Vuong Dung, winner of Sao Mai Diem Hen (Vietnamese Idol) in 2005, is under the influence of Thanh Lam. No harm in that, as long as she could carry her individual style. And she has with the rendition of Pho Duc Phuong’s “Khong The Va Co The” in her debut Trai Cam Mat Troi. Although her flow and phrasing are drawn heavily from Thanh Lam, she knows how to steer her performance away from the queen of pop, and makes it her own.

With a powerful, light-scratched voice and a marvelous intonation, Vuong Dung brings a new aroma to the Vietnamese pop fragrance, and her distinctiveness can be found in Nguyen Cuong’s “Thanh Pho Mien Quan Ho.” She rides skillfully in and out of the up-tempo arrangement, takes her time crooning the folk essence, and recites naturally the witty rhymes. On top of all that, she isn’t afraid to play around with her delivery, which makes her performance so elating. Furthermore, her northern style is so damn seductive that listening to her accent makes me want to sleep with her. And when she pours her heart out on the jazz-flavored “Bao La Buon” (also a Nguyen Cuong’s composition), I wish I could fly to her and take away her immeasurable loneliness by touching her hair, face, and whatever sad parts on her body. But when she gets rough and rocked-up in “Trai Cam Mat Troi” (another song from Nguyen Cuong), you know she is no weak soul. If a woman wants to pick the “orange sun” just to give it to you, what more could you ask for? If you could have that woman by your side, the world is yours.

In the album-closer “Ben Song” written by Nguyen Hoang Ha, songbird Vuong Dung completely changed her flow, and yet still giving the tune a heartfelt presentation. Besides the captivating vocals, what leaves listeners yearning for more is the striking orchestration from Duc Nghia who is the main man behind album’s productions.

Jazz was originated in America, but has been embraced worldwide. Musicians around the globe have been using her rhythms and syncopations to introduce their own music to the world. Lately, the blending of eastern and western sound is becoming a new trend. The Twelve Girls Band is being recognized for weaving traditional sounds (Chinese instruments) into pop and jazz styles. Recently, the Mezcal Jazz Unit from France has teamed up with Vietnamese musicians to bring us Tim Gio (Looking For the Wind), a collaborative effort between two cultures.

As much as I appreciate the attempt from these musicians to bring something new to the table, I don’t experience a smooth fusion connecting the two groups. But instead, each instrument fights for your ears, like the whole Wu-Tang Clan is spitting in one mic. The reed section blows its own horn. The traditional instruments (dan nhi, dan bau, dan tranh) strike their own chords. The weak rhythm section does not swing. The saxophone improvisation is monotonous or lacks humanistic expression most of the time, but when it gets dissonant (on the title track for instance), it becomes John Coltrane’s sheets-of-sound imitation.

The biggest problem with Tim Gio is the chaotic sounds coming out of multiple directions. That’s not the way jazz-fusion works. When Miles Davis recorded Bitches Brew, the sounds came together coherently even though he had multiple electric keyboards, multiple drums, multiple basses, and multiple horns playing at once. The end result was an organic sound that felt so damn natural to the ears.

The album also has tried to provoke conversations between eastern and western instruments, but the outcome is like one speaks Vietnamese while the other speaks French in a mashup dialogue. The exchange is not even close to what avant-garde Ornette Coleman had produced forty-five years ago in The Shape of Jazz to Come. Coleman’s sax and Don Cherry’s trumpet were carrying on a call-and-response effect provided by the incredible rhythm section from bassist Charlie Haden and drummer Billy Higgins.

Too bad Tim Gio didn’t find its wind, but at least it is a perfect album to relax with. And I am feeling the dan t’rung (a musical instrument of the minority people in the Central Highlands of Vietnam) vibration in “Cent Pour Cent” played by Cao Ho Nga.

Ange Maya’s digital illustration is what I see when I listen to Miles Davis’s Bitches Brew, which has been on heavy rotation in my car. The two-bar ostinatos from the mixture of acoustic and electronic sounds, especially on “Spanish Key,” run down your spines like pumping cool waves into your vein with a needle. Davis’s organic, space, chillout flavors gave jazz and rock a beautiful marriage as if they were meant for each other. The album released in 1969, yet it still sounds fresher than ever. Don’t care what the critics said, Prince of Darkness was an inventive genius and Bitches Brew is a masterpiece.

What in the world is Khanh Linh doing with her sophomore Ban Mai Xanh? She is trying way too hard to be modern, yet her soprano voice, which is more adequate for traditional music, hardly flows with the contemporary productions. Quoc Trung’s electronic arrangement is rich and colorful on “Ngay Khong Mua,” but Khanh Linh’s languorous delivery works against it. I can’t even believe what the hell I am listening to when she attempts to swing on Nguyen Manh Cuong’s “Du Anh Khong Den.” Through her flow and lacking of technical skills, I could sense that she has no groove at all. Even the keyboard solo swings much better than her vocals. When she goes schmaltzy on Giang Son and Nguyen Vinh Tien’s “Giac Mo Trua,” her breathy, windy delivery is definitely suitable for an afternoon nap. I had hope for her when she released her debut, but I am completely disappointed now. She has a remarkable voice, but damn she is using it wrong.

Before Trinh Cong Son’s music being molested, there were a few artful Trinh’s songbooks. Don Ho’s Ha Trang is one of them. Although the album released three years ago, it still sounds much fresher than the new ones out there now, thanks to trackmaster Dong Son for laying down crisp, imaginative productions. With a blend of organic vibe and electric flavor, Dong Son and his soundmen (Dustin Ngo on piano, Gary Garriton on harp, Le Ngoc on acoustic guitar, and Vu Anh Tuan on saxophone) blow new grooves into Trinh’s composition. Don’s rendition of “Dem Thay Ta La Thac Do” is still the most innovative reconstruction so far. While he gives the lyrics a light touch, his voice flow like water cascading down the waterfall-sounding arrangement. In “Xin Tra No Nguoi,” he maintains the buoyancy in his delivery to allow the trance-fused beat to do the renovation of the aged tune. The best part of the club-friendly “Nghe Nhung Tan Phai” is when Dustin Ngo breaks down his short but hypnotizing piano solo, like Chick Corea is in the house. Even though not every track is as successful as I would hope, Ha Trang, which is way underrated, still has its creative moment that deserves the recognition.

As much as I worship the ground he spitted on, I am fucking done with Trinh Cong Son’s albums. Seven LPs (“Tinh Khuc Trinh Cong Son”) released in Viet Nam within the last couple of months: two instrumentals from Lang Van production, two from Hong Nhung, one from Lo Thuy, Thai Hoa, and Khanh Ngoc, and let not include an array of albums in which three or four of his songs slipped in. How ridiculous is that? I am sure singers have many respect for Trinh, but they are abusing his work for their own good even if they don’t intend to. And they all have legitimate reasons for singing his music: I am in the stage of my life where I need Trinh’s music; I could feel his lyrics; I get a strong connection with his words, like telekinesis; Everytime I sing his music, I could feel what he was saying and what he had been through. Last year, the trend was how to make Trinh’s music sounds difference by throwing in some jazz and semi-classical elements or screaming their lungs out. This year, they want to stay with the original context and sing his music the way he intended. What a bunch of bullshit. It’s sad to witness his work being desecrated to the point of no control. I am sure Trinh Cong Son’s timeless work will never die, but right now it is becoming diegetic music. It’s really a damn shame.

Hip-hop is a form of music that people either love or hate. As soon as they hear “we don’t love them hoes,” they immediately dismiss hip-hop as unaesthetic, and they disdain the whole culture. Rap is only the voice of hip-hop. There are other elements to hip-hop such as DJing as the sound, b-boying as the motion, and graffiti as the visual. My appreciation for hip-hop is deeper than the music itself. Unlike many Vietnamese Americans, I struggled to learn English through books and classes; therefore, I used hip-hop to study English, which explains the tone, grammar, sentence structure, and style in my writing.

As much as I love rap music, it is damn near impossible to convince my cousins, who are doctor, dentist, pharmacist, college professor, and computer engineers, that hip-hop is a work of art. Back in the day, it was not so hard to breakdown how Rakim‘s lyricism is art even when he uses the analogy of an addict to describe his obsession with hip-hop: “I’m just an addict, addicted to music / Maybe it’s a habit, I gotta use it / Even if it’s jazz or the quiet storm / I hook a beat up, convert it into hip-hop form / Write a rhyme in graffiti, and every show you see me in / Deep concentration, cause I’m no comedian.”

With today’s hip-hop, breaking down the music as an art form is much harder. As much as I dig Cam’ron‘s vibrato flow as well as his silly but witty figure of speech, his lyric is unfeasible to support. How could we even explain something like this: “First pile up in the rear, I style up in my gear / Stallion of the year, medallions in my ear / Whips on my fists, houses on my wrists / Your budget on my neck, your spouse on my dick / Posters on the wall, posted on my balls / Dick in her mouth, I tell her (I’m getting money nigga)?” Well, as you can see, all he’s saying is the money you spent buying his record is on his bling while your wife is on his thing.

Not that I need to persuade anyone to listen to hip-hop, but I still believe that rap is a powerful music that allows artists to express themselves. As far as I am concern, rap music will never be fully blossomed in Viet Nam. Besides the lack of knowledge from the imitated Vietnamese MCs, Viet Nam has no such right as freedom of speech.

Vpop chicks nowadays are like imported sport rides. Each needs to get supped up with at least a set of rims and an occasional rear spoiler in order to be in the club. Not too many appreciate their manufactured features the way Vy, a recent pop star from Van Son Entertainment, does. She may not be blessed with fats in the right places, but she works with what she has. I enjoy some of her video performances. Her reminiscent of Aaliyah doesn’t bother me since someone has to take on the stature of the Queen of the Damned.

With a lovely face, groovy steps, and eccentric attire, Vy fits into the mold of Vietnamese pop culture; however, what sets Vy apart is her ability to express her own drama. Vy’s first solo, My Story, comes straight from her pen. Neither her lyrical skill nor her voice is at Mariah Carey’s level, but Vy could definitely articulate herself. The album opens with a fluster of gossips before Vy tells her side of the story about her pipe dream: “Once upon a time I was this young girl / Who had a love for the stage / Never wanted to be a doctor / or a layer to get paid / And now I am all grown up / Still doing what I love.” In “This Is Me,” she speeds up her flow over the physical-enhancing production to give us a bit more details about her: “I’m sweet and chic / And got a little naughtiness in me.” That’s good to know baby. Nothing is sexier than a good girl gone wild, and a little bit of naughtiness can always spike things up too.

Highlight of My Story is when Vy addresses the “Haterz.” The lyric is witty, the beat is catchy, but Vy’s voice is a bit understated. Yet, I have to give props to the girls on the intro for sounding just like two white-washed banana heads. The turning point of the album is when Vy becomes a “Lovaholic.” The worst hook is in “My Man.” The way she refrains—“my man, my man, my man… yeah…”—bugs the hell out me. To the point where I just want to scream out, “Enough of your man, fuck him.” To make shit worse, comes a lame-ass rap from Aposle Son whose stilted flow is no less infuriating. And just as I thought the torturing is over, “Doin’ to Me,” which comes right after “My Man,” continues to irritate my nerves with the sped-up sampling (a straight jack from Just Blaze’s production for Jay-Z’s “U Don’t Know”) of a high screeching voice crooning, “you don’t know what you’re doing to me baby.” Yes, I do. You’re killing my ears harshly with your sound, Gopinath.

Besides Tuan Ngoc, Nguyen Khang is the only hope left for the male vocalist in the Vietnamese-American music scene. And no, Nguyen Khang does not imitate Tuan Ngoc. That’s an erroneous statement I have heard and read over and over again. So let me set the record straight. Tuan Ngoc is a technical master. He could make a straightforward ballad like Dieu Huong’s “Vi Do La Em” sounds complicated with his skillful delivery and vocals manipulation. The only drawback is that average listeners would have a hard time absorbing it. How many times have people complaints that Tuan Ngoc is boring? On the other hand, Nguyen Khang simplifies his performances and allows his emotion to pour into the songs. His technique is not to use technique; therefore, his style is accessible to a broader audience without suffering the aesthetic values.

What I find interesting about Nguyen Khang is that he could bring a new dimension to timeless standards as well as providing a raw, unique quality to popular tunes with his dark, throaty, and broody voice. In his new album Dong Doi, released by Asia Entertainment, he revives Frank Sinatra’s classic “My Way” in a Vietnamese rendition translated by Nam Loc, and reinvigorates Nancy Sinatra’s “Bang Bang” (Vietnamese lyrics by Pham Duy) with the help of Diem Lien. I rarely find translated tunes to be listenable, but the lyrics in these two tracks are well crafted, the vocals are tight, and the arrangements are refreshing, especial “Bang Bang,” which comes with three different flavors.

Truc Ho is undoubtedly a talented producer, and also a reputable songwriter. The problem is that he always spoon-feeds Lam Nhat Tien, even though the whippersnapper has not been able to articulate Truc Ho’s compositions to their fullest potential. Thank goodness, Truc Ho handed his weeds to the right carrier this time. With a bohemian style, astringent voice, and unconstrained flow, Nguyen Khang delivers “Nho Den Em,” “Chang Khac Gi Nhau,” and “Neu Khong Co Em” the way they should be: powerful, thoughtful, and soulful. In Vu Tuan Duc and Truc Ho’s “Nhung Dieu That La,” Nguyen Khang rides effortlessly inside the tasty keyboard licks and swinging programmed drums.

Out of the three guests—Diem Lien, Lam Nhat Tien, and Vu Tuan Duc—the lady is obviously the ideal companion. Diem Lien’s sweet, tangy voice reflects perfectly with his hoarse, bad-boy’s timbre. Together they soar and sting like birds and bees on Anh Bang’s “Mai Toi Di” (poem by Nguyen Sa) and the savory medley of “Ky Dieu” (Anh Bang, Nguyen Sa) and “Anh Con No Em” (Phan Thanh Tai). With Asia’s unmistakable sound, Nguyen Khang’s gifted voice, and a handful of well-chosen tunes, Dong Doi is not a letdown at all. So don’t beat yourself down, man. The new generation of Vietnamese-American music is on your shoulder. Keep pushing that weight, Khang.

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.