Doug Robertson: Feeder have a formula and, despite the fact that ita€™s as interesting a formula as a Dulux guide to mixing the colour grey, theya€™re resolutely sticking to it, no matter how little the public at large may care for it. Jonathan Bradley: While the officially sanctioned Jay-Z mash-up was completely uninspiring, his efforts behind the boards for Lupe Fiasco, or here, as Fort Minor are not by any means the embarrassment a Mike Shinodaa€™s rap record should be. Martin Skidmore: Well it's much better than Linkin Parka€”ita€™s a hip-hop record, so that is pretty much automatic, for me. Patrick McNally: Mike Shinoda of Linkin Park is either so conceited, or so lacking in confidence that hea€™s added a Dictaphone tape of some mate of his saying, a€?when you made me that initial batch of songs I was like, thata€™s the shit right therea€? onto the end of his track.
Ian Mathers: I wish he'd stop singing the line a€?you say he's just a frienda€? like that, because the last thing this grinningly superficial song needs is the listener thinking of the far more entertaining Biz Markie. Peter Parrish: You know a band must mean business when they take to wearing exclamation marks like epaulettes. Jonathan Bradley: The Jukeboxa€™s most vocal detractors of indie rock tend to be British, and is it any wonder?
Hillary Brown: You adorable little puppy with the IQ of a goldfish, I very much wanted this song to be the best thing since Kelly Clarkson broke. Patrick McNally: Down on his luck former O Town shit-head makes a second grab for the gold with an emo-ed up a€?Since U Been Gonea€? knock off that sounds every bit as desperate as it is. Martin Skidmore: This is the AOR meaning of the word 'country'a€”there's only a slight catch in his voice that points back at the yodelling old days.
Hillary Brown: Heaven help me, I do not want to like this white zinfandel-drinking song, but ita€™s more like Elton John than most contemporary country.
This is, perhaps, the 755th version of this song I have heard (some exaggeration, although not much), and what they all seem to have in common is that the bad versions intonate the lyrics as if they're important and meaningful, when in fact they're a load of old cobblers.
Joris Gillet: I've been googling for at least five minutes, without any results, trying to find out, but surely this can't be the first time somebody filterdisohoused Rockwell's a€?Somebody's Watching Me,a€? can it?
I am suffering extreme fatigue of mindless sampled dance, despite being a sympathiser of any kind of moronic doof doof you can name, this just seems particularly cookie-cutter, templated and uninspired even by the not-exactly lofty standards of the genre. Doug Robertson: If anyone is keeping an eye on the Beatfreakz, ita€™s probably the unoriginality police, wondering whether they should be making an arrest here or nota€”please, throw in your own tired a€?criminal recorda€? joke here or, given the uncredited involvement of Michael Jackson on the original, a a€?smooth criminal recorda€? joke.
Ian Mathers: Kudos to the drummer, who, as all else goes epic around him, keeps thwacking that bass drum.
Iain Forrester: Blah blah beautiful, blah blah soaring, blah blah joyful blah blah blaha€¦ can anyone still bring themselves to care about this?
Martin Skidmore: One of the few good things, from my perspective, about arty rock or post-rock is that you wouldn't mistake them for Coldplay.
Peter Parrish: I thought this might be the one with the desperately bleak video of gas-masked schoolchildren playing outside in slow motion as ash rains down from the skies upon their innocent bodies.
Jonathan Bradley: I feel like Ia€™m meant to be writing about (or laughing at) the passionate bluesy swagger, but I like Adam Green better when hea€™s doing Moldy Peaches goof-offs, rather than Johnny Cash-style fire and brimstone. Ian Mathers: In theory I oppose the idea of giving a song a higher or lower mark for the Jukebox because of the competition. Hillary Brown: This is pretty and swoopy, yet the way the keyboards are deliberately off the beat is messing with my obsessive-compulsive side.
Having exhausted all the actual singles off the still-mediocre Supernature, Goldfrapp are forced to put out one of the more pleasant album tracks.
Peter Parrish: Ia€™ve noticed Goldfrapp coming in for a bit of stick of late, which seems rather harsh when characters like James Blunt remain at large. Having conquered much of South America and Europe, Juanes is going to either delight or annoy Western Europe. Hillary Brown: Ita€™s jumpy in an almost Django mannera€”call it gypsy meets Super Marioa€”and then suddenly so pretty on what seems to be the chorus. Martin Skidmore: This guy is absolutely colossal in the Spanish-speaking world, but it's kind of hard to tell whya€”he's known for being a highly idealistic and even anthemic songwriter, so I guess my inability to know what any of the words mean is something of a drawback.
Iain Forrester: Therea€™s a nagging suspicion that if I could understand the words this wouldna€™t be nearly as good as it is. Doug Robertson: In her head, this is probably how Corrine Bailey Rae imagines she sounds, not irritatingly cheery with annoying forced positivity, but all acoustic, summery loveliness and laid back charm with a vocal that wraps its arms around you as it snuggles softly into you and whispers sweet nothings into your ear. Peter Parrish: Yes, ita€™s time for yet another exciting adventure in the world of Internet Relay Chat! Therea€™s a very good glam rock stomper hidden somewhere here, but it lays on the guitar hysterics all too heavily, without ever reaching the point of being ridiculous enough to be enjoyable. Doug Robertson: And, as long as someone, somewhere, is manufacturing leather trousers, therea€™ll always be girls whoa€™ll want to slip into an uncomfortable looking pair and rock out to their angsty hearta€™s desire.
Always the most engaging, powerful vocalist in Vanilla Ninja (and indeed, the stop-start truck-crash sonics of this recall the Ninja's finest single, "Don't Go Too Fast"), Maarja snarls and sneers and pouts through a chorus that's so instant it would basically sing itself, with lyrics so bad native speakers chuckle through their teeth as they bang their heads in sympathy.
Jonathan Bradley: If you go through Pharrell Williams trash, and trust me, I speak from experience, youa€™ll notice that lately hea€™s been throwing out unused instrumentals from a few years agoa€”back when the Neptunes were still unfailingly brilliant, P was not a letter to be attached to Skateboard and people hadna€™t forgotten about Chad Hugo. Joris Gillet: Can't remember why exactly but somewhere last week I found myself all of sudden digging out Lene's Play With Me album, and especially the ex-Aqua singers incredible debut single a€?It's Your Duty,a€? and playing them very loudly over and over again.


Jonathan Bradley: Missy Elliotta€™s a€?Lose Controla€? wasna€™t that great, and it had Ciara, so an LL Cool J reprisal is pretty much superfluous. Hillary Brown: There are things here that attract (strong fast beat that will inspire crumping), but ita€™s water-bottle-misted sweaty more than real sweaty.
Patrick McNally: Missy Elliott released a song with a€?controla€? in the title that sampled electro a year ago and now LL has his.
Martin Skidmore: Filtered electronica at the beginning, plus some sexy Spanish singing, presumably from J. Anna Faris and husband Chris Pratt Photo by Janet Gough 63rd Annual Primetime Emmy Awards - Arrivals at the Nokia Theatre L.A.
Therea€™s nothing here that hasna€™t been heard before, be it on a Feeder record or, as is slightly more likely, on the CD of someone a bit more talented and original, doing it a bit better.
He's not much of a rapper, derivative and with extremely limited flow, but he's not terrible, and this has a lovely wistful and lost air to it, a nice female vocal overdub helping the quite sweet music, plus something like a church choir in there too.
Ita€™s above absolute fucktardedness like a€?Candy Shopa€? but not quite up to the actual goodness of the a€?Outta Controla€? remix.
With that in mind, I was hoping for some Marxist polemic from these chaps; and beneath the oblique lyrics may indeed lie a rallying call to proletarian arms.
The UKa€™s hyperbolic music industry seeks out clones of anything interesting so fast that even with Dear Old Blightya€™s surfeit of great guitar-driven music, one must wade through countless Kaiser Chiefs or Dirty Pretty Things to find things like Bloc Party or the Futureheads.
I am rooting for you not to have to live with your mother-in-law any more and to be able to give your Ashlee-esque gf all she wants. Or to wish that this kind of flurrying angsty pop-rock nugget that sounds like an emo band minus the jokes had some..
This is a pleasant enough song, well sung and played, but it doesn't have the guts of old country music or of rock, and anything rough has been polished away, and there isn't anything special or outstanding to replace the losses. One could make the argument that that this, in fact, the direction the current boots na€™ trucks scene is heading, and that would be okay if there were still some shit kicked now and then. I'll stick with the version performed by Venke Knutson with the hobbit off World Idol, which emphasised the melody and made it sound sweet and stupid at the same time, rather than this stodgy, faithful retread. When I reckon forty minutes with Reason could have done the same thing, and no dancing in the chair eventuates, defense is kind of difficult. But imagination is thin on the ground here, the seemingly unstoppable dancey tracks with eighties sample genre was already sounding tired and, perhaps predictably, dated shortly after a€?Call on Mea€? kicked off the whole affair and this, like a failed attempt at CPR, does little to breathe new life into the proceedings. Sigur Ros seem to have forgotten this key point, so here we end up with arty post-Coldplay, which no one in the world wants, surely? I guess it needs real commitment to succeed with this sort of act, and though Greena€™s a lot more focused these days, he still carries a touch of the slacker about him.
Theya€™ve already been anointed as the style maga€™s cool pop band of choice, and this, a nice enough but ultimately forgettable slice of the laid back electro cake, is unlikely to make any difference whatsoever to the banda€™s profile. And worthily, too, this is a sharp, crisp Latin guitar stutter with a pleasing melody and a fantastic line in lament and sorrow.
With this translating as a€?The Black Shirt,a€? therea€™s a serious danger that it could be about tyrannical fascist rule.
The list of near-automatic likes so far reads: yodeling, accordion, handclaps, and, apparently, Colombia. The acoustic guitar playing is quite bouncy and attractive, and his voice is okay, and there is certainly a tune.
For now though ita€™s a relaxed wonder which doesna€™t really go anywhere, just looping the same acoustic guitar and gradually adding layers and layers of pretty vocals and electronics, but is so well done that ita€™s no less hugely addictive for it.
Ignore FHMa€™s recent poll of the 100 sexiest women, if youa€™re looking for genuine gorgeousness, this is the place to look. Maarje herself is, if anything, even less subtle, leaving it overall reminiscent of a less abysmal Anastcia.
This could be an off-cut from Natalie Imbrugliaa€™s album, so how much respect you have for the vaguely pretty but somewhat irrelevant popstrel pretty much relates to how much time youa€™ll give this track. It sounds like Katerine grabbed one of these tapes, because the opening of a€?Take Me Home,a€™ has that funky bass line and kick-snare thump that the Neptunes used to do so well.
This has the same sort of electropopglamrock-thing going on but, of course, not as brilliantly. Most of it strikes me as a bit awkward, and it never gets going the way I was hoping, but I like it in a quiet way. Then again, this pretty much provides confirmation that Bambaataa€™s Zen-Zen-Zen-ing can be broken out to improve any middle-of-the-road track. Lo, then some strong electro beats (which hark back to hip-hop's early daysa€”I hear Bambaataa and Grandmaster Flash in this) and LL comes in. Still, you have to give them credit for managing to sustain a career entirely on the back of the kinda catchy nature of Buck Rogers. While the projecta€™s first single, a€?Remember the Name,a€? was thematically inconsequential enough for the amateur flow to take a back seat to the superior music, the unbelievably numbskull lyrics of a€?Wherea€™d You Goa€? ruin any enjoyment that could be gained from its gentle beats and softly cooed chorus.


We get a light and bright musical tone and tune, and Olivia has plenty of smoothness (I'd like to hear more of her), but the rapping is entirely undistinguished. This ends up sounding like a second-rate, less imaginative Bogshed, which surely can't have been the plan. Living in such a musical environment would undoubtedly lead to any sane music fan instinctively recoiling from boys with guitars and bad haircuts. Of course, the thing about Busted was, that for all their a€?Crashed the Wedding, You Said Noa€?-style brilliance, there was an awful lot of chaff amongst the wheat, and this is definitely more throwaway filler than chart crushing colossus. For the amount of effort expended in promoting this recorda€”no idea how much that is, but it must surely amount to more than they put into making it, though simply posting a handful of flyers through some random letterboxes would also amount to morea€”they could have done something more constructive. But where the Neptunes would have turned this into pop gold, Katerine squanders it by piling on more of the same, as well as a limp vocal.
He's always been among my favourite rappers, and I'm pleased he can still (or, perhaps, again) make terrific records after two decades. Whether you are looking for a relationship or a way to make new friends, we'll try to offer something for everyone.
And they really try this time: they brought in a drum computer and listened to their Foo Fighters records one extra time before they went into the studio and they even nicked the riff from the last Hives single for the chorus and still this leaves no impression whatsoever.
The 50 we were sold on was an amoral lout, a violent thug who had more bullet wounds than pick-up lines, and damn, thata€™s what we want to hear.
Unfortunately, Tim McGrawa€™s take on Ryan Adamsa€™s a€?When The Stars Go Bluea€?a€”without doubt a [10] in its original forma€”adds little and loses a lot; the beefed-up instrumentation steals all the delicacy and restraint that made a€?dancing out on 7th Streeta€? and a€?laughing with your broken eyesa€? such evocative images in Adamsa€™s hands. This one is the favourite of BBC television when they have epic nature programmes to advertise.
It doesna€™t really *sound* like a Goya-inspiring narrative on mana€™s inhumanity to man, but on the other hand there are no obvious crowd samples or mentions of Roberto Carlos either.
Not unpleasant, although traditionally rawk and ugly guitar sounds seem to be a recurring theme throughout the song.
Taking their cue from American-style post-hardcore rather than played-out post-punk, the nouveau-Fugazi yelping and brittle guitars are interesting if only because they dona€™t sound like Gang of Four. And while Adamsa€™s cracked wail made it clear his concern was a girl, McGrawa€™s clear, strong vocal could be describing an astronomical phenomenon. Consequently, a few seconds into the uplifting tune I was happily thinking of huge flocks of birds taking off in unison, grizzly bears pawing at salmon and snow leopards running around being amazing.
Oh, ita€™s pretty enougha€”but, like a flimsy blouse on a washing line, it feels insubstantial and mere moments from being blown away. OK, playing safe, ita€™s a kind of mariachi-esque jaunt, which is potentially about love in some way.
He's got a voice without any trace of personality and seems capable of coming up with only the dullest and unimaginative of melodies.
Cent, the only phallic object that should be influencing your music has a trigger and a clip.
Slick production sounds great on some country, but the best you can say for McGrawa€™s effort here is that he has good taste.
A fine rendition of a€?pre-programmed example 3a€? from Noddya€™s First Keyboard doesna€™t exactly set the world alight either. Despite the chorus being a little saggy, a€?Ninea€? is sufficiently prickly not to become tiresome and sharply written enough to endure repeat listening. Please, no one tell the NME; the last thing we need is a half-dozen Next Big Things recreating this with minimal variation and maximum hype. Box 1560 Beverly Hills, CA 90213- ALEXANDRA BRECKENRIDGE Celebrity Photo Syndication of Celebrity Personalities Pop Stars Rock Icons since 1962 Angie Dickinson Photo by Janet Gough St. Box 1560 Beverly Hills, CA 90213-1560 TEL 310 786-7700 FAX BRENDA STRONG Celebrity Photo Syndication of Hollywood Celebrity Photos since 1970 John Travolta Photo by Scott Downie John Travolta joins Bombardier Aircraft Team as Business Aircraft Brand Ambassador (Lear Jet, Challenger and Global 5000 Jets) host reception to launch Bombardiers newest plane at Hangar 25 Burbank Airport September 20, JOHN TRAVOLTA Celebrity Photo Syndication of Hollywood Celebrity Photos since 1970 Anna Faris Photo by Janet Gough Whats Your Number?
Box 1560 Beverly Hills, CA 90213-1560 TEL 310 786-7700 FAX 310 777-5455 DAVE FOLEY Celebrity Photo Syndication of Hollywood Celebrity Photos since 1970 Anna Faris and husband Chris Pratt Photo by Janet Gough 63rd Annual Primetime Emmy Awards - Arrivals at the Nokia Theatre L.A. Box 1560 Beverly Hills, CA 90213-1560 TEL 310 786-7700 F CHRIS RENE Celebrity Photo Syndication of Celebrity Personalities Pop Stars Rock Icons since 1962 Dr.
Box 1560 Beverly Hills, CA 90213-1560 TEL 310 786-7700 FAX 310 777-5455 AUSTIN HIGHSMITH Celebrity Photo Syndication of Hollywood Celebrity Photos since 1970! Box 1560 Beverly Hills, CA 9021 JOBETH WILLIAMS Celebrity Photo Syndication of Celebrity Personalities Pop Stars Rock Icons since 1962!



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