I was really excited to go to Italy, and I will tell you that most of the country lives up to its remarkable reputation. As in, the tower really leans, Rome is a little bit boring, and Florence really does take your breath away. Despite this, I was really anticipating my trip to Barcelona a lot. Not only would I be staying with a friend of a friend, and I would be closer to the ultimate goal of getting to England for the wedding, going to Spain meant that I would be able to showcase my mastery of the Spanish language. After all, all that I know of the language I learned from the best names in Spanish education - Bednardski, Bond, Malkovich. I got stuck in an airport in Rome for ten hours, waiting to fly to Barcelona. During my wait, I rehearsed scenarios in which I proudly approached waiters, beaming, saying ¨Quiero numero tres con papas fritas, por favor.¨ In my daydreams, they would look back at me, stunned, surprised, affirming of my handle on such a complex language.
This did not happen. It did not happen this way because, in reality, my Spanish is terrible.
My hosts are absolutely lovely and generous and hospitable, but we have maybe said about five words to each other. One interaction went like this:
Mr. Arroyo: Obama.
Me: Yes? Barack Obama?
Mr. Arroyo: Obama. Me.
Me: No comprendo.
Mr. Arroyo: Obama. Mujer.
Me: Oh. Michelle Obama?
Mr. Arroyo: Si.
El fin.
Luckily their daughter Paula speaks very good English since she spent time in America with friends of mine in Philadelphia. She has been very nice and able to translate and take me around to see the pretty cathedrals. They are everywhere. I am in Barcelona now, and I can say with all honesty that, somehow, this city is alive. It has a pulse, it breathes, it moves with energy. Several of these buildings look like they are right off the set of a 1990´s Tim Burton film. There is an incredible amount of things to do, sights to see, but I have been a little sick. Since I quit my job in order to make this trip possible, my health care benefits expired as of July 31, and I had been joking that I would probably get sick while overseas. This happened, of course, literally as July 31 turned into August 1. I went to bed a bit after midnight feeling a little scratchy, and woke up on August 1 with no voice. It is now August 4, and I am beginning to mend. Of course, everytime I lay in bed and cough a bit, I hear Mrs. Arroyo, rushing through her sentences with fury about my sickness. I try to tell her I am fine, estoy bien. She nods. She wants so desperately to speak some English for me, almost as much as I wish I could speak fluent Spanish with her. She asked me at dinner yesterday if I believed in Sarah Palin. The wording took me by surprise and I laughed a little bit, to which she tilted her head to the side like a puzzled dog. I simply replied, Si, creo en Sarah Palin. I intentionally uttered a lie in another language to a lovely woman. Oops.
I am here for another day or two, then I will travel to Northern Ireland, which will be a relief in many ways. It is sort of a home away from home, the only country I have visited more than once (this will be my third time). Also, people there speak English. It is a weird English, with bizarre vocabulary words, but it is English nonetheless. I will also be just so close to being in England, the whole point of this trip, to see one of my closest friends get married. I have enjoyed the sunsets in Florence, the bike rides through Chianti, the strolls down La Rambla, but more than anything, I want to sit in a living room with Michelle, Elliott, Kat, MG and Robby, having drinks and touring the small town of Tewkesbury. I won´t do much sightseeing, I will probably sleep a lot. But I will bask in it, enjoy the English, the companionship, the occasion, the understanding that I am almost home, where I will watch 30 Rock, eat chicken wings and try to find a job or something. But until then, adios & pax.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
I think that we all wanna be somebody. I don't think that, at any point, people decide to stop doing things with their life. Looking at some of the things we do to pay the billz, it's easy (for me, at least) to wander off in daydream land and think about the person I could become. If I wrote the script, what would I do? If money wasn't an issue, where would I go? I don't know if you're the same way as me, but if you are, these scenarios oftentimes seem out of reach. I am here to tell you that this is not true, that you can, in fact, be anyone or anything that you want to be. Better news is this - it doesn't have to happy in a daydream land. It will happen in the barbershop chair. There are two reasons I never pay money to get my hair cut by...ok, let's just go ahead and call them professionals. Reason number one: I am cheap/stingy/frugal/smart/want to be able to afford trips to Czech Republic and Italy and Germany and Iceland because I don't pay for stupid crap like matching socks or haircuts. When I graduated from college, my mother gave me the $15 hairclipping kit that she bought in Bed Bath & Beyond when I was in middle school. She would always cut my hair when I was growing up, even though I never tipped her, and quite frankly, I rarely even swept up after myself. The point is this: why pay for something that you can do yourself? If you can't do it, I bet you have a friend who would like to try. Reason number two: I loathe the bizarre and constantly-stalling chit-chat made by the seventeen-year-old who's cutting your hair while chomping on wads of bubble gum, some of the bubbles getting stuck in her swoop bang or pink highlights. Listen, Ashleey: you don't actually care who I am, or what I do for a living. You just want a funky name and a beehive hairdo.
So, on the rare occasion that I go to a real, brick and mortar hair cuttery place, a visit which is usually stemmed by an even more rare visit by a family member who, upon seeing my angled neckline and cringing, gives me a twenty dollar bill and orders me to "let a professional do it, for once." I give in. As soon as I sit down in the swivel chair, as soon as the spray bottle has efficiently wetted my scalp, and immediately after the chomping girl asks me what size guard I want on my hair, I get into character. Actually, this sometime starts before I'm even seen. If I have to physically sign in, I usually write a 90's baby name on the sheet, and I admit to stealing them from my weird residents when I was an resident assistant. "Denton, follow me", she says, and I follow bravely, proudly. I sink in the chair, hands on the armrests like a king in my castle, and the story unwinds. My career choices have been limitless. If you'd ask any of the hairdressers or hairwashers, they'd tell you that I was studying architecture, on a small college music tour, just visiting friends, a new immigrant to the country (which seemed to fail miserably because of my inability to fake an accent [ask me to impersonate an Irish accent] but the questionably-young hairdresser couldn't tell the difference). "Why are you in central Pennsylvania, Mr. DeLuca??", they ask. I was admiring the Capitol rotunda, checking out the local college scene, or simply pretending not to understand her thick, American accent. I have been a car salesman, a food critic for two different local magazines, and a grocery store cashier. It is fun to see their surprised faces, as they snip away behind the ears, or ask me to tilt my earth's axis so that they can reach cross-continental. "Colton, what kind of shampoo do you use?" I tell Brittni that I use whatever's in the shower, or, if I'm the business executive, I am sure to tell them that I separately use shampoo and conditioner, even though they can tell I use the two-in-one bottle. But the words are music to their ears, and they breathe a sigh of relief, thanking me for caring for my follicles so responsibly. I thank them in return, leave a measly tip, hop into my car and tussle my hair, wink in the mirror, and return to my normal, cyclical routine of sleep, work, trying to play and sleep. I may be boring for most of the year, but for an hour every eight months, I am a rock star.
So, on the rare occasion that I go to a real, brick and mortar hair cuttery place, a visit which is usually stemmed by an even more rare visit by a family member who, upon seeing my angled neckline and cringing, gives me a twenty dollar bill and orders me to "let a professional do it, for once." I give in. As soon as I sit down in the swivel chair, as soon as the spray bottle has efficiently wetted my scalp, and immediately after the chomping girl asks me what size guard I want on my hair, I get into character. Actually, this sometime starts before I'm even seen. If I have to physically sign in, I usually write a 90's baby name on the sheet, and I admit to stealing them from my weird residents when I was an resident assistant. "Denton, follow me", she says, and I follow bravely, proudly. I sink in the chair, hands on the armrests like a king in my castle, and the story unwinds. My career choices have been limitless. If you'd ask any of the hairdressers or hairwashers, they'd tell you that I was studying architecture, on a small college music tour, just visiting friends, a new immigrant to the country (which seemed to fail miserably because of my inability to fake an accent [ask me to impersonate an Irish accent] but the questionably-young hairdresser couldn't tell the difference). "Why are you in central Pennsylvania, Mr. DeLuca??", they ask. I was admiring the Capitol rotunda, checking out the local college scene, or simply pretending not to understand her thick, American accent. I have been a car salesman, a food critic for two different local magazines, and a grocery store cashier. It is fun to see their surprised faces, as they snip away behind the ears, or ask me to tilt my earth's axis so that they can reach cross-continental. "Colton, what kind of shampoo do you use?" I tell Brittni that I use whatever's in the shower, or, if I'm the business executive, I am sure to tell them that I separately use shampoo and conditioner, even though they can tell I use the two-in-one bottle. But the words are music to their ears, and they breathe a sigh of relief, thanking me for caring for my follicles so responsibly. I thank them in return, leave a measly tip, hop into my car and tussle my hair, wink in the mirror, and return to my normal, cyclical routine of sleep, work, trying to play and sleep. I may be boring for most of the year, but for an hour every eight months, I am a rock star.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
It's weird to think that I was standing here two days before the smoke. For the first time, I feel like I'm playing a game and winning.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
when your significant other breaks up with you, and/or
when you are working a job that you hate, and/or
when you are without a job at all, and and/or
when you are up all night throwing up, and/or
when your children are up all night throwing up, and/or
when you are feeling lonely, and/or
when the forecast says there is more snow on the way, and/or
when your bank account is looking low, and/or
when death is waiting downstairs, and
when all the evidence points to the contrary,
things will get better.
when you are working a job that you hate, and/or
when you are without a job at all, and and/or
when you are up all night throwing up, and/or
when your children are up all night throwing up, and/or
when you are feeling lonely, and/or
when the forecast says there is more snow on the way, and/or
when your bank account is looking low, and/or
when death is waiting downstairs, and
when all the evidence points to the contrary,
things will get better.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Several weeks ago, someone told me to keep an eye out for the Superbowl commercial featuring Tim Tebow, who went from being almost aborted to a champion for homeschooler rights to a champion for the Florida Gators. There were, evidently, swirls of controversy plaguing this commercial - would it be aired? Would it be aired in its original entirety? Would they be pushing their Christian agenda too much? So, I did what I thought anybody else would have done – I googled. I probably researched a dozen articles about the commercial, and they all said the same thing – Tim and his mom, Pam, were going to be featured in a Focus on the Family commercial. According to the CEO of Focus on the Family, the intent of the commercial was to inspire people at a time when “families need to be inspired”. No other details about the commercial were being released.
Then, the articles featured a funny twist when the reporters gave their opinion in regard to the content of the commercial. And, because we live in a generation where stay-at-home moms are glued to Facebook and have constant access to our around-the-clock news cycle, we were now eating chatter and gossip for dinner. And that, my friends, is where the hype and controversy came to be. Rumors from Facebook posts and youth pastor tweets. Rumors from hushed coffeeshop chats and pulpits. Because the Tebow family are active and vocal Christians, most conservatives assumed the commercial would showcase their faith. Most liberals took offense, praying to God or something else that they wouldn’t be granted a commercial during one of the highest-rated broadcasts on television, an offense that started a frenzy of its own. Conservatives then took offense to the liberals' offense, and began to worry that everything would be censored in this world of Sarah Palin’s liberal media elite.
Like most other major networks, CBS has a policy prohibiting advocacy ads, regardless of how explicit or implicit they may be. With that in mind, commercials advocating for anti-abortion policies or equal rights for homosexuals would never have aired during the broadcast. Superbowl night came, and the commercial came. It was a gentle, non-threatening ad “celebrating family, celebrating life”, just like a few level-headed reporters (and Focus on the Family, for that matter) said it would be. The commercial served as a vignette for Focus on the Family, meaning that if you saw that commercial and/or if you knew their story and found it to be inspirational, then Focus on the Family is a resource that aligns very closely with not only the Tebow family, but yours as well. It was an advertisement (an expensive one, too: estimates for a 30-second spot on the Superbowl were $2.7 million) for Focus on the Family, and not meant to be a platform to take sides on a sensitive issue. The story is already public, why would they pay $3 million dollars to tell it to you in thirty seconds?
I and nine other people around the world emerged from the Superbowl having seen the Tim Tebow commercial we had expected to see – a non-controversial ad pointing people in the direction of Focus on the Family. After the broadcast, I’m sure that thousands of people went to Focus on the Family, read up on the inspirational story of Tim Tebow, and probably browsed around the website a bit. Now, the morning after, most people are stunned that it was too soft, or that it was much ado about nothing. And so, readers of my blog, I urge you: before you get in the throngs of a heated argument that has anything to do with faith, policy or commercials, perform your civic duty and do your homework.
Yahoo! Article
Focus on the Family Press Release
NESN.com Article
MediaPost Article
Then, the articles featured a funny twist when the reporters gave their opinion in regard to the content of the commercial. And, because we live in a generation where stay-at-home moms are glued to Facebook and have constant access to our around-the-clock news cycle, we were now eating chatter and gossip for dinner. And that, my friends, is where the hype and controversy came to be. Rumors from Facebook posts and youth pastor tweets. Rumors from hushed coffeeshop chats and pulpits. Because the Tebow family are active and vocal Christians, most conservatives assumed the commercial would showcase their faith. Most liberals took offense, praying to God or something else that they wouldn’t be granted a commercial during one of the highest-rated broadcasts on television, an offense that started a frenzy of its own. Conservatives then took offense to the liberals' offense, and began to worry that everything would be censored in this world of Sarah Palin’s liberal media elite.
Like most other major networks, CBS has a policy prohibiting advocacy ads, regardless of how explicit or implicit they may be. With that in mind, commercials advocating for anti-abortion policies or equal rights for homosexuals would never have aired during the broadcast. Superbowl night came, and the commercial came. It was a gentle, non-threatening ad “celebrating family, celebrating life”, just like a few level-headed reporters (and Focus on the Family, for that matter) said it would be. The commercial served as a vignette for Focus on the Family, meaning that if you saw that commercial and/or if you knew their story and found it to be inspirational, then Focus on the Family is a resource that aligns very closely with not only the Tebow family, but yours as well. It was an advertisement (an expensive one, too: estimates for a 30-second spot on the Superbowl were $2.7 million) for Focus on the Family, and not meant to be a platform to take sides on a sensitive issue. The story is already public, why would they pay $3 million dollars to tell it to you in thirty seconds?
I and nine other people around the world emerged from the Superbowl having seen the Tim Tebow commercial we had expected to see – a non-controversial ad pointing people in the direction of Focus on the Family. After the broadcast, I’m sure that thousands of people went to Focus on the Family, read up on the inspirational story of Tim Tebow, and probably browsed around the website a bit. Now, the morning after, most people are stunned that it was too soft, or that it was much ado about nothing. And so, readers of my blog, I urge you: before you get in the throngs of a heated argument that has anything to do with faith, policy or commercials, perform your civic duty and do your homework.
Yahoo! Article
Focus on the Family Press Release
NESN.com Article
MediaPost Article
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Ten years ago, I was basking in the reality that we – my family, my school, the world at large – had not suffered the wrath of a mysteriously cataclysmic event. My dad, in his stern humor, warned me that the new millennium may snatch away my ability to drive a car at sixteen. As scary as that was, I was more terrified of not being able to chat on ICQ all day long with people who liked the same musicals as I did. So, it was with great fear and trepidation that we approached New Years’ Eve, and despite news reports proudly showing a not-dark Lima and an illuminated Charles Bridge in Prague, my family left cosmic bowling an hour early, to sit in front of the television to make sure we made it to 12:01. We did. As a result of our newfound freedom, my family sat around in the kitchen the next morning at our home in Maryland, eating all of the canned food and drinking from our water bottles. We still had the generator that we didn’t know what we were going to do with, but those other things certainly didn’t need to go to waste.
Ten years later, today, I’m getting ready to go to another New Years’ Eve party. I am a little taller, I have been trying to grow a beard, and I will be driving a car to the party. I no longer enjoy musicals, even though in five days I will see one with a friend of mine. I have seen Belfast and Munich with my own two feet, not just on CNN on New Years Eve. I have recently taken up bowling again, not in the cosmic sense, just in a normal sense, if you can call my friend having his own bowling ball and shoes and customized embroidered bag ‘normal’. My dad, in his pensive reflection, told me last week over Christmas dinner at their home in North Carolina, over soy milk and baby food for one of his three grandchildren, that the time flies so quickly. “I’m 53, son. I’m practically 60!” And this is how the time flies, I say, when we get ahead of ourselves. My dad is 53 turning 54, and the six years until he is 60 is far enough ahead, not lurking in the shadows around the corner.
I have no idea what is going to happen in the next ten years. Perhaps some of my friends will stop looking at me with blank stares. Perhaps I’ll actually figure out which graduate program I want to apply for, and maybe I’ll actually move to New York or Baltimore or Ireland or Australia like I’ve always wanted to. Maybe there will be peace on earth, and maybe there will be more goodwill towards others, or maybe we’ll stay entrenched in global chaos. Maybe my family will hold on to the family generator for the impending doom that is 2012. Maybe I'll look for love in all the right places, maybe I'll continue not looking at all. In the meantime, here we are, in bold and blue, proclaiming that 2010 will be our year. The general consensus is that 2009 was so awful that 2010 can only improve. In retrospect, I had a fine 2009, and I saved enough sunshine to last through January, February and March. That's as far ahead as I care to look right now.
Ten years later, today, I’m getting ready to go to another New Years’ Eve party. I am a little taller, I have been trying to grow a beard, and I will be driving a car to the party. I no longer enjoy musicals, even though in five days I will see one with a friend of mine. I have seen Belfast and Munich with my own two feet, not just on CNN on New Years Eve. I have recently taken up bowling again, not in the cosmic sense, just in a normal sense, if you can call my friend having his own bowling ball and shoes and customized embroidered bag ‘normal’. My dad, in his pensive reflection, told me last week over Christmas dinner at their home in North Carolina, over soy milk and baby food for one of his three grandchildren, that the time flies so quickly. “I’m 53, son. I’m practically 60!” And this is how the time flies, I say, when we get ahead of ourselves. My dad is 53 turning 54, and the six years until he is 60 is far enough ahead, not lurking in the shadows around the corner.
I have no idea what is going to happen in the next ten years. Perhaps some of my friends will stop looking at me with blank stares. Perhaps I’ll actually figure out which graduate program I want to apply for, and maybe I’ll actually move to New York or Baltimore or Ireland or Australia like I’ve always wanted to. Maybe there will be peace on earth, and maybe there will be more goodwill towards others, or maybe we’ll stay entrenched in global chaos. Maybe my family will hold on to the family generator for the impending doom that is 2012. Maybe I'll look for love in all the right places, maybe I'll continue not looking at all. In the meantime, here we are, in bold and blue, proclaiming that 2010 will be our year. The general consensus is that 2009 was so awful that 2010 can only improve. In retrospect, I had a fine 2009, and I saved enough sunshine to last through January, February and March. That's as far ahead as I care to look right now.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Favorite Music of 2009.
I liked a lot of music this year. This really isn't different from most years, except for a lot of the music I fell in love with wasn't new - I am just not on the cutting edge like I used to be. As far as new albums go, here are my favorites of the year.
10) Neko Case - Middle Cyclone. In terms of the lyrics, they are average for Case - good, witty, metaphorical. But what carries this album more than before is her voice, a fantastic instrument that can fill a room without being overwhelming. Only downside: that 30+ minute recording of frogs.
(Songs to check out: The Pharaohs, People Got A Lotta Nerve)
9) The Swell Season - Strict Joy. The world may have moved on to other dreamy musical stories (Susan Boyle), but the surprise musical duo from 2007's 'Once' movie came back with a great album. The Frames' frontman Glen Hansard delivers his usual gritty and passionate vocals, but it's the few selections carried by the second fiddle, Marketa Irglova, that really shine.
(Songs to check out: The Verb, I Have Loved You Wrong)
8) Andrew Bird - Noble Beast. Sometimes I can look at a cover of an album and know I will like it (see #4). Folk singer and violin virtuoso Andrew Bird is back with yet another album, where he waxes poetically and whistles his way through delightful songs that will have you tapping your feet and wishing that you could whistle.
(Songs to check out: Natural Disaster, Tenuousness)
7) Zero 7 - Yeah Ghost. With their lead singers seemingly going through a revolving door, Zero 7 shakes it up a little bit and delivers a pop-centered record that's a huge leap forward from the neutral 'Garden' CD. New singer Eska Mtungwazi brings a soulful touch to Zero 7 that they've never had before.
(Songs to check out: The Road, Sleeper)
6) Maxwell - BLACKsummers'night. It only took him eight years, but Maxwell returns with a soulful album that far outshines the offerings from his R&B contemporaries R. Kelly and Chris Brown. Like always, Maxwell's voice complements fantastic instrumentation, making for quite an enjoyable listen. Hopefully we won't need to wait another eight years.
(Songs to check out: Fistful of Tears, Bad Habits)
5) Alicia Keys - The Element of Freedom. Oh, Alicia Keys. To say that this album is disappointing is inaccurate. But 'Freedom' doesn't come close to showcasing Keys' raw talent, something her past CD's were progressing towards. That being said, even when she's not at her best, she still blows her competition out of the water. Keys has shifted from 70's motown and soul to an 80's synth-pop, meaning she sounds less like Aretha and more like Prince. We'll take it.
(Songs to check out: Try Sleeping With A Broken Heart, This Bed, Love is Blind)
4) The Flaming Lips - Embryonic. Psychedelic rock never sounded so fresh. I'm not terribly familiar with their past efforts, but Embryonic certainly dazzles and emotes unlike anything I have heard this year. Plus, collaborations with MGMT and Karen O can only make things better.
(Songs to check out: Gemini Syringes, Evil, Aquarius Sabotage)
3) Norah Jones - The Fall. We all loved when she crooned Hoagy Carmichael and Tom Waits songs, and we liked her added lyrics to the previously-instrumental Duke Ellington songs. But you have to wonder how long Norah Jones was going to stay behind the piano, doing generally the same, albeit delightful, thing. Her new album isn't so much a departure as it is a logical, progressive step in a great direction. Jones plays Wurlitzer, she plays guitar. Jones recruited indie staples Ryan Adams and Okkervil River and neo-soul keyboardist James Poyser to contribute to a fresh new sound for such a talented musician.
(Songs to check out: It's Gonna Be, Chasing Pirates, You've Ruined Me)
2) Regina Spektor - Far. Some say she sold out, but true fans will quickly point out the dolphin barks, the meat market, the song about a lost wallet, the scenario of God at a cocktail party. Spektor is still very much in control of her crystal clear voice, which bellows and soars in all the right spots. Spektor's music is still quirky and original, but has a new accessibility assisted by a full band, synthesizers and producers from all over the musical spectrum. Plus, Regina truly is at her best when she's performing, and her live adaptations of these songs are a treat.
(Songs to check out: Dance Anthem of the 80's, Two Birds, Genius Next Door, Laughing With, Blue Lips)
1) Brandi Carlile - Give Up The Ghost. I've never heard an incredible song where the singers' voice cracks twice, which only improve the song. Such is 'The Story' from Brandi Carlile, an almost-country, almost-indie guitar rocker, who followed up last year's breakthrough album with 'Give Up The Ghost'. Carlile sings with such emotion and conviction that the sometimes-chiche lyrics are drowned out by the feeling that seeps through the stereo speakers. Carlile is one of the only musicians who can invest equal emotion in an upbeat rocker as she can in an acoustic song about a friend who committed suicide. Plus, she duets with Elton John. There truly are no weak points on this album, its only downside being that it only has 11 songs. Carlile's just making a good thing better.
(Songs to check out: Pride and Joy, Looking Out, Last Year, Before it Breaks, Caroline)
10) Neko Case - Middle Cyclone. In terms of the lyrics, they are average for Case - good, witty, metaphorical. But what carries this album more than before is her voice, a fantastic instrument that can fill a room without being overwhelming. Only downside: that 30+ minute recording of frogs.
(Songs to check out: The Pharaohs, People Got A Lotta Nerve)
9) The Swell Season - Strict Joy. The world may have moved on to other dreamy musical stories (Susan Boyle), but the surprise musical duo from 2007's 'Once' movie came back with a great album. The Frames' frontman Glen Hansard delivers his usual gritty and passionate vocals, but it's the few selections carried by the second fiddle, Marketa Irglova, that really shine.
(Songs to check out: The Verb, I Have Loved You Wrong)
8) Andrew Bird - Noble Beast. Sometimes I can look at a cover of an album and know I will like it (see #4). Folk singer and violin virtuoso Andrew Bird is back with yet another album, where he waxes poetically and whistles his way through delightful songs that will have you tapping your feet and wishing that you could whistle.
(Songs to check out: Natural Disaster, Tenuousness)
7) Zero 7 - Yeah Ghost. With their lead singers seemingly going through a revolving door, Zero 7 shakes it up a little bit and delivers a pop-centered record that's a huge leap forward from the neutral 'Garden' CD. New singer Eska Mtungwazi brings a soulful touch to Zero 7 that they've never had before.
(Songs to check out: The Road, Sleeper)
6) Maxwell - BLACKsummers'night. It only took him eight years, but Maxwell returns with a soulful album that far outshines the offerings from his R&B contemporaries R. Kelly and Chris Brown. Like always, Maxwell's voice complements fantastic instrumentation, making for quite an enjoyable listen. Hopefully we won't need to wait another eight years.
(Songs to check out: Fistful of Tears, Bad Habits)
5) Alicia Keys - The Element of Freedom. Oh, Alicia Keys. To say that this album is disappointing is inaccurate. But 'Freedom' doesn't come close to showcasing Keys' raw talent, something her past CD's were progressing towards. That being said, even when she's not at her best, she still blows her competition out of the water. Keys has shifted from 70's motown and soul to an 80's synth-pop, meaning she sounds less like Aretha and more like Prince. We'll take it.
(Songs to check out: Try Sleeping With A Broken Heart, This Bed, Love is Blind)
4) The Flaming Lips - Embryonic. Psychedelic rock never sounded so fresh. I'm not terribly familiar with their past efforts, but Embryonic certainly dazzles and emotes unlike anything I have heard this year. Plus, collaborations with MGMT and Karen O can only make things better.
(Songs to check out: Gemini Syringes, Evil, Aquarius Sabotage)
3) Norah Jones - The Fall. We all loved when she crooned Hoagy Carmichael and Tom Waits songs, and we liked her added lyrics to the previously-instrumental Duke Ellington songs. But you have to wonder how long Norah Jones was going to stay behind the piano, doing generally the same, albeit delightful, thing. Her new album isn't so much a departure as it is a logical, progressive step in a great direction. Jones plays Wurlitzer, she plays guitar. Jones recruited indie staples Ryan Adams and Okkervil River and neo-soul keyboardist James Poyser to contribute to a fresh new sound for such a talented musician.
(Songs to check out: It's Gonna Be, Chasing Pirates, You've Ruined Me)
2) Regina Spektor - Far. Some say she sold out, but true fans will quickly point out the dolphin barks, the meat market, the song about a lost wallet, the scenario of God at a cocktail party. Spektor is still very much in control of her crystal clear voice, which bellows and soars in all the right spots. Spektor's music is still quirky and original, but has a new accessibility assisted by a full band, synthesizers and producers from all over the musical spectrum. Plus, Regina truly is at her best when she's performing, and her live adaptations of these songs are a treat.
(Songs to check out: Dance Anthem of the 80's, Two Birds, Genius Next Door, Laughing With, Blue Lips)
1) Brandi Carlile - Give Up The Ghost. I've never heard an incredible song where the singers' voice cracks twice, which only improve the song. Such is 'The Story' from Brandi Carlile, an almost-country, almost-indie guitar rocker, who followed up last year's breakthrough album with 'Give Up The Ghost'. Carlile sings with such emotion and conviction that the sometimes-chiche lyrics are drowned out by the feeling that seeps through the stereo speakers. Carlile is one of the only musicians who can invest equal emotion in an upbeat rocker as she can in an acoustic song about a friend who committed suicide. Plus, she duets with Elton John. There truly are no weak points on this album, its only downside being that it only has 11 songs. Carlile's just making a good thing better.
(Songs to check out: Pride and Joy, Looking Out, Last Year, Before it Breaks, Caroline)
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