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![]() By Michael Henningsen July 21, 1997:
Alibi Value Scale Formula:
In the interest of fairness, I am compelled to begin this review with an admission: For a brief moment in my listening past, I dabbled in the mostly instrumental records churned out by artists oft hailed as "gods" of their particular instruments. Steve Vai, a little Joe Satriani ... even overweight bassist Stuart Hamm. And yes, even a bit of Austin's reigning guitar virtuoso, Eric Johnson. It was in part Johnson's Tones release, in fact, that brought about my eventual resignation from the court of the six-string kings. He, at the very least and in glorious spite of his technical mastery of the thing called Stratocaster, played with passion and true fire. Sure, there was an over ... abundance, shall we say, of flurries of notes and scale-like exercises, but the guy had a good sense of melody as well and even made a valiant attempt at writing real songs.
So why then, you may be asking yourself, am I reviewing it at all. Perhaps to make a point: While music is as subjective as any art form gets and my opinion is nothing more than my opinion, there is a difference in Kenny G and John Coltrane (other than the fact that one of them is dead). And, by the same token, there's a difference between Eric Johnson and Stevie Ray Vaughn (see sentence in parenthesis above). The difference is soul and technical prowess weighed and apportioned precisely. Done the right way, you get the pleasure of delightful, inspiring, magical music. Done the not-so-right way, you get the pleasure of having a soundtrack to your elevator ride. This review is dedicated to the memory of John Tesh and Keanu Reeves.
Boy has it been a slow week. Perhaps the best thing that can be said about Robyn is that her fan club is based in Stockholm. Other than that, it's the same old story: great voice, shitty songs and very little artistic vision. Tons of producers, though, all the way down to an "associate executive producer." What the hell is that? Robyn is an artist's rendering of an artist--smoke, mirrors and perfectly posed liner photos. If there was a great song here, or even a standout, I would at least make note of it. There isn't. Just a whole lot of synth bass and smoov groove. Enjoy in a drunken stupor! --Michael Henningsen |
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