Last night, A and I finally dragged our asses out of our house (and away from our beloved baby girl, Kelly, whose blessed entree into our family in January — as much fun as it has been to have a new puppy running around here — has literally turned our domicile upside down) and, for the first time since last December, made it to the movies, where we took in a screening of The Lincoln Lawyer, quite a nifty legal thriller with an exceedingly fine cast led by Matthew McConaughey (as ever, smooth as Chinese silk) and Ryan Phillippe (spectacularly sinister here playing a lethal lothario), with a brief but pivotal turn turned in from ace character actress Frances Fisher (best and forever known to Sherry Ann and myself as The Other Mother). The film opens with a slick City of Angels-centric montage set to this tune, a forgotten ’70s classic from soul pro Bland which has been covered and/or sampled by acts as disparate as Whitesnake and Jay-Z, and I was humming it to myself for the whole rest of my long-awaited night out with my beloved.
Bareilles follows up her Grammy-nominated radio smash “King of Anything” with this pleasant, harmlessly charming little piffle whose surprisingly sweet video — which features the likes of Josh Groban, Sugarland’s Jennifer Nettles (an absolute hoot rockin’ out in her jammies), Ben Folds, Cary Brothers, and Maroon 5’s Adam Levine lip-syncing this tune’s lyrics — is an utter, unexpected delight. A few more smartly-played moves like this, and I’m really gonna have to start liking this girl a lot more. (Said video can be seen in its entirety below, and if you’re up for a little extra credit reading, my buddy Blake recently chatted with Sara and has filed this dispatch.)
GaGa’s Monster Ball tour — as garish and gaudy a spectacle as you could ever hope to witness — rolled through Austin the night before last, and A — the biggest GaGa fan I know — and I took in the show from the nosebleed section of the Frank Erwin Center. The night started off in the hole with a plainly heinous opening act (New York City’s astoundingly atrocious Semi-Precious Weapons, whose clueless lead singer clearly thought we wanted to spend forty minutes watching him writhe around in assless pants and being serenaded by his deafeningly shrill screams), but once GaGa took the stage, the night hurtled pretty violently between boldly brilliant (say what you will — I’ve said plenty, and will continue to do so! — but when this gal takes to the piano all by herself, you can’t deny that her raw talent is the real deal) and brutally bizarro (not that the whole rest of the presentation made a hell of lot more sense, but near the end of the show, during an otherwise energetic turn on “Paparazzi,” a giant man-eating squid entered from stage left with no easily identifiable purpose, leaving me so mystified I literally had to plop down in my seat for a second, lest my brain actually shut down from the incapacitating strangeness of it all).
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From one of music’s most underrated (and adventurous) troubadours, an on-and-poppin’ big-band-inspired blast of brilliant blues. (As monumentally marvelous as his more introspective tunes undeniably are, isn’t it nice to remember that Morrison is actually capable of having fun behind the mic as well?)
Jason Aldean & Kelly Clarkson — “Don’t You Wanna Stay” (from My Kinda Party) —
I resisted this one for the longest time, because it just screams premeditated event record, and I tend to resent being force-fed the Kool-Aid and told that I have no choice but to love something. But this stunner hums with a riveting undercurrent of raw sexually-charged desperation that can’t be denied: even though he sings one of the precious few songs to name-check my hometown, I never much cared for Aldean until I caught his collaboration with Bryan Adams on an episode of CMT Crossroads last year, and the unique mix of comfortable warmth and icy determination in his voice — think Alan Jackson crossed with Bob Dylan — has become oddly compelling. And the ever-dependable Clarkson — taking her second chart-topping detour into the crunchy lane — matches her partner note for sizzling note, proving that, when pop radio inevitably grows tired of her (and, let’s face it, with GaGa and that abominable Ke$ha currently carrying the torch over there, the clock could well be ticking), she has a second home waiting for her with arms outstretched.
Mel McDaniel — “Baby’s Got Her Blue Jeans On” (from Greatest Hits) —
The news hasn’t received a great deal of ink this weekend, so had I not caught something about it on Twitter Saturday afternoon, I likely would have missed entirely the tragic passing of McDaniel, who died on Thursday after a long battle with lung cancer. I have long contended that 1984 is the finest year for music in the history of recorded sound, and I generally mean pop music when I make that proclamation, but don’t think for a second that country didn’t put together a smashing set of twelve months back then as well: with The Judds busting through to megastardom, and iconic tunes like “That’s the Way Love Goes” (ah, Merle) and “I Got Mexico” (God bless you, Eddy Raven!) and “You Look So Good in Love” (arguably, the one that really sent George’s career Strait into orbit) and “Islands in the Stream” all making their indelible marks in radio land, ’twas a hell of a year in Nashville, and for no one more than this quintessential good ol’ boy, who exploded back up the charts with this simple (and sinfully catchy) little ditty about nothing more than his favorite gal’s dashing figure. (Hey, it’s three chords and the truth, but nobody ever said the truth had to be depressing! Fare thee well, Mel.)
I must admit I really miss the era when reruns of classic primetime soaps like Knots Landing and Falcon Crest filled its daytime schedule, but flipping over to SoapNet these days can still be a font for a hell of a lot of shameless entertainment, with its afternoon visits to The O.C. and Sherry Ann’s forever fave One Tree Hill. (Take it from me: you can get sucked into these programs, lose half the damn day and not even know what hit you if you don’t exercise extreme caution when surfing past this channel!) And over the next few weeks, you’ll be able to get an extra dose of frothy fun, courtesy of SoapNet’s two-hour late-morning block of Beverly Hills, 90210 episodes, which have just reached the pivotal point in the series’ remarkable decade-long run. Rolling into its sixth season (which began unspooling in the fall of 1995), 90210 had weathered Shannen Doherty’s stormy departure (and, even better, the initially bizarro choice to swap her for Saved By the Bell‘s seemingly sticky-sweet Tiffani Amber-Thiessen — an unexpected knockout as a brazen, vampy vixen — had paid off in spades), but the show was gearing up to face life without its male MVP Luke Perry, the loss of whom on paper appeared to be incalculable. To compensate, Aaron Spelling and his savvy team made a handful of wickedly wise moves, including subtly moving their star romantic heroine Jennie Garth — and her eternally hilarious onscreen rivalry with Thiessen, the bitchy ballistics from which never got old — completely to center stage, and bringing in as Tori Spelling’s co-star the ravishing Canadian actor Cameron Bancroft, whose character — a holy-rolling college quarterback with the hots for the only female virgin with cosmetically altered breasts to be found in the whole of Beverly Hills — gave the show a peculiar gravitas it had often lacked theretofore. The result was a spectacularly soapy mix of sex and social responsibility that, even though it was becoming unmistakably long in the tooth, made 90210 a deliriously delicious weekly delight once again. (If you’re wondering why in blue hell I’m regaling you with this review, it’s because my favorite episode from this season — the one in which Perry’s new wife is accidentally shot to death in a hail of drive-by bullets from a mob hit that is actually intended for Perry himself — just re-aired Wednesday morning, and the episode closes with this tune, a tender ballad which might just be the finest hour of Lovett’s Grammy-winning career as a vocalist. And even though I’ve probably seen this episode a minimum of 200 times — and, indeed, own this entire season on DVD — and have the lion’s share of it committed to memory, I still couldn’t tear myself from the TV and was on the edge of my seat (and, uh, awash in tears — I’m a softie, sue me!) the entire hour.)
Christina Perri — “Jar of Hearts” (from Jar of Hearts) —
[EDITOR’S NOTE: I’ve been recovering from a brutally taxing two-week stretch at work, hence this space’s unexpected silence over the past few days. But A caught a piece of this video on VH1 some time ago and was instantly captivated, and he has been driving me batty with his love of this song ever since, so I have offered him this forum to expound on his latest musical obsession, and, for once, he has accepted the invitation. So, while I don’t love this one nearly as much as he does, I nonetheless couldn’t be more thrilled to present you with this tiny drop of honey from my beloved’s hive:]
My new favorite song is everything that a dramatic ditty should be: aching, arcing melody; deep, sweeping piano and orchestral accompaniment; and thoughtful (and, at times, even witty) lyrics. I was drawn in from moment one by the measured, subdued pace; the serious, strong timbre of Perri’s voice; and the well-placed and well-executed crescendos. Simply brilliant.
Prince and the New Power Generation (featuring Rosie Gaines) — “Diamonds and Pearls” (from The Very Best of Prince) —
Because it was the decade in which he (temporarily, thankfully for us all) went batshit nuts — and because his work in the previous decade has indeed proven to be every bit as indelible and unforgettable as we all suspected it would be at the time — Prince’s ’90s output hardly ever gets the credit it deserves for its ingenuity and creativity. (How long has it been since you spun “Thieves in the Temple” or “The Holy River” or even “Money Don’t Matter 2Night”? Will you be as flabbergasted as I am about how fresh they still sound?) Gaines and her spot-on pipes singlehandedly land this pleasant little trifle in the win column; don’t even try to convince me that you don’t sing right along when she explodes into “Pearls'” dynamic, rapturously glorious bridge.
James Taylor — “Enough to Be On Your Way” (from Hourglass) —
While at work, I spent a good deal of yesterday evening watching (or, at worst, listening to) Troubadours — a feature-length, fabulously riveting chronicle of the community of singer/songwriters which put southern California on the map (musically, at least) in the early ’70s — which has just arrived on DVD after a staggered run on public television. Though it contains provocative anecdotes from such ancillary players as Jackson Browne, David Crosby, Elton John, and Kris Kristofferson, the film is told largely (and rightly) through the eyes of James Taylor and Carole King, the songwriter movement’s uncontested torchbearers, and watching clips of them today performing those ever-iconic hits (“You’ve Got a Friend,” “Fire and Rain,” “So Far Away”), you’re reminded both of the sheer power a strong song can harness, and of the great gifts that a group of tight-knit friends — friends like all of the aforementioned, as well as guys and gals with surnames like Mitchell, Ronstadt, and Young — gave the entire world during a peculiarly brief, shining moment in time. (Quite correctly, Taylor is most fondly revered for his ferociously well-executed early work, but later-era tunes like “Enough” — an oddly comforting treatise on life, death, and the rules of travel between those two poles which was inspired in part by the death of his brother — prove definitively that James didn’t at all lose his powerful touch the minute the calendar shifted decades.)
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10,000 Maniacs — “I’m Not the Man” (from MTV Unplugged) —
Finally, the recording of the Maniacs’ utterly extraordinary 1993 appearance on MTV’s landmark music series Unplugged has made its way to iTunes (but still cannot be found on DVD, although VHS and laserdisc copies can still be found floating about in the ether for a laughably stiff premium), and I’m thrilled to be able to point your attention to this unheralded classic from the peerless Natalie Merchant — never, ever better than she is right cheer — documenting the desperate final hours of a condemned man about to be executed for a crime he didn’t commit. A brilliant, bone-chilling masterpiece.
I’m not a girl, and my degree of prettiness is continually up for debate, so you’d have to figure that, as is the case with most other tunes of this particular stripe, this standard-issue female empowerment anthem would pass right by me without incident. And yet, how can you possibly resist Hilson here, Rock-ing in full-on diva-next-door mode, particularly on this track’s knockout opening minute, which finds Miss Keri scatting and strutting her way through a ferociously frisky reintroduction to the music world at large. (I’m being quite sincere when I tell you that, using this song’s elegantly electrifying Keri / very / scary / dairy-air rhyme scheme as a template after listening to it on a non-stop loop, I’ve spent the past couple of months trying to come up with a similar verse that utilizes my own name as brilliantly and easily as “Pretty” uses hers — My name is Brandon / I’m so… (candid? landlocked? Mirandized?) — and, thus far, have come up with bupkes. But what I do know is this: why this isn’t the biggest smash at top 40 radio right now and mopping the floor with that ratty-haired trashy tart Ke$ha and her decidedly non-pretty brand of petri-dish pop is the head-scratcher of this still-young new year.)
True story: while I was home for Christmas a few months back, Sherry Ann handed me Corbin’s CD and told me I needed to listen to it. “Who is this child?” I asked, thinking at first that this was one of her inexplicable Jason Mraz-style crushes. “He’s had some hits,” she countered. “Well, he ain’t had very many of ’em, ’cause I’ve never once heard his name,” I replied. She forced the CD into the stack of discs that I was already stealing from her, and I dutifully copied it into my iTunes but didn’t really pay much attention to it otherwise. But then I caught Corbin’s show a couple of nights ago at the Austin rodeo, where my day job is centered for the remainder of this month, and even though the concert leaned more heavily on Kenny Chesney covers than could ever have been necessary — a forgivable offense, I s’pose, considering the kid is touring behind his debut album and has all of two radio hits to his name — I found him to be a charming and extraordinarily talented performer, and this bittersweet, wistfully romantic tune — which lands on the opposite end of the spectrum from “If I Die Young,” The Band Perry’s exquisite instant classic smash from last summer, but which is, in its own earnest way, every bit as powerful and affecting — incited, by far, the biggest reaction from the packed crowd. Sherry Ann will likely tell you that the moral of the story I’ve just spun for you is Always listen to Sherry Ann — and you have to know, don’t you, that it really irks me when that witch gets the musical scoop ahead of me — but I much prefer that the ultimate takeaway here be Some stuff you gotta hear with your own ears. (And don’t write me a mean response in the comments, Sherry Ann; you know I love you!)
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). The film opens with a slick City of Angels-centric montage set to this tune, a forgotten ’70s classic from soul pro Bland which has been covered and/or sampled by acts as disparate as Whitesnake and Jay-Z, and I was humming it to myself for the whole rest of my long-awaited night out with my beloved.
). The film opens with a slick City of Angels-centric montage set to this tune, a forgotten ’70s classic from soul pro Bland which has been covered and/or sampled by acts as disparate as Whitesnake and Jay-Z, and I was humming it to myself for the whole rest of my long-awaited night out with my beloved.
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— a feature-length, fabulously riveting chronicle of the community of singer/songwriters which put southern California on the map (musically, at least) in the early ’70s — which has just arrived on DVD after a staggered run on public television. Though it contains provocative anecdotes from such ancillary players as Jackson Browne, David Crosby, Elton John, and Kris Kristofferson, the film is told largely (and rightly) through the eyes of James Taylor and Carole King, the songwriter movement’s uncontested torchbearers, and watching clips of them today performing those ever-iconic hits (“You’ve Got a Friend,” “Fire and Rain,” “So Far Away”), you’re reminded both of the sheer power a strong song can harness, and of the great gifts that a group of tight-knit friends — friends like all of the aforementioned, as well as guys and gals with surnames like Mitchell, Ronstadt, and Young — gave the entire world during a peculiarly brief, shining moment in time. (Quite correctly, Taylor is most fondly revered for his ferociously well-executed early work, but later-era tunes like “Enough” — an oddly comforting treatise on life, death, and the rules of travel between those two poles which was inspired in part by the death of his brother — prove definitively that James didn’t at all lose his powerful touch the minute the calendar shifted decades.) 
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