7. The Lemon Twigs – Go to School
I remember, way back in the mid-1980s, playing the debut album by They Might Be Giants for a former roommate, a semi-Goth type with a fondness for the gloomier realms of rock music. He balked at the wackiness of such songs as “Put Your Hand Inside the Puppet Head” and was downright offended by the use of accordion. “In 10 years, are you still going to be listening to this?” he scoffed. The joke was on him because TMBG has endured. Heck, “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” alone has secured a lasting place in the pop pantheon, and the duo just recently released its 21st studio album. Will the career of the Lemon Twigs, another zany twosome from New York, be as long-lasting? Brothers Brian and Michael D’Addario, only 21 and 19, respectively – more millennials! – certainly have grand ambitions, and the talent to go the distance. Continue reading
Indie rock hero Neko Case is one of our most fearless songwriters. She seemingly has no qualms about laying bare her soul on each album she puts out, and her no-bullshit vocals drive the emotional honesty home. She’s also rather prolific, having released six previous solo efforts as well as collaborations with the Canadian bands New Pornographers and the Sadies. (My favourite project in her extensive discography remains 2016’s case/lang/veirs, a gorgeous and strikingly simpatico pas de trois with k.d. lang and Laura Veirs, both of whom contribute backing vocals here.) The sheer volume of her repertoire combined with her artistic daredevilry has resulted in a laudable but inconsistent body of work – as much as I’ve liked some of her albums, I can’t name one that I would call brilliant from first cut to last. Her latest is no exception, but it’s quite worthwhile nonetheless. 
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It was the afternoon of Prince Harry’s and Meghan Markle’s nuptials and royal wedding-obsessed folks all over Britain, indeed the world, were bunched around TV screens, hankies at the ready, to watch the blessed event. But not me and my partner. We had skipped the live airing to hunt for discounted summer attire in Portsmouth’s scruffy city centre shopping district. (Though of course we caught the two-hour BBC recap later that evening. We’re not monsters.) Well into our leisurely stroll from our flat to the shops, we overheard a cheerful male voice approaching from behind. “Hello, Nan, it’s your favourite grandson!” the voice crooned in that pleasantly sing-song way in which many Brits speak. Being a world-class sleuth, I quickly deduced that he was talking to his grandmother via mobile phone. “What’s that, Nan?” the voice continued. “No, I’m not watching it. Don’t really have any interest. You? Ah, lovely. I’m sure it is a beautiful dress. Well, I was just calling to wish Auntie Gail a happy birthday. Is she around? Lovely! Ta, Nan!” 
I loved the first album by this Texas-born soul revivalist. 2015’s Coming Home was one of the most confident debuts I’d heard in many a moon and it landed at number six on my influential* 10-best list for that year. Harkening back to ‘60s soul pioneers Lee Dorsey and Sam Cooke, the record hummed with vitality. For his sophomore outing, Bridges has broadened his sound to include ‘70s-era slow jams and even a bit of ‘90s new jack swing. The lead-off track “Bet Ain’t Worth the Hand” sounds like a classic Stylistics ballad and “Shy” recalls ‘90s R&B bad boys Jodeci at their let’s-go-to-bed sultriest. Bridges is credible as a Casanova; his honeyed voice effortlessly soars to falsetto heights and plunges to pillow-talk lows. But overall, the energy level here is waaaaay down. Part of the problem is the production, which layers on the reverb and the synthetic percussion and echo-y handclaps, diluting Bridges’ vocal delivery. There are enough memorable tracks, such as the jazzy-cool “Bad Bad News,” that Good Thing narrowly escapes the curse of the sophomore slump. But the exuberance of that thrilling debut is sorely missed.
If you’re not a fan of mushy musings on affairs of the heart, I suggest you stop reading now. For the blog post that you are about to peruse positively oozes with sap; it’s fecund with romantic fervor. You see, I am smitten, utterly captivated, moon-in-June besotted. In a word, gaga. All I want to do is loll on a chaise-longue in my dressing gown and pen amorous odes to the object of my affection, but daily I’m driven to get dressed and get out so that I can once again behold my darling’s ample assets. When we’re together, my sweetheart satisfies my every whim and I have truly grown as a person thanks to our union. That’s no metaphor. I’ve literally gained weight by being just a five-minute stroll from all that I desire. It’s the only downside of falling madly in love with a supermarket. 
As far as immigration sagas go, my move to the U.K., minus a couple of slight stumbles, has been a relative cakewalk. Yes, securing a spousal visa proved to be somewhat Kafkaesque, but in the end, I was granted entry into a beautiful country populated by friendly folks who—and this is crucial to the ease of my transition—speak the same language as I do. As I’ve discussed in a 
dugoutdiscs 