It's A Stroke Of Good Luck That Brings Better Than Ezra Back

Better Than Ezra, you Cajun country rapscallions, where in the name of James have you been? You and I have been thick as thieves since you barnstormed onto the scene in 1995 with "Deluxe". That album produced your one and only Top 40 hit "Good". Personally I think "In The Blood" deserved friendlier reception at pop radio than it got but that's just one Ezra-o-phile's opinion. Next came "Friction Baby". I took a pronounced liking to the real deal New Orleans polish applied to such gems as "Desperately Wanting" and "King of New Orleans". The third release, "How Does Your Garden Grow" began your descent back into the shadows. I had a stiff belt of you three. I wanted to run up my tab some more. "Closer" didn't recharge your commercial popularity much. Admittedly you fell off my radar afterwards. Guess the previously asserted thick bond wasn't overly pasted together. They were halcyon days up until the post 2002 stretch. Were you to utter "What about 'After The Robots?' I'd either give you a blank stare, drool optional or ask not altogether tongue in cheek, "If the robots have taken over our planet how can we possibly be having this conversation?' Frankly "Paper Empire" sounds like the state of existence my writing desk is in at present. If only I had evolved enough as a two legged creature to figure out how to stage an overthrow. "Deluxe" scored based on its ability as a completed product to stage direct hits on the accessible side of the FM dial. To the band's financial disservice its cash till rang a little less loudly with each subsequent release. I am an art for art's sake chap so that small detail can easily be swept under the rug. Cut to 2014's "All Together Now" a release brought to us on The End Records. How amusing I do contend. "Crazy Lucky", the first scoop of New Orleans nectar from the album is very much the beginning of this group coming out of its amnesia where mixing up approachable yet spicy Gulf Coast material. This song wouldn't be out of place on a playlist including Maroon 5's "Maps". Solidly based in the adult contemporary camp. To add to that "Crazy Lucky" demonstrates lead vocalist Kevin Griffin, bass guitarist Tom Drummond, and drummer Michael Jerome didn't forget to let their hair hang down. There is the divine providence facet to the lyrics but it's offered in plucky fashion. No soapbox anywhere in sight. No revered classic church building. Kevin is way too in awe of the direction of Cupid's arrow. To be certain Better Than Ezra, as it has done repeatedly throughout its spine-tingling career knows team means everybody gets a chance to jam to the fullest. Kevin acknowledges that, as is probably true for the overwhelmingly large majority of us, the universe's way of shuffling the cards is way too complex for any one of us to grasp appreciably. We don't even get to use the commanding portion of our brains on any given day. I've always admired how Kevin's Nawlins enhanced voice would go well at Cafe Dumonde alongside a plate of beignets and some chicory coffee. You get what's as close to a music version of a Gulf Coast travelogue as you could want. The second Kevin croons to his full strength the Mississppi River appears. The Superdome imposes its masculinity in the distance. "Crazy Lucky" is Better Than Ezra's best chance in forever in regaining the fan base they cobbled together two decades prior. Because they lay off the Creole seasonings they by happenstance or design have succeeded in bringing to the conception stage a sun soaked beauty that smart programmers would be wise to snatch up hot off the press.

Devour The Day Hasn't Earned Respect Yet

If I'm lumped into the category "unhip douche" for admitting this, I'll take my medicine like the Y chromosome that I am. Cookie Monster shriek vocals don't impress me much. Reason why is if the singer has something undeniably powerful to say he shouldn't be pulling off the equivalent of burying that thought deep inside his sphincter. Devour The Day shoots itself in the foot with its single "Respect" precisely because their whole shock and awe style wraps around Cookie Monster hyperbole. That's unfortunate. There's a ton of positives to crow about. Blake Allison makes no bones about how displeased he is with the woman who did him wrong. You are solidly in his corner as he gives the poor lady a thorough tongue lashing. Where he comes up with the spare energy to bash skins like a insane asylum inmate who found where the handcuff keys are kept is anybody's guess. Put neatly Blake is able to keep up with his pandemic fury. Then he shrieks the title's name. He took a steady stream of water and ratcheted that up to riot gear flood gushing proportions. Say it, don't spray it remains an effective suggestion here. The line "Face it, you wasted the work that we did may as well have been not too polite commentary on his turn at the mike. We get a convincing back history. We're drawn into the complex web comprised of a naive sense of how friends can't exactly stay that way under duress and then Blake, thinking out loud or not wonders how his woman lives with her soulless connection. After Cookie Monster kills the mood you wonder what business Blake has asking for respect when Cookie Monster vocals come off as the ultimate bullying tactic. Fired up in his own right Joey "Chicago" Walser colors in the lines with a bass attack that matches Blake nasty stride for nasty stride. Closer to the close of this rock romp Devour The Day wisely clams up long enough to let all the instruments zip around the room like a balloon that's recently had the air drained cleaned out. "Respect" passes the sniff test musically because the firm foundation that makes for an uncompromising attack on the human psyche stretches without breaking. Had Cookie Monster been left out of the party I could easily be saying these two gents have an undisputed chemistry that sounds provocative as the playback rolls. As it stands Sesame Street's resident sweet treat digestion machine ruined the no-hit game. Going forward I would imagine Devour The Day would be best deserved picking a sonic identity and staying faithful to said identity. They can leave the artistic theater dramatic twists and turns for when this phase the band's career has grown well established. Here's hoping Lady Luck smiles on them. "Respect" may not merit such treatment but the working parts are in nifty working order to allow for the possibility of a nice long run in the rock racket.

Death From Above 1979 Kills In All Facets Of Rock Awesome

It's okay to add Death From Above 1979 to the list of neat things that have emerged from The Great White North. This dance punk duo has pounded out "Trainwreck 1979", a stunner that isn't untrue to either the dance or punk rock ends of the musical rainbow. The added bonus is both men throw one thousand percent into their performance. Inescapable best describes Jesse F. Keeler bass. It gets to you in an area where you don't even bother scratching and, moreover, why would you want to scratch if that was an option. Any true dance party needs a linchpin to get the hordes motivated. Bass is fulfilling that mission on the track. Sebastien Grainger is guilty of intensity psychological probing in the third degree. The heart threatening to burst out of the chest is essentially a dead giveaway. The recurring theme is Sebastien's unquenchable lust to have it all. Many a young buck's come to that conclusion in the past. Possibly not laid out over a pulse pounding tempo that dares you not to look it straight in the eye but that's not a mandatory facet of the game. The third verse has a geopolitical smell hovering close by. What the cause of the poison cloud the immigrants were running from escapes me but it's simply the convenient excuse you need to hang on for dear life to Death From Above 1979's unflagging dedication to the joint jolt of dance punk mixture. The prevailing history would suggest that punk rock is angry, fast, dirty, and over before you've surrendered three minutes of your life to it. Death didn't happen to be in class when that lesson was being meted out. Lucky break, you two. "Trainwreck 1979" doesn't sacrifice a whit of the lean mean permanent chip on the shoulder of Grade-A incredible punk. The lean state gets a taffy pull treatment while bass, synths, and drums pound the product into an invigorating mush. Dance music devotees won't be frightened away. The punk set won't hold its nose and demand a seance to contact the spirits of Joey and Dee Dee Ramone. When you've got the audience captivated the rest is gravy ladled thick and juicy. Death From Above 1979 serves as a prickly heat inducing counterpoint to Canadian bands like Rush who blow fans away with intricate story creations that nudge their way into breathing room. Jesse and Sebastien could grind out their fractured slant on the world as they see it in a phone booth. You're not going to hear drum swagger. On the other hand the steadiness of the banging is yet another lure meant to keep listeners baited on the line until the two are ready to fling them into the boat, and devour them with their full speed ahead insinuations. There's no downtime. The duo wisely acts as if this opportunity may not swing their way again. Best cash in the chips while chips can be cashed. "Trainwreck 1979" makes it to the destination in style, perspiration sacrificed, battle for audience attention clearly won.

Imagine Dragons Bares Its Battle Armor

Climax counts for a great deal when it comes to defining the direction a rock record takes. Score one for those Las Vegas masters of the conceptual arts, Imagine Dragons whose "Warrior" single amounts to some pretty affecting arena worthy smoke. You're dealing with what would happen if you took the unchained grandeur of a symphonic orchestra and escorted it to the rock bombast side of the tracks. Daniel Wayne Sermon's guitar solo at the bridge is worth the price of admission. At its most profound you're led to believe Imagine Dragons is climbing a steep yet not insurmountable hill. Daniel Platzman's drumming heightens the melodrama to where you stop trying to keep your man pill swallowed. You learn less and less of reasons to assume liking this record is going to alienate you from the peer group that lends color to even the dreariest avenues of the life highway you walk. Dan Reynolds clutches the mike as if that's the one and only lifeline he's going to either want or need. He doesn't do a lot of showboating where his pitch range is concerned. The dedication to his subject matter goes without saying. His bravado matches the luster of Ben McKee's intrigue laden keyboards. Those notes rise up from the podium like some unidentifiable spirit possessed them. Dan follows a personal growth progression in the lyrics. We start of course in childhood where Ben spins the yarn of an as yet unproven warrior confined to the sidelines, ever eager to be a force in the game rather than be forced to play the unsung hero role for the duration. Anybody kind of seethe with resentment watching your office cohorts play like it's adult primary school while you overwork yourself to an early dirt nap? Imagine Dragons is in your corner. The lying awake at night scheming picture is a universally gripping piece of the puzzle. I know when I have my poem writing hat on (Did someone think...this Ear Buzz guy's a double threat? Not mandatory. Let's continue) these days I leave my writing notebook on the floor next to bed and pursue revitalizing slumber in hope that heretofore novel inspiration has leaped from my recently undisturbed mind to craft a clever round of wordplay. Evolution is part of the stay here on Hotel Planet Earth. The Dragons encourage us to keep front in center in mind that eventually proving ourselves is going to factor into the situation. We are reminded not to turn away from the empire, the deeply respectable plans we've got cooking on the front burner. A side note...for a song a mere 3 minutes and 2 seconds in duration, Imagine Dragons sure knows how to make the flavor last. The warrior call to arms stretches out bubble gum style. It's been my experience that saga singles usually require 4 and a half minutes and up to hit the crescendos "Warriors" has already scaled before getting to the 2 minute mark. They make their machinations count and then some. Imagine Dragons immerses you in their baptism by fire. You'll not even flinch as the heat melts away any reservations you have about throwing your hat in this ring. "Warriors" comes to fight. It packs a wallop meant to make a solid impression. Place this battle in the win column. It successfully engages, enlightens, and entertains.

"Centuries" A Solid Of The Moment Song From Fall Out Boy

Can you imagine how much raw info could be packed into a million years? That's how vast the ambition is for Fall Out Boy's new single "Centuries". Fall Out Boy never struck me as being the deepest lads to slosh around in the kiddie wading pool. "Dance Dance" was unbridled youth enthusiasm. "This Ain't A Scene, It's An Arms Race" possessed loads of feisty. The gist is you wouldn't exactly look to them for the question "How do I want future rock historians to perceive what my schtick was about?" Most of the band's output travels along at a mile a minute. "Centuries" takes the time to smell the air from high atop the rock universe. To hear Patrick Stump tell it he hopes to be a legend before feeding the tree. If there's a quibble to be had as it pertains to this single it would be the "borrowing" of a sample from "Tom's Diner", the 1990 top 5 hit for Suzanne Vega featuring DNA. That single itself was juiced up, the better to court mass radio consumption. Fall Out Boy couldn't possibly think it needs that kind of radio gimmick to grab attention since the boys are 13 years into their career. Patrick vocalizes from a sure-footed central spot so as to convey to us that he wants to be remembered for centuries. Pete Wentz slides under the proceedings with a bass that allows Patrick to levitate on the strength of his convictions. Drummer Andy Hurley exerts no undue energy, a sage decision given the subject material. He knows this is Patrick's hour to make his impression felt. Joe Trohman also punches up subdued on guitar for his role in this electric look at legacies and the wish that the best foot forward is the right one. Plenty of historical figures are known for their misdeeds. I doubt Fall Out Boy, even to the avowed haters out there, could be found guilty of detracting from the potential upshot to the human spirit. Pete takes the offensive, being astute enough to know how far to run with it. He can't stop until the whole world knows his name. For the record I imagine this is as close to drama queen as Pete is likely to get. The spacing in the arrangements goes delightfully well. The band members spread out the motif, thus giving Pat as much room as he can possibly spare. I can forgive them the occasional lyric that prompts a fair amount of head scratching, one example being "Heavy metal broke my heart". In commercial terms I believe it was grunge that broke heavy metal's heart, commercially and artistically. How did it break his heart? We aren't granted any real insight there. Cryptic, no doubt. Perhaps Pat leaves that open to interpretation for the rest of us. TMI territory is mined when Pete declares "The bruises on your thighs like my fingerprints." Is Pat walking the kinky walk now? Rough sex much? You'll be in good shape as a casual listener or pronounced Fall Out Boy fan if you direct your attention to the band's ability to harmonize in, dare we think it, a mature style that past releases really didn't make much attempt to emulate. Until the entire new album becomes either a guilty pleasure, a deeply loathed discard candidate, or settles into an approachable niche in between, "Centuries" is primed to satisfy your jones for rock that brushes past lunkhead riffage on its way to a plane that dares to try intelligence on for size. Each of us could stand to ask ourselves "Are we being the best versions of ourselves that we can be and, if the answer comes back negative, how can we get as close to the idealized version as possible?" "Centuries" may not prove memorable for that large a span of time, but in the here and now, it scores enough points before the last round bell sounds to merit paying attention and maybe even walking away enriched.

Walk The Moon Light As Air Grooving With "Shut Up and Dance"

Thank you patient and somewhat less patient blog followers for indulging me in a week's spell of R & R in Portland, Oregon. Twas a blast. I'm fully loaded and ready to launch into a look, listen, sniff, whatever...at Cincinnati act Walk The Moon's agreeable toe tapper "Shut Up and Dance. Let's jazz up the spirit of my posts, shall we? I'll compare some singular moments I experienced in Portland with the off the charts fascinating pleasures you'll get listening to "Shut Up and Dance". One leg of yours truly's perplex the northwest tour involved face time at the legendary Voodoo Donuts (nope, not paying me to plug them. I'd grease their collective egos for free any day). The dance heavy poundings of "Shut and Up Dance" have been choreographed specifically to hypnotize you as Voodoo Donuts can. Tried the voodoo doll itself. Chocolate plus raspberry amounts to I'm glad my metabolism hasn't set sail for oblivion. "Shut Up and Dance" plus lead vocalist Nicholas Petricca equals a splendid fun go of things that's bound to keep your fiesta going full tilt until everyone passes out from the accumulated exhaustion. "Anna Sun", the band's 2011 foray into legendary status was a riot from the word go. Whoever put together its accompanying video wasn't paid nearly enough for his attention to shining a bright light on every shame deprived frame of goofiness that was captured on film. Nicky had already shown his way around dance rock hilarity was at the master class level. "Shut Up and Dance" paints contagious peak hour celebration poses designed to fill each threadbare cranny. They go by the numbers in a mainstream direction more than "Anna Sun" did but the joy is no less easy to reach out and hug like the big, dumb, lug it claims it wants to be. Guitarist Eli Maiman gets freed from the porch steps on this effort and you can tell the difference. On "Anna Sun" he was the glue connecting Nicholas' poetic phrasings. Bathed in instrument friendly shades of strobe here, he gets a healthier swath of the spotlight. Sean Waugaman keeps the beat, gives it marching orders, and then holds on tight for the payoff he's convinced is coming his way. Kevin Ray's bass assures the assuring glow embedded in this string of moments doesn't veer too far off track. The critic's choice pick for best lyrics from this song have to be "A backless dress and some beat up sneaks, my discotheque Juliet teenage dream." Not since DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince gave sneaks an honorable mention in "Summertime" has that footwear gotten such lovingly propped up billing. I'm swayed by the concrete imagery. What makes reading a better choice than TV in the leisure department is books force you to use your imagination instead of having a cadre of crack writers color in the lines for you. The words behind "Shut Up and Dance" achieve the same outcome. You can draw the image in your head of a gorgeous woman clad in a backless dress and a somewhat socially awkward young male in beat up sneaks." Beauty and the beast out for a few spins in the featured dance of the night. Portland's downtown courtyard was a beguiling mix of beautiful people across the age spectrum. Turn on "Shut Up and Dance" and you can be one of those beautiful people to cool for the room. Another spot I visited was the tradition minded Salt & Straw ice cream shop. From experience I can conclude that their Oregon Rocky Road is worth getting into a verbal altercation with your dietitian. "Shut Up and Dance" trips across the tongue just as fabulously. Maybe their flavor notes aren't as naughty but the young at heart organs in your body can expect a similar workout. I haven't been familiar with Walk The Moon for too many years but my admiration for their output grows stronger by the hour. If they've made you dance like tomorrow isn't going to occur then they've done an incredible job of writing, performing, and getting matters laid down in the studio. Walk The Moon's insistence that you shut up and dance is delivered proudly with the best of intentions.

MercyMe Makes Sweet Sounds For a Greater Good

Mercy how MercyMe has its direct line to the heavens. From note one of "Greater", this Greenville, Texas force to be reckoned with hits exalted praise in all the right places. They don't know from staying content to remain in first gear. At the choral breaks their unity stands proud, unchained, and capable of cutting through the white noise that is life in this world. MercyMe has been lighting up the Christian circuit since 1994, about the time when grunge was already showing early signs of losing its grip on the public's imagination. 20 years later they haven't a drop of rust between them. Lead vocalist Bart Millard embodies the patience and understanding one looks to from defenders of the faith. No matter what scars this life has brought down on your heads, Bart knows you by an inner beauty day to day pain can't pull under. Michael John Scheuchzer wails away on his guitar with the bottomless energy of a puppy who figured out where his human pal kept the chow bowl. Refocusing on Bart, whether it's pain, shame, hurt, or tears he's got the shoulder you can cry on and hangs it out there liberally. As revivalist jams go "Greater" reaches every pore on your body and cleanses them so your core being has a like new radiance. Nathan Cochran has long since shown he's no slouch in the bass department. Robin Troy "Robby" Shaffer leverages his drum stylings into the baptismal font from which top to bottom renewal grows and becomes increasingly incandescent. You'll find this track on "Welcome To The New" a moniker which echoes "Greater" down the line. "Greater" summons up a double dutch audience participation enthusiasm. Hand clapping and foot stomping are perfectly within the bounds of decorum. You're encouraged to apply both whenever and wherever possible to obtain maximum hosanna frenzy. Barry Graul is an additional loaded gun on guitar. Combined he, John, and Robby elevate their game to where you sense they're not walking this orb so much levitating on top. "Greater" at its greatest offers a master class on how to run free in a complex society taking comfort from a God that's won the important wars in your life. The fivesome are both having fun and, one suspects, winning over converts one salute at a time. MercyMe's God can be relied on to prop up the fallen which, by our human natures, covers each of us who have and ever will tread Earth's surface. Their faith is utterly contagious. Your best bet is to grow lost in their uprising of purpose and gladness. "Greater" aids the greater good when listened to in that capacity. MercyMe demonstrates it knows where the mercy is found and how to mine it for the most purifying results. "Greater" typifies a palpable excitement greater than the sum of this band's parts. Greater metropolises everywhere are in for a energizing treat.