Milky Chance Steals Some Tranquility

So mellow. Only a gentle guitar and clacking percussion to light the way. Welcome to Milky Chance's realm. Specifically Milky Chance is a two man German operation consisting of vocalist Clemens Rehbein and DJ Philipp Dausch. If you like fret playing akin to fingers releasing the tension from your overtaxed back then "Stolen Dance" is the single for you. It's laid back in a fashion you'd have to straddle back many decades to meet and/or beat. I'm fingering '60s psychedelia at the least. Clemens covets time lost. He wants the she in his life back by his side so he doesn't have to feel alone again. Who "they" happens to be isn't made so clear but that's hardly the major league quibble on the table here. For many of us time is the most important currency we'll ever own and sadly many of us live in a state of brutal poverty on that front. Clemens was smart to keep his guitar grounded in calm, unruffled vibrations. That acts as an effective counterbalance to the blooming frustration in his lyrics. Maybe the German Nazi tendency towards pain adds sting to one line of verses beginning with "Coldest winter for me. No sun is shining anymore. The only thing I feel is pain caused by absence of you. Suspense controlling my mind I cannot find the way out of here. Lab rat hopelessness at its bleakest. How could anything be that dire when you're dealing with a guy who pours guitar whirlpool bath style into his performance. The two lovers are stoned in paradise add vow they shouldn't stoop to anything as piffling as a deep analysis of their feelings. As usual dancing is a fine elixir used in chasing the blues and blahs away. The pair's debut album is called "Sadnecessary". Truth be told melancholy is beating at the center of this lonely little creature. Even still the lifeblood hasn't been snuffed out entirely. Follow the chord progressions as they descend down the flight of sonic stairs until they've reached that most forbidden of fruitful places. I'm sure you could get lost both in Clemens's eyes and that of his female companion. If I may be candid though this pair is of German origin the sound has more of a Latino flamenco heat building up from its emotionally charged center. You get left with a simultaneous jolt of "Hope doesn't exist anymore" and "Come into my arms and cry your little heart out 'cause nothing is as bad as it seems". Milky Chance is in its infancy stage now but, as it grows, it shall be fascinating to learn what full fledged concept emerges. Are these two a one trick pony or are there many facets to this diamond? As always time will tell.

Slash Lights a Fire Under The Heavy Metal Universe

All cylinders are performing at optimum level throughout "World on Fire", a devil horns encouraging blast it out featuring Slash our friendly neighborhood piston cranker from Guns N' Roses. I admire how the tune doesn't sacrifice lucid melody for the usual metal bombast, although there's enough of the latter to satisfy the healthiest of appetites. Standing guard at the mike is Myles Kennedy who complements Slash's no punches pulled guitar mastery excellently. He's bearing his teeth for our amusement. Color me highly amused. Everyone involved is wedded to that brutal rush to the finish line and they don't care how many brain cells get sacrificed in the name of true blue metal. Literary dramatics occupy their share of the lyric real estate early on. We're reminded of what tragic figures we humans are (some sadly more so than others). Certainly you've rubbed elbows or broken bread with the misfit, the sinner, the eve, and the fool. It's at the chorus where this project earns back every dollar that was plunked into it. The Conspirators, Slash's backup band channel their energies into one maelstrom of a metal swarm. Brent Fitz power drums like he was staking his legacy on this very performance. Todd Kerns chips in with a bass that's equal parts heavy breathing menace and laser precise machine worked through its paces down to a nub. Naturally Slash owns the guitar solo department at the bridge. He's had the frequent thrasher miles to back up his bravado, believe you me. The asylum patient is clearly running the joint. His ownership pays off for us in spades as he's seldom sounded as devil may care as he does on "World on Fire". It couldn't hurt that he doesn't have Axl Rose's colossal ego taking up a mammoth chunk of the stage. I probably wouldn't be wrong in assuming the song would go over really well on a concert stage. The second verse goes deep into the religious arena. Speaking in tongues comes right up front. Myles proposes to tempt the people with the evils of the flesh and so much more. He likens himself to a Babylon redeemer and a whore. Does a certain someone have self-esteem issues. Depends which part of his anatomy you're zeroing in on. The main thrust is as you'd guess setting the world on fire. Such action is a common in times of boredom. We're greeted with the latest carpe diem moment. "It may never be this good again". It's not the most subtle hint we know of and that's why the title refrain works its magic to the last sliver of pixie dust. As one expects "World On Fire" is built to thrill. It roars down the track without batting a eyeball to the spectators wondering who this maniac with a death wish might be. You wait around patiently for a let up in adrenalin but, gleefully, you learn isn't one on the horizon. Nihilism lurks behind "It's so dark, I can't see all the truth inside us. All I want is to feel something that's real before the end." Dark places are where heavy metal lays sinister eggs, then lies in wait for its progeny to hatch. Myles is appropriately unspooled from one segment to the next. No, he doesn't growl like the pit bull you'd give anything not to be on the same sidewalk with. His stylings are slanted towards the mad chemist aching for an excuse to go kaboom. Slash has chosen wisely. His mates don't need to be asked twice to crank up the volume and rip off the knob. "World on Fire" rates global respect across the board.

The Pretty Reckless Rocks Pretty Hard

Intensity thy name is The Pretty Reckless. "Messed Up World" has everything you're looking for in rock, including a woman willingly bearing her fangs to call out the world on what a dreadful state it's in. Cheers to her for sparing no expense on attitude. Mired in life's coarse edges The Pretty Reckless didn't leave out a keen ear for melodic sensibilities that translate well onto rock radio where it's already established a promising foothold. Each facet of the diamond that is "Messed Up World" shines brilliantly when Taylor Momsen backs her full weight into the chorus. "It's a messed up world. What do you get from it? Sex and love and guns like a cigarette." Isn't exactly a moonbeam fantasy is it? Nonetheless Taylor's indignation of sorts causes a ripple effect that elevates each of her bandmates to their A game level. Jamie Perkins does his best drumming whenever the chorus bounds into full swing. Ditto for Ben Phillips, who also kicks out his jams with aplomb at the bridge. This band's second project, the pessimistically titled "Going To Hell" shows it knows how to sell itself well. "Messed Up World" does do the limbo hop around the fire and brimstone side of the gene pool. "Banging little boys bugging me on the bus" is one of those images Dana Carvey's Church Lady would have had a field day with. Taylor deals out the borderline prostitution angle with "You ain't getting what you want unless you're getting it for free." I only hope she means Nature's free because a roll on the bus with her certainly doesn't qualify. Church Lady would raise eyebrows over "Back to these backdoor bitches begging me to behave, jamming Jesus down my throat, no I don't wanna be saved." Do I really have to put out that, again, good move on calling the album as a whole "Going To Hell" So is Taylor rebel without a cause or your garden variety rebel who finds the boy in every port and proceeds to leave 'em high and dry. I like my rock when it sustains my appetite for first breath to last. Put that down as one in the win column. Taylor builds up momentum, keeps from flagging, and malevolently brings us along for a super-charged thrill ride into her thoroughly broken world. Who knows? Perhaps Taylor might have you questioning if the world she's putting out and the world you occupy are one and the same. The video demonstrates from head to toe she's got a fashion sense to match her unchecked attitude problem. Each generation has its artists who enter the world, try their best to present their own unique commentary on the circus going on around them and then report to the rest of us lesser mortals. Not one note is airbrushed during "Messed Up World". All the better to inhabit your most unsightly nightmares my dears". "Messed Up World" is the title but in no way is its musical orbit anything other than shred worthy righteousness. Taylor's rough edges are her best quality. She shows us with a spit in the eye instead of a contained growl. Mark Damon gives her steady legs courtesy of a bass equally foreboding. Hell sounds lovely if this song is a contributing part of the soundtrack. "Messed Up World" deserves to be recognized as a prime example of how Pretty Reckless has a pretty firm grasp on what makes top-shelf rock music tick.

All Kidding Aside, Kenny Chesney's Got Himself a True Foot Stomper

Rarely has a country son enticed me to hand clapping jubilation quite like studly Kenny Chesney's new "American Kids". The gang assembled in the video looked to be having the time of their lives. It rubs off on Kenny's performance. As many country masterpieces do Kenny's cut is loaded with star twinkled memories that only get better as the years pass. Also true in many country songs is their simplicity. Somebody took the bells and whistles and placed them on an exceedingly high shelf. All that's required is a solid hand clapping chorus and you're off to the races. Behold these pleasurable nuggets. "Mommy and Daddy put their roots right here 'cause this is where the car broke down". That's equivalent to the old saying "Wherever I lay my hat I call home." Kenny excels at rollicking in the silly jaunt down memory lane. It's exactly what those field trips are supposed to do...lift you up to where the gray skies can't drag you under. Classic early day MTV fans can delight in the RCA Kenny's highlighting. I personally am less jazzed about the no A/C in the vents part. I wouldn't have lasted three seconds in the pre air conditioning days. Anyway...returning to Kenny's eye-catching scrapbook. "Yellow dog school bus kickin' up red dust" is a fine traffic signal mishmash. I clearly remember the former from my early primary school days. The fun quotient jumps nicely when Kenny starts up stanza two his lead-in being "We were Jesus save me, blue jean baby, born in the USA". Fast forward your comprehension to "Growin' up in little pink houses (somewhere John Mellencamp just flashed that cat that ate the canary grin of his). Makin' out on living room couches. Blowin' that smoke on Saturday night. A little messed up but we're all alright." That last lyrical foursome is where this whole enterprise gets comfy cozy. This is hair hang down pickin, grinnin' jubilation if ever there was some. The banjo was and is a neat homespun touch. Ditto for Kenny's guitar playing. We were already drawn to this flame but Kenny proves he's excellent at stoking the fires. The only complaint I have about the video, and it's a relatively minor quibble, is that there's way too much short attention span flipping through the childlike merriment playbook. Maybe that's to indicate kids have that sort of bouncing off the walls energy. In any case for me it makes it hard to inhale the full scope of their bliss. Dig the bus though. Stanza three's feature is the classic trying to make it to second base motif. You never made it all the way home but you want your peer group thinking you scored more often than Germany during its Brazil beatdown. There's that image of a shotgun brandishing papa none too impressed with the boy your sister brought home. If passion plays a key role in artistry "American Kids" has enough passion to fill an entire summer full of rom-coms. "The Big Revival" from which this foot stompin' ear pleaser came is headed your way September 26th. "American Kids" definitely gets one's whistle whetted. Equal parts sass and heart tugging reminiscence you can't help but shake some part of you in time to the infectious rhythms. As ringmasters go Kenny knows his way around the center ring as if he's taken notes on every circus that came his way. Diligence paid off handsomely.

Usher Kisses and Tells In Equally Glorious Measure

Wow. Look what we have here kids. It's that R & B sex machine Usher laying down "Good Kisser" a jam in which those funky '70s meet Broadway tarted up glitter. I get tingles when I hear someone take a commonplace topic like kissing and give it that like new whiteness. it certainly doesn't hurt that he has both a shit kicking five step drummer and Stevie Wonder league bassist backing him up. Here's the prime example of a done to death instrument gaining new life pretty much because of the novel position it has in the song. Usher gets us excited as he talks about how his lips have been pressed along the lips of many a fine looking female specimen in his day. BA-DA-DA-DA-BUMP. BA-DA-DA-DA-BUMP. Excuse me for that need to succumb to an eargasm. Arrest those guys for lethal ear wig in the first degree. Let's suppose Usher was a competitive springboard diver instead of a thick slab of ebony sweetness. That drum/bass one two punch I brought up moments ago? It gives Usher more bounce off the diving board which enables him to land, splash free as any quality competitive diver can tell you into a kiss convincing call to drop them trousers, roll under them sheets and pass the kiss level of close by a pretty sizable margin. I already was putty in his hands from the second he came slinking into the video. Trust me, you wouldn't necessarily expect the hubba hubba heartthrob antics based on the first five to ten seconds. Agreeable but not even close to high octane at that point. Then, Usher Raymond flicks on the switch. The longer it goes, the greater his stamina appears to be. The chorus gains momentum. The playful free spiritedness reaches dizzying heights that make lonely gals ask: "Where has this breed of specimen been all my life. You can sense Usher's having a ball being the center of attention. Lean in closer if you want to virtually taste the sweat coming off the screen. Whatever the female equivalent of a "woodie" is you can bet lots of gals would be prone to lean that way. The man's not even spread eagle on top of them and already the orgasm's set to "I can't believe this is actually happening." Usher's lady kisses like no another. Literally hers is a million dollar smooch. She fucks his mind? What about how shamelessly (in a favorable way of course) he essentially fucks every female in the listening audience who is within a five hundred mile radius. That bassist deserves sainthood status for his work on this track. BA-DA-DA-DA-BUMP. We can only hope that yes, he does kiss his mother with that mouth. No man can pull off something monumental all by himself. Since we're in the 1970s area code why not ask The Village People? Takes the village to get junior off to the YMCA right? Usher's drum/bass "villagers" pour it on with the thickness of freshly tapped maple syrup. Keys also make up a portion of the magic rabbits pulled out of this particular hat. If Usher's femme fatale doesn't get how much of a value-based item her pucker pouches are then she likely couldn't entertain a thought if ready access to a beer keg or set of wine flights were right in front of her nose. Her kiss makes Usher consider retirement. In other words, after this kiss prospects on the female front only get worse. Nowhere to go but down.I confess "starin' at your barrel" has me thinking Mason Dixon line portion of the anatomy but it's my bad for leaving my thoughts unattended in the gutter. Have the state declare me an unfit father and throw away the key to my jail cell why dont'cha. Usher's nowhere near that classless. The visuals are always launched with high flattery in mind. Spin the wheel and highbrow praise is everywhere. She pulls it out and opens fire. Is that anything like when the late, great, albeit in his later years weird, Michael Jackson called Billie Jean's mouth a motor in "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'"? Again, something to ponder if only briefly. Need a tour of foreign currency. Verse 2 goes globetrotting in impressive fashion. Dinero, euros, francs, and yen get a turn in Usher's lip lock. Who but Usher could pull off a line like "Pull the trigger, chitty, chitty, bang, babe". Up on classic family cinema and randy as the day is long. Usher's talents, sexual, spiritual, lyrical, conceptual, and intellectual know no limits from what "Good Kisser" is putting on the table. No drop in stamina for this guy. Usher succeeds in making the classic kiss look like he invented the wheel. Usher owns the patent. Anyone who follows can't possibly expect to measure up. Usher's kiss 'n' cavort escapade tells tales you'd need a month of Sundays to become even remotely sick. Extra special delivery indeed.

Train Gives Its Angel Wings That Soar To Incredible Heights

This is getting embarrassing to say the least. Once again a Train single is nudged in front of my ears. Once again I come away from the experience firing off so many superlatives you'd swear lead vocalist Pat Monahan was funneling me a share of the band's gross income. Nothing could be further from the truth. You know the notion that your dream job entails the activity you'd gladly do for free? Listening to Train masterfully meld rock, pop, and a dash of country to make the stunning "Angel In Blue Jeans" is one of those activities you don't have to drag me kicking and screaming to the iPod to be part of. We're only some five seconds into the track and already there's a defining smoke coming off the grill. If there's a cross section of music fans who aren't bound to be satisified with Train's teaser shot from "Bulletproof Picasso" might I suggest said individuals pursue some other hobby like yodeling or basket weaving. As a an added kindness Train tosses in a chorus that sounds lifted from the guts of any action/adventure soundtrack you can name. In the interim between the outstanding "California 37" and this single inner tumult has shifted the working parts of the Train engine around a bit. Gone is drummer Scott Underwood who was integral in the high flying fanciful rocket ride that was "Marry Me". In his place lands Drew Shoals who serves as a solid timekeeper on "Angel In Blue Jeans". Although the song lands squarely in the pop/rock camp (Yes, adult contemporary. I haven't hung you out to dry either) the High Noon shivering knuckle drama that old school country enthusiasts know well assumes a prominent background position, particularly when we're staring down the barrel of "Everyone came running to the scene. I was shot down in cold blood by an angel in blue jeans. There's enough passion play at work during the first chord Jimmy Stafford plays, and there's no letup in the several second interval thereafter. Can you taste the pistol smoke? Can you see the lifeless eyes from what was once a stout hearted man? Setting the scene is a gift Train gets better and better at demonstrating. If you trace their history from their first real hit "Meet Virginia", follow it along to "Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me), take a right turn at the fundamentally peppy "Hey Soul Sister" (big ups for tossing a Mr. Mister reference into the lyrics because yes, I own "Welcome To The Real World"). and then cruise over to "Marry Me" and "50 Ways To Say Goodbye", the latter enjoyable to me because of the Cheez Whiz level camp value of the mariachi horns, and one pebble of possible fact stands out. With each passing release Train has cranked up the riskiness level of what its trying to sell. "Meet Virginia" was an agreeable enough melody but pretty much stuck to the play it safe end. Adult contemporary audiences loved it. "Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me) would not have broken the band open the way it did if the legitimate stage theater dramatics arrangements weren't there. By the time "Hey Soul Sister" rolled around in 2009 Patrick started to loosen up. As a Behind The Music episode dedicated to the band shows there was quite a bit of backstage turmoil that had to be endured to get to the footloose stage. When they got there the payoff was miraculous. The first time I heard "Marry Me" I was blown away. Yes, folks. Have fun and leave the tear in my beer pathos to the Hank Williams stripe of performer. Crank up the car radio and let your hair blow in the breeze, mutha!! "California 37" sounded like Train's magnum opus. Track after track floated by. Not a dud in the bunch. I'm sorry if this review is coming off as too much of a music history lesson but, in my defense I'm only doing so to demonstrate the heightened respect I've acquired for Train over the years. The guys really got a handle on how to approach their art as if they actually enjoy what they do rather than simply use their talents as a necessary way to keep food on the table and roof over the head. Train has stopped analyzing the hell out of everything in favor of pure rock pleasure. Patrick's ability to tell stories has only improved. His command of language was never in question. Having successfully proven he knows how to add myth making to his skill set, Train avoids spinning their wheels and instead veers off into a different yet no less satisfying direction. "Angel In Blue Jeans" is certainly a heaven sent gift. Train's evolution remains front row seat captivating. Flash back to them in 1994, then see how far they've come in 2014. Broken wings clearly mended they're on a roll I can only pray shows no immediate sign of stopping. When an eighteen-carat jewel like "Angel In Blue Jeans" is the result, suspension of disbelief brings me unbelievable pleasure.

Self-Congratulatory Godsmack Has Nothing Under The Hood

What's so macho about patting yourself on the back for being badass? If your handle is Godsmack and you've got a single out there in the open waters that calls itself "1000hp" the answer is absolutely nothing. True, they've got the fist pump aspect down cold. Now if they could only bring inspired hard rock back from the dead. The lyrics are amateurish, and that's likely the kindest description I have for them. How's about a little sample, hmmm? Stanza one merely transports us back to 1995, the year this Boston outfit set out to symbolize a lean, mean, metal churning machine. As they walked its streets nobody was listening to them. Their star was hardly getting off the ground. Ah, but there was that one day when EVERY...THING...CHANGED...FOREVER!!! Moving along to the chorus we get added self-admiration, what the crowds at the time the rocket took off where demanding of the band. "Turn that shit out louder! Make it all go faster! Playing through the witching hour! Take it to one thousand horsepower! Yeah!" So tell me guys, when you proceed to lay out this masturbatory schtick does it really make you feel warm and fuzzy at times or do you know you'll have to take a shower to wash away the filthiness. Do your necks get tired after reaching around to kiss your own butts so much. Godsmack more closely resembles ass smack to me. How is it lately I've been bombarded by songs where the explosions don't measure up to the lyrics they're supposed to shore up? Shannon Larkin merits better poetics than these to justify the belt it out hardcore beats he ladles out. Tony Rombola's superior strength with guitar is wasted gift. Robbie Merrill is similarly put in the unenviable position of being light years ahead artistically when compared to the lines lead singer Sully Erna is putting on the table. Is there a searing guitar solo from Tony? Most definitely. You and I don't get to savor it for long because we're quickly yanked back to Sully basking in the love of his public. Here's something taken from the province of "this isn't a characteristic to be proud of". "1000 hp" could've easily been knocked out by a high school freshman bunch of metalheads trying to impress the girls with how into their craft they really are. For that audience the song makes sense because it gives off prime youthful braggart traits. But when you're dealing with four grown men who should be past waxing nostalgic over the honeymoon phase of their careers the self love wears thin quickly. I know other rock bands such as Bon Jovi have flipped back to the past in an attempt to appreciate their journey. Johnny and Gina from "Livin' On a Prayer" get a shout out 14 years later. "1000hp" doesn't have that special veneer of knowing maturity that would make the trip to step one of memory line appropriate. Yes, maybe comparing something Bon Jovi can get away with with something I say Godsmack cannot is like comparing apples to oranges. In spite of that my contention is you wouldn't necessarily want to gobble up a paying audience's time showing the rock concert equivalent of those slide show home movies invited party guests cringe at. Godsmack's devotees need their metal poured out WD 40 style. "1000hp" doesn't lend itself well to the open road. A tune up here, a tweaked wire there would've made a sizable difference. Fumes don't work for a prized auto or a veteran metal group. Godsmack fails to rev up my engine and I'm not optimistic about its chances for doing that for anyone else.