shifting priorities

Dear friends,

It struck me last night, while drunk on wine after a weekend full of too much smoking and some drinking and mostly playing, that I really needed to crack down on my grad school writing. I'm about 2/3 done with the Berkeley requirements but must just finish. Not to mention start/finish my UT Austin application, which is due mere weeks after the Berkeley one.

Considering that every other Wednesday is occupied with my volunteering, and Tuesdays I get home late from therapy as it is, I thought it best to try to use my time better when I'm home and get some good writing done. For as long as I can or need to.

In short, the review column is put on hold until further notice. Indefinitely, but not finally.

Thanks for your understanding.
Annie

Grace

It is nearly impossible for me to separate the music on Jeff Buckley’s album Grace from the incredibly potent experiences I had getting high in college. In fact, since then, I actually haven’t been able to listen to the CD all the way through, but it was specifically requested that I review it this week; I figured I’d be able to finally listen to it critically. I think the conclusion is I failed miserably, considering I nearly burst into tears on the subway. So this might not be a review, so much as a trip down memory lane…or something.

The fact of the matter is that Buckley’s life was way too short—he drowned when he was 30—and I’m just not convinced his posthumous success has outshone the success he might have had if he had lived a longer life, even though that’s what everyone always says about posthumous success. His voice has been described as “ethereal,” and I couldn’t think of a better word. It’s ghostly at times, strong and striking when he wails, and his falsetto rules the CD. The way it soars from one part of his range to the other is part of his remarkable talent.

Like I mentioned, these songs are kind of engrained in me and they’re honestly hard to separate as distinct from each other. In “Mojo Pin,” Buckley starts with an echoing “ooh,” whispers about how he loves her so, and then screams about his “black beauty.” It’s a stirring song to listen to while sober, let alone…um…not. In “Grace,” he eerily sings about his mortality: “Drink a bit of wine, we both might go tomorrow.” In all the times I’ve heard the album, it wasn’t until this listen that I heard the clock ticking in the background. Creepy.

“Last Goodbye” was always a particularly sentimental track in our house, if for nothing but the lyrics “Kiss me, please kiss me. Kiss me out of desire, baby, not consolation.” I can’t quite recall why that hurt us all so much, but I remember a lot of swooning. The bridge of this song is Buckley basically screaming perpetually higher until he explodes into singing. It’s pretty powerful stuff.

The covers on this album, Nina Simone’s “Lilac Wine,” Leonard Cohen’s “Hallejulah” and the hymn “Corpus Christi Carol” are, in my opinion, what make the album. (I guess it can be mentioned here that when I was introduced to this music, I had no idea what era Buckley had lived. I assumed he had been famous during the 60s.) Buckley’s version of “Lilac Wine” is sung in his ridiculous falsetto. His version of “Hallejulah,” probably his most famous track, is a revelation. It’s beautifully sung and played, so sad, and the crazy note he holds at the end never ceases to amaze me. And “Corpus Christi Carol” seriously stuns me every time because he sings so high through the whole song; he sounds like a woman, but I mean that in a good way.

On the track “So Real,” there’s a break in the song that always made us impressionable girls die a little, when Buckley growls, “I love you, but I’m afraid to love you.” That line always struck us as so a propos in those days. Ah, youth.

The track that always struck me as a buzzkill was “Eternal Life,” but listening to it now, I’m not sure why I didn’t like it then. Maybe because the hard-driving beat was a contrast to all the melancholia of the rest of the album and I was always forced out of my reverie. Or maybe it just sobered me up a little. I suppose both were equally boring to me then. I’d never even heard the strings in this song before today.

The thing is, this album is one of those that will just always vividly remind me of a certain time in my life. There’s no way around it. The other thing, though, is that this may be one of the best albums in my collection. Too bad I can’t listen to it anymore.

Once

The movie Once has been dubbed a modern-day musical, but I stand by the fact that it’s just a movie about musicians…so of course there’s music in it. I fear that spoilers may lie within the review because the music is basically the plot of the movie, which makes it even more beautiful.

In the film, the magic of the first playing of “Falling Slowly” can’t be separated from the song itself. It is a seriously stunning scene, illustrating spontaneous harmony, in more ways than one. It starts with just guitar and piano, the instruments of Guy (Glen Hansard) and Girl (Marketa Irglova) in the movie (pointedly, they remain unnamed) and explodes into one of the most beautiful choruses I’ve ever heard. The song gains momentum and strings, but the electricity of it is that in the film, it’s the first time these musicians are playing together, and it foretells an intense, prolific relationship.

What is particularly striking about the music in this movie is that not only are entire songs played (not just snippets) but the way they are unveiled within the plot seems completely organic. They materialize out of the natural occurrence of the film—like I said, the music is the plot. “If You Want Me” is one of Irglova’s solos. Within the plot, Guy has given her the gift of writing lyrics to one of his songs. The characters call it romantic, but it’s strikingly sad. The wonderful mystery of these songs is that you can’t quite ever tell who they’re singing about. We find out that both characters, though obviously drawn intensely to each other, are also pulled to their own previous spouses—for her, it’s a husband, for him, it’s his ex-girlfriend whom he plans to win back. But on first listen, “if you want me, satisfy me” seems to be a yearning plea to Guy. This song also features a drum machine and Hansard on backing vocals, which makes it an anomaly on the soundtrack.

One of the turning points of the movie revolves around Guy arranging to record some of his music. He recruits Girl and some fellow buskers to play with him, and “When Your Mind’s Made Up” is the first track they record. It features bass and drums and Irglova playing piano that could only have been inspired by the Amelie composer, whimsical and melancholy, as well as Hansard’s intense, emotional screams that crescendo and then just keep going. There’s no resolution, which is perfect at this point in the movie.

As Guy sings “Lies,” he watches an old video of his ex (we find out early on that she “screwed some guy she knew”) and it seems that she and this have inspired most of his music. It’s about the unraveling of his relationship—“the little cracks that escalated.” Hansard’s wispy falsetto brings Jeff Buckley to mind, and the Irish fiddles shudder along with him.

At one point in the movie, Guy and Girl go to dinner at a pub where it seems like the only requirement for dining there is that you sing. “Gold” is a song that Guy sings with his cronies, all guitar players. The sound of this song is so full, many guitars, many voices, and sweet, melancholy lyrics like “And if your laugh was gold/how long do you think you’d stay livin?” I think that may be my new philosophy in life.

During the recording session, the emotional climax of the film occurs when Girl sings “The Hill” to Guy. It is just her voice and her piano playing, sounding a bit like a melodramatic movie and singing slightly trite lyrics: “Walkin up the hill tonight/And you have closed your eyes/I wish I didn’t have to make all those mistakes and be wise.” (In the movie, she admits the lyrics need work.) Still, as she sings about her husband, obviously just a young girl trying to figure out how to be a wife and mother, she breaks down to Guy and they really touch for the first time, finally concretely admitting their connection. It’s a potent moment, despite the immaturity of the song.

The crux of the movie lies within the above songs. The others don’t sit with as much weight in terms of the entire movie, although “Trying to Pull Myself Away” is the obvious radio single of the album, with Hansard sounding an awful lot like Ben Harper, featuring a broad chorus and intricate descending strings. Further, “All the Way Down” is a sleeper favorite of mine.

The song “Once,” which runs under the end credits is a duet between Hansard and Irglova (who are a couple in real life, after this movie) about the fleeting moment of recognition they’ve shared: “Once, once/I knew how to look for you/Once, once/But that was before/Once, once/I would have laid down to die for you/Once, once/But not anymore.” It should be mentioned here that Hansard’s falsetto is stunning.

I find it fascinating and poignant that the last song on the album is “Say it to Me Now.” The guitar here is reminiscent of a Beatles song I can’t identify. It begins with a benign enough verse and erupts into Hansard’s wrenching scream. The poignancy lies in the fact that, in the film, this is the song Guy sings right before he meets Girl. It actually starts the whole romantic, hopeful and sad story.

As Cruel as School Children

Gym Class Heroes’ album As Cruel as School Children features the combination of smart, funny lyrics, catchy beats, and a charming lead performer. The band obviously takes a few cues from Outkast, but there’s something even more…playful and young about these guys and their album.

The first track, “The Queen and I,” is underlain by a funky Spanish guitar and Travis McCoy sarcastically railing against his woman’s drinking habits. There are recurring themes, as is expected from men who’ve newly found fame, of hook-ups, partying, and keeping one’s integrity (although none of those things is ever mentioned simultaneously in the same song). “New Friend Request” is one of the only songs I’m aware of that boasts a “MySpace” reference. Love in the digital age has never sounded so clever (“On the scale from 1 to awesome, I’m the shit)…or realistic. (He sends the lady he’s wooing a dozen digital roses and admits to checking his inbox 10 times a day.) “Clothes Off!” insists that we have to take our clothes off and have to party all night to have a good time. No questions about it. The charm oozing out of McCoy rivals Justin Timberlake, and the lyrics are hilarious in their overtness: “The way you stole my attention was flat out burgulary/What do you say let's exit stage left so me and you can/Possibly reconvene and play some naked peekaboo.”

Interspersed among all the attempts to hook up on the album are three “Sloppy Love Jingles,” all of which are brilliant in their absolute shamelessness. McCoy here is earnest but playful, not taking himself seriously, but seriously charming: “To me she equaled MC squared and everything else was mathematics/I never took the time to practice.” He chronicles one more attempted hookup, this one incredibly drunken and ending in an unsatisfying, forgettable sexual liaison: “With a smile I grabbed the note, lit a smoke and sat back,/"Dear whoever, lose my number. P.S. the sex was whack.”

The bottom line of these songs is that the productions are simple. The choruses are unexpected because, in contrast to the hiphopiness of the verses, they are usually pop-rock. “Clothes Off!” and “7 Weeks” even feature identifiable electric guitar riffs. Still, it is precisely this simplicity that makes it hard to decipher one track from the next.

The highlight of the album is their first single, “Cupid’s Chokehold.” Its unbelievably infectious chorus, featuring Patrick Stump of Fall Out Boy, consists of the intricate refrain, “Ba ba da da” and McCoy, again, sings about trying to find the right girl. His definitions of love range from her giving him Alka-Seltzer when his tummy aches and her having her own ring tone. It’s precisely this combination of silly immaturity that wins me over and makes me keep listening.

Plus, McCoy is totally hot.

Jagged Little Pill

To ease back into writing reviews after a couple weeks off, I thought I’d start with one of the hinges of my adolescent musical life, Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill. This album quickly became a phenomenon after its release in 1995, and it pushed me into an awareness of popular music. In the more than 10 years since its release, it’s become a modern classic.

The album begins with a power chord on electric guitar and a harmonica. “All I Really Want” was never a single, but because it’s the album-opener, it leaves just as much of a lasting impression as her more famous songs. In it, she’s shrieking (sometimes anxiously, deliciously off-key) about seeking a soulmate, finding someone to understand her, testing the limits of her current, unsatisfying situation: “Why are you so petrified of silence? Here, can you handle this?”

“You Oughta Know” and “Perfect” continue this line of angst and bitterness, but in supremely opposite ways. “You Oughta Know” is the infamous rant against a former lover and his new mistress: “Does she know how you told me you’d hold me until you died, till you died? But you’re still alive.” There is a hard-hitting beat, a wail to her voice, and Flea from Red Hot Chili Peppers on bass. Then, the acoustic chords of “Perfect” begin and it seems to be an antidote to all the tortured-soulness that’s been heard so far, until the lyrics become clear: “Sometimes is never quite enough, if you’re flawless, then you’ll win my love.” The writing process of this song has become the stuff of pop music lore. Apparently, Morissette and her producer, Glen Ballard, wrote it in one sitting—the song just fell out of her. The sickening sweetness of the verses explodes into an anguished bridge: “…You’ll make up for what I blew, what’s the problem? Why are you crying?”

“Hand in my Pocket” is the first lighter track; even it is bittersweet. “I’m broke but I’m happy…I’m lost but I’m hopeful.” It’s an anthem of self-confidence, despite her youth and uncertainty. And 12 years later, those sentiments are still potent and relatable.

On “Right Through You,” Woman Scorned is back. She’s tired of being disregarded (“You took me out to wine, dine, 69 me, but didn’t hear a damn word I say”) and claims revenge through her success: “Now that I’m Miss Thang, now that I’m zillionaire, you scan the credits for your name and wonder why it’s not there.”

“Head Over Feet,” one of the simplest, prettiest songs on the album, is the closest thing to a love song Morissette can muster. She’s trying to adjust to the idea of finally being cared for, and admits that’s she fallen for him, in spite of her better judgment.

The mega-hit, “Ironic,” has been under scrutiny for years for not accurately illustrating irony. Still, it’s one of the only songs on the album with a fuller sound, more intricate orchestrations, and harmonies. However, most of the examples she writes about as ironic are just plain sad: “A traffic jam when you're already late, a no-smoking sign on your cigarette break, it's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife, it's meeting the man of my dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife.”

I have a couple secret favorite tracks. The bigness of Morissete’s voice in “Mary Jane,” which seems to be a plea for herself or a friend to start making the right decisions, is impressive. And “Not the Doctor” is a simmering song about all the pacifiers she does not want to be for him: mother, babysitter, glue, alcohol. Plus, the bass on the chorus rocks hard.

The final single, “Wake Up,” starts with an instrumentation that portends doom. It’s a rail against her him being contrary, wimpy, and an assertion that karma will come back to him eventually.

I’m not convinced Alanis Morissette has produced anything quite as revelatory as Jagged Little Pill since 1995, but I’m pretty sure she’s not as angry anymore. And that’s got to be a good thing.

Infinity On High

Fall Out Boy’s latest album Infinity On High begins with applause and Jay-Z’s invocation. The boys from Chicago seem to know they’ve made it, and this album is confident in its cleverness and catchiness.

In my humble opinion, the hero of this album (if not the band—I’m not a connoisseur of theirs, but I can take an educated guess) is the lead singer, even if he’s not “the cute one.” (Pete Wentz is the bassist. Patrick Stump is the one second from the right.) He’s sincerely a white boy with soul. His voice carries weight and grit but can also soar into a strong falsetto and his riffing skills are addicting.

On “The Take’s Over, the Break’s Over,” he invokes Adam Levine (and I mean that in the best way possible). His battle cry on the rock operatic “This Ain’t a Scene, It’s a Goddamn Arms Race” aches for an arena. (In fact, it ends with an intense call and response.) His falsetto on “Hum Hallelujah” impresses. On the bridge of their current single, “Thks for the Mmrs,” accompanied by Spanish guitar that comes out of nowhere, he growls “Get me out of my mind/Get you out of those clothes.” And his riff at the end of “Bang the Doldrums” soars the track to its incredible climax.

There’s an interesting element on this album too, courtesy of incredible production. Not only are Stump’s vocals the star, but the background vocalists often steal the songs. They take over during the straight-from-Leonard-Cohen “Hallelujah” chorus during “Hum Hallelujah,” and the effect is striking. On “Golden,” the piano ballad on the album, the simplicity of the song itself is intense in contrast to the other harder driving songs, but the chorus and piano take it to further intensity as it concludes. “Thks for the Mmrs,” includes techno-like “One. Night. Stand. Oh,” which seriously makes the song for me, even though I can’t necessarily explain why.

The band’s inspirations are obvious. “The Take’s Over, the Break’s Over” is heavily Maroon 5-influenced. “Bang the Doldrums” sounds like Green Day, and “You’re Crashing, But You’re No Wave” begins with drums that sound like a Strokes track and a baritone part of Stump’s range we haven’t heard earlier on the album. There is serious 80s influence on “The (After) Life of the Party,” and the beginning of “I’ve Got All This Ringing in My Ears and None on my Fingers” sounds like the beginning of the finale in Fame.

Plus, these boys are clever. (My favorite track name is “I’m Like a Lawyer with the Way I’m Always Trying to Get You Off (Me&You).”) And by the time the applause at the end of the album is followed by the robotic voice, I can’t help but obey it. “Now press repeat.” I do. Over and over.

St. Elsewhere

Gnarls Barkley’s album St. Elsewhere is one of the only albums I can remember hearing and absolutely loving right from the beginning. Theirs is a brilliant, almost undefinable sound—heavily and perfectly produced beats by Danger Mouse, running under the staggering wail and low rumble of Cee-Lo’s vocals. It’s music you can’t help but move your body to.

The album begins with the sound of a projector being put on, which adds an element of fantasy to the entire listening experience. We’re immediately suspending disbelief that these are songs that we need to take too seriously. This element of whimsy (with a touch of impending doom) may be the album’s theme, at least instrumentally. The first track, “Go-Go Gadget Gospel” features frenzied horns and incredible key changes. It’s a joyful, manic song, a perfect first taste of this unique sound. It’s the song that grabbed me instantly.

The ubiquitous single, “Crazy,” has running under it a sample from an Italian Spaghetti Western. It’s a biting satire about mental health (“Ha Ha Ha bless your soul, you really think you’re in control”) with a seriously infectious beat. No wonder it was all over the place last summer.

The breadth of the album ranges from the strangely apocalyptic “St. Elsewhere” (“Anywhere you sit you can see the sun/Unfortunately on this island I’m the only one”) to video-game-inspired cover of the Violent Femmes’ “Gone Daddy Gone” to the explosive “Smiley Faces.”

There’s a hint of the macabre on a couple interesting songs: “The Boogie Monster” and “Necromancer.” In “Boogie Monster,” Cee-Lo rumbles like a boogie man and the beat creeps along, sounding like a funkier cousin of “The Monster Mash.” Still, you can’t help but dance to it. “Necromancer” is probably my favorite song, if only because of these lyrics: “She was cool when I met her, but I think I like her better dead.” And yes, I think the song is, in fact, about what it sounds like it’s about.

They throw back to an early 90s R&B sound on “Who Cares?” and “Online.” “Who Cares?” features what sounds like a jazz flute, and “Online” has the girl-group background vocals. And the apocalypse theme comes back with a vengeance on “Storm Coming,” which also strikes me as the most epically musical-theater track. The album ends with the sound of the projection ending, and the fantasy is over.

These songs are short and sweet, perfectly produced, strikingly sung and completely satisfying. I hope the huge popularity of “Crazy” does not curse Gnarls Barkley to one-hit-wonderdom. These guys are way too talented for that.

(Sorry, kids. I’m taking the next two weeks off from the column. Mama needs a vacation.)

It Won't Be Soon Before Long

Maroon 5 have a gimmick. It’s a gimmick that works but a gimmick, nonetheless. Adam Levine sings suggestive lyrics over throbbing bass and drums and we all swoon. On their previous album, Songs About Jane, this formula seemed new and fresh. On It Won’t Be Soon Before Long, their latest release, the point is made. We get it, boys. You write sexy, infectious funky music. Can we move on now? I haven’t decided if I really want to, myself.

Levine’s high tenor sings of randomly hooking up. A lot. In “If I Never See Your Face Again,” he’s surprised about getting further than he expected to that night with some chick. However, on “Makes Me Wonder,” their first single, he’s already giving her the brush-off. He’s wondering if he should cry and “if I ever gave a fuck about you.” That was fast.

The beginning of “Little of Your Time” is probably my favorite opener to any of the tracks. I want someone on “So You Think You Can Dance” to choreograph a dance to it. It aches to be danced to, with its staccato guitar at the verses easing into a smoother and disco-y-er chorus. Levine is an adept singer, with an interestingly…soulful voice for a skinny Jewish kid. (In fact, when I first heard Songs About Jane, I was sure he was black.)

“Wake Up Call” is their most recent single. It’s a song of betrayal and doubt, “Don’t you care about me anymore?” It sounds like a fantasy of revenge, with a chorus that invites screaming along to. I can’t tell if this song is taking itself too seriously, or if it’s actually written to just be a dance jam.

“Won’t Go Home Without You,” the first song on the album that doesn’t pulse with an intense bass-drums combo, sounds a little bit like “Every Breath You Take” by The Police running under “The Way” by Fastball. It’s just nothing new. Neither is “Nothing Lasts Forever.” Both are safe, tepid ballads about relationship regrets. They’re easy on the ears but just not that interesting.

“Can’t Stop” is one of the catchier songs on an album full of them. It’s about the inevitable obsession phase, when you’re not quite getting the attention from someone that you’re craving: “I touch myself like it’s somebody else/thoughts of you are tattooed on my mind.” The refrain “I can’t stop thinking about you” is repeated until the very end of the song.

The opening guitar riff of “Goodnight Goodnight” is pretty much exactly that which opens “Kryptonite” by 3 Doors Down; it’s distracting. He’s sending her off in this song, hopeful that things will work out. Otherwise, the lyrics are just “goodnight.” (That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but the lyrics do leave something to be desired. The song ends with him repeating “goodnight” 13 times. That’s too many.)

On “Not Falling Apart,” Levine sings in a startlingly lower key for much of the verses. It adds an element of interest to the track, about a man girded against the heartbreak he may or may not have to endure, as he relives the night of their breakup.

“Kiwi” contains the lyrics: “Sweet Kiwi/your juices dripping down my chin” and continues in graphic and poetic detail to describe a rendezvous. It’s the closest to pop music erotica as I think they could get away with, so hats off to them for at least that.

“Better that We Break” is the piano ballad on the album. It’s definitely pretty. That’s about it.

I do really like the track “Back at Your Door.” The verses are a bit of a throwback to the old doowop songs. I want to hear girl backup singers “da-dooping” in the background. And the song soars into a very pretty orchestrated chorus. This song is definitely the big finale of the album.

The “bonus” track, “Figure It Out,” starts with a cowbell and jerks into heavy distorted guitar and “Never-Gonna-Get-It”-by-En-Vogue-like electric guitar picks. It’s another very sexy song, in terms of the guitar and drums combination.

Like I said, these boys know what they’re doing, in that regard. I just wish a little bit that I could distinguish the songs better between each other and that they left a more lasting impression. But yes, they’ve got sexy down.

The Reminder

Feist (full name: Leslie Feist) sounds a little bit like every other girl singer/songwriter out there. She’s Sarah McLachlan when she whispers, Tori Amos when she yowls, and Imogen Heap when she sings to electronica. Somehow, she also sounds like no one else, and her vocal range, both physically and in terms of the genres the album spans, is impressive. Her third album, The Reminder, is smarter and more satisfying every time I listen to it, even though it didn’t grab me right away.

On “So Sorry,” her whimper is McLachlan-esque, if Sarah had as much strength and control as Feist exhibits here. The album then shoots into catchy, bouncy, fully orchestrated “I Feel it All.” It’s the first time we hear how gifted Feist is as a pianist. (For the record, Gonzales is also credited as a pianist on the album.) Throughout the album, they make the piano growl, throb, and sing beautifully along with her, and it is often the star of the songs, second only to her interesting vocals.

“My Moon My Man” is the song that convinced me to buy the album. It is an infectious disco song, and Feist’s incessant purr through it is a brilliant and smartly contrasting accompaniment to the driving piano and drums. The song even features a slap bass and an effect that sounds like the cell phone-radio interference. Appropriately enough, it's featured on a currently-running Verizon commercial.

The piano that opens “The Water” sounds like that which might be featured in a Zero 7 song and an unexpected blues instrumental break electrifies the song past its apparent somberness. “Sea Lion Woman” is an interesting track, a veritable African chant, but with a true rock n’ roll instrumental break. “Past in Present” surprises with its country/rock vibe, complete with wah wah guitar and tinny vocal effect. It’s vaguely Sheryl Crow-esque and unlike anything else on the album. On “The Limit to Your Love,” Feist’s vocal range reaches Bjork’s, and again, the piano becomes the featured player.

“1234” is her current single. It’s pretty much all over the place right now, but I still think it’s lovely. The piano break in the song is killer. It sounds like a Tori Amos piano break but with brass, which makes it even better really. And the video’s pretty adorable too.

The album seems to begin dragging after “1234.” I think “Brandy Alexander,” with only piano, bass, and snaps to keep the beat, is interesting and pretty. But followed by “Intuition” and “Honey Honey,” the minimalism of the tracks begins to invoke boredom. It isn’t until the album’s incredible finale, “How My Heart Behaves,” that it is redeemed again. This song’s full orchestration, including a harp, strikes me as much broader than the rest of the album, more filmic. And it’s amazing what a harmonizing male voice does to deepen a song, when you haven’t heard male voices the entire album.

This album isn’t a homerun, but I think Feist is a gifted and risky vocalist and musician. I didn’t think I liked it this much, until I heard it one more time. I bet I’ll like it even more the next time I listen.

Favourite Worst Nightmare

The young men of Arctic Monkeys are from Sheffield, England, which basically means their accents are so thick, it’s hard to discern the lyrics being sung on their short and sweet album Favourite Worst Nightmare. Still, the catchy, bumping songs are infectious as well as surprisingly mature.

The themes of the album range from bad breakups to random and reckless hookups, which is appropriate for the band made up of four boys under 21. Still, there’s a lot more reflection than one would expect from such youngsters. It’s also a more complicated album in terms of melody and rhythm than their debut Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not.

“Brianstorm” is reminiscent of the surfer rock song, Misirlou, with its electric guitar riff and driving drums. (The high hat then has a hard time keeping up with the beat, but we’ll forgive that because the song is so dang much fun.) It seems to be an ode to(or is it a rant against) a bloke named Brian, who hooks up with chicks with little effort and wears t-shirts and ties combinations that they can’t keep their eyes off. Sounds like a cool guy.

There are certain songs that are just primed for a greater venue. I find myself nearly shouting out with the songs when I’m listening on my iPod. I can’t imagine how ridiculously fun a live show may be. “D is for Dangerous” is one of the most satisfying songs, yearning to be sung along to. The instrumental pauses within the guitar and drum beats make me want to scream along with the song.The syncopation of the drums and wooden block in “Balaclava” are like the best beats in funk.

But it’s in the lyrics on this album that the band really impresses me. They’re nearly Sondheimian in their wordiness and internal rhyme and for boys under 21, they’re incredibly poetic and complex. “Only Ones Who Know” is a veritable poem about how the two people involved in a breakup are the only ones who know what’s best for them: “And even if somebody could have shown you the place you wanted, well I'm sure you could have made it that bit better on your own, you are the only ones who know.” Instrumentally, it’s a departure from the rest of the album, which is otherwise so full of electric guitar and solid, 8-count drum beats; this track uses some kind of sliding guitar that sounds like violins.

“Do Me a Favour” is my favorite song on the album. It too is about a bad breakup and begins with “George of the Jungle”-like drums. It starts innocently and even sadly: “Well the morning was complete./There was tears on the steering wheel dripping on the seat,/Several hours or several weeks,/I'd have the cheek to say they're equally as bleak!” (Note the ingenious rhyme of cheek and equally.) It’s a song that then slowly creeps towards an intense and bitter crescendo: “And to tear apart the ties that bind, perhaps fuck off might be too kind, perhaps fuck off might be too kind.”

In my opinion, the lyrics are the star of the rest of the album. I almost stop listening to the music, even though it too is very smart. On “If You Were There, Beware,” the singer sneaks off into an echo, singing “There's a circle of witches, ambitiously vicious they are.” On “Old Yellow Bricks,” the band bumps through these lyrics: “She said I want to sleep in the city that never wakes up,/And revel in nostalgia,/I know I said he wants to sleep in the city that never wakes up but,/Dorothy was right though.” These are the kind of phrases that continue to run through my head, hours after hearing them on the CD. They’re well worth a listen, and the youthful, garage-bandy innocence and spunk of their music is an added bonus.

My December

(Posted a bit early in honor of the holiday :))

I am an unabashed Kelly Clarkson fan. I marked the date of the release of her 3rd album, My December, on my work calendar and bought it that day. I think her voice is powerful and unique. I was eagerly anticipating this CD, especially because it’s already made so many headlines. The album itself is almost disappointing, but I think her voice transcends the mediocre music she’s singing. And there are a couple of startlingly beautiful singles, which are definitely worth a listen.

The first released single, “Never Again,” is a bitter but catchy song, full of threats and ill wishes: “I hope the ring you gave her turns her finger green,” “You’ll die together but alone.” This girl is pissed. It’s a song driven by hard bass and drums, full of rage and spite, which is obviously a departure from her previous CDs but nothing particularly shocking to my ears. The overt theme of the album is Woman Scorned; it should really be the subtitle.

On the techno-pop track, “One Minute,” Clarkson sings about how things change quickly in a relationship. This is a new sound for her, but I’m not sure it works. The impression this song leaves isn’t long-lasting. “Hole” sounds a bit too much like “Never Again” for me. It features amateur lyrics and weak segues, but her high belt is really unparalleled when she sings “I can feel it/It’s all wrong/I’m so sick of this.”

“Sober,” however, is simply stunning. It snuck up on me the first time I heard it, making me cry on a subway platform and giving me chills in 90 degree weather. She sings of not being sure who she is or if she’ll survive without him in the aftermath of a breakup, “I could crash and burn but maybe at the end of this road, I might catch a glimpse of me.” In this somber song, a bass tin drum beats forebodingly in the background and she sings at a low boil until she explodes in a literal wail, singing “three months” like an obsessive reminder, a mantra that is failing her.

After such a gorgeous, effective song, the next few are a letdown. The album in general feels a little bit like Clarkson wrote a bunch of songs and they just recorded them and threw them together, slipshod. Still, she’s a gifted singer, and the way she plays with the melody of “Judas” makes the song even sadder. And who doesn’t feel her on these lyrics? “Forgetting me, you took things in your hands and left me out/After we’d been through so much, how could you let me down?” The beginning of “Haunted” sounds like the instrumentation at the doomed end of an Eminem song. The track is reminiscent of Evanescence’s “Bring Me to Life,” and ends with Clarkson chillingly whispering “You were smiling” over and over, on the verge of a meltdown. “Be Still” is a bit more of a sweet song, where Clarkson remembers the good ol’ days, “Before we lost hope/when we still touched and love wasn’t so hard.”

Conversely, “Maybe” looks into the possibilities of reconnecting in the future. She bravely sings of her stubbornness and the mistakes she’s made. This isn’t an album full of “Woe is me” sentiment, “Yeah, I’m hard and life with me is never easy to figure out.” It begins with just acoustic guitar and drums but eventually intensifies and keeps getting harder, “I don’t want to be tough and I don’t want to be proud/I don’t need to be fixed and I certainly don’t need to be found/I’m not lost.” She seems to be gaining clarity as the song resolves, wondering if one day they’ll meet and understand each other finally.

On “How I Feel,” Clarkson sounds alternatively like Gwen Stefani, as she vocally scoops to and from notes, and Pat Benatar, when she growls. Here, she’s singing about how all the good men she meets are married with babies, how babies are everywhere, and how she’s sick of hearing about everyone’s wonderful life. Aren’t we all?

“Yeah” is an old, brassy, soulful song, backed by a chorus of girls. It has a spoken word interlude that reminds me of Suzanne Vega’s “Tom’s Diner” and features a key change that enlivens this otherwise unexciting song.

The melody of “Can I Have a Kiss” is just a tad too sharp throughout the song. It sits funny. Perhaps that’s to suggest a lack of resolution, a pleading, but I just think it sounds unsettling. The lyrics here are also brave; she admits being a mess and that she’s still working on herself and being able to commit.

The final track on the album, “Irvine,” is the furthest departure from the Clarkson with whom we’re all familiar. A guitar strums and this ethereal echo nearly whispers the lyrics. I read this song described as “near suicidal,” and it’s true. “Why is it so hard?/Why can’t you just take me?/I don’t have much to go/Before I fade completely.” It’s a send up to the gods to save her, and the result is haunting and evocative.

The “Deluxe Edition” of My December on iTunes also includes a hidden track after “Irvine,” a bonus track, and two remixes of “Never Again.” It’s certainly chockfull. Too bad it’s not her best. But you should certainly invest in “Sober” the single.

Ys

Joanna Newsom is a word nerd. Which I’m pretty sure is what makes her such a startling lyricist. Her second album “Ys” was introduced to me during a wonderful day last December, when my old college roommate and her boyfriend made me breakfast. I knew if I listened to the album more carefully, it would probably dissolve me into tears.

Newsom is both harpist and vocalist on this complicated album. The album is comprised of only 5 songs, most of which clock in over 10 minutes. Each song is so intricately written, both lyrically and instrumentally, it’s hard to encapsulate each one in a paragraph.

“Emily” begins like a dirge. It struck me as some of the most melancholy singing ever and within the first line, she throws the word “chim-choo-ree” at us. Then suddenly the orchestrations hit at such a strong force, the first time I heard it, I nearly had to choke back a sob. That effect hasn’t really decreased any, after many more listens. It’s so intensely visceral, whirling and speeding towards a climax but never reaching it. Newsom’s songs are so wordy, you have to look up the lyrics to appreciate them. “The meteorite is a source of the light/And the meteor's just what we see/And the meteoroid is a stone that's devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee.” Or how about “You came and lay a cold compress upon the mess I’m in/Threw the window wide and cried: Amen! Amen! Amen!” Newsom’s voice is odd; it rises and falls from the squeak of an 8-year-old to the alto hum of an old woman. Sometimes she sounds like Bjork. Sometimes she sounds like she’s whistling, but it’s coming from her throat.

“Monkey and Bear” is the second track and begins sounding like a madrigal. It’s a winding tale about a monkey and bear escaping and in love. Newsom’s rhyming here is astounding, “Your feast is to the East, which lies a little past the pasture/When the blackbirds hear tea whistling, they rise and clap/And their applause caws the kettle black
And we can't have none of that!/Move along, Bear; there, there; that’s that.” Her voice scoops from a bass to bursts of young joy as she sings to the others to dance. There is an Asian melodic theme present, perhaps due to the abundance of strings—she is, after all, a harpist. And this song includes the only use of the word “spelunking” I’ve ever heard in a musical recording.

On “Sawdust and Diamonds,” Newsom accompanies herself on harp alone. This track begins with a chant and returns to the chant at the end. She sings here of a long lost love and the search for him forevermore. This track is probably my least favorite and I think it’s because of the blatant lack of orchestrations. We are left instead to interpret the puzzling lyrics.

“Only Skin” is the longest track on the album and my favorite. In listening to it again for this post, it was hard to nail down why it’s my favorite, especially because it’s over 16 minutes long. We hear references to previous tracks with the melodies. (This is an album you must listen to in entirety; it is not comprised of singles.) These orchestrations sound like they should be part of an epic, haunting and sweet film; they are full and symphonic, begging to be performed in a grander scheme. This song also features the only male voice on the whole album, in a gradually more frantic call-and-response, ending with “Come across the desert with no shoes on!/I love you truly, or I love no-one.” The song resolves with Newsom playing alone on her harp, followed by one more frenetic burst of the orchestra.

“Cosmia” features the most conclusive melody of any on the album. Newsom repeats “And I miss your precious heart” over and over throughout the song. Suddenly in the middle, an irish jig begins. And the tune (and the album) then ends, unresolved.

These songs are strange and long, but startlingly written so they make up 50 minutes of time well spent.

Eminem: Curtain Call

I must begin this week’s post with a dedication to my lovely brother who turns 27 today. He introduced me to Eminem. Thanks, Chuckee D! Rub you!

As a disclaimer, I believe that Eminem needs to be taken with a huge grain of salt and listened to as the smart, savvy lyricist and performer he is. I don’t think he’s a homophobe or a racist or a misogynist.

I went through a period of time when I kept realizing how much I missed Eminem. I didn’t have any of his songs on my iPod, even though I’d listened to him a lot in college. So I invested in Curtain Call, his 2005 greatest hits release. There are a couple of his masterpieces that aren’t included on this album (“White America” and “Kim” are among my favorites), but overall, it’s a pretty satisfying collection, spanning the hit singles from 1999’s Slim Shady LP to 2004’s Encore and including lesser-heard duets with Notorious B.I.G. (the most shocking lyrics on the album are on this duet, "Dead Wrong"), Jay-Z, and D12 as well as some new songs, including the dance hit "Shake that Ass" featuring Nate Dogg, and the hilarious track, "Just Lose It," which includes a fart joke.

This compilation begins with an “Intro,” in the guise of a doo-wop song and dedicated to the ladies in the audience, segueing into “FACK,” the title of which makes me giggle even. The bass line throbs and Eminem busies himself rapping about a sexual encounter in which he basically doesn’t want to…finish too quickly. It’s hilarious and strangely hot.

The next track, “The Way I Am,” from 2000’s The Marshall Mathers LP, is a driving, angry tirade against the way Eminem is interpreted in the media. It is a recurring theme in his music, obviously. Aside from the anger (which I understand could easily cloud anyone else’s interpretation of the song and the singer), he also manages to articulate really smart things about how music can certainly influence children, but the parents should be the most important influence: "When a dude's gettin bullied and shoots up his school/and they blame it on Marilyn (on Marilyn).. and the heroin/Where were the parents at?" This, also, is a recurring theme in his music.

One of the fascinating things about Eminem is his many alter egos, his fierce performances on the microphone. He takes on voices: the low, serious toned “Marshall,” the bratty, high-pitched, satirist “Slim Shady,” and “Em” on the tracks where he’s chatting up the ladies or with his boys. We hear Marshall in songs like “Stan,” which is perhaps his most famous and popular single. It’s the track he performed at the Grammys with Elton John, singing the Dido sample and playing piano…watch it here. (This version of the single is also on the album.) “Stan” touches upon what Eminem seems to fear the most, being taken too seriously. The plot of the track hinges on an obsessed fan writing desperate letters to Eminem, who, when he doesn’t hear back from him, drives his truck off a bridge with his pregnant girlfriend in the trunk. It ends with Eminem’s response, also in letter form, assuring him that what he performs is all an act; it’s not how he lives his life. The lyrics in this song are unforgettable, cutting, serious, and haunting: “You ruined it now, I hope you can't sleep and you dream about it/And when you dream I hope you can't sleep and you SCREAM about it/I hope your conscience EATS AT YOU and you can't BREATHE without me.” They leave a lasting impression, especially when the rapper Eminem realizes that the person who's been writing to him is probably dead.

Marshall is also the voice on the single from 8 Mile, “Lose Yourself,” which won Eminem the Oscar for Best Song. It’s a song like a train, trucking along endlessly and powerfully, an apparently autobiographical song about a struggling rapper who’s waiting and working towards his big break. It’s about seizing the opportunities that reveal themselves to us, and the lyrics are so apt that Jodie Foster quoted them in her speech at the Penn commencement last year. Personally, I think the Oscar was deserved, if only for these lyrics: “Snap back to reality, Oh there goes gravity/Oh, there goes Rabbit, he choked/He's so mad, but he won't give up that/Easy, no.” Who else could rhyme “gravity” with “Rabbit, he”?

Eminem, the satirist, can’t be ignored. This is what made him famous in the first place, with “My Name Is…” in which he manages to mention (and insult) the Spice Girls, Pamela Lee, and any fan who wants an autograph. I think the charm and genius in this track is in the interludes between lyrics: “I lay awake and strap myself in the bed/Put a bulletproof vest on and shoot myself in the head (BANG!)/I'm steaming mad (Arrrggghhh!)/And by the way when you see my dad? (Yeah?)/Tell him that I slit his throat, in this dream I had.” It’s the catchiness that keeps me coming back, the hook that I think he must know is impossible for his audience to get away from. This voice comes back in “Without Me” and “The Real Slim Shady.” In fact, as I was listening to the album again for this post, I noticed how similar these three tracks are. He consistently makes fun of the president and his colleagues, pop stars (particularly boy bands and Moby, “And Moby, you can get stomped by Obie,/You 36 year old bald headed fag blow me/You don't know me, you're too old/Let go, it's over, nobody listens to techno”), and his mother.

Apparently, Eminem has officially retired to spend more time with his family. It’s evident from this album how much he seems to be regretful. “Mockingbird,” “When I’m Gone, and “Like Toy Soldiers” are all songs about how he understands how he does influence his fans and his children (a biological and adopted daughter), even though that's not what he initially expected. He knows he needs to be a leader and can't be tempted into feuds by other artists. He is striving for reconciliation with his family, wondering how his daughter can trust how much he loves her when he's insulting her mother in his songs.

Still, the last track, “I Just Don’t Give a F*ck,” probably sums it up best. (There are far too many tracks on this album to write about each one.) I think Eminem’s lasting message is that he, like the rest of us, uses his music as a way of expressing himself. And that’s really the end of the story. He doesn’t care too much about what we think of it: “So put my tape back on the rack/Go run and tell your friends my sh*t is wack/I just don't give a f*ck!!” Despite this, or maybe because of it, he still has plenty of fans.

Rufus Wainwright: Release the Stars

In This is Your Brain on Music , by Daniel J. Levitin, the author writes about how the way people perceive music is based on a certain amount of expectation. We hear a rhythm or a melody, and we anticipate the beat or note coming up. That’s what gets us to tap our feet or sing along. He also notes that part of the reason people love music, part of what makes music interesting, is when those expectations are unexpectedly unfulfilled.

Rufus Wainwright is the king of this. On his most recent album, Release the Stars, the most striking, stirring parts of songs are when the melody suddenly shifts, often almost to the point of dissonance. These moments make the listener sit up and go “Huh?!” It’s masterful and evidence of his incredible genius when it comes to orchestration.

Release the Stars is veritably the score to a huge, fully orchestrated musical. The first single, and my favorite on the album, is “Do I Disappoint You?,” an explosive cry against all things melodramatic, which is ironic considering who’s singing and the rest of the album. Still, his frustrated call of “Why does it always have to be chaos? Why does it always have to be wanderlust? Sensational,” complete with Arcade Fire-like banshee screams in the background, made me think, “I KNOW, right?!” The melody of the chorus goes one way twice and then all of a sudden it flips to the point where it’s virtually unsingable.

The next song, “Going to a Town” is the first released single. It’s Wainwright through and through, accompanied by a simple piano melody, drums, and a hint of strings in the background. Apparently, he’s tired of America, and he certainly knows his audience.

“Tiergarten” begins with a chant that sounds like an Enya track and ends with harp music that sounds reminiscent of the score of Edward Scissorhands. If Wainwright is the king of dissonance and unfulfilled expectations, he’s also the king of yearning: “I have suffered shipwreck against your dark brown eyes/I have run aground against your broken down smiles.”

I read someone’s description of “Nobody’s Off the Hook” as quirky. I, however, find it hackneyed. How many words can he rhyme with hook? This, however, is the big ballad of the musical, complete with incredibly beautiful sections of just strings.

Then, we’re suddenly in a disco, as “Between My Legs,” the obscene valentine to his object of affection, begins. I tried to do some research to figure out the background of this song. All the message boarders seem to know the history but aren’t writing about it. It seems to be about escaping with a lover when Armageddon comes. It ends with the famous chords from Phantom of the Opera, which is a wonderfully clever tip of the hat to the genre he can’t seem to deny.

It’s here in the album that I get restless. “Rules and Regulations” and “Not Ready to Love” are both slow, almost plodding, and sound too much like each other. I want the songs to be shorter every time I listen to the album.

“Slideshow” is sung like a petulant, insecure, incessant child: “Do I love you because you treat me so indifferently? Or is it the medication?” The refrain “And I better be prominently featured in your next slideshow” is repeated like a whine. The song is complicated and long, complete with a large horn section and truly satisfying orchestra hits.

“Tulsa,” a hilarious, wordy, frenzied tango leads into “Leaving for Paris,” a slow waltz about brushing off a lover: “And when I get there, I will lose the ring you gave me,” that strikes me as one of few songs on the album with a quiet melodic resolution. This leads straight into “Sanssouci” , the song most obviously about escape.

The 11th hour showstopper is “Release the Stars,” which begins as a doowop song and turns into another full-fledged orchestrated showtune. In the middle of this song, Wainwright shows his huge range, sounding like a black lady belter who can also sing baritone. It’s astounding.

If you keep in mind that I can never resist a good showtune, nevermind an orchestra hit here and there, you’ll understand why this album is in serious heavy rotation on my iPod. [My mom loves it too. (Hi Mom!)]

Arcade Fire: Funeral

I must begin with a disclaimer. There seems to have been a misinterpretation of my intentions with this “column.” I am not, in fact, going to purchase new music every week and write about it here so you all will know whether or not to buy it. I just do not have the funds for that activity, sadly. Rather, this is a chance for me to write about the music I already have in my life because there’s plenty already here that moves and inspires me. Unfortunately, that means that several of my most faithful readers already own the music they will be reading about. Hopefully, that will not deter them.

My love affair with Arcade Fire began around the winter of 2006, when my brother stuck his iPod earphones in my ear and played me the ridiculously brilliant tempo change in “Crown of Love” from their album, Funeral. I admit, I wasn’t convinced just from that listen.

Somehow the entire album came into my consciousness. The first track, “Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)” grabbed me from its first airy piano notes and ascending guitar. The piano sounds like its being played underwater. Or is water. And then I started listening to the lyrics: “And if the snow buries my…my neighborhood. And if my parents are crying. Then I’ll build a tunnel, from my window to yours.” Later in the song, the lyrics tell of letting their hair grow long and living out in the snow. It’s reminiscent of Postal Service’s “Brand New Colony,” illustrating a powerful need to escape from life with someone, but here he’s singing about it with a passion that is somehow melancholy.

This album is sort of a smorgasbord. It careens from arena-anthem-like chants in “Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)” and “Wake Up,” which apparently U2 plays in their intermission, to near whispers in “Une Annee Sans Lumiere” (one of the bandmates originates from Haiti) and the use of haunting strings and a perfectly tuned tea kettle in “Neighborhood #4 (Kettles).”

“Crown of Love” is the crown jewel of the album, in my opinion. I didn’t quite understand the full resonance of it until I listened through the entire song and I continue to be floored by it. The song made me want to write epic novels, fall in and out of love, and run through the rain in summer all at the same time. It’s a stunningly orchestrated song, complete with violins that sneak up on you, vocal whispers in the background, a piano that cannot be contained, heartbreaking lyrics (“They say it fades, if you let it. Love was made to forget it. I carved your name across my eyelids. You pray for rain; I pray for blindness”), and a driving, suspenseful refrain that explodes into near-frenzied proportions. I think they must refuse to play it live because everyone would just spontaneously combust.

The album’s denouement begins with one of the band’s most famous songs, “Rebellion (Lies).” It begins with a driving drum beat, the kind that instigates a crowd to begin jumping up and down. I think it’s a song about an illicit affair; I don’t really know. But the star of that song is the key change within the chorus. It cuts like a knife. Every. Single. Time.

I must admit ignorance to the meanings of most of these songs and, being such an analyzer, that’s a difficult admission. But this is one of those albums in my world that I love because the music just grabs me in the first seconds and makes me die inside. And that’s a good thing.

I heart Elliott

OK, fine! I’ll write a review about Elliott Yamin’s CD. Get off my back!

Those who are near and dear to me know what a soft-spot I have for Elliott. He completely stole my heart when he sang this song on American Idol last season. Even Simon Cowell was convinced. And did anyone else notice how HOT he got?

I had waited anxiously since the conclusion of last season’s AI to hear news of his CD deal and I marked March 20th on my calendar because I planned on getting it right away. This makes it a whopping three CDs by American Idol contestants that are played in heavy rotation on my iPod. (Should I be more embarrassed about that?)

The thing is: this CD is just OK. But what Elliott does with his voice is MASTERFUL. His first single, “Movin’ On,” is pretty typical. In fact, the whole CD is. Pretty standard pop/R&B. There are even a couple songs I just downright do not like (“Wait for You” and “One Word,” to be more specific. Both are kind of…lame). But when he sings it right, he blows it out of the park.

Listen, if you will, to the very end of “Find a Way,” which I think is my favorite track on the album. Forget the lyrics, the saccharine “They say that pride goes before a fall/Heaven help us all, if love don’t find a way.” Just listen to how perfectly he wails it. I listened to it twice the first time through the CD, and it gave me chills. He makes the mediocre music compelling just because of his voice.

His forte seems to be the bridges and crescendos of the songs. In “I’m the Man,” he climaxes with “As long as we’re together, I know it’s gonna be alright,” and sends the song into a sweet bridge and ending. During “Free,” he belts mid-way through the track, “Don’t wait for tomorrow. You got to do it today,” and I believe him!

There are some surprises on this self-titled CD as well. In “Train Wreck,” in which he warns a girl against rushing into a relationship, the key changes in the chorus are unexpected and sexy. And his cover of “Whiter Shade of Pale” is another great example of his energy and enthusiasm in his singing. You can hear his heart and soul in the songs he’s singing on the whole album, even though the music could be better.

Even the rendition of “Song for You” included on the CD left me a bit disappointed. I think it pales in comparison to his performance of it in the link above. The arrangement is good on this CD, but he oversings this stunning, simple song. I want to feel like we are alone and he is singing the song to me.

I can’t stop listening to it because his voice literally moves me, but I hope this album does well enough that he can put out a better one someday.

Despite Myself

Chris Daughtry is hot. Perhaps the hottest contestant in American Idol history. That much has been established. People thought he was going to win Season 5 of the show, but he was kicked off in the top 4, to everyone’s shock. Check out one of his performances here. You could tell he was going to be huge. In fact, if I have my facts right, he’s already become one of the best-selling Idol alums, creeping quickly up on Kelly Clarkson’s album-selling success. He’s said getting kicked off the show early was the best thing that could have happened. Surprise, surprise.

I made my coworker buy his album, “Daughtry,” last week. His first single, “It’s Not Over,” sounds suspiciously like Fuel’s “Hemorrhage.” So much so, the songs get stuck in my head at the same time. I was, however, impressed that he didn’t try to showcase his fledgling acting skills in his debut video. He did, however, have his bandmates’ pictures blurred on the CD cover. Oh…and the band is also just called Daughtry.

There’s nothing new on the CD. It’s kind of…Mild Hate Against the Machine, if you will. Or…Stoned Temple Cadets. Or…Unleaded Fuel. I could keep going…but I won’t.

A couple songs have cringe-worthy lyrics.
“Used To” includes these: “You used to walk with me like we had nowhere we needed to go/nice and slow/to no place in particular.” Hogwash.
And these: “I used to listen/you always had the just right thing to say.” A little trouble with the meter, there, boys?

About eight songs into the CD, you’re not sure where you’ve heard those chords before and then you realize it was on the CD itself.

Still, I can’t stop listening to it. “Home” is lovely, with a surprisingly beautifully orchestrated bridge and the prophetic lyrics “Be careful what you wish for/cuz you just might get it all.” And I heard he wrote the song right before he left to be on Idol. Maybe he imagined then the show wasn’t the right venue for him.

His falsetto singing in “Breakdown” also made me stop and listen. It was a range we hadn’t heard during his time on Idol. And Slash has a guitar solo on “What I Want.” That’s pretty cool, I guess.

I am especially impressed with the final two songs on the CD, “What About Now” and “Sorry.” They’re pretty and harmless and Chris’s correct pronunciation of the word “me” must be commended. I admit, I expected him to fall to the level of pop stars before him and sing it so it rhymes with “day.”

Despite myself, I’ve listened to the CD on repeat since Thursday evening.
And I am not ashamed.

But Enough about Me...

I read Jancee Dunn's book and related to it so much, I wrote her a fan letter and sent her this review, hoping to get some attention as a writer.

It didn't work.

But the book is still really good.

A Nobody Finds Herself
--June 2006

I recently had a birthday, and my mother asked me what I wanted. I hadn’t thought about possible answers to that question for years because the answer is always inevitably “money,” as impersonal as that seems. But since, this year, my mom is a little strapped for cash, I gave the question its due attention.

I spend an embarrassing amount of time surfing the web at work. I pore over celebrity news and entertainment blogs, almost as compulsively as I check my personal email. One of these blogs had an announcement about Jancee Dunn’s memoir, “But Enough About Me…a Jersey Girl’s Unlikely Adventures Among the Absurdly Famous.” It was one of those purchases that I probably never would have been able to justify making myself, but I was eager to read any and all celebrity factoids (since my livelihood and social life are greatly based on useless celebrity trivia), so I added it to the list of things I wanted for my birthday. This list also included My So-Called Life, The Breakfast Club, and Say Anything…on DVD. I figured my mother could make a more educated choice, and I would be more surprised, if I gave her a range of items to choose from.

My birthday arrived and I opened my package from Amazon.com. Inside sat Dunn’s book, and, after I finished the book I had been reading, I eagerly began it and found I couldn’t put it down.

Written as part handbook for young journalists and part memoir, in which the passages dedicated to her parents and her sisters are the most vivid and moving, the book flies by before your eyes. It’s the kind of book that’s perfect for reading on the New York City subway (the same one you imagine Dunn may be riding, once you discover she lives there too!), the kind of book that is so engrossing you almost miss your stop and never hear the music you’re listening to on your iPod while you ride to work in the morning.

We follow Dunn from her awkward and self-deprecating adolescence to her awkward and self-deprecating adulthood. Even her dedication at the beginning of the book declares, through the words of Emily Dickinson, that she is “nobody.” From her mid-teen years in New Jersey, when New York City seemed like a whole other country, to her stumbles through employment at Rolling Stone, MTV, Good Morning America, and New York Magazine in the city that once seemed so far away, and finally to a reconnection with herself and the family she hadn’t even thought to learn more about. It struck me, though, that for someone to have such luck in the writing and entertainment industry, there’s no way she could be as awkward and fumbly as she portrays herself. This woman may be a self-proclaimed geek, but that doesn’t mean that she isn’t cool.

Her first cringe-worthy Q and As at Rolling Stone, with the odd couple of Mary Tyler Moore and Johnny Rotten (not simultaneously, of course) affirm her early admission of geekdom. But the interlude chapters that shed light on how to make the best of sticky interview situations prove that Dunn eventually hit her stride beautifully. It is Dunn’s honesty and earnestness that are undoubtedly the traits these “absurdly famous” respond to. Dunn seems to be a wide open book, eager for connection, and desperate never to make a fool of herself or anyone else. She is on the celebrities’ side. She wants them to look good, and she wants to tell the truth about them, even when she has to ask them about their very public mistakes. She is as relieved as we are when they respond thoughtfully (thank you Robert Downey, Jr.); and she writes honest and generous articles about her subjects (the anecdotes about Loretta Lynn’s and Christina Aguilera’s reactions to her articles about them made me almost weep openly on the subway, as Kelly Clarkson belted “Breakaway” in my ear).

Dunn is not shy about pointing the interrogation lamp at herself. She is brutally honest about the fights she has with her family (about college and money and her need for independence), her unlucky love life (with the abrasive and immature Ritchie, the controlling and dull Sean, and the lazy and irresponsible Trevor), her uncertainties about marriage and motherhood (as she observes her friends and her sisters beginning to settle down and create their own families), and the serious mistakes she makes as she begins to forget who she is in the fog of her “Rock Chick” lifestyle.

In the end, it is her family that holds her up and gets her back on her feet (literally after a severe coke binge, her brother-in-law Patrick carries her to the toilet so she can vomit, after generously making her a grilled cheese sandwich and regaling her with his own pre-sobriety stories). It is her father’s constant cheeriness, her mother’s strength and unexpected vulnerability (another tear-inducing episode on the train), and her sisters’ unfaltering loyalty that remind Dunn who she is and has always been. And the “happily ever after” ending doesn’t hurt either.

“But Enough About Me…” is a veritable blueprint for ambitious writers and young people trying to make it in this potentially crushing city. But the most striking and resonating message I was left with is that, absurdly famous or not, we are all human. And in this culture so fixated on success, when we beat ourselves up because we don’t look like the women in the magazines and haven’t yet made our first million, when we become impatient because we don’t even know what we’re doing with our lives yet, it’s a lovely reminder.

Fiona Does Disney!

Fiona Apple's latest album, Extraordinary Machine, inspired me to do something I had never done before--write a review. I even posted it on Amazon.
(This is the last post from 2005, aside from a fan letter to Zach Braff that I am too embarrassed to post here :)
Keep reading!!

November 2005

Don't be alarmed. I don't mean Ms. Apple has sold out to the mega-corporation. She's just begun to make wonderful, whimsical music, and it seems she's finally begun to take herself much less seriously! It's refreshing, interesting, heartfelt, poignant music, not to mention the best lyrics she's ever written. It takes a couple listens, all the way through, for this album's superbness to begin to sink in. But right away, "Extraordinary Machine" grabs you, with its unexpected orchestrations--oboe and bells that delightfully enhance this downright catchy tune. The ironic pairing of such whimsy with lyrics about adaptability in a raucous relationship ("Be kind to me or treat me mean/I'll make the most of it, I'm an extraordinary machine") is delicious.

The sadness and anger at the fall-out of her relationship sneak up on you. She boasts in "Get Him Back," the most driving of the songs, "But wait till I get him back/He won't have a back to scratch." The kinetic force of her determination and frustration is palpable. But then she also takes time to reflect on her possible insanity at such intense feelings. In "Tymps (The Sick in the Head Song)," accompanied by what sounds like Danny Elfman-inspired percussion and is reminiscent of The Nightmare Before Christmas, she wonders, "I'm either so sick in the head/I need to be bled dry, to quit/Or I just really used to love him/I sure hope that's it."

Her signature piano playing is almost forgotten among the near-perfect production of the supplemental orchestrations, until she rocks out in "Not About Love." Her fierceness on the piano sweeps the song away into rage, even as she belts, "This is not about love/Cause I am not in love/In fact I can't stop falling out." Ouch.

This may be my new favorite break-up album, for all the above reasons, and these simple, hilarious lyrics, in "Oh Well": "What wasted unconditional love/On somebody/Who doesn't believe in the stuff/Oh well." This album is, in the end, about moving on, with your dignity and sense of humor intact.