Sam Phillips' latest album, her third pop album and her best-seller to date, is entitled "Martinis and Bikinis." Ahem. Hubba hubba . . . sophisticated sex appeal delivered with a nod and a wink, by the kind of timid, demure, smart sex bomb who might have once populated "L.A. Law."
On stage at the Paradise Thursday night before a comfortably full house, Phillips was neither shaken nor stirred - although she did sport an inch or so of bare midriff. She was kind of . . . static . . . stoic, an avian presence whose most pronounced gesture was to move her head from side to side, peering awkwardly into the crowd. She was not uninvolved in the material, much of which concerned the turbulence of love, but she often seemed remote.
"Some of you may have noticed a lack of choreography . . .," Phillips deadpanned, after a few songs. She chalked that up to an overexposure to Paula Abdul videos. Phillips, who began her music career in the Christian-music field, opted for a classic Sinatra pose: slinging her glittery jacket over her shoulder and singing a spare saloon song, "Same Changes."
Further neophyte Sam Phillips misconceptions: Some people have heard the name and assumed Sam (born Leslie) is a he, and others, perhaps, have presumed her to be the "legendary" Sam Phillips who produced Elvis Presley. Nope, but there actually is an Elvis connection - her bassist, Jerry Scheff, once played with Elvis Presley and, for that matter, Elvis Costello.
But it is Costello's revelatory songwriting form that Phillips most recalls: detailed, pained, melodic, melancholic, thoughtful. The lilting "Baby I Can't Please You" - dedicated to "Rush Limbaugh . . . you handsome devil" - jabbed both the right-wing talk- meister and the nature of restrictive relationships. The spooky, quietly snarling "Raised on Promises" rocked out as it brooded - guitar support and electric jolts from Phillips' husband, T Bone Burnett and X's Tony Gilkyson.
There was Beatle-esque bliss near the end, with "I Need Love" (featuring Phillips on harmonica) and "Wheel of the Broken Voice," where Phillips began the song with "Silence and rage/The scars of a daughter/He gave me the knife/I held it in deep water . . ." Gulp. Beatle-esque? Yes. A killer melody cut with a serrated lyrical knife.
The downside? It was a short set, just an hour, including encores. Phillips didn't tackle John Lennon's bitter pill "Gimme Some Truth," as she did on "Martinis and Bikinis," imbuing it with a thoroughly modern, moody, newly ticked-off buzz. And she didn't ever give the impression that she was truly glad to be in our midst. There was a sense of restraint and distance that lurked. It may have just been shyness or showbiz reticence, but you hoped for a bit more engagement.