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.

Rose Window's Psychedelic Seasoning Cooks Up Flavorful Fun

To everyone headed to The Mohawk tomorrow night I've got my version of a pre-game show for you. Straight from Seattle, land of flannel and grunge, we get Rose Windows, an outfit that Jethro Tull would applaud for since flute is part of its collective skill set, too. Their new single is called "There Is a Light". Accurate in every shape imaginable. Texture lends a great deal to the full bodied appeal of any tune. Not only do we get flute, male and female converging harmonies are thrown in for good measure. Pat Schowe's strong lower digits keep the pedal applied to the drum metal (mettle as well). That serves as a springboard for the rest of the pack to pile on the psychedelia rock yummy. Rabia Shaheen Qazi presents to us the femme boost in this enticing chemical mix. Backing her up is first male vocalist Richie Rekow who also contributes booming bass the way your ears were meant to receive it. Nils Petersen excels as both rhythm guitarist and the second male vocalist. What we get custom gift wrapped from this three part harmony is a jet pack blasting us back to '60s era mentality where this sort of wide-eyed innocent song styling would have felt right at home. Now for the answer to the question that sure to make unwanted insomnia part of your immediate future. Who's fooling around on flute? Why it's none other than Veronica Dye. Seeing as how my sister played the flute during what would have to be described as a lifetime ago I confess to feeling a special kinship for this stout hearted representative of the woodwind section. Its lightness of soul is capable of giving you a brief respite from the wars waged inside your own head. As you know chord fluctuations excite me. "There Is a Light" generously divvies up a nice portion of them. To add to that the ending lends a pushed from the comfort zone intrigue. During chorus play this seven man band of minstrels demonstrates how effective it can be when everyone's on the same page in the playbook. Chris Cheveyo, lead guitarist and composer doesn't have to do much in the way of heavy lifting. Proliferating this quaint slice of 21st century retro divinity spells team and never lets you forget they are a refreshingly equal partners. What one sees through this window is a band that's come a long way in the 4 year courtship it's embarked on with tune aficionados of varying persuasions. This window needs only a slight bit of Windex to make the view extra special. It's a joy to observe and hear that Seattle's musical contributions don't begin and end with the grunge age. Indeed, less over caffeinated shapes can be molded from Space Needle's hometown. There's both a light and love beating behind Rose Window's chest. The assembled gathering at Mohawk should have plenty of exhilarating memories to take home from the band's stage show.

Lorde Keeps The Beat And Then Some

Lorde must think she's not long for this world. Whether or not she's destined to join the 27-year old club currently made legendary by Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse, and Janis Joplin remains a closely guarded mystery. But, if you examine her already enviable catalog of hits you can't help but sense she's literally attempting to make hay while the sun shines. Add to the list "Yellow Flicker Beat", a track from the soundtrack to the upcoming link on The Hunger Games franchise chain. Eerie with a capital "E". The paucity of backup instruments encourages our white knuckles to grow corpulent. What background there is sounds launched from a centuries ago point in history. Then the chorus kickstarts what we'd like to think of as unabashed forward momentum. Ever since Lorde bounded into the picture with "Royals" it's safe to say confidence isn't something she ever lacked. The brass behind the Hunger Games soundtrack had to know they had landed a top get once she was on board. Lorde's undeniable intensity oozes into your spine and then makes its unstoppable way through the other corridors of your body. Just when you think you know what kind of ride you're in for BANG!! The drum kit and friends closely joined at the hip to it enter the frame. This ensemble of tightly meshed steel wheels doesn't sound disconnected from many other youths in peril/seeking adventure flicks from times gone by but with Lorde at the fragile epicenter we're easily ready to hear her out. She paints an effective protagonist picture early on. In so doing she adheres to the rule also followed by top quality opening credits. Moviemakers want to lure you in as quickly as possible so any thought you had of making a hasty retreat for the exits is extinguished early. Soundtracks have been big business for box office since the George Lucas 1970s Star Wars dynasty pulled away from the gate and soon after went flying. The 1980s memory lane is crawling with soundtrack gold that easily captured ethos, pathos, and unbridled ambition. The marriage of top studio artists with high gloss production is about as familiar these days as the peanut butter chocolate mash up of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Lorde defines the down and dirty survivalist. You want that stripe of ambassador representing your movie. Lorde, if you'll pardon the cringe worthy pun, holds court like nobody's business. From the first words any surrounding conversation grinds to a halt. Not many of today's pop divas could proclaim, "I'm a princess cut from marble. Smoother than a storm" without coming off like self-indulgent douches. Not only that, to put Lorde, the young woman responsible for "Royals" in a position to mention how princess in stature she is...that's quietly chortle demanding genius. You know how 3-D movies are designed to hurtle the action in your face? "Yellow Flicker Beat" operates under that exact guiding philosophy. Quiet in the first fragment but unafraid to slowly take your reserve breath away once the chorus rounds into form. Here's what gives that chorus 3-D jaw dropping status. The trick lies in the pacing of chorus changes. First wave rises, you think you have space to cool down but no...second chords eyeball you straight on as if to say "Not so fast. I'm not finished with you." Third chords from the Lorde a la Hunger Games snack platter put your visible unease on the stove top and allow it to writhe about agonizingly. By the time the caboose parts of this train pop into view you've either been blown away with brilliance or passed out from sheer aesthetic exhaustion. Post chorus the drum kit asserts itself on a regular basis. You can only reflect with star-crossed gaze into the distance on how many butts are going to be crammed into the theater seats based on excitement that Lorde is part of the soundtrack shenanigans. The Hunger Games continues to occupy real estate on the current pop culture throne. Nevertheless given the glut of entertainment options in today's digital age nobody can afford to get cavalier about how they ensure their movie turns a profit. Lorde's "Yellow Flicker Beat" burns white hot despite the burn getting thrust into a meticulously slow framework. Her contribution can only help in allowing The Hunger Games latest storyline to generously receive royal treatment from movie patrons.

"Elevation" Not A Creative High Point For Erasure

You're not likely to confuse '80s-bred synth duo Erasure's brand new single "Elevation" with its heyday tunes "Chains of Love" or "A Little Respect". "Elevation" gives you somewhat of a diet cola light version of those gems. Is "Elevation" bracing in its cosmopolitan allure? It can be seen and heard as such. The arrangements won't blast listeners with an overabundance of cutesy studio wizardry. If "Elevation" was a bath water temperature I'd surmise tepid is the ideal adjective. This single is content to stay hung up on one key range. It's true you can dance but that might be the lone saving grace here. Andy Bell has maintained his level of vocal greatness. Shame it isn't in service of superior product. The synth beats aren't unchained to embody a ferocious persona as was the case with "Chains of Love" and "A Little Respect". "Elevation commands a tighter leash. "Elevation commands a tighter leash. Andy manages to work in a socio-politcal angle with his claim, at this point in history one shared by many that the fate of many is guided by the hands of a few. Working to the twosome's disadvantage is a chorus "The love gets higher" that's repetitious in spades. I know earwig status is key in helping a song to stay memorable long after the listener has moved on to other things but towards the end this chorus grows progressively less inviting. Its heart may be in the right place but it grows borderline nagging the longer you listen to it. One can attribute the clash in synth expression to the prevailing ethos of the times, those times being the '80s but there's precious little kinetic energy generated from "Elevation" Love is growing stronger by the day in Erasure's world. Vince and Andy want you to know about it with everything they've got. "Chains of Love" came right at you from the outset. "A Little Respect" lingered in your bean, Vince's pleading manner holding sway. "Elevation" holds back and that's not a good sign for the record company, the band, or the fans expecting to be swept off their feet. I'm willing to bet today's music listeners won't know what to do with these guys. Square pegs in decidedly round holes. "The Violet Flame" generated this song. Personally the album title whets my whistle in larger measure. Thumbs up for Erasure maintaining career longevity but chart love won't be forthcoming because "Elevation" doesn't send us to heights of aural ecstasy.

Lenny Kravitz's "The Chamber" Fires Off a Lethal Tongue Lashing

Strut, indeed. Lenny Kravitz does his fair share of it during "The Chamber", Shakespearean theater like he's never presented it before. If any one of a number of today's rockers could mimeograph both the bass and rhythm guitar they'd be financially set. The longer you allow them to build up in your bloodstream the juicier they become. Lenny keeps the pacing racehorse fast which means his scorned woman isn't going to escape his wrath that easily. Nimble guitars bounce around octaves, each sojourn equally blissful to the ear. "The Chamber" makes achingly graphic reference to that last bullet which shattered his empathy suited glass heart. He's electric in his contempt for the lack of morals displayed by the woman who wronged him. Any shot at last ditch reconciliation disintegrated long ago. "The Chamber" victoriously proves how lethargy busting soul grooves can emerge from a throbbing open wound, romantic disappointment often being the culprit. This isn't It Ain't Over ('Til It's Over) Lenny Kravitz. You can bank on it not being "Again" era Lenny Kravitz. In fact mood wise, "The Chamber" is its blistering ice hearted polar opposite. "The Chamber" epitomizes entanglement finality, which is why the animated brio it pulls off is a startling, delectable surprise. It's a bit premature for Mr. Kravitz to strut all the way to the bank but "The Chamber" gives me reason to think "Strut" will turn out to be the latest link on his stupendous platinum path.

George Ezra's Sound On "Budapest" Not Exactly Exotic

It's pleasant background to run your baby's bath to. I could stop with that one sentence summation of George Ezra's "Budapest" but that would not be respectful to you, the readers who've elected to spend some time here so I'll strive to give you better. As far as I can tell I can come up with nothing derogatory to say about this 21 year-old folk stylist. Maybe he walks old ladies across the street on a regular basis. That's for him to know and perhaps for the music lover to find out. "Budapest" is an easy creature to follow. Knowing what makes it tick won't eat up much space in your schedule. "Budapest" stays fairly grounded in one chord with the smartly timed bump into a slightly higher range. His lyrics ladle on the sentimental lovably. George has amassed no small pile of personal artifacts in his days but with one word from the lady in his life he'd drop it hot potato quick. His is diversified wealth. The house in Budapest is mere window dressing compared to what else he's been throwing his cash around on. His golden grand piano surely turned heads a time or two. George could've livened up this piece by working in a few tickles along this ivory coast but I imagine folk singers stick to their minstrel guitars and take heart that they've been blessed with regular paying (if not always handsomely) gigs. Yoga enthusiasts listen up. Need a ditty to get you reacquainted with your calm center? "Budapest" is the best opportunity you may ever have. I could fill this space with the reassuring visions you might imagine using "Budapest" as your friendly neighborhood background filler. The dance critic pulled into duty for Paula Abdul's "Cold Hearted" sums it up..."It's very nice". Your best friend comes over. You've been joined at the hip since back when the Earth cooled. She has promised to bring over an extremely flaky red velvet cake. At last the magic moment has arrived. She sets the prized baked masterpiece before you. Without a second's hesitation you grab a fork and shove a slice down your pie hole. Although you're too good a pal to eviscerate her feelings by telling her how the cake lacks quality flake its shortcomings leave you visibly disappointed. Your friend hyped up her handiwork and now you've got no golden memory to show for it. "Budapest" conducts itself like it has something self-deprecating and profound to impart albeit it on a fairly reachable level. After a listen, maybe a few added shuffles for good measure, you realize Hallmark would be equally successful hammering this line of sentiment on a greeting card. I don't loathe greeting cards> The bone I'm picking is George Ezra is, at this time in music history, a relative unknown.You can't turn your potential audience into somnambulists or else they'll send your music to the reject bin lickety split. As has been repeatedly mentioned in folks lining up for job interviews, it's crucial to make a good first impression. My first impression of George Ezra is "Nice bloke but not engaging enough to do anything besides exchange passing glances with him." The mark has not been made. The seeds of a potential legacy are nowhere in sight. The conclusion I am forced to draw is "Budapest" doesn't invite us to venture forth to anywhere we haven't been before. Don't bother ordering a passport. What sounds like it's been confined to your living room will stay there.

Volbeat's Doc Has The Prescription For Metal Malaise

Volbeat, my hat's off to you. Not only does "Doc Holiday" put the heavy back in heavy metal, it gracefully nudges in some country a la the banjo. Its bob and weave between straight shooting metal meanness and country doesn't fail to have me sitting up to take notice. Michael Poulson sits us down for a yarn focused on one Doc Holiday, a charmer with the femmes but stoic stone cold business with the guys at high noon when gunplay is called for. Oddly the obligatory metal guitar solo doesn't rise to the surface until the 4 minute mark. In and of itself that's not objectionable. The strangeness lies with the truism we're talking about a 5 minute 45 second song. If Rob Caggiano wanted to express to us how committed he was to his craft he might have been better served having let 'er rip around halfway into the desperado doings. On the other hand when he does unleash his rock god golden chords it proves worth the wait. Like a chorus equal parts cheese and ballsy brash? "Doc Holiday" is bound to leave you with a stupid grin on your face that years of plastic surgery couldn't erase. Michael is at his best reaching for the lower pitches in his octave range. Tends to highlight the ominousness the not necessarily exclusively good doctor tends to bring with him wherever he goes. Anders Kjolholm ups the ante on the prickly heat through a swagger infused bass that intensifies the longer it's thrust along the storyboard. Jon Larsen slams home potent drum expertise, the kind that makes you want to jump off the sidelines and clutch a pistol of your own. "Outlaw Gentlemen and Shady Ladies" gifted us with this ride back to the Old West. Volbeat's foray into the cowboy catacombs is campy carried to the most engaging possible extreme. Anyone of you ladies and gents recall Europe's "The Final Countdown". Yes, the Swedish metal band's major silly ode to space travel that has in recent years been used as a tension mounter for the closing stretch of NBA basketball. Volbeat matches the Swede tale on any level you can name. Volbeat's musicianship likely is taken more seriously as well it should. Volbeat is comfortable enough straddling heavy metal and country that it doesn't come off awkward in either enthusiast's rooting section. The Doc is polite if ladies enter his view. A sturdy "How are you today" isn't far from his lips. Get him eyeball to eyeball with men who are light in loafers during fighting situations and he'll not hesitate to drop you where you stand. He doesn't tolerate slugs. Fight like a man or don't live to fight another day. The doc lives by this oath. Moonshine tides over whenever his palate begs for a decent cleansing. FYI: one shred from the lyrics is wrong. "Claims all the dams" should read "Charms all the dames". Guess some metalheads are too quick to demonstrate their passion to do a quick fact check. Nothing to hold over his head. "Doc Holiday" is the kind of hombre you need to make an appointment to listen to. His tale is the stuff legends are made of. Volbeat does him favorable justice. His buddy Wyatt Earp would be proud.