Birthday Blogger's Gift Registry

Since today's my birthday I decided I'd act like a rock star flush with cash and be self-indulgent. Upfront apologies to anyone who thought my last blog was pitifully brief compared to the previous classics of blog pontificating I've thrown at y'all (Yup...only kidding). It's a day to soak up some true American originals, namely five songs containing what to my mind are moments of brilliance. I promise I won't be creating an online version of War and Peace, a Gore Vidal memoir, or anything else that's only apparent purpose was to cure you of insomnia. With any luck you'll get the hint that I'm not merely a casual listener but a music worshiping fiend of the highest order. I breathe three part harmonies and power chords. Strip me of that and I'm wandering around the cosmos stumbling my way along like everybody else. Five 18-carat gold gems brought to you as my old Concordia Lutheran College prof. Milton Reimer would have put it "quick and dirty". "Superstition" wasn't the Eighth Wonder of the World's biggest hit but I dare you to cue up any that were pound for pound funkier. I selected this live from Sesame Street version for the very best reason, namely it's the first time I heard it in brash, knock you out of your spit shined penny loafers living color. For kicks check out the red shirted child shaking it way up high atop the stairs. Wonder what he's doing now? In any case he got a stellar cultural education, as did I. From drums, to brass (it was the '70s so forgive the gentleman on the far left for his fashion sense), to that resounding voice, "Superstition" started my lifelong admiration for one of the foremost artistic talents that ever lived or is ever likely going to have lived. Steve Perry was Journey's ace in the hole from day one. The band's Behind The Music episode left me disheartened. What a great run and it came to a screeching halt thanks to the torn ACL of older people, the damaged hip. (Sigh). "Any Way You Want It" allows us to revisit happier times. That '70s carryover long hair is enough to make me projectile shoot milk from my nose due to laughing. Neal Schon's on the short list of bona fide guitar Gods. In this video he's also sporting a white boy 'fro. He came off like a bit of a prick on Behind The Music but if I based my music library on how close to sainthood the artists got I'd have a collection as gaunt as my bony frame so that's between him and whatever deity he prays to. I can't enough of the climbing, climbing, climbing, climbing octave straddling Neal does towards the end. I'd have gotten up from the beat banquet table at that point yet here comes Steve to seal the deal with "ANYWAAAAAAAAAY! ANYWAAAAAAAAY!" "Any Way You Want It" is proof that a prime perk of car ownership back then was the brand of cruising music you could shove in the tape deck. Extreme is not some sissy glam metal band. Got that? If you want to say Poison is a sissy glam metal band I can deal. If you want to say Nitro is a sissy glam metal band, have at it. If you want to say Enuff Z'Nuff is a sissy glam metal band, get the guillotine ready. But don't think you're going to label Extreme a sissy glam metal band without encouraging any kind of counter response from me. Extreme can bring the licks, shove 'em up 'yer arse and keep right on walking as if no wrong, no act of civil disobedience had been perpetrated. "Get The Funk Out" is 100 percent bang, no buck. No bucking any comers. No bucking the license to rock hard, loud, and gorgeous. Nuno Bettencourt is one more legend of the guitar game. Know anybody else who can make their instrument sound like a siren whisking sick people to the hospital? If Nuno was an automobile the Five-0 would be writing up enough tickets to fill three glove compartments. Gary Cherone can sing. Better yet he doesn't howl like Sammy Hagar or rip his larynx to shreds like Tom Keifer of Cinderella. Paul Geary pummels you with his sticks. Pat Badger's bass rumbles instead of merely keeping the engine motoring along. For good measure the band lights up their space with their own Tower of Power horns section. The only thing wrong with "Get The Funk Out" is there's no other rock band out there ballsy enough to try a cover version. Simultaneously it's one of the many right things. To the very last I get chills. Pat Benatar puts so many other female performers to shame. She's a tough as nails rock chick who doesn't covet your sympathy. "Precious Time" is what a romantic relationship in free fall sounds like. Neil Giraldo's opening note yells "Duck!!" The bomb is dropping. The fuse has been lit. There won't be survivors. Come to think of it there won't even be a body for the coroner to examine. Pat on the warpath is the very best kind. ADD sufferers be warned. You've been put on notice. 3:24 mark. That's why "Maneater" is on this list. Blink and you missed. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups tandem of chocolate and peanut butter aren't the only two things that taste great together. A well timed drum guitar one-two leaves behind an aftertaste for the ages. Up to then the keyboards, Daryl Hall's blue eyed crooning and G.E. Smith's candy coated sax symbolized keen appetizers. It took the one two to elevate this to cultural touchstone status. Well, that's some of what "she" wrote anyway. Unless I get amnesia and therefore forget I'm a blogging man on a blogging mission future enlightenment is on tap down the line. Until then..."HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! HOW THE HELL DID I MANAGE? I TURNED FORTY THREE. DON'T ROLL YOUR EYYYYYYYYES!!

Nicki Minaj Cures Her Whacked Out Persona

Nicki Minaj and level-headed don't tend to occupy similar turf. I agree with Tim Duncan saying "Who wants to be normal?" but Nicki has often pushed it off the ragged edge. That said I think her new "Pills N Potions", despite "I still love you" being sung too much, and despite repetitive choruses being one prime turn off to any song, succeeds at taking the prize as Nicki Minaj's most sedate effort to date. Orchestral it definitely is. Even the rapping itself benefits from restraint. Anyone who's been close enough to someone else's iPod can attest to how sometimes it's hard to tell whether Nicki is animal, vegetable, mineral, or space alien. That doesn't hijack the song here. She takes the moral high ground throughout in dealing with niggas who haven't earned the respect they believe is coming to them. She doesn't wish on death on them...she reflects on them. The title pretty much screams drowning one's miseries in booze and pills. How she manages to keep anger at bay even though she's at odds with her man is a mystery. Now then, though I applaud Nicki's cranium not being set on that high frequency only dogs can hear I fear that's the highest praise I can give "Pills N Potions". I likely won't remember any distinguishing features a week or so down the line. It sort of floats along like the cotton candy you get at the state fair. She sings the title with some grace, again a relief from her rivet machine type of subtlety. I'm sure that the subject matter doesn't fly over my head what with my being a bony square white guy ignorant of the travails of minority youth in the hood. What it lacks is urgency that your A-list rap stars preternaturally exude. Preening black youths are hardly a novelty concern. For me to really dig a song a prominent hook must be part of the bargain. No such good fortune here. The melodies aren't loathsome and that's a point in the song's favor. Unfortunately some oomph behind the wheel would've helped "Pills N Potions" succeeded in reaching a level of artistry that doesn't sound phoned in. In its final format "Pills N Potions" doesn't even rate the revulsion that comes from having icky meds flushed out of your system. No flavor to be found. Only mild leaf rustling in an inconsequential wind.

Foster the People's Latest Is User Friendly

Friendly? You betcha!! Rollicking fun? You so much as doubt it? Puhleeze!! Foster the People haven't taken long at all to carve their own unique niche. "Pumped Up Kicks" was a slam dunk when it broke wide open in 2011. Up next on the agenda for the LA indie trio is its new "Supermodel" album. The lead single goes by the moniker "Best Friend". It has the distinction of culling disco flashbacks and laying a gaping rock wound threadbare. Someone needs to up bassist Cubbie Fink's on the basis of this song alone. Juicy, juicy, juicy. The fever pitch goes on seemingly forever. The adrenaline rush is pretty tough to beat. Lyrically there's enough enigmatic twists and turns to keep the ever shrinking attention spans engaged. "Pumped Up Kicks" turned out to be a mere taste of what they could do with an infectious riff and enough studio time to make the practice worth the effort. And let me tell you Mark Pontius is fire, brimstone, and a smidge extra in the firepower department. Vocalist Mark Foster sings of what it means to be the above mentioned best friend. You don't let them crack under the stress they're under. Often sleep like imagery runs this little shebang. Technical scientific terminology such as "Waves in theta, slipping into dreams" are pretty regular players here. "Best Friend" comes to bear full fang with a lights out technicolor blast shaking your eardrums to their very core. Why is the song a winner that deserves to be called such regardless of how well the album sells? Foot tapping mixed with arousing inhibition loosening dynamism. Club land teems with this brand of melody. Cue the disco ball but make room for working up sweat like you've never imagined it before. One thinks Mark is a highly reliable friend. He'll follow him to whatever color his mood ring turns. "Supermodel" is a title suiting the single perfectly. "Best Friend" strikes one magnificent pose. Lock in on the whole "celestial being" concept for a second. Top to bottom Mark and Cubbie nail the right moves. Together they're appealing allies come what may. As I alluded to before the tempo is flat out electrifying. You would be willing to follow them to whatever place, light or dark this crew of sound sculptors choose to go. It only gets better as the chords intensify. "Pumped Up Kicks", as you who look closely at lyrics ought to know, was not exactly cuddly in the subject matter arena. "Best Friend" doesn't get up in your grills either. To its credit it is someone you could converse with for hours or, until you grow hoarse, whichever comes first. Let me not make the mistake of flashing a broad grin for the brass section (or its pre-recorded kissing cousin) that livens up the party that Foster the People are throwing without them even being aware we're willing to RSVP. Putting both "Pumped Up Kicks" and "Best Friend" under glass for a closer examination. "Pumped Up Kicks" leaned closer to the sing-a-long throngs. "Best Friend" is the tingling rock sensation you blissfully trap yourself under a la the waves Mark sings about. With every subsequent return to the chorus you benefit from the demons unlocking part by part until the monster's front and center in the concert hall. "Best Friend" earns its stripes as a musical best bet.

Natalie Merchant's Wizened "Ladybird" Embodies Grace

Today I'd like to enter the creative force that is Natalie Merchant. What an intelligent spokeswoman. You'd fit right in having coffee house conversations with her. Unlike a lot of people you encounter day to day you actually come away having learned something profound. Her self-titled album of entirely new compositions brings with it "Ladybird". To most Texans that word applies to former president LBJ's environmentally conscious wife for whom the former Town Lake is named. She'd have approved of the song. That's because it's graceful from first note to last. Natalie gives the avian creature room to grow into its wings. As dishes go you're not going to taste heavily flavored notes. You'll enjoy the quiet aftertaste but it's not likely to leave you bloated, groping for antacid pills due to overindulging yourself. Natalie has never shied away from global perspective topics. As lead loon from 10,000 Maniacs part of her claim to fame comes from having been participant in excellent standing on "What's The Matter Here?" an uncompromising glimpse into child abuse and the excuses both casual observers and abusers make for why it should have to continue existing. "Trouble Me" was stately, dignified, and fit for enjoyable high tea pleasantries in one package. Let's not forget how amazing her band was in executing reverent covers of Cat Stevens' "Peace Train" as well as Patti Smith's "Because The Night". The definition of a marvelous cover song is that you have no idea someone else thought of it first. These artists leave an imprint that respects of those before them. "Ladybird" dives beak first into love long since extinguished. A clean break isn't an option because, as Nat puts so tersely, there's much to lose. Many mouths need feeding. Ah, the heavy weight of caring for and raising a family to become responsible socially aware citizens. Despite the tethers, flying away from such a hot mess hasn't lost its allure. The subject matter is Jack Frost icy. Because of that I give credit where it's due to Natalie for bathing her artistic statement in stabilizing warmth. Listen carefully to the musicians who have her back. Not one of them bolts out in front of the pack. Each puzzle piece is measured delicately. Slow, faithful unified front allows "Ladybird" to fly above a fray that for other winged warriors could be too much to overcome. You do hear guitar strumming now and again but it's only a companion piece not the featured oil on canvas. You'll also be able to pick out soulful background songbirds. Again, they know not to overstep their bounds and, what's more, they're serene about that. Serenity preceding emotional quandary. That's Natalie Merchant's key toolbox talent. She gets what "say it, don't spray it" is about. Dignified storytelling may not move product but it does give way to reveal an even bigger reward...a clearer sense of what makes someone else tick. Unlike a great many songs, "Ladybird" doesn't have a clearly mapped out bridge enabling listeners to catch their breath. Late in "Ladybird" the investment grows larger. We who buy into the premise come away from the card table richer in substance if not in pocketbook. Flying away from an interpersonal situation that's lost its zip represents a fork in the road moment not to be entered into lightly. Even so, Natalie never fails to insist through her characterizations that something needs to be done before whatever dignity was brought to the love match skitters away on the breeze. Sometimes a self-titled album may mean a new artistic beginning is in the works. For example Heart's self-titled project arose when the Wilson sisters were at the vertigo inducing corner of do or die time in their band's career. The result was an album spawning four top ten hits ("What About Love?", "Never", "These Dreams", and "Nothin' at All", and the banished to the ashes insinuation that Heart needed to fold at that time. Natalie's last album of brand spanking new material was brought to the world stage in 2001. 13 years is a lifetime and then some in the music business. Whatever prompted her to eschew fresh creative visions for such a long time it's wonderful that she's returned to the roost. "Ladybird" won't tell eager fans or first-timers anything that might not already know about her style but it goes a long way towards reminding us why any week with new Natalie Merchant music is a week that wasn't lived through for nothing. "Ladybird" is out of its cage and deserves the chance to fly as high as her broken wings can carry her.

It's Time For Cherries Jubilee, Southern Rock Style

Them Southern boys sure know how to whip crowds into a frenzy, don't they. Lynyrd Skynyrd may have created the template, but if you look carefully you'll notice there are some willing students of the class aching to soak up whatever deep fried influence they can. Hailing from Edmonton, Kentucky, Black Stone Cherry go full on nasty with "Me and Mary Jane" which promises to get you excited enough to tear some apparel from your body if not someone else's. The early going riff 'n' raunchiness festival instigated by lead vocalist/lead guitarist Chris Robertson apologizes to no one. Don't expect much subtlety. Crank the volume up to eleven like a good little heathen and let the cards fall where they may. Chris aces straddling the line between wholesale smarmy and technical excellence. His ax bends to reach places a regular joe couldn't, shouldn't, but probably wants to in the worst way. You can't aspire to this pinnacle of buzz without a bass lubing the way. Enter Jon Lawhon who'll grind for as long as you can take the boot knocking. Drummer John Fred Young allows the flavor to last until whenever forever's supposed to be. Someone broke his leash and dared him to run as wild as possible. Mission accomplished. In fairness you'll probably not be able to entirely grasp the weight behind his talent until the closing assault, 4th of July fireworks only earthbound. Mad displays like this take percussion to the next next level. Throughout "Me and Mary Jane" he's adaptable. He wiggles his way through an obstacle course fit for only the fittest. His mates unfurl sex set to playback ready mode and he's right there encouraging balls, bombast, and barnstorming stylized rock. "Magic Mountain" produced Pandora screaming from the box. Plenty of magic to go around. You hanker for a big finish much the same way a gymnast nails the judges attention via a solid dismount. No need to wait that long for pulse accelerating excitement. We should be tossing confetti in the air each time the chorus comes into view. Chris twangs higher higher and then let himself drop back down into the lusty mix he helped create. There are too many footloose references to name without your eyeballs falling out or me getting acute carpal tunnel pounding this out. They tip their gimme caps to Lynyrd Skynyrd early on. Ideal cruise crunching to spare. Chris has a weekend party to crash. As his guitar ascends the ladder he will shortly jump from we know how badly he wants to take the edge off the unplanned dreck his week has dumped on him. Which spirit he and his Mary Jane are getting blitzed on is hardly prime importance domain. Getting there's a supreme delight. You never really expect anyone with a Southern pedigree to mess around, to stand on ceremony on the way to an honest sentiment. Black Stone Cherry doesn't have a use for beating around the bush. Uncork, release, repeat. That's their formula for a legendary night anyone would be glad to say they participated in. "Me and Mary Jane" hits it way out of the park for you, me, and anyone else whose toleration for life shit has his middle finger firmly planted in the upright and locked position.

Get Into Trouble With Tori Amos

Tori Amos is nobody's dummy. She tests your mind in a temptress probing fashion. You won't get away with Cliff's Notes when putting her under the microscope. From "God" to "Spark" to "Caught a Light Sneeze", Tori pulls you out of your comfort zone. To her credit you want to pay closer attention to lyrics. Right from the jump she'll uncork a lyric that gives you pause. In "God"'s case the opening statement is "God sometimes you just don't come through". Not exactly something many would turn and walk away from without some rigorous debate. "Spark" starts with "She's addicted to nicotine patches". Essentially Tori has introduced a curious character who demands further exploration. Bursting onto the scene from her "Unrepentant Geraldines" album is "Trouble's Lament". Dust off the hardback classic literature of yesteryear. Tori's spinning her extremely, dare we say excruciatingly complicated yarns again. Trouble grabs the attention in this theatrical opus. It definitely gets an in-depth back story. One learns early on that she's an orphan of sorts, that she's looking for a home. She had a falling out with Satan (who among us hasn't, right?). How thoughtful it is that it warns her when Danger's on the loose. Sally Field's Sybil would be right at home sipping tea and swapping stories with Tori's British proper gallery of demons. Tori channels her witchcraft from a special "on" inspiration that would have Salemites too intimidated to crucify her for any reason, however justified it may be. Tori's piano,like a witch's brew, stirs and stirs to an agreeable simmer. Not that she's going to have you resting on her creative laurels. The tempo pulls off a nifty change up which leaves pipe and slipper comfy behind, swapping in rugged hair on the chest machismo not out of place at a longstanding rodeo roundup. It's here where the session drummer grabs onto Tori's train of thought, succumbing to the brief ride he's peeking in on. Tori Amos doesn't have a resignation bone in her body. Who else would brashly accuse God of not doing his job properly. Come to think of it how is it that Tori remains in the land of the living after that sassy little exchange? It can't be because He's thinking to himself, "Maybe she has a point". So color me perplexed that Tori insists that her peer group cry no tears over Danger's dogged pursuit. He knows where to find her. She's prepared for whatever tricks it has up its sleeve. If Ke$ha is community college level female performance then Tori represents the suits at Harvard. She doesn't have to stoop to your level. It's you who must meet her mind on her terms. Her high notes sound possessed, not by the devil, but but devil may care submitting to the thrill of artistry. Tori hasn't lost much inner seductress during her twenty years and counting foray into the music business jungle. Yeah, she's not hard on the eyes. Don't ever let that keep you from allowing you to by distracted by the sexiness between her ears. She's carnal lusty orgasm for the Mind Floss magazine set. I take my figurative hat off to her. The trouble she's unleashed could potentially leave us whispering for days. Either she's fully involved or ensconced in some private bungalow reigniting the cosmic magic which makes her tick. The only identifiable trouble is ascertaining what Tori plans to do for an encore. That's also the implied subliminal thrill.

St Paul & The Broken Bones Dial Up a Winner

Vivacious as the dickens is my conclusion from listening to "Call Me" a deeply soulful, if ever too brief joyful noise from Birmingham Alabama seven-piece St Paul & The Broken Bones. Old school technique meets new school charm extending for days. It's very much new school 'cause the boys have only been around since 2012. Leading the charge is vocalist Paul Janeway whose elastic mannerisms make "Call Me" a delightful buzz worthy dazzler that you should stay on the line to hear for as long as possible. We're talking simple, run of the mill phone call but Paul showers it with so much soul you're pretty confident you like the odds that it will bloom into something that makes heads turn and has the special power to do so at any time. Of course it helps to have a dynamic brass section to pack up your pronounced pipes. Paul has a pair of ace teammates in trombonist Ben Griner and trumpet tickler Allen Branstetter. Their handiwork makes for highly exuberant after hours compress with a choice martini background bubbles. Don't think drums aren't getting their turn in the spotlight here. Andrew Lee displays a back beat equal to the task of keeping the festivities in full flower. Brown Lollar lends a steady hand through a guitar complement that has built up the right sweat to assure he isn't over thinking his performance. The pickings are not even close to slim. Buffet portions would be accurate. To my liking this band is pretty athletic. They haven't operated as a unit long enough to have entered the married couple orbit of knowing each other so well that they finish each other's sentences but, that being said, their timing easily clears the impeccable high bar. They're scattering magic across the lounge therefore it's ok for you to loosen the collar and breathe in soul that luck holding out for the guys who quite literally had entered one last chance territory before figuring out that they clicked could become a talked about incandescent palate cleanser that goes far deeper than taste buds. We should breathe a sigh of relief that they didn't decide to abandon the whole music as vocation thing before trying "Call Me" on for size. This number results in shiny, laid back electric grooves any way you slice it. I'm thrilled that sporting an attention grabbing moniker hasn't been spoiled by a sound that lacks pizzazz. Call it a hunch but "Call Me" bodes well for the future success of the full length project "Half the City". This is one soul revival meant to enervate the most numbed off listener.