It's the unimaginative, cheap and ultimately boring nature of this erotica that's so off-putting. Sorry, Ms. Jackson, that's not the way it works. It's quite offensive that you believe your listeners can be titillated with such cheap, boring tactics. The rest of Jackson's new album doesn't fare so well, either. The obvious target is the husband Jackson recently divorced, although, in a recent interview, she said the song's jerk guy is a composite of many past lovers.
Superstar divas are lame at times, too.
Now Hodgson, who last year moved from Central Florida to Richmond, Va., is back with evidence that he didn't totally exorcise the blues man from his soul. Hodgson is full of finesse, a trait that may seem antithetical to live, raw blues. But that finesse is a virtue as Hodgson's voice rambles from a robust, bearish growl to a surprising falsetto, and his harmonica skips from spastic, Little Walter-like yelps and yowls to occasional, sweet sound drops that recall the poppy style of Toots Thielemans. For details, see Night Clubs .