American Idol runner-up Adam Lambert is set to release his first full length disc, aptly titled ‘For Your Entertainment’, in less than a week. After snagging a copy early and giving it a listen, it is safe to say that this Idol? Deserves every bit of recognition and praise he has received.

FYE delivers everything that one would expect from the flashy Lambert, featuring 15 tracks including ‘Time For Miracles’, from the soundtrack of the John Cusack film 2012, and the soon to be released first single ‘For Your Entertainment’.

From snappy dance beats to power ballads worthy of 1986, this album is a breath of fresh air in a mediocre music scene over saturated with Miley Cyrus’ nasally whine and the regurgitated rap beats that frequent Top 40 radio. One might say that Adam Lambert is a one man Glam Rock revival, and while some of his songs are worthy of the Spiders From Mars, he’s just as much Arena Rock as glitter and glamor.

To put it simply: if Poison made sweet love to David Bowie? Their love child would be Adam Lambert and his opus would be ‘For Your Entertainment’. Tracks like ‘Strut’ and ‘Fever’ will make you want to dance (possibly in a sexually inappropriate way), while power ballads like ‘A Loaded Smile’ will have you whipping out your lighter faster than Bon Jovi’s ‘Bed of Roses’.

Through all 15 tracks, Lambert showcases the vocal range that made him famous, and once he has your attention? He’s not keen on letting it go, which makes this record even more riveting.

Best lyrics: We’re coming up like killing machines/Our big guns gonna shatter your scene

We are the face of the new generation/We are the ones who have no reservations

Best Tracks: Sure Fire Winners, Soaked, Strut, Master Plan

All in all? An album well worth the money. Pick it up, you’ll have no regrets!

So on Thursday, 8-20, I had the privelege of seeing Blink 182 at the Verizon Wireless Ampitheater in Indianapolis, IN thanks to Island Records. First of all, let me express the fact that I despise this venue. Parking is in a muddy grass and gravel field, with very poor lighting, and the venue itself has a rather miserable lay out. That, however, is neither here nor there. Just a personal assesment that I felt the need to express.

The evening immediately started off with a bang, as a 9 (maybe 10) year old boy in front of us was consuming a 20 oz beer right off the bat. Though slightly amusing, it was rather off-putting, especially when a VWA worker stood right in front of the kid, looked at him, basically watched him take a swig and walked away. Acceptable? Not really. We would have turned the kid in (along with his older brother the supplier) but after he finished it off he didn’t have another so we had no actual proof. Such is life.

The show itself started rather early at 6:30, with a band/group/guy? named Chester French. Needless to say, they were very disappointing and all I really remember is talking through their noise. Panic! At The Disco was next, and while they were very impressive (loving the new line-up even if it is temporary) the crowd was not impressed.

Fall Out Boy as next on the bill, and as always they delivered a great show. The only problem at all was the crowd. Through all three opening acts they were the deadest crowd I had ever had the displeasure of being part of. No one was excited, singing along, or dancing. Well, there were a few exceptions (us being two of them), but I was disgusted by the number of people booing and complaining.

Once FOB was finished, it was finally starting to get dark (this is the midwest in the summer, darkness doesn’t fall until around 8:30) and it was time for Blink 182. I had high hopes that maybe the crowd would finally get into the music. I was sadly mistaken. I suppose in reality that this was due in part to the fact that the majority of the crowd was seventeen or under. Not to say that teenagers can’t enjoy a show, but for the most part you could tell by scanning the crowd that the people who were truly there for the music? Were the people who had experience the band in their prime. Depressing, but true.

Despite the horrible crowd, and despite the overabundance of ridiculous acting 15 year old boys? Blink 182 delivered. They weren’t quite as stage savvy as they had been in their hayday (Mark, Tom, and Travis Show anyone?), but they put on the show that we all came there to see. They played all of their hits, and a few other songs that many of us old school fans were familiar with, and that was what I had came for. I didn’t come because Travis Barker was on that MTV show, or because Pete Wentz is hot, or because I liked that song I Miss You about Jack and Sally. I came because I went through my middle and high school years with Blink 182. I went through my college years with Fall Out Boy. I came because music is what I know, and love, and at the end of the day?

I know my reasons for being there, and the rest of the crowd? Well, they aren’t my problem. I had fun, I heard great songs, and I went home with a sense of happiness one only gets from rattling bass lines and mumbled lyrics. Thanks, guys, for making it turn out good.

Set lists:

If you wish to know the set lists from this show for any of the bands (besides Chester French, because I took a nap not gonna lie), feel free to leave a comment and I’ll be sure you get it!

Who’s going!?

So it’s 6am and I’m flipping between watching VH1’s Jump Start and indulging my almost disturbing NCIS fetish. Occasionally I stumble upon an inconvenient moment wherein both channels are flashing commercials I’m not interested in, and my twitchy remote finger takes me on the infamous Quest For Something To Hold My Sad And Sorry Attention Span. I can freely admit I’m completely incapable of going 2.5 seconds without something to amuse me.

Anyway, I come across a short infomercial. It’s for some kind of drain snake for getting rid of clogs, and they’re offering a large one and a small one for just $10.

But wait! Call within the next twenty seconds from a Verizon cell phone in the Virgin Islands while standing on one foot and simultaneously patting your head and rubbing your stomach, and they will double the offer. That’s four drain snakes plus self-adhesive hooks to hang them up in a closet somewhere where you can conveniently forget all about them!

I don’t even know how the hell to use a drain snake, and to be honest, I wouldn’t even if I did. The world within my house’s plumbing is a sacred space all it’s own, a sort of creepy, black magic-ridden kingdom not fit for the light of day to shine upon it. Horror movie after horror movie has assured me that if I take the filter out of my drain and leave its gaping maw open and undefended, all manner of indecent beasts will have unrestricted access to the World of Light. Not only will I then have to get off my lazy ass to fight the forces of darkness to send them back into the depths from whence they came, but the government would probably bill me for any Reserve aid I may have to eventually request.

Not to mention, bugs live in drains. You take the filter off a drain, you’re just asking to deal with bugs. I go out of my way to stay far, far away from Nature, especially members of her Ew Disgusting category.

That said, on a completely different note, Lady Gaga videos continue to confuse the hell out of me. I’m going to give up on ?:1 this morning and go make a cake.

Stay sassy.

Zap out.

30 Seconds To Mars seal and glyph desktop calendar for July, 2009.

So I’m sitting here drinking way too much coffee, writer’s block beating me over the head with life’s Magical Jackhammer of Go Get A Real Job, wondering what I can do to actually be productive in the world. I know I could do plenty of things, like write to my congressperson on important issues or put my degree to work and go do some publishable research on the human condition, or even just get up and clean the fucking house because God knows it needs it.

Instead I decided to trawl the Walmart website and order a new computer monitor. You may not think that’s very productive at all, but let me tell you, that pointless drivel spilling from my keyboard? Is still useless drivel, but now it looks utterly amazing on my brand new 20” monitor. This baby is sleek and black and sexy and has built in speakers I can’t figure out how to work, so there is no falling asleep at the keyboard on this sucker with those sixty thousand decibels of sound blasting your face off.

As I speak (type?) I’m watching Voltron: Defender of the Universe on my Netflix account and making a 30 Seconds To Mars calendar for my computer desktop for July, because I can fit a bunch of windows open at once. And it is delicious, my friends.

Obviously I’m completely failing at being productive, so while I’m doing nothing of use I may as well toss out mention of Cobra Starship’s upcoming new album, Hot Mess. So far I’ve only heard Good Girls Go Bad, and while the video sucked balls the song is pretty good. Very dance-worthy, like all of CS’s stuff. It kind of makes me want to pull on some fluorescent plastic boots, do a few lines of cocaine, and have a private party that will require intense clean up in the morning.

Okay, the Voltron Force is about to find the five lions, and quite frankly that’s more interesting than this since it’s animated and requires less coherent thought. I need to go let my brain leak out my ears as I relive my early childhood and ignore the fact that I was probably a really stupid kid.

Peace out.

- Zap

Be there or be lame!

Welp, it’s Monday, July 6th, and Independence Day went off without a hitch if you’re not counting the statistically high number of Philadelphians too stupid not to blow up/off body parts with fireworks. I had to listen to a lot of people bitching about not being able to buy or use enough gunpowder-packed wads of explosive happiness because of ‘ridiculous fireworks laws’, but since all of them were, without fail, overweight, jobless men in stained wife-beaters with no shoes and their fifth beer in one hand, I cannot sympathise with their plight. In fact, I have a little tidbit of information to share with those fine fellows:

NOBODY WANTS YOU TO HAVE ACCESS TO FIREWORKS BECAUSE YOU’RE A CLASS OF MENTALLY HANDICAPPED IMBECILES. ALSO, YOU SMELL FUNNY, WASH YOUR FUCKING SHIRT.

See, there’s an interesting slew of laws up here in the tri-state area that are fully intended to confuse the bejeezes out of the casual fireworks purchaser and hopefully stop your everyday Jeb and Bub from maiming the rest of us in their valiant quest for their very own Darwin awards.

In Pennsylvania and Maryland, it’s legal to sell fireworks to non-residents only. Pennsylvanians cannot buy fireworks in Pennsylvania, Marylanders cannot buy fireworks in Maryland. However—stick with me kids, it only gets fun from here on out—Pennsylvanians can buy fireworks in Maryland, and Marylanders can buy fireworks in Pennsylvania. Okay, now toss in a dash of Delaware, because residents of Delaware can’t buy fireworks in their home state either, but can still get them in Maryland and Pennsylvania.

It’s basically one big, multi-state swinger party, with the exception of New Jersey, who isn’t invited. New Jersey is the STD-ridden drunk whose been married a dozen times, slept with everybody at the party already—twice—and the only way I can take this horrible analogy any further is to get into mentionings of gynocology so I’ll stop there. Casual fireworks purchase is completely illegal in New Jersey, you can’t buy, sell, or set them off without a permit, and if you’re crossing into the Garden State within ten days of Independence Day you have a 75% chance of being strip-searched with a speculum to make sure you don’t have a smuggled roman candle shoved up your hoo-ha.

Yes, I did go there even though I said I wouldn’t. I lied.

Most of us don’t mind these laws because we’re not setting off minor explosives in our backyards or out in the street, we just go and watch the official city fireworks displays like intelligent creatures who have a functioning survival instinct. Not Jeb and Bub though, oh no. Jeb and Bub are a special breed of celebrant. Jeb and Bub have to have a metric shit ton of firepower to light the fuse to, which they will inevitably do out on the street without warning neighbors, usually after a case of beer each. Unfortunately, Jeb and Bub rarely take themselves out of the gene pool, and it’s the rest of us who have to worry about life and limb and pray they don’t burn down our houses.

My house is still standing though, and most of my neighbors are still alive, and onward we tromp through life until the next holiday requiring the mixing of alcohol and incendiary devices.

And now, some song recommendations, just to pretend I remembered before now that this was a music blog:

- Daughtry: No Surprise
- Katy Perry: Waking Up In Vegas
- Pink: Don’t Leave Me

Stay golden, bitches.
- Zap

Sometimes I dream about growing up and being a real blogger. Somebody who not only has a blog, but also writes in it. It’s a dream I’ve tried to bring to life many times over the last year, but to no avail. For every time I sit myself down at the computer, the glory that is WordPad opened before me, dainty fingers hovering over the keys just waiting to spew forth some amazing tidbit of literature, doom strikes.

Usually in the form of a cat, female parental unit, or something really sparkly. I fucking love glitter, I can’t lie. It’s like some kind of twisted addiction where I experience a completely non-STD burning sensation through my whole body if I try to resist playing with things that shine. I’ve also been known to lick paint, but that’s neither here nor there.

I’ve now been given a blogging requirement of at least once per week, or I lose certain privileges like eating, breathing, and not being beaten with a wooden broom handle. In spite of this being done in a music-based blog, don’t hold out hope that anything spewing forth from the depths of my addled thought process will actually have anything to do with music unless it’s completely by accident. In fact, most of what I blog will probably be pulled from pointless and ridiculous news stories, because I like sharing my regular sources of poor stimuli.

Such as this beauty, wherein MICHAEL JACKSON’S FACE WAS SEEN IN THE CLOUDS.

No, really. It’s on CNN, it must be true. Who the hell am I to question trained journalists?

Apparently these clouds are called mammatus clouds, and are often seen in areas that have frequent severe weather. We here in Philly and New York don’t usually have severe weather, unless you count stray bullets or the constant rain of litter from the car windows of people who suck. So you can imagine the panic and mayhem that would follow such a sighting if we all weren’t too fucking lazy to do anything other than stare, take pictures, and make stupid comments like “It looks like fibroids.”

No, for the record, that puff of clouds did not look anything like Michael Jackson. In a fun twist of irony though, a journalist named Moos was the one covering a story on cloud formations named after the mammary glands.

This post was brought to you by the letters W, T, and F, and by the number Blue.

- Zap