Hong Nhung is a minimalist; therefore, she understands that less is more. Her approach to music—the latest Trinh Cong Son’s tribute, Nhu Canh Vac Bay, in particular—is similar to my design’s methodology. We simplify our crafts to communicate the message. We eliminate the unnecessary to allow the necessary speaks. We leave out bells and whistles to focus on the core value: the emotion.

Used to be one of Trinh Cong Son’s protégés, babes, and confidantes, Hong Nhung knows well how his songs to be sung. She also recognizes the strength in his lyrics: simple on the surface, and yet so meaningful in the inner level, especially his skillful wordplays. By stripping down his signature pieces—”Toi Ru Em Ngu,” “Nhu Canh Vac Bay,” “Tuoi Da Buon,” and “Nay Em Co Nho”—to their emotional chord, she expresses life, embraces hope, and caresses love through her honesty and sincerity. Accompanied by either a strumming guitar or comping piano, she takes her time to articulate Trinh’s words, embellish his melodies, and reach deeper into his poetries. The results of her performances are intimate, personal, and approachable. My selfishness is the one-on-one experience. Whenever I listen to a singer, I want to feel that she sings to me only and no one else. That’s the kind of directness I demand, and that’s what she has delivered.

On the more playful numbers—the blues-inspired “Mot Coi Di Ve,” the Latin-inflected “Nhin Nhung Mua Thu Di,” and the bossa nova-grooved “Roi Nhu Da Ngay Ngo”—I wish Hong Nhung has loosen up a bit, even though I adore all of these three pieces. She has done a fabulous job of jazzing up Trinh’s standards with her accomplished, effortless flow; however, there is still room for improvisation. I am awared that she wants to present these songs according to her honey’s intention, but I am sure she could bend his notes, invent rhythmic structures, and play with her vocal timbre to create jazz’s characteristics. As I was enjoying her invigorating rendition of “Roi Nhu Da Ngay Ngo,” I was like, “Come on, throw in some syncopations for me, baby! Forget dear Son for a minute and scat for Donny. Create some new melodic lines.” She could have given these songs a new dimension if she could break free from his original material. An axiom of jazz is that “the more notes are read, the less the jazz.”

My disapointment with Nhu Canh Vac Bay is her aspirate voice. Her breath control on Thuo Bong La Nguoi was flawless, but labored heavily on almost all of the tracks in this new release. Other than that, Hong Nhung’s streamlined approach to Trinh’s music is still refreshing and soothing. Once again, she mastered Trinh’s craftsmenship with her vocal agility and elastic range that empower her to hit a note from different angles.

Duc Tuan’s Doi Mat Nguoi Son Tay is a perfect example of how to cover classic tunes: respecting the original composition, refining the vocal presentation, and reviving the musical production. With that in mind, Duc Tuan brings back Pham Dinh Chuong’s works to both the old and new generations. The two epic pieces, “Tieng Dan Chai” and “Hoi Trung Duong,” alone are worth the value of the album. His versatility allows him to move easily between slow- to up-tempo traditional folktales. The opening “Nua Hon Thuong Dau” kicks off with a scoring of the “Phantom of the Opera” to boast up the liveliness, and then Duc Tuan’s iced-out vocals and gleaming orchestration repolished the old song. Thanh Thuy’s pre-1975 version of “Xom Dem” is an ageless tune I am still holding on to, but Duc Tuan’s version, which accompanied by a simple, crisp rumba rhythm, is intriguing enough to keep side by side. Despite its overwhelming popularity, I have yet to find a stimulating version of “Mong Duoi Hoa,” and Duc Tuan’s rendition is no exception.

With a hoarse, scratchy, guttural contralto and an astounding rhythmic sense, Cassandra Wilson is a fine jazz singer who could maneuver her vocals naturally between word and wordless performances. Accompanied by Mulgrew Miller on piano, Lonnie Plaxico on bass, and Terri Lyne Carrington on drums, Wilson reinvigorates standards—including “Shall We Dance,” “Gee Baby Ain’t I Good to You,” and “My One and Only Love—in her Blue Skies, an album I have been jamming to again and again for her exotic scat-singings. I just can’t get enough of those sultry, horn-like, wordless improvisations.

Out of nowhere—no hint, no buzz, no hype—No, a Tran Viet Tan’s songbook with Thanh Lam and Hong Nhung locking down the vocals, quietly drops into our lap, like some kind of treasure just happened to fall off from the sky. Actually, an album that could pull two of the top female voices together doesn’t need the whole marketing campaign to sell. The work of art speaks for itself. Is this a project in which Thanh Lam and Hong Nhung appear side-by-side to throw their fans a bone? That was my immediate skepticism when I first spotted the album, but after careful listenings, I am convinced that No is a real quality product, and both have invested their soul into it.

Over the years, Hong Nhung and Thanh Lam have defined their distinctive path by continuously refining and modernizing their crafts. Hong Nhung appreciates peacefulness in her Khu Vuon Yen Tinh while Thanh Lam brings the ruckus in her Nang Len. In No, however, they are not pushing Tran Viet Tan’s compositions into any direction, but simply pour their hearts into his works.

Hong Nhung is indelible in “Am Nong.” We can hear the cry in her voice, but she is so good at hiding it, like she is withholding her tears and only gives us a touch of her pain deep down inside—some psychological therapy for our mind. “Em Hong Nhung Rat La” is a tune I have personally requested Tran Viet Tan to pen for me to express my feelings for my Velvet Rose. I particularly insisted on using these two bars, “Ben chieu xua than tho / Giong hat nhe khoi bay.” (Yeah, I wish!) In any rate, the soothing melody is perfect for Hong Nhung’s relaxing vocals. Her lithe phrasings and effortless flows complement both “Ha Noi Em” and “A Oi Tay Me” like oil and vinegar.

Unlike Hong Nhung, Thanh Lam has a huge, husky, and tangy voice filled with deep emotion. In “Dem Ha Noi Nho,” she sports a prodigious technique of holding on to her vibrato to warm up the notes, and then releasing them into the empty air, leaving the piano to fill in the space. The way she hoarsens up her vocals sounds so damn hypnotizing. And of course, her energetic power always promises pain and glory in her delivery. In the title track, “Bat Chot,” and “Em Khong Nho Anh Dau,” she sings gentler, and takes her time to express the lyrics as if she has situated herself into the songs. She caresses the harmonies, massages the words, and efficiently breaks down her virtuoso flows.

Besides the juicy musical content, the album cover design is a clever one too. It provides a hint of both Thanh Lam’s and Hong Nhung ‘s style through their facial expression. The cracked smile on Hong Nhung’s face suggests youthfulness while Thanh Lam’s straight look insinuates genuineness. The direct, frosty gaze in Thanh Lam’s eyes (irresistibly gorgeous) illustrates the fearlessness in her attitude. I have met neither of them in person yet, but the raison d’être in Thanh Lam’s singing and the simplicity (yet filled with sentimentality) in Hong Nhung’s performance have always seduced me. These two women bang my world.

I haven’t seen an album dedicated to ballroom dancing for years, especially not from a young face in Viet Nam like Doan Trang. Her latest Da Vu Socodance (sounds like a M&M commercial to me), which featured Latin rhythms such as paso, tango, chacha, valse, and rumba, is another effort to make her music stands apart from her pop peers. What makes Doan Trang stands out for me is not her sweet, transparent voice, but my wonder of how such a powerful tone could come from so flimsy a body.

Like any Vietnamese dance tradition, Socodance kicks off with Hoang Trong’s “Dung Buoc Giang Ho,” a lively paso doble arranged by Nguyen Quang who is responsible for most of the productions on the album. Doan Trang just rides the beat and gives a straightforward delivery, which is fine for this particular up-tempo piece and Nguyen Anh 9’s translated “Ngan Khuc Tango.” In slower tempos like the rumba “Tinh Yeu Den Trong Gia Tu” (another Nguyen Anh 9’s composition) and Pham Manh Cuong’s “Thu Ca” (tango), however, she lacks the souls and the emotions that are so essential in expressing the lyrics. As a result, her renditions on these two tracks are juiceless and colorless. In addition, her breathiness brings down her delivery.

Socodance strangely closes out with Xuan Nghia’s “Rock ‘n Roll Cho Em.” Not sure why a rock track is included in a ballroom dance album. Other than banging our heads, what else could we do with rock? Fortunately “Rock ‘n Roll Cho Em” has more of a twist flavor to it than rock. So we could swivel our feet to the beat and break our necks to the guitar riff after the ecstasies kicked in.

Although Socodance is a nice attempt to get all the lazy behinds, including mine, off the couch and away from the computer, it isn’t anything outstanding. Doan Trang is like a lost child in the Vietnamese-entertainment world. (Come to daddy, I’ll give you a style to run with, baby.) She has tried everything to reinvent herself, from pop to ballads to r & b to hip-hop to Latin dance, but nothing seems to work to her fullest potential. Maybe it is time to focus on her technical skills and to inject some souls into her performances.

I’ve been feeling Jay-Z lately, particularly The Blueprint and The Black Album. Listen to both joints, one after another, generates a fascinating experience. Jay moves from a young hustler (Blueprint) into a grown man (Black Album).

Although the Blueprint is not as intriguing as the classic Reasonable Doubt, Jay proves that he still has his hustling swag. In “U Don’t Know,” a soulful production from Just Blaze, Jay rhymes, “I sell ice in the winter, I sell fire in hell / I am a hustler baby, I’ll sell water to a well / I was born to get cake, move on and switch states / Cop the Coupe with the roof gone and switch plates / Was born to dictate, never follow orders / Dickface, get your shit straight, fucka this is Big Jay.” In contrast to Shawn-Carter-the-hustler in Blueprint and Reasonable Doubt, Black Album finds Jay mellows out as he reflects on his accomplishments throughout his rapping career: “There’s never been a nigga this good for this long / This hood, or this pop, this hot, or this strong / With so many different flows there’s one for this song / The next one I switch up, this one will get bit up.”

Personally, Black Album is Jay’s finest work in term of his wise words and def flows. Whenever I am on the freeway these days, I set my cruise control at 70mph so that I don’t have to look out for the bitch-ass cops, and just experience the whole CD straight through with my eyes on the road and my ears and mind on his every word. Jay’s delivery is so natural and effortless that he could even punctuate his flow. In “Moment of Clarity,” he raps with confidence over Eminem’s hypnotic beat and violin sampling, “We as rappers must decide what’s most important / And I can’t help the poor if I’m one of them / So I got rich and gave back, to me that’s the win/win / So next time you see the homey and his rims spin / Just know my mind is working just like them… rims, that is.” Love the way he pauses and then adds in the parenthetic expression.

Unfortunately Jay has left his artistic vision behind and moved on to the business side of the game. Jay needs to get his ass off that CEO’s chair and back to the lab because the game needs his presence.

These days, many Vietnamese male singers, including Bang Kieu and Tran Thai Hoa, attempt to give their performances a smooth-out flavor by rounding up their vocals. Most of them end up in the sissy instead of sexy territory, which irritates my ears. Duc Tuan is one of a few young singers that could pull it off and still maintain his masculinity. In fact, his cocksure technique makes other cats sound like pussies. He has a fervent, handsome, and strong voice with a wide range of emotions, which allows him to bend and glide easily between rough and gloss phrasings.

His interpretation of Pham Duy’s and Trinh Cong Son’s music in Ngam Ngui… Chiec La Thu Phai is fabulously fresh. The album has only six tracks (three from each songwriter), but the quality of the arrangement and performance makes up for the quantity. His rendition of “Toi Ru Em Ngu” starts off with a strumming guitar, and then builds into a full-blown orchestration. The acoustic drumbeat in between gives the tune a contemporary aroma. In contrast to Nguyen Khang’s wry version of Pham Duy’s “Thuyen Vien Xu,” Duc Tuan’s gorgeous legato provides a warm, comforting vibe to the composition. Despite the opposite approach each singer takes, one quality remains in common is the testosterone in their delivery.

After proved his success with classic ballads, Duc Tuan takes on a different direction in Tinh Yeu Trong Sang with brand new songs written and composed by Quoc Bao. I support his bravado in breaking away from his comfort space, but Quoc Bao’s music isn’t suitable for his style. The title track is passable, but the rest is unenergetic. Even in “Dua Em” (a track that Tran Thai Hoa would slaughter), his soothing, relaxing flow isn’t bringing out its liveliness. Worse track on the whole joint is the corny, tacky “Hold On, Baby.” Duc Tuan’s English accent is barely understandable, and Quoc Bao’s lyric is just straight elementary. I could hardly distinguish what he sings, but the words go something like this: “All of the nights that I miss you / All of the stuffs that I gave you / … / Change the right to the wrong / when you leave my love.” I speculate that Quoc Bao tried to write within his limited vocabulary.

Two albums demonstrate where Duc Tuan’s strength is in. Experimentation is excellent, and I don’t expect him to recover old tunes again and again like many do, but he needs to choose his repertoire wisely. He definitely has the right voice and remarkable skills for intimate-atmospheric music.

If Viet Nam War’s politic is a boxing sport, no one punches the controversial bag harder than Asia production. In Nhat Truong/Tran Thien Thanh dedication, Asia, once again, elevated the art-of-war music and visual. Inducing the ebullience of an adrenaline rush, the show opens with explosive gunshots, flashes of bomb bursts, and smoke of ashes. Accompanied by the battling stimulation of the musical arrangement, Thanh Lan approaches “Anh Khong Chet Dau Anh” with a heart of a combating woman. Her voice soars with braveness and her face expresses courageousness. Her strident performance packs more heat than the oven door.

Even though the video is filled with political propaganda, Asia have managed to balance it out with mesmerizing performances from start to finish—even Trish and Asia 4 are listenable in the remix of “Tinh Thu Cua Linh.” Asia’s musical producers, especially Truc Ho, have an ear for making old tunes sound fresh and clean. “Bay Ngay Doi Mong” is a gorgeous bossa-nova orchestration with the invigorating mesh of violins, saxophone, and piano. Both Truc Mai (old generation) and Y Phuong (new generation) bring their unique voices to the tune. Another delightful arrangement is the simple picking-guitar on “Ta Tu Trong Dem,” a song I loved when I was a kid, and hearing Phuong Dung’s ageless voice floats over the rumba rhythm strikes a nostalgic chord.

“Han Mac Tu” is a savory gap-bridging performance between Thanh Thuy and Y Phung. The contrast between Thanh Thuy’s thick, raucous voice and Y Phung’s thin, clear vocals produced an intriguing effect. Y Phung is pretty damn hot too (hopefully she won’t turn trampy any time soon). Speaking of appearances, Kim Anh’s figure looks amazing for her age and in the sky-blue ao dai (long dress). Her slightly raspy voice is marvelous next to Tuan Vu’s warmness. While we’re on long dress, what Diem Lien puts on—the black dress, the pearl necklace, and the hairstyle—epitomizes a Vietnamese woman.

Nguyen Khang is a bit disappointed in “Khi Nguoi Yeu Toi Khoc” with Ngoc Ha. He doesn’t hit the high note like he gets to do at the end of the program with the group collaboration, in which he is assigned to take charge of the bridge. Don Ho’s rendition of “Tinh Dau Tinh Cuoi” isn’t so bad, but he could not surpass Ngoc Lan’s version. In “Tinh Co Nhu Khong,” the young Anh Minh is even better than the wannabe-young Mai Le Huyen. The attempt of pairing up Da Nhat Yen and Pham Khai Tuan is a huge mismatch. Putting a rhythmless dude who could barely pull off a two-step move next to my dancing queen, what were they thinking? Should have let her run the show herself.

The most bone-wrenching performance is Lam Thuy Van and Lam Nhat Tien’s “Nguoi O Lai Charlie.” The cries of Lam Thuy Van’s voice combined with the image of a helmet positioned on a gun gave me a chill. Asia 50 is undoubtedly an audacious political statement. Too bad the video is filmed after the talented songwriter Tran Thien Thanh/singer Nhat Truong had already left us. Imagine how much more powerful it could have been if we could hear the man himself talks about his own work. Now that would be priceless.

Knowing that I am a scat freak, a colleague of mine handed me Jazz for Kids: Sing, Clap, Wiggle, and Shake—an album he bought for his daughters—so that I could listen to Clark Terry “Mumbles” over Oscar Peterson’s glibness of piano technique. It turns out that I already have this masterpiece (of course I should have it because I am a jazz piano freak also, and Peterson was my man), but the whole record blows me away. It is such a fantastic compilation for kids to jam with.

Ella Fitzgerald has me swinging to “Old McDonald” with her playful rendition. By applying her melodic embellishments and child-like sensibility, she makes one of the most annoying songs of all time sounds superior. The arrangement is hypnotizing—particularly the way the trumpet imitates the chicken sound. In contrast, Slim Gaillard uses his vocals to imitate the chicken voice in “Chicken Rhythm” and his scat sounds exactly like a trumpet. The result is amazing. I am having a blast grooving to the “Chicken Rhythm” like a little kid in the roller-skating ring (I am sure you all remember those chicken dances).

From Lionel Hampton’s “Rag Mop” to Carmen McRae’s “When The Red, Red, Robin Comes Bob, Bobbin’ Along” to Blossom Dearie’s “Doop-Doo-De-Doop (A Doodlin’ Song),” Jazz for Kids is a perfect collection for both the parents and kids to enjoy. If you love jazz and would like to introduce her to your kids, this album is highly recommended. But make sure you let them know that Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” is not true jazz. Not sure why it was included in a jazz album when Pops had tons of classic scat songs in his early Hot-Five-and-Hot-Seven days. Other than that, I have been rocking this kiddy joints again and again just so I can feel young all over again. Now let me go train my two-year-old nephew, who doesn’t want to talk yet, to mumble along with Clark Terry and show my six-year-old niece to do the chicken dance, or the other way around.

Is it just me or the album cover of Tran Thai Hoa’s Tinh Khuc Le Uyen Phuong is a rip-off of Michael Bublé’s It’s Time? Other than the ugly typography on Tran Thai Hoa’s CD, the black suit and the loose tie are dead-on identical. Disgraceful is on Thuy Nga’s graphic designer as well as fashion artist. Why do I always disdain Thuy Nga’s products? Because they have been making desecrated music continuously, and Le Uyen Phuong’s songbook is another instance.

Except for the blues-inflected “Vung Lay Cua Chung Ta” and the bossa nova-flavored “Noi Buon Dang Nho,” the twelve remaining tracks are wimped-out, noodling, and vulgar efforts to revamp old tunes. The arrangements are drowsy, especially the overexploitation of the fuzak saxophone (“Buon Den Bao Gio”) and trumpet (“Cho Lan Cuoi”), yet Tran Hoai Hoa’s snoring voice is drowsier. His rendition of “Da Khuc Cho Tinh Nhan” is being crushed like black peppers by Nguyen Khang’s powerful and savory version. His cheesy phrasing (especially his enunciation of “hoa”) in “Tinh Khuc Cho Em” is so gay and lame.

Since Thuy Nga productions have not been able to release any new music, they have to find a way to pull listeners’ cash out of their pockets (thanks to the Internet, or I’ll be damn broke by now with piles of junks). And they do so by polishing up old songs and assigning to someone who is least expected from the audiences to be able to pull them off. The tactic of Tran Thai Hoa sings Le Uyen Phuong is not much difference from Minh Tuyet collaborates with Bang Kieu. What is the end result? Both albums flop, but people will buy them to find out how bad they sound. I, too, take great pleasure in listening to mundane music in order to appreciate higher arts.