Brandon's Buzz

Regina Spektor — “Small Town Moon”
(from What We Saw from the Cheap Seats) —

Spektor’s (largely) ass-chappingly irritating quirks and vocal tics continue to go full frontal on her just-released fourth album — which, praise be, hasn’t drawn the same outrageously ridiculous comparisons to my beloved Ms. Amos that her first three records did — but at least she’s leaping toward more relevant artistic territory this time around, as on this wistfully nostalgic piano-driven ditty about a wide-eyed young lass itching to break away. Think of it as a modern-day “She’s Leaving Home,” this one from the she‘s point of view.

Paul Simon (with Ladysmith Black Mambazo) —
“Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes”
(from Graceland [25th Anniversary Edition]) —

I have written often in this space over the years about my disdain for the “deluxe edition” re-release, but urry once in a while, a recording comes along that truly merits the honor, and this week brings us one such special project, as one of the finest albums ever laid to tape returns to stores with a brilliant new expanded package just in time to mark its twenty-fifth anniversary.

Just months after the likes of Queen and Rod Stewart had been royally castigated by their peers for playing sold-out shows at the notorious Sun City casino and resort in South Africa — then still ravaged by the racial segregation practice known as apartheid — Paul Simon willfully ignored the cultural embargo of the time (not to mention long-standing United Nations sanctions) and traveled to the country to write and record a handful of songs with some of the nation’s premier artists and musicians, the fact of whose existence Simon desired desperately to introduce to a mass global audience. (And it bears noting: after a pair of blistering commercial disappointments — 1980’s One Trick Pony and 1982’s Hearts and Bones — Simon himself was surely looking for away to reignite his own flagging career.) The result of all this toil: the Grammy-winning masterwork Graceland, an eclectic and helplessly endearing melange of Africa-inspired rhythms and beats that returned Simon to the top of the charts and very much helped give rise to the so-called “world music” phenomenon over the decade to come.

Graceland is back this week with a pristine four-disc box set and a more manageable double-disc edition, each of which comes packed with a bounty of bonus material — including rare demos and alternate mixes — and a DVD containing Under African Skies, Oscar winner Joe Berlinger’s piercing documentary about the harrowing creation of this landmark album; and, more importantly, about Simon’s bold choice to disregard the tempestuous politics of the day in an (ultimately worthwhile) attempt to illustrate that music truly is the universal language, and in the name of creating something much more enduring than the endless sniping of warring ideologies: art. (It’s a lesson we seem to keep needing to re-learn, again and again and again.) For sure don’t let this one slip through the cracks of your record shopping experience this week.

Adele — “Turning Tables” (from 21) —

Years ago, in one of her all-time funniest observations, the brilliant Sherry Ann put forth a theory that George Michael must be from the classy, upper-crust area of Great Britain (because his accent is so gracefully refined and silky-smooth), and the Spice Girls must be from the dowdy, trailer-park area of the country (because, literally to a woman, their accents — at least back in the day — were always so screechy and nausea-inducing). And watching Matt Lauer’s interview with Adele that ran in prime-time last night on NBC (and, of course, flashing back on her Grammy-night coronation last February), I was struck dumb by the stunning disparity that exists between her singing voice and her speaking one, and left to wonder how on earth they can both spring from the same set of pipes. (Incidentally, if you ever run into Sherry Ann on the street, don’t let her slip away before getting her to unleash her oughta-be-world-famous Spice Girls impression; she does a virulently spot-on recitation of the hilarious “Anybody got any pay-puh?!” bit of dialogue from the otherwise regrettable Spiceworld film, and it’s easily among the top three funniest things I’ve ever heard.)

Kacy Crowley — “Nickel to the Stone” (from Anchorless) —

“. . . little Mexican houses, vines of wire /

a gate that just don’t quite shut /

along the sides of a hopscotch square /

two girls listenin’ to themselves /

on a worn-out tape player /

‘We’re gonna be big stars /

if I could just get this pencil /

to rewind my tape that far . . . !'”

Adam Lambert — “Pop That Lock” (from Trespassing) —

On his just-released sophomore album, thankfully for us all, Lambert has dialed back the screeching banshee shtick that made him an instant favorite on American Idol three seasons ago, even as he has grown much more mischievously adventurous with his subject matter. (As blatant sexual metaphors go, this one’s fairly tame when stacked up next to Christina blathering on about her woohoo a couple of summers ago, or even the ever-scintillating invitation to stand under Rihanna’s umba-relly, but — dig this dude or not — isn’t there something rather viciously refreshing about the fact of a young, openly gay man crafting an entire album about, essentially, getting his, uh, groove on and sending said album straight to the top of the charts?)

Bee Gees — “You Win Again” (from The Ultimate Bee Gees) —

Bee Gees — “One” (from The Ultimate Bee Gees) —

Bee Gees — “Alone” (from The Ultimate Bee Gees) —

“Jive Talkin'” went to number one fourteen months before I was born, and their massively successful string of disco-dance smashes had reached its natural conclusion while I was still crawlin’ to get walkin’ as a pop music buff, so while I have a dispassionate admiration for the uptempo material that made them worldwide superstars, it is only with their later, less commercially successful work that I feel a true personal connection to the music of the Brothers Gibb (of whom, tragically, there now remains only one left standing, following last weekend’s death from cancer of Robin Gibb). Think me nuts if you must, but I would proudly place all three of these tracks — particularly the first of them, a stunner from 1988 that was inexplicably a non-starter here in the States but a massive smash in practically every other territory on the globe — among my favorite pop songs of all time, and blasting this brilliant aural triptych at full volume is how I choose to bid Robin a final adieu from my own little plot of earth. (Incidentally, I am getting damn tired of writing obituaries of my childhood heroes in such rat-a-tat-tat succession, and therefore am kindly prevailing upon the gods of grace who determine our fragile fates to just cool it for a bit. Quite frankly, I’m still trying to get over Whitney, and I just don’t know that I have room in my heart for another wrenching farewell for at least another six months. Pretty, pretty please.)

Adele — “Don’t You Remember” (from 21) —

Happy Memorial Day, all. Please don’t forget to remember — even if only for a passing moment — the fallen on this sunny Monday.

Clay Aiken — “This is the Night”
(from Playlist: The Very Best of Clay Aiken) —

I would say that I am rooting for Arsenio Hall to whup Clay Aiken’s ass on tonight’s fifth season finale of the greatest show on television, Donald Trump’s brilliantly trash-tastic competition series Celebrity Apprentice. But in the very early days of this website’s existence, I went ten rounds with the Claymates (with the able assistance of one Sherry Ann, who loves little more than picking fights on her best friend’s blog) over some misconstrued comments I made about an Aiken best-of compilation, and I can tell you from first-hand experience how ferociously loyal those folks are about the object of their ridonk obsession, and I wish not to re-place the Buzz in their kooky crosshairs. (‘Sides all that, I was rooting hard for a finale face-off between loopy Lisa Lampanelli and that shrewd bitch-on-four-wheels Aubrey O’Day (who surely was the favorite to win the whole shebang prior to her poorly-justified firing last week), so I don’t really have a dog in this particular hunt.). So, in other words: Go Clay!

Donna Summer — “She Works Hard for the Money” (from Gold) —

Her own career hit a rough patch after the pop music world turned so violently against the disco craze, but her legacy is well assured, and she surely left this plane yesterday morning knowing in her soul that there’s not a dance club diva currently drawing breath — from Kim Sozzi and Kristine W to Madonna to that rancid tart Ke$ha and the garish GaGa — who doesn’t owe her a massive debt of gratitude for the trail she blazed so brilliantly in her heyday. (Rest in peace, Miss Donna, and much love to your family and friends.)

Train — “You Can Finally Meet My Mom” (from California 37) —

Clearly emboldened by the unstoppable success of their dippy, dopey smash “Hey, Soul Sister” (which shamelessly name-checked Mr. Mister and Madonna — and cribbed a key lyric from INXS — on its way to becoming one of the best-selling digital singles in pop music history), my eternal faves Train have amped the pop culture references up to twelve-and-a-half on California 37, their just-released fifth album, which kicks off with the Proper-Noun-heavy, you-were-there-and-so-were-we history lesson “This’ll Be My Year” — think of it as “We Didn’t Start the Fire 2.0” — and only grows more ridiculous from there. (Kid you not: “Year’s” chorus actually includes the phrase “I stopped believin’ / although Journey told me, ‘Don’t’ / before I call it a day….”) Luckily for us die-hard fans, this band hasn’t completely forgotten the fact that its lead singer Pat Monahan’s sinewy, slyly acrobatic voice has always been its golden ticket to ride, and indeed, said voice singlehandedly rescues more than a couple of this record’s flights of fancy from outright doom, including this one, essentially a laundry list — set to glorious music, natch — of folks, from Buddha to Jimi Hendrix to Whitney Houston to “the dude who played the sheriff in Blazing Saddles (!),” whom Pat is not gonna introduce his true love to once they both make it inside the pearly gates. (I swear to Jesus I’m not making this up!) Monahan’s achingly earnest vocal performance swoops in to save the day here, and I still can’t decide whether this is the most irritating slice of melodic claptrap, or the sweetest love song I’ve ever heard. (As a man who met his own true love three weeks to the day after my father passed away, I can absolutely get with the sentiment that drives this magnificent mess, because I think I’d give anything if A and my Dad could have spent some time together. Dad was a rabid Republican and a staunch redneck — which is to say, A’s diametric opposite in pretty much every way — but I think he would have gotten a big kick out of the crazy fool I happily call my life partner once he could have gotten to know him, and I hope against hope that one day, someway, the two men I have loved most in this life will be able to put their heads together and finally compare notes on the view from their own respective corners of the world.)

Cary Brothers (with Priscilla Ahn) — “Maps”
(from Covers, Volume One) —

As would certainly befit what has become a modern classic, it has seemingly become quite en vogue for artists to record their own take on The Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ indelibly brilliant 2003 smash “Maps”: my old favorite indie band Rogue Wave contributed a version to a Starbucks Valentine’s Day compilation a couple of years back; our old pals The Fray turned the tune into some sort of bizarro hoedown foot-stomper for the digital-exclusive deluxe edition of their latest album earlier this year; and even that magnificent wackydoo Macy Gray included it in her recent covers project. But none of those remakes are quite as ambitious (or, frankly, as good) as this, as the keenly astute Brothers completely deconstructs not only the text but the intent of the song, and the effect is bone-chilling and brilliant: whereas Karen O sang her words with a deceptively muted rage, Brothers crawls inside the story emitting a devastated vulnerability that is utterly breathtaking to behold. I played this on a constant loop for over an hour yesterday morning, and there’s not a thing about it — from the gently insistent, quietly urgent tinkling of the piano that keeps getting lost in the lush atmospherics of the chorus, to Ahn’s haunting harmony vocal (a pitch-perfect counterpoint to Brothers’ brusque, beautifully gruff line readings) — that doesn’t strike me as pristine perfection. In every way, a total triumph. (Incidentally, this man is one of Sherry Ann’s favorite artists, and I even managed to convince Cary to sing eight bars of her favorite Brothers tune just for her when he was a guest on Brandon’s Buzz Radio a couple of years back. And if you missed any of that conversation — or, Sherry Ann, if you’d like to relive it anew, wink wink — you can catch up with it right here.)

Cowboy Junkies — “Anniversary Song”
(from The Best of Cowboy Junkies) —

Seven years ago this very night, at a bustling coffee shop on 4th Street in good ol’ Austin, Texas, I met the smartest, sexiest, oddest, greatest, most frustrating and most amazing man I know. I was immediately pulled under his spell, and he — thank Jesus — was sufficiently intrigued by me to entertain the notion of an official date a few nights later. Seven years on, we share a gorgeous home, a crazy dog we’re both nuts about, a host of private jokes that only we get, shells and chicken most Sunday nights, and, on balance, a pretty damned fabulous life that I wouldn’t trade for anyone else’s on a sure bet. (I love you so much, A: today, tomorrow, and always.)