Cooper Tisdale & Friends – Live in
The gift-wrap on this puppy is simple. The pattern is a basic carving of a guitarist identified by hieroglyphics on a granite tablet. Aside from the bleached background and the trace marks from a caveman’s sketchy black pen, the only other color rendered is a bloody-red dye that is dampening its corners. Go with the charitable portrayal or feel free to assume that it’s the scribbles from a two-year old child.
Typically, you wouldn’t acquire an album for its artwork since it’s not exactly telltale of the shrouded payload it holds.
What’s for certain is that these guys aren’t artists in the graphical sense as their capabilities with pics and symbols consist completely of chicken-scratches. I only bring this up; because chances are that precious items such as this would go unnoticed if judged solely by its softcover hull.
Let’s just agree or imagine that the overlay epitomizes something of greater importance. When given a ballpark figure from a banker, the booty inside would signify a substantial sum of assets, cash, and income. It’s evident that heritage and experience has been handed down from past generations to this present crew. This idea would be inline with the vintage of a fastidiously-aged wine or whiskey whose properties improve palpably with time. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, the participants are all battletested veterans. These trained fusionists bring new meaning to the words practiced and proficient. With surfaces and edges so straight, you may even think this came from a guild of Amish craftsmen.
While I can endorse the flavor, back the body, sanction the color, and attest to the aroma, let’s delve a little further into the minutiae
Toe Truck – Where the leader of the pack ran out of gas, this one picks up the bridle and takes responsibility for the next lap. Honestly, I like the bumpy beat better in this charily-enhanced buggy. David Savage’s keyboards do most, if not all of the driving while the guitars, bass, and drums are in the bed of the truck camped out for a nap. Once they arrive at the construction site, the squad slides over the side and immediately these hombres are hammering at the drudge. Within the quarry, there is one mercenary who shows no mercy. Cooper Tisdale takes his pick and grinds his axe relentlessly against the dirt. Eventually, this becomes one grainy tool ensconced in mud-spattered earth. It’s hard to believe it is true, but he almost strips the mine entirely unaided. This hard day’s night ends with a clap, a thank you, and a slap on the back. This project might not bring them money and power, but an honest day on the job evidently results in kudos, respect, but most importantly, a return slip.
Fireman Bill – Here’s the drill: drop, rock, and roll. Any
hesitation or question will cause a nasty outcome or incontrovertible harm. As
any experienced wrestler would tell you, whether the training comes from high
school, the collegiate level, or the UFC, in order to subdue your opponent, you
must successfully institute a Fireman’s Carry. Fortunately, this sophisticated mix
of grappling is incorporated into an already expansive repertoire. As with any dive,
flop, or throw; you have got to protect your neck, so tuck your collar in on
the way down to the mat. With each incremental note, the purse accounts for an oddly-aggregated
fortune. It’s so outrageous; it makes Jim Carey’s impression of that dimwitted Fire
Marshall look flat. This will scald your earlobes and singe the hair from your
eyebrows. While I might have you confused about the characteristics of this
cut, I’ll make a comparison that’s within your reach, or as an alternative to
these scorched extremities, extremely close. It’s like the theme song to that
intelligent, but acerbic sitcom named SportsNight. The
correlation goes beyond the score, because its material includes rather sardonic
lyrics. The attitude of the bass is smoky, and it has a sharp-witted
performance to boot. It’s striking enough to earn a recurring role on the show.
In due course, it will receive an invitation back to The West Wing or Studio
54. While its competition is no more gung ho than a Bonanza rerun or four guys
making cheese, this song has better than a slugger’s chance for the top-spot in
the ratings.
Doo Dad – Before disembarking, the stewardess says to put away your wireless doohickeys, digital devices, and electronic games. As juicy as a tartan stick of Fruit Stripe gum, this tongue depressor adorns clashing-plaid hash-marks superimposed on pasty tissue. Like Pegasus or Yipes, this flying Zebra is out there in the sense that its side-splitting routine will make you chortle so hard you choke. In addition, its stride and tempo proves that this equestrian animal emphatically has panache. Nobody in their right mind will want to harass this mammal whilst standing downstream from its jets. With that said, it’s just as perilous to position yourself behind its strong, but sinewy calves. This droll, but idyllic chimera is hard to describe, so please just go with the flow on this one.
E.J. – Fortunate for us all, this is not that exasperated
American Idol who sings at Six Flags. Nevertheless, this teen can’t be part of
the audition, because it refuses to sing. In a heated disagreement with Simon Cowell, I argue that sometimes an instrumental is best.
Think of it this way; you won’t have to hear William Hung belt out another bad
rendition of Rickey Martin or swoon his audiences further with some random,
sappy ballad. Even if he did or we could find another lame lemon to squirt out a
bittersweet tune, it would be loco to put that sort of tripe on this album. With
space on the docket, this short and snappy contraction is a welcome stand-in. Its
stream of easy riffs parallels a rivulet rolling over baby-soft gravel. Rather
than peter out, the river descends gracefully from the ledge of quite the
rampant waterfall. Beneath the humectant soil is a clandestine
cavern. Massive calcite mounds are formed by very moist melodies while the impassive
stalactites swell from a kit and caboodle of dripping chords. The growth on the
depths below somehow results from this gentle, but relentless tapping. Moreover,
the conical minerals deposited in the cracks are raised by subtle impacts from Savage’s
ivory keys. As the ripples expand, this makes froth against the insulated shoreline.
While this brook is mostly straight, it winds on occasion. As if I were taking
an inner tube down Schlitterbahn’s most slippery canal,
the hydraulic pumps and pressure make for the smoothest traversal. In other
words, this acronym constitutes the hottest coolest time in the grand state of
Bad Judge – I can comfortably say this is not my favorite entrant
on the album. It’s not completely heinous, but to call it diluted ooze could be
construed as an inadvertent accolade or an unwarranted overstatement. It’s as
if the singing is purportedly off-key. If you tweaked the recipe, you might get
something passable like Demolition Man, Formula 51, or Speed. If that were to
happen, you might even be able to commission a star on a
Now Be Nice – As Austin Powers may articulate, “Behave!” I accept his advice and apologize for that blatant act of cynicism. This song adheres to the agent’s recommendation and operates under the orders and command of Eric Clapton. It sounds like the tail-end of “Layla” or that song played by Steven King’s incessantly-conniving Sleepwalker. While this sleek predator would normally feast on your fears, it’s a long way till dinnertime. Luckily, this timely nosh suitably supplies sufficient substantiation.
Good Friend – I feel comfortable and content in the company of this track. It’s hospital, amiable, affable, and cheerful. Whether Janet, Chrissy, the inquisitive landlord, or the swinging tenant, I’d be happy to call it my neighbor, pal, or roomie. Also, if you don’t know Jack, his practical jokes, pratfalls, and various hilarious tactics constantly pat the drywall and knock on the doors. I’m sure you’d be happy to make his acquaintance. Regardless of their interior decorator or the circle of friends who squat on the estate, you can tell they each put a lot of thought into the Feng Shui of this convivial pad. The custodian is scrupulous and the security guard at the gates is solid too. The sentinel is adept in the sacred ways of Quack Fu. Their trusty bodyguard will protect you while you snore.
Sue’s Cue – I’m rarely instrumental in the censure of music. I have taken an oath to remain silent over putting anything unfavorable into words. Since I am compelled to promote this pack of skillful chaps, I had no choice but to bark and holler back because I was forced into a corner. Unlike a mute, I opted for truth over diplomacy. I intend to make amends for my earlier slight. I can genuinely claim that this is my favorite track on the album, and for that reason, I feel it deserves preferential treatment. It’s easier said than done to turn my attention from this cutey pie. At its core are peaches, diesel, and cream. If you eavesdrop on the discreet and tactful catcalls, you’d construe that this bodacious and voluptuous babe is a real listener. It’s elegant and poignant, but never would it stoop to unladylike gestures. The melody is deliciously-meticulous while its pulse modulates in the most astute and proper fashion. I’m greatly impressed with the consummate qualities of this prudently-sculpted beauty.
You – While it’s entertaining to me and amusing to tease, Joe Pesci isn’t clowning around with his caution. “Are you talking to me?” this wise guy might demand. Turn it around and inquire how this band was able to accurately pinpoint the groove again. The last foxy tune might be my number one darling, but this top model has also made its way into the final round.
Freedom – Whether led by Willy Wallace or Captain Billy, these freedom fighters from The South represent a band of extremely brave hearts. Like the breakfast tycoon or that kid Jimmy Dean, this is an outlaw and rebel without a cause. On a side note, Terry Gillian’s Time Bandits make a fool out of John Cleese’s Robin Hood. He might be a baron, but these aggressive rhythms steal from the rich to give to your ears. Like a cop who is tough with the punks and hides behind the thin steel of his shield, this piece gets the point across while taking no prisoners. On the mean streets, it unloads like Cobra or Rambo, and in the process, eliminates the baddies on its beat for no other reason than the fact that the bubblegum has lost its essence and has been spit out.
Keepin On – This phobic and fretful biter features obsessive-compulsive chords and schizophrenically-repeated notes. The recursion builds upon the pile. Each time the function is accessed, their routine goes higher up the stack. As it shucks wheat from redundant scales, you start to become intolerant to its glutinous properties. Keep the motor humming, the windows rolled up, and your valuable cargo caged. Once it ends, return to the beginning, because as the adage goes, “Just keep on truckin’.” This vibe-ridden ending is ideal for seven out of ten patients. With this, there is a statistical chance it’ll cure your boredom. That’s exactly why the medicine man recommends it for most live audiences.
Like it says on the paper slip within the jacket, it took five of Cooper Tisdale’s closest friends plus an altruistic singer named Michael Meredith to make this album happen. He admits there was a risk as these mates never played together before they decided to tune up and tie the knot. Yet, they settled on a time and a place, and then pooled their resources together to make this concert come to fruition. Even though the confluence was new, he could testify to the fact that their musicianship was superior and aristocratic. He also notes that Pat Patten and Paul Hammock did an exceptional job when it came to the tidy recording and the correspondingly-orderly post-production. By the way, while that first name sounds unique and slick, I know somebody else with that very same label. Regardless of their exclusive rights to their handles, I agree that this pair deserves special attention in the form of this trite and trailing annotation.
Ultimately, I may have been all over the board in my criticism, assessment, and praise, but the outcome of this gig is as carbonated and clear as a bottle of club soda. Not only does it fizz, but it blows, and by this, I mean the syrups and extracts boost the quality of the beverage unconditionally in the right direction. With each trial, ordeal, and challenge, they rack up the medals one-by-one, lock, stock, and two smoking barrels.
Like bodybuilders or athletic Grecians, these working-men are truly heavy-lifters. Their jams are so jilted; the leverage they produce could lift an incredibly-dense cannonball or dislodge a generously-proportioned Atlas Stone. With all the swinging shot-puts, decadent discuses, and jazzy javelins they throw, is it a coincidence that the venue they chose is the very same locale and zip code where the Olympics were held?
7.75/10