U2 Cranks Out Another Commonplace Miracle

When exactly was the last time U2 turned out a bad piece of music? Not everything's been legendary but their track record for quality is head and shoulders above most bands on the scene. Ate up "Sunday Bloody Sunday". Found "Discotheque to be a blissful dance change of pace. Then there's "Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me" Rioting in the streets would've been fully justified had that song not ended up in Batman Forever. Thankfully cooler heads and even cooler marketing strategies prevailed. U2 straddles generations without losing its undeniable ability to stay culturally relevant. The newest example of my claim is "The Miracle (Of Joey Ramone) a sprightly homage to the fallen punk pioneer. I don't exactly equate the Ramones with bouncy, spring in the loafers fare but U2 manages to help one of the men behind "I Wanna Be Sedated" maintain his dignity. From the way Bono spins this yarn Joey is one incredible messiah who returned to him all that he thought was lost. This song comes to us from the "Songs of Innocence" album. That could explain the liberate tone the song adopts. Lest you get cozy imagining the band's resting on its laurels (an acceptable state given where they're at career-wise) Larry Mullen Jr. comes to play with Dublin forged drum chops militant in design but not stripping the playfulness down to a nub. U2 got its magical rocket ride to global pop success started in 1976 so issuing a tribute to Joey Ramone sounds to me like the boys are dabbling in a return to their roots. You can clearly inhale Bono's own innocence in the lyrics. Like many of us he was chasing down his dream before it disappeared (whereas Tom Petty runs it down but I digress). Dreams come in many shapes and sizes. Anyone who's had one and feared it was slipping away can see where he's coming from. The dynamic of not fitting in is the universal language among rock stars past, present, and probably future. Bono wanted to be heard above the din. With millions of folks on this planet, only a fraction of which come from Ireland, that's a pretty huge din. The Edge knows exactly where to strum. It's woven into the mix instead of screaming "Hey look at me!" He's comfortable both in his skin and with his workmanship so he doesn't need to rupture anything to get the job done. You'll recall in a recent Foo Fighters review I lauded them for how non cookie-cutter their musical opuses are. That also holds true for U2. There brew is heady, made to be embraced by stadiums full of benign insane asylum patients who treat this foursome like a legitimate cult that they'd be fools not to follow. Adam Clayton makes his bass hum in a manner not bound to be duplicate by any other artist. This band explores the complete palette of emotions before spreading paint onto their canvas. They can be deceptively toned down as was the case for "With or Without You" They can pick an optimistic direction as held true in "Beautiful Day". Their excellence comes from not blazing the same trail twice. Somewhere Joey's cracking a smile. From one artistic giant to another the mutual admiration society only grows stronger. "The Miracle (Of Joey Ramone)" is no miracle. Simply one more chart burning charmer to add to the pile of logs that U2 has made a life's work out of creating.

No Love For Fergie

The best thing in my estimation that can be said about Fergie is she causes less damage to the species at large as a member of The Black Eyed Peas. Flying solo she's so in love with herself you swear thank you letters from local chocolate shops nationwide must be blocking her front door. "L.A. Love (la la) again demonstrates that life truly isn't fair. She's had way more than the Andy Warhol prescribed fifteen minutes of fame. How has she used this generous borrowed time? To put her claw marks all over a single that's Pepsi to the nth power. Chug it down, toss it away, and forget about it. The usual artificially flavored goodies are accounted for. Bad ass synth fills? Check. Too silly to be imagined by mortal souls chorus? Locked, loaded, and set to rip your previously open minded soul to shreds. Stream of consciousness list of all the places she's gone globetrotting? Was there ever any doubt? Hold the Fergie ferry a sec. Came up with a second plus side to the femme who sullied the reputation of London Bridge for countless generations to come. "L.A. Love (la la)" is far too brief to result in any permanent scarring. If you want to be really generous you can play fantasy world with yourself and visualize you vacationing in all those places Fergie rattles off. To prove I'm not such a hard hearted guy I'll play travel guide for a paragraph or to. I'm not sure who Fergie stands to impress comparing herself to a gnat as she does when describing her jet voyage to New York. In any case New York has a few things to recommend it. Like legitimate theater? The Big Apple's there to be your bestie. Want some bagels as they were meant to be eaten? N.Y.C., you're the place for me. Next stop London. The Big Ben not playing football in Pittsburgh's sure to excite you. How about some fish and chips? That's good if not necessarily good for you snackin'. As for Brazil? Steamy samba and spirited soccer ought to cure what ails you. I don't have to dig deep to praise Quebec. It's Canadian which gets my vote given the many other spots in that country I've visited. I may yet get there myself in the future. You'll need to bone up on your French but that's a small price to play for rolling with the high style set. Now I shall return to Fergie flaying. As a member in questionable standing of this "whole damn world" I haven't taken effect to Ferg. I see her problem. You can't make whole damn world minus one sound street tough. "Come to represent" doesn't knock my socks off. Yup, still aiding my shoes commendably. As for the balance of the single I'll spare you the tension headache that doesn't satisfy nearly as much as brain freeze incurred from sucking Slurpees too fast. Fergie essentially has the globe saying la la la la la. Does Las Vegas have nothing better to do? Why not help the too far gone cure their gambling addictions. And Australia? Fascinating country. That the people there would waste one squirt from a water fountain to acknowledge her boggles the mind. Has Tokyo not succeeded in Godzilla proofing itself? If the motion picture industry is to be believed the answer's no. Nobody has accused or will ever accuse Fergie of trying to be Greek theater brainy. Consistency, you are Fergalicious. This time around nobody can accuse Fergie of putting out product worth upwards of five minutes of your precious time either. L.A. Love (la la)" lacks the chemistry needed to incite a massive pop explosion. Hate's a strong word, but steady dislike fills the bill.

Ella Henderson's "Ghost" A Repetitive Phantom That Won't Go Away

It's Halloween month. No better time to discuss "Ghost" the debut single from UK starlet in training Ella Henderson. Boob tube devotees might remember her from her appearance on The X-Factor. That chorus is simply too big a nuisance to take seriously after a time. Somebody greased these tracks with plenty of melodramatic sheen. Maybe the spirit (pun not actually intended) would work as part of the ongoing soundtrack for a telly program about the supernatural and the many who have a hard time buying into the concept. You can't place blame at the feet of Ella's voice (creepy biological juxtaposition, yes?) Anyone out there who took to Leona Lewis like ducks take to a pond isn't going to have much trouble being sold on the innate talent found in Ella's singing. She's an 18 year-old who's off to a promising start. Higher quality material is lacking. Had the powers that be in charge of her record label put as much thought into promoting her as the video director did in playing unchecked emotion to the hilt I might have been able to say Ella's path to US stardom is mere formality. The musicians backing her haven't distorted her style to blend into B-movie cheesiness. A lover's nagging presence gnaws at the heart of this composition. Stinging wounds resonate over and over. "Ghost" was co-written with OneRepublic's lead singer Ryan Tedder. The epic sweeps in instrumentation show his handiwork is unmistakable. But Ella Henderson's name is on the release. She was smart to pair up with him but whenever she lags in the momentum department we're back at the river praying for any one of a number of things. I pray she doesn't oversell the chorus on any other song that gets released. In the world of job interviews making a good first impression is of paramount importance. The first impression I get from "Ghost" is an unintended migraine. Too often the chorus keeps us from developing anything other than a surface relationship with Ella's sharply shaped voice. Lyrically sympathy is warranted. Obviously demons from her love life won't allow her a moment's pace. Imagine a book you've read that does a fine job establishing a mood, winning over your empathy when suddenly you're revisited by a plot device you thought had been stricken from the record eons ago. "Ghost" suffers from the same shortcoming. Her friends have figured out her lover's evil. Her own sanity hangs in the balance. She dares to leave the shallow end of the pool. Then it's back to the river for more connection with the almighty. In small doses that's commendable. Ladled on molasses thick that's a tummy ache granted an all access pass. "Bleeding Love", the ghastly named smash hit for Leona Lewis succeeded by combining a rock/gospel mix that brought out the most palpably vulnerable aspects of the song. "Ghost" doesn't show off that kind of daring. Not mellowed out melodrama. Not going to assume control of fleeting attention spans either. Like the apparition for which it's named, "Ghost" the song goes in the books as barely detectable. You sense a presence but it's too lukewarm to demand further investigation.

The Foo Fighters Whip Up Something Special

Oh, the stories Dave Grohl could tell of the rock and roll life. To say he's gifted is a textbook understatement. Genius is a better moniker. We little people have to wait until November 10th to sample the new Foo Fighters "Sonic Highways" album in its entirety. "Something From Nothing" represents top quality appetizer material. For reasons that baffle me I continue to be astounded by the level of excellence Dave and friends aspire to. Why am I surprised twenty years on? Anytime they strap on their guitars for the moment's flights of fancy there's no telling where they're going to choose to land. With "Everlong" frantic controlled the console. "My Hero" allowed the guitar to dissolve in rivulets. Dave owned "Best of You". Foo Fighters have maintained a rep as one of the few bands I can rattle off the top of my head that have never failed to throw together art that isn't merely comprised of one juicy guitar chord that they beat into the ground, the justification being the music listening public will snatch up any morsel they deign to toss out. At your leisure explore the high points of their discography. Every one of their rock chart smashes is a unique entity in and of itself. "Something From Nothing" splits the inspiration three ways. The first portion of the song allows Chris Shiflett, Pat Smear, and Nate Mendel to flex their considerable guitar muscle. You're given an excellent weave effect between lead guitar, rhythm guitar and bass. You know the stitching's stellar when you can't trace any sign of the seams. Later on there's an honest to God funk groove tossed in. The last frames zero in on diabolical hard rocking chutzpah complete with the ever present golden age of heavy metal solo showoff work. When exactly did Dave roll out of bed and say to himself, "I think I'll compose a three-in-one opus today." While many of us are boarding the coffee achiever train Dave's doing the music equivalent of walking on water. It must be nice to have the tap flowing constantly. Idea after idea comes pouring out of his melon. He's always been white hot intense. That snarl in his voice is unmistakable. "Best of You" displayed it to its maximum glory. Don't let it be said he's a one-trick pony in that area. "Long Road To Ruin" was his oil and canvas mind melt. There were purposeful motions writ large everywhere you turned. "Something From Nothing" reintroduces us to Dave's fury complement to his band's sound. Rest assured both signify plenty. Dave likens himself to a cold match wanting flame. You'd best be on guard giving fire to a pyromaniac of passion of Dave's caliber. Keeping up with his mind's contours requires at the least a slight drop of joe and at the most PowerBars in mass quantities. Slow burn doesn't begin to dawn on him. Get him warmed up and his exhilarating intensity does the rest. For you existentialists Dave reaffirms how we all came from what came before. Be honest with yourselves. You come to the Foo Fighters door to be rocked off your ass, not to probe the universe's infinite mysteries. If so you'll leave this banquet table fully salivated and eager for seconds, and probably thirds. "Something From Nothing" exemplifies everything that's exceedingly wonderful about The Foo Fighters presence on a rock stage or in a studio. Let the giddy squeals commence. Saint Dave smiles upon us all.

AC/DC Ushers In a New Ball Game

Tonight on the menu, a choice slab from one of heavy metal's greatest purveyors of down and dirty moves. AC/DC returns to the scene with "Play Ball", not out of place during a month when World Series fever is in the air. While you're not going to confuse this effort with the crank it up, roll down the window fist pumping of "Thunderstruck" or the slap you across the mush spunk of "Back In Black", it's great when the mood demands a deep quaff of cold beer or chicken wings to appease your clan's cravings. History, albeit not a kind version takes the form of "Rock or Bust" being the first album without founding member Malcolm Young involved. Serious health concerns have placed him out of the picture going forward. Best wishes and hopeful thoughts go out to him as they do his now former bandmates. Speak of which vocalist Brian Johnson hasn't lost the sleaze appeal that made AC/DC'S swarms of fans breath easier even as they struggled to come to grips with Bon Scott's tragic death. An AC/DC record, like an Aerosmith record, doesn't play coy with listeners. You know what kind of experience you're going to have. There isn't the sort of linchpin rhythm you got with a "Thunderstruck", as in that agitated bee in a jar guitar chord sequence. If you think it's the ideal companion to a visit to the local pub you'd be spot on. Brian lets it be perfectly obvious he's in the mood to raise hall. Four decades from band conception that's not only admirable but thoroughly encouraging. The sound is wide open, lacking in the sexually artful flourishes of "You Shook Me All Night Long". Background grit perhaps, but not in an off-putting way. Whether it's because these bucks naturally have blossomed into war-tested veterans or because they know they don't have to rely on schoolyard antics to get their fans into an insane lather, there isn't some beefy guitar solo midstream letting you know it's boss and you're lucky to be in the presence of such greatness. You'd be wise to avoid a bathroom break in prep for your local rock station playing this laid back addition to the legend of AC/DC. That's because we don't even three minutes worth as due payment for our tax dollars. Now, as a rule I like for a song to leave me bedazzled when its creators go for short and sweet on the menu console. Matthew Sweet barely inched past three minutes with "We're The Same" but succeeded in launching my mood ring into a '60s peace out prevailing calm. "Spirits In The Material World" from The Police was unsettled, but brilliantly so. The arrangements were so daring I couldn't follow the percussion rhythms until after the bridge pointed out how my ears should have been digesting things? Why the tangent you ask? What I'm driving at is those two songs left me possessed of a particular mood. Matthew left me at home with my place in the world while Sting and friends made me want to punch a wide swath in the ozone hole so I could zoom right through, separating myself from my fellow homosapiens."Play Ball" can't be traced to any particular state of mind. On the one hand that's what the masses deserve to hear if that's what they ponied up their dough for. On the other hand there isn't a trademark big finish or signature lick that would improve the song's odds for a long shelf life. During "Play Ball's" playing time the testosterone is the signature lick. In summation "Play Ball" scores a strong base hit through steely drum work from Cliff Williams and the not easily contained enthusiasm of Brian Johnson. Just because not as many people will talk about "Play Ball" in 20 years as they'll continue to do with "Back In Black" that's no reason to slink away from a rousing AC/DC party song. AC/DC continues to be on the ball when it comes to giving fans of all stripes authentic metal that's going to leave them stoked. I say batter up.

Three Days Grace's Engine of Angst Purrs Like a Discombobulated Kitten

Three Days Grace gets big ups for consistency. If there's angst to be mined from any situation you can name, the guys are there with suction hoses blazing. Turning to their discography, you notice "I Hate Everything About You" and "Pain" channel the madness of a tormented man. This is the type of guy you wouldn't be comfortable sitting next to on the city bus. If those songs were compared to a bodily sensation I'd say they resemble the raw unsettled discomfort of a sore throat. Swallowing feels like you're clamping down on razor blades. How Three Days Grace works that lather into a smashing hard rock gut punch boggles this plebe's mind. I'm glad they hold a unique corner of that market though. "I Am Machine" continues along that nerve endings cut to the bone rough edge. The chorus vocal is one of the top five most lingering of any song in any genre. In no small measure the credit goes to tour vocalist/recently anointed new lead vocalist Matt Walst. You can tell demons swarm throughout his brain pan. Barry Stock digs the nails in deeper with guitar playing that jabs the angst in as far as it can go. The chord swerving takes center stage at the most appropriate time. This activity mirrors Matt's torment. Matt writhes and Barry's ax follows in his ominous footsteps. Matt gets introspective in Halloween fitting fashion. He respects bleeding because at least then we know we're feeling something. To those out there shackled by soul sucking wage slavery how does the mentality of lacking the wisdom to know what's it's like to care enough to carry on grab you? You're numb not because the sentiment appeals but it's the only crouch motivated survival mode you have that works with any regularity. Drummer Neil Sanderson gets top distance on his drum beats. Nothing gets the hurried treatment. Neil drives slowly over Matt's anguish, backs up, then plows over it again. "Pain" did glorify the thought that it's better to feel pain than absolutely nothing. That song was also eerier than "I Am Machine" which unflinchingly snarls at you and your stabs at pity. Matt apparently either didn't care to study notes from Three Days Grace's past cranial explorations to verify the whole pain is preferable to nothing or opted to give that subject a demented spit shine. Either way there's no dissing the deliberate private prison assembled by the foursome. The second half of the chorus pushes its way up the windpipe, a spew on the brink of shooting skyward (apologies if you're eating, preparing a meal, or thinking about where to go for dinner). I can't do that harshness of timbre justice. It sounds like a guy begging for someone to take the hangman's noose away from him before he does irreparable damage. Moral quandaries are part and parcel with music. Out of place? Three Days Grace. Trapped by life's vicissitudes? So is Three Days Grace. Their new machine fires on all cylinders. It's the furthest thing from a smooth ride but the facade melting zing it brings to the table easily makes up for the bumps and bruises we absorb in transit.

Sam Smith Only Intensifies The Definition of True Tear Jerker R & B

Sam Smith knows how to tug at your heart in so many ways. "Stay With Me" was about as intimate a tour-de-force as could be imagined. He's learned well from his predecessors. "I'm Not The Only One" possesses equal power to grasp the most vulnerable parts of you. First and foremost the drums. Drums set to brush past any obstacles placed before them. Next, it's piano flavoring to spruce things up a bit. There are numerous classical flourishes if any of you traditionalists lean in the largely old school direction. Sam's the centerpiece for this skewed wedding cake. His is a voice masterful beyond his mere 22 years. I'm not crazy about the repetition embedded in the aforementioned instruments. Not much of a smudge on my radar though. My advice to you is lean into Sam's rich tones. The heartache streaks down to your toes. Anybody who remembers the radioactive white boy Rick Astley from the '80s surely can respect that the voice and the physical stature of the person uttering it don't necessarily sync up with each other. Who would have guessed Rick wasn't Motown worthy black? Ditto for Sam. Of course his voice has that Brit bluster we so relish. His momentum builds and we come along for the tear-stained ride. As the video shows there's plenty of oh the drama to go around. "In The Lonely Hour" is gaining cred as one of those albums to blow your diet on chocolates with. The femme fatale in this vid couldn't possibly grow any more unhinged could she? We dudes aren't sticking around to find out. If there's a negative to be had from "I'm Not The Only One" is the orchestration of moving parts makes the song too vanilla to be accepted as the ideal soundtrack for wallowing around in one's own romantic dishevelment. On the heartthrob continuum Sam is John Legend's polar opposite. "All Of Me" was a warm blanket. Sam's selection closely resembles a cold bucket of ice water dropped with no limitations added gusto over your unsuspecting head. What the two have in common is they are the reigning kings of soul brought to your table piping hot, lips pursed in anticipation, glands swimming on a level science can't hardly explain. I'm not sure if "I'm Not The Only One" is destined to have the long lasting chart power of "Stay With Me" (we're talking months in radio rotation). One thing's for sure...the trail of tear drenched Kleenex and broken psyches is bound to stretch for miles. It's Sam's time, hours or longer, lonely or satisfied. He's proven adept at making the most of it.