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.

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.

Although frog tastes way better than chicken, nothing compares to the fatty fish (ca hu—love her blubbery gut. Hand me them cholesterols, baby.) when it comes to the Vietnamese infamous Sour Soup. Mom did a fabulous job with Canh Chua Ech, but still not as banging as the original Canh Chua Ca Hu. However, a glass of sweet, smooth, and fruity Cagnina makes up for the missing fish as well as complementing the acetic flavor of the soup.

One more thinng. Unlike my mom, I dislike vermicelli with sour soup. The two simply don’t go together.