After a year and a half of hiatus, Thuy Tien—the rock chick who inspired me to create “Ao Dai Trang A Oi” motion slideshow based on her eccentric composition—makes a quiet return as Narcissus (“a young man who pined away in love for his own image in a pool of water and was transformed into the flower that bears his name.” –American Heritage Dictionary). The concept of dark, mysterious metamorphosis, which smoked up once again by producer and songwriter Quoc Bao, is a masterful complement to Thuy Tien’s introverted personality and idiosyncratic style.

Narcissus (Thuy Tien Vol.2) sets off the night mood with a brief a-cappella intro, in which Quoc Bao distorted Thuy Tien’s vocals to make her sounds like an alien from out of space. As soon as “Ngay Binh Thuong” begins, we’re maneuvered into her stream-of-consciousness epic. Even though the tune is just about an ordinary day, Thuy Tien floats her ethereal vocals into the hypnotic rock beat like a ghost passing through flying bullets, then ends the piece with a cute little giggle. On “Mo,” she lures us into her dream as she transmutes herself into a nightingale roaming away into the darkness. As the beat gets harder, her voice gets creepier. Yet the pinnacle of her vocal and lyrical artistry comes to life in “Dong Song Mo Coi,” in which she pens about her deceased father: “Dem buon nam khoc nho cha. Loi kinh me ru, ‘au o… au o… Ngu ngoan con nhe, cha di mat roi khong ve nua dau.’” After the soft and sensual piano lays down the harmony to escort her folksy crooning, the rhythm section takes over and rocks the joint up, but it is the Jimi Hendrix’s riff from guitarist Anh Tuan that sets the tune ablaze. Unfortunately, she departs from the hardbeat rock with “Bay Gio” where her voice becomes so banal that not even the jazzy keyboard could save the dullness. “Thuy Tien,” the title track, is a complete disaster when Nam Khanh pours his opera shit into the chorus. “Quen,” however, testifies her maturity in handling slow tempo. From her breath to her emotional control, you could feel her pain when she burns the night with her eyes, yet she doesn’t need your pity.

The outro “Nocturnal” almost closes out the album. Lord knows what she sings in English, and thank God the trance-flavored “I Could Still Love,” is a bonus track. I suppose when the bass thumps like it is about to blow out your speakers, you don’t need to make out what the hell the lyric is about. Quoc Bao, once again, is showing off his writing in English, and makes the poor girl suffers. Still, he’s a damn innovator, and a cocksure one too. Mad props to him and Thuy Tien for this groundbreaking work that surpasses Ha Tran’s Communication ’06 without making too much hype out of it.

Y Lan is one of those mamas who refuse to grow up. No crime in that, although you want to smack her sometimes for acting like a girl who just received her first period when she’s in her fifties. Even she admitted herself that she was born with it, so there is no point of changing it. The lady is just young at heart, soul, and sex.

When I first experienced her newest album, Hoi Tinh, I couldn’t figure out what the hell she was doing. There are folks, jazz, ballads, and even medley all roll into one. After several spins, however, I realized that the album is a huge sexual temptation. Right off the bat, she asks you (“Hoi Tinh”), love. Can you hear that she’s still calling you (“Con Nghe Tieng Goi”)? She can’t sleep at night waiting for the sun to rise so she can see you, love. You are her everything (“Anh La Tat Ca”), and it is you who takes all her worries away. She has enough of her old man who can’t seem to satisfy her anymore, as she confesses, “Thoi thi… thoi thi… nhu the cung song / Bao nam… bao nam chan goi trong hong gi dau? / Dang cay hon tui da nhieu / Le tuon nhu do tram chieu kho dau.” She needs a younger guy, someone who has enough strength to flip her world upside down because she is as wet as “Thac Do” (a Trinh Cong Son’s ballad). She also makes sure that you could hear her moaning and groaning, instead of scatting in the swing rendition of “Ao Lua Ha Dong.” And to make things more arousing, she’s mindfucking you up with “Khoa Than Dem,” a folks tune with lust, provocative lyrics that are full of lovemaking metaphors.

Y Lan is bad, but bad in a good way. If you’re a Catholic boy, I discourage you from listening to Hoi Tinh, because she will make you wanting to commit adultery. And that’s against the Lord.

Unlike Jay-Z, Diddy never gets the proper respect as a rapper even though he’s been in the game for who knows how long. That doesn’t bother him, and he doesn’t let it stop him from being an entertainer either. He still does what he does best: makes hip-hop hits for the broads. Somebody has to do it, and he knows he can’t do it alone; therefore, he invited everyone—from Nas to Twista to Big Boi to Mary J. Blige to Christina Aguilera to Jamie Foxx—to help his ass out with Press Play, his latest album. And unlike Cam’ron, Diddy makes sure he gets all the best beats to support his weak lyrics. Almost all the productions are tight to make you want to dance all night, and forget his shitty rhymes like, “Now that I have you here / Girl, let me take you there / Nothing can compare to fucking, fucking, my dear.”

After experiencing the Chanticleer live at Vassar College last night, I could see how it has deserved its title as “an orchestration of voices.” The a-cappella ensemble took us all the way back to 1901 classical music all the way up to contemporary jazz with twelve marvelous male vocalists ranging from soprano, alto, tenor to baritone and bass. The members were so in control of their voices that they blended together as a unit. The group performance of Korean’s folk tune, Jeeyoung Kim’s “Jindo Arirang,” was an exhilarated one. Eric Brenner‘s soprano voice sounded just like those Korean’s female opera singers when he shouted. Eric Alatorre, the man with the lovely mustache, has an intoxicating bass tone, particularly for the jazz cover. Of course, the group as a whole is spectacular. Check them out if you get a chance, especially those a-cappella freaks. (Yes, you Joseph!)

You must be thinking that I am out of my mind for associating two totally unrelated artists. Sure, Trinh Cong Son has been dubbed as Vietnamese’s Bob Dylan for his war-protested songs, but Jimi Hendrix? What’s the connection? If you listen to Hendrix’s Axis: Bold as Love, you’ll see where I am getting at. While both Trinh and Hendrix seemed to live in their own world, their worlds wouldn’t exist without earth, moon, and women. And we could see them in their whimsical lyrics. For some reasons, the fairy image in Hendrix’s “Little Wing” shares some similarities with Trinh’s “Ru Em Tung Ngon Xuan Nong,” particularly lines such as: “Well she’s walking through the clouds… / When I’m sad, she comes to me / With a thousand smiles, she gives to me free.” If that’s not convincing enough, how about Hendrix’s poetic description in “She’s so Fine” with “The sun from a cloud sinks into her eyes / The rain from a tree soaks into her mind?” Do these lines ring a bell? Trinh’s “Nhu Canh Vac Bay,” maybe? While Trinh’s philosophy is to live a happy life (“Hay yeu ngay toi / Du qua met kiep nguoi / Con cuoc doi ta cu vui”), Hendrix’s view is to live your own life. In the ending of “If 6 was 9,” he spoke softly, “I’m the one that’s gonna die when it’s time for me to die / So let me live my life the way I want to.” Alright, maybe I’ve been drawn way too deep into Hendrix’s psychedelic mind and soul. Maybe you’re right. I am out of my fucking mind.

If Nhu Huy’s volume one, Cham Vao, featured only Nghi Van, I have nothing to say. With Nhu Huy’s lackluster lyricism, Hong Kien’s lifeless production, and Nghi Van’s energy-free delivery, getting through two tracks in a row is damn near impossible. Nghi Van has a gruff voice, but lacks the soulfulness. On the other hand, Tung Duong is the cat that has tremendous soul, but forced to be restrained to perform Nhu Huy’s compositions. As a result, he couldn’t express Nhu Huy’s lyrics as well as he could with Le Minh Son’s songs. Like Ha Tran, Tung Duong constantly pushes himself, and unlike Ha Tran, he has the chops for scat-singing. Although “Nam Mo” isn’t outstanding, the track stands out the most in the album. Tung Duong weaves his weirdly-syncopated vocals around the up-tempo beat and gives a trumpet-mimicked scat near the end. Even though the arrangement in “Xin Dung Hoi Toi” is suitable for hot-tub music, the interaction between Hong Kien’s sax and Tung Duong’s voice is refreshing. So far, Tung Duong is the only Vietnamese male singer that has the potential for jazz vocals; therefore, he should develop further into improvisational style, and work on his vocal chords unto an instrument itself. Give me some hope, and stop fooling around with the pop shit.

Since Trinh Cong Son composed his songs on a guitar, they are best to be performed on a guitar. Too bad I haven’t have the fortunate of experiencing the artist himself strumming his heart out to Khanh Ly’s soulful vocals, but I suppose I could settle for Ha Tran and Thu Phuong in Loi Cua Giong Song for now.

Not that I need to kiss up to Ha Tran for what I have castigated her Doi Thoai 06, but I must give her the propers she deserves. Her rendition of “Mua Hong” proves that she doesn’t need all the hi-tech shit to be innovative. Accompanied by simple-picking guitar and subtle-plucking bass, she reinvented one of Trinh’s lyrical compositions with her effortless verve and harmonic sensibility. Now that’s the youthful Ha Tran I am rooting for. The one that could give me nostalgia with her unadorned interpretation of “Tinh Xa” and “Tinh Nho.”

In contrast to Ha Tran’s luscious sweet, Thu Phuong’s brooding quality is charming in its own way. Her streamlined approach in “Co Mot Dong Song Da Qua Doi” is both exhilarating and touching, like she could come out and swing even though it rains inside. And when she rains, she pours on “Nay Em Co Nho,” “Roi Nhu Da Ngay Ngo,” and “Tinh Sau.”

Mad props go to the guitarists—Huynh Huu Doan, Dang Huy Hoang, Do Dinh Phuong and Nguyen Xuan Thao—for bringing back the minimalism in Trinh’s work. And of course, can’t forget Vu Anh Tuan for those dope-ass bass lines.

Fuck Christina Aguilera. Diana Krall’s From This Moment On is what I call “Back to Basics.” With a dark, raspy voice, Basie-inspired piano (sweet and tasty), and real accompaniments (full orchestra and quartet), Krall takes us back to the big-band swing and soulful blues. She not only knows how standards should be sung, but also how they should be reinvigorated. She doesn’t croon over trip-hop or high-tech beats and exaggerate her style as groundbreaking. The inventiveness is in her piano solos and scat-singing improvisations. From bossa-nova “How Insensitive” to sensual-swinging “Day In Day Out” to mellowed-out “Willow Weep For Me,” Krall keeps the good old jazz spirit alive with a contemporary sensation.

The more I listen to Khanh Ly’s recordings of Trinh Cong Son’s music prior to 1975, the more disappointing I get with her later works. Not only her voice has dreadfully deteriorated (easy on the cig, ma), but also the soulless, fake musical arrangements that killed the aesthetic experience. Especially the productions made from the early days in the States, the monotonous beats served nothing more then just to maintain the rhythm.

While the rain was pouring outside last night, I went through 86 tracks of Trinh’s collection that Khanh Ly had recorded during the mid 60s and 70s, and I just want to throw all my other Trinh’s collections out the window, including her own after 1975. Her voice was incomparable, and she had the whole nine yards (real drums, bass, piano, guitar, saxophone and trumpet) backing her up. I am wondering if our music were influenced by American jazz at the time because even the drums had that jazz’s rollicking style in them. Her version of “Bien Nho” is timeless. Her voice was filled with sentiments, and the muted sax was just soul wrecking. I can barely get through the rendition of “Mua Hong” from Thanh Lam and even Ngoc Lan without yawning, but Khanh Ly’s effortless, ethereal vocals keep me coming back for more. I disliked her latter version of “Xin Mat Troi Ngu Yen,” but her former version is totally irresistible. That cascading piano’s gushes make the tune ageless. But the classic component of the collection is in those political pieces that are rarely covered today. Compositions such as “Chinh Chung Ta Phai Noi,” “Toi Se Di Tham,” “Canh Dong Hoa Binh,” and “Nhung Giot Mau Tro Bong” were simply begging for peace. So I don’t know why they have been banned.

Even though the computer-generated productions today are top-notch, I wish our musicians went back to the basics to bring real humanistic quality to their works. Call me an old-school head, but after listening to these soulful masterpieces and then went back to Ha Tran’s Communication 06, how the fuck did we go from treasure to trash? It’s definitely time for me to give up on Vietnamese contemporary shit and stick to the good oldies. Call me a sell-out, but I’ll be looking for real modern, innovative music elsewhere, besides Viet Nam. Fuck all that Vietnamese acoustic fusion shit.

Ha Tran must have been on Ecstasy when she made Doi Thoai 06 (Communication 06), a way-too-over-hyped album in which she sounds mad high over the zoned-out, overdosed beats. By drowning her vocal lines into the space-trance arrangements, electric Ha boasts it up to be her most groundbreaking work up to date. Save me the chuckles, girl. The musical production is nothing more than the softcore, wimped-out, and girlish ripped off from The Crystal Method, The Chemical Brothers, and Prodigy who set the underground breakbeat and bigbeat trend a decade ago. So where does the innovation play in Doi Thoai 06? Weaving Vietnamese aesthetics into acoustic sound? We have fused jazz, blues, world music, r & b, and hip-hop into Vietnamese repertoires, and now Ha Tran takes a step further with the concoction of E-gorging style. Revelation.

The album kicks off Nguyen Xinh Xo’s “Giac Mo La” (Delusive Dream) with speaker-traveling effects, pseudo-organic sounding that works against her voice instead of enhancing it. Then Tran Tien’s “Ra Ngo Ma Yeu” (Leaving The Alley) begins with children singing over soft but big beat, which also ended up overpowering her small voice. The instrumental “Tieng Goi” (The Calling), written by her and her man, is like playing with high-tech effects made possible by GarageBand. The remake of “Mua Bay Thap Co” (Mist Over The Ancient Tower) is a damned sacrilegious rendition. While the beat suggests Gothicism, she sings about Buddhism. She really needs to get off that coke. As for “Deep Water,” she sings, “wet me up” instead of “wake me up” and “unbreakaball” instead of “unbreakable?” The mispronunciations show that if the song was about “Deep Throat,” she could have pulled it off with her technical skills. Breathe in, breathe out, and take it all the way down. (I need to get off the coke myself.)

Doi Thoai 06 has demonstrates, once again, Ha Tran has desperately tried to reinvent herself. I support artist who constantly pushes her work to the next level, but she needs to stay focus on mastering one style before moving on to the next. And the more she attempts to progress beyond Nhat Thuc (Solar Eclipse), the more regress she gets.