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.

Workboy (homeboy at work) Tim got me hooked on The Beastie Boys through iTune’s sharing. I’ve been rocking Paul’s Boutique like it is the freshest shit since LL’s “Rock the Bells.” The ingenious samplings—old-school beats, metal-guitar riffs, and jazz-keyboard licks—are groovy as hell. Getting past their in-your-face voices, one can find their skillful trading lines to be exhilarating. Their punch rhymes are witty as well: “A lot of parents like to think I’m a villain / I’m just chillin’ like Bob Dylan / I smoke cheeba it helps me with my brain / I might be a little dusted but I’m not insane / People come up to me and they try to talk shit / Man, I’ve been making records since you were sucking on your mother’s dick.”

One of jazz’s techniques always mesmerizes me is scat singing—an improvisation of nonsense syllables. Louis Armstrong is the father of scat and he invented the vocabulary singlehandedly. During a recording session, he dropped the music sheet so he mimicked the trumpet with his voice. On “Hotter Than That,” Pops improvises, “rip da du da du da / du-ya dad a dit dip bah!” He sings like he would play his trumpet—full of emotion, tone, and virtuosity.

If Satchmo was the pops of scat, Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan were the mamas. Like Pops, they both could produce horn-like sounds with their vocals. While Ella was known for her nimble-voice, Sarah was famous for her gorgeous vibrato. Ella’s rendition of “Rockin’ in Rhythm” and Sarah’s “Sassy’s Blues” are perfect illustrations.

Recently, I was introduced to Martin Sexton from someone who shares my passion for jazz. Sexton’s scat improvisation on “13 Step Boogie” is eccentrically beautiful. His voice is an instrument in itself, and I love his cool, effortless style and versatile vocals range. What strikes me is that Sexton is not even a jazz singer, and yet he could move in and out of jazz so freely.

As for Vietnamese singers, the only one (I know of) that could scat is Tung Duong. On “Lua Mat Em,” the way he weaves his voice around the female background vocalist is stunning. As if he is a trumpet complementing her singing.

Tuan Ngoc is still the king of Vietnamese ballads. On the title track of Vi Do La Em, he heightens Dieu Huong’s standard with his dexterous delivery. He starts off the first two bars with an exotic-gruffed, low baritone then gradually moves into his archetypal, superb phrasings. The changes are subtle but electrifying. As if he could color the timbre of his voice, stroke a gradient from dark to light, and progress from frostiness, “Khong can biet em la ai,” to fondness, “Ta yeu em bang may ngang bien rong.”

Tuan Ngoc does it again on Ngo Thuy Mien’s “Noi Dau Muon Mang” just like what he has done with “Rieng Mot Goc Troi.” He soars like a bird with a broken wing, especially when he ends with, “Em co hay khi mua thu toi, ta mat nhau mot doi.” From Nguyen Dinh Toan’s “Can Nha Xua” to Dieu Huong’s “Phien Da Sau” to Chau Dinh An’s “Tinh Khuc Mot Ngay Buon,” his execution remains undisputable: the breath control, the sophisticated rhythmic sense, and the immaculate intonation.

Together with his sister Khanh Ha, Tuan Ngoc refreshes Doan Chuan and Tu Linh’s ballads with an intoxicating, blues-inspiring medley and rejuvenates Vu Thanh An’s standards with a mid-tempo flavor. Often time, Tuan Ngoc can’t ride groovy beats, but Khanh Ha pulls him on board with her. He also seems to like the technique of singing two separated songs simultaneously when performing with someone else. The method works well on Vu Thanh An’s medley because they both have an astonishing sensibility for harmonic. The effect is sumptuous when Khanh Ha’s full, flawless vibrato balances with Tuan Ngoc’s free-floating falsetto on the overlapping delivery, and they know how to stay out of each other’s path.

Vi Do La Em is a solid album because of Tuan Ngoc’s music selection. He knows how to make a song his and how to express the lyrics as a personal statement. For instance, many singers have succeeded in performing the title track, but none has brought a new dimension to it like the way he does. He is a virtuoso interpreter of ballads.

Out of all the Asia’s princes, including Lam Nhat Tien, Le Tam and Gia Huy, Duy Linh is the only one that has a distinctive style. Although he could move in and out of trendy pop tunes, his forte is in the Vietnamese folk tradition, and his Tra Em Cay Dang Mong Vang proves it. Too bad he only recorded one solo album before Asia dropped him.

Most of the time, Vietnamese folk songs required strong and clear voice from the singers. Duy Linh is rare scenario. He doesn’t have a powerful voice, and his range of emotion is limited too. In a way, Duy Linh is similar to Miles Davis who found his own comfort zone in the middle register while Dizzy Gillespie was the master of playing high notes. So instead of reaching for the upper range, Duy Linh focuses his style in the cool, relaxed vicinity. As a result, his phrasings are more natural, which brings a new sound to the traditional folk. He also knows how important is it to secrete his breath. That’s a bonus.

What makes Tra Em Cay Dang Mong Vang works is not Duy Linh’s skillful delivery alone, but also the crisp, ingenious and flavorful production from Truc Sinh. Without the colorful sounds, especially from the traditional instruments, to complement Duy Linh’s effortless approach, the album might end up in the sleepy zone. From the mid-tempo rhythm section (Anh Bang & Tu Nguyen Thach’s “Tra Em Cay Dang Mong Vang” and Dai Phuong Trang & Quang Tu’s “Qua Cau Hat Ly Xa Nhau”) to the soothing groove (Vu Duoc Sao Bien’s “Dieu Buon Phuong Nam”), Duy Linh has plenty of rich, soulful beats to ride with.

With the special appearance of Yen Phuong whose voice is as clear as crystal and as sweet as sugarcane (in a natural sense), the album featured three delicious duets. On Nhat Thien’s “Mai Tranh Mo,” they have created a scene that is filled with lyrical romance of a young, loving couple whose dream was to build together a tree house next to a cool waterfall surrounded with singing birds. The sounds of various traditional instruments add gorgeous details to the piece, which helps me to visualize the pure and lovely image in my mind. On Dinh Tram Ca’s “Trang Hon Tui,” I envy the way they harmonized together as if they could connect and feel each other’s vibes for real. For instance, when he croons, “Ho… oi, em di lay chong,” she completes with, “Em lay chong nhu ca can cau.” The chemistry between the two is unbreakable just like a fish caught on a hook. On Han Chau’s “Ve Que Ngoai,” the way they try to convince each other to visit their mother’s mother homeland gives me a nostalgic sentiment. Imagine taking a sweet girl with a Chinese-TV-series-actress appearance like Yen Phuong to see your grandmother, wouldn’t she be proud? Even my dead grandmother would be glad to witness that in heaven.

Tra Em Cay Dang Mong Vang is an album that could bring listeners the aesthetic beauty of Viet Nam no matter where they are in the world, even in the caves where Bin Laden is hiding, and all they need is an iPod. I can’t even remember how many times I rocked this joint back-to-back when I first copped it eight years ago. The music is still fresh every time I come back to it for an experience of escapism.

In retrospect, Don Ho (Vietnamese not Hawaiian) made some interesting changes in his singing career. The good part was that he moves closer to the root. When he first stepped on the scene in early 90s, he chose mostly French and English standards. As he created a name for himself, he glided into translated melodies, and then slowly began to cover Vietnamese ballads as he gained more confidence. Don Ho captured many hearts, including mine, with romantic tunes such as Truc Ho’s “Trai Tim Mua Dong,” Duc Huy’s “Nhu Da Dau Yeu” and Ngo Thuy Mien’s “Tinh Khuc Buon.” At the high point of his career, he came out with Vuc Sau Hanh Phuc, an album that showed a new and exciting path for Don Ho and his fans.

In addition to ten original tunes from nine Vietnamese musicians around the world, Don Ho also works with a number of talented musicians to get the sound he wants. On the album starter, Nguyen Dinh Loi’s “Nguoi Mai Chua Ve,” the flourishing and soothing arrangement from Peter Tran and the composer himself provides a musical space for Don Ho to pour his smoky baritone into the notes with intensity and intricacy. On Van Duc Nguyen’s “Nhip Buoc Hoang Vu,” producer Dong Son cleverly weaves Chi Tam’s traditional sound from the single-stringed instrument (dan bau) into his organic vibes. The result is an ambient arrangement that is perfect for Don Ho’s soulful delivery. With Sy Dan’s lust, mysterious orchestration backing him up, Don Ho nails Vo Thien Hoang’s “Ngoai Cua Thien Duong” right on the sentimental spot. In contrast, Sy Dan’s dark, gothic theme doesn’t work too well on Trang Thanh Truc’s “Goi Nguoi Xa Voi.” Fortunately, the bonus track, which is a slow version, is illustrious. Although Tung Chau’s production is not as rich and cinematic, it works better with this particular piece, and Albert Von Seggern’s sweet sax on the break heightens the listening experience. Tung Chau has also done a marvelous orchestration on the title track allowing Don Ho to express the lyrics to their fullest. On the Latin-infused fusion, Mai Nguyen’s “Tren Ngan Le Sau” and Bao Tram’s “Tieng Duong Cam Cua Nha,” Don Ho’s raspy quality adds an intoxicating flavor to the ballads.

Vuc Sau Hanh Phuc is a Stella effort that proves Don Ho’s full potential as well as his versatile artistry. The album also raised the bar so high that he has been struggling to top it for years. Even though his latest work, Con Nghe Tieng Goi, shows tremendous technical improvement in his vocals, the materials he covered could not surpassed the cutting-edge concept he has done on this album.

James P. Johnson’s Harlem Stride Piano. Johnson was the father of stride piano, a style that requires the player to do it all (beat, melody and bass), and it is very hard to accomplish. Even Jazzy admits that is it impossible to play with her small hands. My jazz history professor said that shaking Johnson’s hand was like holding a bunch of bananas. One of Johnson’s stride masterpieces is “Carolina Shout.” It’s like a test for anyone who wants to play stride piano. Even Duke Ellington had to work hard to mater it. In addition to his contribution as jazz pianist, Johnson could also play classical music. His Victory Stride is a breathtaking example.

Fats Waller’s The Joint is Jumpin’. Waller was Johnson’s student and also a brilliant stride pianist. His “Numb Fumblin'” is filled with a variety of rich and imaginative tones. His rendition of “Carolina Shout” is no less virtuosic than his teacher. Waller even succeeded with popular tunes like “Honeysuckle Rose” and “Ain’t Misbehaving.”

Count Basie’s The Complete Decca Recordings. Basie started out as stride pianist then developed into his own blues-inflected style. He was the master of understatement, and was famous for playing the spare keys because he had a solid rhythm section behind him. His version of “Honeysuckle Rose” is different from Waller because of the few tasty notes Basie tagged his name on it.

Theolonious Monk’s Criss Cross. My man Monk also came out of the Harlem stride tradition, but his style was full of angularity and outside standard sound of bebop. His stylistic tick was playing downward, cascading scale, and he loved the flatted fifths. He usually played clotted alter chords and was heavy into the beat. His rendition of “Tea for Two” and “Crepuscule with Nellie” were interestingly and intentionally fractured. Like his personality, Monk’s use of space in music was way out there. And what I love about Monk’s playing is the dissonant, disruptive and unpredictable variations.