O Kia, look who’s back? The young, witty, and eccentric Ngoc Khue, whose debut Ben Bo Ao Nha Minh remains a rare work of art, strikes again. After writing a highly favorable review of her first album, I wanted to test the water by playing it at a family-gathering dinner, which included about twenty people. The reactions were what I had expected to be: “What the heck is this music?,” “She can’t even sing,” and “She sounds like ‘len dong’ (calling the spirit).” The last comment is not so far off, but I would prefer to call her style as running-the-voodoo-down. And that is exactly what she has accomplished in volume two, her newest release, by weaving Vietnamese traditional folk into western flavors including jazz, funk, pop, rock, and semi-classical.

Like her previous album, O Kia marks another imaginative collaboration with fusion master Le Minh Son who penned six out of seven tracks and produced the entire album. In the lead-off title track, slinky songbird Khue paints a gorgeous rice-padding scene with white butterfly on the flower, a laughing bee, and a singing bird. The cha-cha beat gives the song a nice, mid-tempo rhythm, but it is her unusual phrasings that take the track to the anomalistic level. Her superb, bizarre technique is best observed on “Bo Song.” Sporting an unorthodox delivery, Khue floats her big, deep, slightly graveled voice in and out of the savory jazz-funk groove. What makes “Bo Song” a masterpiece is the way she swaggers from soulful to playful phrasings with effortless verve, and she has the requisite chops to maneuver her way into the blend of folk, funk, and jazz. Khue switches her flow in the semi-classical “Toc Tha Thuyen” soaring her strident timbre into the soul-soothing sounds of violin and keyboard accompaniment. “Tinh Tang” and Nguyen Cuong’s “Em Khong Vao Chua” are her rock-folk experimentations, and she rocks them both with her prevailing delivery and prodigious techniques.

Once again, Khue offers out-of-the-trend freshness to the Vietnamese musical scene. She also brought her own distinctive style to Le Minh Son’s music. I am so glad that she continues to excel in the avant-garde path she has chosen. Her execution is a tremendous improvement: more confidence, less breathy, and unafraid of vibrato. Her performances can make the mass listeners feel uncomfortable because they are ill-prepared for something that is way too far out there. Khue’s work is not the type of art form that speaks for itself. If we don’t get it, the commiseration is on us.

Bang Kieu and Minh Tuyet on the same album? What was on Bang Kieu’s mind? Moving from Khanh Ha to Minh Tuyet is like trading in a Lexus for a Corolla. But most people love economical car and Thuy Nga is a business-oriented production; therefore, the collaboration is understandable. Pairing up an idiosyncratic combination to provoke curious listeners has always been Thuy Nga’s marketing strategy even though they know damn well that these two voices don’t go together. In their integrated-effort Boi Vi Anh Yeu Em, we can tell right away that they don’t harmonize on the opening duet, Thai Thinh’s “Phut Giay Minh Chia Tay,” with the way they trade lines. Bang Kieu sings high notes while Minh Tuyet stays in the middle register. When they join forces, he has to switch to a lower range to mesh with her weaker vocals.

Although Bang Kieu has a striking countertenor of a voice, I still can’t get over his feminine quality. He needs to smoke some cracks, weeds, and cokes or do whatever it takes to deteriorate his gay-ass timbre or roughen it up. I actually started to accept him when he performed with Thanh Ha and Khanh Ha on Paris By Night videos, but now he takes me back to when I first described his singing as a hen-esque voice (giong ga mai). Crooning bubblegum pop tunes only makes him sounds campier, especially on the Chinese-inflected “Boi Vi Anh Yeu Em” when he caramelizes the words “hoi em” and “cho quen” on the second verse. Why he chose to sing Phan Dinh Tung’s composition is beyond me. I suspect Minh Tuyet puts him up to it.

As for princess Minh Tuyet, whom is she trying to seduce by flaunting out her chest on the album cover? Even Bang Kieu has to close his eyes to avoid staring at her breasts. He knows better not to mess with Trizzy Phuong Trinh. She would beat the shit out of him if she caught him peeping at a younger girl’s cleavage. Minh Tuyet may look sexy (depends on the angle of the viewer) but she can’t make Phuong Quynh’s “Anh Da Ra Di” sounds as sexy as Ho Ngoc Ha could. From the raucousness of her voice to the voluptuousness of her groove, Ho Ngoc Ha epitomizes sexiness. Even her rap delivery is more sensuous than Minh Tuyet’s stilted flow. I heard Cam Ly’s version of Minh Vy’s “Ke Dung Sau Tinh Yeu” not so long ago, and now her sister covers it. Which one do I like better? Neither. I can’t eat too many sweet candies. They make my bad teeth more pejorative. But I am sure young people who have good teeth will chew on this album like a bar of chocolate, especially fans of Minh Tuyet and Thuy Nga, but Bang Kieu’s followers may be disappointed.

Thu Hoai who is a Visualgui.com’s frequent visitor and one of Philly’s finest vocalists invited me to check out her live performances in front of a small crowd around 100 people. Since I was in the nearby area yesterday, I decided to drop by and I am glad that I did. Thu Hoai is passionate about music, and her singing proved it.

She approached Nguyen Van Thuong’s “Dem Dong” with confidence, and she knew how to transform one of the most beloved ballads into a personal statement. Unlike Diem Lien who presented “Dem Dong” in Asia’s 75 Nam Am Nhac Viet Nam exactly as the composer intended it, Thu Hoai was able to incorporate subtle but individual nuances into her phrasings. There’s always a risk in breaking the composer’s original intention. A singer could either ruin or enhance the work. In her performance, Thu Hoai enhanced it.

With Phu Quang’s “Em Oi! Ha Noi Pho,” Thu Hoai’s gruff, tangy, and authoritative voice brings out the lyrics’ semimetal aesthetics: “Con duong vang ri rao con mua nho / Ai don cho ai toc xoa vai mem.” She then moved toward fitness-enhancing tunes to please the crowd since part of the show included dancing—somebody had to entertain the mack daddies. She packed the floor with Anh Bang’s “Tango Tinh” and ABBA’s “The Winner Takes It All.” I am ashamed to say that I was sitting back and envying the pops getting their groove on with the chicks that are young enough to be their daughters. (“Who’s your daddy?”)

Highlight of the concert is when Thu Hoai provided listeners with an intimate experience. Supported by simple strumming guitars, she poured her heart out on Vu Thanh An’s “Tinh Khuc Thu Nhat” (accompanied by Phu), Trinh Cong Son’s “Tinh Nho” (accompanied by Phu and Dung), and “Nhu Canh Vac Bay (with her brother Minh). Due to the sound issues, the guitar sounds were barely audible, which left Thu Hoai’s singing almost naked as if she was doing a cappella. Although her performances were imperfect, they were full of soul. She took her time to articulate the lyrics.

Music aside, Thu Hoai is a down-to-earth lady. Although we met for the first time last night, we have known each other for while on Visualgui.com. Our love for music (she’s the singer, I’m just the appreciator) brings us together like brother and sister. Big sis, keep the vibe alive. Thanks for the special dedication (“Dem Dong”) and the shout out to Visualgui.com.

When it comes to rain, nobody pours like my Lady Day. The way she expresses the word shine in Harold Allen’s “Come Rain or Come Shine” sounds like a tiny candle glowing wearily in a dark corner and eventually blown out by her naked wind of emotion. I have listened to various rendition of this song (Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Ray Charles, Gayle Moran, Eric Clapton and B.B. King), yet none could drag the sadness out of it like she does. When she phrases, “I’m gonna love you like nobody’s loved you,” her desperation has become uncontrollable, and the pouring rain outside added a bone-wrenching sorrow to her singing. I had to stop listening to Holiday because she commends full attention and I needed some sleep. With my Billie’s collection, I am sure I could listen to her for two days straight.

I switched to Hong Nhung’s Thuo Bong La Nguoi for something soothing and relaxing to lull me into my night. I dropped the volume down to an almost mutable level so that the arrangements ease back and rain could cascade into her voice. The result turned out to be unexpected. Trinh Cong Son lyrics came to life. In “De Gio Cuon Di,” Hong Nhung’s delivery froze me when she croons, “Hay nghieng doi xuong nhin suot mot moi tinh / Chi lang nhin khong noi nang.” Trinh’s wordplay is amazing. He was able to tilt life and look at her in a different perspective, but only to observe quietly without a word. He had to be a lover of life to have such a beautiful soul or “tam long” (Is it “loving-kindness?”) as he suggested, “Song trong doi song can co mot tam long. De lam gi em biet khong? De gio cuon di” (To live your life you need a loving-kindness. Do you know what it is for? To let the wind twirls).

The experience of listening to music with the sound of rain in the stillness of the night is incomparable, but it also contributed to my insomnia. Although my brain doesn’t function too well today, my works tend to carry more emotions when I am half asleep. I am in a perfect state of mind for designing but not coding.

On his new album, Fishscale, the Monster of Don a.k.a. Ghostface Killah does what he does best—spitting crack tales in vivid details. To illustrate that he is still the hardest-working dopeman in the business, Ghost chucks out the hooks and pushes 64 bars straight in “Shakey Dog” right off the bat. He sounds hungrier than ever. Packing words into the beat like a crack dealer stuffing his cocaine into a bag, Ghost’s energy brings a filmic experience to his narration: “Frank pushed me into the door / the door flew open / Dude had his mouth open / Frozen, stood still with his heat bulging / Told him, ‘Freeze, lay the fuck down and enjoy the moment.’ / Frank snatched his gat / Slapped him, asked him, ‘Where’s the cash, coke, and the crack?'”

If I need a recipe for making cocaine, no need to look further than the crackmasters in “Kilo.” With Raekwon who is also a descriptive lyricist joining him, Ghost lays down the process of manufacturing coke like Emeril prepares his favorite soup: “Big heavy pots over hot stoves / Mayonnaise jars and water / With rocks in ’em / Got my whole project outta order / Kilo is a thousand grams / Beige, gold, brown, dirty, fluffy, tan / Extract oil come from Cuban plants.” Another flavorful collaboration between these two Wu-Tang members is “R.A.G.U.,” a violence scene in which Ghosts finishes with, “Yo Lord! I knocked out his teeth / Now he’s rocking those false joints like everything’s peace.”

Fishscale’s productions are tight, but what drive the recordings are Ghost’s dynamic deliveries. In “The Champ,” Just Blaze’s orchestration is crazy—hard beat fused with chaotic guitar and harsh horns arrangement—Ghost’s flow is crazier, and he lets nothing overpowered his voice. On the sentimental “Whip You with a Strap,” the late J Dilla sampled Luther Ingram’s “To the Other Man” and provided a soulful beat for Ghost to reflects on his childhood memory in which he was belted by his mother for his rudeness: “Mama shake me real hard / then get the big gat—that called the belt. / ‘Help me,’ as I yelled / I’m in the room like ‘huh, huh, huh’ with mad welts / Ragged out, bad belt / Yes her presence was felt.”

With a solid release filled with aesthetic qualities, Ghost has proved that he still stands strong in the hip-hop community at the age of thirty-five while many of his peers have gone. He has not only maintained his style, but also improved and refined his techniques over the years. Fishscale confirms that Ghost is keeping the game on lock.

What I missed the most about Tupac Shakur a.k.a. Makaveli was his realness. True, he was a dope lyricist, but it was the sincerity in his delivery that brought his rhymes to life. So when he said, “Fuck the world,” I felt him. His death shook me because he always rapped about gun and annihilation as if he knew he would catch them sooner or later. His posthumous The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory (the only piece of my ex I have not destroyed) sounds like he has planned his earthly departure.

On the opening “Bomb First,” Pac’s ferocity gushes like adrenaline rushes—as if it is his last chance to rhyme before fading to black. In the beginning of “Hail Mary,” he screams, “Uhh, feel me!” I could sense the hopelessness in his voice; therefore, when he rhymes, “I ain’t a killer but don’t push me / Revenge is like the sweetest joy next to getting pussy,” he was convincible. The antagonism continues on “Me and My Girlfriend,” a Pac’s version of Bonnie and Clyde that laced with sex and violence: “I love finger fucking you, all of a sudden I’m hearing thunder / When you bust a nut, Niggaz be ducking or taking numbers.” On “Just Like Daddy,” Pac wants to become a father figure to his girl and promises to take away her pain. Not sure how he would do that since he claims that you’re “screaming like you’re dying every time I am fucking you.” I suppose he takes away her emotional pain by giving her pleasurable pain. But that’s Pac, a man who had nothing to hide when it comes to speaking out his mind. And the self-expression is what I love about hip-hop.

A few readers still find it surprising when I write about hip-hop. Their perception is that I am not the hardcore or tough type of guy. What does my personality have to do with the music I listen to? My appreciation for hip-hop based purely on its aesthetic values: the beats, the flows, the rhymes, the structures, the techniques, the deliveries, the wordplays, the imageries, and the experiences. Hip-hop is a form of art that allows artists to truly bare their soul, and that was exactly what Pac did.

Phu Quang is a renowned songwriter who treasures every second of his life. 69’59”—the title of his latest work (Phu Quang Vol.11)—signifies the pulses of his heart and the lifespan of his songbook as he welcomes listeners into his “Quan Thoi Gian” (Stall of Time) performed by the young singer Ngoc Anh. Their collaboration is a fruitful one because she brings beautiful drama to his simple, lyrical compositions with her gravel pit of a voice.

Ngoc Anh has the right chops for the bossa-nova “Lang Dang Chieu Dong Ha Noi.” She knows how to float her dirt-flecked timbre around the Latin-inflected groove and the exotic keyboard licks. And she pours when she rains. Ngoc Anh streams her heart out on the acoustic guitar in “Khuc Mua Thu” and drowns her emotion in the sentimental “Truoc Mo Cha.” With “Chieu Phu Tay Ho,” she surprises the listeners with her handling of traditional folk. Her overcooked quality gives the piece a soul-soothing touch.

69’59” is a savory album because Phu Quang’s compositions are easy to listen and his lyrics are straightforward but never comes across as mundane. The producers—Thanh Phuong, Do Bao, Vinh Tam, and Viet Anh—also earned their proper for the effervescent arrangements. As much as I admire Ngoc Anh’s dark, warm sensuousness, I am still not contented with her aspirate delivery. Although she has reached deep into the music with her soulful interpretation, she needs to silence her breathing to complete her perfectionism.

As I am listening to Nguyen Khang’s rendition of Dieu Huong’s “Vi Do La Em” from his boxed sets with the same name, I wish that he had applied to this track his rough, raw, and rugged delivery that was used on Elton John’s “Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word” from his debut Cung La Tram Nam. The result would have been so damn wicked because he has the ability to metamorphose the basest metal. Imagine what he would sound like kicking off the song with, “Khong can biet em la ai” in his thuggish flow. Too bad, he played safe and performed it in a straightforward approach. If I get a chance to see him in concert, I’ll make him sings the ballad the way I want to hear it (dream on, Donny). Speaking of live performances, the collection included two exceptional recordings—Pham Duy’s “Tam Su Goi Ve Dau” and Vu Thanh An’s “Tinh Khuc Thu Nhat”—in which he ripped live like a professional assassin, efficiently perfecting his execution. Out of all the forty tracks selected, Nguyen Khang made more hits then misses on the standards of well-known songwriters including Trinh Cong Son, Ngo Thuy Mien, and Tram Tu Thieng. I have accumulated both Nguyen Khang’s box sets from Bien Tinh Music, but I rock Vi Do La Em more often than Trai Tim Ben Le.

Da Nhat Yen is my video girl. I love to watch her on Asia. I am not ashamed to say, her moves groove me most of the time. She keeps me looking forward to her performances on Asia series because of the constant transformation in her concept and execution. Under the guidance of Truc Ho, musical director of Asia, she could maneuver her ways around various styles. With her Princess Entertainment (still distributed by Asia), however, she is drowning in her own pool of potpourri. Her album, which has no title, is ranging from bubblegum pop, pop rock, pop jazz, disco rap, Latin cha cha to Vietnamese ballads. I wonder why she can’t pick out a title track. One song can’t represent her entire repertoire.

The album starts off with R. Williams and G. Chambers’s “Kids,” a pop/rock production from Peter Siebert. Joining along side DNY is the girlish-voiced Justin. Their duet on the refrain annoys the hell out of me. On the club-friendly “Voi Anh Dem Nay,” penned by DNY and Sy Dan, the Vietnamese-English hook is nerve-raising. I thought Spanglish is bad, until I hear how DNY weaves English into Vietnamese. With the new-wave groove, Sting’s “Send Your Love,” DNY sports a Twista’s speedy flow. The main problem is that I have no idea what she is singing with her unclear enunciation.

The worse cover has to be Jesse Harris’s “I’ve Got to See You Again.” DNY can’t express the sex quality like Norah Jones could. In particular, when Jones phrases, “To not touch your skin is not why I sing,” her smoky contralto makes us want to get our freaks on, but DNY comes off so mundane. Another significant difference between the two renditions is the musical production. The intoxicating Latin flavor on Jones’s piece is perfect for baby-making music while Nhat Trung’s banal arrangement and Vu Anh Tuan’s toneless saxophone is more appropriate for elevator music. Again on Pham Dinh Chuong’s “Nua Hon Thuong Dau,” the ear-breaking sound waves of the saxophone makes DNY’s weak, breathy voice sinks like a Titanic.

Why be so tough on such a sweet darling who tries her hardest to bring us some entertainment values? I have nothing against Da Nhat Yen. In fact, I still have mad love for her, but crafting an album takes skills and experiences. Can’t just throw in everything for everybody. Be selective, be focused, and be original. But don’t lose the eye-candy juice, baby!

When someone said that she would marry a piano rather than a man, I don’t blame her. I am in love with the keyboard sounds myself. I spent An Evening With Chick Corea and Herbie Hancock and was seduced by their prodigious playing. Both Corea and Hancock are virtuoso pianists and their improvisations are endlessly inventive. The way they performed together feels like they were making their instruments copulating to produce a unifying spirit that flows free and flies high. While the two found their soul mates in their duets, I found a soul mate in their music.