Leave it to New York’s Morningwood to make another video that stands out from the pack. “Nth Degree” was an instant classic with its references to album covers past, but their latest clip, “Sugarbaby,” goes in a different direction. Three words: sex with puppets.
All right, this version doesn’t actually show any puppet sex, but there is a quick cut that suggests the guy in the limo was about to receive a happy ending, if you know what I mean. And psssst: if you go to the YouTube page this video is on, you’ll see a link to the uncensored video. Haven’t watched it yet, myself. I just ate lunch.
Can’t get enough Morningwood? You’re in luck – they’re on Letterman tonight. And they don’t even have an album to promote yet. They’re still in the studio. Hurry the hell up, guys.
As the late Ted Knight once said, the world needs ditch diggers too, meaning that not everyone is meant to change the world. The Ting Tings, the Salford duo of drummer Jules De Martino and guitarist/singer Katie White, are ditch diggers of sorts, specializing in club pop that is by and large disposable, but every once in a while, they elevate disposable pop to an art form. Even with a running time just under 38 minutes, there is a fair share of chaff on We Started Nothing, the band’s debut, but the wheat is some of the sweetest wheat you’ll find all year, starting with the instant classic, “Rapture”-esque “Shut Up and Let Me Go.” “Great DJ” is armed with one of those unforgettable – but ultimately annoying – hooks in its chorus, “That’s Not My Name” gets by on sass alone, and “We Walk” works a tad of widescreen pop into the mix. The rest of the album will seem cute enough while it’s playing, but will be forgotten the second it’s over. (Columbia)
Bar none the sauciest pop record released this year, the songs on Waves and the Both of Us, the debut by 20-year-old Charlotte Sometimes (name taken from the book and not the Cure song, thank you) are deceptively complex. The airy, hook-laden melodies flow innocently enough, but the lyrics are thick with sex, jealousy and contempt, like Natalie Imbruglia singing songs from Jagged Little Pill. The title track, for example, sounds like a prom theme, until Charlotte instructs her subject, “I take off your shirt /You pull up my skirt,” then informs him that he “better slide into me.” Now take into account the slick, within-an-edge-of-its-life production by S*A*M and Sluggo (with some much-needed assistance from Jack Joseph Puig, a.k.a. The Man with the Golden Ears), and you have a record whose mind is very much at odds with its body. Unless, of course, they’re targeting oversexed teenagers, in which case they hit the bulls-eye. As contemporary pop records go, this is definitely smarter and catchier than the usual drivel, but pray your daughter doesn’t hear it until she turns 25. (Geffen)
My head tells me that I shouldn’t like Kerli. One listen to her voice tells me that she worships at the altar of Amy Lee – the song is smothered with Evanescence-style melodrama as well – and the lyric is straight from Alanis Morrisette’s notebook (“I know that you think of me when you’re beside her / Inside her”). But I find myself irresistibly drawn to the Estonian beauty. I feel like Oz in “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” when the band fronted by the female wolf comes to Sunnydale and plays the Bronze. He’s dating Alyson Hannigan, Alyson freaking Hannigan, but damned if he could resist the singer’s siren song. I’m Oz, Kerli’s the wolf.
The wolf also made an appropriately creepy video for her brooding lead single “Love is Dead.” It starts with her horribly aged, standing in front of a CGI background that shows, well, death. As the video goes on, she gets younger, and everything behind her does, too. We get stuff from 20-year-old girls pitched to us all the time. None of it sounds like this. She’s not reinventing the wheel or anything, but you have to love a young girl with some depth. She covers Bauhaus’ “She’s in Parties,” for crying out loud. Hopefully the full-length album, which drops April 22, will follow up on the promise of this single.
Embedding, sadly, is disabled, but I highly recommend checking her out. And in case you still need more convincing, here’s a picture of her.
See what I mean? You’re drawn to her too, aren’t you? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to lock myself up in my cage, so I don’t accidentally eat anyone when the full moon hits.
We see them outside our office, angry people carrying pitchforks, torches, and signs that say “Limey Go Home.” Someone from Votefortheworst.com is at the front. People are jumping on the “American Idol”-bashing bandwagon left and right. And frankly, we’re tempted to join them.
But not quite yet.
Yes, we’re still mad as hell that “the public” chose Blake Lewis and Jordin Sparks over the clearly superior Melinda Doolittle. I, for one, have stopped watching the show after last season’s finale, and I’m pretty sure that if Mike Farley didn’t have to blog it for us, he would have stopped watching too after Mindy Doo’s ouster. Not good timing, then, for Randy Jackson’s Music Club Vol. I, where the onetime Journey bassist plays Clive Davis for a day and assembles a compilation album filled with the top of the pops. His leadoff single – whether he wanted it to be or not – is fellow “AI” judge Paula Abdul and her song “Dance Like There’s No Tomorrow.” It’s her first single in 12 years. Things have, um, changed a little since then. How will she adapt?
Much to my surprise, rather well.
Adbul only had a couple of really killer singles – “Knocked Out,” “The Way That You Love Me” and “Cold Hearted” were my personal favorites – so to compare this to the rest of her work is pointless; most of that stuff just wasn’t very good. This song isn’t great either, but it’s also not exactly terrible, which Paula should take as a major victory. Even more surprising is the video, which features some of the neatest choreography I’ve ever seen. The whole singer/backing dancer stuff has been done to death, but Paula does something different here. Most of the time, they move like a single organism. It’s pretty damn cool.
The other two set pieces, however, do not fare so well. The shots of her with the band look laughably inauthentic. They’re clearly here so Randy can pluck a little bass, but there is just no way those musicians are making the sound we’re hearing (especially that ridiculous drummer). The other set piece is a close-up of Paula in what appears to be a wind tunnel with red drapes. She’s always looking to the left and right of the camera, as if she’s forgotten the lyrics and she’s trying to find the teleprompter. Not her best money shot.
But still, we had every reason to expect something as god-awful as that Gwen Stefani yodeling song, and Paula delivered something that, if not genre-busting, is better than it has a right to be. So good for her. I’m still not watching “American Idol,” though.
