All sentimental sap, multi-tracked vocal fireworks, and majesterial pomp, "Miracles" asks—nay, demands—that we believe that distance is little more than a state of mind, that we're only as far away from loved ones as we think we are. It also represents this American Idol runner-up's early, populist stocking-stuffer to soul mates separated by daunting space and circumstance—think soldiers stationed abroad and their worried families back on the home front, prisoners in limbo between conjugal visits, and the like.
On the one hand, what a waste: The band showed up game for skuzzy, rudimentary rawk action, but the singer was late, totally hungover, and hadn't bothered to work up lyrics. On the other hand, there's something strangely attractive about how deliberately half-baked/demo-quality Little Girls seem.
Ain't nothing wrong with quickie cock-rock shred clinics now and again, big, ballsy workouts that exist primarily to demonstrate that the players can rip, and rip righteously; that's why we're psyched that this Atlanta crew are making the proverbial scene.
What's happening here is anybody's call; you'll need to bring your own powers of inference to the table. My interpretation? The singer's incanting robotically about her first- and second-string sex toys over some electroclash/surf-rock/cheerleader-cry mash-up BS. I don't hate it, but it kinda doesn't go anywhere.
At the rate our culture's going, sex will be fatally cheapened—drained of every last remaining shred of sensuality, mystery, and power—by the time a health-care overhaul passes Congress. Which is, as you know, about to happen.