Sam Beam graduates to the majors (and in fine, fine style) with an album which finds him channeling the spirits of Van Morrison, early Elton John, and of course Dylan, but it’s not until very near the end of the record that he transforms himself — brilliantly — into a dead ringer for Older-era George Michael and stumbles upon Kiss‘s deceptively upbeat emotional core. (This is made even more apropos by a video from The Onion’s A.V. Club which burned up the web a couple of days ago and which features Beam covering Michael’s heart-stopping 1988 masterpiece “One More Try” with the game assistance of the marvelous Marketa Irglova, an Academy Award winner for her her glorious work in the musical film Once.)
A and I caught this video on VH1 Classic the other morning, and then there was a question about Mr. D’Arby on Jeopardy the following day (the category, and I’m not making this up: “1980s #1 Hitmakers”), so the universe is clearly trying to tell me something, and I’m a big believer in staying attuned to such cosmic messages. Shortly after this track flew to the top of the charts in the spring of 1988, D’Arby famously proclaimed himself to be the finest musician drawing breath; not coincidentally, that very same season, George Michael poked holes all the way through D’Arby’s foolishly fallacious theory, and Bono, Sting, and Prince finished it off in kind. Nonetheless, I think you’ll find it a pleasant surprise how solidly this tune continues to hold up. (Incidentally, I won’t divulge what I thought he was singing, but I had no idea until this moment that the chorus’ final line is “a wishing well / of crocodile cheers.”)
Now four albums in, Lavigne’s (mostly put-on) sk8er girl shtick is starting to wear a bit thin, and what was cute and charming at 18 now lands just this side of sad at 26. Still, is it wrong how much I love this taut little tune? If this li’l ditty, with its brisk, bopping chorus that is sticky like flypaper, isn’t the guilty pleasure of the season, I dunno what tops it.
Tori Amos — “Cloud On My Tongue” (from Under the Pink) —
Charlie Sheen’s scorched-earth campaign of complete self-destruction — which was dangerous live-wire fun in its infancy but which has (d)evolved into a heartbreaking three-dimensional collage of despair and denial — has me in an odd frame of mind this morning, and that almost always leads me to seek solace within the bountiful bosom of my own goddess. I haven’t written about my divine Miss Tori in this space for eons now — which is so not gettin’ it — and I’m feeling the width and profundity of that void in the whole of my soul today. You already know — you must, yes? — that Amos is my all-time favorite, and there are a trillion billion reasons why (love you, A!), but the most relevant one — at least for right now, this second — is that, at her most deliciously delicate, boldest best, she writes (and my God, sings!) about those among us who have been cast out — even (and, often, especially) those of us who are hiding in plain sight — and who are desperately trying to claw their way back in. And, in however trivial a way, the small-town boy, the oddball writer, the gay Texan in me can relate. If I were being exiled to Elba and were allowed only one album in my carry-on, I’d probably slit my wrists en route to the boat. But if I could bring along five albums, you’d best believe Pink — Amos’ astonishing second album — would be the first of the five chosen, and even though “Cloud” — the record’s gloriously wrenching emotional zenith — isn’t nearly my favorite Pink tune, it’s the one my heart can’t seem to shake as I type this. (When, near the end, she sings, her voice almost at a demolished murmur, thought I was / over the bridge now, doesn’t every fraying fiber in your own wounded heart just ache for her?) Got to stop spinning, sure and for sure, and today, I pray in my own way that we — we meaning Charlie, me, ignorant Republicans who have lost complete sight of why their party was even founded, all of us — will stop, will stand up, will turn over the right rocks and find the temerity to truly win.
Regular readers of this blog recognize that, speaking generally and dating back to his very first performance on the Idol stage, I have never had an ounce of use for Lambert and his premeditated patties of glammed-up, atrociously artificial nonsense. But even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and even my old cold stone heart is powerless against the pull of a catchy-as-hell hook.
Picture it: on my way to work Saturday morning, I stopped off at a local restaurant supply warehouse to pick up various and sundry necessities, and as I steered my flatbed cart through the aisles, adding onto it bottles of this and cases of that, this marvelously moody 1980 masterpiece — a top three smash which served to introduce the world at large to Chris Cross, the undisputed king of yacht rock (and, justified or not, still the only artist to ever win all four top Grammys — Record, Song, Album, and New Artist — in the same year) — commenced spilling from the store’s loudspeaker. For the record, there was no one in my immediate line of sight, but it wouldn’t have terribly mattered if there had been, as I literally could not control myself from picking up the exotically electric rhythm bursting into song, regardless of how much of a blithering idiot I may well have looked like; having been born in 1976, I came of age — musically, at least — sandwiched in that brief period between the decline of punk and the rise of new wave, and the tunes that sprung from that time — written and performed by heroes like Stephen Bishop, Hall and Oates, Air Supply, and of course Mr. Cross — continue, to this very day, to grip my soul. And whenever I hear any of them, I just get happy.
Even though the indomitable Cher’s Burlesque showstopper “You Haven’t Seen the Last of Me” picked up the Golden Globe for Best Original Song last month, the thrilling tune is nowhere to be found in the same category at tomorrow night’s Academy Awards, so, as if by default, Rahman — a winner here two years ago for his sleek work on behalf of Slumdog Millionaire — becomes the odds-on favorite to win his second Oscar, this time for his haunting, ethereal end title theme (which features the divine Dido, bouncing back big time from her disappointing last album) from 127 Hours. (Due to unfortunate scheduling conflicts, Dido is unavailable to perform this song on the Oscar telecast, so, in what will no doubt be yet another boon to her already white-hot ascendancy, Florence + the Machine’s Florence Welch has been drafted into action. Incidentally, the Buzz is proud to present its third annual Academy Awards liveblog, beginning with ABC’s official red carpet coverage at 7pm EST tomorrow evening; A will kick things off alone, nobly aided by the sensational Sherry Ann and other special guests, and I’ll try like hell to be home before the ceremony begins at 8:30pm. Be there or be square.)
In all of the overheated discussion of the past few days over last weekend’s left-field result of the Grammy race for Best New Artist — in which complete unknown jazz ingenue Esperanza Spalding pulled out a shocker over today’s hottest teenybopper Justin Bieber — a name that was unfairly omitted from the conversation is that of Orianthi, one of last year’s most exciting breakthroughs. Originally slated to be Michael Jackson’s featured guitarist on his show-stopping final world tour, she burst out of the box with a terrific debut album (Believe, released in a pair of configurations) and a staggering radio smash (“According to You,” one of ’10’s standout tracks). But even with the Jacko-related boost, she hasn’t received nearly the amount of attention that her mammoth talent merits, and you just have to trust your Uncle Brandon when he tells you: this gal — and her stunning strumming, natch — are worth keeping a keen eye upon. (As for those Grammys, my last word on the subject is as follows: Bruno, buddy, you really ought to sue.)
She rocks like a hard-nosed badass, she out-folks Dylan, and last year, she made the gospel album for peeps who tend, as a general rule, to fear gospel albums, so I am forced to ask: is there anything this impossibly gorgeous gal can’t do? (Most sincere congratulations to the peerlessly graceful Griffin, as last night, after four career nominations, said gospel album Downtown Church finally garnered Patty her very first Grammy Award. Couldn’t be more well-deserved.)
Not quite sure when all the Super Bowl commercials became at least as important (or, at very least, as worthy of dissection and debate) as the game itself, but c’est la vie. Usual suspects Doritos, Budweiser, and GoDaddy.com are again dominating the discussion of this year’s crop of ads, but I’m a little disappointed that more people aren’t talking about my hands-down favorite spot, a powerfully dramatic Chrysler commercial which played late in the game’s third quarter, and which extols the brilliantly resilient virtues of Detroit, an embattled, emotionally spent burg that remains the hub of this country’s most dynamic industry — the manufacture of automobiles. Much of the ad unfurls above — and, indeed, much of the ad’s inherent drama and potency derives from — an instrumental piece of the biggest (and probably most recognizable, and easily most riveting) hit ever scored by iconic rapper Eminem, whose travails growing up on the wrong side of Detroit’s tracks are well-documented, and who pops up in this commercial’s closing seconds to vouch for his hometown’s enduring ethos. (If you didn’t catch the ad Sunday night, you can watch it in its entirety below.)
First of all, dreadful sorry for the erratic posting over the past few weeks; I have been battling a nasty sinus infection for what feels like years now, and the 875mg antibiotics-slash-horse-pills that my doctor prescribed ended up making me even sicker. (Blessedly, I seem now to be on the road to recovery, but if you see fit to pray for me anyhow, I’ll certainly take it.) Secondly, my online buddy Blake — a Nashville-based journalist who is as rabidly (and admirably) stubborn in the defense of his opinions as I am in mine, and with whom I have come to quite enjoy playfully sparring over music and more on this very website — has recently carved out his own acre of real estate in the blogosphere, and I heartily encourage you to check out his musings; he’s a very sharp writer, and his marvelous interviews often make me seethingly jealous (both because of the subjects with whom he gets to chat, and because of the smart questions that he thinks to ask them). (And if you require more incentive to steal a peek at Blake’s new baby: according to Blake himself, Brandon’s Buzz has apparently proven to be quite inspirational in the creation of certain features of his own site. (Color me honored, sir!)) Anyhoo, Blake requested some time ago that the Hive blast some Patty Loveless from its in-house boombox, and with this terrifically sassy tune — a colorfully canny twist on the classic he-done-me-wrong tale, written by the magnificently peerless Matraca Berg — I am at last happy to oblige. Welcome to your own comfy corner of cyberspace, Blake, and may you have every bit as much fun as I have over the past three years. (Incidentally, do you think Blake truly understands how lucky he is to have been born in what will most probably always stand as the single greatest year for music in the history of recorded sound? Who else thinks that he and I need to trade 1984 playlists, stat?)
Once upon a more gloriously innocent time, I literally couldn’t name five songs that were more fun to sing at the top of my lungs while barreling down an empty Texas highway than this wickedly randy gem about the eternal search for Mr. Right (and, natch, about all the Mr. Right Nows you gotta trip clean over while you’re on said search). I hadn’t heard this tune in eons, but when it popped up in a shuffle yesterday, I swear I was jamming along inside of eight seconds. (It’s time to phone home, Joan — we miss you desperately, gal!
At work yesterday, I got sucked into watching Jonathan Demme’s magnificent 1993 masterpiece Philadelphia, which was playing as the Sunday afternoon feature on one of the local stations. I hadn’t seen the film in at least a decade, and I was instantly captivated anew by the sheer power of Tom Hanks’ wrenching, riveting performance (which won him the first of his two Academy Awards), and by the unlikely bond that Hanks manages to forge with Denzel Washington (criminally underrated — but incontrovertibly brilliant here — in regular-Joe mode). (Also, by the by, was I taken by what a frighteningly steely bitch on wheels that sly ol’ poker-faced Mary Steenburgen can be!) Bruce Springsteen’s thrilling theme song from the film, “Streets of Philadelphia,” hogged all the attention at the time — winning the Oscar and a passel of Grammys — and perhaps deservedly so, but I have to confess (and I thought this at the time, but having just re-experienced this cinematic touchstone, I really think it now): Young’s staggeringly simple, achingly transcendent ode to love and brotherhood, which plays over the film’s credits, is haunting and astonishing, a pitch-perfect aural catharsis which wisps by like the graceful ghost of a gratefully remembered dream.
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, which was playing as the Sunday afternoon feature on one of the local stations. I hadn’t seen the film in at least a decade, and I was instantly captivated anew by the sheer power of Tom Hanks’ wrenching, riveting performance (which won him the first of his two Academy Awards), and by the unlikely bond that Hanks manages to forge with Denzel Washington (criminally underrated — but incontrovertibly brilliant here — in regular-Joe mode). (Also, by the by, was I taken by what a frighteningly steely bitch on wheels that sly ol’ poker-faced Mary Steenburgen can be!) Bruce Springsteen’s thrilling theme song from the film, 