Head Shrinking a New Christina Perri Album

Philadelphian and we pray immune to the sophomore slump artist Christina Perri has the knob on her palpitation worthy vulnerability cranked up to ten, going on eleven throughout "Head or Heart". If you've been anywhere near adult contemporary hits radio you already have a pretty fair assessment of the delicate at times frightened girl whose brave heart beats inside the now 27 year-old artist. "Human" lays it out there. Not that we haven't used plenty of pop minstrels to remind us that yes, if you prick one of us, we do bleed and yes, if we fall down, we will also shed blood. Christina uses the piano as a version of an invincibility cloak. She's got the confidence to bare her soul to the world but doesn't lose out on the accumulated dignity in return. Along this pebbled strewn path she manages to find time for frivolity, a welcome refresher for Christina who's adept at making fairly clean breaks as well as spinning around with giddiness as many a woman in love shows a propensity for doing. Usually Christina's instincts shine through in performance. The only misstep that begs for reconsideration is "Shot Me In The Heart". The melodies coupled with the apparent chipper nature of that skip in the step become unbridled cruelty when you listen to the words closely enough. You might have been expecting rose petals. What we got stuck with is a bunch of thorns painted over to look presentable. Christina isn't a happy child. She shoots from the hip about what love he lost. That title alone leaves little room for doubting the debilitating impact of a man who let Cupid's best offering slip through his fingers. The deception brilliantly matches the completely puzzle in "Lonely Child". The cherry on top is a spicy little "cha cha cha" conclusion. The water's excellent so dive in for a breathtaking dip. Here comes Ed Sheeran to up the cuteness factor on "Be My Forever". If you're one of those scorned by love sorts who isn't beneath ripping the wings off butterflies I'd take a detour leading me past this portion of Ms. Perri's probing exploration of matters of the heart. Her daintiness sets the lure, Ed's convivial personality puts that bass in the boat where we're set for whatever affectionate glances, kisses, and what not are positioned down the road a spell. "Run" is straightforward, the implied aches reverberating off pore after pore. There's no booze present but you already know the cosmic hangover's going to be a pisser. "Butterfly" is voiced in the fragile manner its subject deserves. Here elusive and illusion join at the center for a jaunt that's high frustration yet doggedly pursued anyway. "I Don't Wanna Break" leaves a searing mark thanks mainly to the echo of the instruments she and her backup mates employ. The bookend tracks, "Trust" at the front and "I Believe" at the rear of the parade show how smart an advertiser of her wares Christina is. "Trust" demonstrates how she's at the very least fumbling towards a state of being to trust herself. By the time "I Believe" comes closer she's not only found her stride, but affirms to the reluctantly swayed as well as to people already in her corner that they haven't heard the last of her. This is the beginning, not the end. In the end "Head or Heart is going to satisfy both organs. There's a generous assortment of mood change-ups to assure lethargy isn't going to tag team with traces of the art critic detested sentimentality. Christina's head and heart are in the right place and that's going to leave that damned sophomore slump a disgruntled beast cursing its rotten luck.

The Used Launches a Defiant Cry For The Romantically Disenchanted

Dry your wearied eyes, blog buds. Orem, Utah's greatest and quite likely only ass thrashing rock band The Used have resurfaced. Ever since "The Bird and The Worm" creeped into my faint heart these guys have mastered the art of both keeping and maintaining my attention. First up from the soon to be (possibly?) part of your music library "Imaginary Enemy", is "Cry". The title shouldn't have you thinking "Perfect. Yet another pathetic open wound whine-a-thon revolving around some guy's crushed heartstrings." The intensity The Used carries around their necks as a badge of honor has lost no luster. "The Bird and The Worm" was a fun, if not white knuckle promoting song because it gave you a really firm idea of how off his rocker singer Bert McCracken truly was. The chorus and subsequent refrains could yank the hairs to an upright position on the back of your neck simply because you didn't know when Bert's madness would subside. All you had going in your favor was the assurance that yes, Bert would at some point run out of gas. The strings brought shivers. The keyboards dimmed the comfort level you had in your own skin. When he wasn't screeching his helpless travails, he was vainly trying to keep some lid on his thinly veiled nuttiness. On "Cry" Bert learns how to keep time with his fury. "Cry" makes you run like gangbusters to catch up. You're fully grasping that Bert's mad at his woman and wants her to bleed a little bit before attempting to wriggle back into his heart. For gosh sakes, in the later stages of the song he insists the girl's going to have to ask him nicer than that. Love is a ticking time bomb she's better know how to diffuse or pieces of her heart will be strewn everywhere. "The Bird and The Worm" wasn't urgent. Unsettling is more like it. "Cry", on the other hand, moves at too much of s breakneck pace to have the time to unsettle anyone's body or soul. Life in this fast lane works to the band's advantage. They've traded in parlor games for unrelenting power punches. Drummer Dan Whitesides lets rip blow after uncomprising blow. You'd think it was his girlfriend that was screwing him over. Instead he takes Bert's jagged barbed wire denouncements and spins them into percussive mastery which definitively lets the record show if you play games with a man's heartstrings you'll have to deal with the fallout at the other end. Bert doesn't nibble with his keyboard chord sequences... steadily he tears away at his woman's self-assuredness, real or imagined. Jeph Howard maintains a spirited bass pace. He knows The Used are above and beyond the sum of their parts. The bridge is where Bert maximizes the escalating dramatic effect of his fractured love. Quinn Allman winds up and down the fret of his guitar frantically. His role in "Cry" is one of oxygen supplier to Bert's wild man contention that: "Love is not a battle, it's a ticking time bomb." Being the nervous system specific listener that I am I've got to tell you Bert's more menacing when his snarlingly whispering that belief rather than testing the outer bounds of his vocal range. Bert's cooking up one menacing quiet storm. If you've glanced at a news headline lately you know it's the supposedly quiet ones that could be hiding past cosmic hurts that unleash themselves on an unsuspecting public to change the contexts of communities great and small. The Used sustain their united front magnificently. Since the lady made Bert cry, she's going to have beg for a place in his good graces. Subtlety gets hurled out the window, and the results ricochet of every quadrant of your brain. File this under short, sweet, and satisfying. Say it, wrap it up, and leave others to sweep up the wreckage. In rock circles that formula equals reliable success. No Kleenex needed here. The Used are miles away from victim status.

The Arctic Monkeys Hit a Glorified High Point

The Arctic Monkeys illuminate the finer points of interpersonal kookiness with "Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?" They deserve credit for knowing the right mood to set to illustrate what a drug-induced migraine must feel like, banging around the cranium as it does. Alex Turner strikes the notes you wouldn't necessarily want to encounter in a dark alley, personal posse otherwise engaged. The calendar says it's April, but the melodies spring forth from the Halloween portion of the yearly review. Crowning the spooky factor is Alex's fuzz-enhanced depth. He sounds like he's got his lips wrapped around brain scrambling substances while his girl asks his girl why his phone calls are confined to moments when he's not in his right mind. From the guitarist's end, we're fumbling around ourselves, joining Alex in his social awkwardness. Turning to the drummer's perspective, Matt Helders cracks home the goose pimple quotient as if he was trying to imitate the impatience of a steadily unhinged screen door. I feed off of this vulnerability. Whatever uncertain strides Alex is displaying I want to go where he's going, grasp the aha moments he does, if he ever comes down from the chemically heightened state he's in. The Arctic Monkeys, by adding "Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?" to the musical landscape, the Sheffield, England foursome succeed in painting the stoned individual in a totally different stripe than other tunes with "high" as the primary adjective. For example Survivor, the '80s band that scored a top 10 hit with "High On You" brought a studio slick sound to the dance. Not only that the video had enough striking blue light bulbs to make Benjamin Franklin jump out of his bloomers. In the "oughts" came Afroman's goofball charmer "Because I Got High" in which the guys demonstrate beyond a reasonable doubt how stupid it is to get high in the first place, particularly when you stand to lose both everyone and everything that's important to you. Tal Bachmann's "She's So High" flew over the din, using his dashingly belted words and plucky (pun not nearly close to being intended) guitar to cast his woman in a flattering role. The Arctic Monkeys are the most sonically accurate in their depiction. Survivor's high was fairly benevolent. Afroman is a close second primarily because you can hear the dumb asses drugs produce. Sure, it's deliberately overblown to amp up the comic effect but it worked so who's holding that against them. "Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?" zeroes in on that raw nerve ending zone, the real estate where even an encouraging statement needs coffee to sober up the senses. Alex doesn't sound like a very good paramour, nor does he have his mind on common sense things like going to bed at a reasonable hour in prep for work the next day. I doubt his three o'clock calls are going to win him many brownie points either. She's appealing to his responsible side. He's sliding down a slippery slope, time running out, options narrowing by the second. Nick O'Malley gives Alex something to keep himself propped up. His bass represents conscious awareness at its most desperate. The song makes for a oddly enigmatic juncture to the band's "AM" opus. Truth to be told "Why's You Only Call Me When You're High" is PM radio in a shaky shot glass. The Arctic Monkeys convincingly reveal that, in some cases, high notes turn out to be the best notes a fella, blitzed or sober, could ever hope to hit.

The Killers Are Back With Just Another Pulsating Rocker

Fear not, friends. The Killers you fondly remembered from the age of "Mr. Brightside" and "When You Were Young" shows no ring rust whatsoever on "Just Another Girl" one of two new cuts from the band's "Direct Hits" compilation. Beautifully woven the song grabs the reins of its steadily building momentum and knocks out a rock adventure that is sure to leave you gasping for air. This Las Vegas act shows respect to the new wave keyboards that back then ushered in a future we could have only dreamed about in movies or sci-fi TV. Brandon Flowers giddily forgets he's the leader of a band whenever he steps to the mike. Some of your higher grade A-list vocalists, Freddie Mercury chief among them, succeeded in mixing theatrics with leather clad bombast. Brandon leans towards stage dynamics in large part. "Just Another Girl" inserts Brandon into agony's uncompromising clutches. The story revolves around the garden variety girl his friends insist he should ditch post haste. He himself is convinced he'd be better off alone. Besides in this huge world there are plenty of other potential hook-ups he could try out. Mark Stoermer bears down on his bass. Our reward for his labor is playing that plunges to the marrow of what can be accomplished with said instrument. Ronnie Vannucci, Jr. keeps his drumming at a very admirable level of virtuosity. For certain The Killers successfully look and sound the part of a rejuvenated foursome that doesn't really need to go greatest hits package on any of us but sagely brought a new prime entree for us to nibble on while we await their latest delectable disc. Brandon shows why The Killers wouldn't pack the same wallop without him. If someone were brought into the fold who relies on a snarl, rasp, or too many gymnastics the band's identity would suffer greatly. "Just Another Girl" doesn't resort to insanely implausible guitar solos at the bridge to get its message across. This broth doesn't have too many cooks. Keys, bass, drum, and vocals are equally seasoned ingredients in this rave earning taste treat. At the bridge Brandon comes to the conclusion his friends would be wise to understand maybe he doesn't want another girl, any old temptress in a pleasing shape. Why rearrange the furniture in one's personal space when the decor is fine as is. The Killers excel at not playing the aloofness card with their listeners or the powers that be that play a role in deciding what kind of career longevity they're bound to have. There's bite but little in the way of imposing blood drips along the studio console. As a ear-motivating jigsaw puzzle the pieces mesh convincingly to make a dashingly glamorous whole. "Just Another Girl" isn't just another rock single. The Killers have made good on any unspoken promise to rejoin the rock fray with yet another engrossing addition to their already commendable catalog.

Wild Cub Lowers a Thunderous Boom

Nashville's becoming a bigger and bigger hotbed for rock every passing month. Add quintet Wild Cub to the list. The brains behind the mask are Keegan DeWitt and Jeremy Bullock. Keegan handles the chief songwriting duties whereas Jeremy is your jack of most trades multi-instrumentalist. Early on drummer Dabney Morris grabs the spotlight as a unrelenting spitfire. Initially the impression one tends to get is "Oh, rhythms that insist upon an epic social event." Then, Dabney settles down and we're privy to the inner workings of a song riding an agreeable wave rather trying to top one crest with an even more logic defying crest. Clapping along is a must here. The collective group vocals tingle with heartfelt honesty. You're not going to discover a band setup where, inevitably someone's going to come down with a pronounced case of LSD (Lead Singer Disease). Perhaps that last observation is premature because Wild Cub has only been making the scene during the 2010s. There hasn't been enough time for bassist Harry West to declare that's he's grown weary of the life of a touring rock band and would rather dedicate his energies to being a session musician for hire. That would be a shame because in the recording sessions for "Thunder Clatter" Harry strikes heavily, underscoring where this thunder gets its roots from. If you say to yourself, "How shiny the production is," and I'm guessing only a Frasier Crane type really sums up his glee in that exact way, you can thank Eric Wilson. He's the primary reason why "Thunder Clatter" has the even-tempered glitz of one of the cutesy "80s synth bands. Eric's job title with Wild Cub is keyboardist and synthetist. Jeremy strums at a feisty pace. Eric drops down the dazzle, lending animation to a song storyboard steeped in vigor that backs up the assumption that rock is a young man's game. Each man's notes pop off his respective instrument. After the quintet gets to the meat of the vocalizing matter we've made the relationship commitment. Rooting value is so paramount to a musical act's lasting power. Again, too soon to tell if lessons learned from this recording session will lead to "remember when" conversations about which of us caught Wild Cub in its infant stage and how we knew they possessed intangibles for long term, hotel room trashing success. Back here in the infant stage they've sown the seeds of unshakable momentum. "Thunder Clatter" spins the yarn of sad boy meets sad girl. Two lonely sparks searching for a valued cosmic connect. A lot of the lyrics centered on the two lost souls fumbling around in their individual dark crannies lurching for the perfect light switch to rid them of that nagging empty void. Is this storyline's payoff worth the back history? No doubt in my mind. The last stanza shows Wild Cub leaping off of the page and into tenderness's inviting grasp. In the previous stanzas we'd been instructed to gaze politely, enraptured by the cuddly beats and their affectionate pink ribbon. In the home stretch we're out of the pews front and center for this suddenly celebratory revival tent minstrel mash-up. "Thunder Clatter" is what very likely could be only the first of many '80s throwback desserts from this Nashville gang's "Youth" album. Losing love has proven itself to be devastatingly easy throughout the annals of recorded music. High fives to Wild Cub for milking the joy out of the moments where we're granted the ability to look it straight in the eye and plant a messy smooch. Wild Cub steals no one else's thunder. Instead it demonstrates a way with banging out a convincing rumble of its own.

Too Cool Black Keys Run Their "Fever" With Dazzling Grace

Quirky is an adjective that, depending on who or what it's applied to, can be flattering. Take the Black Keys for example. Their style has a tongue so firmly embedded in cheekbone you start wondering which gifted surgeon is going to be called upon to detach it again. "Turn Blue", is the band's new album set for a May 13 release. First up from this hopefully swinging set is "Fever". Dan Auerbach plays everything including the kitchen sink in service to the band. Bass tones are sumptuous. I surely do pay compliments when I note that the bass's direction hints in no small measure at The White Stripes and their bad ass "Seven Nation Army" effort. Jack White and Dan obviously have been well schooled in the fine art of '60s go-go dancer worthy hip swaying. Jury's out on whether the keyboards that prance on top of the bass do the overall sound any favors but hedging my bets I'll contend you'll either think of them as precious novelty or irritating in the manner of that pesky fly swooping around your ears. Drummer Patrick Carney's content to let Dan assume the lion's share of the attention. Pat's merely the gatekeeper through which any enlightenment must pass or, at its most aggressive, barrel right through. I appreciate how "Fever" perches itself on one chord long enough to allow us to enjoy the ripple effect then flits down a peg where we again can sway in time with the lovably retro leanings, and so on..You might want to focus on the hipness quotient since the lyrics run the risk of making anybody comfortable who has either had a recent fever or knows of someone who has. Dan asks so much of his fever I'm surprised it hasn't ratcheted up the growl to where it's really going to bite him on the fanny. "Fever, where'd you run to?" For starters that's disturbing. Only someone running a fever would be motivated to ask where it ran off to. Fevers aren't known for being too wonderful to experience. The second verse teeters back towards believable sentiment. At this moment Dan's a slave to the fever. Medical practitioners you can rest easy. Aching goes with fever also. Eventually Dan hops from trying to pinpoint fever's location to asking if it can hear him. There's no discernible female lead in the mire but nobody's going to label you stupid if you interpret it that way. Compared to the MTV favorite "Tighten Up" "Fever" lets the action wash over it rather than assume a confrontational pose. "Tighten Up" derived its back alley glare from the way Patrick committed child abuse atop his drum set. "Fever", appropriately or not, contains drumming paralyzed by the bygone era vortex. Dan's vocals aren't exactly borderline unsettling, a questionable decision given the song title. Possibly it's a sexual heat he's bringing to the surface, a heat which elevates inspiration over perspiration. The Black Keys would hardly be confused with an "Aw, isn't it cute" pop making machine but stroking the scamps on the head for reminding people what spunk is about wouldn't be objectionable. "Fever" carries the day not by spiking temperature but by keeping the adrenaline steady as she goes. In the run up to "Turn Blue" the Black Keys strike notes sure to bring a knowing smile back to their established fan base as well as turn many heads belonging to what promises to be new faithful in the blues rock congregation.

Linkin Park and Rakim Found Guilty of A Bone Chilling Metallic Eruption

I remember Linkin Park from their "Hybrid Theory" roots. Rock and rap taken to a new millennium level. "Crawling" and "Closer To The Edge" showcased lead vocalist Chester Bennington at his psychotic best. One minute keeping a steady simmer on his escalating rage, the next exploding at the expense of any surface dweller who dares cross his path in an adversarial way. Since those early days this nu metal outfit has hovered at or near the top of Billboard's Rock Charts. Along the stepping stones of their career they've burnished credibility as rockers who radio programmers don't treat like a dinner platter so straight out of the oven that it's extremely hot to the touch. "The Hunting Party" album isn't going to amble this way until June. Until then "Guilty All The Same" will do as an appetizing sampler platter. Put on the big boy pants folks because this song's bristling pace is going to have you begging for an EKG reading. Notice how the accompanying video features swirling clouds? What excellent imagery and well choreographed to fit the song. Doesn't even matter that the amplification comes down just enough for old school rapper Rakim to drop science on your posteriors. The band's fangs bite equally hard. Hold on a second while I figure out which metal band's uncompromising zealotry they borrowed from. Rob Bourdon gallops along at a mile a minute, drumming like someone forgot to remind him this isn't 1992 anymore and he's not making a guest appearance on that year's "Unsung" LP. Brad Delson is beastly wild. Did he or did he not quaff down some PowerAde before letting rip with chord after chord of relentless punch? If not he could've fooled me. Rakim's presence is especially appreciated during stanzas where Brad reloaded, hit his intended target, and now desperately needs to refuel at the oxygen bar. Usually Mike Shinoda raps commentary writ large but Rakim's very much up to the task as rap purists no doubt recognize. Right on time for an era when the U.S. is fragmenting and may precariously slide into the abyss altogether, Rakim expresses the unspoken sentiments of many of us out there working merely to keep from drowning in the undertow. We're thinkin "I want to be rich" but the fill in your own adjective here we slave under has his designs on being wealthy. The music business itself isn't safe from Rakim's accusatory delivery. Make the dough then watch it get sucked back into the studio system. Chester on the other hand takes the spiritual approach to Q & A. He's a seeker who wants answers but knows he's really going to have to drop the throttle down in order to have any hope of getting some. Methinks a supreme being's hidden hand lingers at the core of his discontent. He has what we need. We're doomed to be unclean. Show us how you would have us live our lives. Chester's style of singing goes far deeper than the diaphragm. In the abiding manner of your no quarter given NFL team, he goes straight up the gut. You can bet his uvula gets an indescribably rib shaking workout. NFL is a team game. Linkin Park goes the length of the metal field, each bandmate leaving it out on the turf. I'm a writer/blogger. I should know what to say in the face of a pulverizing display of horsepower. Simply put, "Guilty All The Same" is as electric as the chair that's fried so many societal deviants. I sentence you out there in the audience to upward of three listens. I'm a noble judge so believe me when I say this is going to get more seismically wonderful with each new hearing. "Guilty All The Same" makes good on uncorking crunch all the way.