"Possession" tells the story of two wounded people searching for love, offering them as a metaphor for modern romantics.
No one can deny she's already had some explosive singles hit the airwaves - take "Let Me Blow Ya Mind," "Love is Blind" and "Who's that Girl," for instance -- but that's why it shouldn't come as any surprise that Eve has since grown even more as an artist.
It almost doesn't seem appropriate to be too excited about a new Coldplay album; "Parachutes," the band's 2000 release, created dual reputations for the band -- thoughtful and mellow to its fans, dull and monotonous to its foes.
Rising like heat from a steaming sewer or a barrel of fire leaking an ashy cloud of smoke, a Gotham-esque mystique of hipper-than-thou pretension hangs over New York City's sparkling music scene for one reason: No other city's bands try so hard to emit an aura of coolness. A generation has been engrained with an iconoclastic image of a drugged Lou Reed wearing sunglasses in a pitch-black CBGB, his back spitefully turned toward the audience as he utters each insinuating lyric in a disinterested, off key warble. Forming a band that attempts to summon the exceedingly sensitive, gentle acoustic folk of Nick Drake or the sloppy, rolled-out-of-bed rock of the Replacements, seems inane faced with the exclusive cult of television or the New York City Dolls. The NYC renaissance reaps the rewards of this anomalous perversion, delivering a barrage of classically sleek bands, both aesthetically attractive (designer ensembles, stylishly messy hair) and seductively alluring in their primordial New York "garage" (to use the painfully exploited term) sound. The city's acoustic brand emphasizes the deft shift of rhythm, straightforward, entrancing guitars and basic but hammering drums. Alternating between a restrained spunk that tries to hide behind a somber fa ade and sober meditations that craft deep grooves for the self-pity to incubate in, The Walkmen, Liars, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Strokes have merged an image and modish musical style that, originality aside, lend them an indie credibility before they even prove themselves. And just as the original scene's founders eventually turned an eye over the Atlantic in search of a muse, hipsters not old enough to remember Ian Curtis' self-booked exit have nonetheless begun to plunder England's shores. Clad in tres chic leather jackets and a round of permanent scowls, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club unveiled a devout love for Jesus and the Mary Chain last year and created an album that sounded exactly like Jesus and the Mary Chain. As BRMC lies beaten in the gutter, choking on the dust of its envious attempts to resurrect and assume their British hero's creations, Interpol languorously slides out from yet another fog of NYC coolness and affectation with "Turn On the Bright Lights," an album summoning a myriad of conflicting rejoinders. Interpol builds a wall of pomposity, each brick making it harder to accept the band: their adorably retro, painfully contrived skinny ties and suits; their callous contempt of audiences while opening for Clinic this summer; their inanely hip insistence that the album was recorded in an abandoned mental hospital for children. If only most of "Turn On the Bright Light" weren't so blisteringly good. Where BRMC raped a Mary Chain fetish, Interpol fosters adoration for Joy Division, but this love comes fully endowed with an understanding of how to channel the band's mettlesome delivery and jangling rhythms, while also achieving depth in a field dense in a passionate swirl of guitars. On "Turn On the Bright Lights" Interpol displays a faultless sense of control, an ability to pile layer upon layer of hypnotic riffs and execute tonal shifts that appear from nowhere, only to drop out as soon as listeners have grown comfortable. A sense of unpredictability and giddy excitement fill each song to the point of implosion, as on "Say Hello to Angels" where the rumbling drones of guitars bursts into an explosion of Johnny Marr bounciness before lurking back into a cathartic cerebration. The band tears through "Roland" and "Obstacle 1" with Sam Fogarino propulsively pounding away in a fluid, mercurial madness and Paul Banks singing with a mirrored intensity, warning not to "go stabbing yourself in the neck" in a bit of brutal imagery. Only when "Stella was a Diver and She was Always Down" rambles on for six and a half minutes without gaining momentum or gravitas, la "Specialist" from their Matador debut EP, does the band fault. But while Julian Casablancas can whine about feeling left out or wallow in an existential drone over whether this is it in regards to hooking up with girls, Interpol retains an impassive understanding of the scene's ridiculousness. "I had seven faces, thought which one to where / I'm sick of spending these lonely nights training myself not to care," Banks bellows in his effortlessly confident Ian Curtis harkening tenor on the hauntingly bittersweet "NYC," both a tribute and kiss-off to the city. Like "NYC," "The New" and "Untitled" breathe in a torpid ease as they leisurely unfold, each nuance revealing itself progressively to compose an epic grandeur that's inherent throughout. When the bright lights have been turned off, Interpol leaves behind a bruised document of emotional miscommunication and the bittersweet realization that unlike most NYC bands, Interpol may actually be justified in their braggadocious aspirations of a coolness
Fate dealt Britt Daniel an abject hand. While derivative charlatans grew fat on the vines of hardly evolved excess, Spoon was left to wither on Elektra Record's anemic stream of cowardly negligence until, having finally depleted its last drop of career hemlock, the fitted shirts summarily dropped the band.
By Art Whittle Cavalier Daily Senior Writer "Lovely and Amazing," the newest limited release from Lions Gate Films, is a wonderful story of love and self-acceptance.
Watch out, Wilco fans, it looks like we have another contender for best album of 2002 (Bruce Springsteen notwithstanding). Back from a two-year hiatus, the three ladies of Sleater-Kinney have just released their best album yet.
I saw this movie for one reason and one reason alone: Bruce Campbell, King Of All B-Movie Actors, plays a bit part.
I was born in the country -- and we're talking about a town with no streetlights, no cute country store and no yellow lines on the streets.
Nearly a year after Sept. 11, the United States still faces a host of unanswered questions, now buried under a mess of corporate scandal, West Nile virus, wildfires and rising unemployment.
Someone was bound to do a movie on crop circles sooner or later, and "Signs" is writer and director M.
It's always good to see Clint Eastwood hunting down a killer. His face is more cracked than a road map, his voice has more gravel than a prison work camp and he always gets his man.
"XXX" is a low-grade action flick that asks to be compared with the James Bond series. It is not as good as the better Bond films; it makes ridiculous assumptions about its main character and uses villains that are neither believable nor interesting.
Anyone who follows Adam Duritz and his cohorts knows that being a loyal Counting Crows fan is no "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby." After debuting with "August and Everything After" in 1993, the standards were just set too high.
Rivers Cuomo is dead. The bespectacled face that launched a thousand garage bands may have resurfaced little more than a year ago before delving into permanent MTV rotation, but for those blissfully stranded across the sea, he appeared little more than a vapid vessel driven by commercial calculation. Following the intricate pop perfection of the "Blue Album" and the angular, eccentric rhythms of the voyeuristically personal and blackly humorous "Pinkerton," the so-called "Green Album" seemed a bitter joke.
The world according to Oasis is as follows: they are the best rock band that ever was, iss and will be.
"Road to Perdition" garners respect and admiration, but falls short in arousing emotions. The acting is excellent, the directing is great, the cinematography is breathtaking, but ultimately something is missing.
Humans have inhabited this planet for a pretty long time. The dragons underground think it's been too long a time.
At a first glance, Gomez seems to have produced a concept album with their latest release, "In Our Gun." Along with the album title and title track, we have the first single, "Shot Shot," "Army Dub" and "Ruff Stuff." A military or overall theme of aggression, you might suppose, but don't let the apparent presence of a theme distract you - the album is hardly a cohesive body of work. You want to like the album when you listen to it.
Once upon a time, in 1984 to be exact, Paramount Studios unleashed "Friday the 13th Part IV - The Final Chapter." The teen-kill gag was wearing pretty thin and they thought it wise to quit while they were ahead.
