From what I can gather from bios and press kit statements, Tori Sparks is one of those people who worked incredibly hard to achieve her current level of success.

I have the sense that there’s a story between the lines—a story that will largely be conjecture for my part, but probably more interesting and definitely more entertaining than her latest, The Scorpion in the Story. I’m not talking about her tacked-on concept album schtick. It’s more akin to the story you feel behind a classified ad reading “Wedding dress for sale—never worn.”

As much as Tori Sparks claims to present a series of “true vignettes from the road,” championing the small victories and tragedies of even smaller people, she comes across just as “bungled and botched” as the little objects of her condescension. This is the hidden sting of The Scorpion in the Story. In Nietzsche’s estimation, the vast majority of people may get close to greatness, being teased with ample talent and means, but simply do not share the destiny of the truly great ones. At some point, Tori Sparks had to believe in what she was doing. With some measure of commercial success, she pressed forward, even gathering some sidemen associated with Counting Crows, Mark Knopfler and Alison Krauss. I could never hope to be associated with anyone remotely that well known, but we’re still talking about C-list talent and celebrity at best.

So what happens when you heap up the most impressive mediocrity around and shellac it with a nebulous “concept”? You get the kind of adult contemporary dreck that people in their late 30s desperately cling to for that air of hip responsibility, et tu Lightening 100?, or like secretly, under your khakis, wearing to the office skull and crossbones boxers you bought from Target.

This is not Americana. Do not be deceived . . . Dude, where’s my Country?