Ralston Hartness, Brad Armstrong/Brandi Carlile and Old Crow: June Roundup # 1

A few weeks ago I had my annual you-should-have-never-let-down-your-guard colds I often get after filing my final grades with the registrar. With stuffed head and medicated body, I took a brisk walk to try to clear the cobwebs. (Full disclosure: Okay, it was actually a languorous wobble.) On my MP3 player was a download of a new singer/songwriter, Ralston Hartness, and his debut EP, Atlas (Underground Records). It made me feel better than any meds sold at my local CVS. Hartness—still a student at Washington & Lee University in Virginia–has made the perfect debut–one where you go with what you know, are true to yourself, and lay your soul bare. The result is six gorgeous tracks about yearning, searching to belong, thinking about home, and feeling a bit lost. (By God, if a college student isn't allowed to feel these things, who can?) Hartness has a fine, clear, and emotive tenor, one that reminded me a lot of Greg Greenway when he was young, or Noah Gunderson in his more tender moments. My favorite track was "81-S," and not just because that's the road I take from New England to my own Pennsylvania hometown. I admired both the beautiful simplicity of the melody and Hartness' confessional: 81 South's a long straight shot/So think about the man that I know I'm not/Trying to see through the lies I know have names/Now I wrestle with my soul just to stay awake. I remember those days, Ralston, so thanks for that. And thanks also for five other outstanding tracks and for bringing balm to a befuddled brain. Now, dear readers, log on to Noisetrade and throw some bread this young man's way.

Empire (Cornelius Chapel records) is a damn fine solo debut from rock veteran Brad Armstrong. It's gritty and pulls no punches, but it's honest. Some of it is rated R. Like "School Bus" and its line "Every morning was like a wet dream." Okay, so you won't be hearing Brad Armstrong on a radio station near you, but that's no reason not to go online and take a hard listen. Besides, this dude can be smooth when he wants to be. "Them Old Crows" is a nice acoustic country song rendered in mostly sweet tones, though that hint of a spit alerts you he can get down in the gravel whenever the mood strikes. That's rather often, as it turns out. On "No Vain Apology" he practically spews lyrics like "I don't care about my wife/She left me here in Babylon/I watched her walk out the door/With a rifle in her hand." Or the sex and violence allusions in "Cherokee Nose Job."  That one is dark and dirty and explodes into heavy rock that skirts the edge of cacophony before pulling back. Its feel, though not the tune, reminded me The Doors' "The End." Yep—we're talking that level of danger. Again, though, there's a lot of diversity on the album. There are nice ringing harmonies on "Brothers," and some sonic resonance in the background of a robust sound wall. Armstrong goes futuristic on "2045" with atmospheric electric guitar, reverberant vocals, and a trippy sci-fi/acid folk-rock groove. Cool stuff.

I mentioned Brandi Carlile in a recent column. If you really want to hear Carlile in all her glory, check out a sampler from a 2016 tour she's doing with Old Crow Medicine Show Okay, so maybe both performers are a bit Nashville slick, but if they ever decide they want to go the Natalie Merchant route and just make music they want, they'll find legions who will stay loyal. Carlile takes the lead on two tracks, and the shouter/kick-butt "Mainstream Kid" proves she can front any band, while the vulnerable, sweet "The Eye" demonstrates her ability to blend in. She can also step away from the spotlight, as shown in two Old Crow songs where she simply adds her voice to the spirited chorus: "O Cumberland River" and "Bootlegger's Boy." If you've yet to discover Old Crow Medicine Show, you're in for a treat. Fiddler/lead vocalist Keith Secor sizzles with a heat even Old Nick can't touch without sustaining burns. These guys do breakdown bluegrass at speeds that coast faster than an Indy driver.

Rob Weir

The Last One: When TV Meets Reality

THE LAST ONE (2016)

Alexandra Oliva

Ballantine Books

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We all know that “reality” TV shows bear as much resemblance to truth as does the Tooth Fairy to scientific dentistry. They are the ultimate junk TV--Dumb and Dumber brought to the small screen. But what would happen if actual reality collided with reality TV? That’s the setup for Alexandra Oliva’s debut novel The Last One, which releases this summer in time for deck chair reading.

Oliva is the latest to enter the post-apocalypse genre, hence her book invites comparisons to recent offerings such as The Road, Station Eleven, The Dog Stars, and The Hunger Games. The hook is that twelve people have been recruited for “In the Dark,” the Mother of All Reality Shows, one with a big budget and a million dollar prize for the titular last one standing. Call it “Survivor” on steroids. Contestants are warned that they will be put through grueling challenges that will be physically and emotionally demanding and, at times, dangerous. They can quit at any time by uttering the phrase ad tenebras dedi, Latin for “I surrender to the dark,” but will not know until the end who wins. They are also told there will be clues and opportunities along the way, which they’ll recognize by assigned colors. (Shades of The Hunger Games.)

Oliva only gives us hints about the contestants, which are based upon short descriptors of their defining personality traits: Air Force, Banker, Biology, Black Doctor, Carpenter, Cheerleader Boy, Engineer, Exorcist, Rancher, Tracker, Waitress, and Zoo. The story is narrated by the last of these, a young married woman seeking a final big thrill before settling into respectable motherhood. Zoo is also the source of all that we know about the others, including their actual names. After a series of gross group and solo “challenges” which thin the herd, the survivors set out alone.

It gives away nothing to say that they no sooner strike out on their own than a mysterious pneumonic plague-like disease wipes out most the population. Given all that Zoo has already been through, she assumes putrefying bodies are brilliant f/x props and that each horror or obstacle she encounters is an elaborate illusion to test her resolve—right down to a mewling “doll” lying beside a lifelike corpse. Hence, when Zoo meets up with Brennan, a traumatized 13-year-old who becomes her traveling partner, she assumes he’s also a producer’s plant, refuses to believe his tales, and continues to play by the rules. She does, however, accept that she could be seriously harmed on her journey and becomes a warrior/thief/survivor.

Zoo’s journey is a bit of a mash between Cormac McCarthy’s The Road and Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven. It’s a harrowing tale, though I could have certainly done without all Zoo’s schmaltzy mommy urges. These annoyed me, as did periodic suggestions that Zoo’s toughness and resourcefulness are mere reflections of her resolve to be safe in her husband’s arms. What, are we afraid to just let Zoo be a feminist instead of begrimed poster gal for family values?

Though Oliva pushed some of my ‘ick’ buttons, this book engaged me. That surprised me, as I loathe “Survivor” and all other reality shows. As apocalyptic novels go, this one is (if I may!) middle of the road and simply doesn’t measure up to any of the books to which it has been compared. It doesn’t have to. It will fit the bill nicely for what it is: breezy escapist fare for summertime reading.

Rob Weir

A Bigger Splash is Simply a Bad Movie

A BIGGER SPLASH (2015/16)

Directed by Luca Guadagnino

Fox Searchlight, 124 minutes, R (extensive nudity, drug use, language)

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Here's an early candidate for the worst film of 2016. A Bigger Splash is one of those pan-Euro productions—Italian/French/English in this case. These projects sometimes produce rich cross-cultural fertilization. This one, though, is more like dumping ideas into a compost pile until they rot. 

The first bad idea was to try to update a masterpiece: Jacques Desay's 1969 La Piscine—right down to borrowing the names of a few characters. Clang! La Piscine was art; A Bigger Splash is schlock. Bad idea number two: Romy Schneider was perfectly cast as the lead, Marianne, in Desay's film; Tilda Swinton is miscast in Guadagnino's. Number three: Desay handed the role of Lolita-like Penelope Lanier to Jane Birkin; Guadagnino cast Dakota Johnson; any resemblance between the magnificent Ms. Birkin and the pouty, slutty Johnson is purely coincidental. (Note to Guadagnino: Even a testosterone-driven horn dog would run the other way from a tease as vacuous as Johnson's Penelope.)

Bt wait! It gets worse. If embarrassment were rated, this film would get an NC-17 for Fiennes' horrifying dance chops. And if overacting were added, IDs would be checked at the door. The hook of the update is that Marianne Lane is a famous rock and roll idol, who jets off to a Sicilian island with her boyfriend, Paul De Smedt (Matthias Schoenaerts), where both of have gone to recover from previous addictions and she to recuperate from severe laryngitis. (Swinton is silent through most of the film, which I'd like to think she insisted upon when she read the script.) There the two enjoy wild sex, solitude, and tranquility in what is supposed to be their secret location. Somehow—and it's never explained how­–her manager and former lover, Harry Hawkes (Ralph Fiennes), locates them and decides to descend upon them. In tow is his resentful daughter, Penelope, and two of the many hangers-on party animal/egotist supreme Harry keeps at his side to remind him of what a big deal he used to be: the limping, older Mirielle (Aurore Clément) and Sylvie (Lily McMenamy), the latter cast mainly because she looks spectacular in and out of a skimpy bikini. But is it Marianne for whom Harry really carries the torch? In case you haven't gotten the point, at one point Paul removes a large snake from the premises—a serpent in the Garden metaphor for those who fell asleep and didn't see all of the warning signs that this won't end well.

As Harry brags his way through tales of hanging out with The Rolling Stones and other clues drop, we realize that, though Swinton looks more like David Bowie and flashbacks suggest some Patti Smith attitude, the film is a thinly gauzed reworking of Marianne Faithfull's biography. No spoiler alert from me–I walked out after an hour, having sifted more than my share of the compost. A friend who stayed said it devolved into a murder mystery, so I suppose that's the Desay bottom of the pile. Here's what's good about the film: the gorgeous cinematography of Yorrick Le Saux and even then there's a catch. I mean, if you can't make southern Italy look sensual, you might be dead.

English: Putrid. French: putride. Italian: putrido. You're welcome. Now you can give a reason in three different languages why you should avoid this film.

Rob Weir

John Prine Live in Asheville: May Album of the Month

JOHN PRINE

LIVE IN ASHEVILLE (1986/2016)

Oh Boy Records/Noisetrade

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The moment I got the email from Noisetrade I knew what my album of the month would be. It ain't new, but neither is the Mona Lisa and they're both masterpieces. Thirty years ago John Prine released a live concert album of a show in Asheville, North Carolina, but it's still fresher than a truck stop waitress.

In my decades of listening to and reviewing music there are lots of people who have impressed me more, who are more poetic, are superior musicians, and have induced out-of-body experiences, but there isn't anyone who has made me smile as much as John Prine. He is the master of phrases that sound pithy, until you think deeply about them. Can you describe utter boredom better than this? Bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down…and won ("Illegal Smile").  What (non-John Prine) wry comment sums up the gap between real and ideal better than, Fatherforgive us for what we must do/You forgive us and we'll forgive you? Few have ever equaled Prine when it comes to grabbing onto small hooks that tell a bigger story. Here's his take on damaged warriors: There's a hole in daddy's arm where the money goes ("Sam Stone"). On a lighter note, you instantly begin to sketch a portrait of the central character of a song that opens with this line: Grandpa wore his suit to dinner/Nearly every day/No particular reason/He just dressed that way (Grandpa Was a Carpenter").

Live in Asheville is filled with lots of other time-tested Prine tunes: "Blue Umbrella," "Dear Abby," "Donald and Lydia," "GreatCompromise," "My Own Best Friend…." Though it's hard not to miss Steve Goodman, it's heart-warming to hear Prine sing "Souvenirs," a song they co-wrote. And if you're not in stitches listening to "Let's Talk Dirty in Hawaiian," just go away. Prine is known for his humorous and ironic songs, but among the many things that make him special is that he captures the plebeian and mundane with such arch precision that his funny songs are not one-trick/one-time novelties. We laugh each time because, deep down, we're vicariously projecting our own foibles onto his fictional scenarios. Who hasn't felt this way? Every side I get up on is the wrong side of bed/If it weren't so expensive I wish I were dead ("Dear Abby").  Yet the same guy can turn it on a dime and write good old-fashioned acoustic country that will tear out your heart and fling it across the room. If you've never listened to it closely, check out the fantasy romance between "Donald and Lydia," he the reluctant (and probably mentally damaged) soldier, and she the obese clerk in a penny arcade—two yearnings passing like running-lights-off ships in the night.

This is a contribute-what-you-want download from Noisetrade and I doubt you'll find a better bargain this calendar year. Download it and we'll overlook your smile, illegal or otherwise.  Rob Weir

Eva Salina, Arsen Petrosyan, Moken: Around the World in Music

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Ever had that feeling that you need to see some other people? I get that feeling about music every now and again, especially when I flip on the radio and enter that vast sonic wasteland known as "American pop/rap/hip-hop." At that point I seek an aural overseas adventure to see what folks elsewhere are singing. Here are several journeys worth book and they won't cost you more than a buck a track.

My first offering is the glorious Eva Salina and you're not actually leaving the USA at all to experience the wonders of her Romani, Dutch, Jewish repertoire; she's a Californian. On her latest, Lema Lema (Vogiton Records), she features Balkan and Romani (Gypsy) songs from the repertoire of Serbia Romani legend Šaban Bajramović (1936-2008). If you don't know his music, you're hardly alone on this hemisphere, but let's just say it's the kind of mishmash you'd anticipate from traveling folk: village folk songs, hot jazz, keening vocals, bright brass, and an air of sauciness. And you'd better be an extraordinary singer to tackle this stuff, as its demands on the larynx are not for the easily winded. Believe me when I say that Ms. Salina is up to the challenge; hers is a voice for the ages. When she takes on "Boza Limunada," a mildly naughty song of a man looking for a fertile wife, Salina slams it with the brazenness of old-style Greek rebetika singers (many of whom were also prostitutes). If you think she's a muscular singer, wait until you get a load of the accordion (mostly by Peter Stan on this album). Salina is positively a brawny imp on "Hovani Romni," the story of a cuckold drowning his horns in booze. Her notes pulse out like she's a one-woman oompah-pah band. All of the songs tend to have tough themes, but Salina is so gifted she can make a song like "Koj Is Gola Roma" sound like a lyrical Italian folksong despite the fact its male protagonist endures beatings. Salina said she wanted to fuse lyricism with a splash of Bollywood–sounds weird, but works brilliantly! By contrast, her take on "Pijanica" feels like a van driven by a Balkans brass band dropped into a zocalo to jam with a mariachi ensemble. This is easily one of the year's finest albums and that's not just my opinion–Ms. Salina was recently the centerpiece of an NPR profile. No exaggeration is needed when hurling accolades at Eva Salina. Listen for yourself.

Let's stay in the same cultural ballpark for a moment. Arsen Petrosyan is an Armenian-born duduk musician. The duduk is a double-reed flute in the oboe and shawm family, though its sound is bolder and its tonal qualities more reminiscent of the clarinet. Petrosyan's Charentsyan (CD Baby) is a nice introduction to Armenia's national instrument. Much of the release can be described as mournful and formal in tone, though there are a few departures. "Hazar Ernek" has the vibe of a belly dance; "Javakki Shoror" casts impressions of a raw village folk tune—especially the call-and-response interplay with other instruments–though its hand percussion has similarities with Southeast Indian arrangements. Petrosyan is obviously a talented musician, but whether you'll fancy all nine tracks is a matter of individual taste. I'd recommend going to a site like SoundCloud and sampling to see what strikes your fancy. Something will.  

  Moken is from Cameroon, but now lives in Atlanta. His debut, Chapters of My Life (Bantu Records) is a pan-African look at his life thus far: from Africa to broke fashionista at a Detroit design school to a working musician. It's an odd little release in many ways and definitely not your average Afropop recording. He counts among his influences Van Morrison, Nina Simone, and Manu Dibango. It's hard to hear much Morrison on this record other than short rock riffs every now and then, as on "Wiating for the Day," the sunniest track in the collection, but Dibango and Simone are in evidence. Dibango is a Cameroonian saxophonist famed for fusing jazz, funk, and folk–and Chapters of My Life certainly has that vibe. "Ma Masse," for instance, is done in the style of a Senegalese mbalax, but in a more dramatic less danceable style than most mbalax offerings. Two songs, "Machine Man" and "Walkin Man" reference Moken's impoverished student days when he occasionally lived in his car. The second tune has a suitably robotic feel to mark a time in which his car left him stranded 10 miles from his destination. You can definitely hear Simone's influence in Moken, especially his preference for material that is sultry, soulful, and meditative. As in the case of Petroysan, though, I'd recommend you sample before you buy. My overall sense is that Chapters of My Life is an incomplete project with filler and a few songs short of completion. There is promise here, but the repertoire could use some work.

Rob Weir

Lawren Harris, Picasso and Magacities at Boston MFA

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Three Art Exhibits Challenge How We See

Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

The Idea of the North: The Paintings of Lawren Harris (Closes June 12)

Pairing Picasso (Closes June 26)

Megacities of Asia (Closing July 17)

How and what do we see? Twentieth-century Modernism challenged the very presumption that governs computer interfaces: WYSIWYG. To Modernists, what you see is limited only by one's imagination. They excelled at eliminating extraneous detail to emphasize color, line, shape, and texture. In an odd way, though many of them rejected religious dogma, they were profoundly spiritual in that they sought the essence of their subjects. Three exhibits currently showing at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston superbly challenge how we see. Hurry though, as all three will close soon.

Did you know that the United States trades more with Canada than with China? How is it that we are so woefully ignorant of our northern neighbor? Lawren Harris (1885-1970) was part of a famed group of Canadian artists known as the Group of Seven that thrived between 1920 and 1933. All were fascinated by the Canadian landscape and sought ways to render it in deep ways. (My favorite was Emily Carr, though she was an associate and never a formal member.) If you know anything at all about Lawren Harris, you probably heard that actor/comedian/musician/art collector Steve Martin is a fan and that he co-curated the MFA exhibit.

Harris' great love was the Canadian Arctic, an often inhospitable place, but one whose stark landscape is a dramatic geometry of arcs, angles, blobs, and circles. And this is exactly how Harris painted it. It doesn't look "realistic" in the sense that Harris reduced it to shapes and colors, but that's the point. The Arctic made Harris feel as well as see, and he wanted others to do the same; he stopped signing his canvases so that viewers would look deeply into his subjects rather than dwelling upon the painter. As a painter, though, his biggest challenge in painting the far north was color, as in a lack thereof. His northern palette consisted mostly of blues, browns, and whites, though another virtue of the exhibit is that it challenges our perceptions of hues. Harris often accomplished this by doing exactly what Monet did with Rouen Cathedral: repeatedly paint the same subject under different light.

And, yes, those subjects held mystical qualities for Harris, though not in any conventional sense—Harris was a theosophist, a modern mash-up of ancient Greek ideas that sought eternal truths in nature. He was also a follower of the occultist Madame Blavatsky and engaged in séances. In other words, Harris thought the lines between the real and the spiritual were quite thin. Harris' work is often compared to that of American artists such as Arthur Dove and Rockwell Kent. Frankly, both were better artists than Harris, but Harris is well worth a look—a deep look. 

Pairing Picasso is one of my favorite concepts in modern curation: present just a few works and say something small and unique about them. (Anyone who has ever walked out of a Met blockbuster exhibit feeling bludgeoned knows exactly what I'm talking about!) This one has just eleven works, 4 pairings and a triple, showing Picasso's different treatment of the same subject. Of particular interest to me was Picasso's treatment of the formal portrait. Have you ever zipped through a museum filled with stiffly posed upper-class toffs? You gaze upon them, know that they cost a king's ransom, and perhaps even admire the craft of the artist, but in the back of your mind is this: "Who gives a damn about some rich old bastard/biddy trying to look regal?" (Confession: I've even sped through some of the galleries in the Rijksmuseum.) As it turns out, Picasso had the same thought! So what he did was explode the very notion of a formal portrait and let's just say that I'll linger over one of his far longer than I'll stare at any formal portrait not painted by either Rembrandt or Sargent. Another nice touch in the MFA exhibit is its pairing of two takes on the rape of the Sabine women—one in color and one in black and white. They are quite different in feel and I can't say which I prefer.  

 The last exhibit is postmodern. Megacities Asia is a look at cities of hitherto unknown population sizes. If you feel overwhelmed by New York City, consider that it's a relative piker at 18.5 million (if you add adjacent Newark and other New Jersey 'burbs). Tokyo is now said to be home to nearly 38 million, Delhi 25 million, and Shanghai 23 million. How do you make sense of such things? This exhibit is from young artists, many of whom you've never heard and may never again, but they do an interesting thing. As any photographer knows, when confronted with something so vast you can't capture it in the viewfinder, go small. Look for an intriguing detail or angle that portrays scale in ways that make sense. How about making a U-shaped walk-in box and showing skyscrapers, traffic, and architectural detail in 3-D but from any perspective other than straight on? Or making an assemblage of a bunch of traditional Chinese doorframes? Or commenting on the scale of consumer activity by stacking products that come in supernatural green? This works for me! Rob Weir

 

Dead Lovers, Me and Molly, Ashley Riley, Jess Ray

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May 2016 Musical Roundup

If you're wondering where the good rock and roll has gone, try Europe. I just finished listening to Supernormal Superstar, the stunning debut of The Dead Lovers (Randm Records). Call this band what you'd get if you put an early 60s' girl group, Dick Dale, heavy metal, and punk in a blender and set if for "crush." The band is based in Berlin and is the brainchild of Bavarian-born vocalist Lula and singer/guitarist Wayne Jackson, an Englishman, and between them they create irreverent Euro-spunk. How about some surf guitar and coquettish 50s style vocals mixed with 21^st century attitude in a song titled "Baby Fuck That." Or some buzzy metal power chords on "Freak Show," which has the darkness of early Black Sabbath. If you like irony, you could dance to "Kill Me," with its clipped and accented rhythms. The keyboards of Mickey Hardt, Oskar Allen's sweaty drumming, and Chris Lippert's bass round out the band. I'd call Lippert the band's anchor. His meaty bass hooks evoke 60s bands such as Savoy Brown, and his riff on "59Yards" is reminiscent of Norman Greenbaum's 1969 hit "Spirit in the Sky." Lula is sometimes compared to Marianne Faithfull. This is more for her vibe than her voice, but think Faithfull in her "Sister Morphine" days, her voice sweet and quavery but spiked with hints of danger. And if you think Jackson's only incidentally invoking surf music and rockabilliy, check out the band's official video for "Special K."   Is there such a thing as "fresh retro?" If not, The Dead Lovers just invented it.

Music makes for strange bedfellows. Declan McGarry hails from Winnipeg and was weaned on prairie folk (especially Neil Young), John Denver, and a bit of Tom Petty. Molly Stevens is from Macon, Georgia, and unless I miss my guess badly, she listened to a lot of gospel when she was a lass. Now the two of them are in Nashville as the duo Me and Molly and their EP You Rescue Me-downloadable from SoundCloud—is an excellent reason not to be cynical and assume the world doesn't need another Nashville duo. Molly's voice is a gem—one with the twang and nasality of Emmylou Harris, but with a husk that makes her a welcome relief from all those little-girl voices we get so sick of hearing. McGarry certainly has his Americana vocals down pat and the two of them make terrific harmonies. The title track is sweet with a bluegrass/folk feel, "Stay Baby Stay" is soulful, and both "Crazy When I Left" and "One to WalkAway" are country music for grown-ups. Add to this a penchant for straightforward lyrics that stick in your head: At the end of the day/It takes two to stay/And only one to walk away. Simple and to the point, just like this one: Say that you love me/Even if you don't/The truth is deceiving/I believe what I want/But I know what I know/And I damn sure know what I don't. Me and Molly are a hidden gem, one you should unearth.

A year ago I had never heard of the Illinois-born, Nashville-based Ashley Riley, but she's quickly becoming one of my favorites, and her latest, Through the Thin (Riled Up Records), is another winner. Riley is the sort of artist I label "hard soft," meaning she has an angelic voice, but she isn't afraid to air it. Listen to a track like "Never Think" and you can hear youth, but also growing sophistication in how she works within the arrangements to texture the piece and infuse it with moodiness. There's a splash of diva to her and she's at her best in indie-rock songs such as "Sing for Me," "Let Go," Out to Sea," and "Potion," but she's also branching out.  She's fragile on "Stay," but in ways that suggest she'll bleed but not break; on "This is Not," her voice is expressive but she lets the percussion, bass, and guitar add muscle. "This Town" is a sweet acoustic number, but "Misery" is slick, dark, and a bit torchy. Ms. Riley draws comparisons to Patty Griffin and Stevie Nicks—flattering, but a heavy burden for anyone to carry. Let's just say she's hitting her stride and we're happy to be walking along side her.

Jess Ray is another artist to watch, though she could use a repertoire with more punch than we hear on Sentimental Creatures (Jess Ray Music). My favorite track was "There's Still Time," a bluegrass-influenced tempo that has some jump to it. Much of the rest is designed to spotlight Ray's voice, a fine one to be sure, but selections such as "Kiss You," "Reserve," and "Runway" are sentimental and formulaic to the max. Think lots of swallowed air, oooh-oooh filler, 4/4 arrangements, and weak rhymes. Yet just when you're tempted to say, "Get back to me in a few years," she rips off a song like "Dimensions," which is quiet, mysterious, deeply personal, and drenched in genuine emotion. I'm not usually an advocate of single-track downloads, but you might want to poke around this album and harvest what whets your appetite.

Rob Weir