My hmphs

I don’t know what Dan Kennedy was thinking when he agreed to be the marketing director for a major record label. Did he really think that he would help bring a talented new artist to light? Was he really that naive?

Apparently so, and it makes for a great story. His memoir, Rock On: An Office Power Ballad, is a tale of his brief tenure with Atlantic Records, and it is filled with too-funny-to-be true vignettes that bring to mind The Office.

The tales come quickly, from the rumor that recording artist Fat Joe won’t work on his new CD until the label buys him a $30,000 fur coat (he’s the only one who laughs during the staff meeting), to young professionals who agree to everything the vice president says, to his first big project, an advertising campaign highlighting Phil Collins’ 25 years in show business. Ick.

On top of the almost surreal moments of corporate rock at its worst, Kennedy tries to fit in with this new culture. He tries to decipher hip-hop lingo, wondering why one of the artists calls him “B,” and trying to decide whether to use the same moniker back. He tries to act cool around the Donnas, even using the word “chill” at one point:

When I hear it come out of my mouth, it sounds like a tape of an undercover cop trying to convince downtown perps that he’s not a square. Or one of those cheesy modern dads trying to get his daughters to think he’s cool so they’ll admit to drinking beer on the weekends and then he can lecture them and insist that if they’re going to drink, they do it at home.

Kennedy is in a difficult position - too good to be around the power-hungry corporate folk, but too tied to his classic rock and punk roots to really feel anything for the music that his label tends to back. But before he can make a profound statement and thumb his nose at the industry, some rich kid buys the label, and the layoffs ensue. The announcement of his layoff comes from a senior manager sitting behind a $50,000 desk.

It’s at this point that the book grinds to a halt. You keep waiting for Kennedy to fill the new CEO’s office with Michael Bolton CDs or paint anarchy signs on the front door to the building. But perhaps it’s his book that has the last laugh, exposing major record labels for the money-grubbing, image-conscious hacks that they are.

Not that this is a big shock to anyone. But read it anyway, and pass it on.

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• Album Review - Phoenix, Asia (3)
• Album Review - @#%! Smilers, Aimee Mann (0)

I should have known by judging from the title of Asia’s latest effort, Phoenix, that it was going to be bad. After all, it doesn’t follow the band’s tendency to name their studio albums with short, one-name titles that begin and end with the letter A (Asia, Alpha, Astra, Aqua, Aria, Arena and Aura - all but Silent Nation). That’s like naming your kids Harry, Larry, Gary and Steve.

But at least they have the familiar Asia logo on the cover of their album, as well as the typical airbrushed T-shirt scene featuring mythical or sci-fi creatures (this time it’s a Phoenix - duh). And everything else about the supergroup is the same as it was 25 years ago - same lineup, same prog-rock tendencies, same instruments and same tired formula.

There’s really very little here that merits attention, except for the fact that they’ve managed to resurrect every one of their hits on this album, albeit with different lyrics. “Never Again” recalls “Heat of the Moment,” “Nothing is Forever” is a remake of “Only Time Will Tell,” and the ballad “Heroine” is “The Smile has Left Your Eyes.”

Too bad the lyrics didn’t get any better; in fact, they have probably gotten worse. “The age of Gemini, a dazzling creation/ A new enlightenment, a great illumination,” they quoth in “Never Again.” Huh? Then on “Orchard of Mines,” there’s this gem (no pun intended): “Would you look now unto the pit of me on the ground / And you wander through these to climb these grapevines” Yuck! Sounds like a seventh-grade amateur poet (with apologies to seventh-grade poets).

What’s ironic is that had this album come out 25 years ago, I may have liked it. I was a big fan of Asia’s first two albums. But while my tastes have changed, Asia’s sound has not. It’s like going to a high school reunion and seeing that the class clown, now overweight and balding, still uses joy buzzers and makes noises with his armpit. You just don’t want to hear it anymore.

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• Album Review - @#%! Smilers, Aimee Mann (0)

For years, Aimee Mann has tried to shed her image as the girl with the New-Wave haircut who sang the 1980s smash “Voices Carry.” Since 1993’s solo debut Whatever, the former lead singer for ’til tuesday has gradually grown a fan base, thanks to her soundtrack to the film Magnolia (which earned her an Oscar nod) and her decision to shun the record labels and go independent.

I have been a big fan of Aimee Mann, naming Whatever one of my Desert Island Discs. This early material found Mann jaded and feisty from previous failed relationships, and as a result, her music and lyrics were sharp, with melodic hooks and charming harmonies set to up-tempo numbers. Her ballads were surprisingly vulnerable, revealing a layer of fragility that is personal and almost childlike.

But as Mann has grown older, the old wounds have healed and she has grown stronger and more confident. She has found happiness with her husband and fellow singer-songwriter Michael Penn, and this contentment has seeped over to her music. And the last few discs have seemed somewhat plodding and middle-of-the-road.

At first, her newest album, @#%&*! Smilers, seems to be a return to the sharpness of Whatever and her follow-up, I’m With Stupid. “Freeway” begins with a distorted bassline riff, and the up-tempo number is a refreshing start. The second track, “Stranger into Starman,” is a beautiful piano ballad that recalls an old Bacharach classic, but at 90 seconds, it’s way too short.

Then the album gets muddy. For the past few albums, Mann has relied on a formula of 3/4 time signatures and jazzy, syncopated rhythms played at mid-tempo. It’s when Mann relies on this familiar vaudevillian formula that Smilers becomes forgettable. Gone are the rich harmonies that accented Whatever. And just when you think that she’s doing something different - horns and strings, or an unusual chord progression - she falls back into the middle of the road.

Mann’s lyrics are as good as ever: “I thought my life would be different somehow / I thought my life would be better by now,” she sings in “Thirty One Today.” She manages to be both descriptive and poetic, sometimes cynical, sometimes personal and touching. But without a sound musical base, the lyrics lack the punch of her earlier works.

The problem may lie with the departure of Jon Brion, who produced her first few albums and co-wrote many of the songs. Ever since Mann stopped collaborating with the eclectic composer of the Magnolia and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind scores, the wit and originality has been lacking. The tunes are no longer whimsical, but predictable.

“I don’t want anything anyway / I was happy with what I had yesterday,” sings Mann on the repetitive “Borrowing Time.” Unfortunately, I was happier with her songs of yesterday.

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