There aren’t many true chameleons in popular music. I point this out in response to the recent Maxim magazine non-review of the new Black Crowes release, Warpaint, and the faulty logic behind reviewing music you haven’t bothered to listen to. Beyond the dishonesty, and lunacy, of attempting pull such a thing off I sincerely believe that the writer, like most of us, was spoiled by the Beatles ability to reinvent themselves with each release and in doing so change the face and course of music. Sure, Dylan did it too. Think about how he went from folkie to rocker to countrified songster. And maybe we can throw in Prince during that ‘80s period where he morphed from naughty funkster to Hendrix rocker to acid-pop king. And Neil Young always. But the truth is that, beyond a very small handful, even ...

There’s an aphorism that says “with death comes experience.” I always believed that was just metaphysical bullshit put forth to convince people to look over the horizon for life beyond the veil. I was wrong. Now, with more sad experience, I understand that it’s not about individuals, but the death you confront throughout your life. Crowded House has confronted that experience and put out … not their best, but their most mature and beautiful work, Time on Earth. Except for a few misguided choices in production and a couple of songs that should have been held over for a future release, they prove how potent pop music can be, and how gracefully a group’s sound can age.

The Dame attached to the front of her name doesn’t really have much to do with the Queen of England poinking her on the head and declaring her to be a lady, ‘cause lady’s got nothin’ to do with it. Shirley Bassey is a dame in the Sinatra sense. You know, a sweater who knows when to cool her heels and doesn’t mind kisses laced with cigarettes and scotch. A she-panther who lets you think you’re in charge even though all your friends know better. The hot dish who leaps up in front of everyone at a cocktail party and belts out a coupla numbers that have the women sucking ice and the men mouth breathing. A sweet broad who knows how to Get the Party Started. Rampant ‘50s sexism aside, someone’s gonna have to explain to me how these Welsh ...

People are in a quandary about Damien Rice’s Live from the Union Chapel. Why would he choose this four-year-old concert to be his third official full length release? Me, I think it’s a gift to longtime band member Lisa Hannigan, who shines throughout. It’s a goodbye, and a boost, to a professional relationship that he says "has run its creative course.” Live from the Union Chapel is a snapshot of Rice’s music just after the release of O, his incredible debut, and I love everything about it except that it ends way too soon. The old Broadway adage of “leave ‘em wanting more” has never been more in evidence than on this eight-song, 36-minute download. Because it is such a precious little gem I imagine the opposite of the famous Mozart quote is in effect here. When criticized for a piece having too many notes he asked “which ones would you have me ...

When did I die and end up in hell? And not in your average pit of eternal anguish and never-ending torment, but in demented robot hell on Earth. How do I know where I am? Well, I don't, really, but I'm figuring that's where I must be. You see, I really pissed off the robot community when I wrongly attributed Madonna's The Confessions Tour (Live) to them, and they've been looking to exact revenge on me ever since. And they are Gitmo-style torture-loving bastards, let me tell you. I've been locked in a six-by-eight room for the last few hours with the worst fucking gleep glop pseudo-music ever recorded spinning on their damned circuit-filled torture machine and I've got a headache and a heart ache and I just want it to stop.