Cady Groves – “This Little Girl”

Cady Groves is one tough chick.

At age 22, the spunky chanteuse is just beginning to make waves with her venomous debut single, “This Little Girl,” co-penned by Cady herself and produced by Swedish superproducer Kristian Lundin. Crunchy and catchy with a storming chorus, “This Little Girl” certainly packed a potent enough pop punch to pique my curiosity — and I’ve had it on heavy rotation ever since it premiered a few weeks ago.

But the best is still yet to come: Yesterday night, I joined Cady and her label, RCA, for a listening party at Cowgirl in the West Village — a fitting venue for the Oklahoma native (they have cowboys and cowgirls in Oklahoma, right?) — where she talked about recording her album, previewed several songs, and generally charmed everybody’s socks off.

Among the tracks played were “Wrong,” a twangy midtempo about self-doubt with an aggressive backbeat, liberal handclaps (possibly the most important element in any pop song), and a country-inflected chorus; “We’re the Shit,” an infectious slice of “It Gets Better”-pop; and “Live and Learn,” an ‘80s-throwback jam with a tough bassline that wouldn’t sound out of place on Ashlee Simpson’s criminally underrated Bittersweet World. Best of all, though, was “In Your Window,” the likely second single, which has a propulsive beat, more handclaps and fingersnaps (!!!), and an explosive pop-punk chorus.

Whereas “This Little Girl” is slick pop to its core, the tracks Cady played tonight revealed more diversity — one part country cowgirl, one part mall-punk.

But most interesting was Cady’s overwhelming transparency in discussing her musical inspirations. The album, she said, emerged from the wreckage of her May-September romance with a two-timin’ older gent she dated while recording the record in Los Angeles. Of “This Little Girl,” she said, “I was really angry when I wrote this song.” At one point, she summed the album up thusly: “I just wrote the entire album about cutting off this guy’s D.” It was hard not to think of Alanis Morissette’s seminal Jagged Little Pill — which, like Cady’s songs, are loaded with snarling pop-rock hooks and sharp-edged vitriol.

Bitterly spurned like Kelly Clarkson, charmingly bratty like Avril Lavigne, and relatably real like Taylor Swift — suffice it to say that Cady Groves is one to watch.

Sam Lansky is a contributor to MuuMuse.

The 2010 American Music Awards aired live tonight. I live-tweeted the event. Well, most of it. (The Walking Dead came on at 10–I do have my priorities, after all.)

So, rather doing a rather drawn-out summary of the affair, I figure I’d just regurgitate what I just said–except with pictures and video links. Lazy, right? Oh, and if you couldn’t tell yet, you should totally be following me on Twitter.

Like Diddy-Dirty Money says…LET’S GO!!111!!! (I luv Jesus.)

LET’S GO!!!

OMFG It’s the 2010 MTV VMA’s–the glitz! the glamour! The meat purses!

Let’s cut the shit: The show was mostly boring. Taylor Swift sung a song about Kanye West, Kanye West sung a song about Kanye West, and no one gave a shit about Ke$ha.

Read more…

So, this is something new and interesting.

The night before my interview with Sky Ferreira, I received a vaguely mysterious e-mail from MuuMuse reader Sam Lansky with an attachment entitled “Fame Fatale.” The e-mail suggested that the attached may assist me in preparing for my interview.

As soon as I began reading, I already knew: This had to be published immediately.

“Fame Fatale” is not only a remarkably in-depth analysis (and personal account) of Ferreira’s curious rise to fame, but a thoughtful contemplation of the manufacturing of the modern pop star and the very conventions of the music industry itself. It’s extremely well-researched, poses tough questions, and deserves your full attention.

With his permission, I’ve asked Sam to feature his article on MuuMuse. It’s an incredible piece, and I do highly recommend that all of my Muusers give it a thorough reading–even if it’s “tl;dr” territory.

I do, after all, hope to keep a literate company.

Click “Read More…” to read Sam Lansky’s “Fame Fatale: The Rise of Sky Ferreira.”

Read More…

It’s that time again: The Grammy Awards, a time when pop dreams are crushed by a barrage of country stars winning awards chosen by really old, really privileged record executives that haven’t been in touch with the consumer market since 1983.

Since I didn’t really feel like doing a massive write-up about the show, I’ve taken the liberty of uploading the pictures of my notes taken during the broadcast. Because, hey…it’s not like this award means anything anymore. Take heed: The scribbling began shortly AFTER Gaga. I apologize in advance.

Really, it was pathetic: The guilt-tripping plea for music lovers to fund artists (FIND A NEW BUSINESS MODEL), the occasionally embarrassing presenters ushered in as “hot topic” celebrities (Adam Sandler), and most importantly, the endless series of performances from artists that haven’t been relevant for years. A vote for Bon Jovi? WHO. CARES. HONESTLY?! No wonder little Justin Bieber Bopper mistakenly read their name as “Beyonce” on screen. He’s got no idea who the fuck they are!

To pass the time (and bear the endless barrage of industry insiders wanking itself off), a couple of friends and I took to a short-and-sweet drinking game with rules that developed as the show went on: Take a swig for each Beyonce win (a happy victory!), one each time Miley Cyrus said “y’all” in her presentation, and most importantly (and often), each award upset. But by the time Taylor Swift‘s Fearless was announced for Album of the Year, there wasn’t even an opportunity to take a sip–everyone was already filing out the door in disgust.

Say what I will about her lofty claims and exhausting efforts to remain creative, the fact remains that the beginning of this new decade will be defined by no other pop icon than Lady Gaga. Honestly, it’s laughable to suggest that Taylor Swift released the year’s finest record. Did it break sales and chart records? Certainly! It was a glowing achievement for the very young, talented artist.

But The Fame did something far greater and far more important: It completely relaunched the brand of pop music.

Yes, Lady Gaga is tiring. She’s pretentious, snotty, and occasionally insincere. But whether or not you subscribe to the Gaga, it’s all but impossible to deny her influence. From reinventing celebrity fashion, to redefining the limits and boundaries of artistic expression on a mainstream level, to the very sound of the radio itself thanks to her RedOne-produced revolution of Euro-friendly beats, Gaga has ushered in a new era of pop. No, she isn’t original per se, but she did bring the focus of pop back to the things we’ve always loved about it: Glamour, performance, and escapism.

I am of the most confident belief that Taylor Swift’s win was nothing more than a product of industry pity over Kanye West‘s interference at the VMA Awards. She’s a sweet, sweet girl, but leave it to MTV to sort out their own guilt issues–not one of the most prestigious award institutions in the world.

Lady Gaga was robbed, but she already knew that was going to happen. Or did you not ‘get’ the meaning behind her opening performance?

“When I woke up, I was like what did I do last night? Like what did I do? I fucked up… story of my life.”
Nicole “Snookums” Polizzi, Jersey Shore

Congratulations…it’s 2010! Who’s ready to drink?

That’s the lasting, ever-present theme of Animal, the long-awaited debut album from Ke$ha. (That’s kesh-uh, like ketchup, not key-shuh, like what I’ve been calling her for almost a year now.)

With a voice that can only be described as belonging to the bratty, rebellious step-sister of Katy Perry and a wardrobe identical to your annoyingly hip cousin who’s ‘over’ consumer culture and shops exclusively at American Apparel, Ke$ha has been toted for some time now as a kind of drunk electro-crap pop protege in the making.

But before we get ahead of ourselves and start praising her as the mainstream answer to Peaches or Uffie, let the record show: Ke$ha is just too squeaky-clean to be anything even close to dirrty pop. Sure, she’ll wear ripped leggings out on the town, hobble ’round drunk on stage with glitter smeared on her face and shout into a megaphone like an ass-backwards loon, but at the end of the day, she’s still a pretty face (with an interest in collaborating with Taylor Swift, as evidenced in this fairly annoying mini-interview).

However, even if she isn’t really spewing blood or punching dudes for sticking their fingers up her hoo-hah while crowd surfing, Ke$ha’s still here for the party on Animal.

With “Your Love Is My Drug” and “Tik Tok,” the “Poker Face” and “Just Dance” of the album respectively, K$ revels in the excesses of pop at its finest. Exuberant, punchy, irreverent–the two songs are the quintessential ‘dancing the night away’ moments of the album, complete with fist-pump worthy choruses and glitchy, gleeful synthesizers that merge fun, kid-friendly beats with the all-important album theme of substance abuse. (The result of which lends itself to literally dozens and dozens of uncomfortable tweenage video reinterpretations, complete with water bottle sippin’ and faux-drunk gyrating.)

Later on, with songs like “Take it Off” and “Kiss N Tell,” Ke$ha keeps the Katy Perry pronunciation guide close at hand for another round of drink-inspired jubilee. If you close your eyes and ignore the awful, skin-crawling over-enunciation of each syllable (“we’re duh-lee-ree-uss-suh, ’til the sun comes back uh-rah-ow-und”), the song’s are almost as fun as the two lead tracks, though inconsistently so: Some days they’re amazing, others simply unlistenable. It all depends on how loud and where you’re playing them.

It’s too bad that the plug gets pulled so soon.

Just as the party’s getting started, K$ takes it back to the schoolyard with a few truly dire attempts including  “Stephen,” a sloppy ode to a boy performed with an irritating, giggly schoolgirl sweetness. “I saw you in your tight ass rocker pants / You saw me too / I laughed ’cause I was completely trashed.” If the tuneless chorus isn’t enough to kill your buzz, the embarrassing ‘this is meant to be ironically immature’ lyricism will finish the job.

Later on, Ke$ha’s childish side is only further exploited with the likes of “Dinosaur,” which doubles as the worst song of 2010 thus far. The wimpy spell-out assault, meant to put the old men creeping around clubs on blast (“D-I-N-O-S-A, U-R a dinosaur!”), is so obnoxious, so incomprehensibly basic that it makes Gwen Stefani‘s “Hollaback Girl” (“This shit is bananas! B-A-N-A-N-A-S”) sound refined.

As songs like “Dinosaur” come to show, one of the biggest drawbacks of Animal is its snotty Kidz Bop-friendly attitude. Back during the summer, when a slew of demos from the singer first leaked, standout tracks including “Disgusting,” “Fuck Him (He’s A DJ)” and “V.I.P.,” (which has mercifully been tacked on as a bonus track overseas) provided a glimmer of hope that Ke$ha was to become our new rude-pop savior. The songs were much grimier, complete with naughty come-on’s and more genuinely clever lyrics (“He’s a stereo type / He’s got the baseball cap and he’s building the hype, as he’s feeding me this hot track / You see, we share the same God, we’ve got the same love / I never want to stop, I don’t want to give him up.”) Now? We’ve got trash like “Blah Blah Blah.”

Not all of the girly girl tracks are worth the hate, though: The strut-worthy prowl of “Boots and Boys” and the deliciously bitchy “Backstabber” are both redeemable bouts of escapist delight.

The time when Ke$ha truly, legitimately shines best is when she drops the baby routine and acts her own age: “Hungover,” “Dancing With Tears in My Eyes,” and “Animal” are all miles ahead of the pack, featuring anthemic pop hooks and devastating choruses. The most successful of all of the grown-up numbers is “Blind,” which ties a minimal, plodding synthesized beat together with one hell of a Clarkson-worthy chorus: “I’m sick and tired of the mess you made me / Never gonna catch me cry / You must be blind if you can’t see / You’ll miss me ’til the day you die.”

The bleary-eyed, post-party numbers are much smarter than the surrounding material, and far more representative of Ke$ha’s ability to be more than just a one bottle wonder–which makes duds like “Party at a Rich Dude’s House” all the more difficult to swallow.

Oh, the 2009 VMA’s. We laughed, we cried…but mostly, we bitched about Kanye West.

In what was perhaps the most entertaining go-around since 2003, the 2009 Video Music Awards took to the streets of NYC at Radio City Music Hall last night. There were some excellent performances (Beysus), delightfully awkward moments, and some Eskimo-chic head gear. And yet, there were still things left to be desired. I haven’t written about it all, but here we go:

Needs More Funny
The only person capable of sucking the life out of an arena faster than Kanye West stealing an award show moment from an 18-year-old girl, Russell Brand has, once again, proven to be the most impossibly unlikable, inhumanly talentless host…ever.

I wish I could be a fly on the wall as he wrote out the “jokes” for his opening monologue–perhaps staying up late for hours, only to at last come to his “Eureka!” moment: A handful of cheap sex jokes that would elicit an eye roll from a middle-schooler and frequent allusions to date raping Megan Fox and Lady Gaga. Did we really have to deal with this pig again? BY THE WAY, IF YOU ARE SOMEHOW HOSTING AGAIN NEXT YEAR RUSSELL, YOU CAN LOWER THE VOLUME OF YOUR VOICE A LITTLE–THE MICROPHONE TENDS TO AMPLIFY IT FOR THE CROWD.

Needs More Janet
The MJ tribute was sweet and well-choreographed (and how about that Madonna introduction?!), but far too rushed. It seemed as though Janet had only just hit the stage when the production wrapped. I loved the collaboration for “Scream” (the video projection duet was especially striking)–but why not stick around for more? Then again, I’ll always need me some more Janet. Love you, bb.

Needs More…Err, Well, I Don’t Even Know, Really.
As for the GAGa? Well, what can I say? I always keeps it reals: I don’t think the performance entirely sucked. In fact, I liked it. I often enjoy the inclusion of Gothic imagery in my pop music–anything that blends a strong melody with macabre is usually an easy sale. The blood, the faux-noose…all quite up my alley.

But here’s the thing (and it’s always been the thing): Lady Gaga is a false pop prophet. I just can’t take her seriously as an artist, an entertainer, or anything in between. To me, she’s little more than a regurgitation of every element of pop culture that has value and worth in our society. She did sing incredibly, though. Let the grappling emotions continue on forever!

Needs More Relevancy
Thank you, Lil Mama, for continued bridge-burning path of self-destruction. In one majorly awkward effort to tear away from the judging panel of America’s Best Dance Crew, your stage-stealing, picture-ruining vogue at the catwalk’s end not only ruined a great moment between two titans of popular music, but caused enough cries of “WHO THE FUCK?!” from the crowd to keep us distracted from the fuckery of Kanye for a full thirty seconds. I salute you.

Needs More Britney
Another year, another hype-gone-terribly-wrong. I really need to stop doing this to myself. GRL, WHERE U AT?! Oh right–still on tour. Oh, well…Congrats on your win, B!

Needs To Quit Drinking The Haterade
Apology, scientology. The world’s most overrated douche in the industry (yeah, I get it, he’s totally a ~visionary~ and collaborates with Takashi Murakami) needs a wake-up call in the most urgent way possible. Words seem to fail me here, which is why nothing says it better than my Top 3 favorite celebrity responses of the night. They are, in order:
@Pink:

Kanye west is the biggest piece of shit on earth. Quote me.

@katyperry:

FUCK U KANYE. IT’S LIKE U STEPPED 0N A KITTEN.

And finally, Kelly Clarkson:

I’m not even mad at you for being an asshole…I just pity you because you’re a sad human being.

I wasn’t going to do this, but coupled with the fact that I’m currently bed-stricken with on-again, off-again vision blur due to an on-again, off-again migraine, I thought what a better way to thoroughly piss my day away than to review a Jordin Sparks album?

And now, Jordin Sparks’ Battlefield, a live-blogging review and experience.

“Walking On Snow”
God, I cannot see out of my right eye! Wait, it’s beginning…Isn’t this the opening guitar strum to Kelly Clarkson song ever? Oh! I quite like this electro beat. This is nice. I approve. Do I really like this? I think I might. I can’t really understand the lyrics, but I’m not really paying attention either. Well done.

“Battlefield”
GUESSYOUBETTAGOANGETCHURAMMA. Perfection.
A charting peak at #25? Nice going, America. I hope you enjoy your latest Taylor Swift track.

“Don’t Let It Go To Your Head”
Ah, so this was originally a Fefe Dobson track. That doesn’t mean anything to me, but let the record show it has been acknowledged. A electro-glittery mid-tempo: “Just ’cause I think of you in bed, don’t let it go to your head.” Stop teasing me with your bedroom coos…NOT EVERYONE WANTS TO BE A SLUT, JORDIN SPARKS.

“S.O.S. (Let The Music Play)”
Oh, dear. I was afraid of this one: Sampling one of the best ’80′s club tracks into a texting-all-my-ladies ‘intimidation’ track? Sadly, I don’t even dislike it all that much–it’s just my natural pop sensibilities urging me to reject this. Let the music play!

“It Takes More”
I wonder if Jordin is absolutely having the time of her life touring with the JoBros. I saw a video with her filming some sort of promo commercial with Joe Jonas last year and she was sporting the most massive Joner ever–she even awkwardly swore in front of him to ‘show off’ in that annoying schoolgirl sort of way. It was really painful to watch. Oh, right–this song is pretty decent. Midtempo. Electronica. Fairly by-the-numbers though, isn’t it? “Don’t you know it takes more?”

“Watch You Go”
Another sauntering mid-tempo. “There’s something you should know: I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go.” What the fuck does that even mean? Is Jordin an ass man?

“No Parade”
Displaying that Christian morality again. This is so clearly an anti-gay pride rally number. Wait–does this sound a bit like “Halo”? No, never mind…it doesn’t. But I think that’s going to become my catchphrase for the year: “It’s good, but it sounds a lot like ‘Halo.’” To be fair, “Already Gone” was done before “Halo,” but hey–let’s let that pop injustice live on. I’m bored, but I suppose if I was forced to listen to this album for the rest of my life, I would learn all the words to this and sing it triumphantly.

“Let It Rain”
Good God, are we only half done here? Oddly my migraine appears to be dissipating. Oh, great…a hand-clappy mid-tempo–WHAT?! I wasn’t expecting this ‘rock-tinged’ chorus! “I refuse to feel ashamed…LET IT RAIN!” This is clearly her redemption track for the homos: They can officially feel prideful again. Oh Christ, are those tears? Is she crying? Am I getting affected? If another artist produced this, I bet we’d be finding ourselves calling this one ‘epic’ in another post.

“Emergency (911)”
JORDIN–getting sassy up in this bitch! “I bought this dress for you, I got my legs all smooth / I got my mani-pedi, I got my hair done too.” This is a fairly fun, ‘modern’ uptempo track. However, there’s something implicitly uncomfortable about songs with “911″ in the lyrics. I mean, all I can think of is dancing to this at a party and seeing some girl’s hair catch on fire and shouting “IT’S AN EMERGENCY! IT’S A 911! THIS WOMAN’S HAIR IS ON FIRE!” and then everyone raises their drinks and cheers real loud and puts the song on even louder as the girl writhes around on the floor. That’s the fear I’d have listening to this in a social setting. I would listen to this again. But why is she pushing more buttons on the phone than 9-1-1? What the hell is she dialing?

“Was I The Only One”
Ugh, I am so not in the mood for another tender ballad. Lyrica generica overload. “Was the only one who fell in love? There never really was the two of us / Maybe my all just wasn’t good enough. Was I the only one in love?” This is painful. I imagine the recently heartbroken would find this somewhat moving and ‘the story of my life right now,’ but it’s hard to–did she just whimper again? Oh, dear.

“Faith”
WAIT A MINUTE. Is this a cover? No? Why do the chords remind me of “You’ve Got A Friend In Me?” I’ll blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol/returning migraine. This isn’t ‘bad’ per se. Perhaps it’s a glimmer of what adult Jordin Sparks would sound like in her impending adult contemporary career. I may nod off.

“The Cure”
As far as I can tell, there’s no relation to the Robert Smith-fronted group here. PIANO CHORDS REMINDS ME OF “EVERY HEART BROKEN.” Soaring piano track. Keisha, where are you? I wish the Sugababes just came in and stole this song and took it HOME. This is a little pretty. It’s cute. Tender. “I’ll be the cure. Show me where it hurts, and I know I can be the medicine you need.” It sort of begs for a response of unzipping the pants and whipping it out. Sorry. OH MY GOD, WE’RE ALMOST DONE!

“Papercut”
“I wish I was the Tinman so I wouldn’t have a heart to break.” It’s not fair to skip a song based on one line alone, but I’m so temp–I’ll wait. Very by-the-books mid-tempo guitar strum. I wonder if I should review Brooke Hogan‘s The Redemption for the giggles.

“Postcard”
I’m sorry–I forgot where I was for about three minutes. This isn’t the same song? “I’ll send you a postcard saying I’m alright.” I think she’s driving somewhere. I wonder how I’d react if someone cited Jordin Sparks’ “Postcard” as their favorite track of all time.

SWEET JESUS, IT’S OVER.

Verdict: Okay, Battlefield is not terrible. Jordin Sparks is a very capable vocalist, and at times, I could even describe her voice as somewhat soothing. More than likely however, I would never, ever to this album again barring the first four or five tracks, and MAYBE “Emergency” (in non social settings for fear of emergencies, obviously.) It’s just…lifeless. God, she’s boring.

And that, my friends, was the live review of a Jordin Sparks album while fighting off a migraine. SOMEONE GIVE ME MY FUCKING PULITZER ALREADY.

Click below to preview and purchase Jordin Sparks’ Battlefield.