Carrie Underwood, BLOWN AWAY, 19/Arista Nashville
Blown Away, the new album by Carrie Underwood, the shiny but tough country star, starts out loud, sassy, rollicking and wise. Good Girl is the first song — a little Pat Benatar, a little Tanya Tucker — and it plays out like a sequel to Underwood’s 2006 smash Before He Cheats, except instead of taking out her rightfully stoked dissatisfaction on her ex, she opts for unity and warns the next woman instead.
After that it’s a one-two punch of brutality: a quick-paced Blown Away, in which a young woman hides in her basement, waiting out a tornado that she hopes her abusive, alcoholic father sleeping upstairs doesn’t survive; followed by Two Black Cadillacs, in which a wife and a mistress conspire to kill the man they share, not a murder ballad so much as a murder celebration.
Underwood enjoys rage; her huge voice, both naive and muscular, is well suited to it. Her best songs have historically been in the range between fury and resentment. Blown Away is only her fourth album, but that number belies her concrete-hard place in the country firmament, with a combination of vocal ambition and toughness that recalls a younger Martina McBride.
While the album starts bold and mechanically impressive, it gets progressively quieter over the course of its first half, as if she’s taking a break from fire-breathing. Do You Think About Me is tepid, Nobody Ever Told You is bland and blithe, and One Way Ticket — part Jimmy Buffett, part Jason Mraz — is Underwood at her least convincing. Relaxation is not her milieu. She needs muscles pulled taut, veins popping through the skin. Hearing her sing about flip-flops and drinks with pink umbrellas is an affront.
Blown Away builds steam again from that point. Underwood holds back her voice on Good in Goodbye, which has echoes of So Small, her inspirational 2007 hit. But by the rowdy and sinister Cupid’s Got a Shotgun, her nostrils are practically flaring: “I pulled out my Remington / And I loaded up these shells / He’s about to find out / I’m a dang good shot myself.”
On a few of this album’s early songs, a perplexing amount of digital effects are applied to Underwood’s vocals, processing she neither needs nor benefits from, even if it is par for the course for other country singers. She may be unhappy, but hearing her tense up is half the fun.
— JON CARAMANICA, NY Times News Service
Chelle Rose, GHOST OF BROWDER HOLLER, Lil’ Damsel
“I don’t know who I trouble more / The mean old devil or the good old Lord,” Chelle Rose sings on her second album, Ghost of Browder Holler, and she’s bragging more than worrying. It’s an album filled with rasp, drawl, twang and tenacity.
Rose (whose first name is pronounced as “Shelly”) grew up in East Tennessee (where Browder Holler is located) and lives in Nashville. She released her first album, Nanahally River, in 2000, then withdrew into family life. Alimony may or may not be a song about what eventually happened; its snarling electric guitars back the tale of a woman who leaves a stultifying suburban marriage to be a musician. “I wasn’t askin’ for much, just make some noise with my boys,” she sings. “He was supposed to be my lover, we was Hatfield and McCoys.”
As a songwriter, Rose works in the realm of Lucinda Williams, Townes Van Zandt, Steve Earle, Alejandro Escovedo and other terse, unflinching songwriters on the rock fringe of country. She sings about hard-nosed characters — herself, perhaps, among them — and ways to face tough situations, and the answer is as much in the grain of her voice and the sinewy guitars as in her words.
The album was produced in Austin by the Texas-based songwriter Ray Wylie Hubbard, who links country to the Rolling Stones, the Band and the Staple Singers. Rufus Morgan (Preacher Man) is Southern soul, while I Need You, a song by Julie Miller, hints at Gimme Shelter.
Although the album was made in Texas, the songs look back to rural Tennessee. Over minor-mode chords, with an Appalachian-flavored melody, Rose stares down a flood in Shady Grove Gonna Blow, advising, “Run down to the graveyard you tell all your kin / River rises up we’ll be together again.” In Browder Holler Boy, a woman’s dreams are haunted by a dead lover: “I tried to save you from the devil’s violent brew / My skin ain’t soft enough my kisses would not do.”
There’s more sorrow and loss than solace in these songs, but Rose hasn’t given up on humanity. If I Could, a hymnlike song tucked quietly in the middle of the album, offers simple kindness: “Whatever it would take, I’d be willing to give,” she sings, with a stoic reality check, “if I could.”
— JON PARELES, NY Times News Service
Dirty Dozen Brass Band, TWENTY DOZEN, Savoy Jazz
Thirty-five years in, the temptation is to see the Dirty Dozen Brass Band as an engine of commerce or a piece of New Orleans culture vulgarized for tourist consumption. Twenty Dozen, the band’s new album, doesn’t strain to dissuade you. Recorded at the Music Shed, a prominent hometown studio, it has a bright, clear, presentable mix. It has a lot of crispness and not much grit. It has a version of When the Saints Go Marching In.
But to characterize the album as some kind of concession would be missing the point, along with the aspects of Twenty Dozen that reflect a band chugging at full steam. Five of the seven original members of the Dirty Dozen Brass Band are still in the group, a remarkable retention rate even for an institution that runs on collectivity. And those charter members — the saxophonists Roger Lewis and Kevin Harris, the trumpeters Gregory Davis and Efrem Towns, and the sousaphone player Kirk Joseph — make up the band’s crucial front line. It’s no shock that as a unit, they sound impeccable here.
A lot of the material on Twenty Dozen is original, and much of it nods at Caribbean rhythm, from calypso (Best of All) to lite-reggae (Tomorrow). That buoyant feel suits the strengths of the drummer Terence Higgins and the guitarist Jake Eckert; it also clears space for solos. What’s rarer is the counterpoint that this band can do so well. You hear it on Jook, over an Afrobeat pulse, but for the most part the horns move in a coordinated mass rather than a syncopated bramble.
The exception arrives during a medley that represents the band at its crowd-pleasingest: Paul Barbarin’s Second Line into E-Flat Blues into When the Saints Go Marching In. And to carp about that sequence of songs would be to ignore the gusto that the band still manages to bring to their execution. The album follows Saints with another fan favorite, Dirty Old Man, featuring a gruff lead vocal by Lewis. It’s the closest thing to the experience of hearing the band at a bar like the Maple Leaf, where the blurts of the sousaphone lodge in your chest.
— NATE CHINEN, NY Times News Service
Last week Joseph Nye, the well-known China scholar, wrote on the Australian Strategic Policy Institute’s website about how war over Taiwan might be averted. He noted that years ago he was on a team that met with then-president Chen Shui-bian (陳水扁), “whose previous ‘unofficial’ visit to the US had caused a crisis in which China fired missiles into the sea and the US deployed carriers off the coast of Taiwan.” Yes, that’s right, mighty Chen caused that crisis all by himself. Neither the US nor the People’s Republic of China (PRC) exercised any agency. Nye then nostalgically invoked the comical specter
Over the course of former President Ma Ying-jeou’s (馬英九) 11-day trip to China that included a meeting with Chinese Communist Party (CCP) leader Xi Jinping (習近平) a surprising number of people commented that the former president was now “irrelevant.” Upon reflection, it became apparent that these comments were coming from pro-Taiwan, pan-green supporters and they were expressing what they hoped was the case, rather than the reality. Ma’s ideology is so pro-China (read: deep blue) and controversial that many in his own Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) hope he retires quickly, or at least refrains from speaking on some subjects. Regardless
Approaching her mid-30s, Xiong Yidan reckons that most of her friends are on to their second or even third babies. But Xiong has more than a dozen. There is Lucky, the street dog from Bangkok who jumped into a taxi with her and never left. There is Sophie and Ben, sibling geese, who honk from morning to night. Boop and Pan, both goats, are romantically involved. Dumpling the hedgehog enjoys a belly rub from time to time. The list goes on. Xiong nurtures her brood from her 8,000 square meter farm in Chiang Dao, a mountainous district in northern Thailand’s
Peter Brighton was amazed when he found the giant jackfruit. He had been watching it grow on his farm in far north Queensland, and when it came time to pick it from the tree, it was so heavy it needed two people to do the job. “I was surprised when we cut it off and felt how heavy it was,” he says. “I grabbed it and my wife cut it — couldn’t do it by myself, it took two of us.” Weighing in at 45 kilograms, it is the heaviest jackfruit that Brighton has ever grown on his tropical fruit farm, located