Why are UK reality TV construction Girls Aloud still around? It’s a question that continues to boggle the minds of those who are under the idea that pre-fabricated pop acts are not meant to stretch their fifteen minutes into five years (and counting…). But after revving attention back their way with the brash and feisty “Sexy! No No No”, this quintet of mildly talented Barbie Dolls show no signs of disappearing anytime soon. And really, should we care? Especially due to the fact that even at their most sub-par, they’re far more addictive than their pretentious indie rock chartmates.
Tangled Up track “Can’t Speak French” is yet another flawless pop treat from the still-lamely-named girl group that’ll surely garner repeated play. The ghost of George Michael hangs over it’s boppable groove, a rewarding shuffle with a slight Latin tinge, while each line documents a girl falling deeper in love with her new bedmate. While he lays asleep beside her (what is it, some unisex sleepover?), she quietly weeps to the joy of their prospective union, trying to figure out a way to communicate her feelings without scaring dude off. “I got to let you know I wanna give into my temptation,” one of the ladies swoon, leading to the best hook of the season: “I can’t speak French/ So I’ll let the funky music do the talking”.
Definite Ipod material when you’re trying to lose those Thanksgiving pounds on the treadmill, “Can’t Speak French” retains Girls Aloud’s knack for catchy ditties you shouldn’t like but do. Damn them for making us love them so.
Is that Mary J, the newfound Queen of Self-Love and All That Is Positive, co-signing a song about shooting your partner’s “other” lover dead? Yessiree, and her raw presence definitely adds another layer of WTF? to “Wake Up Call”, whose sex-and-murder theme was already high on kookiness.
Highly in-demand producer Mark Ronson slows the tempo down an inch on the “Wake Up Call (Remix)”, allowing breathing room for his dense, soul-sampled soundbed, but this revision isn’t really about him (his signature style was more exciting when it didn’t seem to be popping up everywhere), or Maroon 5 for that matter. The spotlight falls on Miss Mary J., proving after an equally stunning appearance on Ne-Yo’s “Do You (Remix)”, that she should do these random cameos more often.
Like with everything else she touches, Blige injects a shade of fiery passion and authenticity. Whereas Levine feels like an actor in a scene, Blige sounds like she’s living out this real-life nightmare, smoking gun still in hand. Her needly wails of “Don’t you care about me” and “I don’t feel so bad” are filled with an edge of insanity vibe that the original lacked. Homegirl might claim to be ‘just fine’ in her current drama-free state, but she’s still not one you want to cross.
In which Kim tries to make us believe that she isn’t always about being the center of red carpet attention (whatever).
Instead of participating in a “girl’s night out”, Kim decides to stay home and be with her man on new single “Chillin’ Tonight”, a veeeery 50 Cent-influenced track engrossed in ’90’s East Coast boom bap and half-sung choruses. While her pals attend R. Kelly concerts and Victoria Secret runway shows, Kim would rather play in bed all night with her man, dressing up in “see-through lingerie” (like she would have any other kind) and engaging in pillow fights. Her friends call her “whipped”, she doesn’t seem to care. Besides, she has to make sure every inch of their New York penthouse is tested for sex-friendliness.
Seeing as though her and Curtis are on good terms again, it wouldn’t be surprising if he had a hand in creating this one. That’s not to glorify the sexist notion that women don’t pen their own rap lyrics, but due to the fact that if you flip the gender and some of the words this would probably be a Fiddy single.
Does that make “Chillin’ Tonight” horrible? Not really. The beat is likable and Kim showcases solid, if not all that interesting, lyricism. It’s just that, following a year in the pen and the most acclaimed album of her career, we’re expecting a hot, re-entry banger, not a lukewarm song about the joys of domestic bliss.
Avoiding the oft-kilter club chemistry she shared with Timbaland (“Oops, Oh My”, “Call Me”) on her sleepy second album, It’s Me Again, it’s no wonder that album barely made a dent on the charts. Her wispy, acousti-soul confessionals might be her personally preferred choice of song, but she’s at her most memorable when she attaches her old school vocals to beats of the future. Thankfully, she’s come to terms with what works and offers an Outkast-ish thump on latest single, “Anymore”.
Underlined by handclaps and odd synth noises that sound like a weeping cyborg, Tweet balances out the track’s quirkiness with her sultry delivery, flipping out over an old boyfriend’s image makeover as he attempts reconciliation. “What happened to you boy?”, she asks, taken aback by this stranger of a man with actual decent traits in his arsenal. Re-living the pain she put him through, though, and Tweet isn’t completely convinced of his complete 180, concerned it’s only a temporary ruse to win her back (“Is this a game that you playing?/ Remember you left me hanging?”). Being the smart cookie that she is, she refuses to let him back in her life so easily, opting to ponder the idea over in her head a bit before she foolishly opens her heart again.
The track doesn’t have the instantaneous appeal of “Oops” (one of the best R&B singles of the ’00’s), but it definitely sets her promising career back on track.
Usher sold over a million copies in one week with his last album Confessions (which would eventually push over eight million units and score a couple Grammy’s), but is the pressure to follow up a mega-seller like that perhaps too lofty a goal for “Mr. Entertainer”, or has becoming a so-so Broadway actor, new husband and father-to-be curved his ability to make good music anymore.
The past year has seen plenty Usher leaks, and while some were dismissed as older material never meant to reach the public ear, they all ranked underwhelming, especially for a R&B star who had the Midas touch with anything he graced a few years back. The latest question mark to hit the ‘Net is the confused “Dat Girl Right There”, a noisy number that marries predictable male ogling with a messy, futuristic crunk mindmeld beat consisting of cantankerous drum clatter and a symphony of farts.
After banging countless beauties from around the world, one stand-out girl has impressed him so much that it’s reduced him to a slobber-mouthed fool, stuttering out a chorus as annoyingly repetitious as it’s “wish it could be as cool as Amerie’s” backing track. Usher made great lyrical strides with all the soapy relationship drama that unfolded over Confessions, so hearing him regurgitating the mindless gibberish of a contemporary soul amateur is such a letdown. Even Ludacris’ typical wacky XXX banter (“Like yeast in the over/ All of a sudden she made me RISE-rise-rise-rise“) fails to ignite much interest over a cartoony beat he should’ve easily owned.
A manic new offering that somebody during the process of recording should have exposed for it’s extreme lameness, “Dat Girl Right There” has us “confessing” that he might want to re-think his comeback plan if this is the strongest jump-off he can come up with.
With tongue-in-cheek, pop culture-savvy lyrics flanked by jubilant guitar riffs and drum rolls, The Wombats’ ride a dangerously thin line between being superbly clever and extremely annoying, but for the moment, their repetitious brand of wit-heavy indie pop provides a refreshing temporary break from our less interesting reality. How can you not get a kick out of a hook that tries to lift spirits with it’s ironic encouragement to “dance to Joy Division” or the narrator’s desperate need to escape rom-com cliches on the “Bridget Jones”-dissing “Kill The Director”, especially when the words are paired with such enjoyable music? But what happens when the band wants to deviate from upbeat, pogo-friendly spunk and attach their lovelorn lyrics to something a bit more lethargic? Could the lack of energy exposing not-all-that-good singing and beginners’ musicianship kill all the appeal?
“Little Miss Pipedream” finds a man obsessing over his dreamlover from a distance. He memorizes her daily routine (“She works in a dental practice 9 ’til 5, how does she manage?/ Considering her nights don’t pass out ’til 3″), walks her home (with a couple blocks in between them, of course) following a night of Tequila shots because “London town’s not built for me or you”, and when he doesn’t get the reaction he yearns after sending her love letters, he comes up with the conspiracy theory that the mailman is trashing his sent mail because he’s in love with the girl as well.
Pretty “do-do-do” background spots, a softly chugging rhythm and elementary keyboard notes melt away the man’s craziness with it’s tender melodicism, and when he shrugs off her skanky ways (“I don’t mind that she gets hammered and goes home with other guys”) and basically admits that she’s probably too good for him anyway, you really end up feeling pity for the creep.
There’s no catchy hook to drunkenly chant along to so “Little Miss Pipedream” will still lose some fans in the shift to sappy balladry, but the song’s child-like, five-cent studio crafting and touching stalker-boy lament proves that in the translation to slower material, they’re still as strong as their more glee-inducing singles. Possibly a bit stronger since, something as offhandedly precious as “Pipedream” probably won’t become so grating after a million listens.
If Fat Joe was to announce his retirement now few would be moved to care. Matter of fact you’d probably get a few under-breath mumbles of “What took him so long?”. Around Big Pun’s death there was a brief moment when it looked like Fat Joe could actually be a rapper to watch, but a series of watered-down radio singles with A-list guests and producers that overshadowed him and a mafioso demeanor that scared none found him to be nothing to really get excited over. Yet, even as his already thinned relevance continues to diminish away, he refuses to quit. On the verge of his eighth album, the slightly humorously-titled The Elephant in the Room, the recently South-friendly BX emcee once again aims for heavy rotation with the J. Holiday-featured “I Won’t Tell”.
The plot, which could only really exist in his dreams, follows him carrying a secret affair with the girlfriend of an Atlanta Hawk team member. That she may only be dealing with him because he keeps her in the flyest gear and hottest rides completely goes over his head, but then again the man also thinks that tired references to his mega-sized jewelry constitutes a hot verse.
As what’s sadly become expected when it comes to a Crack track, everything else involved here works on a decent level. The drum track and sprite keyboard flourishes provide a relaxing, candy-coated backdrop and the sweet vocals of J. Holiday, despite not being the most distinctive R&B presence, makes you wish he was the star of the cut instead of the other way around. If anything, “I Won’t Tell” will give 50 Cent enough comedy material for the next month or so.
From the relaxed boho-soul grooves of her stellar debut Baduizm to the chaotic jam sessions of Worldwide Underground, Erykah Badu has never fashioned herself a radio-ready artist, yet one of the shining lights of the ’90’s neo-soul movement retains an impressive ability to keep fans crossing over to her every creative whim. Even when she opted for the more accessible choice of using a Dr. Dre beat for the single version of “Bag Lady”, Badu’s innate artiness transcended the obvious move, thanks to a timeless lyrical metaphor and the cheap-looking, self-directed music video that still achieved major airtime.
Her latest musical curveball is new single, “Honey”, a old-school-laced midtempo anchored in squelchy funk bits (it was produced by 9th Wonder) and a tale of one-sided romance. Like the greatest R&B records, “Honey” takes you on a pleasant ride, it’s warm, soulful groove providing the perfect pace for Badu to convey her cloudy-eyed frustrations.
Tagging the object of her affection a “bumblebee” for the sweetness he emits, Badu begs to know if he carries the same sort of feelings for her as well. “Everytime that I turn around/ Love for you but you can’t be found,” she hopelessly emotes, chasing him all around town to nab an “interview” so she can really see what’s up from his perspective. The song’s listless nature adds a sense of unattainable closure to her predicament but that isn’t a bad thing at all. Because she never gets an affirmed answer from her boo, the song’s precious, dreamy mood isn’t lost and the listener has the luxury of enjoying endless layers of ad-libbed longing from the singer’s brassy chops.
After her drowsy contribution to Wu Tang Clan’s much ballyhooed Beatles re-working “The Heart Gently Weeps”, it’s nice to hear Erykah sounding so alive here. Look for her new album, the very “Badu-ishly” titled The Kabah to hit stores in February.
It’s a shame that American radio doesn’t have the smarts to support the rarely-dull R&B-pop of Amerie, because, as usual, she delivers with another fizzy no-brainer that could surely be a Stateside favorite if really given the chance.
On the revamped “Crush”, supposedly the version to appear on the long overdue US release of her latest album, Because I Love It, the beauty recaptures an ’80’s bubblegum charm as she relishes in the tickly feeling she gets in her no-no place every time she’s around one particular hottie.
“I wish I could save your kiss/ For some other girl to taste/ To see the expression on your face,” she sings on this Human League-ish confection while a busy array of Crayola keyboards and old school rap breaks give off a fresh-faced Miami feel. Later, she dreams of locking the man up in a self-made prison and throwing away the kiss to make sure he’s always around whenever she needs him (Now what heterosexual male do you know wouldn’t jump at the chance to be Amerie’s own personal sex slave?).
American audiences have already proven that they’ll embrace mindless R&B-pop from the likes of Rihanna, and while “Crush” is nowhere near “Umbrella”’s greatness, this appreciable nugget of sexy goodness could surely make the girl a worthy contender back at home where she deserves to be reigning.
No doubt moved by the post-modern funk-pop of a fellow Neptunes client, Kenna, a bizarro, new wave-inspired African-American musician (literally, African-American since he was born in Ethiopia), steals a bit from the FutureSex/ LoveSounds factory on his sleazoid, Trekkie-disco workout, “Loose Wires”.
Introduced via an addictive tribal 4/4 thump, Kenna uses the mystifying powers of his vampire croon to trap that long awaited woman under his spell (“It’s written in your face now/ You wanna be my muse,” he hauntingly croaks). He’s searched high and low and around the world for his soulmate and now that he’s found her, he has no intentions of letting her out from his grasp. With a single hand swipe sending out varied synth sparkles to light up the clubby atmosphere, the man inquires whether she is entertained by his magical fireworks display (“Isn’t it electric in here?/ Isn’t in amazing?”) before preceding with his devilish plan to put their ‘loose wires’ together and spark a connection.
A fine blending of a creepy predator guise with Simon LeBon howls and a flashy, jungle-tronica bounce that shifts with endless abandon, “Loose Wires” takes the Timberlake template and embeds the dark, artsy witchery it seemed in desperate ache for. Take that, “LoveStoned”.
As nice as it is to get free music, think of how much better your soul would feel if you purchased it the old-fashioned way.
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