A Suburban Girl's Guide To Music That Doesn't Suck 08.16.08: Ain't That A Kick In The Head

Posted by Vanessa Willoughby on 08.16.2008

They call him Sinatra in sneakers.

Jamie Cullum
Twentysomething
2004

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Over the past few years, there's been an influx of Sinatra-wannabes. From Harry Connick Jr. and Michael Bublé, it seems that the only thing you need to become the next Old Blue Eyes is a sharp tux, a swinging back-up band, and an old microphone. Now, I'm not saying I dislike the aforementioned people. But, as we all know, there's nothing like the original.



Jamie Cullum's Twentysomething pays homage to this old-school, big band sound without trying to fill Sinatra's shoes. In fact, the album is layered with the spunky youth of Cullum, rather than the vintage grandiosity of yesteryear. I'm a big sucker for anything reminiscent of the past and so, Cullum seemed like the logical solution for my craving. However, despite Twentysomething's hearty mixture of cover songs and originals, this album is no basement karaoke from the local wedding singer. I think the main thing that makes this album stand out from the usual suspects, is that Cullum doesn't try to hide or apologize for his youth. Yes, he's a twenty-something Brit covering the likes of Cole Porter and Jeff Buckley and Gene Kelly. But that doesn't mean he has to reject these qualities and force himself into his predecessor's signature mold. Cullum is anything but antiquated. He's studied his idols and his masters, absorbed as much as he could, mashed it up, and then gleefully thrown it all out the window.

In addition to Buckley and Porter, Cullum bravely tackles Jimi Hendrix. I'm usually pretty skeptical about anyone who decides to cover Hendrix, and rightly so. Thankfully, Cullum respects Hendrix enough to know he could never duplicate the original. Instead, Cullum uses Hendrix's masterpiece as a template, twisting the familiar song into something entirely his own. Hendrix has been imprinted all over this song, but the arrangement still belongs to Cullum. Thus, he deserves double the praise for attempting the cover and then successfully pulling it off.

Cullum's voice is certainly nothing like the smooth, silky croon of Sinatra or Dean Martin or even Nat King Cole. It's overtly contemporary, peppered with the sort of musical accent that derives from listening to bands like Radiohead and Muse. Fortunately, this is more of a benefit, as Cullum's piano virtuosity is suited for more than just smoky jazz clubs and cocktail lounges. The piano, strings and horns are perfectly paired with Cullum's slightly raspy voice; a soaring electric guitar would seem awkward, almost out of place. The title track is a bit of a tongue-in-cheek reflection, as Cullum rattles off a laundry list of wishful incentives. He jokes, "Maybe I'll go to the gym/So I don't get fat/Aren't things more easy with a tight six-pack." The song is thoroughly modern with a vintage twist; the musical arrangement of the piano, percussion and horns lean more towards Count Basse than a contemporary like Keane.

On the other hand, Cullum's fresh and tentatively snarky lyrics capture the timeless uncertainty of newfound adulthood. If Cullum is this generation's Sinatra, he's not the one in the pressed suit, ruling the stage with bright lights dripping across his face. Rather, he's the Sinatra of the movies, the one with the devil-may-care, cavalier attitude, leaving a trail of dames in his wake. Then again, to strictly label Cullum as a Sinatra-impersonator, or even a Sinatra apprentice, would be narrow-minded. Yes, Cullum has old-school elements, but he's not old-school at all. The entire album is a challenge to the modern listener. Cullum is challenging his audience to rethink their perceptions about genres and musical expectations. His choice in covers is enough proof.

Another example of Cullum's electricity is "All At Sea." The first single off Twentysomething, the song starts off with Cullum's peaceful musings and soon evolves into a burning, stormy quest for stability and self-reliance. There's nothing stuffy or Victorian about Cullum's piano skills; he pounds the keys as though he were Babe Ruth slamming home runs out of Yankee stadium. For Cullum, the piano isn't an instrument to be treated with care and tenderness. It's something wild, something that can be abused and tamed and conquered. It's such a pleasant change to listen to an artist that isn't afraid to challenge the old stereotypes, especially with something of this genre.

Cullum's entire album is fueled with unresolved tension and the need to prove himself. On the contrary, Cullum isn't trying to prove himself to the audience, but only to himself. The energy of the song list goes from high to a soothing low, the "final" song (not including the bonus track), allowing the album to arrive at a temporary point of satisfied resolution.

Although Cullum could be considered jazz, he clearly doesn't want to be pigeon-holed. Unlike some of his competition, Cullum knows that by limiting his song catalogue to just old-time favorites will segregate a great part of his potential audience. And for this, I'm relieved.

There're quite a few artists out there that claim they're "experimenting" with sound and with the debut of their next record, will be "changing up their image." Many of them keep this promise, many of them fail. With Twentysomething, Cullum has applied this ideology to just about every song. It's nearly impossible to categorize Cullum into something cut and dry, as his music is all about breaking these boundaries. For the bonus track, the album closes with a cover of Pharrell's "Frontin." On paper, it sounds kind of laughable. Pharrell and Jamie Cullum? Who would've guessed? But the results are more than satisfactory. While the original song relied mostly on the famous Neptune's back beats and hip-hop flavor, Cullum substitutes what he lacks for the steady thump of the bass and piano. The tune itself is plainly recognizable and Cullum hasn't seemed to fiddle too much with Pharrell's original arrangement. However, Cullum's style and Pharrell's words are a surprisingly sensible combination. Although I have to admit that in the end, I prefer the Pharrell version to Cullum, the difference is not by a landslide.

The next best thing to compare Cullum's album to is a writer's stream of conscious. Maybe this isn't the CD you're going to put on when you went to let out some serious aggression. But, although it may not translate that well with some people, the essence of the album makes much more sense when looked at as a whole, rather than judging the separate pieces. They say that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. In my case, that's just not true.

When I bought this CD in high school, the few dating disasters I'd endured were nothing of the Buckley sort. I couldn't tell you the difference between Billie Holliday and Ella Fitzgerald if my life depended on it. But I remember the first time I really sat down and listened to this, I was flabbergasted. I thought jazz was all about brass and woodwinds and the erratic grandiose of people like Parker and Coltrane. Stuff of The Roaring Twenties and F. Scott Fitzgerald novels. I found Cullum's air of tranquility soothing; it became a habit to play his CD while I worked on homework, especially something such as writing a paper or studying for an exam. But, it's not these nameless moments of academic obedience that I remember the most. It's something entirely pointless I suppose, in the long run. It's strange to think that so many different moments can be tied to one song.

For me, it was this:

I'm sitting in the car with an ex-boyfriend, someone I'd vowed to hate but along the way, have decided to befriend again. He'd broken my heart and I hadn't even seen it coming, something I tended to scold myself about until recently. He'd given me a note and offered his condolences, as though it were a simple business transaction. Looming in the background, his friend had peered at me with sad eyes and a droopy smile, as though I were someone who'd made it alive out of a car crash but without a leg.

I'd read and re-read the note, biting my lip with each passing sentence. I wanted to come up with some snappy remark, something that left me with a memorable exit and my nose in the air. Icy fingers gently squeezed the back of my neck. The Boyfriend Now Turned Ex looked at his white shoes. His friend looked past me. The bell rang before I realized that I was still breathing.

That day, I'd made it a priority to avoid him at all costs. If I'd had the misfortune of running into him, I pretended to look right through him. I tried to play my part with conviction, pretend that he was a ghost, something I could punch my fist clean through. He fixed me with a look of confusion and pity. I wanted to spit at him. The moment I got home, I scuttled into my room, shut the door and then crumpled the note. Told myself not cry and promptly burst into tears. I spent the rest of the night pumping my hatred and despair into endless pages of horrible poetry. I told myself that I would never speak to him again, that I would rise up and out of the ashes, that I would survive. It didn't matter that The Ex had been my first boyfriend, that I was only in the ninth grade. I should've saved those tears, as even more romantic follies lurked right around the corner. Nevertheless, this incident, this day, would live in my own personal infamy. It would turn into a permanent and ugly battle scar.

Three years later and there I am, sitting in his passenger seat, the rush of the wind slipping through the open window and slapping my cheek. After awhile, we've run out of things to say. The Ex turns up the radio and I relax, sinking into the pleather.

We've spent the day visiting a friend up at school; she's started her semester earlier than the rest of us. The trip started off as sort of a crisis, as we'd gotten lost along the way. After stopping at a gas station and getting directions, we'd arrived about ten minutes later. I'd thought the trip would reestablished my friendship with said friend, but it's made me realize that we're growing older, growing apart, and life is moving along with or without our approval. The three of us had talked, but there'd been no meanings behind our words. We spent the day sitting around and smoking pot.

Now, The Ex and I are on our way home. I don't necessarily want to go home; I just don't want to stop moving. The Ex is dressed in jeans and a monotone long-sleeved shirt, but the girls on campus eyed him just the same, as though he'd stepped out of GQ. Curiously enough, I wanted to grab them all by their bird-wing shoulders, shake them and say, "He used to be mine, did you know that?" I tell myself that this feeling isn't jealousy or the unhealthy inability to let go. I'm normal. Perfectly normal.

Right?

Suddenly, I perk up at the familiar opening chords of "All At Sea." Hardly anyone I know likes Jamie Cullum, let alone has heard of him.

"Hey, this is Jamie Cullum. I love this song!" I shout, fighting to be heard over the music.

He studies at me through coal lashes and flashes a smile. I'm startled to feel a jolt of attraction, although any romantic feelings for him have long since died.

"Me too!" he replies.

Funny enough, I don't know why I remember this particular moment with such clarity. Maybe it's because as his car speeds down the highway, I realize how much I'm aching for affection.

High school is one big mating game. Dating isn't a past time but a sport, where everyone has strategies and elaborate plans of attack. Run out onto the field reckless and exposed and you're liable to either get hit or be taken captive. Staring at him, the song playing, it isn't so much him I want, but the feeling of being wanted.

It's the perfect set-up; old lovers alone in a car on a warm, spring night. In a Judy Blume novel, this is the part where the guy would say something terribly charming and the girl would quietly yet cryptically admit her repressed feelings, thinking she'd made a pretty little fool of herself. However, the boy would shakily run his fingers through his hair and then confess he'd never stopped liking her either. A PG-13 kiss would follow and the fairy tale would be complete.

Instead, we sit completely still, his foot bearing down on the pedal, my hand itching to be held. I attempt to send out my desire through telepathy. The Ex continues to drive, oblivious. The blackened sky swallows us and I shift in my seat, curling my fingers into my sweaty palm.


You don't need it every day
But sometimes don't you just crave
To disappear within your mind
You never know what you might find
So come and spend some time with me
We will spend it all at sea