Material for these girls fun, but trite

Costarring superstar Hilary Duff and sister Haylie Duff, “Material Girls” is the story of two fabulously rich orphans (sort of) whose company begins to fail after a report claims their cosmetic products cause disfigurement.  What ensues is the average riches to rags to riches story we have all seen many times before, though these rich girls conveniently never have to do without the designer duds that make them as fabulous as they are.  Along the way they learn to appreciate life a little more (operative word being  little as they seem to happen along one cute episode to another.)  In fact, even jail does not bring one of the sisters down as she quickly makes friends with the rough prostitutes in the holding cell, and gives them cosmetic advice to pass the time.  This film is rated PG, and while I did not mind watching it with my 7.75 year-old step-daughter, there were parts you could tell had been edited for language or content so that it could be marketed to the only demographic who could justifiably spend 7+ dollars at the movie theater.  The Duff sisters do a passable good job as the sweet, multi-millionaire heirs, even though they at times resemble much less favorable heiresses popularized by the US’s need to gossip about vapid rich girls.  In the end, the girls do show some depth, but definitely not enough to dive into.  Good for young girls and anyone looking for light, funny mediocrity.

Try as I may, all I hear is Stevie Ray

In my pursuit to better appreciate popular music, I continued my quest by listening to another of John Mayer’s recent releases, “Try! : live in concert.”  And while I did not find this album totally worthless, I nonetheless was not impressed.  Being that this was a live endeavor by Mayer and “Trio” bandmates Steve Jordan and Pino Palladino, I was not bothered by the redundancy of material in relation to his other recent release, “Continuum.”  However, a sneaking suspicion had begun to grow when I had listened to “Continuum” and has since solidified into a weary resignation.  Mayer must have been listening to Stevie Ray Vaughan during the creation stage for these songs.  Vocally, he sounds eerily similar to the late, great blues musician, but musically who could ever hope to compare?  Stevie Ray was known to play so hard and long that his calluses on his fingers would tear off, and instead of stopping to heal, he would simply super glue them back on, and continue playing as though possessed.  No other guitarist, arguably even Jimi Hendrix himself, could ever match the lyrical playing of Stevie Ray, so for Mayer to almost copy the man’s style seems quite lacking.  Sure the songs are catchy and not bad, but even the most thrilling modern structure would pale against the likes of the Taj Mahal.  Mayer needs to stick with what he knows, and produce Pop-driven tunes that reach the masses like he does so well.  Leave the guitar virtuosos to their endless search of the great ones’ muse.  Try as he might, Mayer is dwarfed by Stevie Ray’s shoes.