Music reviews. CD reviews. Critically hip!

Karaoke singer gets hold of recording equipment so that she can self-harmonize, and put the thoughts rambling around her head down on tape. And that’s pretty much what Carol Martini’s The Rose in the Boxcar sounds like. The lyrics are trite, clichéd, the vocals are wavering and probably better suited for a cable access kids’ show or something. I mean, seriously, Martini wouldn’t get past the first round of American Idol. The music on here consists largely of a guitarist named Keith Lynch playing ridiculously repetitive chords over and over for the duration of each of these approximately 4 minute long compositions. No slight on him, the songs are Martini’s creations, but man, does it ever get repetitive and boring.

There are four tracks on here dedicated to Martini’s father, and it’s on these songs that the CD hits its apex. There’s a bit of a catch in Martini’s voice on these tracks, adding a bit of gravitas missing elsewhere on the album. Never Going to Say Good-Bye is probably the best of these songs, and the best song on the disc.

Besides the songs she dedicates to her father, the pickings are slim to utterly awful. The album opener, Love Is, fits in the former category, with lines like, “I want more of you every day, I don’t care what I have to pay,” and, “I’m so surprised that I made it this far/without love, it was incredibly hard.” I don’t know whether to be disgusted or to just laugh. But it doesn’t compare to the steaming piles of annoying that are Rockin’ Robin, or Writing on the Heart, Thorn in My Heart or Freeway Song, which features the outstandingly bad and rhythmically contorted line, “It’s been an hour and we haven’t gone a mile/I’d hardly call this being Mo-o-bi-el.” I mean, complaining about traffic is a sure-fire winner, right? But after this track, you almost hope she gets into a wreck.

The music on here is "Wednesday night at your local coffee house" level, at best. There's probably an audience for this kind of stuff, but even then, I'm not sure too many people are lining up for a CD of generic, iffily produced acoustic stuff, when you can get the same, and a white chocolate mocha to boot, just by wandering down the street on any given weeknight.