I wanted not to like Ryan Bingham’s latest, Tomorrowland. Dude quit answering my emails a couple years back. I figured he got too big to speak to common folk like myself after the major record deal and the Oscar.
I also figured Ryan landed in a soft spot after moving to Los Angeles and would likely be spouting worthless shit by now to make more money to pay for the all the bling.
I was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Dead fucking wrong.
Bingham sings from the street—hell, not even the street—from the gutter, the land of the lost, the forsaken, the forgotten. The feral.
It’s a poke in the eye, a knee to the gut, a kick to the balls.
Once again, the rhyme is awkward at first, but there’s method to the madness, and after a few times through it couldn’t be any other way. There’s soul in the words, big time soul.
It’s art of the deranged, like a Van Gogh painting, strokes of genius from a man that probably couldn’t construct a sentence to satisfy a seventh grade English teacher if his life depended on it.
Bingham’s Tomorrowland is produced by Axster Bingham records. Axter is Ryan’s wife. The CD is recorded at Fred and Anouk’s house in Los Angeles.
I don’t know what happened to the Lost Highway deal or the big shot T Bone Burnett.
But I know damn well that this record is the kind that makes editors and music executives cringe and run for the door. No way they’re hanging their balls out on something like this.
This is going to scare the hell out of folks.
My hat’s off to Ryan Bingham.