“I’m like fuck critics; you can kiss my whole asshole
If you don’t like my lyrics, you can press fast forward.” – Jay-Z

When reading a pathetic piece like Clive Davis’s “Hip-hop: 50 Cent Short of a Dollar,” I understand why Jigga disrespects critics, especially from an old, white, bigoted head who knows shit about the music. I don’t consider myself an expert in hip-hop, but anyone who only uses Black Eyed Peas, 50 Cent, and Kanye West to desecrate hip-hop is a joke. Mr. I-am-too-old-for-hip-hop should listen to lyricists like Rakim, 2pac, Biggie, Nas, Jay-Z, Common, and Ghostface before making such a foolish, generalized statement. Better yet, he should just stick to jazz, blues, and his Motown collections.

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.

Oh, what kind of dumb shit is this? A bunch of Asian chicks spitting white-trashed lines with screwfaces, real cute!

What a great sucking commercial.

Do me a favor folks. Listen to the lyrics in this kick-ass video then transcribe them for me. Go! Go! Go!

Hoang Viet Khanh’s “Bien Dong” (Raging Sea) peformed by Bich Van. What a gorgeous voice she has. Dig the mid-tempo arrangement by Hoang Cong Luan too.

“Ho Nhu,” music by Nguyen Minh Chau, lyrics by Quynh Huong, performed by Quynh Lan. Beautiful voice melts inside the intoxicating piano and violin works.

Pham Duy’s “Tam Su Gui Ve Dau” and Vu Thanh An’s “Tinh Khuc Thu Nhat” showcase Nguyen Khang’s live performance: raw, rough, and rugged. Dusty style, baby!

“Nguoi Yeu Dau” Ngoc Lan. Live video.

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.

Duy Manh is incorrigible. His vol. 3, Kiep Ban Do, is another distasteful, disdainful piece of crap. He needs to leave the saxophone alone because he’s using it wrong. He desecrates the instrument and rapes the culture. Manh, if this is a sickness, get some help pulling your shit together.

I have heard quite a few negative comments about song-writer/song-lifter Quoc Bao. To be honest, I only know his music (not that impressive) and not his personality. Not that I am interested in getting to know him, but when I came across his interview, I am more than shock to read his view on women. The sucker said that he’s afraid of women who have confidence in their talent. If women only talk about their “talent,” they will miss many things they wouldn’t know. He suggests that women should only be confidence in their beauty instead of talent. What a sexist bastard!

Every Vietnamese magazine I flip through these days, there’s coverage of Ngoc Lien. Yes, she’s the one that makes The Son looks like her dad in their duet on Paris By Night. No disrespect to The Son because I would look like a grandpa next to her even though I am much younger than The Son. That’s how good and fresh she looks. In a broadcast she did with Truong Ky, she told him that she is influenced by Khanh Ha, Tuan Ngoc, and Ngoc Lan, but she won’t perform music of Trinh Cong Son, Ngo Thuy Mien, and Tu Cong Phung because their music only attracts a small chunk of listeners. So she decided to go for more popular music for the mass audience. You want to slap her, but you sympathize her. Her voice isn’t strong enough to carry out those tunes, and she knows damn well that she can’t express these songs to their fullest potential. Basically, what she saying is that she has a good taste, but her listeners are idiot so she has to dumb down her music for them. Well, good luck. When people get tired of looking at your face, they won’t listen to your voice either.

Who Do You Love is a compilation of Jean Thompson’s marvelous short stories that appeared on major publications including The New Yorker, Mid-American Review, and Ontario Review. The book featured fifteen skillfully-crafted fictions ranging from shocking to reminiscing to disturbing to shattering to enlightening experiences. Thompson’s ingenious pen created engaging characters, amusing moments as well as heart-touching narrations. Each of her pieces—“The Widower” in particular—strikes like lightening: sharp, powerful, and unpredictable. A second reading is required for further appreciation of the splendid details.

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.