I’ve always been baffled at the (relative) success of Pink Martini and at the fact that anyone would be interested in the band. It sounds like a pissed-up bunch of entitled arts volunteers – say, the stage crew and chorus members of a local production house – having a go at everything they’re sure they can do. At best it’s frustratingly diverse. (Well, as diverse as one group of too many people can be with shared grease-proof paper and crayons). But more often it sounds like the Waiting For Guffman peeps turning their hand to wine-cool matinee jazz and faux-opera shenanigans.
This new album does nothing to dispel that.
Get Happy? Get fucked!