Search - Taylor Barton :: Skinny Kat

Remember that review in Spinal Tap, about their record shark

Edie Perkins, Music critic of the g | Hoboken | 08/19/2005

(1 out of 5 stars)

"And the review was two words, the second word was sandwich and the first one started with sh.



I bought this disc to check out what G.E. Smith had been up to. This one is by his wife, and I'd heard he played all over it.



Ok, it sucks. That's the long and the short of it. Gotta get that outta the way first. Crapola cola. But once you realize that, its degree of suckitude sort of pulls you in. First off, you can't understand a word Taylor Baront says, or is that sings. She moans, maybe even in key sometimes, but the high lonesome warble is so processed with delay and reverb, and a pitch shifter I suspect, that by the time it gets to your ears, it's just a high pitched hum that lacks clarity, defintion and, well, soul.



Ok, so maybe that's to be expected, the wife of a well known guitarist sucking, that's nothing new. But then there's the songwriting. You think, well maybe the lyrics will win you over. And Barton will be the first to tell you about her success as a one act play wright on the mean streets of New York. Sadly, whatever skill she had as a playwright is not apparent in the lyrics on this bundle of hiss. From the opening couplet- "Wish I were a violet, in your living room, wish I was there naked, lying in full bloom." to the very last one- Tornado's, "an aching voice keeps on calling, I shut it out, but I keep falling." It's very clear The mediocre miss B is not going to set the world on fire with her simplistic doggerel.



The music is a mundane swirl of tepid sewage. The singing, and the lyrics seem to yearn for the great gig in the sky over on VH-1. Lemme tell you, I wouldn't polka to any one of these songs, not even if you paid me, and I'll do the chicken dance to just about anything.



This is a stinker, and what's worse, Mr. Smith actually bought into the notion this lady had some talent. No dice there, buster."