No Wealth of Great Ideas To Be Found On Chief Keef's "Finally Rich"

I think it's safe to say that after hearing "Finally Rich", the debut "effort" from Chicago, Illinois rapper Chief Keef the Mayans were spot on about their prophecy about the world coming to an end. There wasn't one thing about any of the tracks on this CD that made me feel anything other than underwhelmed. Not that the market couldn't use one more artist waxing on and on about his bling, wagging a finger at his bitch, or getting high on something with someone. Throughout this ordeal you'll hear various cheaply processed rhythm keepers. Essentially we're talking two flavors of drum kit. Either it's movie soundtrack overkill or underplayed keyboard with just enough gratuitous bells and whistles to delude only the extremely delusional into actual belief that something mind blowing is coming your way. The only way to do justice to this pile of sludge is to communicate with it lyrically. "Hate Being Sober" conveys the sentiments I'm sure every struggling mother from the projects wants to hear one of her offspring spouting. The man wholeheartedly admits he dislikes being sober while in the same lyrically hot zone reports he's so drunk he can't even spell sober. You'd want him out with your daughters, right? Keef's delivery is about as lazy as the content. Want me to prove it? How about "Ballin?" His droning utterance of the word is about as uncomfortable as your physician tongue depressor jimmying open your mouth for the mandatory looksie and then leaving it in there for about twenty minutes. True, that likely isn't possible, not without risk of malpractice suit being filed from your family's end but the same nagging "ah" sound comes to mind. As you might expect even after the rap community has sprung it on all of us for what's likely going on the million and first time, this track centers on Keef's extremely affluent life and how he doesn't want some identity deprived bitch calling him up. Why said bitch would've given him a tumble in the first place is one of those mysteries I guess I'm too damn stupid to know but that's the conundrum before us. Another generous (!!) portion of self-worship oozes into view courtesy of "Laughin' To The Bank". This one's complete with phony baloney "ha-ha-has" as part of the buildup. Lucky for us his misogynist streak came back long enough to tell some other bitch he seems acquainted with that she can "suck his cock like a BOP, BOP, BOP". If this blog was equipped with Smell-O-Vision the next stimulation you'd get would be a stench on par with what a freshly used toilet would reek of. I'm not a hater of hip-hop. Really I'm not. But in my capacity as writer I don duel roles as creative force and judge sitting at the keyboard/bench. I'm not sure what maddens me more...that record execs actually sign these empty-skulled cretins to make "music" for the express purpose of lining their wallets or that the artists themselves are thick enough to think someone of any intellectual fiber would honestly put bullet holes through one hour of their lives just to discover that we as a species haven't evolved entirely from Neanderthal times. Not that you'd only have "Finally Rich" as an example but it's a scathing wag of the finger regardless. If you feel dirty after listening to this CD in its entirely well then good for you. That means somewhere inside your souls you were in fact taught right from wrong and are committed to living your lives in this fashion. "Finally Rich" won't make anyone feel wealthier for the listening experience. In fact you're better taking at least one shower and maybe as many as three. That way the filth that's been allowed to accumulate on you during the time you listened will wash off more easily.

"The Same Great Lady" Delivers The Same Worn Out English Language Cliches

Lamentably I never got the chance to fully understand the mystique behind Jenni Rivera before a plane crash took her life on December 9th. In order to least make some attempt to try and connect with both her spirit and the audience that watched her on television, bought her albums, and flocked to her concerts I gave a listen to "La Misma Gran Senora" ("The Same Great Lady"), her compilation album. It pains me to say that, while in the regional Mexican community an artist who unleashes her anguish in service of articulating the madness of romantic entanglements may be a novel, even groundbreaking concept, to more discriminating audiences such as myself, it wears thin even when I don't require lyric translation to figure out what she's in distress about. What you'll find in abundance on this album are all the earmarks of classic norteno music. By this I mean accordions that get such a generous piece of the action it would make Weird "Al" Yankovic envious, zestful horn fills including the tuba, an instrument that doesn't get much love outside of a polka concert or a marching band assemblage, and bass guitar. A picture is created but trouble is once the dots are connected the completed masterpieces grow old fast. Now that I've pieced together the connective tissues I'd like to explore to greater detail the vocal stylings, if that's what you or I choose to call them, of Jenni Rivera. On the plus side the fervor with which she tackles love affairs she's glad to be rid of, drinking to help forget the love affairs she's glad to be rid of, and her pretty open-ended criterion for obtaining a true love that may or may or not morph into one of those love affairs she's glad to be rid of are actually quite convincing. One thing about norteno is the artists involved inhabit an impenetrable world of their own once the mike's focus is on them. I must say the horn section intros to such interchangeable fare like "Por Que No Le Calas" ("Why Do Not You") "Que Me Vas a Dar" ("What Will You Give Me If I") and "No Vas a Creer" ("You Will Not Believe") left me with the uneasy conclusion that I was hearing the same song treading down three different yet not totally unrelated pathways. Jenni's cries of anguish, though within her artistic license rights, didn't raise my appreciation level either. I mentioned Jenni's a whiz with a pity wallowing drinking song. "Hermano Amigo" ("Brother Friend") is what I was alluding to. Just a yarn about two people sitting together and commiserating. In the country music world that's called "What happened to me last Tuesday". In norteno that sort of  contemporary theme gets you noticed. My apologies for needing to tip my uninitiated hand but here in the music appreciation blogosphere we're all pals, right? Hot on the heels of a scorching accordion "La Misma Gran Senora" ("The Same Great Lady"), in addressing the same theme of how a woman doesn't need a man on her arm to both survive and thrive in this world, destroys any momentum that preternaturally animated instrument gave her. When you're dealing with a subject that English language songstresses running the gamut from Annie Lennox to Kelly Clarkson have already covered and left their own special imprint on them you, even if you've got the novelty of being a regional Mexican artist in your corner, need to seek out a way to make your version of the weather worn theme stand out. There's nothing about this song that would make me want to give it multiple listens. It's not necessarily Jenni's fault. Even the best of the lot of recording artists can be weighed down by lead balloon material. If you can't turn a sow's ear into a silk purse you have to start questioning your product supplier. I can't say I feel the same sadness about posting this negative review as I do reflecting on the abbreviated life of Jenni Rivera. As contemporary vernacular would say the girl had it going on. Bottom line this go round is "La Misma Gran Senora" ("The Same Great Lady") fails to produce "musico inolvidable" ("unforgettable music").

Lifehouse Travels All Over The Map But Reaches Few Fully Satisfying Destinations

To any artist out there in any field who feels compelled to grow as his/her career takes flight I say more power to you. Sometimes however there's much to be said for allowing listeners to reap the full reward of a template of expression that sounds more than just an idle jam session here, a thought balloon that pops too quickly there. It's this growth impulse that dooms Lifehouse's new album "Almeria" to suffer the disappointment which stems from potential not fully realized. From a commercial standpoint, Lifehouse is already six albums into its collective career. The yen to spread one's wings is understandable. A stale sound doesn't benefit anyone. All I ask is that the completed tracks sound like the ideas were carried to their proper conclusions. "Aftermath" is a fine example of a track that was given enough room to blossom. From the opening wash of piano this track is allowed to impress people with the richness of its personality. Jason Wade's words carry with them a stout resolve, an implied understanding of strength that makes you want to follow him wherever he's going. Rick Woolstenhulme, Jr's. drumming turns this story's pages. As a listener I am curious to learn what's coming around the next bend. Here it's all about the storm and how steady optimism carries the power to get through the rough stuff. Lyrically I'd be remiss if I didn't pat Jason on the back for carrying "Barricade" to term largely due to the novelty of visuals such as "I'm  in your blind spot". Folks, over the decades many a car song has surfaced on the airwaves but nowhere has a blind spot been given the credit it undoubtedly deserves. Those of you movie lovers out there who delighted in The Blind Side recall Sandra Bullock explaining to us how protecting the quarterback from what he doesn't see coming, safeguarding "the blind side", is an integral part of keeping the QB at the least upright and, at the most armed with greater odds for success. The music industry can get weighed down in "been there, heard that" ideas so readily. Thanks to Lifehouse one rarely touched upon aspect of car ownership has gotten its due. As for "Barricade" the just over 3-minute song, you've got Ben Carey's lead guitar to thank for setting the stage for a honky-tonk laced jolt of romantic reflection. Extended to 4 or 5 minutes it likely would've gotten tedious in a hurry. Good job on knowing when to declare your peace completely spoken. If "Almeria" was populated with tracks like "Aftermath" and "Barricade" and nothing beyond that, this record would have more to recommend it. As it stands there are too many unfinished ideas that won't ever reach full flower. There's "Gotta Be Tonight" which is all primeval and no production. You can't sell a song through down and dirty percussion unless you're part of Queen or Van Halen. The message is easy enough to translate. "We're young right now. Let's take our chances right now before the window of opportunity slams shut for good, before the door's cruel slam smacks against each chamber of our not completely jaded hearts". I care but that theme's been touched on in so many ways by so many people that the empathy's very hard to come by at this point. I care but not enough to want to race to the record store or scramble to load this to my iPod. No novelty means no gold star. I see why Natasha Bedingfield's guest appearance was culled as the leadoff single. "Between The Raindrops" demonstrates purpose. Bryce Soderberg's bass guitar is battle-tested. Jason and Natasha's voices go quite well together. The overall heartbeat of this song is steady. You learn to appreciate a pace that doesn't threaten to crumble under the weight of urgency. In the case of rock legend Peter Frampton's inclusion on "Right Back Home" what results comes off sounding like nothing more than the new wave awkwardly trying to give props to the old guard. It's nice to welcome Peter back but if the purpose was solely to ease guest stars into the mix so art crowds could name drop then the energy was misspent to a great degree. Lifehouse shouldn't be ashamed of trying to evolve musically as they advance biologically. However, this Jekyll/Hyde collection of too little too late meshed with the occasional flash of fully realized pathos doesn't warrant a slot in the vanguard of first rate pop/rock albums

Bruno Mars' Jukebox Filled With Enticing Selections

Bruno Mars is quickly gaining recognition as a musical jack-of-all trades. From doo-wop to R & B to reggae, he pulls off many styles ambidextrously. His sophomore outing "Unorthodox Jukebox" speaks volumes about how much mileage he gets through his admirable versatility. The leadoff single and current Billboard magazine #1 "Locked Out of Heaven" is supremely catchy. The guitars are potent. The drums are spicy. At the center of it all, as it should be, Bruno's impassioned delivery comes from a spot of undiluted truth that not too many artists get right on the first or second try. His niche in the male vocalist pantheon is on its way to being reserved. His flight of elation is one music lovers can easily share. I'm high on "Treasure" because it showcases the brand of old school R & B beats New Edition mixed together in the early '80s. If a performer has a wall of alluring mood to guide him, the vocal sorcery comes that much easier. Other times such as on "When I Was Your Man" all it takes is a steadily percolating piano stanza to lend vocal heat. Bruno laments all those times he should've bought his girl roses, should've made far more time with her. Now all he can do is play Monday morning quarterback about the whole love match gone south. While the playfulness of "Locked Out of Heaven" allows Bruno to fly higher, the sobering ivory tickle behind "When I Was Your Man" presents a compelling contrast. The piano passages threaten to engulf him but his exquisite choice of octave positioning keeps him just above a sea of self-pity. Musician and instrument working in tandem equals a standout track. Flipping to the sun splashed domain of reggae, "Show Me" is hugely sexy. There's not one square inch of this song that doesn't make you want to get all primal urge like he does. Even on the grayest of days it injects a rainbow of pleasure cruise escapism, escapism mostly for one's loins but escapism all the same. Bruno's turn as erotic cruise director turns heads. Take a close listen to "If I Knew" and you just might be transported back to the 1950's world of Happy Days where this type of slow, deliberately personal dance hall swaying wouldn't be out of place. How breathtaking that Bruno can assume a role as suave leading man at any tempo. All of them are offered here and, what's more, all of them get people talking because Bruno has such a confident voice. Why do I say confident? There's a purity of intent. You aren't dealing with a booze-crusted rasp like Rod Stewart or a player's ballsy imposition of will like Maroon 5's Adam Levine. Here it's note for note spine tingling that you just couldn't obtain if Bruno used an overdose of sex or booze to distract him. "Unorthodox Jukebox" is worthy of many, many spins. When it comes to respecting R & B and reggae history plus methodically carving out his place in their joint futures, he's done his homework and then some.

Trans-Siberian Orchestra Knows How To Ring Your Bell

Once again I come before you to salute one of the Christmas season's superlative holiday tunes. Back in 1995, the Trans-Siberian Orchestra did the season a real service by taking Carol of the Bells which quite often can be thought of as a light wispy escape into delicate snowfall memories and turning in into a brawny hard rock eargasm. It's as if they asked themselves: "What if Christmas went heavy metal?" At first this interpretation is pretty restrained. Some preliminary notes offered up on guitar, a bass fiddle for gravitas, and a flute punctures the air. Once you've been nudged into this world that's when the octane really fires up. Listening to the composition go on its high speed chase gets me excited each time, particularly when the electric guitar pushes its way into the spotlight. The piano thunders down the octave register like it has an axe to grind. With this rendition the rock audience is represented. There's a time and place for Frank Sinatra, Eartha Kit, and Mannheim Steamroller. The Trans-Siberian Orchestra shook things up, cobwebs and all, and made some diabolically clever music that could even win over people who'd rather gargle glass than embrace the prolonged merriment. Who knows. Maybe one day James Hetfield will be called upon to be conductor. Given what his band's been through over the years it would not surprise me to see him take on the challenge of learning the rhythms necessary to lead the orchestra and then give Carol his own imprint. This chestnut isn't for pansies.

McCartney Makes Xmas Wonderful Just By Being Himself

I'd like to take this opportunity to step away from sharing the best and worst (in my opinion anyway) of the music hitting the charts today to get all holiday season on you. I'm a big kid when it comes to Xmas. Although I know that, through one unfortunate circumstance or another, many people in this world would rather forget this holiday ever existed, I love the lights and color it ushers in. Xmas music is a big part of that sparkle. When executed with style and panache the songs of the season make an already electrifying night even more electrifying. For me they don't come much more twinkly than Paul McCartney's "Wonderful ChristmasTime". This 1979 keyboard drenched ditty makes me light up from note one. Every childlike aspect of the season drops hints in my imagination when I hear it. The generously decorated tree, snow falling in generous clumps outside, warm overcoats, the infectious laughter of young children. Paul's own boyish glee sends this song over the top. Sums up perfectly the timeless value of being together with the ones you love, clinking glasses, stealing a smooch under the mistletoe. There's isn't much instrumentation outside of the keyboard and a late in the game display of hand claps. That's what adds to its beauty. No bombast to get  in the way of Paul's undeniably believable sentiment. To this day I still feel that the reason why Paul remains as one of the last two surviving Beatles is his boyish charm. When he says "We're sim-ply ha-vin' a wonderful Christmas time" I don't doubt him for a minute. Even the blackest heart couldn't withstand cheer served in this type of delightful package. I don't think Ringo Starr would've been capable of providing the same wave of warm fuzzies. If you're experiencing a dearth of holiday spirit, give "Wonderful Christmas Time" a fresh listen. Your woes might not vanish but, at least for 3 minutes and 46 seconds your outlook on life might brighten a shade.

The Power of Tre' Lacks Punch During Green Day's Closing Chapter

Give Green Day credit for satisfying their fans and the unwaveringly curious outsiders with a surplus of new material. This blog has played up the unquestioned merits of both "Uno" and "Dos". "Tre" isn't necessarily an all out abandonment of the pluck that made the first two sound like Christmas came early. More like a mishmash of outtakes that were deemed too inferior to show up on those other sets. In some cases such as "Drama Queen" the songs are mere excuses to dash off some energy in acoustic format while tossing out lyrics like "She's old enough to bleed now" that venture into TMI territory. Green Day have always been about bratty pop punk dynamism. Strip them of electricity and you're left scratching your head at the low tech disposable interchangeable part nature of the lyrics. In least in this blogger's opinion, Green Day doesn't excel at going acoustic. Yes, I know, "Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life)" was a pretty large hit by the band's standards. It also doesn't go down in history as grab you by the testicles brilliant. Billie Joe can muse all he wants. Give me some defiant guitar jamming like that located on "Tre's" second cut "Missing You". Once again we find that amorous dog bolting to the front door level of charged up buzz. I regret to inform you that's more an exception than a rule. Although Billie Joe, Mike, and Tre do manage to collaborate for some pretty special teamsmanship on "Dirty Rotten Bastards". The song starts off restrained, business as usual, textbook rock radio noodling but once past the midway point, a switch was flicked inside our heroes. They bust out some serious flair. The drums bounce all over the room. The guitar playing admirably keeps pace. Billie Joe's lyrics are connection worthy to anyone who's got a Pandora's Box full of demons in need of exorcism. Whether a product of studio orchestration or a generous concession on the band's part to give the fans a little more of what they want, the lightning quick tempo change saves this song from lapsing into a coma caused by playing this scene too cool. "The Forgotten" was the first single offered to radio. Sage move. Billie Joe, Mike, and Tre finally piece together a track that succeeds in being a shot in the arm without having to resort to either acoustic strumming or overblown displays of caffeine abuse. Let this be a reminder to all of how the piano is by no means a wimpy avenue of expression. Billie drives every note home. His lyrics drive home a question many of us likely at  the very least think to ourselves as sunrise is swallowed up by sunset..."Where does the time go?" Rather than beating us over the head with it, Tre skillfully inserts his drums. That gesture buoys the potency behind Billie's ivory tickling. Good job on mastering subtlety in arrangement, at least at the very end of the album. Better late than never I guess. I say this because "The Forgotten" is the track that pulls the curtain down on the show. "Brutal Love" left me thinking: "Hadn't this vision of evaporating romance on a Senior Prom dancefloor already shown up on "Dos"? Good background ambiance to sway one step two step in the center of the gymnasium with your true blue love that you're trying to let down easy but it's a retread. At times the repetition of chorus is headache inducing. For example how many times can you stand hearing "99 Revolutions" being beaten into your cranium. Billie really is concerned about the working stiff's impending obsolescence but after the sixth repetition of the title I figured screaming "ENOUGH ALREADY" was the least I could do. "A Little Boy Named Train",  outside of featuring a protagonist named after a cross country vehicle, doesn't set my world on fire with originality of sound, and I doubt it would for too many others. It's when the threesome ventures back into four cylinder virtuosity that "Tre" makes a run at being a worthy conclusion to this trilogy. "Sex, Drugs, and Violence" delivers these trademark goods. The words "too dumb to die" make firing off a few minutes on this track worth the trouble. As a complete package I'm afraid "Tre" is a case of all blasted out and nowhere to store the leftover ammo except in this pasted together bonus form. Thanks Green Day for not skimping on new music. The ambition behind this three part project is also laudable. But in the end quality should've won out over quantity. "Tre" doesn't measure up to the audio candy taste of the previous two efforts.

Hinder's Freakshow Tough To Take Your Ears Off Of

Where Oklahoma hard rockers Hinder succeeds the most throughout the new "Welcome To The Freakshow" is in the probing of the lowest depths of their collective creative toolbox. Check out the oily grime behind "Ladies Come First". You're face deep into unapologetic hedonism. If you can't construct the image of a greased down stripper pole upon listening there's something gravely not right with you. Ballistic warfare best describes "Freakshow". Are you nauseated by the parade of reality TV show wannabes who have zero shame but one hundred percent obsession for turning a tidy sum out just by airing dirty laundry most respectable folk would usually keep private? Lead vocalist Austin Winkler understands right down to the last plopping of antacid. He's the epitome of righteous fury. With Joe Garvey's eruptive fretboard theatrics to back him up "Freakshow" levels all peons that stand in its way. Who wouldn't find this creation an inviting train wreck to exercise voyeuristic tendencies around. Not that Hinder ignores the females and highly sensitive males in their fan base who'd like a little introspection served up alongside their crunchy hard rock. Austin should be proud of the candor with which he trots out "I Don't Wanna Believe". The woman in his inner circle makes trying and trying again worth the loss of sweat. To him everything good goes away. Thanks to her he's got reason to take dignity restoring pride in refuting his own conclusions. Still, a large majority of the metal community goes wild when they're promised no lines of decorum left untouched bombast tour-de-forces. Try not to cop a knowing smirk after testing out "See You In Hell". Mark King's rhythm guitar scalds the back of the skull. Mike Rodden's bass guitar circles its prey menacingly. Cody Hanson hammers away on the drums, a hard rocker driven by basic DNA to ramp up the intensity quotient with each measured stroke. Austin claims he's a liar, he drinks, he knows it. However who says Hell might not be a barrel of laughs. Didn't Billy Joel in a long ago ditty say "I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints"? Appears to me Austin's made the confident decision to chuck that misplaced box of Kleenex. So tasty you'll want to assume instant glutton status. Hard rockers don't exactly have the market on subtlety cornered. "Wanna Be Rich" pretty much has America grabbed by the collar, its anything for a fast buck ethos dead to rights. Wake the fuck up indeed. This track sets spines tingling, teeth chattering, innards quaking. In other words malevolent fun to the last drop. Hinder deserves a numerous pats on the back for being fairly market savvy. Get the ballad lovers through the front gate but be sure those who pray to the gods of metal get plenty of sacred texts so they'll keep the words spreading and the pew seats filled to overflowing. "Welcome To The Freakshow" has its outstretched arms pointed right at you. You'd be wise to go where this journey's taking you. You'll be exhausted, but not decimated. In fact your mind/body gas tank might actually be bumped up a shade higher since the lyrical content does plenty of giving back.

"Girl on Fire" An Explosive Display of Power for Alicia Keys

I was already convinced Alicia Keys was fearless in exploring the intricacies of love when I heard her sweet as molasses performance on 2001's "Fallin". To my mind she gloriously let the vital warmth trickle down with the majesty of a drop of renegade maple syrup inching its way along the side of a bottle after having poured a thoughtful helping onto some flapjacks. Unwavering slow. Slow so listeners could soak up every wave of Alicia's no pretentiousness implied sentiments. Not too many people could make the falling out of love part sound more like reassurance with the arm that just pushed someone away. "Girl On Fire" never ceases to be a fascinating character study. She's comfortable in every style of skin she inhabits. For openers the piano intro "De Novo Adagio" glides over one's eardrums. On a dinner menu you might call it a teasingly playful appetizer. "Brand New Me" finds our lady of the urban core strutting her newly won triumph of personal growth over any previously acquired superficiality. Vocally I admire her sense of self-awareness. She knows how to pull her audience in with firm footing then retreat back to a softer application of her impossible to fake natural heat. She imbues her voice with fiery attitude only long enough to clearly make her point. The percussion spiked wake up celebration that is "New Day" actually has me believing the day in front of me is rife with possibilities instead of that same, tired out laundry list of adult "must-dos". Without Alicia as the ringleader this song could have easily had sounded phoned in, like one of those painted on smiles Americans sometimes use when they're trying awkwardly to hide some indefatigable source of frustration. The coup de gras is definitely "Fire We Make". She and the equally gorgeous (to the women that is) Maxwell conspire to whip up what in all likelihood will have myriad lovemaking sessions stoked in no time flat. This is Florida orange juicy deliciousness. Though Alicia isn't listing guitar picker as one of her side specialties, the hired hand doing it did her a solid by adding it to the delicacy. No need for an extinguisher. Just focus your energies on getting lost in each other's freshly ignited orbs. Look no further if you're trying to pinpoint your 2012 version of "my happy place". Nicki Minaj is another one of Alicia's special guests. "Girl on Fire" certainly sounds like a title begging for a Minaj moment or three. I blissfully inform you her pink-haired R & B oddity from another dimension characterization is dialed down considerably. Some earthbound rapping about how she fears God and it's back to Alicia at the helm. Street props to Minaj for not forgetting whose spotlight she's borrowing. Minaj has already stolen many a show so there's little advantage to her towering over the celeb she's trying to lend an assist to. Alicia can construct a candid portrait with considerable grace. "Not Even The King" stands ready to touch the blackest of hearts. Alicia salutes the value of intimacy and trust over the value of the filthy lucre so many burn up so many irreplaceable sunsets chasing. This is classic "we have each other so we're already millionaires" songcraft. Like the voice of the women herself the piano is almost maternal in application. A revisited character assessment seems like a shot in the arm for one's after listening. If you're partial to music that sounds tailor made for cavorting  in the sun-dappled autumn landscape "That's When I Knew" is a superb choice. Alicia shares that exact moment, the same kind many lovers of all ages crystallize as their "a-ha moment" when they first figured out they fell in love. Alicia spread out against harvest night electricity. "Girl On Fire" is ignition personified. Whether playing it cool, upbeat, brash, defiant, or betrayed, Alicia Keys demonstrates that, over the past decade, she's morphed into an accomplished musical thespian. Going onstage to present her with a bouquet of roses doesn't do her or her cathartic honesty justice.

Rihanna Really Should Apologize

How unfortunate that Rihanna's new CD is called "Unapologetic". She needs to apologize to her fans for overwhelming them with her quest to be taken seriously with a 55 minutes and change orgy of mostly miss ideas. She needs to apologize to every major symphony orchestra on the planet for thinking their milieu was the best way to dress up "Get It Over With". She needs to apologize to battered women and those trying hard not to become battered women for agreeing to be associated with "Nobody's Business", a duet with Chris Brown, the lunkhead who thought Rihanna would make a great punching bag (or is that smacking bag?) To make matters worse, she should also consider apologizing to the family of Michael Jackson for looting some choice lines from "The Way You Make Me Feel". Michael, eccentric as he could be, wasn't into physical violence. I wonder how he'd feel knowing a post-millennial R & B grrrl of the moment was lifting some of his '80s work to arouse circa 2012 audiences who must be easy to arouse if this is getting them hot and bothered. Maybe Rihanna and Chris could've buried the hatchet after say several more years had passed. Possibly after there was enough proof that Chris wasn't going to do something Biblically unadvisable to someone like Carly Rae Jepsen or Katy Perry then these two could meet up again. Granted "Numb" ideally portrays what post car wreck inebriation must feel like. Eminem likely bopped into the recording studio long enough to evoke images of alcohol mixed with puke, collect his royalty money, and then return to standing on top of the hip hop throne. The uneasiness of the backdrop seizes attention. Could've lived without Slim Shady's allusion to the "butt police". Yup, no shortage of subtle there. The man does send flickerings of "Where in the hell's my damn car keys? Is that my puke on the asphalt?" Let's saunter on over to "Jump", a miscarriage of sexual justice which wouldn't get a condemned death row prisoner even one semen drop of reassurance. Rihanna invites men to "come on and jump me." She's the pony they're supposed to ride. Nope. Pants still firmly in zipped position. The car alarm on haywire synths are even less appealing. So let's recap. Rihanna's not making me drop my drawers, the synths are devouring any trace of restraint there might have been, I have to take the metric ton of smutty verbiage to bed with me. Good luck being ready to board the 'ol dream weaver train. That'll take at least one cold shower, possibly three. Lucky for her "Diamonds" has morphed into a chart topper. It's the only jam here that's not breaking out of its mental institution shackles and salivating all over anyone and anything within a twenty mile range. Opting to be extra generous with a project isn't a bad thing. I get that Rihanna is somehow trying to take her game to some perceived next level. "Unapologetic" is one overblown step way back. I'm now highly nostalgic for her first big hit "Pon De Replay". THAT was a snappy party starter. For the most part what's scooped off the floor for "Unapologetic" is pungent enough to clear any auditorium full of "invited" guests. When Rihanna's done apologizing to all those segments of the global community I alluded to earlier she needs to take a long look in the mirror and apologize to herself for thinking this tripe was in fact part of a brilliant plan to send her career into warp drive. I really feel your pain now. A bottle of Tylenol doesn't do this justice.

Kid Rock Soul Stirs Early and Often

Nobody could ever accuse Kid Rock of being a shrinking flower. You know you're entering a no bullshit zone when he's around. The full measure of his talents in just about every contemporary vein imaginable erupts from every corner of "Rebel Soul". It's already cracked the Billboard Album Chart's Top 5, and with pretty damn good reason. He and his band bring the party straight to your front door, daring you to somehow turn them away. There's pelvic sexuality galore on "3 CATT Boogie". This clapalong rhythm is inescapable. Trust me when I say you wouldn't want to. The grinding gets better by the second. Meanwhile Kid lays the lumber to some of his American discontent. There's the preacher reaching for his Old Testament. Banks hedging their bets on the next generation's chances of doing anything other than sliding by. Wall Street orchestrating the whole travesty. Put his delivery and his band's superior mettle together and what you've got is a breathtaking peek into Kid Rock's rock hemisphere. The Kid respects both his music elders and innovation driven contemporaries. "Detroit, Michigan" salutes every home slice made good from Aretha Franklin to Marvin Gaye to Eminem, the real Slim Shady himself. What leads up to this outpouring of Motown based love is a friendly bit of audio applause for other regions of the country and what they have to offer the listening universe. Memphis has its soul. N.Y.C. can lay claim to an uptown sound. Mississippi knows how to sing the blues. In the end they don't hold a candle to the Motor City and the various bright lights of music past, present, and foreseeable future which still shine bright today. Sweaty, jazzy, shout out ditty worth raising a glass to, even if you're rockin' heart belongs to some other section of the country. The only prominent misstep I could find here was "The Mirror". Somewhat of a comedown on the heels of several cuts where Kid's the ringleader for a nonstop celebration. Why drop in a payload of buzzkill, served up in the key of AutoTune, stale jack swing lawn furniture plastic when there was momentum to burn right before that? Nothing wrong with spreading your ambition far enough to please as many camps as possible. In the end trying to overreach serves no beneficial purpose. That's as inadvisable as the multitasking we all do in contemporary society. Problem is we still aren't willing to accept the notion that not many people multitask well, managing to be unflinching jacks of all trades. Now then...back to some other noteworthy tricks from Kid's magic hat. "God Save Rock 'n' Roll" is the best rags to riches back to rags story of one clueless youth's journey to the epicenter of the successful rock 'n' roll lifestyle since Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers' "Into The Great Wide Open". I'd say that's some pretty nice company to be in. Honky tonk roots. Jimmie "Bones" Trombly wailing away on the piano. Where Tom's interpretation was somewhat sympathetic, Kid Rock pulls no punches about how this doofus deserved the trip back down to Earth for deciding his soul was definitely for sale. Kid hasn't exactly shed his gutter trash persona. Check out "Cucci Galore". That's one bedrock altering orgasm unfurling. This brings to mind the awesome "Bawitaba". Back in 1999 it thrust itself through car radios like a megaton bomb which had just had the pin pulled. The tawdry tale drives itself deeper and deeper into the erogenous zone until the best surgeon couldn't pull it back out. Not one band member holds back on his/her zest for the project before them. Jimmie's harmonica glides like a freshly waxed hydroplane. David McMurray's applied copious layers of smoothness on sax. Shannon Curfman, Jessica Cowan-Wagner, and Stefanie Eulinberg were no bit players responsible for making "Detroit, Michigan" the solid tribute it proved to be. "Rebel Soul" is that Fourth of July fireworks display people circle on the calendar every year as must listen entertainment. Effort still counts in the rock 'n' roll galaxy. Kid and his band Twisted Brown Trucker left phone it in on the side of the road and then proceeded to leave muddy tire tracks on it.