SHAMELESS PLUG: "The Talent Trap"

This Sunday, after pouring milk on your Fruity Pebbles, make a beeline for the Floridian section of your St. Petersburg Times. That's where you'll find "THE TALENT TRAP," my profile of Carrie Furman, an almost-famous singer whose superheroic skills are a burden as much as a boon. I don't want to give away too many of the twists and turns, but here's an excerpt...

HOLLYWOOD, Fla. -- In a dark, ritzy jazz joint, Lady Marmalade is being strangled.

The saucy LaBelle hit is proving too much for a pretty blond singer with more teeth than talent. So before she gets to the song’s octave-spanning climax, she leaps off the stage and into the crowd, looking for a friend.

She stops at a small candlelit table and thrusts her microphone at a young woman who is just finishing her chocolate dessert. With knife and fork still in hand, the ambushed diner swallows her food and her surprise, rolls her blue eyes and leans into the mike. A spotlight illuminates her full face as she unloads a thunderous, blues-dripped roar — “CREOLE LADY MARMALAAADE!” — featuring a note that is not just held but rocket-launched into the night.

Jaws drop. Applause swells. The blond singer scampers back to the stage, grinning.

And with a comical air of nonchalance, Carrie Furman resumes eating her dessert as all too familiar whispers echo around her: Who is that girl?

First Impressions: THE KILLERS

Back when I was a ruddy-cheeked young pup at the Washington Post, I deemed the Killers' debut, 2004's Hot Fuss, the best album of that year. That pick still holds up.

But unless things change drastically, Sam's Town, the Killers new album out Oct. 3, will not be making my best-of list. I'm sitting here at my CD-cluttered desk, giant headphones on, ignoring my podmates, and I'm just plain bored by the Killers' fresh offering.

Way back when, Brandon Flower's vaguely robotic New Wave fop routine worked best when he was trying (but not too hard) to quell sudden bursts of genuine emotion (see such Hot Fuss gems as All These Things That I've Done, Mr. Brightside). But here, the songs never crescendo, the attitude never lifts beyond vague disinterest. That's too bad. I had high hopes.

(FOOTNOTE: I just started listening to Track 11, Why Do I Keep Counting, which sounds like a delirious homage to Jeff Lynne and ELO. It's not a hit, but at least the guys are having a little fun.) 

Check 'Em Out: Brazilian Girls

Henry Mancini in an S&M bar? The Girl From Ipanema brandishing a bullwhip? Nine Inch Nails in edible fundies?

On new album Talk to La Bomb, Brazilian Girls — three boys, one girl, no actual Brazilians anywhere to be found — are all about sexy sleight of hand, mixing bossa nova cool and industrial aggression, rock grandeur and electronic minimalism. Just when you’re grooving to one sound, they yank your naughty bits in a new direction.

If that sounds like a headache, it’s not. The New York quartet might be hard to categorize, but that doesn’t make them any less fun. Brazilian Girls are led by vocalist Sabina Sciubba, a breathy femme fatale born in Rome, raised in Brooklyn who successfully seduces in five different languages, often in the same song. (If you’re counting: German, French, Italian, Spanish and English.)

The musical landscapes are catchy, funky and highly danceable, especially Jique and All About Us. The band even indulges in some candied pop chops, inviting the Cars’ Ric Ocasek to produce the New Wave-y fun of Last Call.

Brazilian Girls’ live shows are notoriously randy affairs, with Sciubba famous for showing a whole lot of skin and inviting fans to come dirty dance onstage. If you're going to this Friday's show at Jannus Landing in St. Petersburg, bring protection.

Rick Springfield Is Still Sexy (Even With a Cold)

One of my favorite moments from Saturday night's five-hour "We Are the '80s" event at Clearwater's Ruth Eckerd Hall occurred backstage, in our interview room, when Rick Springfield's tissue caromed off the trash can and sat there on the floor, begging someone to sell it on eBay.

He also had terrible aim with a half-eaten sandwich, presumably chicken salad.

If you want to hear more about Rick Springfield's mucous -- and a great, thoughtful interview by Dr. Noah Drake -- cue up the Stuck in the '80s podcast right here. (WARNING: There is gratuitous nudity, primarily my nipple.)

You'll also get dirt on Scandal's Patty Smyth, Loverboy and an essence of Eddie Money, as well.

By the way, the crowd at Ruth Eckerd Hall -- despite all of us zeroing in on our 40s and 50s -- was smoking HOT, the boys and the girls. Lot of impressive biceps, heaving cleavage, tan skin, general sexiness. Way to lay off the fast food, '80s Nation!!!

"We Are the '80s" Fun Fact

Backstage at the "We Are the '80s" remember-whenathon at Ruth Eckerd Hall in Clearwater, Fla.

No word on Loverboy, Scandal or Rick Springfield.

But we can confirm that Eddie Money eats Wonder Bread. His dressing room is right next to ours.

That's right: They gave the Stuck in the '80s podcast crew a dressing room.

There's a sketchy chair in the corner no doubt loaded with rock star DNA.

More later.

FERGIE'S HUMPS, ETC.

On the sonic booty bazaar of 2005 smash My Humps, the Black Eyed Peas’ Fergie showed off her most outrageous body parts as bandleader Will.i.am played X-rated auctioneer. The lascivious hit was wrong in so many ways — and I loved it.

On The Dutchess, Fergie’s consistently soft-core solo debut album, the singer/pinup born Stacy Ferguson is back to hawk the rest of her groove thing, and Will.i.am is also there to overproduce and drool. At 13 randy tracks, Fergie’s Ferg’s Pea-less coming-out party makes My Humps look subtle in comparison. Which means I kind of like this one, too.

Fergie isn’t a very good singer — she puts a street-hard edge on her singing, and she’s most comfortable cooing or chanting come-ons — so Will.i.am makes up for her talent void by framing her in over-the-top musical numbers. Opening song Fergalicious borrows its arrogance from LL Cool J’s I’m That Type of Guy and an old-school hip-hop beat from J.J. Fad’s Supersonic.

Will.i.am isn’t shy about swiping samples from the pop-music canon. On the clever, catchy Clumsy, he uses a trippy echo of Little Richard’s The Girl Can’t Help It as a hook for the soulful midtempo love song. The cool reggae bounce of Mary Jane Shoes "contains an interpolation of No Woman, No Cry" — a tricky way of saying he’s poaching from Bob Marley. Nevertheless, Will.i.am makes for a likable thief.

Curiously enough, Will didn’t have a hand in first single London Bridge, an inventive bit of smut that uses the regal span as a metaphor for Fergie’s naughty bits. The song was produced by Pussycat Dolls collaborator Polow Da Don, who also knows a thing or two about borrowing great ideas: London Bridge is essentially Gwen Stefani’s Hollaback Girl gone to seed. Naturally, I love it.

We Want Your CLAY AIKEN Reviews!!!

CLAYMATES UNITE!

On Tuesday, deceptive pop juggernaut Clay Aiken released a new album, A Thousand Different Ways, which includes covers of Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word, Without You and I Want to Know What Love Is.

In times like these, I feel it's best, and safest, and most entertaining, to let the fans weigh in on the disc.

So let's hear it, Maniacal Clay Fans: Is the CD any good? Is his version of Elton John's classic better than Elton John's version of Elton John's classic?

Let's hear some chatter out there...

Hot for Teacher: Songs for Debra Lafave?

Debra Lafave should totally make a pop album.

After all, the rather hot Riverview, Fla., pedagogue seduced a 14-year-old boy -- and yet she's still more respected than naked heiress-turned-pop star Paris Hilton. And c'mon, Lafave was somewhat remorseful (kind of) on the Today show.

Plus making a cheapo covers album will put off Lafave's inevitable naked foray into the pages of Hustler.

Who cares if she can sing? She already looks like one of David Lee Roth's California girls. These days, that's half the battle.

SO WHAT SHOULD DEBRA LAFAVE SING ON HER ALBUM?

SHOUT OUT YOUR REQUESTS...

I'll get us started...

1.) Teach Your Children -- Crosby Stills and Nash

Beyonce = Wonder Woman

The Hollywood buzz is that producers are once again drooling around the celebosphere for a sexy starlet to play Wonder Woman, the Amazonian crime-fighter with a heart of gold and thighs of steel. American Idol hottie Kat McPhee has been mentioned; scarily enough, so has 52-year-old Kim Basinger.

But here's a little advice for those cigar-chomping boys in the boardroom: If you can’t get Beyonce, scrap the whole damn thing.

La Knowles is the ONLY person worthy of flying Wonder Woman’s invisible plane and twirling her golden lasso. She has the hair, the muscle, the looks. And do I need to mention those coconut-cracking gams? With her classy rep and smoldering strength, Beyonce is a pop-culture superhero.

Hell, she even has her own theme song. The new Ring the Alarm is a siren wail of rage and recklessness, with the normally composed Beyonce ferocious at the idea of infidelity messing up her shot at love and luxury. The song allegedly stems from rumors that hottie popper Rihanna is cozying up to her boss, and Beyonce's beau, Jay-Z. That's a bad idea for sure. After all, hell hath no fury like a Wonder Woman scorned.

Throbbing Gristle, Virgin Prunes, Etc.

On September 19, those magnificent bastards at Rhino Records will release A Life Less Lived: The Gothic Box, a celebration of Joy Division, Bauhaus, Siouxsie and the Banshees and all those other bands I never listened to in high school. To be honest, they creeped me out only slightly less than the kids who listened to them. Sorry, but it was high school. We were all knuckleheads.

Anyway, I came into work this morning to find a black leather bustier on my desk. I was immediately suspicious because my bustier is pink. Oh, Rhino, you clever SOBs: The Gothic Box -- three CDs, one DVD, and the obligatory book/essay/liner notes you'll never read -- is enclosed in the tie-up lingerie. Very cool and clever from a label that excels at being both.

Goth blossomed on the gritty soil of punk; forever indebted, essentially different. It has survived all manner of invective and unhealthy assumptions to become a shining example of music made because it needs to be, not because of anything the performers expect to get out of it. This is art that gets inside your heart. -- Mick Mercer, from the essay "Goth Matters"

As it turns out, 18 years removed from Camp Hill High School, I'm strangely loving The Gothic Box. Go figure. First of all, it has Flesh for Lulu's I Go Crazy, from the Some Kind of Wonderful soundtrack; I've been chasing that track for awhile. But after a casual listen, I also enjoyed Sisters of Mercy's Temple of Love, Peter Murphy's Cuts You Up, the Rose of Avalanche's Dreamland, and Joy Division's Dead Souls. I found the gloomy, monotone delivery and synth blurbles and occasional glimmers of love among the ruins rather comforting, as did Jame Gumb from Silence of the Lambs.