Andy Quach’s K.O. damn near knocks the musical taste out of my ears. It’s a globalization (not world music) album with pop, hip-hop, r & b, and Chinese all roll in one. The problem is that I don’t hear any Vietnamese aesthetics in there. If Andy doesn’t team up with Cat Tien to croon them Chinese-translated ballads, he partners up with Nguyen Thang to bring us bubblegum pop, pseudo hip-hop, and soul-deadening r & b. The lamest shit has to be “Gotta Be,” in which Nguyen Thang does his fagottized vocalization for some “Fake McCoy” to rhyme over, and Andy’s voice is lost somewhere in the groupie chaos. How the hell did Andy even become a singer? He has no voice, no skill, and no style. His half-ass singing/half-ass rapping in “Vien Dan Tinh Yeu” is cheese-fucking-z, and he could hardly ride the beat. Why trying to beef up the masculine image on the album cover when the vocals can’t live up to it? Let the voice defines the music, not the hairless chest, pretty boy.

DMX was one wicked demon with an unbaptized mouth. After a brief intro, he opened his second album, Flesh of My Flesh, Blood of My Blood, with, “I got blood on my hands and there’s no remorse / and got blood on my dick cause I fucked a corpse.” That was my dawg X: hardcore, ruthless, and raw. The first time I encountered Dark Man X through “Get At Me Dog,” he struck me like a bullet zipping by my brain. His voice was murky; his flow was rough; and his bark was vicious. In his debut, It’s Dark and Hell is Hot, X moved from the street into the bedroom into the church without feeling awkward. The beats were harsh; his deliveries were harsher. Too bad, X lost his swag after the second album. With three consecutive flops and three years later, X is now in studio preping up his come back. We’ll find out if 2006 is the Year of the Dog, Again.

I hate to grab hot chicks by the bundle, but Loan Chau is another one of Thuy Nga’s sexy foxes who could glamorize the screen much better than she could sing. She has the kind of look that makes me want to hurt her (in a good way), and the kind of voice—saccharine, soulless, no range, and zero vibratos—that makes me want to choke her (in a bad way). Her newest release, Khuc Tuong Phung, which featured twelve brand new tracks written by Hoai An, is filled with mundane romances. She hardly pushes her delivery (yet still blows mad air), and the arrangements are full of Chinese accents and smooth saxes. The combination is suitable for bedroom music that could easily put people to sleep. By the time I get to the fifth or sixth tracks, I have already been knocked out.

No homo! Cam’ron refers to the term more than once in his latest release Killa Season. Does he need to clarify that he’s not a fagot? Coming from a cocksure misogynist whose rhyming skill is indisputable when he bashes women, I find it to be amusing and ironic. In “Touch It or Not,” featuring Lil’ Wayne, Cam’s lyrics are malicious—“On your knees, show you how to top a boss / Lick, suck, deep throat, stop, cough, hop on, hop off, lollipop off / I know it’s white, but here come the hot sauce”—but his flow is so tight that he could makes the nastiest word sounds witty. Not that I worship the ground he spits on nor I support his violation of women, but the motherfucker knows damn well how to swing his dick to the beat, and at the same time, he manages to get the ladies to groove along.

Like Purple Haze, Killa Season’s narrations are nothing more than “Girls, Cash, Cars,” which exemplify the gangster’s glamorousness. The pitfall of the album, however, is way too many guest appearances, and is lacking hot beats. Even Cam’s virtuous deliveries can’t hold the recordings together. The sped-up sampling of Etta James’s “You’re Gonna Make Me Cry” in “Leave You Alone” is irritating. Cam’s off-key singing in “He Tried to Play Me” is awful. Stick with rapping, Killa. Cam also throws shots at Jigga in “You Gotta Love It,” but his punches are so weak that Jay-Z doesn’t even give him half a bar. When it comes to hustling and battling, Cam’s rhymes are nowhere near Hov.

Just when I thought Cam’s wordplay is vulgar—“I collect the chicken, call me Purdue”—he catches me by surprise with the cocaine metaphor in “White Girls.” Backed up by The Beat Firm’s Spanish-tinged production, Killa Cam steps up his game with his sharp, whimsical relationship with Snow White: “My pride and joy, I call her butter / When she bakes a cake, we’ll be lovers / She lives with me right, I hide her from my mother / See, she wouldn’t understand, I’m supplying the gutter / I let my baby hang outside with the brothers / Come back, cake on the bed the size of the covers / Shot five with a sucker, another five with a trucker / Took a hit without paying, won’t get a dime for my butter.” Too bad, Cam couldn’t swagger his way throughout the whole joint. No Killa classic.

Dorchester-based a cappella group, VariAsians, is consisted of Asian-American faces from various background such as Vietnamese, Chinese, and Philippines. By weaving eastern aesthetics into gospel, r & b, and soul, VariAsians give a cappella a new experience. Check out their rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner” for the Celtics’ game, and various sample clips, which include “Do Ai,” “Nguoi Oi,” and “Qua Cau Gio Bay,” in the “Media” section of their site.

Just happen to stumble upon Thao Music. Even though the site doesn’t give any information about the young Vietnamese girl who has a marvelous voice—raspy and clear at once—it does provide some full-length samples. Love the way she delivers “Hills.” Her singing is both playful and effortless, and she knows how to curl her throaty, bad-girl’s timbre around the waltzing arrangement. Enjoy her clear strumming guitar in “Moped” and “Feet Asleep” as well.

Although the album cover of Thanh Lam-Trong Tan—the most anticipated collaboration of the year—is as impressive as necrophilia, the use of typography tries to hint you something. The white-and-red color and the intertwined type treatment—Red Cross’s style—serve as a warning that you could get a heart attack listening to this album. That’s how powerful the recordings are.

Don’t give me wrong. I love strong voices. Trong Tan has to be one of the most authoritative male vocalists in Viet Nam. In fact, his voice is overpowering. I am talking about the hair-raising, nerve-stinging, in-your-ear kind of power, baby. And Thanh Lam’s voice is no less strident. So what happens when these two amplified crooners consolidate? The outcomes can be experienced on Le Minh Son’s “Hat Cho Con Ngay Mua,” “Xa Xa,” and “Thoi Con Gai.” Just imagine two motorbikes’ mufflers competing for your ears or making out to the sound of a buzzsaw. Trong Tan’s excessive use of vibratos in “A I A” and “Mua” could make bubbles rise in your blood stream. And please Tan, spare me some soul from those opera shit.

Besides the newly written compositions from Le Minh Son, Thanh Lam recovered Thuan Yen’s “Em Toi” and Thanh Tung’s “Giot Nang Ben Them.” Even though Tran Manh Hung’s semi-classical orchestrations breeze new vibes to the aged tunes, Thanh Lam’s breathy deliveries and heavy flows don’t make them sound any better than what she had done before—just another approach of getting things off her silicon chest.

Thanh Lam-Trong Tan is no way a flopped album. Le Minh Son has done his best to weave these two voices together as well as fuse Vietnamese traditional music into western vibes. I just hope that they weren’t overwhelmingly loud. Maybe I am just getting old for rambunctious music, which explains why I still haven’t been able to appreciate the boisterous aesthetics of rock.

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.