That's a damn oxymoron, by the way, the whole "easy-listening" thing. Something original, inventive, provocative, that's something that's easy to listen to. That shit right there, you'd be hard pressed to ignore it, is what.

This, though, this could have been playing on repeat for four days and you'd only notice when the stereo leaped into the nearest bathtub to rid itself of the insufferable torment.

Katie Melua seems really nice, seems like the kinda lass you wouldn't mind having a chat with for an hour or two. She deserves her success, man, she's got an astounding voice, but she needs to tell those producer cats to get the fuck away from her demo tapes, lock herself up in a room with some Hank Williams, and not come out until she remembers why she wrote the damn songs in the first place.

Was it just to act as an invisible guest at after-dinner drinks sessions for the rest of forever? To sit in a designer CD-Holder next to a copy of Kind Of Blue that someone bought because the fella on the cover was black and had a saxophone and hey, jazz is so decadent yet refined.

Meredith Brooks had a song about how she was a bitch, and nobody took her seriously because every step she took, she made sure Alanis Morrissette had stepped there first. Unless Katie, and more importantly, her producers, stop taking notes every time Norah Jones lets a half-melodic fart, she won't be taken very seriously either.

And that, my friends, would be a motherfucking shame, is what.

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