Pop Evil's Footsteps Not Worth Following In

Depth...if the lyrical depth matches the stage presence a band has a shot a long term success. That would not be the case for Pop Evil, Michigan's contribution to the audio landscape. Its new "Footsteps" talks big but doesn't bring the noise sufficiently. Musically there's a rut afoot. It tends to get wound around the D chord a little too much for my liking. Sorry to subtract credibility ducats because this band has chops and shows them off, fangs arched, combined motors running. Nick Fuelling and Dave Grahs make pulse enhancing noise when their guitar pizzazz gets brought to the forefront. Leigh Kakaty proves an able-bodied front man. He gets right the dictate that you've got to project to the back of the room so the harder of hearing (your Pete Townsend subset) can make you out. Joshua Marunde, Chachi Riot behind the kit keeps the action tight as '80s hair metal spandex. He doesn't seek to overwhelm, merely to settle into an optimum groove and let the rhythms flow effortlessly through his sticks. Matt DiRito holds his own in the bass portion of the pool. They've got to do better than follow the trodden path bread crumb style until they're dizzy from mismanaged effort. To their credit the lyrics lunge forth with notable bang. Much effort goes into keeping one's battle scarred heart from turning to stone. Leigh refuses this defeated posture at all costs. The belly fire refuses to be denied, ignored, mutilated, or spindled. We return to lonely souls and paths worn down by persistent shoe leather. Not telling us anything earlier tune peddlers haven't done with heightened verve. I guess when you've circled this orb of ours long enough you grow weary of tasting the same soup, all the while being convinced by your chef that he's come up with a concoction which makes sliced bread seem quaint, passe, and not worth maintaining much long term memory. Because it's the currency we have in common, time again proves of the essence. What does tomorrow bring? Possibly nothing...possibly the greatest day of one's life. The wrap hasn't been taken off that present yet. The chorus really pushes nuisance levels. Not that the sentiment lacks a heartfelt side but the longer into the song it gets, the more you grow to wish Taylor would gravitate towards something bound to compel attention deficit ravaged ears and minds a little bit easier. Footsteps equal steps on a journey. Said journey can wear even the stoutest man to a nub. Been there, heard that, wanting uncharted terrain now. Pop Evil's liability here lies with how they're treating a rock song like it was disposable, like a wad of expired chewing gum. Rock endures and, over the decades has made doubters sit up and take notice. How sad Pop Evil's latest carries the moniker it does. The band doesn't leave any footprint, carbon or otherwise, in the rock sand. Any crack at lyrical content holding up well as the minute hand strolls along got beaten to the turf on impact. Pop Evil has nicely chiseled tools in its box. A stronger hammer and a commitment to leaving the shallow end now and then would've strengthened its case. "Footsteps" treads too lightly to warrant a thumb's up.

Cold War Kids Should've Taken Care Of First Things First

Repetition's a great tool for learning things. In fact it's how I learned a good many things as a lad. Long Beach denizens Cold War Kids don't win brownie points for repetition. That doesn't work so well in sculpting a tune capable of doing anything other than annoy potential audiences. The pieces fit together nicely. What those pieces are conveying barely registers a blip on the radar. Joe Plummer drums his little heart out. Bully for him. He's plastering over what his band buds aren't communicating so adroitly. Matt Maust offers little to gripe about. The bass has mean intention scrawled over it. Ditto for lead guitarist Dann Gallucci. He goes along his chosen path with nary a concern to ask why he's doing it. Standing out front we get Nathan Willett. The ebb and flow goes on his shoulders. Frankly ebb and flow would have been nicer compared to what the song "First" places before us. The combined noise isn't unlike one of those singular dimension marching bands that kick drums itself down the street with purpose but not much buoyed interest level. The Allandale Neighborhood has a legendary 4th of July parade which takes months to plan but makes you pay for taking a bathroom break. "First" doesn't wow the same way. Give Nathan a hug. The troubled soul cries out for it verse after verse. The linchpin gripping the pieces together? Playing and falling hard in a lover's game where trust becomes the usurped prize and worry the primarily unhelpful aftershock. Usually I'm not a stickler for vastly deep meaning but "First" requires it to overcome the dearth of chord creativity on the table. Nathan thrives in the whole bar hopper climate. His lady love doesn't fare much better. I give a supportive nod to the polar opposite psychic baggage Nathan writes in verse three. He's "flying like a cannonball, falling to the earth. Heavy as a feather when you hit the dirt." Nathan gets that the waiting game can be excruciatingly cumbersome. He refuses to wait around forever. That's reassuring. Who among us wants to endure that. Nathan etches his dark night of the soul poet side into the turf. Back we go to ticking clocks and gravity's inevitable victory. Again, I beseech someone give Nathan a hug. an anxiety drug supplier, or both. He deserves it because if you were to subtract him from the mishmash "First" wouldn't place or show in this race to get to consumers shortening attention spans before the next big thing taps into the picture. "First you get hurt, then you feel sorry." That's your drill into the brain recurring theme. Noble? Maybe. A bit of excessive protestation? You might say that. Place blame wherever it's appropriate but "First" loses its edge in a hurry and never finds the handle again. The foursome's nothing if not eager to lay out its harshest sound so as to mark a none too quick to exit the cranium impression. The clanging cacophony angle works against them. "First" isn't primed to last. The Cold War chill factor is unavoidable.

In The Valley Below Isn't Terribly Peachy

You've got a problem when the most creative element of your band ends up being the title. In The Valley Below hails from Echo Park, California. Happy-go-lucky temperament. "Peaches" doesn't lack for offbeat effects. Keyboards are humorously infused. The guitar work demonstrates neither member of the group relies on anything other than a tongue-in-cheek approach to their craft. The sticking point lies with how the main chord arrangements loop around and around. Variation becomes an alien concept. Both Angela Gail and Jeffrey Jacob can be proud they are so ingratiating on delivered vocals. Seduction carries them far. I say we're looking at a split vote. The harmonies click wherever, whenever. Tensions dissipate thanks to lyrics that open up a visual can of worms or three. I don't mean to hint that full bodied optimism guides this ship. Far from that really. I hone in on line two..."Everybody got disease maybe it's alright." Human condition reference much guys? The second stanza won't likely talk a suicide risk off a ledge either. "Working on a feeling, breaking down the ceiling, digging up a deep end, freezing on the beaches. Very heart wrenching. Angela's tolerant of a great many things, be it his drinking all week or stepping on her. Her in stride response continues to be "It's alright". These two have a funny side. You can tell from the video. They possess dedication to their art. Together at the mike they're in sync, a cohesive united front. I hate that those chords staying stuck in one note tedium rob "Peaches" of what might have been a touchable bond between artists and audience. At times the whole "baby it's alright" commentary gave me flashbacks to "Road To Nowhere" the zestful Talking Heads song which also used an offbeat vid to widen their presence as a unit. Regrettable how omitting a few chord modulations sinks "Peaches" Him with his facial moss plus her with her gorgeous and mysterious dark hair. There's something unsettling about someone tearing you apart in the dead of night. That's grist for any town's local police blotter. You talk about suggestive lyrics leaving little to the imagination. How about "Reaching for the sweetest peaches." The inner caveman in you knows what I'm driving at. It's nothing like the fruit The Presidents Of The United States of America referred to. Their fruit lived and died off loose-jointed silliness. We hint at the not so forbidden fruit in Angie and Jeffrey's case. Life could be best breathed into "Peaches" were the musical flourishes allowed to break loose with regularity. Instead the one trick pony chord threatens to submerge anything that could be even remotely thought of as novel. In closing "Peaches" may not be the pits but as part of a balanced musical diet you'd be wise to fill your grocery bag elsewhere. Man cannot live off innuendo alone. Nor can music enthusiast.

Jamie Foxx and Chris Brown Changing For The Worse

I respect people wanting quality sounds for a brisk romp between the sheets. Lamentably Jamie Foxx and Chris Brown have not bottled the right formula with "You Changed Me". Nothing about it couldn't have been dismissed as a dashed off Post-It note notion. I'm not implying there's no merit to a grown man coming right out and thanking the woman in his life for making him a better version of himself. I don't see how any lovers, ebony skin toned or otherwise, could work up much sweat using raw confessional as a background. The billowing curtain audio behind both men plays up sex appeal. Jamie doesn't have to go to great extremes to convince anyone he's a player or that he can set a mood with the best of them. His star turn in "Ray" made questioning that a moot point. He goes on at length about how his woman changed from a player playing the field to a one man monogamous homeboy. If the orchestrations were a bit grander I might not be dismissing "You Changed Me" as scribbling on scratch pad sans eroticism needed to lube any and all transitions to the bedroom. We know how six pack ab amazing Jamie is. What does the on again off again bad boy Chris Brown have to contribute. Judging by lyrical content I'd venture to guess not a huge deal. He's apparently "fiendin' for your kisses". Golly...not close to Halloween and we're already dragging out ghoul references. He doesn't care where he can corner her. He's lickin' on her body. Here comes that long awaited bucket of cold water all over the sexcapades. Anyone out there want the current version of Chris Brown licking on any part of your body? That's what I thought. Moving on, one nugget in particular has me scratching my head. I think it's supposed to flatter the girl but the message mixes left and right. What to make of "Girl I love it when you get on your knees. You make me disappear like magic." The hint I get is that the sexual rituals are so satisfying Chris disappears into the procedure. Caveat to Chris though...some might think the woman isn't lusty enough to sate the appetite, thus he disappears from the bedroom ruing the wasted paramour connection he was trying to achieve. Achievement...it's a good word to say you were part of during the course of life. The only thing "You Changed Me" achieves is the nagging desire that this player stop using superlatives to describe how noble he is for not being a wild child schmuck who refuses to be tamed. Change direction fellas. You want to lure couples into the bedroom, not leave them bored at the prospect of doing the nasty.

Godsmack's Next Chapter Reads Powerfully

Powerful chords predominate. This is the stuff seas of lit video cameras are made of. Godsmack needs to take a bow. Nary a sliver sounds watered down about "What's Next". Strong riffs crackle in every nook you can place them. On the tempo tip it's delivered just right. Drums explode propulsively. Sully Erna has pipes meant to make you quiver from the top down. What's more, Godsmack remembered to not get stuck in one guitar chord. That makes "What's Next" stand out from the rock pack. These guys waste no time immersing themselves in the fray. Shannon Larkin brings the skin bashing octane early and doesn't give an inch. Tony Rombola carries out pulsating guitar driven in that rock god manner metal enthusiasts embrace heartily. Robbie Merrill isn't light in the loafers when it comes to zeroing in on the right bass notes. Such vast rumblings from a guttural place. True to the form for many practitioners of the metal genre, musings on Death grab center stage. Chief among the questions is the familiar "Is this world all there is?" The opening freezing imagery details nothing short of corpses and rotting bluish skin. Godsmack isn't making history posing these time honored questions but the gusto with which it asks refuses to be denied. Don't look for any overtures towards machismo elevating guitar solos. "What's Next" gets its crunch from the steady punishing bulldozer relentlessness embedded in the lyrics and high wattage instrumentation. Godsmack has its sensors set to wrath and how grandiose are the goosebumps that setup generates. Existential questions are in great supply. Sully has us rooting for him to track down some trace of an answer. His James Hetfield-esque snarls are primarily responsible for how smooth purring this engine runs. Each man clearly gets his turn in the spotlight. No in your face drum solos. This marriage screams "equal partnership". If only most marriages worked that well. Why are we blind from our certainty? That's a probing question. Proves all we really know about this life is we know far less than we'd like to let on. "What's Next" defines right now immediacy.

Faith No More Does a Super Job

Mike Patton has music's beautiful mind. His band Faith No More should thank its lucky stars every day for that truth. After a mind short circuiting 17 years out of the metal scene's harsh glow "Sol Invictus" has arrived. Single number two calls itself "Superhero". Mike's Herculean in execution for sure. Faith No More earns credit for melding the funk/rap/metal hybrid before anyone quite knew that's what we'd stumbled upon. Soft touches merge with brutal force on "Superhero". You don't put Faith No More in a tidy box without suffering a few bruise marks. No mellowing out over the years either. Jon Hudson gets his entire body weight behind guitar. His instrument crackles in speed metal relentlessness. Mike Bordin, as usual, has his drumsticks armed for bear. He sets them down in jigsaw puzzle methodical manners. His sticks keep "Superhero" from arching into flights of fancy turf. Good thing too as too much hyperbole would distract from allowing Mike Patton's endearingly twisted mind from stretching out to maximum potential. One burning question may soon be answered by the listening public. Has Faith No More circa 2015 forged a disc that's going to attract audiences other than ones bellying up to the nostalgia circuit table? I swear that was piano I heard washing over Mike's mad vocalizing. Looking back a bit "Epic" launched Faith No More back in the Stone Age of 1990. The song was and for my money still is fantastic but that flopping fish in the video may be going down in history as the detail that overshadows Mike at his demonic best. Other cuts that show how Mr. Patton's gorgeously majestic melon carries this band's fortune on his shoulders include "Falling To Pieces" and "Midlife Crisis". You could posit this debatable notion that the willy nilly devil may care go for the throat of youth birthed these gems but I'd say the discography's consistent on down the line. If Faith No More's trying to stay lucid on into old age they've got a handily winning formula. Brains like Mike's probably are good for octogenarian or longer. Not that he'd necessarily be up on stage by that point...not without sizable assistance anyway but, back to the point. "Superhero" isn't Faith's best work but the ability to spread musical paint can art freely from the color wheel means forgettable this caped so and so is not. "Leader of men, get back in your cage" appears repeatedly on the lyric sheet. Mike Patton in self-declaratory mode. Probably not but you'd forgive me for making the comparison. Faith No More never has shied away from fearlessness in its lyrical presentation. That continues to be the case here. "Makes a mean cock grow" gives new meaning to the notion of descriptive video service. Whoa Buzz boy what's up with that statement. You see being a PBS supporter from the jump I remember at least one program leading with "The following program contains descriptive video service on the SAP channel for KLRU audiences who are visually impaired". Media cross reference folks and...thanks for allowing me tangential air space. So as metal goes "Superhero" soars to imaginative heights. Nobody is likely to rank it higher than "Epic" but that wasn't a prerequisite for openers anyway. "Superhero" happily lets us ride on its flowing cape to far out regions of the galaxy.

What Really Hurts Is Maroon 5's Nonchalance

I can't expect Maroon 5 to be amazing every time can I? That expectation's been dashed courtesy of "This Summer's Gonna Hurt Like A Motherf****r". I suppose this band earned the right to coast a hair since its catalog stuns me due to how wall to wall gratifying it's become. Riding its coattails isn't hard to imagine. From "Songs About Jane" onward Maroon 5 delivers the goods in a fashion that would make the Pony Express green with envy. Was it vanity? Was it some aching need to uncork a summer specific jam? Maybe Adam Levine and pals uncorked a brain fart that wafted to the rest of us poor unfortunates. I guess we'll never know the motivation. Not that Maroon 5's technical abilities take it too strongly on the chin. PJ Morton steps forward to claim his due. That's because his keyboard gleams all over with studio sheen. You're not going to get guitar controlling the air space. That Adam has room to roam on this track should surprise no one. Maroon 5 and Adam Levine's star wattage are inextricably linked. The troubling aspect of "Summer" boils down to a hard to escape fact. You could put the choral refrain in the mouths of any one of a number of contemporary bands and never be sure who you're listening to. Maroon 5 can be summed up proudly by several adjectives. Sexy works as does breathtaking as does erotic. I'd never thought I'd see the day when disposable would be used also but here you have it. It's like James, Jesse, Mickey, and Matt are only given any notice at all during their contribution in the chorus. Adam's lust for the female form remains a theme he's used like money in the bank either against a woman's attitude or on behalf of her charms. He's a Romeo whose libido goes to globetrotter mode repeatedly. Usually that's working to his advantage. "Her body's like the summer" gets points as good use of simile but nothing a high school freshman couldn't have texted to someone during homeroom, the modern day equivalent of passing notes. We get to apply the periscope lens a bit easier when Adam elaborates that "I see her dancing in the streets, sipping champagne on the beach." At last we're part of the movie instead of getting a peripheral glance in passing. The man says "I see her when I go to sleep." Funny...many of the lyrics sound like they were the product of someone in a sleep like daze fumbling for the a-ha light switch moment. I'm afraid to tell you that never happens. Adam's charm can't save the sophomoric sentiments from dragging the project down like the ill-fated Hindenburg. Stanza three tells all you need to understand about why I make the insistence. He says "I'm ripping off that bandage." You know how it goes after enough time has passed following a doctor's pin prick. You're aching to rip that bandage off pronto. There's nothing bodice ripping about "She wants it all. She's always taking something and now I'm left with nothing." Cologne scented pablum bottled by the master. He's the guy to peddle the product but it's dross anyway. I have fond recollections of "Hands All Over". Groove after groove registered in a major way. "This Summer's Gonna Hurt Like A Mothetf***r" is for all the world Adam's excuse to foist a gimmicky summer anthem on the public. Foist he can do. Buy the snake oil I'm not. What hurts is Maroon 5 wants to take me for a fool. I've heard them at their best. This is a million light years from that.