All of you… and you… and you… janet jackson gets it her way

Janet Jackson, queen of urban pop and churning club cremes, works a stealth oeuvre: confessional singer/songwriter. While Joni Mitchell and Alannis Morrisette, Fiona Apple and Patti Smith probed their lives for all, sorting their psyches and offering listeners' insight in the deal, Janet Jackson built a temple on taut abs, rubber beats and the throbbing pulse of now culture. Whereas Mitchell's pasture is organic madonna-with-guitar, Smith yoked rock rage with the intense passions of a woman denied. Latter day introspectors Apple and Morrisette captured the anger of sublimation, kicking out the jams when faced with expectations so their catharsis allowed gentler, kinder, more open spaces to emerge towards. For Jackson, whose field of dreams is dance music by any name, it's hard to assign that temerity. What, truly, is more disposable than club culture? Even its dowager empress is known as much for her look and her life as her music: when was the last time the life message of Madonna's music prompted discussion. So Janet Jackson, the original Fly Girl, who was launching libidinal voyages long before J-Lo got back, never gets her props on this level. Which is a shame, because her Jimmy Jam/Terry Lewis couplings have often married the expendable with the kind of depth that enriches without stridently preaching. It's the old spoonful of sugar, if you will, getting some thought into those empty, feel-good calories. On All For You, Jackson -- who's already dealt with the under-the-thumb pressure of public perception and parental strictures on Control, social commentary on Rhythm Nation, sexual pleasure and politics on The Velvet Rope and acceptance on janet. -- mines the public wreckage of her secret marriage to longtime "companion" Rene Elizondo on two planes. She deals straight-on with the perpetrator and offers the sexual emergence torture of moving on in graphic detail. The tongue lashings bought and paid for by his betrayal of her privacy land right on the jugular. When Miss Jackson bites into the brutal, bitter "Truth" she flaunts the facts, taunts with the most incontrovertible reality: "I had a career before now didn't I/ And I had my fans now, didn't I…Won't trip out on disappointment/'Cause failure's just not me/ Still I gotta do my job/ 'Cause you know my show can't go on without me." Check your testicles at the door, my man -- and slink away quietly, because there's more honey-coated castration where that came from. Then there are the in-your-face na-Na-na-Na-NAH tauntings of a woman determined to throw her "it-ain't-your's-anymore" in the cad's face. When she whisper/writhes through the back-to-back "Love Scene (Oooh Baby)" and "Would You Mind" it's as full-frontal as Prince, yet that little girl-voice takes on a good fairy-meets-Barry-White or -Teddy Pendergrass sexuality. The eroitica is raw. It digs deeper. It brings you in…and, well… But this isn't a rage-and-pity-party with samples and loops and French Ticklers. Ultimately this is the ultimate survivor. All For You -- with its fresh-faced confection to that "nice package alright" first single boasting an infectious sample of Change's "The Glow of Love" -- sets the tone for a woman intent on enjoying her freedom. It's also more than a mad-grab for a piece-and-a-smile. While Janet's looking to get her's, she's also seeking deeper, lasting love. Wiser personally, she knows one doesn't necessarily fall with the other. Instead she'll shoot a little hedonism and enjoy the search. If only all the music connected thusly. Her "Black Cat" metal-merger is the ghosts-in-his-machine warning "Trust A Try" and it's fine, not lethal. The other samples and guestings stumble - Carly Simon should not believe she's a funky diva ever (sinking the awkward "You're So Vain" redux "Son of a Gun" rhythmically, spiritually and even conceptually), nor should America ever be invoked in a looking for Mr Forever or even Mr Tonight as they are on "Someone To Call My Lover" (a syncopated expansion of "Ventura Highway" suggests tight-assed WASP gropings, not the hot sex our diva requires). The salvaged conversation snips break intensity. But she concludes reaching for something as "Better Days" offers hope. Not a reason to boogie or get nasty, but the conviction to keep moving. Which suffices 'til she's ready to rompy pompy again.
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“CUTTIN’ HEADS”…and to the chase

American Boy. American Man. American Fool. John Mellencamp has been each in spades. He plied his AM radio hookcraft in FM’s glory days, though never quite becoming the workingman’s patron saint a la Springsteen, a part of the fabric of our culture. But as the boy’s become a man, he’s also let himself appear vulnerable – and it’s in the chambers of his doubting heart that this American’s connections are strongest. But, in the end, timing is everything, and it’s timing that gets him over once more. For Mellencamp, Cuttin’ Heads (Columbia) started as a personal pondering of social and sexual politics, only to be transformed by 9/11 into a State of the Union address in every sense. Tackling racism, pettiness, anger and the way we treat each other culturally, Mellencamp unflinchingly deconstructs the erosion of r-e-s-p-e-c-t and tries to rebuild it through a series of images that paint America and Americans the way we are. Of course, Mellencamp has never balked at embracing issues – think his populist Scarecrow – but this album shows that he’s also lately been embracing the city street, putting his music where his mouth is, as it were. Those who’ve kept up with his releases know that’s not new, either, but never before have his urbanities been so well integrated into his backroad roots-rock. With a staccato beat and some rough-edged guitar, Mellencamp pitches the bigotry story of "Cuttin’ Heads" against a James Brown-invoking testimonial from Chuck D, who professes street cred ain’t all about the marketing. To further reinforce, Pat Peterson wails "Don’t call me nigger because you know I don’t like it like that." More... As the boy’s become a man, he’s let himself appear vulnerable. Embracing a far more elegant – but no less infectious – hook on "Peaceful World," the Indiana-based songwriter offers an almost prayerlike meditation on how it should be. Casting against the notion of a road trip to leave it all behind, Mellencamp and India.Arie offer a straightforward pledge against racism: "Better get hip to what Martin Luther King had to say … Hatred to each other is not OK ... If you’re not part of the future then get out of the way." This embrace of the hiphopcracy is much more than an aging rocker’s self-conscious grab for relevancy. But it’s also not the whole disc. "Deep Blue Heart" finds Mellencamp returning straight to the country to brood in close harmony with Trisha Yearwood; the song’s about love’s death and the shroud that cloaks its battered remains. Placed amongst the more political content, it almost reads as an elegy for America – or the mourning serves as prelude to the sexual/romantic explorations to follow. Both "Just Like You" and "The Same Way I Do" trace fragile connections, affections he’s afraid will break or evaporate. Yet those affections deliver him from the futility that Cuttin’ Heads rails against. Mellencamp’s voice is split-rail basic, solid, a bit rough, ultimately dependable. It’s what he casts it against that sets apart his gift for the gentle embrace or streetcorner Romeo swagger. It’s cast perfectly in the carnal trilogy that kicks off with the Don Juan self-pity of "Women Seem," falters through "Worn Out Nervous Condition" – which addresses short-circuited attractions, premature climax and the state of exhaustion from wanting-it-to-work – and closes with the tropical undulations of "Shy." In three songs, Mellencamp tackles every stumbling block men face at the onset of the deeper desire – and creates a CliffsNotes for doubt-resolution that could supplant the self-help section of any bookstore. "In Our Lives" ties it up, demystifying the rock star as "one of us." Mellencamp’s defiance of the glam life may not find a parallel in our own, but there’s no question he doubts, struggles, rages and wonders at the same things. It may be why – in addition to hooks that have kept him between our ears whether we wanted "Authority Song" or not – many of us are still listening 16 albums later.
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the id, Macy Gray

Is Macy Gray -- of the helium voice, chocolate mushroom cloud hair and body evoking Michelin's tireman -- a freak or a freak? Is her art about a severe need for a Prozac-heavy cocktail of MAO-inhibitors? (see the wildly percolating "You're Relating To A Psychopath") Or is it more about dropping one's inhibitions and getting as down in it as anyone since Prince Rogers Nelson grappled with libido, fellatio and whatever else kinked his carnality? (see above) With the id, who knows? Gray, who stunned with loose grooved funk and open-truthed manifestos about sexual reality, arrived smearing the lines, pushing the how-it-is of male/female politics and just plain getting bizzy. But is the groove she strikes of the Teddy Pendergrass/Barry White tenor? Or more a self-conscious flashpoint designed to draw in with prurience rather than George Clinton's flex and release, cum and go with a cigarette in one's mouth and an exhale of utter spent-sion on one's lips? Certainly both the psychological and the sexual are here -- and the beats mined are as close to Sly Stone as anyone's gotten since the Family truly defied held constraints of their time and place. Churlish, undulating, Gray's unafraid of boogie oogie oogie disco froth on "Sexual Revolution," just as she's more than happy curling up in a wave of hormones that marks the Angie Stone/Mos Def guesting "Nutmeg Phantasy" that is so fine, slam me against a wall and pick up whatever's left to do it again. But to go straight to the g-spot -- pick your groove, they're all applicable in this case -- Gray seeks to melt the want-to with the bereavement of abandonment, the get-a-clue-boy and the roughness that is implicity in this world. If Marvin Gaye preached a gospel of sexual healing and let's-get-it-on, he also understood sublimating desire (we can't bone ALL the time) to put that tension towards something better. Joined by Slick Rick for "Hey Young World, Part 2," it's meant as street reporting and a little throwdown of the how-it-should-be. The track cooks, but how serious can a mother who left the kids in Dayton and appears obviously stoned, making less than no-sense on awards shows be taken? Maybe we should up the MAO Inhibitor score. Yet Gray, who may not be the world's strongest role model, knows how to get the ladies in lockstep -- or rather lockgrind undulating through "Harry," a song where the stallion in service is good for one thing only, and then truly needs to git on his way. As the horns roll out trills of punctuation, this is Macy Gray on the way sex and climax is for sisters who truly are doing it for themselves. Feeling cheap young man? Well, take what you get and be grateful, because this WO-man has no illusions about needing more than what's between your legs in a turnabout that gives Harry pause for consideration. No doubt she's about hitting then quitting from the hurt of being the one that ain't connecting on "Don't Come Around," the sultry slow freak featuring Gray protégé Sunshine Anderson. Some guy wants to move on and be friends, but our lady of the cosmic bullride ain't havin' it. Pain isn't nothing she's prolonging -- so if you gotta go, to borrow from Dylan, go now. But don't look back and don't remind her what was. Languorous, it steams in that way of low, deep bends and the burlesque roll of the hips around that pole one final time. If the id balances mostly between imperfect ends and couplings hot enough to melt diamonds, Gray hits a high on the hushed "Sweet Baby" featuring nu soul's mother earth Erykah Badu. With a descending melody, this is the one moment of equanimity …of separate and equal and committed. No tug, no pull, no need, no want -- just settled and settling and fine. Sure, Gray is about the loud and the funky. "Oblivion" channels the Family Stone and "Blowin' Up Your Speakers" is anarchy under a groove; it feels good and may be enough. But to dig deep, to connect in a way that sticks, it's the stuff that provokes the mind more than the hips where Gray finds her mettle. That's something to consider more than the initial feel good, oughta should of immediate gratification. Grade: B -- Holly Gleason
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Celebrity Skinned…Pondering *N Sync

The Bible says it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven. In the fledgling A.D. era, the notion of transitioning from the flashfire of teen superstardom to legitimate artistry was as concrete a concept as skim decaf vanilla lattes. But in today's sagging record business, where teen tonnage is a cornerstone of billing, the need to transition our Backstreet Boys (REHAB!), Britney's and Christina's (Lolita Goes Blaze Starr) into consistent cash flow from a launchpad of proven fickleness -- and what appears to be lagging new breakouts -- is critical. First-week-sales record-holders N Sync turn to music over image to try and pave the way to a legitimacy that will elevate them from more than squeal-inducing pre-puberty poppers, the amyl nitrate of the hormone-rising set. Celebrity, debuting at #1, makes an interesting case for their homesteading land grab toward adult-seeming cred. While walking the line between the normal teen drowning in the- need-for-the-girl and the big gulp of outrage-for-being-played, Justin, JC, Lance, Chris and Joey attempt to grapple with commentary on the behind-the-curtain reality of celebrity and naysayers on the obviously-titled "Celebrity" and "Pop." There will be no mistaking these songs for Dylan, Springsteen or Elvis Costello, but the petulance firing the mondo-heavy-metal-sellers' rebuke to critics begs a question as old as rock'n'roll -- why judge something you don't understand? "Now why you wanna try to classify the type of thing we do/ 'Cause we're just fine doin' what we like/ Can we say the same for you?" -- "Pop" In a recent conference call interview, JC Chavez, Lance Bass and Chris Kirkpatrick attempted to address celebrity as a replacement for art -- and it was a concept that defied them "Celebrity is definitely an artform," allowed Kirkpatrick.. "It's strange. It's weird." It also makes evolving from teen dream with any anonymity awkward. Still 'N Sync understand that the little girls understand. So while they strive for their props and protest they're happy doing what they do -- though hate the suspicion that people dig them for their c-e-l-e-b-r-I-t-y -- they choose to make the lion's share of their stand through the creative process, working with the white hot producers of today. Enlisting Brian McKnight, the Neptunes, Rodney Jerkins, Riprock'n'Alex G and Swedish hotties Kristian Lundin and Jake Schulze and Rami, they help the quints craft their mix of rapid-fire aerobics jams and luxurious, vocally lush ballads. And the beauty of a young fan base remains the lack of musical foreknowledge. 'N Sync is cutting edge with their re-new-ed jack swing balladry that works the silky smooth soul tip (see JC's gorgeous "Selfish" or the Justin's breathless "Gone") and the heavily staccatoed computer-driven funk that recalls video games and the night moves samples of Midnight Star ("No Parking On The Dance Floor"), the Deele ("Body Talk") and even Cleveland's own Dazz Band ("Joystick," "Keep It Live") because their audience doesn't remember. Indeed, the percolating, heavily phased-and-programmed up tempo songs -- the bitter "Tell Me, Tell Me…Baby," the bitter "The Game Is Over" and the bitter "Celebrity" -- all flex and kick and offer the high karate connection that is all that young energy focused on a single point for 3-5 minutes. Coil, recoil. Build, release. Which is what N Sync does so well. They know how to focus and burn a hole into the moment with conviction. While Steven Tyler would never yowl "…'Cause if you were my girlfriend, I'd be your shining star/ The one to show you where you are…," Timberlake sells it with all the drama he has. Good boys gone ardent -- that's what we have here -- and coupled with their one-for-everybody-heartthrob appeal, their willingness to be unabashedly that translates to commited performances. What's next remains to be seen. Can they keep growing as musicians, tempering their songs for an audience growing older, wiser and perhaps more embarrassed by their once-was-fave? Who knows? For now, N Sync remains the safest sex: blanketed in squeals, shrieks and screams, there's nothing real about the promise. There will be no "freakin'," contrary to the boast on "See Right Through You," because not only can't the little girls get to the winsome five -- but N Sync are ultimately lost in the flood of fame and its current of faster, faster where everything becomes disposable and finding something to hold on to other than the centrifugal force of the rush they know isn't the way to survive. -- Holly Gleason
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two hearts beating, one marriage churning

What is the sound of marriage hardfought, hardscrabble, hardwon? Is it Yoko Ono's dissonant shrieking? Trent Reznor's most post-ndustrial cacophony? Or the ruminations on various states of love from two unpolished voices merging? The smart money goes on Buddy & Julie Miller, roots singer/songwriters who stand at Emmylou Harris' right hand and provide snapshots of lives lived like papercuts and loves gone like mean ghosts and bad debts, empty yet always dogging you. On their first collaborative record, it's strictly a scraped knuckle affair. For the Millers, though, there is no substitute for organic sounds, flawed moments that are perfect enough and performances shot through with the kinds of truths that cause pause amongst the recnognition of something so quickly, unthinkingly passed by. They sing songs of love enflamed, love long gone, love of God and love of others… and in their hearts, it all comes from a place of much truth and intensity. As the guitars bristle in brittle recognition of want and not want, Julie's little girl voice is brutally encased like spray roses in rusted barbed wire on the spooky "Dirty Water," then pitted against the feral "Wild Thing"-evoking squawl of "You Make My Heart Beat Too Fast" and the out-of-control passion that ignites "Little Darlin'"'s Russian roulette take on romance that will not be denied. Buddy's white-washed, split rail tenderness is the perfect foil, caressing the hushed truth beneath the skin of "That's Just How She Cries," then sounding a mournful note on "The River's Gonna Run" as he surrenders to love's Higher Power. On "River," Julie offers a counterpoint vocal that is keening, yet underpins the probing truth being embraced. This is about a love bigger than the both of them -- and it is truly the tie that binds. If there is a central moment to their rainbow coalition of the heart, it turns on this song with Harris' vet Brady Blades offering almost tribally pulsing drums, NRBQ vet Joey Spampinato reinforcing both the melodic thrust and the heartbeat and Buddy's guitars strung like high tension wire on which the vocals may perch as they balance between the power and the peril. Powerful as that is, it's when the two voices intertwine that they mesermize. An Okie dustbowl Everly Brother and Sister, the Millers conjure the aural equivalent of tears on the old-time country waltz "Forever Has Come To An End," where they're joined by Harris for the third harmony part. They then fearlessly rev Dylan's "Wallflower" with a raw charge of pure desire, inject Richard Thompson's "Keep Your Distance" with a dangerous erotic current to be denied -- and close with as good a love eternal moment as has been witnessed in "Holding Up The Sky." With neither bravado nor coy Hallmark curlicues, they offer each other the best they have: "Baby our love was meant to be/ It's from God's hands/ Even when dreams turn to memories." Simple truths, well told and played with basic economy. It should all be so easy. -- Holly Gleason
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Just Can’t Get Enough, Michael Stanley

In the end, there will be Cher and roaches -- not because of any deeper meaning, but more because of the harsh requirements of endurance and exoskeletons made of kryptonite. For even as the Stones post-AARP brand of "Satisfaction" owes as much to Metamucil as genuine danger, there will always be those with something to prove. And it's on the proving ground where the faithful burn. So it was that Michael Stanley, once ground zero for Cleveland's collective psyche, took the stage at Nautica June 10. Having once held the city in sway with multiple night stands at only the largest venues, Stanley brings something more than mere power chords to bear -- and it raises the stakes each time he straps it on. Though MSB's glory days are behind them, the Resonators maintain a sense of rock as deliverance. Beginning with the wings-beating build that is the intro to "Midwest Midnight," they were vigilantes looking for promises in the power of well-turned choruses and deliverance in the emotions flexed over the course of two hour and 45 minutes. "How ya doin', Cleveland?" roared Stanley, guitar hanging loose from his shoulders like Excalibur. "Welcome back to a seriously long love affair…" Sung from a knowing place, "Midwest Midnight" is a testimony to growing up, of understanding the stakes, of being betrayed by the dream and still finding the kick inside to not only walk away but to hold one's own. As keyboardist Bob Pelander throws himself hard against the melody, the entire band raises the intensity to a place where they're taking the corners on two wheels, trusting centrifugal force to keep them grounded. Time can be the enemy of rock bands. They start out young and angry and bold. They grow battered and disillusioned and wind up cynical or flattened by the weight of what's already happened. For those who never quite make it, though, rock and roll becomes the weapon to fight back, to rage against the machine. When the dark-haired writer tears the face off another vocal on "In The Heartland," the anger isn't about what hasn't happened so much as a refusal to relinquish the power and the promise of rock & roll. "Some of 'em think about leaving, but none of 'em ever do" is as much about one's commitment to the music as it is the place they're from. Amid heavy sax bursts, "Heartland" celebrates a choice to stand one's ground rather than chasing something more ephemeral -- and Danny Powers' seering guitar solo burns that decision into the audiences unconscious. The faces of these fans are the faces of Everyman. Young. Middle-aged. Obviously privileged, probably blue collar. Washed in the throbbing backbeats and the churning melodies, they shine with the joy, the hope, the promise of Christmas morning or new love. It is nothing new they are experiencing, but merely reminding themselves of something they know: there is honor in these songs, the way the music carries them -- and that is a basic truth they can count on. Keyboardist Pelander has a David Sancious moment that takes a very cocktail feel through a series of descending figures to heighten the tension that becomes the fiery "In Between the Lines." Ultimately shot from the gut, in many ways this song is about what has happened to both a group of journeymen as it is about this city as anything performed in the whirwind set. With a cigarette on his lips, wailer Jennifer Lee in a tight black dress beside him and a sax player blowing an urgent elegy for hope lost along the way, this is Stanley facing the truth and being wiser if a bit shaken by the brutality of how it really is. Here drummer Tommy Dobeck is relentless -- and in those vicious impacts, the rhythm carries when the realizations topple. Not that everything was so full-tilt. On the ballads -- especially a tugging violin-and-mandolin-laced "Spanish Nights," caressed with enough bittersweet conflict to make the pain of denial seem like the sweetest reward of all for it means one can walk about knowing the depths of how it feels and that feeling is what it means to be alive -- there is a deep heat effect that comes from a romantic willingly digging down into the emotions that make people flinch. It is in the squirm-inducing truth -- "Spanish Nights," the driving'n'crying "Lover," where Stanley reels from the punch of betrayal and a love that won't relinquish his pride or passion -- that the ballads pack perhaps more punch than even the most rocking moments. In their hands, a blues workout like the moth-eaten "Redhouse" introduces the most root element of music: the foundation that is time-honored changes. Knowing means the flex can be the channeling of those who came before, and in that consolidation of heritage, an elevation occurs. The slow, grinding "Redhouse" becomes a sticky, fetid opening in the ground for the blues to spawn rock. Steam practically rises from the groove as Marc Lee Shannon etches the basic melody with regret steeped in a brittle razor's edge tone which tattoos the moment with essence. The audience collapses under the force of something so primitive addressed with such measured force… There is a flex and recoil at work here, a baptism in casting the theme and bringing it back. Pelander's electric work was solid, but on the B3 he transcends, physically sending himself into the instrument as cushions of chords fall upon each other, spent yet building into a fall-out that supports Lee's moan of the forsaken. Her tortured cries defy words -- and embodies the torture that fires the blues. "Redhouse," a song of betrayal, is ultimately light. For Stanley, having provided a format for his band's exorcism, he shines as the contrast -- wisely not engaging the catharsis, but rather leaning into the insouciant Plan B of "if she won't love me, her sister will." Not that Stanley's modus operandi is arm length disengagement. Embracing Steve Earle's ode to escape "Someday," a song written as an ode to the fading of Nowhere, Tennessee in one's rearview mirror, it becomes a sweet lullabye of dreaming about leaving, but never wanting to; a love song to fast cars and holding fast to what one is made of. There is a delicate balance being struck here: raw lust in "High Times" pitted against the wistful remembrance of "Somewhere In The Night" with its defining "all you get to keep are the memories, and you gotta make the good ones last." Even in the past, though, there is a future -- and that is the central truth to the Resonators on this night -- that will deliver you if you will only let it, only believe, only let go and surrender. When the musical explorations that dissolve into a familiar keyboard pattern, humid sax washes and an undertow that pulls the faithful out, "Let's Get The Show On The Road" offers the truth about costs and damage and the betrayal of dreams. Guitarist Powers reaches inside for a bleeding solo that defines the torment of knowing and needing to continue as the audience casts their dispersions at some unseen target. A cautionary tale, again it is a witness to how painful it can be out on the edge -- but also a testament to the inevitability of survival. For there are no choices really, just the voice of a wiser man who arrived on the other side head reeling, trying to make sense of it all and confessing bitterly, "The Lord uses the good ones, and the bad ones use the Lord." It is an ultimate truth, the ultimate realization. Yet all these years later, Michael Stanley can check the mate. If the dream of stardom withered on the vine, the promise of rock salvation burned even brighter and offered a purer form of deliverance. Drawing on the assemblyline rallying cry "Working Again" and exploring "the Bo Diddley beat," then transitioning into the drama of the mining disaster "Fire In The Hole" where restraint is locked into a groove, which the band expertly rides out, staying on and staying with it, throughout a shuddering culmination that is a sweat-soaked climax that leaves one spent and feeling sated. That would have been enough for most. But for Stanley, the crucible of a downtrodden city's hopes during its hardest times, a benediction that embraces the whole of the experience -- of a man, a band, a collection of people -- was necessary. For Stanley and the Resonators, "My Town" offers everything they are. It is a simple song, straightforward in its understanding of the chipped dramas and faded glories of the truest lover any of them have ever found, a place to make their stand and sow their gifts in the name of music. It is a song about the things worth fighting for -- and the dreams that may've not always been obvious, but were constant companions. The moment is so transcendent, Stanley comes off the stage after a last chorus and the band plays on. With a nod to what was, a phalanx of guards surround and sweep him away -- only for the true believer to emerge at the back of the venue for a victory lap through the people who have brought him 30 years later to a place where genuflecting before the burning desire to be something more is as simple as giving it all to the music. In that moment, the crowd is Michael Stanley -- and he is the crowd. "East side, West side--give up, or surrender --been down, but I still rock on..." There are some truths that should be held to be self-evident. For Michael Stanley, it would seem none greater than that. And for the fans who've kept returning on blind faith and drunk passion, it is a covenant that has never betrayed them. In a world of faster, harder, cheaper -- what more powerful reality is there?
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