Tackling a chorus that flirts with seeping just past the outer boundaries of his range, Owen’s soaring vocal lifts this lovely and perfectly harmless spoonful of cornpone schmaltz that, to the songwriters’ immense credit, never quite heads in the direction you fully expect it to. (To completely appreciate the restraint on display throughout these three minutes, refer back to something like Collin Raye’s treacly 1991 smash “Love, Me” and you’ll instantly get a sharply-honed sense of how sinfully sappy this heart-warmer could have been. And seeing as how Owen seems perfectly content to fill the same slot at country radio that Raye did a couple of decades ago, the analogy hardly seems inapt.)
Bruce Springsteen — “We Take Care of Our Own” (from Wrecking Ball) —
Certainly conjuring his strongest (and most acutely focused) effort since The Rising (and quite possibly since Born in the U.S.A.), the Boss hurls himself back into the mix with a grandiose (and, also, rather grand) new album, and not a moment too soon: just as Rising surveyed the shaky patchwork of our post-9/11 reality, and Born took the country’s frustrated measure four years into the sharply divisive Reagan age, Wrecking Ball dares to shine a light on the heresy and hypocrisy of a nation founded on the principles of democracy and freedom allowing the aspirational allure of the American dream to be snatched clean out of the hands of ninety-nine percent of its populace. A knockout punch from one of society’s keenest observers.
Meat Loaf (featuring Patti Russo) — “California Dreamin’” (from Hell in a Handbasket) —
Not quite on the level of the revelatory take on The Mamas and the Papas’ iconic classic that Queen Latifah turned in a few years back, but the ferocious Mr. Loaf — with the nimble aid of his old favorite duet partner — shows he’s still got it, anchoring his terrific new album with a harder-edged, smartly rendered cover of an ever-reliable chestnut from the modern American songbook. (I had the great honor of chatting with Meat Loaf a couple of years ago for a special edition of Brandon’s Buzz Radio, and if you missed that conversation, I highly suggest you catch up with it here.)
One completely biased fan’s opinion (hint: mine mine mine) has it that the quality of Gray’s musical output has dipped dramatically in the years following his astonishing string of successes throughout the first half of the aughts. (Hardly an unforgivable sin, that: the same can easily be said of Tori Amos, Annie Lennox, and about a dozen other artists that I nonetheless love all the way down to my toenails.) Still, when Gray is on his game — as he is on this 2009 stunner, plumbing the murky magnificence of one of his favorite topics: love slipping through the flawed hero’s fingers — there ain’t nobody in his league.
Jessie Baylin — “Love is Wasted On Lovers” (from Little Spark) —
A scintillating cross between the big-throated brilliance of Adele and the lighthearted, charmingly tinny whimsy of She & Him’s Zooey Deschanel, Baylin scores a quietly rollicking ringer from her terrific third album with a bittersweet ode to the ones who got — and/or almost certainly will get — away.
Of course, I am glued this morning to CNN and its coverage of Whitney Houston’s funeral in New Jersey, which I pray is going to be a classy and tastefully handled affair. (I say pray because Piers Morgan is slated to be the lead anchor once the service heads into full swing, and he loves little more than kicking up a shitstorm of sensationalism and then swaddling it in whatever the British equivalent of aw shucks humility is.) Needless to say, Whitney’s family and friends — and, surely, her music — are in my thoughts today. (By the by, please keep my sister and nephew-to-be in your thoughts on this day: she is five months into what has become a less-than-ideal pregnancy, and she and that beautiful baby need all the great karma and energy we can send them this weekend.)
Whtiney Houston — “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength”
(from I Look to You) —
“…we are focusing on Whitney Houston because of talent and tragedy. I think most of talent this morning. Many of us, when asked what talent we wish we had, we say the ability to sing. Whitney Houston had one of the great voices, but we never know how to answer the question: What is your responsibility to a gift like that? How do you cherish it, how do you nourish it, how do you give it wings to fly? Perhaps only those with the gift can answer those questions. Whitney Houston had it, and in thinking about her dream and her death, I am reminded of what Ernest Hemingway said of his friend Scott Fitzgerald in A Moveable Feast: ‘His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly’s wings. At one time, he understood it no more than the butterfly understood it, and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later, he became conscious of his damaged wings, and of their construction, and he learned to think and could not fly anymore, because the love of flight was gone, and he could only remember when it had been effortless.’”
— the extraordinary Charlie Rose, speaking to his own (and my, and presumably all of our) conflicted emotions on the riveting life and tragic death of the one and only Whitney Houston, on Monday’s CBS This Morning. (Fair warning: I’m indeed still in a Whitney mood — if not a full-on Whitney daze — and that’s likely to be the case for at least the next few days, so if you take issue with that, you should likely avoid the Buzz for the next week or so.)
So sorry for the Buzz’s unplanned hiatus over the past couple of weeks; I have been dealing with a massive home improvement project that has consumed what has felt like every waking moment of the past number of days, and am just now getting my head back above water. I fully intended to spend last night writing up my annual Grammy predictions, but that all fell apart with the tragic announcement that the incredible Whitney Houston has passed on from this plane. I’m still a bit speechless and dumbstruck by the enormity of this news — and even though Sherry Ann used to endlessly mock me for my devotion to her stellar and staggering music, she very sweetly texted me last night to make sure I was okay. All I can say is that my love for this wondrous woman’s brilliant body of work is well-documented on this very website — indeed, I’ll be moving the playlist I wrote in honor of Whitney in 2009 to celebrate the release of her most recent studio album back to the front page later this afternoon, as a tribute (however meek) to the music that has served on the frontlines of the soundtrack of my entire life — and even though I am utterly devastated by the unbearable notion that we’ve likely already heard all we ever will from her (though you can bet that, starting first thing this morning, the Arista vaults will be combed from top to bottom for any and every b-side, outtake, and demo the gal ever laid down on tape), I find more than a little comfort in the fact that her work will stand for eternity, and that the best of those tremendous tunes will still be a source of delight and debate a century from now. (“I Wanna Dance With Somebody,” in particular, turns twenty-five years old this summer, and yet remains, in its own way, as perfect and as timeless a pop song as “Billie Jean,” as “Time After Time,” as “Faith,” as “Bye, Bye, Bye” or “Babylon.” The deceptively innocent passion seeping through the crystal-clear high notes, the ebullient joy springing forth from that iconic nervous chuckle… Christ, where do broken hearts go, indeed.) (As for those aforementioned Grammys, which figure to be the most suspense-free awards ceremony in recent memory, look for it to be a coronation night for Adele, who would appear to be the shoo-in to end all shoo-ins for Album, Record, and Song of the Year. As for Best New Artist, I smell a hot race between The Band Perry and Bon Iver, and since the latter also managed to break into most of the other major categories, my guess is that they’ll nose ahead in a photo finish.)
For a glorious evening last week, A managed to drag me away from the 2012 Republican presidential race — which, with its daily plot twists and turns and constant sniping about adultery, sex, and foggy finances, has proven to be a quite adequate substitute for my dearly departed favorite soap opera — and to the movies, where we took in a showing of Disney’s 1991 touchstone Beauty and the Beast, which has returned to theaters this month with a dazzling new update just in time to mark its twentieth anniversary. For this latest reissue, the film has been converted — wholly unnecessarily — to RealD 3D, which required special glasses that I had to wear on top of my regular glasses and which had given me an ginormous headache by the time the credits rolled. Still, it was worth it for the rare chance to revisit one of my all-time favorite films once more on the big screen; even with all the three-dee hoohah, the masterfully hand-drawn animation is as sumptuous as ever — warm and inviting in a way that none of those so-called masterpieces from Pixar will ever be, if you axe me — and the soundtrack — anchored by this stunning set piece, still a magnificent mind-blower, even two decades hence, with all its dancing dishes and frisky flatware moving around in expertly executed choreography — continues to stand tall as Disney’s most brilliant best. (Oh, and young or old: when that garish Gaston meets his ultimate fate during the film’s exquisitely intense climax, you’ll still stand up and cheer.)
Etta James — “Holding Back the Years” (from All the Way) —
I’ve been trying to get this written and posted for a solid week, but it has just been crazy around Chez Buzz of late. Nonetheless, fare thee well on your next journey, Miss Etta, and thanks for giving the whole damned world a lifetime of musical dreams to press our collective cheeks to.
In all my agita and verklemptitude over the One Life to Live series finale last week, I allowed two crucial anniversaries slip right past my addled mind: Friday actually marked the twentieth anniversary of the release of one of the seminal recordings of the 1990s, Tori Amos’ intensely personal, ionically charged quasi-debut record, Little Earthquakes. (Earthquakes isn’t technically Amos’ first album, as she was the brilliantly becleavaged, hellaciously hair-sprayed face of an ill-fated ’80s rock band called Y Kant Tori Read, whose one and only release was such a dismal failure that Amos has since disowned it.) The album was never the out-of-the-park commercial sensation it so richly deserved to be — quirky and disquieting generally makes for a lethal combo out on the mass-appeal market — although it did, largely on the strength of word-of-mouth and scattershot radio and television exposure, scratch and crawl its way to platinum status, and it undeniably laid the foundation not only for Amos’ future success but for the estrogen-fueled revolution that lay in wait just around the bend. (I know I’m given to hyperbole around here, but it seems absolutely reasonable to believe that there could nor would have been no Jagged Little Pill without the trail that this astonishing album so fearlessly blazed, and that gals like Liz Phair, Sarah McLachlan, Joan Osborne, and Jewel should write profusely effusive thank-you notes to Ms. Amos daily.)
(The second anniversary is much less culturally and sonically significant by comparison, but Saturday marked the third birthday of Brandon’s Buzz Radio, which continues going strong after thirty-six months and eighty-seven episodes, which have been listened to by roughly 56,000 people all around the world. I remain extremely humbled and honored by your response to the marvelous madness that I continually conjure up in this forum, and I hope you all continue to come along for the ride.)
Sadly, you can’t actually buy any of the tunes in the expertly-assembled video below — ridiculous, considering that no fewer than one of them is considered a touchstone of the form; yet typical, considering ABC’s piss-fucking-poor attempts to properly monetize one of the most valuable entertainment properties it has ever owned — but make no mistake: these are the songs of the day. (Pay close attention to this montage’s fifth clip, with Peabo Bryson lending his dulcet tones to a soap theme that continues to be regarded alongside The Young and the Restless’ powerfully pristine “Nadia’s Theme” as perhaps the greatest in history. God bless you, Peabo, you brilliant, brilliant man.)
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