Tag Archives | pop music

Music Review: Divide by Ed Sheeran

For clear, powerful pop music, and I am an admitted fan of pop music, Ed Sheeran’s new album, Divide, adds, multiplies and satisfies. From the first listening to the most recent, its lyrics, melodies and ranging styles sound better and better.

Beginning with a lament about his early pop fame, “Eraser”, Sheeran sings about “friends and family filled with envy when they should be filled with pride.” Then, he croons what I regard as a songwriting masterpiece, “Castle on a Hill”. This propulsive tune contrasts various pauses, pleas, percussion and steady repetition of guitar playing with an easygoing but deceptively shrewd, wry and progressive observation about earning one’s wisdom. Sheeran spins it into an exultant if exhausted embrace of the facts of reality.

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In “Dive”, Ed Sheeran (who co-wrote the songs) delivers a polished paean to lovesickness with the right blend of vulnerability and affirmation. The lustful, sexually themed “Shape of You” applies an irresistible lyric to undulating rhythm in electronic soul. With a scratchy, old recording sound as prelude, his love song “Perfect” is truly perfect. With Sheeran’s clear vocals lavishing its rhyming lyrics with sincerity, with seriousness fueling the soul of his talent, as with the best of England’s new wave of soul singers—James Blunt, Adele, Sam Smith, all of whom are evoked in the brightest sense on this exceptional album—in a song you’d expect to hear on oldies radio. “Galway Girl” is a jaunty mix of hip hop and regional music that stands on its own. “Happier” is the most haunting heartbreak song since Blunt’s “Beautiful” or Adele’s “Hello”.

“New Man” offers another modern beat, with a nod to social media and digs at kale, overspending and plucked eyebrows. All of Sheeran’s 16 songs are meticulously created and recorded, with memorable, piano laden melodies. This is especially true of the lullaby “Hearts Don’t Break Around Here” and a few other favorites, including Sheeran’s ironic upbeat ode to his brand of self-made music “What Do I Know”. “How Would You Feel” is lovely, too.

Sheeran saves the best for the deluxe album’s last five songs, though “Castle on a Hill” remains sensational. How sad that it has to be considered refreshing to hear a man sing a simple proclamation of love for his mother in “Supermarket Flowers”. “Barcelona”, which neatly evokes a summer night along Las Ramblas in that Spanish city, and “Bibia Be Ye Ye”, tease and dare you to not want to dance. Ed Sheeran’s tribute to his parents’ love, “Nancy Mulligan”, toasts the best of one’s legacy in values. Finally, the reflective and prayerful “Save Myself” plays like young, successful and rich Ed Sheeran’s egoistic answer to his album Divide’s first song, “Eraser”—intentionally or not—promising with a solemn vow to remember that, before he loves someone else, he’s “got to love myself.”

Clarity, melody and sincerity unify the elements of Ed Sheeran’s intimate and triumphal Divide.

Music Review: Pat Benatar at the Greek

Stepping on stage with the knowing confidence she has exuded throughout her career, Pat Benatar took to the Greek Theatre with ease. She opened with her hit song, “All Fired Up”. This anthem is the ideal initiation to her summer performance of rock, ballads and blues. The tune captures the essence of Benatar’s best work.

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Husband Neil Giraldo’s guitar roared before his wife let loose her vocal power in expressing the buoyantly, defiantly crying optimism which distinguishes this singer and her operatic rock band. Whether in the strong but tender “We Belong”, dramatic “Love is a Battlefield” or The Legend of Billie Jean‘s affirmation “Invincible”, each performed with precision last night at the Greek in her hometown Los Angeles, Benatar’s siren-like bellowing has aged with not a trace of cynicism. Each note, guitar solo and drumbeat fell neatly into each song with minor flaws, bringing her hard but positive catalog to life in the hills of Griffith Park.

Telling tales with humor, profanity and a grasp of what makes a good story, Giraldo and Benatar delivered with stage presence and musicianship every time. This isn’t a greatest hits collection, so they indulged in a selective set list after a nostalgic setup video. With “Hell is for Children” as an emotionally stirring transition point, they gave the enthused audience “Heartbreaker”, “We Live for Love” and “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” as well as a powerful version of “Promises in the Dark”, “Painted Desert” and a tribute to the late Prince with an acoustic rendition of his “When Doves Cry”. The energy was sustained, though Benatar seemed ready to call it a night when she did, too. Both artists, who were co-billed as Pat Benatar & Neil Giraldo with Melissa Etheridge, have a naturally seasoned audience rapport.

That they acknowledge the warped, divisive times fits the tour’s love theme, with Benatar introducing the rollicking and underrated “Let’s Stay Together” off 1988’s brilliant and underrated Wide Awake in Dreamland with a statement dismissing political differences while pleading for unity. A hint of resignation and the sense that answers to deep, serious problems aren’t coming doesn’t mar the band’s underlying, almost prayerful idealism. It is tinged with the rage and anger at injustice that made Pat Benatar an early New Wave sensation in the late 1970s. No one can best this artist and duo for melodic rock that drives its theme that peace and love must be won, fought for and earned. The wink and the shrug with which Pat Benatar and her Neil Giraldo perform are optional.

These two ought to write and record more new music. Their rock concert is a rare and entertaining blend of the light and the serious.

Music Review: Melissa Etheridge at the Greek

Belting out her torchy 1990s hits and threading a story connecting her to hometown Los Angeles and its intimate Greek Theatre, where she preceded Pat Benatar and Neil Giraldo, Melissa Etheridge displayed ability and an appreciation for the blues.

Teasing with a rousing cover tune of “Born Under a Bad Sign” from her forthcoming blues cover album of Stax Records songs, the best song performance of the night, singer-songwriter Etheridge impressed on a variety of skills. The raspy voice is deeper yet still strong and, without pandering to her gay female audience base, the outspoken political activism remains. Both are older and, yes, wiser and more restrained. This is the savvy artist who played on Mike Huckabee’s Fox News program, after all, and she says she still lives in the San Fernando Valley (and has an apartment in Manhattan with a view of the Freedom Tower), so she’s hardly the embodiment of left-wing intellectuals. As in the Brave and Crazy beginning of her career, Melissa Etheridge is an independent gay singer on her own.

While nodding to the times she hung out in Long Beach, a lesbian mecca like Minneapolis, Etheridge let her introspective songs of longing for sex, love and happiness—”Bring Me Some Water”, “If I Wanted To”, “I Want to Come Over”, “Angels Would Fall”, “I’m the Only One”, “Come to My Window”—speak for themselves. She tapped the early, granola-folk phase with her plaintive “No Souvenirs” and mastered every guitar she played throughout the night. But she also spoke of her struggling years in LA in chapters of coming to the Greek to see yoga-minded Sting, for whom she would open, and acts with gay male followings such as Liza Minnelli, who had invited the young Etheridge to attend her show, and Culture Club. She referred to the “glass ceiling” and hinted support for Hillary Clinton but she also derided people breaking off into “little groups” and called for Americans to come together.

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I’ve always liked Melissa Etheridge—I think Never Enough is a thoughtful album—for the same reasons I like Bob Seger; she’s a musical storyteller. I’ve bought her albums and I would have liked to have seen and heard her perform “Ain’t it Heavy”, “2001” “Christmas in America” and “The Letting Go”. Etheridge’s new song, “Pulse”, about the Orlando massacre of gay men by a Moslem terrorist is not her best. But it’s impossible to deny the cancer survivor’s talent and dedication to writing, playing guitar and singing about life here on earth. And, now, thanks to a terrific show last night at the Greek, I look forward to hearing her new Memphis-recorded blues album, too.

Music Review: “Hello” by Adele

Adele Album 25Yesterday, in an act of great injustice, the federal government exonerated a corrupt chief tax collector who perpetrated the singling out of Americans for persecution based on their ideas. Yesterday is also the day Adele released her new single, “Hello”.

The haunting song, written by Adele with Greg Kurstin, masterfully expresses emotions which correspond to what I think are predominant feelings of our times. This lament of one’s past captures what it feels like to want to cry out against what’s gone wrong in the world.

The pared down production, simplicity and restrained power of her voice, which wails about being on the outside, give the melancholy tune an undeniable power. It’s superficially about a former lover, yet the song from Adele’s forthcoming album, 25, is an introspection. It’s as though she’s reflecting upon herself, a sense affirmed by Xavier Dolan’s dramatic, black and white, retro music video co-starring the perfectly cast, boyish Tristan Wilds (watch the video here).

The sparse “Hello” loops a melody in Adele’s vocals featuring whispers of piano, background vocals, electronica, strings, percussion and some chillingly timed bells. The effect is a sense of distance, loss and detachment laced with an eerie foreboding; the lyric suggests that the days are numbered. But this tune, as with In the Lonely Hour by Sam Smith, does not wallow in self-pity, pain and anguish. “Hello”—and this is why I think it reflects modern frustration, troubles and hardship—is a plaintive, wounded howl at the way things are and the way things are going. An undercurrent of struggle and strength in Adele’s soulful voice suggests that the singer has not given up. Musically, vocally and lyrically, there is no hint of defeatism; there is a sense of purge in her pleading acknowledgement of the past. Adele’s vocals do not overpower—she sings more like Whitney Houston than like Jennifer Hudson screaming in Dreamgirls—which serves the tune’s theme. It begins as a greeting and becomes an attempt to admit, fix and right what is wrong.

That “Hello” comes in a week of historic victories for corruption in American government—as one of America’s most alarming income tax scandals goes unchecked and unbalanced and one of the most explicit attacks on free speech, when the government blamed an Islamic terrorist attack on September 11 on a movie, with evidence that the secretary of state (Hillary Clinton) knew it was not caused by a movie but said so anyway, goes unpunished—is, of course, coincidental.

I know that a pop song can mean more than the song. It can reflect and define the times. A song well done captures a mood or sensibility. The youthful weariness of “Hello”, which, like its title, is a greeting girded by benevolence, erupts in a wail at the way things are and the way things are going. “Hello” may entirely endure for its hook, ability and production. It yearns for a past “when we were younger and free” and cries out for better days knowing that “at least I can say that I’ve tried.” In the most basic sense, it’s a song about losing one’s love. In a deeper sense, it could be a song about losing one’s civilization, down to the last lyric that it doesn’t seem to matter anymore—imbued with the sense that it’s all that matters anymore.

Movie Review: Amy

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The story of Amy Winehouse, the “North London Jewish girl” who was a jazz singer before she became a pop star and spun out in a drug-induced death in 2011 at the age of 27, is well told in Amy, director Asif Kapadia’s heartbreaking documentary. A single human life is precious, indeed, and this is what makes Amy so powerful. Whatever the cynics and people who relish with contempt blaming those who destroy themselves, this 2-hour film stands as a testament against letting life go easily, cynically and without examination.

Here, in Winehouse’s own words, with unseen archival footage and unheard tracks, is her short life story. In the telling and showing, Kapadia captures a talented woman of her self-loathing generation who came of age and fame in the digital era when a media feeding frenzy could hasten one’s demise faster than, say, Princess Diana. If you primarily want to blame Elvis, Marilyn, Whitney and others such as Michael Jackson for their own deaths, don’t see Amy. If you want to see how an artist comes undone with help from today’s culture and understand how to intervene, mitigate and stop the selflessness, Amy, whether or not you’re a fan of her music, is as simple and accessible as its title suggests.

The seeds of talent and self-sacrifice were planted in the beginning, and this is documentary, not psychodrama, so definitive answers are not forthcoming. But fellow Brit and Londoner Kapadia, who was a casual fan and lived near Winehouse in the lowest days, is moved by the desire to know what happened. Amy is journalistic, with facts laid bare through research aligned with numerous audio interviews that took him three years to obtain and record.

Clearly, the young child of divorce, who went bad when she was nine years old by her account, was damaged and derailed early in life. She made bad choices. But she was also at the mercy of parents, who both survive her and participate in the film, who did not establish boundaries. Amy goes from her home movies to club footage and recording sessions—from self-made success in Camden to self-made disaster in Belgrade—and, in the pictures and what happens in them, one can see that the petite, big-haired, pierced and painted Winehouse was also sucked into the death spiral by today’s lowest parasites every time she seemed ready to go straight.

Amy is about Amy to the extent that’s possible. Whether showing her as a girl singing “Happy Birthday” and “Moon River” in the opening frames to her jazz lament about a man not acting like a man, her retro hit “Rehab” and later stylings by the guitarist, singer and songwriter, including works with rock, pop and rap acts, the evidence that she could create meaningful music is on full display. Kapadia thankfully offers lyrics and subtitles, too. Intermingled throughout her ascent to stardom is the sleazy lifestyle, which began as a daytime indulgence in marijuana and continued with a lifelong dependence on alcohol, sex and drugs, including those prescribed for her depression and heroin, crack cocaine and nicotine. Add what should be obvious in the form of her eating disorder (bulimia) and Amy is an inked up poison pill. As rapper Mos Def puts it “she was fast with a blue joke, could drink anyone under the table and she sure could roll a smoke. She was a sweetheart.”

In other words, Amy Winehouse was a fast-tracked, foul-mouthed time bomb that everyone from Mos Def (going by another name here) to her father and Tony Bennett kept kicking down the road trying to cash in on her fame, persona and success without accounting for the consequences. The exceptions were chiefly her manager, Nick, whom she fired, her childhood friends Juliette and Lauren, and, tellingly, at one point anyway, Lucian, a Universal Music Group recording industry executive who insisted that she sign a contract to keep clean and sober before booking her on the Grammys (she signed and delivered—both in sobriety and appearance). In and out of bad relationships and a stoner marriage and rehab, becoming a cartoonish joke with her garish cosmetics which became a self-fulfilling imprisonment of self-hate, Amy Winehouse finally dovetails talent and tragedy and goes for a final nosedive, bookended by her hero worship of Tony Bennett, who comes off as somewhat complicit despite his polished efforts. Bennett at least gets the artist right when he describes her as “a true, natural jazz singer.”

That she never really sought to heal herself cannot be escaped. Neither can the fact that she never really had a model, friend or proper intervention for the help an addict needs from those who love the addict when she’s sober. Amy’s life ended on July 23, 2011 with a blood alcohol level 45 times higher than normal. That this intelligent, bright-eyed, British artist called her old friend and flatmate Juliette with pure clarity and said over and over that she was “sorry” days before she died—with her downfall constantly ridiculed by sniveling comics such as George Lopez at the Grammys and Jay Leno—proves only that inside the self-destroyer remained that girl who could sing with soul. Whether any good comes from Amy is up to those who know someone they love who is as artful a dodger as London’s lost singer.

Amy reminded me of the first time I heard “Rehab” in a dive bar in Silver Lake, with its energetic Wall of Sound bursting forth with this fresh, smoky voice that also sang jazz, blues and standards. I wondered then what would become of one who is celebrated with snide parody for living the life she portrayed. Amy brings to mind audiences turning the other cheek to Robin Williams‘ obvious despair, the cacophony of cell phone cameras when Heath Ledger‘s corpse came out on a New York City stretcher, and the endless taunting that people—sadly, intelligent people—do to flawed, damaged but talented celebrities such as Charlie Sheen, Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus and even to relatively unblemished artists such as Sam Smith. Amy revisits the short life of Amy Winehouse with honest, candid examination of facts and, through the words, pictures and lives of those she left behind, lets the awful truth speak, sing and be silent for what it is.

That the coarse, young modern female drank herself to death in a culture that now celebrates drunkenness and coarseness among young females may come as no shock. However, Amy, as its title suggests, urges the audience to never submit to coarseness and cynicism after the fact of a horrible, and stoppable, self-made death.