Brandon's Buzz

Moby — “The Broken Places” (from Destroyed) —

As is typical of someone whose creativity seems to stay in a permanent state of kinetic hyperdrive, the quality of Moby’s more recent output has been pretty scattershot. But I find myself rather hypnotized by this instrumental piece, the hauntingly beautiful leadoff track from Moby’s latest record. It touches me.

Whitney Houston — “The Star-Spangled Banner”
(from Whitney: The Greatest Hits) —

I really can’t abide pompous patriotism in any form, but it feels important to remember that that our flag was still there aren’t just hollow words, aren’t just empty images; they are, rather, the climactic symbols of survival, of resilience, of pride and faith in an ideal that is not only real but reachable. And on this tenth anniversary of a day that few will be eager to recall and relive, it feels equally important to remember that humans can still dream, that voices can still soar, and that music can still heal.

Heather Small — “Proud” (from Proud) —

At the Way Gay Sing-Along, of which I waxed rhapsodic in yesterday’s post, it was brought to my attention that this is Pride weekend here in Austin. (It usually takes place in June, and I’m not aware of the reason for the schedule shift this year, but I’m not complaining.) I really hate quoting that garish GaGa, but even I am man enough to cede that she’s got a pretty potent point when she demands, willfully if wistfully, “don’t hide yourself in regret / just love yourself and you’re set.” So I say: whatever you like, whatever you need, whatever you prefer, whatever you are, glory in it, baby. On this weekend dedicated to pride and satisfaction in self, be happy, and do you, to the best and fullest of your consciousness and ability.

Wham! — “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” (from Twenty-Five) —

I know that, with Christopher Cross’ inclusion in this space earlier in the week, we’re getting dangerously close to an overdose on ’80s cheese up in the hive. But I can’t help myself: A and I headed down to the Alamo Drafthouse last night to take part in the Way Gay Sing-Along, and I knew instantly it was gonna be a great night when this seismic smash, yanked straight out of the protective bosom of 1984, was the first tune played, and a pair of guys decked out in pitch-perfect George-and-Andrew hairdos and tight-fitting “Choose Life” t-shirts leaped on stage and proceeded to lip-synch their gay little hearts out. (It was indeed a fabulously fun evening, even if it, quite predictably, leaned more heavily than was necessary on GaGa and Katy Perry; still, the biggest lessons of the night — neither of which are new insights, just tautly reinforced ones — are as follows: George Michael was one hell of a beautiful hunk o’ man back in the day, and “Wake Me Up” — the song through which he introduced himself to a public that couldn’t wait to adore him — continues to stand up as a brilliant camp classic.)

Jon McLaughlin — “Indiana” (from Indiana) —

Jon McLaughlin — “Dance Your Life Away” (from OK Now) —

Jon McLaughlin (with Xenia Martinez) — “Maybe It’s Over”
(from Forever If Ever) —

It was my great pleasure to welcome to Brandon’s Buzz Radio earlier this week the fabulous McLaughlin, a fiercely gifted Midwest kid, possessed of some prodigious piano chops, who broke through with his heartfelt 2007 debut, Indiana, and who has just released his lovely third effort, Forever If Ever. (Forever, as of this writing, is primarily a digital release, with the physical version only on sale at Jon’s own website, so no need to waste time doing what I did and searching for this high and low at your local record store.) The fact that much of his material resists easy categorization most logically explains why he’s not currently a bigger star than he is — particularly in these GaGa-fueled days in which pop success quite literally demands lickety-split labeling — but I say the diverse range McLaughlin brilliantly displays across his best work — from the heart-wrenching gorgeousness of his assured, arresting debut, to the giddy glee of his ’80s-inspired pop jam, to the enchanting electricity pulsing through his latest offering, a quasi-duet with Xenia, one of the breakouts from season one of NBC’s Idol knockoff The Voice — is among the things to admire about him as an artist. (Incidentally, if you missed any or all of my conversation with McLaughlin, you can catch the episode in its entirety here, or you can download it as a free podcast from iTunes.)

Wilson Phillips — “California” (from California) —

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Over the long holiday weekend, A took a quick trip out to his beloved California, where he got himself quite a lovely sunburn (seriously, his cheeks, legs, and ab-licious stomach are as red as strawberries!) and a much-needed mental recharge frolicking around in the sand and surf. He requested that I pick a Cali-inspired tune to blast from the hive this fine day, and I told him to get his little fingers to work typing out a guest post in his own astoundingly articulate words. Herewith, the fruits of that labor:]

I just returned from beautiful, sunny Southern California, my three days in San Diego and Los Angeles filled with swimming, biking, hiking, and even outdoor theater. Whether it’s the sun, the sky, the ocean, the mountains, the fresh fruit, the beautiful people, or, well, whatever it is, California — especially Southern California — always imbues me with new energy and optimism. Unfortunately, there is not a single song that embodies that unique feeling, that state of mind, an ode to the Golden Coast, if you will. (No wonder Brandon made me an entire mix CD on the theme a few years ago!) While California is no longer where I lay my head, it remains a home away from home, and Wilson Phillips’ [brilliant cover of Joni Mitchell’s all-time classic] “California” still resonates with me, tickles my heart, and warms my soul.

Christopher Cross — “Arthur’s Theme (Best That You Can Do)”
(from The Very Best of Christopher Cross) —

You likely know that I love me some Band of Horses, and I’m generally pro-Death Cab for Cutie (if not so much Arcade Fire), all of which is to say that, on balance, I’m amenable to what is currently considered to be hip and cool. But regular visitors to this website have likely figgered out by now that there’s something about the comfortably compelling strains of ’80s-era easy rock that just hits my sweet spot every single time. (If you’re wondering what’s got me feeling wistful about this: as I type this, I’m watching Time-Life’s frighteningly brilliant infomercial for its new ten-disc Easy ’80s collection — hosted by said decade’s soap icons Jack Wagner and Krista Tesreau, natch — and even though there’s not a tune in this entire box that I don’t already own, best believe I’m thisclose to whipping out my Visa and picking up the damn phone.) (Incidentally, while I’m venting: it really bugs the crying crap out of me when, literally to a man, the hosts of these Time-Life infomercials say something like, “Who could ever put a collection like this together on their own?!” Uh, me, that’s who. I could do it bang-on, just by opening my iTunes and clicking the mouse a coupla times.
Sherry Ann could too, I’d wager!)

Tracy Chapman — “Talkin’ ‘Bout a Revolution”
(from Tracy Chapman) —

A and I finally dragged our bee-hinds to the movies last night to catch up with One Day, the languid and slightly laborious new romantic drama which, in spite of a superficial and underdeveloped script, is saved wholly by lovely lead performances from Jim Sturgess and Anne Hathaway (although, between this and last fall’s ridonk Love and Other Drugs, I am officially calling for a moratorium on Hathaway baring her breasts on the big screen, to last at least through the remainder of the decade). The film’s primary conceit is that it traces sixteen years in the lives of its lead characters (best friends Dexter and Emma), dropping in on them on the same day — July 15, for reasons that are made clear at the film’s outset and reinforced in the compelling coda — from 1988 through 2006 and charting their evolutions and varying levels of maturity as the years pass by. Beyond the ever-changing hairstyles and -lengths, the best method the film’s makers employ to convey the passage of time is their brilliant use of music, and the funny (and, at least for me, thrilling) way they chose a song to signify each year: Tears for Fears’ sonic marvel “Sowing the Seeds of Love” stands tall in the 1989 vignette, for example, and Del Amitri’s peppy pop gem “Roll to Me” immediately brings to mind that rough musical summer of 1995. (Even Robbie Williams’ 2000 smash “Angels” gets pulled into the mix, albeit in the form of a horrendously off-key karaoke performance at a wedding reception.) And this folky little ditty — a clarion call to arms that helped to herald the arrival of a forcefully fabulous new artistic talent that summer — is the first tune we hear as the action kicks into gear. A pitch-perfect marriage of the aural and the visual to help tell (and sell) a story, and a stark reminder that, of all the things those who put this film together got so wickedly wrong, there was also at least one thing they got rivetingly right.

Sinead O’Connor — “Success Has Made a Failure of Our Home”
(from So Far: The Best of Sinead O’Connor) —

Oh, Sinead. My sweet, sweet Sinead. Sinead, Sinead, Sinead! Darling, I wrote in this very space back in April — in a profoundly sincere, extremely heartfelt plea intended to help you to recapture at least some of your dignity (to say nothing of your good sense, boo!) — that it was long past time to release the crazy and head on back to the land of sane and rational thought and judgment, and you respond by pulling crap like this?! By unloosing relentlessly goofy statements like this upon an unsuspecting public that I force myself to believe wants desperately to like you, honey! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, have you just flipped it, woman?! (Suffice to say, I doubt seriously that I’ll be able to stroll through the produce section at Whole Foods and look at a poor, innocent sweet potato the same way ever again, and, if for nothing else but that, I don’t know if or how I’ll ever be able to forgive you.)

Gin Wigmore — “Dying Day” (from Holy Smoke) —

My beloved Ms. Wigmore lands the song of the day today because: a) I just love this kooky (and improbably powerful) little tune, still and every bit as much as I did the first time I heard it; and b) I just read that today is the final official day of production for ABC’s classic soap opera All My Children, which wraps its television run on Friday, September 23, just a few months shy of its forty-second birthday, and this song just feels strangely appropriate for marking such an occasion. (True enough, Children, along with sister show One Life to Live, is slated to continue as a web-based series with new full-length episodes — via a revolutionary deal with a production company called Prospect Park — beginning next January, but it feels highly likely that, whatever form the show happens to take in its new incarnation, it will look, seem, and feel radically different from the daytime drama that we’ve known and loved for four-plus decades. We soap fans have a right to feel sad today.) (And, Lord love a duck, don’t even get me started on how wrenched and rolled I know I’m gonna feel in a few months when it’s curtain-call time for my forever-favorite show, One Life, which is slated to complete filming around Thanksgiving and its television run in mid-January. The mere thought of it is enough to make me want to crawl under my desk and bawl like a babe.)

Oleta Adams — “I Just Had to Hear Your Voice”
(from The Very Best of Oleta Adams) —

Lady Aretha — who is a force of nature and in her own lane, cleanly and clearly — obviously excepted, when it comes to those pure soul divas of, shall we say, a certain age and level of élan and expertise (which is to say: sorry, Rihanna, but you’re not in this one, girl), they tend — at least to my highly trained ear(s) — to fall into two categories: the astonishingly gifted Adams in one corner, and everybody else in the other. (I had the profound pleasure of welcoming Miss Oleta to Brandon’s Buzz Radio a couple of years ago, and if you missed that career-spanning conversation, I highly recommend you catch up with it here.)

Roy Orbison — “She’s a Mystery to Me” (from Mystery Girl) —

Written specifically for Orbison by U2’s Bono and the Edge (and recorded just weeks before his untimely death in late fall of 1988), “Mystery” gave Roy a final chance to wrap his booming, brillliant baritone around a miraculous lyric and create something riveting and real. A quietly haunting masterpiece.