Pulse.ph : MUSIC + CULTURE
September 27th, 2007
September 20th, 2007
This double disc anniversary album was very fun to go through, I must say. Basically, if, like me, you grew up on Disney movies, you’re really going to enjoy this anthology of “50 songs celebrating 50 years of Walt Disney Records.” I’m guessing they tried to cover as big a scope as they could—they even included snippets of some Disney movies I’ve never heard of (such as a 1951 version of The Parent Trap, a 1967 version of Pirates of the Caribbean and a 1969 version of the Haunted Mansion), given that I wasn’t yet born in the 50s and 60s and they most probably hadn’t shown those movies in this country even then. Though, I do know track # 2, “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf,” quite well. All of you who have seen this cartoon on TV, raise your hand and say Aye! Aye! The album starts and ends with the Mickey Mouse Club theme songs. Of course I remember the cartoon of the “Mickey Mouse March” with Donald Duck jumping in and yelling his name in between each “Mickey Mouse!” sung by the Mouseketeers. I think the inclusion here in this format is a good representation for the two most beloved Disney characters, as well as Donald’s segment on Mousercise, “Ducks Dance Too” on the second disc. As much as I want this to be an album of all my childhood memories, I have to acknowledge that they tried their best to include more favorites, more “hits.” Songs like “Someday My Prince Will Come” from Snow White, “When You Wish Upon A Star” from Pinocchio, “It’s A Small World,” “Cruela de Vil” from 101 Dalmatians, “The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers” from Winnie The Pooh, “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid, “Be Our Guest” from Beauty and the Beast, “A Whole New World” from Alladin, “Circle of Life” and “Hakuna Matata” from Lion King, “Colors of the Wind” from Pocahontas, “Strangers Like Me” from Tarzan, “Why Not?” from Lizzie Maguire and “Breaking Free” from High School Musical. There are more of course, but you know, 50 songs. They also included songs not just from the animated films but from the Broadway musicals as well, serving different versions of “Beauty and the Beast” and “They Live in You” from The Lion King, which featured more African-inspired percussion. There are times that the songs fade out, I’m guessing so that all fifty songs fit in the two discs. What happens sometimes is that the songs are bitin, ending too too soon, particularly on “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes” from Cinderella and “A Spoonful of Sugar” from Mary Poppins. My absolute favorites on this album are “Baby Mine” from Dumbo, the absolutely gorgeous “Little April Showers” from Bambi, “The Siamese Cat Song” and “He’s A Tramp” from Lady and the Tramp, “Once Upon A Dream” from Sleeping Beauty, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” from Mary Poppins, the ultra-jazzy “I Wanna Be Like You” from the Jungle Book with the beloved scatting duel between Baloo and the monkey king Louie, “What’s This” from Tim Burton’s A Nightmare Before Christmas, “The Bells of Notre Dame” from The Hunchback of Notre Dame (though it’s not easily listening for when you want background music at work), “Colors of the Wind,” “Reflection” from Mulan, and the tearjerking “When She Loved Me” from Toy Story 2. I’m also glad that they included the film versions of the songs and not the for-marketing versions; as much as I like Christina Aguilera (well, in general), I think the Lea Salonga version of “Reflection” is more touching. Listening to the entire collection in one setting is also a kind of history lesson on soundtrack technology: you can hear the songs advance from amusing ditties to symphonic works of art. I have to say though that I don’t very much care for the songs at the end of the second disc, which are Hillary Duff’s “Why Not?” from the Lizzie Maguire movie and “Breaking Free” from High School Musical. Does this mean that Disney has become less magical now than it has been for the last 50 years? Or that I’m too old for Disney? Such serious considerations, yes.
September 13th, 2007
I can imagine what a very kind and easily amused Paula Abdul would say to this young singer-songwriter if she ever listened to his album. Maybe something to this effect: “I love it that you just did your thing and just had fun with it.” And surely, she would say it very sincerely. It’s something a very kind and easily amused critic would say when what she really means is: “That was an overall mediocre performance, but you seem to be satisfied with yourself, so I’m happy for you.” There are about two or three good enough songs on Life in Cartoon Motion, and that already includes the single “Love Today,” currently a cable channel’s theme song for the season. The song is undeniably catchy and interestingly flamboyant, much like its all-too-obvious influences: namely, Freddie Mercury, the Bee Gees and, a lot of people will say, the Scissor Sisters. A song with a danceable beat and playful vocals, “Love Today” surely has the makings of a par-teh! favorite. Two more songs follow the same vibe as “Love Today.” One of them—“Big Girl”—seems to employ an identical beat; in fact, the two songs almost sound the same. Only, with a refrain like “Big girls, you are beautiful,” the song sounds like it should be the theme song of the Dove Self-Esteem Fund or any similar women’s support program that Oprah Winfrey or Tyra Banks would vehemently support. “Relax (Take It Easy)” for me is a much better song, if not the best on the album. It is danceable but toned down and puts you in a sort of mindless state, which is what danceable pop should at least achieve. I would have liked Life in Cartoon Motion better if it was an all-out disco pop album. That would have justified MIKA’s overused, oftentimes overstretched falsetto. Sadly, apart from the three songs mentioned, the rest of the CD sounds like some outdated, juvenile musical. Certain songs are overly dramatic (“Any Other World” and “Happy Ending”), complete with life excerpts of some woman, predictable orchestral elements and hallelujah parts by a girl’s choir (he likes children as backup singers, this guy); and others are just plain infantile (“Lollipop” and “Billy Brown”). “Lollipop” is a cutesy-but-ironic jump-rope ditty that gets old too fast and is filler in an album full of fillers, while “Billy Brown” is just a gay nursery rhyme that discerning gay men wouldn’t enjoy. Musically, these songs don’t do anything but bat their false eyelashes at the listener. The rest of the songs, meanwhile, oscillate from weak to excruciating. “Grace Kelly,” apparently a very big hit in the UK and the album’s first song, almost turned me off from the whole thing—mostly, because MIKA’s “Freddie Mercury” voice reaches such a high point of being irritating. I really think he is not at all a bad singer but he has to quit impressing himself with his own falsetto. He could have redeemed himself with more melodious (though very Robbie Williams) songs like “My Interpretation” and “Stuck In the Middle,” but then the songs themselves are quite bland in composition, however palatable they may otherwise seem to juvenile pop listeners. Life in Cartoon Motion is somewhere between trendy novelty and potential breakthrough pop, and whatever real substance it may lack, can always be made up for by good marketing. However, while a pop album may not really require substance and depth, I guess I still expect more from an artist who takes himself so seriously as to spell his name in all-caps.
September 6th, 2007
Bagong Liwanag is not explicitly cast in the epistolary format, but it sure addresses its listeners (i.e., Rivermaya die-hards) a great deal. It is also a three-months- in-the-making feat for the “Banda ng Bayan,” who launched the achingly allusive and, at times, painfully literal single “Sayang” in the wake of You-Know-Who’s departure. More than being a five-song EP, however, Bagong Liwanag is an event—a welcome party for the band that never really left in the first place (“Bakit naman ako aalis? ‘Pinamana ko na sa ‘yo ang aking puso” Japs Sergio croons). That’s the main message here, I think: the emphasis on the keeping of the status quo (well, also the resolution of the month-long cliffhanger that You-Know-Who’s sudden exit entailed). After every wager is the revelation of the dealt hand. Past every educated (or uneducated) guess is the answer sheet, shoved across the test-taker’s desk like unwelcome news. After all, don’t people always want to be right? Don’t they want to be vindicated in their accuracy? That a band bereft of its central figure be forced to call it a day? Well, whoever those “people” are, I bet they’re whistling made-up tunes, eyes on the ceiling, in silent denial, with their wrongness resounding like a quiz-show buzzer. The EP opens with the buoyant and self-referential “Banda ng Bayan,” another Sergio number. The ‘Maya bassist—also one of the moving forces behind Daydream Cycle—takes on the huge challenge of being the doorman at the new house, the first voice who greets you, the Big Unfamiliar Other. “Nagsisimula pa lang; teka muna, pakinggan niyo kami kung ayos lang,” the bassist offers in the song, only thinly veiling the matter at hand, as if to say, “Please don’t kill us for trying.” But, of course, being no mere newbies, the members of the band triumph over the rabid expectations. No bitterness here, just sheer momentum, and nostalgia is left at a minimum (melodical allusions to “Panahon na Naman,” “Ulan,” and “Elesi”—as well as a reprise of the main guitar-line from “Kisapmata”—adorn the opening track’s outro). Mark Escueta’s songs, meanwhile, are interestingly schizophrenic. On the one hand, there’s “Sumigaw,” an all-around party song, whose optimism outshines, I think, even “Umaaraw, Umuulan” (“Harapin ang hamon ng buong mundo. Handa ka na ba? Asahan mo na hanggang sa huli, nandito lang kami”). The said track also nailed it as the new station-I.D. theme of ABS-CBN’s UHF channel Studio 23. On the other hand, there’s “Olats,” which would have been scathing for its irony, if not for its droll approach to the concept of calamity or “tough luck” (“‘Ayan tuloy, nadisgrasya; steady ka na kanina. Kawawa naman tayo!”). Escueta’s tongue-in-cheek, “you gotta laugh about it” approach to the band’s initially unlaughable crisis is admirable and amusing. Guitarist Mike Elgar’s “Nawawala,” meanwhile, is a great middle track, a mood piece of sorts that conjures up a campfire feel, or a folk-séance (“Habang ‘andito tayo sa mundo, maraming bagay ang nagbabago”). In any case, Elgar—who acted as a sort of secondary writer on earlier albums Tuloy ang Ligaya and Between the Stars and the Waves—diverts from the relative straightforwardness of his bandmates’ respective writing styles. What seems apparent (though not at all detrimental) is the uncertainty in the voices. The five songs in Bagong Liwanag are sung by their respective writers, all of them relegated to the wings in the past, when it came to vocal duties. Okay, wait. You know how it is when some guy at work goes on leave for an emergency, then you have to replace him, and you’re thinking you know you can do it, but at the same you have to admit to yourself that the terrain is unfamiliar (say, you’re a copy-editor and the guy on leave is a layout artist)? The irresponsible among us will piss and moan; the bold and brave will passionately try—‘Maya obviously falls under the latter, and succeeds fairly well. A friend of mine told me that, while she agrees with me on the note of “uncertainty,” she believes that the band (or the band on this EP) is “reassuring,” which is something I also want to echo: just as journalism revels in precision and poetry in romantic limbo, so does great music in its beautifully flawed humanity. Rivermaya, for this installment, is both certain and uncertain—certain about the material, uncertain about the subject matter, which is to say, how does one recover? I mean, really? How does one rise above the wreckage? Thankfully, Elgar, Escueta, and Sergio think and act fast, and here is their collective response—an epistolary mini-record that’s meant to speak and not speak, to commemorate but move forward, and, most importantly, to sing to their heart’s content. (By the way, yes, Bagong Liwanag is a five-song EP, but it has eleven tracks. Let me explain. Apart from the five “proper” songs, there is a recited audio track of band acknowledgements; after that, five instrumental (a.k.a. “minus one”) versions of the songs for people to pretend-‘Maya to. The lyric sheets are also laid out with chords a la “songhits,” to satisfy ‘Maya guitarist fans. Paolo Lim’s vibrant yet warm sleeve design—a collage of backstage passes, pins, buttons, and tickets—doesn’t hurt, either.) Taking a break from the Britpop strains of Between the Stars… and going back to their successful brand of OPM-rock vernacular (reminiscent of, say, Rivermaya, their self-titled debut, and Tuloy ang Ligaya, their other debut), the band is slowly easing back to its old clarity. Though obtuse artfulness is something this band is also good at (Trip and Atomic Bomb somehow come to mind), this time, they show that they really have got something to say, beyond mere pretty soundscapes. While auditions for the singer post (and other instrumental posts) have already been wrapped up—a weekly TV special will reportedly start airing September 16—Bagong Liwanag effectively poses the question, “Do they even need it?”
August 16th, 2007
One of the questions a music writer/ lover/ junkie dreads being asked is: what kind of music do you listen to? Partly because they know the person asking isn’t really interested in what they have to say, and partly because if they do start talking about music, it might take a day and a half and would involve colored-coded flow charts. It’s becoming more and more difficult to put bands into cut-and-dried categories. Rock, alternative, indie. Those genres don’t mean much these days, and are only used as umbrella categories for people unable to find the right words to describe the flavor of the month band. We divide them into new genres like emo, screamo, rap-metal, rap-rock, spaz-rock, spaz-jazz (okay, I made that last one up), but sometimes even that isn’t enough. California natives the Cold War Kids deftly avoid being pigeonholed by musical conventions by changing their sound on nearly every song on their debut full-length Robbers & Cowards. It could have easily been a messy affair, but Nathan Willett’s dramatic and over-the-top vocals tie the songs together. Willett has Jeff Buckley’s soaring voice as well as Jack White’s wailing and a little bit of Rufus Wainwright’s flair. And it’s his voice that’s the centerpiece of the band and sets them apart. Speaking of the White Stripes, it’s obvious that Cold War Kids are fans of the co-ed twosome. “Saint John” sounds like the White Stripes, down to the bluesy and slightly decrepit style. They also seem to be fans of Radiohead, with Willet channeling Yorke, especially on the song “God, Make Up Your Mind.” The best songs on Robbers & Cowards are the hip-shaker “Tell Me in the Morning,” which comes out strong and fun, and “Hang Me Up To Dry” lurches beautifully along with the piano and guitars framing Willett’s grating (but not unlikable) voice. “Pregnant” is Cold War Kids’ version of a lullaby and “Passing the Hat” is a tribute to a Middle Eastern burlesque (if there is such a thing). There’s a feeling though that the Kids probably kick ass when they play live and the record only gives a hint of how dynamic the band really is. Cold War Kids have produced an impressive debut album with an interesting if not an exactly original sound. But then again, if you’re going to copy someone it’s a good idea to copy from the best.
August 2nd, 2007
It’s rather ironic how we only realize how serious a band was throughout its musical career when listening to their greatest hits compilation. Or rather, it’s ironic when the band in question is Parokya ni Edgar. Up ‘til recently, I actually saw Parokya as the leaders of novelty rock—not pioneers, as that would discount the true pioneers Tito, Vic and Joey, Yoyoy Villame and Jun Urban, who don’t necessarily play rock but without whom novelty rock, for better or worse, probably wouldn’t exist. No, I mean leaders, as in they took the genre by the balls and dragged it all the way to kingdom come. In their wake, they spawned copycat, er I mean, similar bands, such as Kiko Machine, Kamikazee and Giniling Festival, but although Kamikazee did come close at times, Parokya still stood a long way away, giving them that indulgent Drunken Master "Waht, teeahch yu kung fu?" grin. However, listening to Matira Matibay, their compilation of singles from 1994 to 2007, I can’t dismiss them as mere novelty rock. There are actual songs in this album, great songs, at that. Maybe not entirely somber, but serious enough for valid recognition. There’s the schoolboy anthem "Maniwala Ka Sana," the award winning "Harana," the poignant "Para Sa Yo," and my all time personal favorite, "Halaga," slightly discordant guitar riff notwithstanding. That a serious Parokya song is my all time personal favorite Parokya ni Edgar song should have clued me in to how serious this band was at being a band, but you also have those other songs in the album: the now classic "Buloy," the now classic "Picha Pie," the now classic "Inuman Na," and the rest of the obviously funny songs and song spoofs, soon-to-be classics themselves. Those were the songs that really gave Parokya ni Edgar their massive popularity. Much as I wanted to take them seriously, I couldn’t while listening to them sing "Hoy hoy hoy, hoy hoy hoy…" behind fake slick mustaches. I must admit of course that they’re also serious at being funny. There are songs Chito Miranda has written that I consider quite brilliant. I mean, everything about "The Yes Yes Show" was so on the money, from the phrasing, to the styles in which Chito, Vinci Montaner and Dindin Moreno delivered their raps, to what they were actually saying. And no matter how ridiculous, they sure are catchy. I mean, I still can’t eat at a restaurant without singing "Pwede bang mag-order? Waiter?" under my breath as I peruse the menu. While I believe they should have put in "Trip," their version of Radiohead’s "Creep" about the "siopao na special," the album is a clear testament to Parokya ni Edgar’s importance as one of the biggest bands in local music history. Seriously.
July 17th, 2007
I imagine Swedish chanteuse Pernilla Andersson wakes up every morning on the right side of the bed. I also imagine she has blue birds braiding her golden hair every day. She might also have mice that make her gowns for special occasions. I imagine this because Andersson has the kind of voice that is so pure and sweet that little farm animals have no choice but to do her bidding. Even bigger animals, like humans, are defenseless against her charms. Andersson has been compared to Norah Jones and the comparisons are rather justified. Aside from being a pianist, Andersson has Jones’ mellow and laidback style of singing, particularly on songs like “Here Goes My Heart.” Their paths diverge however, when it comes to mood. Cradlehouse is decidedly lighter and more playful than any of Jones’ work that there’s a danger of developing diabetes when listening to Andersson. The songs are often stripped down to simple piano and drums, which really brings out her clear voice. “To Make You Feel My Love” and “Some Other Time” are instantly likeable. “Scarlet Woman” is reminiscent of Peggy Lee’s “Fever”, only with a little more Swedish. Standouts include “Lovesong”, a slightly alt-country song that would fit into any top 40 radio station playlist and “Hit & Run” where she applies her own brand of funk. Andersson has an enviable talent for gliding between lilting love songs and jazzy melodies. Even though Cradlehouse was released in 2004, the songs stand up well. Ten, even twenty years from now, Cradlehouse will still be worth a listen. The album could’ve been made in the 70’s, it could’ve been made two years from now — either way, the songs have such a timeless quality that the year of manufacture is irrelevant. The songs can sometimes be so mellow that there’s a danger they could fade into the background. Then again there’s nothing wrong with background music. But it would be a shame if people didn’t take a closer listen to this Swedish singer. Andersson’s music is perfect for slowing down, lying back and letting little cartoon mice do your bidding.
July 3rd, 2007
“Tragedy and comedy are inseparable.”— Jose Legaspi Ferdinand Marcos sang off-key post-coitus after his trysts with B-movie actress Dovie Beams. Press Secretary Kit Tatad was on TV scratching his balls while reading Proclamation 1081, declaring Martial Law on the country. Defense chief Juan Ponce Enrile supposedly made talk-show host Ariel Ureta cycle round a military camp’s quadrangle for a whole day, for mocking Macoy’s Bagong Lipunan motto with the quip, “Sa kauunlad ng bayan, bisikleta ang kailangan!” Radioactive Sago Project’s “Bisikleta”—a track that also appropriates the bass riff of Gil Scott-Heron’s “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” as well as Dead Kennedys-driven punk rock—quotes those lines, aligning them with that tradition of using pop music to make subversive noise. It also opens with the most existential of questions: “Bakit ganon?/ Ang Stork piso na/ Ang Marlboro dalawang piso na/ Pero ang tanong/ Bakit wala pa ring nagbabago sa aking panahon?” The answer? “Don’t ask.” Sago’s third album, Tanginamo Andaming Nagugutom sa Mundo Fashionista Ka Pa Rin, is a truly Filipino album in the sense that it could’ve only been made by Filipinos, and can only be fully understood by Filipinos. Frontman/lyricist Lourd De Veyra makes his most literate commentaries by being illiterate (i.e. through deliberate repetition, profanity, ambiguity). Another track, “For Adults Only,” adapts a Pete Lacaba poem so well that the text’s absurd litany loses none of its anarchic glee; the song defines it as indelibly as Kenny G. has many a money-shot in the annals of porn. No other Filipino artist has had such lofty ambitions. (Although they cite Miles Davis and John Coltrane as favorites, George Estregan is credited as another of the band’s musical influences and guiding spiritual father.) The album’s first single “Wasak na Wasak” is proof enough of the Sago’s aspirations, neatly summing up the last 30 years of Philippine history in a pop single less-than-three minutes long. The song title alone is nothing less than an epitaph for Philippine history. Teetering between protest anthem, novelty, rakrakan and punk nihilism, it’s the ultimate jukebox record of the past decades—one that admittedly couldn’t have been played in any beer-garden of that bygone era. Not that Lourd de Veyra and Co. would have lasted 12 bars in Macoy’s New Republic. In fact, given its scope and ambition (not to mention its willful disregard of an LSS-inducing melody), the best compliment you can give the song is to acknowledge that it’s still listenable. Now, if truth be told, how many of today’s hits can actually meet the demands of that one criteria? Radioactive Sago Project was formed in 1999 by Lourd with his brother Francis—the former an acclaimed writer/poet and one-time guitar player for local punk progenitors, Dead Ends, and the latter an exceptional composer/session bass player. Its line-up was culled from musicians enrolled at the University of the Philippines’ College of Music. Perhaps the most obvious measure of the band’s success is that frontman Lourd is now heralded as a spokesman—making the ascension from court jester to rock royalty. And without singing a single damn note at that! Despite plaudits from fans as varied as esteemed writers Conrado de Quiros and Jessica Zafra, Parokya ni Edgar vocalist Chito Miranda, actors Ronnie Lazaro and Edgar Mortiz, movie directors Erik Matti and Quark Henares and even certain members of Pres. Arroyo’s immediate staff, Lourd says that everything they’ve released so far has been deemed commercial suicide. Funnily enough, the further they take it, the more people respond and lap up their silliness. Suffice to say, Sago has no five-year plan. Also, despite possessing both the chops and the ears, the group belies their reputation as a jazz band. Lourd himself would be the first to disagree with this label. (This isn’t the first time either: as a member of the Dead Ends with brothers Al and Jay Dimalanta, he also resisted being branded as a punk musician.) Never letting the post-modernism get in the way of a laugh, Sago aren’t averse to dropping vulgar one-liners, but neither do they make jokes at the expense of their intellects. Probably the best album we’ll hear this year, the cover art by painter Louie Cordero alone is well worth the price of purchase. However, the best come-on to the album is also a familiar epithet for the band: it will surely end their careers.
June 15th, 2007
Everybody hates tourists. Perhaps it’s a perspective shaped by being a citizen in the 3rd world, wherein tourist trade is primarily foreigners taking holiday snaps of street children to show friends back home, or else cruising for blowjobs from underage sex workers. Maybe it’s the fact that we need their money that makes us despise them even more. This perspective informs our opinions regarding Silent Sanctuary’s current reinvention into “popâ€â€”the musical equivalent of a ghetto—and the resulting album, Fuschiang Pag-Ibig. It’s not that it’s forgettable—a forgivable offense nowadays—but rather that it reeks of tourism, or even worse, slumming. Formerly angling itself as an arty outfit playing symphonic mini-opuses, the group’s decision to have a go at the charts is so willfully bland that it seems borne of half-hearted condescension. It’s one thing to be talked down to by protest singers with their strummed hymns, but it’s quite another thing to be treated like a fool by dilettante pop stars with their insipid ditties. Among others, Pinoy Alternative in the nineties (i.e. The Eraserheads, Rivermaya) is clearly the chief inspiration and template behind the band’s reformatted sound. But whereas the E-Heads’ “Sembreak†seems to come from a shared experience of the past—that common currency of memory and youth—Silent Sanctuary’s current hit “Ikaw Lamang†strikes one as arising from a shared interest in a future abundant with a currency of the much colder kind. None of this is helped by the fact that the whole affair is still chained by the group’s past pretensions. The band insists on slapping on string arrangements needlessly—either just because the string players need to be doing something on that damn stage or as a caveat that this is more than just your average pop tune. However, it’s the same la-di-da singsong—but with strings! Sgt. Pepper? Try E.L.O. It’s self-defeating—as if the band itself is reluctant to flap their arms hard enough. And with wings merely the span of common poultry, the songs are even more weighted down. Harsh? Then let us explain. Despite what Bob Geldof and other opportunist assholes behind things like Live Aid or Live8 might try to spin, rock ‘n’ roll can’t save the world. The only thing it can really do is make money. (If anything, the charity bit is just too good PR to pass up.) Fair enough, if it’s good—but damn it when it doesn’t even try. We’ll make allowances for art—what consenting adults do in that crepuscular area is mainly their business—but once you expose yourself to the garish glare of “pop†you’re peddling a product that should be judged accordingly. Like toothpaste. Or condoms. With all that saccharine, you’ll need the former—and for the compromises, the latter.
June 8th, 2007
First, a crash course: Burt Bacharach is arguably the most celebrated songwriter of his day, synonymous with number one hits and all things hip, not excluding James Bond—“The Look of Love†being the theme song of the original Casino Royale flick. (Two decades later Bacharach made a cameo appearance in Austin Powers, performing “I’ll Never Fall In Love Again.â€) Credited with injecting the mellow bossa rhythm into the American mainstream, his trademark recipe of haunting melodies and sophisticated progressions secured him a legacy that still prevails today. It’s no surprise then, since the recent bossa wave flooding our metropolis, that the creative minds behind In Love With Bacharach saw it fit to release a bossa-themed tribute to the godfather of 70s standards and elevator music. This 16-track compilation is highly recommended for Bacharach fans. It features fresh renditions of all your favorite Bacharach hits, done in contemporary fashion. Think Michael Buble: still retaining the essence of the work, with a breath of 21st century appeal. For even though the record adds a slight modern twist to Bacharach’s handiwork, there’s still no escaping his distinct style. All in all, a good effort in updating songs that younger critics would otherwise consider dated. The songs comprise elements of drama and nostalgia, with solid vocal performances from Gail Blanco, Margarita Saludo, Marcus Davis Jr., and Mel Fausto. Producer Ito Rapadas also lends his vocal talent on top of the masterful—albeit safe—musical direction and pristine production. Universal Records might not be winning over younger audiences with this LP, but it’s sure poised to be a big hit at Class of ’69 reunions. Listeners from later generations might find it a little too mellow for their angst-driven tastes, unless of course they’re the sort who can’t live without Sitti or M.Y.M.P. The first three tracks of the record are by far the strongest, thanks to the tasteful arrangement of Fred Garcia and Alkemi Productions. The album opens with wonderful renditions of the aforementioned “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again†and “The Look of Love.†Both possess a great vocal and an infectious bounce in the groove. Gail Blanco’s sexy, silvery timbre hooks you right in. “The Look of Love†is classic Bacharach. The track’s sparse, bittersweet arrangement makes for an intimate atmosphere; the voice gliding over understated strings, and Janno Queyquep’s guitar solos are tastefully executed. Capping off the big three is “Close To You,†still retaining the original lounge-y feel; sweet and precious. But for all their effort, Alkemi and Garcia couldn’t seem to repeat the magic they infused into the first three tracks. By track four, the album starts to take a dip. “Walk On By†and “I Say A Little Prayer†somehow feel lacking. Rapadas’ sentimental acoustic arrangements of “What The World Needs Now†and the mellowed-down revived-in-the-80’s pop classic “Always Something There To Remind Me†also fail to stir the senses. Here’s where M.Y.M.P comes to mind. Perhaps the problem lies within the songs themselves, and not the arrangers. But if you’re a die-hard Bacharach fan, you are immune to such critical concerns, and this album’s for you.
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