Nevermind that this triad of cryptic combinations also happens to unlock the secrets to the 2007 Gay Agenda™. That’s not so much a paradox as it is a mere coincidence to be discussed at greater length perhaps some other time. On his latest album to date, Release the Stars, Rufus Wainwright shows up in full form, choosing not to throw any curve balls, and instead masters his signature sound. More specifically, he exploits to great affect his quiet piano and soft vocal drones, which inevitably lead to an emotionally charged orchestral build-up and eventual dissipation. He’s previously explored operatic territory like this before on songs like Go or Go Ahead on Want One, but this time around it inexplicably feels more polished and mature.

Songs like Tulsa could be the real sleepers in the mix because of their hidden insights. Married men in particular ought to pay particular attention to the tiny details, as something akin to a wife’s private thoughts may be revealed.

You taste of potato chips in the morning
Your face has the Marlon Brando club calling
And then the thought that I owe it all to Tulsa
And that fat guy with the Queen shirt that we both signed together

I think it’s the obvious psycho-sexual dynamics combined with a higher degree of testosterone and a deeper sense of not caring what anybody else in the world thinks, which may be making Mr. Wainwright a more empethetic songwriter to everyday women than, say, Paula Cole. That’s quite a feat in its own right, actually, but one which I promise hasn’t influenced my score.

True to form, there’s an evident somberness to much of the album, which brings about a mood of quiet reflection. On Going to a Town, it’s almost too easy to see the singer writing the song in his notebook, perhaps on some rain-filled day as he gazes out the Eurail window making his way into Rome or Barcelona.

I’m going to a town that has already been burnt down
I’m going to a place that is already been disgraced
I’m gonna see some folks who have already been let down
I’m so tired of America

Clearly, the openly out songwriter has had the shits with six years of George W. and the Wal-mart culture who elected him. But true to form again, tiny beams of light also abound. Particularly on songs like Between My Legs, a seemingly Elton John inspired guitar romp, Wainwright sounds more steady and comfortable than ever.

In fact, the standouts are too numerous to mention and the accomplishment seemingly too easy to pull off without giving due credit. And as for the complicated route of understanding the female species via a gay man’s intimate songwriting–it may not be that revealing, or even theoretically worth a damn in the end, but the music itself is anything but a wash.

This group has a deeply penetrating sound seemingly designed to eat away at the outer membranes of the para-sympathetic brain region. No shit, one listen will instantly leave the listener with one option and one option only–listen to the entire album again. And again. And again. And again it goes.

This is the kind of music that 90′s grunge and early Radiohead was dutifully working toward, until it got sidetracked by a world that decided not to think anymore. That is to say then that it comes off as progressively cerebral and artsy. But if pretentiousness is your biggest fear in life, than let front man Brian Aubert tear away your misconceptions with his frighteningly rough voice, which can only be described as a freaked-out banshee hooked on pain killers. Actually, he sounds like a cross between a female Billy Corgan and the lead singer for the Agents of Good Roots. The former’s ruspiness was rumored to be caused by a skiing accident. No word on what twist of fait gives the Pickups the perfect vocal accompaniment to their sonic feedback vibrations. My guess is it’s a clever gift from God, who obviously wants the world to rock like a bunch of smug bastards all over again. Or, if not smug, at least smelly.

Hey, I won’t complain.

While I’ve become accustomed to more forms of music over the years (except for the jingoistic crap on country stations), the bulk of my musical palette remains steadily with the art house crowd. That’s why new music by these guys and others, like the Secret Machines; guys who aren’t afraid to pick up where bands like the Smashing Pumpkins left off (when they were still good, of course), are starting to fuel a young and possibly resilient fire. The main difference between the new scene and its early predecessors seems to be its reliance on lyrical abstraction within large and flowing sound scapes. Beautiful with just a hint of danger. It was that kind of vibe that made music exciting years ago and it seems to be picking up once more with guys like these who appear every bit as eager to turn the world on its end.

Now, whether or not bands like the Silversun Pickups can outlive their reference points remains to be seen. All I can say is it feels really special and really good right now. I’ll be watching closely.

Album Stand Outs:

• Lazy Eye
• Well Thought Out Twinkies
• Melatonin
• Checkered Floor
• Future Foe Scenarios
• Dream At Tempo 119

His complete sophomore release doesn’t disappoint either. Although I have to admit that at times the album doesn’t shine quite as brightly as his first, it’s to his credit that he was able to cast so much light into the darkness during the humble beginnings of his career. If anything, he’s just made it that much more difficult to top himself.

Save Room, the album lead, is a fair average for the music to follow. It’s seemingly forced upbeat tempo, slow build of electric guitar, and lack of a piano all signal that this effort will not simply be a follow up to his most recognizable track, Ordinary People. But that’s not a bad thing. With every popping beat and finger poke at his church organ, Legend is playfully announcing a confidence in attitude that’s refreshingly audacious, without the overly self-centered antics of just about every one of his hip-hop contemporaries.

But that’s already making me sound jaded. And if anything, Legend appears to be about turning around that stereotype of the talented (and some not so talented) black musicians who relish flaunting the riches of their success.

The broad musical attempt appears to be play it safe with highly playable tracks like Stereo, but every now and then small musical hybrids, like the Hendrix-inspired guitar opening of Show Me stand out for special appreciation. Likewise, the sentimental harmony of Each Day Gets Better recalls groups like the Detroit Spinners in a nearly pitch perfect tone.

But it would also be remiss not to mention the booty. Yes, the booty.

After all, the centerpiece of this album is really all about getting it on. No other track exemplifies this better on the album (and maybe on any album recorded in the last ten years) then the free flow exhibitionism of P.D.A. (We Just Don’t Care). It’s a sexy romp that covers all sorts of over-heated scenarios my older brother never warned me about.

I see you closing down the restaurant
Let’s sneak and do it when your boss is gone
Everybody’s leaving we’ll have some fun
Oh, maybe it’s wrong but you’re turning me on
Ohh, we’ll take a visit to your Mama’s house
Creep to the bedroom while your Mama’s out
Maybe she’ll hear it when we scream and shout
But we’ll keep it rocking until she comes knocking.

Damn, the guy’s got some serious mojo.

All kidding aside, the song that encapsulates the sentiments of just about every legendary artist that Legend (the man) can and will be compared to in one fell swoop is Slow Dance. The patented old-school R&B groove is balanced out nicely by lyrics which could have easily been sung by Marvin Gaye or Al Green.

Forget about the world
I’m grooving with my girl
Forget about the news
Let’s put on our dancing shoes
Let’s not talk about the war
Don’t know what they’re fighting for
I propose that we go to the floor and we slow dance

Hey, that’s good enough for me. In fact, let’s start right now.

Midnight Cowboy is the movie starring Jon Voight and Dustin Hoffman. It’s the one with the famous scene of Hoffman’s character slapping a car and yelling, “I’m walkin’ here!” And who could forget the theme song, Everybody’s Talkin, (I say that somewhat confidently because I don’t think I’ve ever seen the movie, but I know the theme song) which incidently has been covered by everyone from Madeleine Peyroux to Leonard Nimoy

Urban Cowboy is the one with John Travolta. In it, he rides an electric bull and talks to Deborah Winger with a really bad southern accent, “Sissy!”

Drugstore Cowboy is the one with Matt Dillon as a junky. It was directed by Gus Van Sant and shouldn’t be confused with Rumble Fish, which was a Coppola film.

Electric Horseman is the one with Robert Redford as an alcoholic cowboy who rides a horse in a suit of Christmas lights. (Seriously, that was the plot. Hey, it was the seventies.)

Rhinestone is the 1984 trainwreck starring Sly Stallone as a New York City cab driver who’s primmed and primed to be a country/western singer by none other than Dolly Parton (Hey, it was the eighties.)

Rhinestone Cowboy is a Glen Campbell song that has no relation any of this mess but is close enough in title to act as an enabling variable for confusion.

Somewhat related, if second guessing still looms about the accuracy of the first movie, is Midnight Run. It’s the 1988 buddy movie starring Robert De Niro and Charles Grodin. It has no cowboys.

Midnight Express, on the other hand, is about Turkish prisons.

Any questions?

Fans of his first two should albums realize quickly that only half of his new one, Every Waking Moment, sounds different enough to be considered a new direction, but even the material that feels leftover from The Clarence Greenwood Recordings (including the live version of Bullet and a Target) packs enough punch to raise this album up a few notches. I’m particularly enamored by the first four tracks, which squarely put the singer/songwriter into a category of his own making, something comparable to 70′s soul music, or street wise folk. What I find most striking about Citizen Cope (whose stage name is not to be mistaken with Julian Cope, who I’ve panned in the past) is his penchant for melding in seemingly complete opposites. It’s like all at once he’s uniquely spiritual and political, tormented and inspirational, passionate and laid back.

Just as on his last two albums, one of the most compelling parts is hearing what this man has to say. The first track, Back Together, is pure personal introspection, laid out plainly in the lyrics.

Today though things ain’t goin’ my way
I’m back together again
I’m staring at the mirror
and it’s been been so long
since I’ve seen you my friend

The title track, Every Waking Moment, plays out musically as a Southern ballad as mellow and sincere as Ray Charles’ Georgia on My Mind. But the next track, Friendly Fire, sounds off what can reasonably be construed as Cope’s genuine anger over the government response to Hurricane Katrina.

They say help is coming
They say help his on it’s way
They shot him down
And he was innocent today
They run for cover
They got no answer
Why they left him for dead

Most of this personal venting comes to a fever pitch with Brother Lee, which sounds intentionally like a companion piece to Cope’s most famous song, Sun’s Gonna Rise. What’s heard on top of the pulsating lyrics, though, is a sentiment which suggests the slow formation of an army of loyal fans, potentially ready to turn their anger into something politically tangible.

Should that ever happen, the Democratic party might consider using Citizen Cope and his fan base of disgruntled youth for a strategic ally come November. And if he keeps up songwriting with as much power and grace as his most current offering, who knows how the times they might a change.

Forget whatever that Dylan guy said.

I may be developing a small crush on Martha Wainwright, maybe even more than her brother, but I’m not sure her version of Tower of Song was the best choice for the album opener. It does a commendable job, though, of offsetting the particularly disappointing collaborative effort between the author of honor and U2 (the only not-concert recording on the album). She seems better suited for the narrative romance of The Traitor.

Brother Rufus performs a predictably slow and steady version of Chelsea Hotel No. 2. However, the Cuban influence arrangement of his second contribution, Everybody Knows, truly gives the song a new signature.

The Handsome Family does a so-so rendition of one of my favorite Cohen songs, Famous Blue Raincoat, but since the author himself has gone on record many times over the years, expressing his own disappointment in the execution of that song (proof that artists aren’t always the best judge of their own work), it may indeed be fitting. Still, if you want to truly be haunted by a mysterious love triangle, nothing beats the original.

Just as he did on Lou Reed’s Animal Serenade, the phenomenally tender expression of Antony‘s voice in his rendition of If It Be Your Will totally paralyzes any previous thought or emotion into total subservience. I don’t care how many covers have been done in the past, Cohen fans will hear this song for first time on this album. His respect to the tenderness it emotes is simply remarkable.

Other notables include Teddy Thompson, who sounds well on his way to creating a stage presence as powerful as his old man. I’m particularly fond of his take on The Future, which stands out certain phrases like “I’m the little Jew who wrote the Bible” and “I’ve seen the future, baby, it is murder” in my head. Those lines are so Leonard, and I’ve heard them many times before, but they creep through in new and unexpected ways through the ever-changing subjectivity of music.

And that’s the whole point, really. These songs do come alive with new meaning and new surprises at just about every corner. The lyrical expression contained within can be played over and over, and the stuff just never gets old. If only the same were true of the artist, we wouldn’t need movie documentaries to get inside his head, vainly attempting to harvest his special genius for ourselves.

And for all of the natural ingredients combined in the mixture (and I promise not to use the word supergroup), I’m a little surprised this endeavor didn’t turn into more of a twangy-filled sap fest or sound awfully over-produced. Instead, the majority of the album is a light and airy concoction of folk-inspired pop melodies that simply ring pleasant. There’s an under-the-radar quality reminiscent of R.E.M.’s Reveal, which makes it suitable music for twilight moods or a non-obtrusive soundtrack for changing seasons.

5-22-02 jumps out as the likely stand-alone single, but there’s plenty more to enjoy on this album. This is a group who’s learned to take long strides on their own over the past decade and half and it shows.

I was pleasantly surprised to hear them not oversell songs frought with emotional heartache, or delve too deeply into derivative imitation of their 60′s folk and alt/county influences. In the end, they come out with an album full of gratifying sounds, which highlights their individual style and influence without being over the top, as supergroup’s often apt to be.

Hey, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it may just be the next supergroup from Minnesota.

There’s no denying the brilliantly unrelenting catchiness of Skip to the End, but unfortunately not every song holds the same kind of potency. And such a clever song shouldn’t hold such an ironic meaning.

In the end and as a matter of fact, there are already a handful of bands, such as Franz Ferdinand and Bloc Party, who’ve succeeded at stealing style, structure, and the shameless black void that’s left of one’s soul when both attributes are stolen from perennial bands such as The Jam and Gang of Four, only to provide fodder for pop-music snobs such as myself. I swear, the next band from England to come out with an overly influenced sound should be forced to write a 150 page thesis justifying their theft. This British Invasion is arguably the least interesting, but perhaps should be the most gratifying for long forgotten musicians such as The Godfathers, who at least had the decency to start unpacking their stolen merchandise a full fifteen years ahead of the game.

But maybe it’s because I liked those guys so much in my testosterone filled youth, that the new crop still connects to the guitar driven boys club in my head. It may not be a perfect invasion this time around, but it’s had its fair amount of strategic and tactical successes to show for all of the crime that’s taken place along the way.

Although I tried not to let his enthusiasm for the band affect my judgement, I just couldn’t listen to this album without attempting to discern things with Bowie’s ear (what can I say, it’s a gift). To that end, I think he identifies with their style for grandeur and experimentation in comparison to his own execution of Diamond Dogs, an album he’s gone on record as one of his favorites. The three make good on the well-known stereotype concerning Texans and make “big” sound on this album, apparently in spite of their stripped down roster. And even though there’s only eight tracks, every one of them feels full and rich, as if any more or any less just wouldn’t be right.

There’s a near perfect balance between pop sensibility, melodrama, and artistic touchiness that I haven’t seen this organically cultivated since REM was still a young band (I have to remember not to age myself like that). But I can sum it up even better. These guys know who Donald Judd is for crying out loud.

Alone Jealous and Stoned doesn’t sell itself as a knock you dead single, although it is the band’s first from the album. It’s slow moody drone is a suitable pretension to the album’s overall feel, but the songs that stand the biggest chance of stirring a public groundswell are probably more along the lines of Lightning Blue Eyes or Faded Lines. Each of these high energy guitar tracks delivers a fast-paced catchiness with an honesty that’s been missing from today’s music.

Daddy’s in the Doledrums and I Hate Pretending are two other very strong tracks which demonstrate an ethereal edginess that’s not easy to pull off. They provide a solid backbone for the rest of the album.

But it’s I Want to Know If It’s Still Possible that gives away Bowie’s secret to the machines. There’s a striking similarity between it and Rock ‘N” Roll With Me from Diamond Dogs. 1000 Seconds rounds out the album nicely, making the loop back onto the first track an easy transition. At the time of this writing, I’ve probably listened to the album 20 times.

Any more and I might have to call myself smitten. Any less, and I just wouldn’t be a Bowie fan, now would I?

That’s just a long-ass way of saying that Sing-a-Longs and Lullabies for the Film Curious George is music that’s extremely well suited for, surprise… children. Yes, finally, you can sing along with your kids to something that won’t have you questioning your sanity later in the day, as the relentless melodies of the wheels on the bus going round and round get stuck spinning in your head. Incidentally, that’s something any coworker within humming distance should appreciate too.

This music is pure and simple, which is to put it as purely and simply as it can be put, I guess. I haven’t seen the film, but I’ll be the first to point out my long history of being a Curious George fan. To that, I’ll say this. Surfer boy Jack Johnson may have a reputation for being a laid-back folky, but George is the undisputed king of sweet FA in my book. Bar none.

Still, it’s hard not to see a smiling little monkey in lyrics like those on the album opener, Upside Down.

Who’s to say
What’s impossible
Well they forgot
This world keeps spinning
And with each new day
I can feel a change in everything
And as the surface breaks reflections fade
But in some ways they remain the same
And as my mind begins to spread its wings
There’s no stopping curiosity

Of course, a children’s album just wouldn’t be a children’s album without a heaping serving of some over-the-top indoctrination. The 3 R’s teaches everyone not only that 3 is a magical number, but it can also remind us to “reduce, reuse, and recycle.” How quaint. As well, The Sharing Song exposes what I always knew was Jack Johnson’s hidden communist agenda. It just goes to show, folks, that you can never trust a secular humanist. Their insidious nature to corrupt innocent minds knows no bounds.

Long live the culture war!

Tongue and cheek aside, Ben Harper lends the project some real credibility with his duet version of My Own Two Hands. Both in sound and sentiment, the song is undeniably on par with other children’s classics, such as Woodie Guthrie’s This Land is Your Land. Similarly, the cover of The White Stripes’ We’re Going to Be Friends is a pleasant and modern day surprise. G. Love, also stands out, doing a predictably good job of placing an upbeat rhythm to the acoustical surroundings of Jungle Gym.

This isn’t the best album Jack Johnson will ever record. But it does give the genre of children’s music a powerful shot of dignity for the time being. If you’ve got little ones, this album was made for them. But quite mercifully, it’s been tempered for you too.