Here’s a sorta “duet” between Rob and Mary Jane ~ she always brings out the best in my baby ~ performing Michael Buble’s “Fever”.
Is there any reason to wonder why I tolerate love him (Rob, not Buble)? Yep, ladies and gents. He’s all mine.
Who’s crying now?
I’m not sure what’s worse – Lisa Marie pulling a Natalie Cole (ugh), performing necrophilia with her father and his canon; deciding to utilize the most racist song-masqueraded-as-social-commentary he (or anyone) ever recorded; or the director’s decision to fill the video with images of babies with guns, while a tear trickles down Lisa’s cheek. All in the name of New Orleans charity (a noble gesture) and the 30th anniversary of the death of the King of Rock N Roll. I know, I know, Chuck Berry ain’t dead, but I think you know what I mean.
Ahhh…TV rarely gets as gay as this anymore (I mean, besides Bravo, HGTV and American Idol, of course). Enjoy these lavender nuggets, first aired in the early 80s, at the time when the Chelsea Piers were a breeding ground for infectious diseases (sorta still is), Times Square was a vile den of iniquity, San Francisco was the ninth circle of hell and everything gay on TV was masqueraded in veils of homolicious masquerade balls. Warning: after watching these you might start yearning for multi-colored hankies, poppers and assless chaps, not-to-mention spelunking your closet for that old vinyl copy of the ‘Dreamgirls’ Broadway OCR.
Last week I posted my favorite CDs of 2005. And while it’s a hard task (I mean, who wants to intentionally revisit painful memories?), here are the worst musical experiences of my 2005.
1 IL DIVO Il Divo So, Simon Cowell searches the globe for the best opera singers he could find and all we get is this lousy hairshirt? Four quasi-talented vocalists with faces right out of gay porn? Their proclivity is toward the house-frau demographic, like an adult Backstreet Boys reunion tour, only the sounds are straight out of Muzak heaven (hell), each pretentious over-melodramatic dirge more consistently inharmonious than the next. Clay Aiken is Pavarotti by comparison, Lindsay Lohan is Aretha Franklin. Howlingly misguided, terminally ill-fated. It will make a fortune.
2 STAIND Chapter IV How could the powers-that-be possibly believe that lunkhead metal from five years ago would have an iota of relevance in 2005? Aaron Lewis over-emotes more than Chris Carrabba, while the crunching of the chords and the smashing of the drums give their teenage fan base all the reason in the world to believe the lies. But the dullards who buy into this are the same dimwits first on line in the I Hate Emo bandwagon, the ‘Boy Bands Suck’ collective. Well, kids, this emo Boy Band sucks too.
3 CELTIC WOMEN Celtic Woman The most revolting piece of Irish drivel since the onslaught of the Enya, this dreary, detestable piece of Irish goop inches slowly up to gold status thanks in no small part to the profusion of PBS. Their animism naive, and the soft-core eroticism snares the male demographic for all its perky refrain. Eire de Toilette indeed.
4 ENYA Amarantine Almost a year after it’s initial release, and because of the horror of September 11, this hack “singer” [yeah, right] / “songwriter” [oh, please] had the biggest selling piece of tripe of her career with the abhorrent A DAY WITHOUT RAIN, a dismal discord of synths and ooze that the world seemed to grasp onto as a sign of distorted comfort. Well, she’s baaaack…and as imprudent as ever. More quasi-Celtic schmaltz coalesced with her archaic wheeze of a voice, it took 5 years to come up with this monstrosity. She might need a new 9/11.
5 BACKSTREET BOYS Never Gone Driving the line between has-been stardom and ersatz nostalgia, this painful redux into the lost art of ‘boy bands’ couldn’t be more blatantly manipulative, right down to the almost indistinguishable videos, to the uneven mix of hideous ballads and up-tempo dirges. What made these boys [men] so irresistible before were their inherent urges to bestow beauty on the landscape. MILLENNIUM was a teen near-classic based on 4 of the first 5 cuts alone, with their ethereal vocal flourishes wafting you toward reverie signifying nothing but pulchritude. Here, the gasping of the voices, the pretentiousness of each trying to out-sing the other, and the song selection prove this to be a fatal error in judgment. What could have been a growing up process morphed into the 3rd coming of New Kids On the Block. Max Martin, where are you?
6 MARIAH CAREY The Emancipation Of Mimi “The Return of the Voice” it was heralded. More like, the “Attack of the Screaming Mimi”. In the beginning, Carey’s performance art consisted in the technically proficient rather than the emotional tonality. The post-Tommy years saw her dwindle that siren-like screech by leaning toward more hip-hop cred – sort of ‘The Pornification of Mimi’. While those results were more laughable, at least the thought was more laudable, and thank the powers that be, more listenable, albeit never – ever – lovable. Well, to secure both audiences, `Mimi’ juxtaposes both dichotomies to the nth degree. She had a knack for a hook, but her real gift was her rolodex filled with the Who’s Who of producers and arrangers; but you know you’re hard up when even the Neptune’s come up empty handed and Jermaine Dupree feels lost. But mediocrity was always a comfortable bed for Carey to lie in – this commercial comeback garnered Mariah her biggest opening ever, and her 16th [or 17th] #1 single. But, count out artistry here – it’s a genius marketing of a record company getting what they paid for.
7 BON JOVI Have A Nice Day Yes, Jon, 100,000,000 fans could be wrong, especially when your mathematics is a devious lie. But that’s another debate. Proving once and for all that their longevity has little to do with raw talent and plenty to do with pure chutzpah [and an ever-dwindling fan base], the latest in a long line of drek by these cliché-mongering, former pin-up boys proves neither a growth or regression – it’s a quintessential Bon Jovi confection – pallid ballads and unintentionally hilarious faux-rock, over-produced, and in grand, never-let-me-down Jon Bon Jovi fashion, sung with the most bombastic over-the-top whine this side of Celine Dion on steroids. They are so awful they are not even bad enough to enjoy anymore.
8 ASHLEE SIMPSON I Am Me While not off or on the bandwagon of the ‘Ashlee Sucks’ compendium of the past year or so, bringing it upon her uneducated self I might add, I took her SNL snafu for what it was – hell, Britney and Damita Jo herself have never sung live that I’ve ever witnessed [especially on SNL], so why the flack for this wannabe diva-ette? Because, when the tenacity turns to mendacity, it’s a one-way ticket Where Are They Now? You’ve heard it all ad nauseam, from Alanis to Avril to Kelly Clarkson to, well, Simpson herself. Engaging, if not specious on her debut, her vocal was never the matter…it was the strong tunesmith. Here she aims and fires for the hook, but decimates on contact, channeling various styles unsuccessfully with no sense of songcraft. There’s no sense of coherence in the songs – her brooding becomes at best, annoying, at worst, pathetic. It would have been nice for a real triumphant comeback to alleviate the past year or so, but instead she lands flat on her high notes. And. Lord, there is THAT voice. Overall, though, it could have been darker, more satanic for poor Ashlee – her first name could be Jessica.
9 NICKELBACK All The Right Reasons Putrid neo-grungsters who commit the worst sin – not admitting they are putrid neo-grungesters. This replicates their last two albums, and if that’s your cup of vomit, cheers.
10 BURT BACHARACH All This Time Good lord, where the hell is Dionne Warwick? Not that it’s remotely possible that she could save the banalities here, a socio-political lyric sheet by Bacharach, the composer, which clearly foreshadows senility. Frightened by the weight of the world, he takes to pen and paper for the first time in his career, penning elongated suites, long-winded instrumentals and – gasp! Actually sings a few himself. Grabbing onto hipsters and hip-hop is any sage’s call for help, but who knew that not even Elvis Costeloos, Dr. Dre (“the most extraordinary producer of our time” – Burt’s words, not mine), or Rufus Wainsright could save this. Forget Warwick, where the hell is Hal David?
Runners-Up:
BLOODHOUND GANG Hefty Fine How could misogyny, scat and Ralph Wiggums not be any fun?
MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge Power chords, a singer as sonic as an electrocuted simian, they got the quasi-Goth wardrobe down. Though, they’re really Emo in charade (oh, joy.). Perfect for the PopGoth for the the MTV generation. For the rest of civilization, they’re a travesty as cold and calculated as Limp Bizkit.
JASON MRAZ Mr. A-Z Dexterous wordplay doesn’t come close to his smug self-absorption. The most un-sexy artist to muse about sex since Adam Levine, his sophomoric cramming of too-many-puns-per sentences showcases his contrivance over deft, gauche over piquancy. If his preoccupation with sex seems congruous with his goofy frat boy geekiness, it makes it more depressing that he ain’t got the skills.
PAUL MCCARTNEY Chaos and Creation in the Backyard Far be it from mortal me to attempt to knock a legend off his pedestal, but, sick of hearing, every few years when Sir Paul releases a new album that it’s ‘his comeback!’ ‘He hasn’t been this good in years!!’ ‘The best since the 70s!!!’ Please, Rock-N-Roll Hall of Fame solo be damned, he’s never released a masterpiece [closest was his almost-covers CD post-Linda, a fine tribute to 50s nostalgia]. While not as lethargic as ‘Driver Rain’, or cringe-inducing as his last live opus, this is still a major annoyance. Balanced by John, George and Ringo in the 60s, unbalanced by Linda and – who else? – ever since.
ANDY BELL Electric Blues Gay disco at it’s most commercially repugnant; there isn’t a hummable track on this hour-long spiral into the depths of top 40 club-land. Not that Erasure was ever inventive or ground-breaking (they were not), but there were hints of campy nostalgia within each superficial album, which propelled Bell to utilize his atrociously schmaltzy vocals to grand, if not hammy, effect. On ELECTRIC BLUES he takes his ‘art’ serious, folks, and by serious I mean dueting with his offspring, Jake Shears and losing the preciousness that endeared him to his aging queer fan base.
JENNIFER LOPEZ Rebirth I thought abortion was legal. Then how did this album survive?
SHERYL CROW Wildflower Formulaic enough, she also releases a deluxe edition, with acoustic versions of the track list. Whatever happened to the Sheryl Crow of SHERYL CROW?
I figure I’d give this whole blogging thing a whirl – so many people are doing it, so I figure, what the hell. And what a perfect time, too! I’m sitting here, at home, fading into perpetual boredom, out on 6 weeks medical leave for a meniscus problem.
So how better to bide my time in returning to work than diving head first into dozens and dozens of releases that I either missed, illegally downloaded (I’m ashamed, I’m ashamed), kindly recommended by friends (thanx, Jim Cantiello!!!) or those flying around the pop-culture landscape.
And, I figure, while I have nothing profound to say, at least I’m saying it! So, my initial blog post here on WordPress will be the Best and Worst CDs of 2005. I know it’s only November, but, what the hell.
Here are the beauties. I’ll post the beasts soon…
1 ANTHONY & THE JOHNSONS I Am A Bird Now Like the gospel drenched in raw spirit and soul, there is beauty incarnate seeping from the ravishing voice of each veil that creates who and what Antony is. His attestation willful and willed, his sacred writ both born and borne, the timeless transcendence in each poem translates to the very core of the human condition, life’s frailties, it’s death and resurrections, it’s dreams and nightmares. Boy George duets with his most powerful vocal ever, and before you dare to snicker, know there isn’t an iota of camp in the intricate lyric or the vocalizations. Rufus Wainwright, in a usually assured solo vocal, Devendra Banhart, lending his usual unusual harmonies, and Lou Reed all add to this soul fest. Nothing will prepare you for the dramatic earthquake or heart rendering impact.
2 SHARON JONES & THE DAP KINGS Naturally – Where has Sharon Jones been all my life? Listlessly drudging up mack versions of quasi-soul [check out the R&B charts lately?] or pale, white bread faux artists [see Joss Stone] and sickly tired of female artists trying to imitate of all people [God help us all] Ashanti, this is the real deal. Every so often, terrific neo-soul artists emerge [Angie Stone, John Legend, Van Hunt, Anthony Hamilton] but they bow to their forefathers and foremothers, and they do it genuinely and often with great results. But then there’s Sharon Jones. Neo-soul and R&B dross be damned, this is the Mama from Atlanta with the deep fried cadence. With one majestic neo-classic after another, Sharon’s big dirty southern voice wraps it’s sinewy sinfulness around each melody – singing the funk blues so delectable that white folks devour them even though they’re aimed at the black aesthete. They’re so archetypal, so gorgeous, you have to wonder why no one’s ever thunk them before. But for all it’s grit, there is a also beauty in her voice that in undeniable…she plays vocally to all of her strengths all the while the back-up-band-from-heaven, the Dap Kings, keep their hypnotic pace – so rarely do you hear such unified universal funk soul brothers drenched with the sexual politico. And in the aftermath of the most pathetic administration in recent history, rejoice in Jones’ effect in making ‘This Land Is Your Land’, with its often overlooked 3rd verse, the political statement of the year.
3 KANYE WEST Late Registration Increasingly annoyingly bloated in ego [I know it’s part of the game, but after land-marking the classic dubut into historic significance, a little humility does a body good], West second-bests himself with his brilliant lyrics – give the man propers for being about the only mainstream/top 40 hip-hop neo-icon with a socio-political stream of consciousness. His sinewy beats and groovy samples, great cameos by Patti LaBelle, who takes ‘Roses’ to literal heights; Brandy, Jay-Z – he only thuds when incorporating the soul-less Adam Levine.
4 AMY RIGBY Little Fugitive Her best writ since marriage, despair and growing up made her debut a masterpiece a decade ago, and her coolest vocal as well, diary number 5 tackles ex-husbands, ex-wives of new husbands, needy men, dreams of Joey Ramone, all while feeling an infinity with Rasputin. If only Oprah understood the complexities of real womanhood. A songwriter nonpareil, with only Lucinda as a peer. Sheryl Crow could learn a few [dozen] lessons. Why isn’t this woman a star with 8 Grammy’s and 10 million in the bank? Oh, yeah…the better for her lovers, like me.
5 M.I.A. Arular If you don’t believe in her politics, listen to the music – we can’t all be John Lennon. But we could aspire to be Public Enemy – different genre, same ethos. With her minimalist approach, she jettisons a rapid-fire selection of rage, humour, politics [sometimes muddled and confusing], sex…but always arresting and thought provoking. Online pugilists argue the terrorist/Tamil revolutionary ties via her father, and while it’s an important salient subject to spelunk, weaving the politico with the dance floor is an exhilarating art I can’t overlook based on that writ – Madonna could learn a thing or two about juxtaposing them creatively (see AMERICAN LIFE). She’s a paradigm in the making.
6 GOGOL BORDELLO Gypsy Punks Underdog World Strike Ukranian Eastern European New Yorkgypsy immigrant punk cabaret, sung in broken English by Eugene Hutz [who needs an exorcist] and played with ferocious intensity by his merry men and women. The most thrilling CD I’ve heard all year – you’ll be singing along although you’ll have no idea exactly what you are saying.
7 SUFJAN STEVENS Illinois Hype from hipsters steered me away, the indie-press descants shuddered my shoulders -as well as the God-Is-Love voodoo of his persona and not to mention the seeming state-by-state gimmick – it was difficult not to savor the eccentricity of it all…the sheer eclecticism of subject, the mellifluence he employs so briskly, the outrageous-by-design titles, the peculiar chord progression and song structure, the deft wordplay, the gorgeous melodies – you find new and wondrous things half a dozen times in. Poet laureate or troubadour, I don’t know [and neither does he], but I want to run with him in the garden and find out. But first I need to stop in Chicago and visit my sister. Religiosity is scarce, and while that’s a good thing here, he is so beautiful in his inherent glory that he could take me to church and marry me. If it were legal.
8 AMADOU ET MARIAM Dimanche a Bamako 30 years on, legendary West Africa couple Amadou Bagayoko and Mariam Doumbia have their commercial comeuppance in the other-than-world-music sphere, and I am not egotistical or hip enough to admit that you can count me in that group. What I did discover upon the solid recommendation of a sage-in-the-woods is an extraordinary juxtaposition of rhythm and glorious melody and gargantuan beats and a conviction that only 30 years of love could muster. The great Manu Chao produces with a pristine knowledge and his variegated patterns illuminate the vocal while the whole thing effervesces into an explosion of infectious tunes. Believe the hype.
9 CLEM SNIDE The End of Love Nothing groundbreaking on album number 5, and that’s a beautiful thing, because if it’s one thing we rely upon with Eef, it’s his absolute sincerity, deadpan surrealism and steadfast belief. The dichotomy of Brooklyn and Nashville, where he was rooted and sojourned to, trickles in and out of his lyrics, as does loss [he lost his mother this past year, as did his wife], confusion, awareness, and inevitably, love. It’s a rock n’ stroll by the deftest songwriter since Randy Newman. Words to live by: “Now that I’m found I miss being lost…”
10 ALISON MOYET Voice If any aging icon has the inherent right to perform standards, old and newer, it is the impeccable exquisiteness of Moyet’s rich and dense texture. Her manly, brooding alto brings deep, nascent understanding of the oft-recorded lyrics; it’s almost as if she were borne to sing these. Her ‘Windmills Of My Mind’ is clearly one of the most brilliant takes of this song ever recorded. The rest are deliberately paced, slow-burning and permeated with sense and sensuality. While Rod Stewart continues raping the standards canon with his queasy grasp at quasi-relevance, I’ll bask in the glow of Moyet. This collection’s invisibility is a crime.
11 FIONA APPLE Extraordinary Machine Eschews Jon Brion for the most part and it’s actually finer-tuned? Now that’s extraordinary! Blossomed from the uneven TIDAL, progressed into WHEN THE PAWN and matured here, ignore the Brion-ophiles – this couldn’t be a tastier Apple.
12 KATE BUSH Aerial The dichotomy of love and hate that has greeted AERIAL from the die-hard’s (blow-hard’s?) negates the obvious – it’s been 12 years since THE RED SHOES – take this for the entity it is and as a work of it’s own. So, it’s no HOUNDS OF LOVE or THE KICK INSIDE (hell, it ain’t even LIONHEART). What it is is a majestic, sweeping, weird and peculiar tone poem with breathtaking vocals and deft arrangements. Sure, she’s still a mooncalf, all right – but a brilliant one. Invisible for more than a decade, which only added to her mystical allure, her child-rearing years has given her that right for an array of new perspectives, as her pen has never been mightier while her serenity remains in focus. So, maybe it transcends HOUNDS OF LOVE or THE KICK INSIDE (hell, maybe even LIONHEART).
And tied for a Baker’s Dozen, here are equally exceptional releases that I’ve taken to heart – and could easily trade places with most of the Top 12:
BRIGHT EYES I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning Not as wordy as Alanis at his age, not as profound as Dylan at any age, maybe Paul Simon at PAUL SIMON?
SLEATER KINNEY The Woods Riot-grrrl be damned, this is their step toward classic rock.
JOHN LEGEND Get Lifted Smoothest voice and most sumptuous grooves of the year, thanks in no small part to Kanye West’s master production and Legend’s gorgeous tones, and the poignant track of the year (“Ordinary People”)
ARCADE FIRE Funeral A 2004 release that somehow slipped through my fingers until 2005 and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to succor the beauty until then.
My New Boyfriend 