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.

Criticism plays a significant role in jazz. The critics not only helped spread the aesthetic qualities of the music, but also pushed the color line and challenged the racial equality in America. As someone who has been obsessed with jazz over a year ago, I spend innumerable amount of time catching up with jazz recordings, read the history of jazz, and digest doses of jazz-related essays. Yet, my knowledge is nothing compares to the level of details and researches John Gennari, an assistant professor of English at the University of Vermont, pour into his stellar Blowin’ Hot and Cool: Jazz and Its Critics.

With thorough documentation (57 pages of notes), gripping narration, and open-minded observation, Gennari captured one of the fascinating and engaging aspects of jazz: it’s writing. Blowin’ Hot and Cool sets off in 1935 with John Hammond and Leonard Feather—two white critics who started the jazz criticism movement—then progresses all the way up to Gary Giddins, Stanley Crouch, and my main man Greg Tate who is a brilliant, contemporary writer. What intrigues me the most about this book is that whatever the controversial issues were—critics vs. critics, white vs. black, musicians vs. writers, traditional vs. modern, politic vs. racism, underground vs. commercial—Gennari provides readers both side of the story and backs up his analysis with quotes and excerpts.

Again, as a jazz enthusiast as well as my interest in music criticism, Blowin’ Hot and Cool is an invaluable gem. It is more enriching than the nineteen-hour documentary of Ken Burns’s Jazz and much better represented than The Smithsonian Collection of Classic Jazz. And I strongly agree with Gennari that: “Somehow this jazz writing seemed more important, more necessary than the writing about rock and pop music. Many rock musicians were well-known celebrities; we saw them on television. We love their music because it was accessible. Those of us who were musical dabblers played rock and funk because they felt like native languages. If we ventured into jazz, it was as a second language, and it came with no guarantee of an audience.”

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.

DMX was one wicked demon with an unbaptized mouth. After a brief intro, he opened his second album, Flesh of My Flesh, Blood of My Blood, with, “I got blood on my hands and there’s no remorse / and got blood on my dick cause I fucked a corpse.” That was my dawg X: hardcore, ruthless, and raw. The first time I encountered Dark Man X through “Get At Me Dog,” he struck me like a bullet zipping by my brain. His voice was murky; his flow was rough; and his bark was vicious. In his debut, It’s Dark and Hell is Hot, X moved from the street into the bedroom into the church without feeling awkward. The beats were harsh; his deliveries were harsher. Too bad, X lost his swag after the second album. With three consecutive flops and three years later, X is now in studio preping up his come back. We’ll find out if 2006 is the Year of the Dog, Again.

I have designed a new theme to celebrate iLoveNgocLan.com‘s 3rd anniversary. Ngoc Lan was simply magnetizing.

Let’s “Samba” with Ngoc Lan (even the drummer went buck-wild) and share the sentiment she brought to Duc Huy’s “Xin Mot Ngay Mai Co Nhau.”

I hate to grab hot chicks by the bundle, but Loan Chau is another one of Thuy Nga’s sexy foxes who could glamorize the screen much better than she could sing. She has the kind of look that makes me want to hurt her (in a good way), and the kind of voice—saccharine, soulless, no range, and zero vibratos—that makes me want to choke her (in a bad way). Her newest release, Khuc Tuong Phung, which featured twelve brand new tracks written by Hoai An, is filled with mundane romances. She hardly pushes her delivery (yet still blows mad air), and the arrangements are full of Chinese accents and smooth saxes. The combination is suitable for bedroom music that could easily put people to sleep. By the time I get to the fifth or sixth tracks, I have already been knocked out.

With mom staying in the apartment, I have been going home for lunch everyday. I am giving up bacon cheeseburgers, sweet potato fries, beef chillies, oily pizzas, and all the greasy goodies Vassar offers for a simple meal consists of Canh Bau (Gourd Soup) and Ga Xao Xa Ot (Chicken with Lemongrass and Hot Peppers). Get to spend an hour with mom and enjoy her true-Vietnamese-flavored cooking is something to look forward to. Is it twelve o’clock yet? Life can’t get any better than this, baby! You’re missing out, pops.

Mad love to the woman who makes my life so delicious.

Interview clips of Nguyen Khang and Thanh Lam on RadioVNCR. Nguyen Khang is handling himself much better in this interview than the one he did with Truong Ky. Keep it real, man. Don’t sell your soul to those trendy tunes. As for Thanh Lam’s piece, nothing special, just a day in her life.

The New Yorker’s music critic, Sasha Frere-Jones, called Stephin Merritt, a rock musician and songwriter, a “rockist cracker” because Merritt dismisses hip-hop. The controversial issue has been heated up among the critic’s circle. Even The New York Times has mentioned it in an article entitled, “One Man Musical Tastes as Fodder for a Flame War” written by David Carr. Even as a fan of hip-hop, I have to disagree with Frere-Jones’s accusation of someone being racist just because that person doesn’t appreciate hip-hop. I don’t listen to cracker music either, but that doesn’t mean I am a cracker-hater. Merritt dislikes hip-hop not because he is a racist or a rockist, but because he is gay. I would be offended by hip-hop too if I am a fagot. In addition to their ignorance toward women, rappers are a bunch of homophobic thugs and pimps who aren’t afraid to admit so. Furthermore, the gay representation in hip-hop community is equal to none; therefore, Merritt, who embraces ABBA, doesn’t value the aesthetics of hip-hop is nothing new.