Artist: Kathy Greenholdt

Artist: Kathy Greenholdt

Links: https://www.facebook.com/kathy.greenholdt

http://kathygreenholdt.com/

With her new album, When You’re Dead, Kathy Greenholdt solidifies her reputation as a gifted vocalist with ruminations on bravery, peace and even God. In Greenholdt's unique brand of Americana-infused folk/pop, her assured vocals shift and shade to fit each song's mood, alternately bringing to mind Lorrie Morgan, Mary Chapin Carpenter, and Victoria Legrand. And they're accompanied by the outstanding production and exemplary instrumentation of Dolly Varden's Steve Dawson.

Whether it's with the American roots instruments of "Peace," the mood-defining guitars and percussion of "Moon Song," or the expert vocal intro of "When You're Dead," a song whose deliberate pacing and prominent bass recall the Cowboy Junkies -- Kathy Greenholdt's newest album offers us a chance to pause, and examine our relationship with God and each other.

As an example, the song-writing standout, "Moon Song," opens with simple strumming over which we get the flourish of romantic acoustics and hand percussion -- these are joined by a scene-stealing slide, then a piano. Greenholdt's richly-toned vocals conclude, "I know you’re somewhere / Under these stars / But I just can’t see / The way to your heart." It's an accomplished original that hints at the dream pop of Beach House's Bloom.

Lyrically-speaking, in Greenholdt's narrator's prayer for courage to Joan of Arc -- the French war heroine (and apparently a saint of the Roman Catholic church) -- the narrator humbly beseeches to poetic effect, "Let the others call you crazy / So am I / So am I / Saint Joan, make me brave and bold" ("Prayer To Saint Joan Of Arc"). Likewise, on "When I Dream," we're confronted by words taken from our mouths, "When I dream / I dream so far / Away from what my days are."

In Greenholdt's vulnerable narrators, we see our own insecurities. But it's just her way of saying she's been there.

*** The author of this review, Stephen Adams, plays the repique for the following band: http://youtu.be/tMS73-1kCr8

Artist: Ignore the Wolves

Artist: Ignore the Wolves

Links: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Ignore-The-Wolves/164972926992753

http://ignorethewolves.bandcamp.com/

As a music writer, there's nothing more frustrating than not being able to categorize a band. Not being able to find where it fits in the vast expanse of recorded music. It's for our peace of mind more than anything. We know everything about music. Until we don't.

But usually it's easy. Dig deep, discover what the band sucks at, and make a note of it on the map, 'cause that's not the treasure – that's just the shit burying it. Thusly, by process of elimination, we recommend for the band paths to pursue, and the forks in the road they should definitely double back to reconsider.

But when we discover a band whose artistic heft brings to bear a full complement of colors perfectly shaded to the rainbow, it's difficult to summarize without giving short shrift. So it's better to just list. To identify the moving parts, and how they relate to the whole. This is what we'll be doing here, because Ignore the Wolves is one such band.

So let's break it down. Singer-songwriter Matthew Buist's guitar patterns form deliberate brush strokes well-suited to the DIIV School of Expressionism. More than that, and necessary for a band whose pallet is limited only by the man himself, Roy G. Biv, Buist's vocals are positively chameleon-like. Built to Spill falsetto on a song that picks up where Grandaddy's Just Like the Fambly Cat left off (“This Girl With A Cat...On My Street”). A talk-rock combo reminiscent of the similarly diverse Butthole Surfers (“Relax!”). And even when in the background, Buist blends like The xx on the female-fronted “Willows,” and auto-tunes like Bon Iver on “The Red Moon.”

If you could extract the essence of Ignore the Wolves, it would be the short impressionist pieces guided by expressive guitar, as on “To Cease To Be Seen,” which includes vocals by Mouth Dakota frontman, Justin Wood. But it's the layered, low-in-the mix vocals, and prominent drumming, that create the hazy melancholy most easily spotted in chill-wave genres. (Washed Out's “A Dedication” would be the chill-wave analogue that inches towards this middle ground.) And just like electronica, dynamics and textures make all the difference; in this regard, Ignore the Wolves has it all in “Woodpecker,” with its song-stopping guitar intricacy, and keyboards joining with new layers (:46).

Perhaps most notable is “The Red Moon,” which has Ignore the Wolves getting all conventional on us – or as traditional as you can get with a single-lyric, two-minute song. But Ignore the Wolves “going pop” just means that on this, one of the best tracks I've heard in awhile, the vocal is not blended with several other vocal tracks and buried lower in the mix. Instead, it’s a front-and-center performance by the compelling Anchors vocalist, David Black; and though it's a departure from Ignore the Wolves' norm, “The Red Moon” retains everything we've come to expect from Ignore the Wolves. Pronounced drums? They start the song. Emotive guitar work? Well, the singing stops at :42, and the guitar starts at :43, owning the final minute of this two-minute song.

If the internet fragmented and fractionalized music into multitudinous genres, Ignore the Wolves still hits many of them, even the less-than-guitar-centric ones, making them a music writer's nightmare.

And a music fan's dream.

*** The author of this review, Frank Hill, plays the boobam for the following band: http://youtu.be/tMS73-1kCr8

Artist: Homer Marrs

Artist: Homer Marrs

Links: https://www.facebook.com/homermarrsmusic

http://homermarrs.com/

Let it be said that Homer Marrs can make me laugh with just a song title. It happened on his standout debut EP, Prom King. The song? “A Prayer for Julian Sands.” I had no idea who Julian Sands was, so the name alone couldn't make me laugh. Until I googled it.

I did so with some trepidation, fearing a “Julian Sands” could only be a seminal niche philosopher known for obscurantist epistemology tracts. Hardly the fodder for funny. Instead, staring back at me from Google images: a European pretty boy looking like that big blond dude from Die Hard. [As it turns out, the Die Hard guy is Alexander Godunov, not Julian Sands. And Godunov is now deceased, just like in Die Hard.]

As I moved from Google to Wikipedia to the Marrs song, I learned that Julian Sands is a once-hyped actor who burst onto the scene with starring roles in The Killing Fields, A Room with a View and, wait for it, Warlock. In other words, he's the cool-looking dude from Warlock. And now Marrs, for whatever reason, is praying for him. This can't not work.

Marrs documents the rise and fall of Julian Sands, hitting with laugh lines like, “We saw such glamor in your blond hair / Your frightening eyes, their penetrating stare / That dippy glare,” that Marrs makes memorable through an earnest-though-possibly-ironic hook, “This is my prayer for you / Julian Sands.” But in addition to the funny bone, Marrs is targeting real meaning by finding a parallel amid the most ridiculous set of circumstances – those of a still-working actor who, nonetheless, has fallen from grace.

To set up the comparison, Marrs credits Sands with possibly possessing a greater ambition: “Did you want more Killing Fields / ...Well, Hollywood gave you Warlock, and other B-film leads / And sinister supporting roles. Did you compromise your dream?” Then Marrs closes the loop: “Inside us all is an evil man / With gorgeous looks and a hypnotizing tan / Doing the best he can / Our Father please bless him / And what he represents.” But does Sands represent persistence or acceptance? The future's not yet written. But I'm guessing the answer lies in whether Dexter gets widely syndicated after season eight. [Sands is on Dexter now!]

And then there's “The Facebook Song.” There may be other Facebook songs, but none more famous than Marrs'. It was Marrs who webcammed it in to Jimmy Kimmel Live! as part of Jimmy's National UnFriend Day. In reviewing it, I'm wary of stepping on punch lines, which is the comedy equivalent of a movie spoiler. But suffice it to say that rattling off a series of punches wouldn't scratch the surface of Marrs' scathing indictment of the ubiquitous social network.

Everything detestable is accounted for. Being friends with people we don't like. Being invited by adult strangers to play agriculture- and crime-related video games. Being asked to attend events we don't live near. Being solicited to sign petitions aspiring to effect real change over things that truly do not matter (e.g. getting Celebrity X on Late Night Variety Show Y). But at least Facebook is helping us answer the question: “Can Rush Limbaugh's nut-sack get more 'likes' than Ann Coulter's?” We craved this catharsis. All hail the Prom King for supplying us much-needed succor.

Listening to Marrs' “Bear411,” I get so frustrated there's no hetero-equivalent to the “bear” fetish that demands a website for devotees of fat hairy gay men. As a hirsute hipster with pounds to spare, I couldn't temper my envy while viewing the “bear” phenomenon through the lens of my gay counterpart, the bear narrator: “Bear411.com is so good for my self-esteem / No skinny bitches to tell me to put down the ice cream / No little trannies to tell me my sweatpants are uncool / I'm on a website where armpits and love-handles always rule.” So how does our large gay hairy narrator navigate his favorite site while keeping things on the down low? “I use a fake name when I chat / But my dick pic's real, and that's where it's at.” Well played, bear narrator.

Marrs also deals in another fascinating subject matter: 80's movies. There are two such songs that I've heard Marrs perform. Of these, and like the movies themselves, the song “Heathers” (not on Prom King) is better than “Fame.” "Fame" is a bad original – a five-minute abomination that Marrs mercifully shortens by half. Marrs does improve it a bit; his gentle delivery is a more suitable showcase for the song's lyrical lust for fame. But this means we miss out on the only good thing about the original, which was its endorphin/cocaine-fueled hook, “FAME!”

As for “Heathers,” we get everything that was great about the 80's cult classic – a treasure trove of loving quotations to, “Fuck me gently with a chainsaw”; “I was impressed to see she made proper use of the word 'myriad' in her suicide note”; “What's your damage, Heather? Why do you have to be such a mega-bitch?”; and references to beloved characters like Martha Dumptruck and Kurt & Ram (“I love my dead gay son!”). And to top it all off, we get a double-timed song section for, “Teenage suicide / Don't do it!” Timeless.

Homer Marrs is hilarious – his voice, perfectly suited to the genre. Each Homer Marrs song is its own universe that either adds new insight to oft-explored cultural touchstones, or spotlights under-appreciated phenomena (think: Gaffigan with Hot Pockets). More than that, Marrs dwells on things we love (80's movies), rails against things we hate (Facebook), and teaches us the things we should all know about (bears). And that's why we love Homer Marrs.

Well, that, and he's really fucking funny.

*** The author of this review, Timothy Young, plays the bodhran for the following band: http://youtu.be/tMS73-1kCr8

Artist: Get Up & Go

Artist: Get Up & Go

Links: https://www.facebook.com/GetUpAndGoBand

http://getupandgo.bandcamp.com/

There are approximately 8,345 varieties of punk music. Okay I made that up; there might be only a tenth of that. But you literally cannot count them (and still be punk). So you punkers shouldn't be surprised that we laypeople are content to learn the easiest of labels, which let us know whether we'll be hearing the bouncy Green Day/Blink-182 that got famous during our lifetime, or the angry Sex Pistols stuff we heard in passing during VH1 commercials. The pop-punk label was an adequate descriptive. But since the term is apparently pejorative, “melodic punk” is being used instead. (After all, what is pop if not melodic?)

For whatever reason, the indie press doesn't fawn over melodic punk as it does with “twee” pop, with which it shares similarities. They're both a bit silly, when not fetishizing objects of youth. The difference being: the items revered. Twee is the hand-knitted doily that great-grandma finishes the day she dies. And pop-punk is the scammed beer you accidentally spill on it when the parents leave to visit her grave. As for the music, twee is defined by addition. “Let's add an old-timey instrument like a glockenspiel to normal sounding music.” Punk would rather discard everything that's extraneous, in service to the song. And it's the hardest thing to do: retain song-writing self-control (especially while singing about excess). And that's why pop/melodic punk is genetically superior.

Musically speaking, melodic punk bands change on a dime. Perhaps the bands/audiences have internet-addled attention spans; or have just been treated like they do by marketing/programming execs. Regardless (and fortunately for us), NOFX set this high bar long ago, namely the three-minute opus, and pop-punkers will either die or rise to the challenge. More notably than the “have to,” these bands impress me because they “can.” Chefs don't go all 18 courses on us, unless they have three-Michelin-star-caliber chops. And boy does Get Up & Go got chops.

The best of the bunch is “The Need to Run,” with its introductory drum-less diet of ska guitar and superb vocal phrasing (“There’s a panic that’s been choking on my life as I age / It’s catching up and creepin’ in like a jihadist crusade”), song-stop/starting rhythm section, and fill-laden drums racing with frenetic guitar distortion. But it's the litany of songwriting flourishes – a rhythmic whipsaw at :53 (which works in conjunction with, “I’m feeling slower every day”) followed by a bass guitar climbing up and down the ska chord charts (at 1:12) – that supply the song with a bridge par excellence.

Also exemplary: the ending of “The Teacher Who Loved Me,” which goes from double-time to half-time in 10 seconds flat (at 1:12); as well as Impeller's consistently on-point harmonies, e.g. 1:01 of “Socialite” (itself, a much appreciated take-down of vicarious viewers keeping reality TV alive well into its third decade of cultural dominance).

In short, Impeller is proof positive: Get Up & Go is to melodic punk what Grant Achatz is to molecular gastronomy. Modern masters. Hating babies. (Okay, I made that last part up.)

*** The author of this review, Matthew Hall, plays the primo for the following band: http://youtu.be/tMS73-1kCr8

Artist: The Employees

Artist: The Employees

Links: https://www.facebook.com/TheEmployees

https://soundcloud.com/theemployees/sets/the-employees

There are concept albums nearly everyone will hate because no one wants to read a manifesto before listening to new music (and, thus, will have no idea what the singer is singing about). And then there's The Employees' Unemployed, a subtle "concept" release that acknowledges the recent/current economic straits while appealing to everyone in the economy, whether thriving or merely surviving.

The early uptempo bounciness of "Oh No," and its effects-laden vocal, recalls Parklife-vintage Blur and even Damon Albarn's zany Gorillaz entries. But with the fuzzed-out Matthew Sweet-style power-pop of "Impersonator," it's hard to pin down The Employees any further than the umbrella categories of alt-rock and indie rock.

As compact as the catchy songs-in-chief are, it's their outtros that induce the thoughts of "this band is special" that build a band's legacy. Thus, on a track like the aforementioned standout, "Oh No," acoustic strumming, sliding guitars, hand-claps and harmony vocals are poppy (and speed the song's movement); but the song is nicely extended through drum fills and a chorus of "oh no!" vocals. Likewise, on "Impersonator," after pop is asserted through lyric-delivery (and perfect vocal phrasing), we get a section of isolated vocals surrounded by expressive guitar-work that has The Employees straddling the divide between pop song-craft and advanced musicianship as the Stone Roses once did. (Active bass-lines throughout the album really help in this regard.)

It's telling then that The Employees also bring us "Winter Round Here." Though it slows the album's tempo, this dark and achingly beautiful melody still possesses all the attributes that have endeared The Employees to us by this, the tenth and final song of the album: lush acoustic guitar, prominent bass, melodic electric guitar, and expert vocal phrasing. When the music falls away, we're left with a lyrical observation, jarring in its truthful simplicity: "that's winter 'round here."

The Employees have everything we need and more -- with song-craft so catchy we must listen, and musicality so expressive we can't stop.

*** The author of this review, Anthony Lewis, plays the bari for the following band: http://youtu.be/tMS73-1kCr8

Artist: Crashland

Artist: Crashland

Links: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Crashland/165461966831888

http://crashlandmusic.com/CDInfo.php

Crashland's Novus Initium could be the soundtrack for America's fascination with extraterrestrials and unidentified flying objects. After you think through the real-world implications of encounters with other-worldly "things" (for lack of a better word), you'd conclude -- as Crashland surely has -- that one genre of music is just not enough to convey the width and breadth of the alien experience.

For example, what do you listen to as you drive along the "Old Mountain Road" that ultimately leads you to your spaceship abductors? Southern rock. But only acoustic balladry can convey the emotion of leaving loved ones behind once aboard the "Spaceship"; on the track, Derek Jesky's soulful vocal asks aloud to no one in particular, "Where am I going? / What will I do? / Now I'm lost on the spaceship / Missing you."

And it's Jesky again on vocal lead for the album's song-writing standout, "Darkside Cafe," penned by Dave Parkinson, the song-writer/multi-instrumentalist behind many of Crashland's most memorable songs. It could be about aliens or UFO's, but I wouldn't know it; regardless, "Darkside Cafe" is among the best blues tracks of the year. It's slow-burn blues at its finest.

There are no less than nine musicians and two song-writers committed to this album's exploration of other planets and galaxies, and all are notably gifted: Sit back and enjoy the quality fretting of the instrumental "Beehive," guitar work that goes far beyond merely conjuring a swarm of bees; and check out the bass/synth of "The Riddle The Rhyme."

I could attempt to classify Crashland by listing numerous bands as reference points, but I can't honestly think of a single one that wouldn't limit them to a genre they've already broken out of. Their instrumentation alone makes Crashland worth the listen; but it's the band's quality song-writing that makes Novus Initium worthy of its fascinating subject matter.

*** The author of this review, Steven Thompson, plays the baboula for the following band: http://youtu.be/tMS73-1kCr8

Artist: Broken

Artist: Broken

Link: https://www.facebook.com/BROKENROCKS

The bands that have had success and been around awhile -- Paradise Lost, Neurosis and Saint Vitus come to mind -- at some point decided to let their fans in on the secret. Broken's Eddy Black is no different. Black evidently decided there's no need to bury beneath guttural growls his quality lyricism dealing in metal touchstones like blame, fear, pain and, of course (on Darkness Falls), darkness. Black even subtly introduces spoken word, recalling the successful amalgam of Boss-de-Nage's recent, III.

Broken largely eschews the chord-based rock of Anhedonist, opting instead for riff-laden metal -- a wise decision given its Inverloch-caliber guitarist, Michael J. (check out the early-and-often shredding on "Scapegoat"). Broken's Boomer is a considerable talent on bass; and recalling the better Horseback records, the bass lines are not only prominent in the mix but integral to the song (bass opens the album). And as with Panopticon's percussion, Broken's drummer, Lee, has mastered all the drums in the kit -- not just the double-bass (though he's got that too). All told, we get some Early Graves-like speed; but fortunately for us, the songs last longer (contrast this with minute-long speed freaks, Liberteer).

Broken's hard rock melds with metal precision. They are Chicago's answer to Seattle's Black Breath.

*** The author of this review, Donald White, plays the arobapa for the following band: http://youtu.be/tMS73-1kCr8

Artist: The Bingers

Artist: The Bingers

Links: https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Bingers/219724941387230

http://thebingers1.bandcamp.com/album/rhymes-w-fingers

With their most recent EP, Rhymes w/ Fingers, the Bingers throw the dead and undead corpses of Buddy Holly and Dick Dale into a blender, add equal parts distortion and reverb, and the whole of Chicago gets to slurp up a mind-altering concoction.

Lineal descendents of the Pixies, the Bingers are the close familial relation of surf noise rockers Wavves; and it's got me to thinking, maybe you can surf Lake Michigan. EP-opener, "In a Thought," recalls the lo-fi psychedelic noise of indie stalwart Ariel Pink. The track "I'm Rich" has us smitten with a 1950's two-straws-in-a-milkshake muse; and on both tracks, the Bingers scratch the same itch that surf noise purveyors the Raveonettes do. The three-track EP closes with "The Flying Shitshow Fuckfest Blues," and it lives up to its name. It's garage rock at its finest.

In short, not since the Bingers' Land Lobster EP have we been able to find that storied garage that opens directly onto the beach. But now that we have, let's burn our hippie uncle's woodie, 'cause we're gonna need it for fuel... the Bingers' mind-fuck beach bonfire is raging all night long.

*** The author of this review, Christopher Anderson, plays the agida for the following band: http://youtu.be/tMS73-1kCr8

Artist: Amicus

Artist: Amicus

Links: https://www.facebook.com/amicusofficial

http://open.spotify.com/album/2gZDfIjBeX8E7JbUmV6TDe

Amicus evenly divides its four-song Pathways EP among alternative metal ("We Are the Truth" and "Heal Ailing Eyes") and post-grunge ("The Nothing" and "Recover the Fire"). No doubt alt-metal will figure largely in Amicus' future recordings -- their instrumentalists are just too good to limit to the down-tempo. But even on the excellent post-grunge dirges, we get guitar riffs tucked into fills, and some of the most accomplished soloing of the album. (Indeed, the solo at 2:20 of "Recover the Fire" compares favorably to one of Amicus' metal influences, Trivium.)

Regardless of genre, Amicus' Pathways boasts ever-evolving guitar and drum parts that set up instantly memorable vocal hooks. (After closing Spotify, you may find yourself singing, "Ignite the rage, no giving up / ...ignite the rage, recover the fire.")

Album-opener, "We Are the Truth," is built on multitudinous guitar parts sounding like the how-to on how to write nuanced guitar music around pop convention. It starts with an intricate guitar pattern, and gives way to minimalist notes that set both melody and space to sing. And the transition (at :37) and chorus feature equally suitable percussion, and yet another guitar riff. It's musical flourishes like these that diminished grunge in light of its more commercially sustainable successor.

Listen to the care that went into the hook of Amicus' "Heal Ailing Eyes" (starting at :40): the chugging build of the pre-chorus; several tracks of expertly recorded/mixed vocals; a guitar riff stabbing the space between; and drums that evolve to fill and shift or stop-and-start. (Keep listening at 1:02 to catch more of the drum show.) In this, Amicus recalls the memorable hooks of Breaking Benjamin, but manage to rock harder by flashing glimpses of metal-inspired vocal/drum/guitar that evoke the harsher elements of Sevendust.

Every synapse is firing on the Pathways EP. In Chicago's alt-metal tradition, there's a new Chevelle in town: Amicus' constantly mutating guitar and drums accent powerful vocal hooks as visceral as they are memorable.

*** The author of this review, Charles Wilson, plays the triangle for the following band: http://youtu.be/tMS73-1kCr8

Artist: Aaron Cooper

Artist: Aaron Cooper

Links: https://www.facebook.com/aaroncoopermusic

http://aaroncooper.bandcamp.com/

Aaron Cooper has been a favorite of mine since he let me stream his “Three Cheers for Enlightenment” on a related music site's SoundCloud. And I'll tell you, his experimental folk stuck out like a sore thumb among the hours of great but contemporary-sounding Chicago music. The difference in sonic signatures was roughly that of Hank Williams (1923–1953) dueting with a Hank Jr. vocal that was recorded some forty years later [for the 1989 hit cover of Hank's own “Tear In My Beer”].

As I dug deeper, I discovered in Cooper an artist who had not only found his sound, but also flocks with other birds of a feather. And so I just had to stream his ditty with Dwain Story, whose memorably unique vocal on “Ode to Camp Hate” is as singular as Cooper's own – instruments from another era, they are.

But Cooper uses his lyrics to place squarely in the present his throwback production and vocal treatment. Yes, on “Three Cheers” Cooper sings about loose change, which is per se quaint; but he also raises the specter of resentment. On “She's Gotta Hit the Road,” Cooper gets busy name-checking Little Joe, fried chicken, and dollar tips – meanwhile, Mama's got a needle in her arm. Now contrast these with Hank's topics of choice: being lonesome; crying.

Artists invest everything in creating a corner of the musical world that's unquestionably their own. Few are successful at it. Kurt Vile comes to mind. So does Aaron Cooper.

*** The author of this review, William Brown, plays the handpan for the following band: http://youtu.be/tMS73-1kCr8

Artist: White Heat

Artist: White Heat

Links: https://www.facebook.com/Whiteheattrio

https://soundcloud.com/white-heat-trio

At press time, the words “trio” and “Heat” are still being used to describe the NBA's defending champions. No doubt, after tonight's Game 5 with the Spurs, “trio” and “Heat” could instead evoke the White Heat trio opening Thursday's Elbo Room show (with Rook and the Ravens, the Lulabelles, and Paul Rush). The word “trio” is important in the context of White Heat. The band formerly billed as a duo.

It says nothing negative to me that a band would eschew the bass guitar, at least early on. A band's development can be slowed by internecine conflict, the potential for which increases exponentially with each additional band member. Whether or not that's been the case with White Heat, which was apparently formed from the ashes of another band (The Spoilers), remains to be seen. But if it means focusing on the song-writing function, or improving the instruments already accounted for, then the bass is better off being replaced by functional equivalents (like keyboards or drop-tuned guitars), or added at a later date.

After all, the White Stripes were already platinum before “Seven Nation Army” introduced song-critical bass. Rather, their early successes were premised on, depending on who you ask, nifty song-writing, crazed Robert Plant-like vocals, or childlike drumming. And though the Meg White contingent has been getting traction lately (see e.g. http://grantland.com/features/jack-white-meg-white-white-stripes-lazaretto/), this seems to be the easy way out for those seeking to trash Jack's most recent solo work. To my thinking, Meg could have taken a smoke break, and Jack still would've stole all over Dolly Parton's “Jolene” like a man possessed (http://youtu.be/ThtOpd8tHSk?t=37s).

In other words, great songs are great songs – low end be damned. [Enter White Heat.] Because if you've grown tired of spending every “Sunny Afternoon” since '66 with the Kinks, try having a “SunDance” with White Heat instead. What do I have to do, you ask? No matter how hot it gets, just keep dancing. And if a boss happens upon your beach-based dance party, charm-and-disarm with a well-placed, “Take it easy on me.” And though “Momma Says” you got all the right moves, sometimes it takes more than moves to entice the beach bunny one blanket over. First, try the pick-up line from Ty Segall's “Dating.” Didn't work? Now try White Heat's: “I wanna know where my heart is / I wanna know who you are.”

You're welcome.

*** The author of this review, John Johnson, plays the cajon for the following band: http://youtu.be/tMS73-1kCr8