan stops short of courting hysteria. He's not sure he's cool with the man staring back at him in the mirror but, so long as a fine audio sweat gets worked up on down the line, he can step back from the danger zone. "Colder Quicker" burns hotter longer despite being a decidedly fast dispersion of conflicted thoughts. Real Friends get an impressive passing mark for keeping it real.

PUP Casts No Doubt It Knows Its Way Around The Punk Scene

O Canada, it's known for more than its bacon, Moulson Golden beer, and Mike Myers. Punk rockers PUP can be added to that list too. Their new single "Doubts" has all the raucous spitfire gumption you'd want from a punk band of any persuasion. Stefan Babcock has the voice that keeps you wanting seconds and maybe even thirds. This tune puts unapologetic chaos into a blender and then pushes the puree setting. Hope you're licking your chops punk rock aficionados because our geographic neighbors to the north put out a respectable product. Steve Sladkowski unleashes his inner beast through steady heat crunching through a guitar that doesn't take no for an answer. His instrument sums up what's the crown jewel of this entire package. Manning the drum kit in steadfast fashion, Zach Mykula piles on helpings of the punk rock attitude never to be duplicated by Ramones wannabes but expertly attempted by loyal imitation equals flattery throngs in waiting. Nestor "Mr. Fancy" Chumak does his bass proud in noticing holes where bass angst proves itself needed and then moving in for the kill. Lyric sheet, O lyric sheet, what goodies are lying in wait for us to discover. Why don't we discover that mystery for ourselves. We appear to be back in the world of girl fixation as gets demonstrated through "I'll never get you out of my mind. It keeps me awake and it keeps me alive. So continued shelf space in the land of the living? Good. Unwarranted insomnia? Bad. Around chorus time it would appear the lady in question has her doubt prompting Stefan to insist she pack her bags and move out. He's essentially got nothing whereas she has this nagging doubt that he can't abide by. Sounds like the drama in this relationship got unfairly skewed in one direction...hers. No wonder he'd rather continue on this portion of his life journey solo. His self-professed habit of spending more nights on the floor than in his own bed hardly sounds very promising. Nor does not getting much face time with his family or friends. Social balance, a must for us bipeds, eludes him greatly and the cost looks staggering. "What's left to lose?" he asks. Not very much from the looks of things. PUP as a band looks exceedingly playful. That is to say they don't carry the countenance of The Ramones who'd much rather spit in your eye from the stage than shake your hand and sign autographs. They are Canadians after all. They practically invented self-effacing hilarity. Your parents likely wouldn't pitch a fit if they knew you were listening to this engaging noise masquerading as middle brow art. PUP has a right to be barking with pride. "Doubts" leaves no doubt these Canadians should be looked into closely by Canadians of casual music stripes, hardcore music lovers, and seekers of cool diversions worldwide.

Thrice Spills Some Noble Blood

Irvine, California's Thrice has its engine revved up to full throttle for "Blood On The Sand". Plenty of top quality drumming originating from Riley Breckenridge and that pays off in the form of huge dividends given the thinly veiled outrage found in the lyric sheet. Just one listen tells you how outraged lead vocalist Dustin Kensrue is. He hates the blood he sees in the street, the blood in the sand. Whatever will he do to avenge the carnage? For now outrage is all he can truly muster but how powerfully he lets it rip from his gullet. His voice demands satisfaction and damned if he isn't bound and determined to get it. Teppei Teranishi lays it down on guitar with mighty heavy licks that take few if any prisoners. Outrage can surely do that to you. Dustin is unafraid to unleash harsh universal truths into the atmosphere. "Fear will kill your mind and steal your love as sure as anything. Fear will rob you blind and make you numb to others suffering." Painfully true. Never has there been a better time than now then to let those opinions take flight. Panic still rules us whenever we see skin of a different color emerge. For a country steeped in learning and higher ideals, we're slow to pick up on our mistakes. Dustin calls us on the carpet for our transgressions and in our heart of hearts we've kinda come to deserve it. Exemplary bass work from Eddie Breckenridge. Cuts right to the meat of the matter. The pacing moves at a gallop clip, another asset for a song steeped in eight shades of indignation. The statement "I've had enough" certainly rings true for the 2016 political race. For better or worse that's why we have the epic battle of Trump vs. Clinton on our hands. You can feel the rage's heat drop you to your knees if you let it. The rage does clock in at a less than 3:00 duration. That can and should give us all space to break free from Dustin's toxic edge. Not that the venom isn't well placed. Here in the heart of Texas we do love our guns. Dustin out and out claims "there might as well be a gun in my hand." Dustin doesn't like how we justify every mess we're in with a smoothly orchestrated plan. He's sick of it all. As much as it smacks of righteous indignation shot through the roof, Dustin's point is well taken. Violence begets violence. When does the breaking point ever motivate us to step away from the curb? "Blood On The Sand" spills out over all of us and this message doesn't have a shelf life of any kind...all the more reason to take heed.

The Monkees Return To Make Us Smile

The sunshine has returned to the pop music arena boys and girls. It comes from one of the least likely places you'd expect in the year 2016. Hey hey...the Monkees are in circulation again on the wings of a new album, "Good Times" which commemorates their 50 years together as a band. Wisely they recruited Weezer's Rivers Cuomo to produce the project. That has helped give the lead off single "She Makes Me Smile" a healthy dose of contemporary gloss but not at the expense of the classic Monkees sound, the one making you fixate on '60s beach babes, surfboards, and sand in your bathing suits. No one's lost his charm, despite the 2012 passing of Davy Jones turning the band into a three piece unit. Micky Dolenz and Peter Tork continue to mesh astoundingly well. Their twin guitar blend flashes you back to an era when America's concerns didn't look quite so hyper menacing. Micky's drumming keeps on keeping on in a mode that can and does win over generations of fans of varying stripes and temperaments. I definitely can make out something rather quaint about a song making reference to playing Scrabble with the guys. Board game themed game nights sound so passe these days. I mean...who does that? Part of the Monkeemania coming up for yet another batch of oxygen. I mean this band has more lives than a Cheshire cat. Just when you think they're dead in the water, they return to again prove that, in certain circles at least, they've managed to maintain their commercial viability. "She Makes Me Smile" epitomizes the inherent goodness which comes from knowing that a smile is merely a frown turned upside down. As was the case during the Monkees' heyday, pretty girls loom large on the landscape. Sure lyrics like "She's fine as any valentine are super corny but then again that's what made the Monkees' array of moonbeam inflected hits so gosh darn catchy in the same breath. Believe or not the three of them have put out a single suggesting they are having the time of their lives. I guess 50 years in it becomes possible to discern whether or not the thrill has officially gone. No such bad luck here. Mike Nesmith plucks guitar as if, despite his previous carping, he realizes there's a brotherhood factor to this band that refuses to give up the ghost. This latest girl makes the boys' collective motor run. How could she not be so totally irresistible when she makes them laugh, cry, and motivates them to think they'd like to hang out with her day and night. Though there was a tongue in cheek element to the Monkees TV show, the band's chops remain nothing to sneeze at. Good times indeed are in the offing. "She Makes Me Laugh" delivers proper incentive to make even the crustiest person break out into one of his brightest smiles.

Night Time Is The Right Time For Michael Kiwanuka

Road tested soul. How enrapturing it truly is. From the lips of British newcomer Michael Kiwanuka, it's healing oil for whatever part of your body ails you. His guitar does its Joe Camel smoking thing and that makes his humble pronouncements revelations. "One More Night" will soothe your strung out nerves at a late night coffee club. In fact the jam would be your go-to means of release were the evening to hit rock bottom depressing. Mike's love for Otis Redding proves itself over and over again. No, it's not exactly "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay" but its decades old beating heart still leaves its generation straddling mark. The tempo stays even keeled, the ideal framework with which to let the passionate words drip down your face like a singular drop of cleansing shower water. The backup drummer has his act in fourth gear knowing precisely how to get Michael's flow maximized. "One More Night" isn't bathed in depressive isolation derived onyx. Quite the contrary, Michael adopts a tone where making it to the morning light constitutes a deep victory for him. Given Michael escaped the Idi Amin regime to seek his fortune on our shores, I can see why the sunrises we take for granted would be out and out heavenly for him. Trying in the morning matters much to him. Isn't that what most of waking life amounts to anyway...trying regardless of how many times our spirits get battered around? You can be led to believe that Michael's joy at being a tiny part of life itself tickles him no end. Back to playing up guitar majesty. This guitar stoops down to grab private places a scrub brush can't reach and does so in tribute to homespun, decent intentions. The comparisons to Bill Withers are fairly appropriate. You can hear the nuances of "Lean On Me" float out of Kiwanuka's mouth if you lean in close enough. Bill never used bravado to sell his art. It doesn't appear like Michael's positioning himself to do that either. Understated gets the point across masterfully and, as a added bonus won't expose any of Mike's future listeners to overdrawn celebrity melodrama. In short "One More Night" constitutes a rich tip of the hat to R & B past while keeping one eye firmly set in the future.

I Believe Young The Giant Has a Hit On Its Hands

Irvine, California's Young The Giant has "Home of the Strange" on its way in August. Until then we'll have to settle for a quick bite of "Something To Believe In", a ditty perfect for those nights when you're in the company of witches whipping up a batch of their eye of newt specialties. This number blends in what Young The Giant does best. Jacob Tilley drops down guitar melodies in the right spots, a surefire appetite enrichment to be sure. Are you hot for a little keyboard action? Eric Cannata has the fix you've been itching to have satisfied. Maybe you like macho chants. Young The Giant's there to indulge your guilty pleasure barbaric utterances set to a slightly hair-raising tempo. Vocalist Sameer Gadhia maintains excellent composure, never once sending us into a state of undue alarm. What an asset for someone who's apparently guilty of talking to the sun. To his credit he does admit the dialogue does get old after a time. He implores us to break free of the basement full of demons and break any mental chain enslaving us. The suggestion works mainly because Sameer does an honorable job as advice counselor. I get the feeling he's referencing the band's new song when he says, "I'm a songbird with a brand new track." Give him his due for getting right down to business. Sameer also speaks to the moon if the lyric sheet veers in the direction of accuracy. In so doing he becomes pale as a ghost in the afternoon. Francois Comtois lays down drum beats that hoist the sail "Something To Believe In" so the pep barometer inches ever higher. Payam Doostzadeh injects hot off the grill bass spices into this union of midnight hour witchcraft not short on beguiling intentions. Got to hand it to the boys. They don't lean heavily on any one instrument to get the message across. Employed as N'Awlins styled jambalayaa, "Something To Believe In" comes out of the oven as a keen specialty dish tailor made to serve discriminating and non-judgmental palates alike. The macho element underscores belief in one's individual purpose, not a bad lesson for all stripes of human to learn. You don't get the gift wrapped overblown video to accompany it but, for this song, minimalism makes for an ideal pairing of gentle reintroduction and motivation cranking alpha male chest beating. The band's latest doesn't move so fast that you can't appreciably digest these pearls of wisdom. You do get a chance to let the combined talent whisk you away to your centered core where believing in something despite the obligatory long odds would be exceedingly possible. Due to its purring combustion engine, "Something To Believe In" has me believing bigger career chapters are just around the corner for the Irvine-based quintet.

Canadian Ruthie B Helps Us Feel A Little Less Lost

Ever ask yourself "What does a big hug sound like?" If you're new to that question rest assured I have a definitive answer for you. Hailing from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Ruthie B has arrived to wrap her arms around you. Let her easygoing manner on piano ease the day's cares. You could lose yourself, tears and all behind "Lost Boy". You'll get plenty of Peter Pan related imagery here, namely because Peter Pan and friends were the kid literature gold standard of lost boys. Of course Peter Pan was the definitive man child that today would locate a contemporary figure in Adam Sandler characters. But, back to the tickled ivories. We'd be here all night if I came up with the exhaustively long list of superlatives worth pinning to Ruthie B's playing. Her lyrics up the excitement factor even more. You get transported straight back to evenings spent reading about Peter, Wendy, Jane, and Michael. The chords she chooses are meant to encourage you to embrace the concept of Kleenex used to dry away your daily fears. Try not to break down in knowing sobs when you gloss over what this 21 year-old comet in the making has to impart. Her only friend was the man in the moon. Now that's harsh. Not only that, sometimes he would go away too. How can you resist the sweet smile of Peter Pan. That shadow flying high boded well for Ruthie B's future chances at inner serenity. "Lost Boy" gets bolstered by remaining in the same general chord progression played out to heart-lifting effect over and over again. In verse 2, Ruthie B gets sprinkled with Tinker Bell's magical pixie dust. The fantasy grows more lifelike. Ruthie fully buys into Pete's world of escapades. I'm moved by the sentiments "Neverland is home to lost boys like me, and lost boys like me are free." You get a full bodied liberation out of inhaling those words. Reality doesn't offer up too many escape hatches but it's an inviting thought that Ruthie's allowing us to share with her. Freedom stands as our country's defining concept. You take your unshackled levity where you can find it. Ruthie's got pipes you'd like to greet you after any particularly rotten day. It's soft as daisy petals, soothing as aloe vera on a sunburn. As the video clearly illustrates, Ruthie isn't hard on the eyes by any stretch of the imagination. Those soulful orbs inside of her head project to even the most hardened of curmudgeons who've been beaten down by Life's slings and arrows and don't have any compassion left to spare. Ruthie climbs to a dignifying crescendo before she reaches the chorus, a chorus led by the declaration, "I am a lost boy from Neverland, usually hanging out with Peter Pan." Many of us are lost boys in need of someone willing to coax out our approachable side. Ruthie B definitely strikes me as being exceptionally approachable, in lyric, temperament and well placed vocal range. To add to that she knows how to get exactly what she needs out of her piano. In "Lost Boy" Ruthie B has found an exquisite formula for future winning streaks on the adult contemporary charts.

Band of Horses Throws One Heck of a Party

Ben Bridwell leads the circus as vocalist for Seattle's Band of Horses. The latest single "Casual Party" bursts from stem to stern. Riveting guitar sequences, bombastic drumming, deep baked bass all have something to contribute to this eclectic soup that revolves around what constitutes a reasonably blah dinner party that Ben and his mates manage to convert into an almost palatable shindig, due in large part to their way with ready to spread humor. Look at the lyric sheet if you need evidence that Band of Horses hardly takes itself all that seriously. The laundry list of conversational fare does make one yawn openly. The often attempted television conversation starts this show off with a thud but wait...high drama begs you to listen. Having TV has turned poor Ben into a sociopath!! Like that wouldn't describe nine tenths of the breathing folk already. We search for the door but alas, it's truly a bitch to locate. After the chorus we head full force back into party topics of the damned such as the odious job, the recreational hobbies (I assume he means drug use but it's an up in the air guess), kids, the dog, retirement fantasies, essentially suburbia boiled down to its most snooze worthy elements. We're fortunate to have Ben leading the charge otherwise we'd all be wise to hightail it out of this psychological torture chamber as soon as possible. Three scoop ice cream generous harmonizing bring "Casual Party" above the pack of similarly themed ilk. Creighton Barrett lights up his drum kit like it was going out of style. You can practically lick the pixie like preciousness off of Ryan Monroe's keyboards, another fun appetizer to liven up a drab dinner party like this one. Tyler Ramsey shoots out of the gate guitar neck blazing which adds spice to the neighborhood community love fest that's been downgraded to keeping one's tongue firmly sealed shut. Bill Reynolds bass doubles as that wishbone you'd like to pluck from the turkey breast, the treat buoying what's faltering in this get-together. Chords come off agile as a gymnast, and that makes us want to try to give this party a little tender loving care. Mining diamonds from a sea of bottomless unremarkable junk jewelry...therein lies "Casual Party" at its finest. You have to sense Ben's been victimized by mercilessly unappealing meet-ups such as this so he's an expert on narrating how run of the mill they can get. You might call Band of Horses excellent party crashers, if this was rewarding enough to be labeled an actual party. My advice to you is ride the surf bubbling on the strength of vivid wordplay and block out any notion of "This is way too familiar for comfort. "Casual Party" makes the grade as an invitation to snicker worthy casual hilarity.

Pierce The Veil's Texas Two Step Won't Linger In Your Heads Forever

Pierce The Veil gets an A plus for hammering home guitar grit that is bound to stay in the brain pan sizzling away for a spell. The drums pummel as advertised. Vocally I don't have any real gripe. Vic Fuentes gets needed attention and knows how to run for his life with it. Melodically the band's "Texas Is Forever" selection reminds me of a stock car racer at the top level of acceleration right before he hits the wall, winds up in a body cast, and becomes the heartthrob of female fans everywhere, not for his brains but for the stones it took to put himself in that mess in the first place. If you're expecting "Texas Is Forever" to be some tribute to the Lone Star State you'll come away bearing the scars of a jilted lover who never made it past second base. This song comes to you straight from the "Misadventures" album. Good way to look at the song itself come to think of it. It's a misadventure in barbed language, overwrought rage, and translator necessary interpersonal dynamics. At least the instrumentation makes its mark, albeit at the expense of lyrics being clearly heard. Mike Fuentes knows how to drum ferociously. Jaime Preciado gets real quality elbow grease behind his bass. For these truths I stand grateful. However, what am I to do with words like, "Here we are. Can you tell that story it's my favorite one. You fucking disappointment, I can't entertain you anymore. These stupid states of mind. Everyone punishing me all the time. Why? Classic paranoia does not a pleasing listening experience make. Want some gratuitous violence with your unsettling diatribes? Then, as a Texan might put it, mosey on over to "Here we are, crashing once again into the center of your moonlit face, our caved-in ribs, your tears, they fall on my tongue, and our lips are letting go, as we laid on the side of the road." Not exactly moonbeams and rainbows, is it? Everything's bigger in Texas, apparently including the carnage report. "Texas Is Forever" counts as highly misleading advertising. If anything the chorus appears to come down on the side of condemning it, hence the line "If Texas is forever where's your home sweet home?" Does't sound like they're rooting for the home team, does it? I give the nod to Pierce The Veil for revving up the speed, for employing all the witchcraft at its disposal to show off what's redeemable about the San Diego foursome. That doesn't excuse it from favoring not so thinly veiled hostility over lyrics that might justify the sympathy vote. I also give street props to the band for zooming up and down the limits of their respective instruments, dazzling unsuspecting bystanders along the way. Nothing worse than staying in one place ethos wise and then expecting to be applauded for the sweat exerted for the cause. Due to the raw nerves cut open to bleed all over the rough cut turned final product I regretfully must conclude that "Texas Is Forever" won't last longer than five minutes inside any self-respecting listener's eardrums, fan of the hardcore genre or not.

X Ambassadors Steady In Intention

I really appreciate X Ambassadors book ending "Unsteady" with similar friendly fire pianos. The song from Ithaca's finest comes at you like a child slowly snuggling into his warm bed. Strict guitar orchestrates the onset and that from the very start fuels such high tension that even if you're not asthmatic you'd benefit from the comforts of an inhaler. Major shout out to Noah Feldshuh for setting a somber mood that makes you to hug somebody, somewhere, in some context. In marches drummer Adam Levin to keep ears on edge. Lead vocalist Sam Harris can take responsibility for injecting true blue family values mentality into his band's single. As someone who gets nervous easily I appreciate the lines: "Dad, I know you're trying to fight when you feel like flying." That's basic fight or flight response and boy how I pay the cost regularly. Sam thrives on leading you to the places in your heart where you could end up exuding uncomfortable body chemistry. In "Unsteady" that tack becomes a valued asset. The drumming has a kick drum sensation as opposed to the solid whack of your standard kit, high hat and all. This version of instrument serves the function of taking you inside the fractured psyches of the players referred to in the lyrics. Casey Harris uses his keyboards as an balance upsetting mechanism. It has its own backwards charm that grows on you as you settle in for repeat experiences of the song. I recommend you don't dismiss "Unsteady as a one and done proposition. Why the endorsement? Because the trajectory follows the straight path from point A to point B. For no extra charge you get Noah's impeccable guitar expertise at the bridge, and that doubles as a chance for you to catch your breath following the steady psychological storms. The second verse raises every variety of childhood insecurity you could possibly imagine. Sam pleads: "Mama, come here, approach, appear. Daddy, I'm alone 'cause this house don't feel like home." From there we get the ice princess melting cry of: "If you love me, don't let go. If you love me, don't let go." What vulnerable child wouldn't know how deeply that request runs through their tender veins. At the central nerve ending of the song lies the plea for the child involved to know some semblance of security and desirability. Sam utters these basic needs from that place in his range that could stop traffic long enough for the timeless message to make its way through to receptive audiences. He's got that paternal lion heart beating inside of him and it shows in the overall development of "Unsteady". The video carries out the highly personal theme of grown up conflict clashing with minor-aged urgency. But, at its core "Unsteady" values safety and that's what the concluding riffs of the song use to their best advantage. Nice, steady escape from the parent battles back down that self-assured stripped down guitar. "Unsteady" certainly gets an "A" for putting one foot in front of the other. Nobody except band insiders would know that any off-balance moves were employed putting this intimate jewel together.

Skillet Pens A Song That Sounds Quite Mortal

Skillet gets high and mighty about how invincible it feels in the reasonably named "Feel Invincible". This Tennessee Christian rock outfit knows how get the stadium roof lifting to highest elevations but when the final outcome crosses the finish line I don't absorb the sensation that there's anything superhuman going on here. Plenty of rock suitable for a basketball arena but I am not suspecting lead vocalist John Cooper has a cape tucked away in the back of his car waiting for the grand transformation that supposed to spellbind us all into a fever pitch. Not that this track from "Unleashed" has nothing sterling worth conveying. The energy manages to stay at an admirably high level which is what you want in a rock song that can double as final two minutes intensity rising NBA playoff basketball serenading. Drummer Jen Ledger commands a Johnny on the Spot presence via maniacally vital drums couple with the occasional zingy vocal interjection. Seth Morrison comes at you fur flying on guitars since you can't incite the masses to stay on their feet for extended periods if a high octane outlet isn't provided. Korey Cooper does the dutiful on bass, and that ain't hay as they say. How admirable that this ditty revolves around how great it feels to have a best bud in one's corner whenever adversity rears its ugly head. Unfortunately, the same musical diet wears thin on the palate over time. All the volume in the world isn't going to conceal a theme we know so well we could recite it in our sleep. Not only that the steady stream of lyrical reference points proves itself migraine inducing. What would Sia think if she knew this band lifted her titanium ideal of superhuman bravery. Given that her back would probably be away from Skillet itself as it performed I'd say the band is safe but there comes a time when fight song theater must give away to something that doesn't sound too air brushed for the masses to wolf down sight unseen. To Skillet's credit it stays loyal to one chord and uses that as its impossible to spoil bread and butter. Nice to have a rock story that's easy to follow along with. Thankfully "Feel Invincible" justifies my NBA reference by tossing in "Like a roar of victory in a stadium". Now I've really created the illusion of a sports themed jaunt we rise and fall on. John Cooper does have a solid way behind the mike. If "Feel Invincible" was able to stand on the merits of that alone, we'd be in ship shape but this lyrical content is simply overused. That doesn't mean the message of friend to friend empowerment isn't moving. The problem lies in the frequency of its use. Nothing wrong with inspiration. I'd imagine that's the juice many of us require in order to muster up the courage to get out of bed in the morning. Sometimes it does bring with up a boy who cried wolf quality. You're fed up with hearing the warning. Now you want proof danger lurks in the village. In the case of "Feel Invincible" I want proof the engine I'm being persuaded to ride around in has enough gusto to warrant my using it to cruise around the block. "Feel Invincible" doesn't have an indestructible bone in its body. Skillet needed to deep fat fry this entree a little less so I could taste an authentically different idea.