February 1, 2007

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Taylor Hicks, Taylor Hicks
Arista Records, 2006

Yes, friends, Taylor Hicks. I‘ll admit that the first draft of this review was already written in my head the second the American Idol guy’s airbrushed eyes met mine, as his CD slid out of the plain brown paper envelope from PR; basically this was going to be a paraphrased Hannibal Lecter deal, as in “You know what you sound like, Taylor, with your good Magic Dick harp and your cheap Elvis?” But how are you supposed to hate this guy? It’d be like snarking away at Tom Brady for smiling and woop-wooping like a 12-year-old when they let Vinny Testaverde throw that final touchdown pass this season. Sure, this is a direct assault on the general IQ, a Disney-ized Michael Bolton doing harmless cover songs that’ll only ever be seriously played during bean suppers at Saint Mary’s, and he touches not on Iraq, drugs, lust nor even Paula Abdul’s personal ad, but I gotta tell… no. Wait. It’s dumb. I didn’t listen to it twice through straight in the car and hammer out a few drum rolls on the dashboard. It wasn’t me. B+Eric W. Saeger