Brandon's Buzz

Damn, it’s good to have you back, girlfriend.

After an excruciating detour into a brand of angst-drenched filth that wouldn’t pass muster in a fourteen-year-old wallflower’s tear-stained journal, it pleases me no end to report that the divine Kelly Clarkson — the first and, Carrie notwithstanding, still the best American Idol — is back on top and better than ever with her spectacular fourth album, All I Ever Wanted. A blue million miles from the stem-to-stern maudlin misfire that was 2007’s My December, Wanted is a heady mix of fast fun and simmering slow burns which zips along at such a breakneck pace that you’ll scarcely have time to do anything but hit the repeat all button and dive in all over again.

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Regular readers of this blog may or may not know that once upon a time, I was writing a novel.  (I say was because, even though I often refer back to it in my mind’s eye — twenty or thirty times a day, easy — and have come to quite enjoy torturing myself by toying with the notion of revisiting it in a serious way — an idea that I’ll one day make a concrete reality — I haven’t set finger one upon it in years.)  The book is about a hundred different things — and is driven by and populated with every bit as byzantine a constellation of backstories and bystanders as you’d reasonably expect from an author who is also a soap fan of nearly three decades — but, primarily, the book is about a guy.  Jeremy.  Early 30s.  Recovering alcoholic.  Hasn’t spoken to his brother in a decade over a ridiculously lopsided family inheritance which failed to break in his favor.  Doesn’t know how to admit it, but is still madly, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with the very first object — a flaxen-haired, brutally forthright gem of a gal — of his intensely loyal affection.

It may not make a hell of a lot of sense here in the boiled-down synopsis (and, truth be told, it may not make much more sense in the actual book), but Jeremy was once a successful trial lawyer in Boston, and is now a warbling piano player in a smoky Florida nightclub.  (It’s a long road from there to here, that seemingly wonky transition, and the minutiae therein aren’t terribly relevant to the particular yarn I’m spinning for you now, so let’s just go with this:  as increasingly detached as the repetitive tedium of his daily existence as an attorney made him feel, that’s how increasingly fulfilled Jeremy is by the fresh thrill of plugging his mind and heart and hands into the concrete joy of creation, and of imagination, as a piano man.)

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“Very interesting site.  Hope it will always be alive!”

— a lovely sentiment from a bot advertising penis enlargement pills which got caught up in the Buzz’s spam filter this morning. (Hey, we’ll take what we can get around here.)

Not much going on this week, but the good stuff is really good. Take a look:

Nothing new has been added to it, which is a shame, since this would have been one instance in which a deluxe-ified reissue would have been entirely appropriate: Blue Roses from the Moons, the riveting 1997 masterwork from the legendary Nanci Griffith, returns to print this week with a gorgeous, crisply remastered edition, and it’s well worth the effort it’ll probably take to seek this out. Anchored by a haunting update of her classic “Gulf Coast Highway” (done this time around as a stunning duet with Hootie and the Blowfish’s Darius Rucker, just the perfect pinch of smooth soul to complement Griffith’s informal folk), Roses also includes a hilarious cover of “I Fought the Law” as well as several tunes — in particular, “Waiting for Love” and “Two for the Road” — which have become integral staples in the Griffith songbook.
Buy this at once.

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Sorry for the late (and rather truncated) record store report this week; the upshot of it is, there’s not a hell of a lot to get excited about this time at bat, particularly if the idea of a new Bob Dylan album doesn’t exactly set you alight. Take a look:

• Her smoky debut Worrisome Heart raised more than a few eyebrows last year; now comes gorgeous chanteuse Melody Gardot‘s chance to capitalize on the buzz with her second disc, My One and Only Thrill.

 

• His given name is Dan Keyes, his stage name is Young Love, and his sophomore effort is One of Us.

 

• Second records would seem to be this week’s overriding theme: indie pop heroes Great Northern follow up their thrilling 2007 debut with the brand new Remind Me Where the Light Is, and rising country star Jason Michael Carroll, who landed a surprise smash a couple of years back with the heartrending child abuse anthem “Alyssa Lies,” returns with Growing Up is Getting Old.

 

• A smash called “Love, Me” made him a Midas-touch superstar in Nashville throughout the ’90s, the crunchy establishment inexplicably turned its back on the supremely talented Collin Raye at the turn of the century, but he resurfaces this week with Never Going Back, his first studio record in three years.

 

• Australian pop star Ben Lee is up with his seventh record,
  The Rebirth of Venus.

 

• The Concerts, a three-DVD set of classic live performances from the inimitable Barbra Streisand.

 

• So, if that new Bob Dylan record does put your liver aquiver, it’s called Together Through Life.

“I always say, ‘If I see somethin’ saggin’, draggin’, and baggin’, I’ll git it nipped, tucked, and sucked.”

— legendary performer (and notorious cosmetic surgery fiend) Dolly Parton, discussing her credo with Larry King.

Another relatively slow one out there this week, kids, but I reckon you’ll find a couple of can’t-miss gems in somewhere along the new release wall. To wit:

And now, a true story. (I think I’ve told a variation on this one before — too lazy to actually look — but it remains painfully relevant, so deal. I’ll try to keep it short.) Get the picture: 1990, junior high school gymnasium, eighth grade graduation dance. My first girlfriend Erin — yes, yes, this is a story from back in the days when I was straight as an arrow (and Erin, if you’re somehow reading these words, I’m so very sorry, but all I can tell you is, I’m feeling strangely expansive this morning) — have just taken a walk (in the school parking lot, natch!) and held hands for the first time, and all seems right with the world. For reasons I can’t now remember, she and I have gone our separate ways for a few minutes, she with her friends and me with mine — how very “Saved By the Bell,” agreed? — when, all of a sudden, OUR song begins booming through the speakers. (I call it “our song” because it was the radio hit that spring — nothing else even compared! — and because she and I both worshipped the tune, and because my first gift to her was this very song’s lyrics, painstakingly calligraphed by me onto a gorgeous piece of gold parchment paper which I had previously pilfered from Midge Lemley’s art class. (At our tenth high school reunion a few years back, Erin told me she still has those lyrics. And don’t feel too bad for ol’ Midge: she had demolished the one and only oil painting I produced in class that year by pouring black ink all fucking over it several months prior, so that crazy heifer owed me one.))

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I have no idea why no one else online seems to have gotten their hands on this nugget of information, so I’m breaking big soap casting news right here on Brandon’s Buzz tonight: I’m thrilled to announce that one of the Buzz’s favorite actors, the magnificently dashing Gordon Thomson (with whom I had a riveting two-hour chat back in January on Brandon’s Buzz Radio, and who will likely be returning to my hot seat sometime in May), has just joined the cast of “Days of Our Lives” in a recurring role. Thomson — best known as slick, sinister Adam Carrington on the ’80s classic primetime soap “Dynasty,” and as the finest and most wittily erudite of the three Mason Capwells on the late, great “Santa Barbara” — will be portraying Walter, the father of Owen, the mysterious new character being played by Latter Days star (and “Guiding Light” alum) Wes Ramsey. As of now, Thomson is only slated for five episodes, but is hopeful that the role will be expanded. (A first airdate is not yet known; Gordon relayed to me that he has just begun filming, so Walter should show up in Salem just in time for some May sweeps madness.)

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Believe it or not, today — April 19, 2009 — marks the first full year of the Buzz’s existence.

Twelve months ago, after several years of begging and hounding, my great computer-savvy pal Mike — whose knowledge of HTML literally knows no bounds — finally talked me into taking the plunge and starting a blog.  I was dubious at the beginning that I would be able to come up with enough interesting musings to last more than a couple of weeks, but Mike worked so hard setting all this greatness up that I couldn’t not give it a real shot.  When the Buzz finally went live on April 19, 2008, Mike made me vow an output of no fewer than ten posts in exchange for all his toil and trouble.  (I also offered to buy him dinner, which I’m embarrassed to say I have yet to make good on.)

And here we are, 365 days, 239 posts (counting this one, natch), 11,820 pageviews, 307 reader comments, 1134 tags, 42 record store reports, a gaggle of great new online pals, a passel of pissed-off Claymates, and one hell of a kick-ass radio show (if I do say so myself!) down the road, and I’m pleased to say that what began as a silly experiment exactly one year ago has succeeded far beyond my wildest imaginings, and I appreciate any and all of you who have come along for the crazy ride.

As always, profound thanks go to Mike, the brilliant architect of this blog who, even one year on, never fails to leap into action whenever I come up with some widget or format tweak or idea I’d like to implement on a sleepless night (and who, more importantly, never fails to do so with good humor).  You’re an angel, Mike, and you’re one hundred percent of the reason this site looks as fabulous as it does.  Thanks also to A, the love of my life, whose generous way of hanging on his deranged boyfriend’s every written word (even when said boyfriend is annoying him by dividing his attention between watching Hyacinth and writing said words) is nothing short of uplifting.  (Would that these words will always command your rapt attention, sir.)  And to the sensational Sherry Ann, the best friend a guy could ever have.

Here’s hoping year two is every bit as much fun, and challenging, and fulfilling as the one just ended.

I’m currently working (I promise!) on a Madonna playlist (for which A has been waiting patiently, as he requested it many months ago), as well as one inspired by Rick Dees’ legendary Weekly Top 40 program (archived episodes of which I’m thrilled to tell you are played on Sunday afternoons — commercial free! — on XM’s ’90s channel), but when I ran across the shimmering new single from one of the planet’s all-time great people — that sparkling newlywed Mandy Moore — on iTunes last week, I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to reaffirm my profound devotion to her boundless brilliance.

Out in front of the May 26 street date for Amanda Leigh, Moore’s much-anticipated sixth studio record, the terrific romp of a lead single “I Could Break Your Heart Any Day of the Week” stands as an invigorating blast of pop nirvana and proves for all the world that Moore is an artist to be reckoned with.  (Any doubts that remained about that very fact in the wake of the aural miracles Moore set free on 2007’s grand, wondrous Wild Hope, “Heart” washes them clean downstream.)

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Call it the Easter hangover: after a few action-packed weeks, it’s awfully slow out there in your local record store this Tuesday. Consider it a blessing, because if you’re like me, there’s a huge stack of CDs near your stereo awaiting your attention, and you’ll have plenty of time this week to attack it.

Their much-buzzed-about 2007 debut Carnavas produced the rock radio smash “Lazy Eye,” but I must confess that, heretofore, the moody, grungy work of Silversun Pickups has only succeeded in going right over my head. (Listening to Nikki Monninger’s affected vocals on that album, all I found myself thinking was, “Hole and Veruca Salt really did this kind of stuff much, much better in the ’90s.”) The Pickups take a second stab at winning me over this week with their sophomore effort Swoon, which is led by the frenetic first single “Panic Switch,” which is kinda fun for the first sixty seconds or so but quickly devolves into a sad, pallid facsimile of Machina-era Smashing Pumpkins (which itself was a sad, pallid facsimile of Siamese Dream-era Smashing Pumpkins).

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Growing up, I was an NBC kid.

To this day, I have clear memories of getting home from half-day preschool just in time to catch the closing minutes of “Texas,” have lunch, and settle in at my mother’s knee for a full afternoon of “Days of Our Lives” and “Another World.” That marvelous lineup of daytime entertainment underwent multiple changes as time marched forward — “Texas” (the first soap cancellation I ever survived, funnily enough) left the air in 1982 (just as it was getting good!) around the same time that “Search for Tomorrow” came over from CBS to finish out its legendary life, and my beloved “Santa Barbara” came along in 1984 for a remarkable nine-year run — but throughout my formative years as a television fan, NBC — with its softly glowing series (didn’t you always love the way “Days” looked just a tad fuzzy back then, almost as though it were shot through a thin film of super-sheer pantyhose?) and its magnificently endearing characters (Marlena! Roman! Felicia! Cass! Rachel! Cruz! Mason! Julia!) — was always home.

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The Clay Aiken brouhaha which erupted around last week’s record store report led to this blog’s most-viewed week in its nearly one-year history, and I certainly hope all you vehement Claymates liked what you saw and will stick around a spell. And to the handful of posters (jmh123, in particular) at the Finding Clay Aiken fan forum (from which the majority of my site’s hits emanated last week) who questioned why I called Mr. Aiken’s 2006 covers album, A Thousand Different Ways, baffling, and who wondered whether or not I have actually even listened to same, I very much wanted to respond on your site and even signed up for a username and account, but wasn’t approved by your administrators, so I’ll respond here: I called the album “baffling” because a covers record is not exactly the most savvy career move for a young artist who is getting ready to make only his second career album — it’s bad enough when legacy artists like Rod Stewart and Barry Manilow get pigeonholed into it — and, furthermore, the world doesn’t really need remakes of Bryan Adams’ “Everything I Do” or Paul Young’s “Everytime You Go Away” (which offended Sherry Ann — world’s biggest Paul Young fan, that one — all the way down to the marrow of her bones) or Elton John’s “Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word,” as those songs were indelibly performed the first time around, and Clay’s arrangements of those tunes weren’t markedly different from the originals. (And yes, I’m absolutely aware that the album wasn’t Clay’s idea or concept, so please don’t attack me with that news flash, but why even bother if you’re not going to bring something new to the song you’re covering?!) Nonetheless, I assure you, I have listened to Ways, multiple times, and I found a handful of its tracks — most notably his Pure Moods-esque take on Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings” (done as a fascinating collaboration with poet Erin Taylor); his sped-up reworking of Richard Marx’s all-time classic “Right Here Waiting” (although I continue to wish that either Clay or his producer would have had the balls to insist on going for that full-throated high note at the song’s climax instead of playing it safe, since it’s clear that Clay is more than capable of pulling off those vocal acrobatics); or his blistering cover of Foreigner’s landmark “I Want to Know What Love Is” (which I mentioned loving in last week’s post) — to be breathtaking in their sheer audacity and joie, and ultimately, I believe Clay did the very best he could with what was, at its core, a phenomenally bad idea.

But enough of that: with bigger and better fish to fry, I now present to you this week’s records:

Another best-of set of sorts, and this one from one of the most quirky and unique performers in the business, the lovely Miss Cassandra Wilson, who has cherry-picked a handful of older pop favorites that she has “interpreted” on her seven studio albums and has assembled them on Closer to You: The Pop Side. Among the gorgeous chestnuts included here: a cover of The Monkees’ “Last Train to Clarksville” that you gotta hear to believe, as well as a ferocious take on The Band’s classic “The Weight,” a plainly tender reading of Sting’s “Fragile,” and what is perhaps the most deliriously engrossing and emotionally raw take on Cyndi Lauper’s legendary “Time After Time” that I’ve ever heard. (I know, I know, once you’ve heard the incomparable Patti LaBelle sing those extraordinary lyrics, it’s real hard for any other version to hold a candle, but if Wilson’s sultry vibe doesn’t give you a shiver or two, do move your ears a soupcon closer to the speakers.)

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