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.

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.