"Matt's Mood," by Matt Bianco

“Matt Bianco” was a trio, formed in 1983 with Danny White, Mark Reilly, and prominent vocals from Polish chanteuse Basia Trzetrzelewska. The name of the group is fabricated; a fictional secret agent, which came from the group’s love of TV and film spy themes. Their music is European pop, strongly influenced by samba and jazz. The band’s debut, Whose Side Are You On? scored a significant hit throughout Europe, but it’s quirky synthesizers and splintered English prevented it from making a dent in the U.S. market, to wit: “The waiter crept away with…the micro dot.” Um...huh?

Fun fact: pulling an unprecedented hat trick for a brand new band, Matt Bianco’s debut featured saxophone work from the legendary Ronnie Ross (listen to Lou Reed’s “Walk On The Wild Side,” on which he played tenor saxophone, and you’ll understand the moniker).

The original Matt Bianco lineup parted ways in 1984, with Trzetrzelewska and White joining forces to begin work on their own music, of which Basia has said, “we didn’t even expect to get a record deal let alone a hit.” True to her suspicion, the pair’s first release (as “Basia”) was almost not released in the U.S.; their record company believed it “too European.” Unexpectedly, however, several American radio stations added the mid-tempo single, “Time and Tide,” to top-40 playlists, and the song and album became a rare jazz-pop crossover hit. In fact, Basia enjoyed significant success in America in the late 80’s, where both of the duo’s albums, Time and Tide and London, Warsaw, New York reached platinum sales.

Breakneck touring followed, which quickly took a toll on the duo, causing Basia and Danny to take a few years to regroup. The pair released their third album, The Sweetest Illusion, in 1994. But by that time, Nirvana and Seattle grunge ruled the airwaves, leaving little room for the duo’s jazzy pop stylings. The album failed to find an audience, unfairly disappearing within weeks of release. Around that same time, Basia suffered the end of a long personal relationship and the death of her mother, which kept her out of the limelight for the next decade. Of that period, the usually cheerful songstress has said, “I just didn’t feel like singing anymore.”

But in 2003, White and Reilly started writing together again and eventually coaxed Basia back into the studio for what became a comeback of the original Matt Bianco. The result was 2004’s dazzling, Matt’s Mood, which brought back the band’s familiar Latin, jazz, and samba influences, but with even more spark than before: not only a triumphant return to form, but vastly improved with time and experience. The album’s opening song, “Ordinary Day,” bows gratefully to any number of João Gilberto compositions, sporting a snappy, samba melody with a familiar sunny lyric from Basia expounding upon the virtues of mundane, day-to-day life when with the one you love.

Basia trades lead vocals throughout the album with Mark Reilly no more effectively, perhaps, then on “Say The Words.” Strongly referencing French folk music, the maudlin song describes the moment when two people realize their relationship is over, but neither has anywhere to go from there. The song “Ronnie’s Samba” is a tribute to their mentor, the aforementioned Ronnie Ross. White found clips of Ross’ playing from their early 80’s sessions and flawlessly incorporated them into three songs on the album, and Ross’ saxophone-from-beyond on “Ronnie’s Samba” truly enriches this exuberant tribute.

Reilly handles lead vocals on “Wrong Side of the Street,” and Basia contributes smooth and sensual “da-ba-da’s” as the chorus, moving into a sultry Polish end verse, which loosely translates: “Don’t be scared, try once more. You stumble; you’re unlucky again. Maybe you don’t stand a chance. Who knows, but remember that I am here for bad and good. You’re not alone.” Um…ok, but who cares what it means? It sounds real pretty when sung in Basia’s native language. Relevant side note: Basia is sometimes trounced for what some critics believe to be a penchant for trite and overly innocent, verging-on-naïve lyrics. One reviewer suspected that she composes in Polish and translates to English, resulting in the demure, “Oh my!” flavor sometimes found in her work. While I concede the point, it still doesn’t stop me from loving this extraordinary album.

Vying for best song on Matt’s Mood is “La Luna,” which juxtaposes cheerful Latin-flavored samba with what is arguably Basia’s most lugubrious lyric. “Move on. I try to, but I’m lost without you.” Basia sings of her mother’s passing. “All around the Universe, you’re looking down; I know you’re watching over me…is it a mild case of madness?” she asks, referencing centuries-old folklore and theory about the terrestrial effects of the moon (i.e. “the lunar effect,” which postulates a correlation between the Earth’s lunar cycle and mental illness, or “madness”). But to me, “La Luna” is heartbreaking - a song written by a grown daughter who just misses her Mom.

Will Matt’s Mood ever be included in any “Top 100 album” lists? Probably not. So why am I recommending this album? First and foremost, it’s an album that overflows joy, even in its quietest moments. There’s a lot to love about that. Secondly, I’ve never heard an album that accommodates almost any occasion like Matt’s Mood: pick an activity, and this album will supply the perfect background. In fact, I’ve used this album as the soundtrack for a summer lawn party, as background music for a reception, when making dinner with my wife, and as a driving companion on long road trips. I’ve never skipped a track, and you won’t either.

Post Script: This post comes out a few short weeks before Basia’s 2009 return with It's That Girl Again. Who knows, maybe a future entry…

"Subtítulo," by Josh Rouse

Josh Rouse is just one theme song in the right "date movie," or just one fluke hit record away from being the biggest pop star on the planet. He’s the music world’s best-kept secret, and it was only coincidental that I stumbled upon his music almost a decade ago. I first heard of Josh Rouse in a radio interview in 2000 to promote his (then) new album, Home. On the strength of the few songs they sampled during the interview, I picked up the CD and have been a Rouse fan ever since.

Rouse's songs sound like they were lifted from the smooth, mellow-gold, singer-songwriter era of the early 70’s. In fact, Rouse’s music has always struck me as au fait with some of the best “un-hip” artists from that era: America, Neil Diamond, Bread, Don McClean, etc., and this hunch was confirmed by his 2003 album, 1972, in which he paid tribute to both his birth-year and that era of popular music. Further validating my hunch was Rouse’s appearance in the 2004 Bread tribute CD, “Friends and Lovers,” in which he performed “It Don’t Matter To Me,” the band’s top ten hit from 1970.

Like 1972, Rouse’s albums are almost always thematic, mostly finding him toiling away at love from various angles, most of them melancholic: loss of love (Dressed Up Like Nebraska), anxiety from love (Home), loneliness in love (Under Cold Blue Stars), etc. Subtítulo (Spanish for “subtitle”), however, is a significant departure for Rouse. Recorded in Puerto de Santa Maria, Spain shortly after ending his marriage, the album places Rouse in a completely new geographic environment: a sun-dried, balmy, beachfront town in southern Europe. From halfway across the world and even further removed from his former life, Rouse had begun a new relationship and seemed to be viewing love from the benevolent side for the first time on record.

For the Rouse fan, it was almost jarring to hear him in this breezy new musical environment, juxtaposing images of his newly adopted hometown with the joys of new romance. This isn’t the Josh Rouse from the past decade. Think Nick Drake covering the Jackson 5’s “ABC:” joyous, bewildering, and completely unexpected. The album opens with “Quiet Town,” a sweet, hum-along that revels in the charms of small town life. Still, even on this upbeat track, Rouse’s dark side is never far from the shimmery surface as he sings, “Ooh, sometimes I miss the show, I loved a long time ago…” At his cheeriest, Rouse seems unable to completely immerse himself in newfound bliss.

“Summertime” is a faded summer vacation Polaroid from junior high, sitting by the pool, sipping iced-tea, and listening to Purple Rain without a care. But, as noted earlier, Rouse must be Rouse, and wistfulness can’t help but creep in: “And the feeling doesn’t last that long, before you know it it’s up and gone…the things we do.” The album also features sugar-sweet guest vocals from Paz Suay, Rouse’s girlfriend, on the call-and-response ditty, “The Man Who Doesn’t Know How To Smile.” Suay’s phrasing is reminiscent of Astrud Gilberto (“Girl From Ipanema”), and her voice serves a perfect counterpoint to Rouse’s. The quietest moment on the album, however, is the effortless, “Wonderful,” an intimate charmer that never quite rises above a whisper. Profound? Nah. Clumsy? Maybe. Truthful? Absolutely.

While a critic’s darling throughout his entire indie career, some reviewers took a left turn for this album, slamming Subtítulo as slight, pithy, and lighter than air, claiming that with his move to Spain Rouse had lost focus. But the subtlety of the album is precisely where Subtítulo gathers its strength, because sometimes in art, as with life, the most powerful sentiments are communicated with a whisper. And Subtítulo’s sentiment speaks to the sheer joy of falling in love. It’s about how when you’re in love, food tastes just a little better, colors shine just a little brighter, and life moves along just a little easier. So the guy who specialized in beautiful music about broken hearts found new romance and made an album of silly love songs…and what’s wrong with that?