View credits, reviews, tracks and shop for the CD release of 'Sleep Through The Static' on Discogs. A New York Times writer said, “The title track of “Sleep Through the Static” is a protest anthem that revels in pointed wordplay. Still, in some ways the song is vintage Jack Johnson: liltingly jaunty, casually pithy and stocked with a simple refrain”(Chinen). Sleep Through the Static documents his best work to date, even better than the Curious George soundtrack. The sedate singer transforms the acoustic campfire strums of the past into sublime, soulful ruminations on his wife, kids, and the state of the world. He even manages to conjure up some real anger on the title track, which is hardly.

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Discogs:	https://www.discogs.com/master/62499[info]
reviews:	https://www.bbc.co.uk/music/reviews/gwrg[info]
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So at last the ex-surfer and green activist singer-songwriter delivers his dubstep metal album...Oh alright, Sleep Through...isn't a whole lot different from the Hawaii-born musician's previous outings. Depending on whether you're a fan this could be good or bad. It's so easy to point to Johnson and cry 'bland!' or 'cozy!', but it's hard to argue with a multi-platinum track record. His status as a household name will be undoubtedly reinforced by this well-nigh perfect example of all his best traits.

While Johnson has one mode of expression – a lazy, loping, bluesy feel underpinned with chiming acoustics and lightly brushed skins, never burdened with tricky key changes of rhythmic surprises – he does it excessively well. True, his delivery often falls on the wrong side of 'safe'. One longs for at least one ruggedly uptempo track filled with righteous bile. Yet, as Johnson himself states in Same Girl: 'I'm not a very good fighter am I?'

Johnson's admirable agenda of eco-love (a typical surfer's stance, along with the vaguely cod-Zen philosophising) is well represented (All At Once) as are his anti-war feelings (the title track), but Sleep Through...is really the work of a man dealing with the dreadful burden of domestic bliss. It's filled with songs about his wife (Angel) and children (Go On). But then again, why not? It would be so easy to label Johnson as some bland poster boy for middle class mediocrity, yet a closer glimpse at his lyrics show a man who has both a soul and a brain. The only danger is that his style is so relaxed that the message often gets lost in the warmth of it all. Musically (the speed going from slow to fairly slow) it becomes an unvariegated lump of acoustic comfort: Charming but lacking a little bite. Yet it's expertly delivered.

That's what he's good at. We should be thankful that someone so prominent is both concerned for the planet and our hearts. As long as you're not expecting to be drastically challenged you're in safe hands. And sometimes that's quite enough.

I know, it's hardly practical to attempt a media blackout when you work in the sports department of a newspaper. But trust me when I say I did my damnedest. Save for Dave D'Onofrio's thoughtful postgame autopsy and the clear-eyed dispatches of Mike Reiss and Chris Gasper, pretty much everything I read in the past week I read only because I was being paid to.
My clicker never settled on ESPN, not for one shouted, hyperbolic, ill-informed word. No 'Sports Illustrated championship pack' commercials for me, or, I suspect, you. No Peter King-Favre, and definitely no Kissing Suzy Kolber. No WEEI or WFAN (my usual late-night choice on the trip home from Boston). Just the new Jack Johnson CD, my own mental NFL Films reel, and ever so gradually, some peace of mind regarding the agonizing way it all played out. Yes, I may need to make a habit of tuning out.
So . . . eight days later, here we are, slowly moving on, trying to make sense of the fact that the quest for perfection was derailed by the likes of Eli Manning and David Freakin' Tyree. Not that we'd ever begrudge the Giants their epic victory; they were clutch, smart, well-prepared, aggressive, resourceful, and damn lucky, a formula that should be familiar to and appreciated by any Patriots fan with a shred of self-awareness.
But I don't think it's bad form to admit the Giants deserved to win while also bemoaning that fact that they Patriots had, what, four or five chances on the final drive to clinch the victory for themselves? It just goes to show that football, not baseball, is the ultimate game of inches. If Samuel holds on to the pick . . . if someone in that sea of hands hauls down Manning . . . if Harrison can just pull Tyree's hand free . . .
If, if, if.
Bleeping if.
Hey, like I said, we're returning from the underground slowly. It ain't easy. The hardest part to accept, other than the actual outcome itself, is this: the Patriots needed one play to secure a legacy as the greatest team in history of the NFL, and players who have consistently delivered those big plays in big moments had their chances . . . and shockingly, they let them slip through their hands

Sleep Through The Static Chords

, literally so in Samuel's case. And because of this out-of-character failure to make the one play they need, their legacy is not one of greatness or immortalily or dominance, but one of almost . . . I don't know, mockery or pity or as a cautionary tale or something. They seem to be regarded now like the marathoner on a record pace who tripped and fell right on his face before the finish line, except on a grander scale, because no one gives a *%&$ about marathoning. They're laughing at us, not with us, and I fear, with good reason, that 18-1 is the new 1918. I hate this feeling.
Odd how the pendulum swings. One play gets made, one play

Sleep Through The Static Jack Johnson Album

, and this team's relegates the '72 Dolphins to the obscurity they deserve. But one play didn't get made, and now we're left to wonder if the loss was an all-too-appropriate bookend to the Super Bowl victory over the Rams, the completion of the circle. Removing emotion from the equation, I honestly don't believe that we saw an era's conclusion last Sunday; a smart, talent-rich team with Bill Belichick on its sideline and Tom Brady as its quarterback is not going to fade from perennial championship contention because of one soul-crushing loss. We must concede, however, that the coach and the QB no longer have the air of invincibility in the postseason that they once did. This is three seasons without a championship, and the last two season-ending losses have come, excruciatingly, in the game's final moments. The Super Bowl victory over the Eagles is starting to feel like a long time ago.
In a sense, I wish next season would begin tomorrow, just to dull the memory of their last play. As much as I love baseball, this is not a wound that can be healed by another sport, and it's downright silly to suggest the arrival of pitchers and catchers, while a traditional sign that brighter days are coming, can do anything to ease the disappointment of what happened in Arizona.
Further, anyone who suggests this loss was less significant because the indignity was suffered by the Pats instead of the Sox is simply allowing personal opinion to overwhelm logic. Boston is not solely a Baseball Town, not now, and maybe never again; it is a Pro Sports Town now, as evidenced by the current swirling moods: the genuine grief of the Patriots' demise and the giddiness surrounding the Celtics' resurgence. Hell, I'm convinced that if Jeremy Jacobs ever spent some of his beer-and-wiener loot on his neglected hockey team, the marginalized Bruins could again become as beloved as they were in the Neely/Bourque years, if not the golden days of the Gallery Gods in the '70s. It's easy to forget now, but Boston was once a Hockey Town above all else.
We New Englanders are, however, the only ones who have any affection this Patriots team. Everyone besides you and me - to borrow a word from Tom Jackson - hates them, and you bet I believe the whispers that the press box erupted in cheers when the football settled gently into Plaxico Burress's hands.
While some - okay, a lot - of the public disdain is self-inflicted, and I think it would be hugely beneficial if Belichick would permit himself to always be as charming as he was during Super Bowl week, all the ancillary white noise shouldn't sap the fun out of being a fan. Yet it did; turns out it sucks being Goliath.

Sounds To Fall Asleep To

You'd think the journey to 18-0 would have been joyful, but between SpyGate, RunningUpTheScoreGate, ConsensualHorseplayGate, BradyInABootOnTMZGate, and all the other saturation b.s. 'coverage' on ESPN and elsewhere, it turned out that the only fun in following this team came during the actual games . . . that is, until the last game.
Right now, I find myself looking forward to the day the Patriots are treated like just another very good football team again. If that's even possible.

Sleep Through The Static Album

* * *
As for today's Completely Random Football Card:
Yeah? Something tells me He loves you more, pal.

Labels: Asante Samuel, Bill Belichick, David Tyree, Eli Manning, Jack Johnson, Peter King, Plaxico Burress, Tom Brady