Word: honey
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...faced; she's so tough that misery, mostly in the form of doomed men and rotten luck, never stands a chance. It's just that in the Williams songbook, misery never seems to stop coming around, which is why the first track on her ninth album, Little Honey, is such a shock. It's called "Real Love," and it's not about losing real love or a tortured glimpse of real love but about finding it once...
Williams is too sophisticated to song-write her own bio, but she's also too shrewd to ignore it, and her engagement to manager Tom Overby (who co-produced Little Honey) seems to have inspired a challenge: say something new about love and happiness. Lyric-sheet readers may wonder if she's up to it. Her usual evocations and minimalist stanzas are replaced by lines like "You're drinking in a bar in Amsterdam/ I'm thinking baby far out, be my man," proof that love and goofiness are but a beer apart...
...glory of Little Honey is less its poetry than its ability to sustain happiness as a mood. There is Williams' glorious voice, of course--cracking in the verses and lubricating the choruses of "Tears of Joy"; drolly channeling Tammy Wynette to Elvis Costello's George Jones on "Jailhouse Tears"--but the critical decision was to make this a guitar-dominated album. It's not just that it's the warmest instrument in rock, country and blues (Williams' favorite playgrounds) but that Doug Pettibone is the best unknown guitarist in all three. On song after song, Pettibone's six-string acts...
...shopping for a baby in Malawi and enduring gossip that your wife is palling around with A-Rod. Simply finding time to work while sharing a flat with a longtime pop star who's used to constant attention from her retinue has to be a delicate chore. (Not tonight, honey; I've got a script to finish...
...even the slickest sleuths should avoid at all costs. “Dormcest” is always a bad idea. If things go sour, your 4 a.m. vending machine visits will always be wrought with the fear of bumping into your ex-lover buying Diet Coke for a new honey, or using the basement dryers for something other than drying clothes. Plus, dorms are mini-Harvards—word gets around pretty fast, and nobody wants to be the year’s “Holworthy Ho” or “Thayer Slayer...