Arts & Entertainment
Wilde s latest album
It’s got a good beat, easy to dance to, but that’s all
By Mieki Haller
Senior Editor_
Kim Wilde
Close
MCA Records
Kim Wilde’s new album, “Close,”
is filled with poppy-boppy sensibili
ties, but for a trash album, it’s not loo
bad.
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Wilde hit international charts
seven years ago with her debut single,
‘Kids In America.” Last year, she
lopped the U.S. charts with a remake
of “You Keep Me Hangin’ On.”
While “Close” has nothing as in
fectious as that remake, it does have
some songs that will most likely make
it as dance-floor hits.
“Hey Mr. Heartache,” “You
Came” and “Never Trust a Stranger”
have a good beat, and it’s easy to
dance to. But it’s hard to get beyond
an “American Bandstand” mentality
with the songs.
The lyrics aren’t particularly
meaningful. Love, hate and leaving
have been fodder for songs since the
beginning, and Wilde manages to
find nothing new to say about the
subjects.
“You changed the way I feel. ..
you turned my life around,” she sings
in “You Came.” The song is about the
early high of a love affair, when eve
rything seems perfect and forever.
“I watch you sleep in the still of the
night/You look so pretty when you
dream.”
In fact, almost all of the songs are
about someone falling in love, or
someone leaving.
But Wilde isn’t as annoying as
some of the adolescent prima-donnas
popping up on the top-40 charts.
Her voice isn’t particularly devel
oped, but it’s not an annoying whine.
It isn’t even an affected moaning and
groaning. Wilde’s sound is just easy,
in tune, and nice.
“European Soul” slightly breaks
with the girl-mects-boy, girl-falls
for-boy, boy or girl-leaves mold.
The song is breathy, and within the
background accompanying Wilde,
arc some lovely piano notes that
sound like an afternoon in a European
cafe.
“Lucky Guy” is the only song that
Wilde didn’t have a hand in the writ
ing. Composed by Todd Rundgrcn,
the song is haunting. This is definitely
different from the style on the rest of
the album, but it doesn’t seem out of
place.
Wilde, according to her biogra
phy, said her songwriting has become
much stronger.
“My voice is able to handle more
diverse material as well,” she said. “I
worked hard to make as musically
mature a statement as I could.”
Wilde and her band set a deadline
for this album. They wrote, recorded
and got their act together in three
months, but the slickly produced
sound doesn’t reveal any seams.
The rest of the band is Ricki Wilde,
her brother, and guitarist Steve Bird.
Of course, the dance sound was
inevitable. Tony Swain pioduced the
album. Together with Steve Jolley,
Swain has produced hits for Bananar
ama, Spandau Ballet and others.
Kim Wilde shows on “Close” that
she has a fresh voice and a good beat,
yet her songwriting skills are still a
little trite. A few more years may give
her the maturity to explore her themes
a little more, and develop characters.
“Close” will be just a passing
whim across the face of pop music,
but like a casual love affair, it’s fun
while it lasts.
Courtesy of MCA Records
Somedays, there’s just nothing funny to write about
Trevor McArthur
Sulf Humorist
One of the pitfalls of trying to
make one’s living as a writer, or
even trying to pick up a steady
supply of spare change that way, is
that sometimes there is nothing to
write about.
--- ■
Alter a two-hour nap in the
basement of Love Library (I was in
the Zen section, so it’s almost like
meditation), I find there is nothing
funny about this week.
The first thing that’s not funny
is today’s election.
Americans will have to choose
either the Quayle in the Bush
(which is worth none in the House)
or Duka-ka-ka-kis and Bentsen.
With these running males, the big
question is, will the third stooge be
Moe, Shemp or Curly?
For a while, George Bush was
running around pledging himself
to flags bigger than any available
flag poles, and ihen there was all
that flap about what organizations
the Zinc-alloy Duke was a card
carrying member of, namely the
American Civil Liberties Union.
All the politicians missed the
great opportunity to hit their oppo
nents on the safe sex issue and
prove themselves a condom carry
ing candidate. That was what I was
waiting for — the situation had
gotten so down-right surreal any
way.
J. Danforlh Quayle is, in many
quarters, thought of as humorous.
Just saying his name can cause
some to break up, the same way
mentioning Gcraldo Rivera’s can.
I have a feeling there arc even
many Republicans who would like
to be able to vote for a separate vice
president. Bush and Bentsen might
really have a good time together,
constantly reminiscing about their
Texas childhoods.
Just a week ago there was also a
big election in Israel, and not much
was funny there either.
The biggest issue at stake is
whether tne Palestinians will be
treated like stray junkyard dogs or
family pets. And remember, the
Israelis arc the good guys.
I do feel I should get an apology
out of the way. Quite innocently I
made a few jokes about the greek
system in a former column. I didn't
mean to make fun of any greek
houses on campus.
Coming into the back doors of
the Nebraska Union I noticed
Broyhill Fountain has once more
had the color of its water tampered
with.
Vandalism is, of course, always
funny. Some zany joker pul some
sort of dye in ihe fountain. I would
say it’s for “Go B ig Red,” but really
it’s more of a purple.
A female friend described it as
mauve, which highlights a general
tendency I‘vc noticed. The female
color vocabulary seems about 20
limes that of the male.
What men tend to describe as a
pinkish purple or purplish pink,
women tend to describe as fuchsia.
This is only a tendency though,
since my female editor called the
.fountain color “puke purple.”
After telling ihe thought of col
ored water soak deeper into my
brain, it reminded me of something
other than petty sex differences. In
fact, it rem inds me of an interesting
bit of legend and a rather odd cus
tom of the people of a corner of
Europe.
It was almost this very day of a
year long ago. In the space between
late night and early morning, the
dam a few miles up from the little
German town of Bad FuBfenster
burst.
It had given way to all the pres
sure of the spring melting of the
Alpine snows. Though the dam
wasn’t large compared to many,
the mountain walls of the valley
kept all the water from dispersing,
and the torrent threatened to wipe
out the town.
But near the base of the dam w as
a large warehouse filled with tons
of powdered gelatin. It had been
there since the owner’s attempt to
comer the fledgling powdered
gelatin market had failed.
The floodwaters smashed the
building to toothpicks, but churned
the gelatin into a mixture.
The waters moved on. to destroy
a farm experimenting with breed
ing turkeys, but a quarter mile
outside of town the powder gelled.
The villagers woke to find the tor
rent literally frozen in its destruc
tive path.
So as we Americans prepare for
our Thanksgiving holiday, it is
interesting to remember an almost
simultaneous festival in far-away
Barvaria.
A holiday where jello is the
main course of the meal and the
sprays of all the town fountains arc
frozen with it for a day and become
giant street comer desserts, with
maybe slivers of turkey suspended
like jello salad to fully commemo
rate the day.
Maybe we could start celebrat
ing this day here in the Comhusker
state.
Or maybe we should all go take
regular naps in the Zen section. A
dictionary describesZen as an anti
rational Buddhist sect. With a sur
real world, who can afford ration
ality?
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