Adrienne Pierce

Some albums lift you out of your seat. The music turns into magic and replaces whatever lingered in your thoughts. It’s amazing; it’s beautiful. Music with such powers compels writers to scribe glorious documents of such beauty, to share the love of such fantastic sounds. On the other hand, there is some music that has no energy, no emotion and lands on your lap like a pile of bricks, causing writers to lift the weight from their knees and force out some words about the lack of inspiration. Then there are albums that land smack dab in the middle. They don’t quite create ripples in your skin, nor do they invoke the thought of ripping your ears off. When the record is done they don’t leave much of a mark on anyone or anything, but they most definitely haven’t harmed the existence of music. What do reviewers do with these types of albums? These albums that simply fall through the cracks, or if you will, slip between these fault lines. Los Angeles’ female chanteuse seems to have gotten herself in a rut.