Why Should You Vote for Obama?

'Cause Mariah is. Duh! 

Reviews: LaBelle, Lucinda, Lee Ann

LaBelle, “Back to Now”

Even with modern brush strokes, the feisty soulful triad – Patti LaBelle, Nona Hendrix and Sarah Dash – is more back to then versus now, resuscitating the classic funk they were known for in their heyday. The ladies behind 1975’s “Lady Marmalade” restore girl-power in “Truth Will Set You Free,” a gritty funk rocker given the Lenny Kravitz treatment (he produced the track). It’s a rare blazing moment during the 10-track album, which features lead single “Roll Out,” a lazy Auto-Tuned vocal number. The disc mostly dabbles in mid-tempo slow burners, like stale-as-old-bread but earnest “Tears for the World” and a lovely Rosa Parks tribute “Dear Rosa.” “Candlelight,” the reunion opener, is one of the best cuts, reaching above-cloud heights and immediately proving the capability of the group’s lung power three decades later. Solo projects told us so, but LaBelle’s voice is a firecracker – exploding with raw emotion so frequently during “Back to Now” it’s remarkable that the live 1973-recorded grand finale, Cole Porter’s “Miss Otis Regrets,” bursts with so many rocketing runs it should be a fire hazard. B-

Lucinda Williams, “Little Honey”

Happiness: It’s an epidemic, and it’s threatening the musicians we expect to listen to and then go, “My life doesn’t suck that bad.” It got Mary J. And now on her latest “Little Honey,” Lucinda Williams, our longtime lifeline for tissue-needing tunes, is at peace, in love and having hot sex. She rocks harder, too, than on “West,” her last sublimely hyper-dramatic affair. “Honey Bee” is an ooh-la-la, surefire growler dripping with sexual innuendo (“Oh my little honey bee, I’m so glad you stung me/Now I got your honey all over my tummy”). She offers a fame cautionary tale on “Little Rock Star,” a grand rip-roaring rocker that perfectly highlights her beautiful, cracked-around-the-edges voice – and lyrics that Amy Winehouse would benefit from digesting. And when Williams goes softer than air, like on the heart-piercing “If Wishes Were Horses,” or records a did-me-wrong mini-drama (“Jailhouse Tears”), we’re reminded that even smiley Lucinda can make our life seem peachy. B+

Lee Ann Womack, “Call Me Crazy” 

Some might call her crazy, but following in the footsteps of her last album, the right-on “There’s More Where that Came From,” was actually a genius idea. The Queen of Curl-Up-And-Cry Country Ballads – best known for her picker-upper pop-crossover “I Hope You Dance” – revives the ’70s country vibe of “More,” but some of it goes down harder than the whiskey her careless man drinks on “Last Call.” As the sublime first single, “Last Call” is laced with ominous guitars and, marked by a clever zinger in the chorus (“I bet you’re in a bar – ’cause I’m always your last call”), is the album’s shiny star. “New Again,” a Dolly Parton “Coat of Many Colors”-like beauty, and “Have You Seen that Girl?” are pretty, and Womack shows off her always-emotive connection to the song’s melancholy words. But “I Found It in You” is too soggy (it makes Hallmark “poetry” look like Emily Dickinson) and abuse-parable “The Bees” is a misfit, which means “Call Me Crazy” might not stir as much buzz as its A-earning predecessor. But it’s almost solid-bee work. B-

For more reviews, including Ryan Adams and the Cardinals, Robin Thicke and Jennifer Hudson, check out this week's issue of Between The Lines on newsstands or at www.pridesource.com 

Touch Aretha's Body

I have no words. 

'Gay People Don't Choose to Have Tooshie Sex'

Those are the words of slippery-mouthed Chelsea Handler, who I spoke with several months ago (check out the interview here), in one of the funniest anti-Prop 8 PSAs. Thoughts? 

Rufus Pleases Royal Oak Crowd With Moody Solo Set

At times, during Rufus Wainwright’s solo show Oct. 18 in front of an intimate crowd at the Royal Oak Music Theatre, the theatrical-voiced charmer made Tori Amos look like Mary Poppins. Stripped of musical-flourishes that stamp the crooner’s catalog, the almost two-hour double-encore show shifted attention from Wainwright’s bigger-than-earth sound to melancholy lyrics of yearning, ache, passion, and a lot of true-life situations that could’ve benefited from a Xanax. Or three.

He was often mesmeric – with an operatic voice as perfect as the Mona Lisa, how could he not be? – even sans band, family (Martha Wainwright and his mother, Kate McGarrigle, have been known to join him), and a fancy-schmantzy stage (the glittery scarf more than made up for that).

He opened on piano with “The Art Teacher,” dramatically tossing his shaggy ‘do from side to side and wholly connecting – he often shut his eyes, letting the music consume him – with his emotive, dreamy music. Between pre-eminent gems like “Beauty Mark,” “Little Sister” (which was dedicated to all the sweet Midwestern women) and “Poses,” he performed songs from his embellished latest “Release the Stars,” including originally grandiose-sounding “Going to a Town,” a protest song about American crises. It pleased on just piano, but felt like a “Wheel of Fortune” puzzle: Who else was filling in the strings and Martha’s background vocals?

He kept the chatter brief and light, talking about his time at Interlochen’s art camp where he was turned on by the uniforms (“I didn’t practice much,” he joked), and sarcastic. “I know I wrote so many great songs – and I sing so many great songs,” he quipped in response to several rude hecklers who apparently thought he was a deejay. During “Greek Song” he referenced downtown Detroit since, ya know, we’ve got Greektown – and lots of Coney Islands. And, as if this was a surprise, he’s voting for Obama and so if you’re not, “join the party,” he said.

Sending the audience into a frenzy with encore songs “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk” and “Hallelujah,” he had me at “11:11,” a song about Sept. 11, where he made a guitar boo-boo and interjected with “Oh, shit!” Swearing in the middle of such a consuming song? Only Rufus can make that cute.

Betty White: Be My Grandma!

Betty White calls Sarah Palin "one crazy bitch." I love this woman! 

Effing Obsessed!

Fifty-two listens later (after just downloading it yesterday), and I still can't get over "Already Home," a sublime country-pop heartbreaker by Brandi Carlile (love her!) and Ha*Ash, a Latino pop duo. Brandi kills it, especially with those first few lines ("Packed my bags and kissed your cheek/Turned around so I didn't see you cry"), and I'm totally into how their voices go together like peanut butter and jelly. Totally sounds like something Chris Daughtry or Carrie Underwood could've done, but these gals perfectly capture the unshakable pain of letting someone go, and then regretting it. Thoughts anyone?

 

'Another Gay Movie' Sucks ... In a Bad Way

Like Clay Aiken, some people – and some things – don’t need to come outta the closet. “Another Gay Sequel: Gays Gone Wild” should’ve been locked in there. As someone who was so over the first film’s recipe – throw “American Pie” in blender, mix with fairy dust and wah-lah! – just a few minutes in, my expectations for the insanely disgusting, totally unfunny and always utterly disturbing flick were as high as that of a one-night-stand. Which the film has plenty of, by the way. In fact, that’s pretty much the plot, and I use that word loosely – as loose as the horned-up quartet in this movie.

Andy, Jarod, Griff and Nico (played by Jonah Blechman – the only unlucky actor from the original to reprise his role, and the transitions are handled well in an opening sequence) head to Fort Lauderdale, Fla. for spring break, entering the “Gays Gone Wild” contest – and whoever can get the most action comes (excuse the pun) in first place. RuPaul is the statuesque co-host Tyrelle Tyrelle, along with Sandi Cove (The Lady Bunny), and queer blogger Perez Hilton plays, and steals, every scene he’s in. Like Paris Hilton does in every film she’s been in (which are?).

As a religious zealot (converted while blowing a priest in the bathroom on “TransAmerica” airlines), Hilton pops up way too often, turning every scene into something more disastrous than Amy Winehouse. Worse, though, is the film’s awareness of the stereotypes it plays on and tries to elicit laughs from: Gays are slutty, and gays get STDs. Funny? Not so much.

Perhaps the most glaring – and head-shaking – moment comes when one of the guys (whose name I can’t recall since none of the characters, besides Nico, were more than hot, nice-assed, nice-chested, and without any other redeeming qualities) re-imagines his slutty ways as a “Dawn of the Dead” sequence: He’s being chased by a bunch of dead guys he’s slept with. First thought? AIDS – which, especially with the rising HIV infection rate in youth, isn’t funny. At all.

There’s also a nasty bit involving a dad telling his son to follow his heart, not his hole, and then, in front of his son, sticking a butt-plug up there. And the sex noises? They sound like the sound of a kid having fun on a Slip ’n Slide. Both might’ve been kinda funny on the page of Todd Stephens’ script (he also directs), but to see it on film, I couldn’t stop ew-ing. At the end, “Another Gay Sequel” alludes to a third in the series – something involving space (please let it get lost there!), and the film, which is as cohesive as a drunk driver, also tries substituting aw for ew. But with an hour-and-a-half of gags involving barf, ass toys and mistaking super glue for lube, I pulled out long before. D-