First, Getz comes in too loud on "The Girl from Ipanema." I realize he was the star of the show, but the mix should have been done with more subtlety.
As a whole, this is a perfect album to have on in the background of a laughably overpriced, “artisanal,” cocktail bar. Can’t you just picture yourself watching flies fornicate on the window surrounded by hipsters in full affectation mode trying to pretend this music isn’t a snooze-fest every bit as boring as they are. Get out your drool bucket as this album is auditory Nembutal.
Lil’ Willie G is quite the wet-fart and his half-yelled, wholly whined teen angst vocals are insufferable. They bring to mind Otto from A Fish Called Wanda. It’s like the line, “You pompous, stuck-up, snot-nosed, English, giant, twerp, scumbag, fuck-face, dickhead, asshole,” was written about him, his mediocre band, and this repetitive album. Oh yeah, the mono-brow brothers were going to be the "new Beatles," the only thing missing was talent.
Ella had a beautiful voice but this is a snooze-fest. It has Walt Disney orchestration and doesn't allow Ella to swing. It should come with a paper strip like they used to wrap around motel toilet seats once upon a time. "Sanitized for your protection."
You have to hand it to Jack. What he lacks in musical substance his stylist makes up for with nifty hats. He is certainly a virtuoso of affectation.
It’s always funny reading critics pretending the emperor has clothes lest they insult the kiddeos for their McMusic. Case in point, Love Interruption isn’t a mediocre Son of a Preacher Man rip-off. Nope, it’s a bluesy blues ballad that is gospel-infused Americana and country soul. Like George Carlin warned, “It's the same with ‘buttery’ and ‘lemony’ and ‘chocolatey.’ ‘Real chocolatey goodness.’ You know what that means? No fucking chocolate!” You know what, “bluesy” means? No fucking blues. Along with no gospel…no Americana…no country…and no soul. Jack might be able to passably parrot Robert Plant’s vocal style on a few tunes but his chops on guitar are laughably overrated. It’s one thing to mimic vocals and quite another to bend strings in a way that stands the test of time. I kept waiting for the guitar wunderkind to show up. I’m still waiting.
I always try to guess the type of mood someone must be in to put on a specific album. This album is for those curled up in a little ball after witnessing someone run over their dog, getting out to laugh in their face about it before driving off never to give them or their dog a second thought.
The album isn’t bad. It is just mildly monotonous and entirely inconsequential. It’s more fun to read the melodramatic Pitchfork review. “Carsick slide guitar riff?” Their writing is as meaningless as it is hilariously pretentious. Go hug your dog and skip this vaguely depressing album.
“Wild World” is a legitimate classic. The rest of the album…not so much. “Into White” started off well musically but lost me with the lyrics. It is, however, the best, “Red legged chicken,” song I have ever heard. Be sure to listen to “Tea For The Tillerman” with headphones on if you enjoy having your ears blasted by the “Happy Day” choir. The album was ridiculously mixed with that song being the most ridiculous. I am curious to know how they managed to make a 5-disc anniversary edition for this average, at best, album. I am just not curious enough to listen to find out. Hopefully, Yusuf learned to use a mixing board in the past 50 years to protect those who appreciate being able to hear.
This album is decent pop music and just fine for what it is. Todd Rundgren could have done them a favor and left his melodica at home. Has anyone, anywhere ever said, “Wow, that tune really had some jammin’ melodica?”
“Big Day,” has excellent bass work. “Dear God,” is a good tune. We need more songs mocking the idea of imaginary space buddies. No wonder it was left off the first pressing, it hits too close to reality for some people.
“The United Nations General Assembly request all states to prevent all cultural, academic, sporting and other exchanges with South Africa. Appeals to writers, artists, musicians and other personalities to boycott South Africa. Urges all academic and cultural institutions to terminate all links with South Africa.” Simon can justify it in his mind but breaking the cultural boycott of apartheid South Africa was absolutely shameless on his part and renders this album unlistenable. His good intentions were self-serving, and this album belongs in the dustbin of history. The royalties should go to those he ripped off making it.
Like Back to Black with Amy Winehouse it's kind of a depressing, what might-have-been album. I appreciate the live version of "Come As You Are" every bit as much as the studio version. I also like the "Fuck you" it sent to the powers that be when that was the only hit played and with sideman of their choosing rather than trotting out cliches both in songs and musicians.
"They say pussy and paper is poetry, power and pistols." Well, "they" sure say a lot of stupid shit in an irritating, lecturing, mock-bravado style using other people's music for lack of ability to create their own. "They" are boring.
The album starts by ripping off the riff from “25 or 6 to 4” and heads down the road of screechy teen-angst vocals. When does the guitar phenom show up?
A good display of a young woman with talent to burn. Of course, "Rolling in the Deep" has been beaten to death since it was released, but if you listen to it as if you've never heard it, it is a powerful song. "Rumor Has It" is pretty kitschy, but I tolerate it for my Adele adoring wife. If "Someone Like You" doesn't stick a dagger in your heart, you haven't done enough living.
Makes you want to punch a hippie in the face. I only wish David Crosby could come back to life so he could die again. At least his dirt nap finally shut him up.
He didn't lie down. He splattered all over Broadway after shooting himself in the head after Genesis tricked him into listening to this pretentious shit
Contrary to popular belief the reggae sun doesn't rise and set over Bob's ass no matter what the trust-fund rebel Chris Blackwell might lead you to believe. This is, however, a great album.
Harmless, just not my thing.
"Janie Jones" was my imaginary punk rock girlfriend when I was filled with teen angst. I had no idea who she really was. She would have been an even cooler girlfriend, it appears.
"I'm So Bored with the USA" was my mantra for a while in high school when it fueled my Reagan hatred and justified my disdain for our foreign policy.
Like with many songs, I had no idea what the lyrics to "White Riot" were about. I appreciate them even more now but at the time they were perfect for venting teenage energy.
These guys were my secret brothers growing up in Wyoming when everyone was listening to Foreigner or some other crapola.
Not into the singer-songwriter stuff
Muzak that asks "Would you like to touch my monkey?" No Dieter, I would not like to touch your monkey or listen to this monotonous crapola.
Know what the kids say when the ecstasy wears off? "This music is irritating as fuck." How many times do they have to have "Right about now The funk soul brother," looped at them before they realize the joke is on them?
Great reflection of the promise the band would later fulfill time and time again. Their musical chops were already on display and Tom’s legacy as one of the best songwriters ever began with this album. In a sad coincidence “American Girl” closes out the album and was the last song the band played before Tom Petty’s tragic death. Both the man and his song are American classics.
I can see these songs perfectly fitting a soundtrack for the right movie but not putting on the stereo for a home jam.
Why so glum, chum?
The musicians jam pretty well but Cavalera’s vocals are insufferable. I’m not 14, my mom didn’t ground me from the big dance, my teeny bopper girlfriend didn’t dump me. I don’t want to listen to some hoarse asshole screaming in my face like a heavy metal cliché. I have no teenage sorrows to drown with mock rage.
I have made a "conscious uncoupling" from ever listening to this band again.
Tom might be a great fella in private but his public hepcat affectation is intolerable. This is an entire album of affectation from the fake jazz club canned audience to the contrived, "Hey look, that rebel nighthawk doesn't care about your 'no shirt, no shoes, no service policy,'" album cover.
I was prepared to hate this album. I have dismissed Jack White as all stylists, publicists, managers, mythmakers, and no substance but this album won me over. I never thought I would say this, but I might have to add this to The Collection. The sparse production allows the instruments to stand out and the vocals are more straightforward than the other stuff I am familiar with from J.W. Meg's vocals on "In The Cold, Cold Night," also stand out. I guess she has dropped out which is too bad because she seems to have chops and I appreciate her drum style. Ordinarily, I am the harshest of critics when it comes to white boy blues, but I have to admit "Ball and Biscuit" is a pretty good jam.
