Plenty To Grin About With New Barenaked Ladies Release

There's something quintessentially folksy about Barenaked Ladies. The band never seems to run out of energy served up in a positive way. Give "Pinch Me" or "Falling For The First Time" a listen. Much of that upbeat spirit is squarely thanks to guitarist and lead singer Ed Robertson. He's like the baby brother you always wanted Mom to give you but were too modest to ask. The Ladies', like every Canadian I've ever run into, know a thing or two about sincerity. Linus Van Pelt, the pumpkin worshipping scamp would've been proud. Nothing but sincerity. They make romantic dysfunction cute. If you think I'm lying feast your ears on "Give Back To You". The bass (Jim Creeggan), the drums (Tyler Stewart) and Ed's sentiments never let you forget they realize a broken heart is nothing to be flip about. What I have always respected about Barenaked Ladies are their intelligent, funny, witty lyrics. Did Canadians write the book on these concepts? Probably not but who could blame us for suspecting they had a hand in it. "I'm Lord and Master of this disaster", it's safe to say is one of those add a bead strings of word wizardry that is capable of making any one of a number of contemporary artists blurt out, "Damn, I wish I had thought of that." Ed's holding her heart when it breaks, then politely gives it back to her. He would no doubt throw his jacket over a mud puddle for the woman of his dreams. "Smile" is the biggest warm hug set to CD that I have heard in awhile. Ed's motives are 100% pure. This is the track where Canada dry wit and country twang mix for a homespun plate of tattered heart bathed in the twinkles of a reverse frown facial gesture. You'd have to be in a fairly deep funk not to at least crack a grin at this simple request. "Did I Say That Out Loud" features another nugget of mind blowing hell yeah from Ed. He's got the wontons to ask: "What's got a hold of me? Alcohol or alchemy?" Excuse me. I have to wipe the incredulous look off my face. Mensa level brain power still exists in today's music industry. Not you standard acoustic she loves me she loves me not homage to amour is it? I'm impressed with how Ed's taken the childish taunt, "Miss me. Miss me. Now you gotta kiss me." and given it a clever grownup rehash, namely, "Miss me. Miss me. Now we got a history." Smarts like this doesn't happen overnight. It takes real, concerted, all hands on deck effort to bring out something this intelligence. "Boomerang" succeeds in combining baseball imagery "not throwing like a girl" with the telltale signs that a woman knows how to follow through in a still growing relationship. A good baseball pitcher masters the art and science of an excellent follow through. "Daydreamin" can best be described as woozy. That's a spot on pitch perfect tactic here. The drums, bass, and piano (hi Kevin Hearn and welcome to the land of Nod) all buckle under the commanding weight of what has to be solid REM sleep. "Gonna Walk" puts Ed's acoustic guitar in the center ring. His easy strum buoys the rooting value of lines like: "Gonna walk. Won't quit until I get to the bottom of your heart." This is the sort of guy women want to marry. They want a show of commitment, even if it's a demonstration of being curious about what makes them tick. Hand claps and a wealth of perkiness put "Odds Are" on the list of winsome Barenaked Ladies offerings. The thumping drum Tyler summons from the kit, along with a slick progression of guitar melody place "Best Damn Friend" in the winners circles. Impeccable harmonies. They sound like the tight knit brotherhood the Ladies introduce newbie audiences to in their stage shows. Much of the music scene today is processed McDonald's style within an inch of its life. That's why "Grinning Streak" the new CD all of the aforementioned tracks stem from is poised to make record buyers do more than just smile. A cartwheel or to wouldn't be out of the question. No layers of bullshit to peel back. Words, music, feelings, core impact. Bravos all around.

Olivia Newton John Was Pure Magic in 1980

Presto, chango, ala-kazaam! Today's we'll salute Magic Day. Hope you give a damn. Okay so that's not Capital City Comedy Club worthy but at least your groans let me know I have your attention, however brief that might turn out to be. From 1978-1982 I don't recall there being a female vocalist whose star shone quite as brightly as one of Australia's Down Under wonders, Olivia-Newton John. Sure the likes of Donna Summer, Alicia Bridges, Anita Ward, and Gloria Gaynor lit many a '70s music lover's fire but it was our Livy who really turned heads starting with her numerous hits off of the movie soundtrack to Grease. Once 1980 came into focus Olivia was back with another movie role, the curious but certainly affectionately imagined Xanadu. The movie didn't excite the vast majority of the viewing public but the soundtrack made real headway. Chief amongst those cuts was "Magic". Even today if you take a listen you can sense steam rising upward from where she's singing. I'm not sure of another femme quite as capable of inciting naughty bedroom wall poster fantasies quite like she did. Olivia sings like some female version of Moses on the mountain, tablets of erotic arousal in her mitts. She's well versed in the fine art of purring out her lyrics. The movie centers on a rolling skating Muse who inspires a young artist type in need of an inspiration to lift his career prospects. The delivery is sweaty, self-assured, and doused in all the elfin pixie dust one could possibly bear to handle. Each guitar lick, each bass strum, each exquisitely timed drum tap, each orchestral string just dramatic enough to raise eyebrows is dealt out with a heavy emphasis on getting your buttons loosened, your tight jeans unzipped, and your jones for pillow talk accelerated. I'd take her hand, as she commands. She'd be able to pry me out of my introvert's shell long enough to follow a dream. I'm drawn to the ever burning fire in her eyes. I do believe I'm magic.Nothing can stand in my way. The guitar which lubes the lusty patches at the bridge is very much suited to the woman of mystery role Olivia played in the movie. Her character's a curious little minx but you've got to get inside her head because so much about her begs to be discovered. No two ways about it, the production values here are astounding. This song couldn't possibly have been a flop. At that point, in August of 1980, it was her biggest Billboard hit staying at the top slot for 4 weeks. I'd say it's no small exaggeration that "Magic" was the catalyst in assuring that Xanadu wasn't an all around artistic flop. The song blows your doors off. No wasted energy. Each thinly veiled wink is executed in the name of getting your pulse racing. Before Cyndi Lauper and Madonna rushed in to corner the market on eccentric and sexually curious, respectively, Olivia Newton-John was the reigning queen of visually stunning. She would go on to earn a place in the pantheon of unshakable workout music with "Physical" which spent 10 weeks at No. 1 starting in late '81. "Magic" certainly helped her upward trajectory from budding star to goddess among goddesses. It was a gripping experience listening to her pull rabbits out of her wide load hat.

This Delicate Rose Is A Beauty

Another post is in full bloom. That's my way of giving you advanced word that today I'm saluting National Rose Month with a word or three about "Kiss From a Rose", the #1 smash off of the soundtrack to Batman Forever. If one was to compare the growth of a superhero franchise to that of us biological mortals, the Batman series was at about the teen awkwardness phase. Gone was Michael Keaton. Gone was the criminally insane Joker played by Jack Nicholson, the only thespian who could've filled those shoes. Gone was the huge adrenaline rush of the original Batman soundtrack which featured Prince demonstrating why there are very few artists truly worthy of being called legend. With this new link in the superhero legend we got Val Kilmer who, some of you may remember from his star turn (?) in Top Gun. Too bad that Tom Cruise fellow never found acting work ever again. We also got some prime scenery chewing from Jim Carrey who's pretty much made about as lucrative a living as one can make off of unsettling facial gyrations. This time around Seal brought some much needed calm during the emotional firestorm to the proceedings. Seal is quite the dashing chap. He's the guy who reminded us how being a little crazy is necessary for our long term chances at survival. As you probably know the character of Batman can be, well, a little of a brooding sort. "Kiss From a Rose" was a welcome reminder that yes, even he has a sensitive side. The song opens with a classic echo effect where Seal sounds like he's harmonizing with himself. The lyric I've always found a little funny was: "There is so much a man can tell you, so much he can say". To me that sounds like the analysis of a Ken doll. "Oh look, Mommy. He walks and talks and has so much to say about what makes him tick!! Please buy me one of those, Mommy! Puh-leeeeze!!" Just sounds a bit clinical to me, like you're investigating a robot and want to strip his his gearbox to see what exactly is making that pinging sound under the hood. In Batman's case saying something would've been a wonderful relief. Brooders don't exactly lay all their cards out on the table to demonstrate they have a pithy hand being dealt them. Anyway, the background orchestration is thoughtfully quiet. Not that there's no oomph to it. It's merely that less proves more here. A soft clarinet pops in time and again. How many times does that instrument enjoy so much as a supporting role? There's no denying the bass guitar is a friend you'd love to roll around the covers with. And the drums don't blow you away with their brilliance. The same as the Caped Crusader, these drums ace Stealth Class 101. If the intent was to prove how delicate romantic entanglements, especially those involving a perpetually conflicted superhero can be then, step forward and take a bow ya' big lug. The piano scenes roll gently onto the musical shores. At every turn the layers of this rose are peeled open with utmost delicate hands. Seal's job is merely to enhance the impression of aloofness being melted away. For the record my eyes don't exactly become large when it snows as Seal intimates is possible for any of us but, given I live in Texas were hot is just another language to place beside English and Spanish, they do light up a bit. The changes in tone are haunting but never threatening. This version of the story is approachable. You still can't wrap it up in a bear hug, but you can tap it on the shoulder in an "I understand your sorrows" sort of manner. "Kiss From a Rose" is a captivating breather, a respite from other go for the jugular white knuckle efforts like U2's "Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me". For the record I'm blown away by that song. And the ending? Oh Bono that's what I like!! Seal truly knows the way to the ladies' hearts. It's been suggested that the lupus scar on his face actually adds to his appeal. With pipes like his which know the right corridors to take to bring down walls erected high over time due to accumulated heartbreak he doesn't need any other indirect selling points. "Kiss From a Rose" smells like a carefully cultivated plant whose grower has taken just the right amount of toil to increase the odds that his beauty will enjoy a long flourishing life. If Seal had his own signal glowing in the distance I bet many ladies would swing off into the night with him. Here's to Seal for putting the quiet into quiet storm. It's nice to be heard over the din, huh?

Here's The Smash Hit Worth Waiting For

You were warned. You took the necessary precautions and bought the required provisions. You didn't waste your energy trying to master long divisions. It's time for another what I hope you'll discover to be another scintillating round of "Which same title song is worth its weight in wordplay?" This go round the title under the microscope is "I Can't Wait". Our lovely contestants both had hit songs with the title in 1986, the year when Swatch watches (lovely to look at but had no lasting power whatsoever) were a hot fashion trend. I should know since I owned a see-through jellyfish among other varieties. In the red corner, fighting out of Portland, Oregon, the city Austin used to resemble before half of California decided it wanted to go Lone Star, too, I give you John Smith and Valerie Day, better know in pop circles as Nu Shooz. I'm not even going to try to make sense of the corresponding video. Something about seeing a woman playing around with mechanical objects at a desk with a faux desert backdrop (note the cactus plant) combined with a sunglasses sporting pooch that makes me wonder if I should up the dose or cut back on the dose of whatever I've gotten high on. This song was the act's one-hit wonder moment of glory, peaking at #3 in Billboard. It's easy to see (at least I think so) what the attraction was. Theirs is a melting pot mix of weirdness that came together to form a delightful tune just animated enough to be danceable but at the same time Mrs. Butterworth's syrup slow. I wouldn't necessarily say the tortoise from The Tortoise and The Hare would find this a fun listening experience but the pacing isn't too many notches faster than that. It's well stirred stew, pure  and simple. Want horns dotting your listening landscape? Consider it done. How about some sprightly pianos  ? Done. Maybe even some faint traces of slow roasting guitar? They aim to please. And some synths that fall in the same hearing zone as laughing gas. The drums have a persistent thwack about them and, for good measure they've thrown in some percussion that sounds like free range improv pounded out along the sides of the studio walls. Does anybody out there remember the '80s toy fad called The Koosh? Essentially what this was was a multi-colored ball comprised of linguini thin rubber bands. It was heftier than a hacky sack and, unfortunately provided much more eye appeal than an actual joyful way to pass the time. You could throw it against a wall or possibly try to kick it as one would a hacky sack but, beyond that, like a Swatch watch, it was all about appearances, eye candy, no more no less. This "I Can't Wait" is the Koosh curiosity of mid-'80s dance music. Lots of nuts and bolts welded together to form a curiosity that got people's pulses cranking. What's ironic about this "I Can't Wait" is that, despite Valerie's romantic pleas for answers, the beat buffeting her doesn't sound like it's in nearly that much of a hurry. I picture Valerie trying to get her lost in fog boyfriend to give her a sign about where their relationship is going doomed to not get the same level of commitment from him that she's prepared to give back. She wants him to tell her what's on her mind, tell her he'll never have to say goodbye. A little reassurance that he hasn't packed his bags, paid the front desk clerk, and officially checked out of the relationship altogether. If you really want to hear for yourself how bizarre the laughing gas synths get check out the closing notes of the extended version of this song found on the duo's "Poolside" album. The last notes drop to a spleen level range before being tossed into the aural ocean as it where. It sort of resembles the mafia pushing it off a pier to drown. Two points for them deciding to conclude on a note that's way below sea/C level. Not going to forgot how that sounds anytime soon. As much I like the song for being warm and fuzzy and the duo for exploring off the beaten path dance arrangements they're guilty of unloading mixed messages on us. She can't wait but the rhythms take their time to make it to the front door. We've already gotten in the car and sped off but that song is threatening to tread water and pant and gasp. If you can't wait time is usually of the essence. This is true for invasive surgery, corporate mergers, and deathbed confessionals. "I Can't Wait" needs to suggest "Let's get on with us before neither of us gets the closure we seek.
In the blue corner, coming to us from Phoenix, Arizona, we have a woman for whom transcendent concert experiences fall into the category of "Just another day at the office". Whether solo or as a vital link in Fleetwood Mac, she's made a lot of music lovers deliriously happy and hopefully will do so for many more years to come. Stevie Nicks is the textbook definition of a juggernaut. In 1985 she came out with "Rock a Little". The "I Can't Wait" on said album rocks a lot. Now we've got some horses in the tank Right from the start everything leaps out at you like flood waters waiting to pounce. A surge of keyboard rises from the phoenix ashes and then Stevie belts out in a voice that could bring beneficial rains to drying prairie land: "YES, I KNOW YOU!!!" Cue the butt kicking blast of drums. Then comes a guitar served to you with a take no prisoners sneer. It's Stevie's universe and she's invited you to explore just one of the many exotic facets said universe provides. What levels of torments she's provided her female lead with in this passion play. Sleep provides this ingenue no rest at all. Then she wakes up believing the sad so and so she was loathe to trust in the waking hours. In this instance "I Can't Wait" is about anticipation. When will I see you? Make up your mind!! C'mon!! Tempus fugit!! If you can't smell the urgency there's something fundamentally wrong with you. Please thrust your arms through the screen so I can hug your troubles, worries, misgivings, and fears away. As is the case with a number of Fleetwood Mac songs, Stevie's solo efforts aren't mere attempts to move product off the shelves, they are whiz bang no expense spared production numbers. These are Christmas stockings filled to the rim with pixie like magic. Want to know how Stevie's aged so amazingly? Take a listen to her unrestrained delivery. There isn't a drop of angst left to be experienced. The only negative I find in "I Can't Wait" is during the sequence leading to the bridge. Stevie sounds like she came down from the cocaine she swears she was on during a lot of her '80s videos. The sound of agony streaming from her lips seems horrifyingly painful. Don't believe me? YouTube the video and you might find yourself scratching your head as well. If that's Stevie's artistic translation of bamboo shoots up the fingernails then I'll do my best not to piss off a dictator of one of those countries that doesn't have much use for respecting human rights. In short, in the "I Can't Wait" wars Stevie buries Nu Shooz under mountains of motorcycle tread marks. Yes, it's true the former song is centered in dance while the latter is a pop rock power bomb but it's all about making the most of the parameters you've been given. Stevie conveys how rough playing the waiting game can truly be. She both comes on and goes out like gangbusters. She gets the message.

Can't Hold This Chart Topper Chat

You loyal bloggers may recall me name dropping Billboard magazine in a number of my previous posts. Me and Billboard go way back. During the early '80s I listened to Casey Kasem's American Top 40 on what was then K-98 radio here in Austin. As part of what I hope is both a zestful change-up to what I've offered you in the past I'd like to make the on again off again foray into the online "pages" of this legendary publication to talk a bit about certain songs that are either riding high on those charts or making considerable headway. For starters I'll begin with a return visit to Macklemore & Ryan Lewis who made secondhand thrift goodies trendy again with "Thrift Shop". Teaming up with Ray Dalton they've been riding high at #1 with "Can't Hold Us". I give this hip hop group credit for not using misogyny as its calling card. What "Thrift Shop" and "Can't Hold Us" have in their corner is an easygoing sense of humor that is a refreshing palate cleanser from booty calls and bling bragging. For my money, any song, regardless of genre, that pays tribute to Bob Barker's suits and Plinko, the game he presided over countless times as venerable host of The Price Is Right is okay in my book. Ray Dalton's vocal touches make it heard not to raise fists in approval for the notion of living life, dancing if you will, as if nobody was watching. As aerobic workouts go you'll not be disappointed. You won't feel let down by the spirit of variety that goes into fill after fill of instruments. For openers you get the winning barnstorming affectations of piano. At the back end those are certainly some well polished horns, or at least its synthesizer bastard cousin. The neat part about "Can't Hold Us" is it's one of those tracks where, even if you have somewhat of a reputation, deserved or otherwise, as being a wallflower, the longer you sink into the song's rhythm, the more likely you are to demand a license to loosen up. I do have to ask what exactly is "somewhere between Rocky and Cosby". Fun nod to all those sweaters Cliff Huxtable wore. He and Mr. Rogers really had that boyish couture thing down pat. "Can't Hold Us" manages to be playful without going to demonstrative extreme like the made for TV stage attention grabber from Pitbull and Christina Aguilera "Feel This Moment". I'm not saying I loathe that song. It's just that sometimes your life needs a vacation from high intensity, supercharged shout up, over, around, and through the heavens styles of singing. Besides which I'm primed and ready to push the hate button after one listen to Kendrick Lamar's "Bitch, Don't Kill My Vibe". That's the sort of crude trash the music landscape needs less of. There's enough lowbrow behavior amongst the celebs and the ordinary alike. We don't need new "talent" encouraging us to boil the female of the species down to that one derogatory remark. The rap community, while understandably super serious about its importance in the cultural realm, needs to be reminded how to lighten up a hair. With AutoTune patterned sound processing the order of the day, it's appreciated when one hears a low maintenance effort like "Can't Hold Us" that's simply life affirming, not vomit inspiring. Being that the music industry and art in general is a fickle world to live in who knows if Macklemore and Ryan Lewis will be relevant in five years In the here and now I tip my hat to their continued demonstration of a fully functioning funny bone.

The Thompson Twins' Doctor Brings The Cure For Boredom

Of all the '80s synth-pop acts, The Thompson Twins struck me as being the most exotic. Just listen to anything in their catalog and you'll learn that you get more than just 3 to 5 minutes of amiable distraction. You get whisked away to an exotic land plucked straight out of The Canterbury Tales. Amusingly enough, during their prime hit making days, there were three members of the group. What's more, none of the "Twins" were related. I figured "Doctor! Doctor!" was the ideal song to honor Repeat Day with. It was either that or way out in left field one hit wonder styled act Haysi Fantayzee's "Shiny Shiny". What gave the Thompson Twins the edge you ask? Their song lyrics include "Can't you see I'm burning burning." They get into the spirit of the holiday though I'm proof positive they weren't aware of that at the time. "Shiny Shiny" doesn't repeat any of its words except for the title. Kind of like one horse beating out another at the finish line because its nose stuck out just a little more. "Doctor! Doctor!", like the majority of the rest of their songs hovers atop a bed of UKDA (United Kingdom Dairy Association. Okay I'm making this association up for the purpose of discussion. Bear with, OK?) synthesizers. Why is it that I'm visualizing Ancient Egypt and King Tut's tomb when I hear the first wave? Joe Leeway beats his drums as if he wasn't part of an MTV generation synth act but an attention grabbing percussionist turning heads as part of a key symphony orchestra. Not that these synth acts were low on bombastic chest beating (wink wink). Red head Tom Bailey is the very sort of gent you want telling these tales of curious romantic interludes. Boy sees girl standing there coquettishly. Girl promises to dance with boy across the sea. The opportunity to feel the motion of a thousand dreams awaits. Personally I'm shaken into a cold sweat by the weird motion of the disjointed picture show the Scorsese in my head is forcing me to sit through. A thousand dreams would likely send me reeling towards either better drugs or a more competent psychiatrist. Bless those plucky Brits. Even the nightmare alley stuff is too compelling to pass on. For a crooked finger brand of boy girl communication this bon bon gets pretty racy. It's not audio pornography but these devilish details could certainly lube your way through to a more satisfying night's sleep. For Exhibit A I present: "Fever breathe your love on me. Take away my name. Fever lay your hands on me. Never be the same. Sounds like a full on religious re-awakening to me. Your average fever kind of beckons for medication. This one makes you want to make sure you've got a box of condoms handy just in case. To the surprise of no one The Thompson Twins comprised during their lucrative prime of vocalist, bassist, and keyboardist Tom Bailey, vocalist and percussionist Alannah Currie, and vocalist, percussionist, and synthesizer dude Joe Leeway were highly MTV compatible. The three graduated from Fashion 101. Alannah's golden tresses were alluringly wispy. Joe's dreds made you think Bob Marley. The three of them had this way of affording you a vacation complete with sensually charged drum fills and choruses straight out of Medieval times. As Tom sings, there's an unspoken sexual heat to go right along with his overtly positioned pleas with his female enchantress to "Come with me across the sea. We will travel to eternity". Wonder how much a trip there costs? My guess is it's a shade on the expensive side. Still, Tom makes it worth the minimal cost of unbuttoning one's uppers or unzipping one's nether reaches to see how pleasurable eternity might get. Steam rises off of the aroused foreheads of our three highly merry minstrels. Sure this outfit's reliance on synthesizers to flesh out a backdrop makes them the Harlequin Romance of the early '80s MTV set but as was the case for the audiences who held those stories close to their hearts the Thompson Twins music merits filing under guilty pleasure also. You won't be Ken Jennings brainy after a visit to "Doctor! Doctor!" but your erogenous zone will love you for it in spades.

Tori Amos Isn't One To Glaze Over The Truth

Let me start with an apology to anybody who thinks this review of Tori Amos's "Doughnut Song" has any mention of lyrics with words including "glazed" "sprinkles" or "powder". It doesn't. Feel free to "D'oh" like Homer Simpson. To be honest the words in this song are so laced with high drama that you might be compelled to spit out the doughnut you're eating. This is not because Tori is the Mensa scholar of the female singer circuit but because she's got a way here with using her piano to perform the psychological equivalent of stabbing a betraying lover in the heart with a freshly polished steak knife. I focus on "Doughnut Song" because today is Donut Day. Nothing sweet about the swirling thunderstorm of discontent Tori is stirring up. As best I can I'll try to explain what I've gleaned about the opening lyrics to this song. Cliff's Notes might have been a thoughtful gesture but I'm sure the record retailers would've gone painfully in the red. Time to crack the knuckles vigorously, roll up the sleeves and enter the operating theatre with our heroine/Glenn Close wannabe. "Doughnut" the word is mentioned once, count it once in the whole song. The first lines read as follows: "Had me a trick and a kick and your message. Well you'll never gain weight from a doughnut hole." In order to make sense of this obvious throwback to classic poetry a la Emily Dickinson I had to at least a scant bit of fact digging. From what I managed to glean that first sentence alludes to a relationship going sour. The "message" is: "This relationship has become redundant." Any Amosites out there that have "Boys For Pele", the CD "Doughnut Song" comes from are welcome to claim I'm misinformed. The doughnut hole is the empty part of the doughnut so one assumes the hole equals the empty, unsatisfying part of the relationship. Moving on Tori states that: "Then thought that I could decipher your message. There's no one here to. No one at all." What I appreciate about Tori is that she is a confident female singer who uses piano as her other signature instrument. Billy Joel and Elton John have forged their legacies putting the ivories front and center but Tori, to my memory, is the only female singer who opts for this direction. If you lean in closely while Tori plays you can hear her hissed venom in all its fang-based regalia. The air is growing heavy, oversaturated, ready to explode at any time with little advanced notice. She resents her now apparently former lover just strutting away like she was never part of his picture. The gray clouds get meaner and meaner as this violated beast rallies around full recoil mode. And on we go scratching even deeper below the surface with: "And if I'm wasting all your time, this time, maybe you never learned to take. And if I'm hanging on to your shade I guess I'm way beyond the pale." Does Fergie ever get that deep? I mean sure she bangs in the tired reverse role stereotype of "Big girls don't cry" but would she even have the gray matter needed to comprehend "I guess I'm way beyond the pale?" Like I said, Tori's no dummy. Her words sting as much as the rolling boil of notes her piano lays out. The next block of fully realized screech therapy is no less a car wreck you don't want to turn away from. You might want to shake the cobwebs loose after digesting: "And southern men can grow gold, can grow pretty. Blood can be pretty like a delicate man, copper to steel, to a hinge that is faltered, that lets you in, lets you in, lets you in. Something's just keeping you numb." Uh....okey dokey. She and Sylvia Plath would've been thick as thieves. Tori has taken a strong man, and has zeroed in on the pressure points that now have accumulated way too much pressure. I can't speak to the validity of "Blood can be pretty like a delicate man". Biology class left me squeamish at times so I think it can appreciated for keeping me moving down life's weird 'ol highway but let's leave it at that. I respect Tori's commitment to putting poetry on CD. The plot thickens much like blood clots on a minor emergency injury. Further along Tori declares: "You told me last night, you were a sun now with your very own devoted satellite. Happy for you and I am sure that I hate you. Two suns too many, too many able fires. Hey, yes." Basically he's found a new woman to woo the socks off of him, or so it appears. A classic case of "The world now revolves around me." It's with some pleasure that I report Tori turns the tables on her hot to trot ex guy by spitting: "You've been wasting my time, this time." So you see it takes two to snooze in this tired out tango. He claims she wastes his time. She retaliates by insinuating he wasted hers. Nice to hear Tori go on the offensive. If she bored him it certainly wasn't because she's a wordy little vixen. I sense a lot of men would be intimidated by her intellect, kind of the Stallone of brainy bombshells. So to repeat, no glaze, no visions of multiple napkins and maple frosting. "Doughnut Song" is poised to strike the jugular on an upward slope throughout. I wouldn't sink my teeth into this creature on an empty stomach. At least a smartly selected appetizer would keep the karmic wooziness at bay.