Rokken Roll

2007-05-06T20:18:00.000-07:00

Up Your Game, Television Set Designers

Why is it that on otherwise brilliant television shows, the music posters up in the kids' bedrooms are always so sad and clueless? It's like they've got this amazing eye for detail in every other aspect of the human condition but this. AJ Soprano listens to Sugarcult? Really? Who the fuck listens to Sugarcult?

2007-05-03T20:03:00.000-07:00

In Defense of the New Musical Express

There’s a certain strain of British music writing that’s incapable of criticism. The bylines belong to “music critics,” absolutely, but the criticism is only there as a phantom limb—they know the shape of a review, where the adjectives should go, how this band sounds like this band in an attic with that band’s mother. Except that the content lacks any teeth. It’s as if, before assigning writers to reviews, desk editors make sure they only use seventeen year-old fanboys, shabby, naïve kids who write their reviews out in notebooks with that band’s stickers on the cover.

The main offender of the bunch, or at least the most notorious, is NME, the New Musical Express. It’s the US Weekly of British music mags. Their reviews are famously positive, breathless, with a few sad contenders each week thrown to the wolves, shat upon for a show of objectivity.

The odd thing about them though, is that they’re still tastemakers in the UK. They break legitimate bands every few months. They put together great bills and send them out on tour across the country, university to university, and they sell out everywhere. The magazine is an international joke, and yet people still turn to them to find the next superstar quartet. Weird!

So maybe they’re incapable of criticism and lacking in credibility like a fox?

We’re all so proud of ourselves for being discerning, such informed consumers. We troll the blogs and pay out the nose for subscriptions, and we’re all just so pleased that we can’t be distracted by hype. We backlash, motherfucker! Don’t tell me something’s good, record companies, because I’ll tell the internets that it ain’t!

I don’t know about anybody else, but my own love of music these days feels a little bit hollow. It’s been a while since I’ve been the underage kid with the X’d out hand at the show. I wish I could hear a band without the fifteen filters, just listening for a new sound or a jumpy bassline, regardless of the thousand ooooooobvious influences. “I mean, seriously: Mark E. Smith called. He wants his vocal phrasing back!” (hears self; slits wrist with broken CD).

There’s nothing wrong with being a fanboy! It a pleasure! NME, in its weird, market-tested way, gets that. They cover music they way the kid with the X’d-out hand would, and even when they let a band shine that might not deserve it, they’re still giving us five more that we’ll soon love recklessly.

It’s not a perfect magazine by any stretch (even journalism necessarily), but I bought last week’s issue at the newsstand for way more than I should. The Libertines got back together, for one night, and the cover had Pete and Carl, sweaty and beaming. It was classic NME, and staring at that cover, I could swear to God I was fourteen.

2007-02-23T17:41:00.000-08:00

Netflix is Killing Your Soul

I haven't watched a minute of Lost yet. I figure it'll take a Friday night, the next day, then maybe a few hours on Sunday. And I feel really OK about that.

The thing is, though, for all of those trend pieces about how great the lost weekend is, the lost weekend is killing the art of television. If you sit inside for an entire weekend, that's OK I guess. I like to veg as much as the next, and in the winter it gets cold out. My issue is the structure of the story, moving through a season, which (when done well) can be an art form. Not only are you scripting a single episode that needs its own arc, you're also thinking six or seven episodes down the road. That takes vision, and it needs to be appreciated.

When you're watching an entire season of a long-form narrative in one sitting, you deflate it. Obviously you deflate it in time, but by deflating it in time you deflate all of its suspense. When you have to wait a week to know if Laura Palmer's creepy dad really killed her, it takes stomach. It builds character. You have to be patient, and that wait is built into the storyline's tension.

When the theme music runs right after the last episode's credits, it doesn't matter so much. You'll have your answer immediately.

DVR does the same thing, on a smaller scale. Fast-forwarding through commercials kills the commercial tension. In the same way that advertisers are going to need new ways to find audiences, TV writers are going to change the way they do things. They've got a few very specific tricks up their sleeve, and if you take this one away from them, the shape of the storylines are going to suffer.

I love not knowing who's going to die in a cliffhanger. I think about it endlessly all summer. Will Frank Pembleton die of his stroke? What's it going to be like now that Marissa's dead? Maggie shot Burns? Seriously?

When Nancy called the DEA guy "Agent Wonder Bread," I wondered if he was going to kill her all week. And then a few weeks later, that huge deal at the end of the season! We won't know how it comes out for another few months! (Sanjay's still in the closet, and there's a gun hidden in the microwave.) I love the fact that I'm watching this show in real time.

It's not always possible, but I'm going to try to do everything in real time from now on. It's stupidly Catholic of me, but it just feels right. Tease me with your commercial breaks. Break my heart with your season finales. Make me weep when you get pulled off the air. Let's do this fucking thing, TV.

2007-02-22T08:09:00.000-08:00

Post-Humiliation

Before the Explosions in the Sky show on Monday, I had a thought.

"Wouldn't it be awesome if they came out and shouted, 'HELLO BROOKLYN! ARE YOU READY TO POST-ROCK AND ROLL?'"

My girlfriend started cackling. People started staring at us.

"You should totally post that on your blog!" she screamed. "See how many 'hits' you get! HA HA HA!"

Maybe I will, Caitlin. Maybe I will.

2006-09-21T14:37:00.000-07:00

Enough is Enough

Dear Posts in the Form of a Letter,

We need to talk.

For a while now, I've thought of you as a clever way to make a point, a way to break up the monotony by pretending like I was actually speaking to somebody, and thus, could be more focused. Basically, I thought of you as the new friend you meet in the line for the bathroom, the one who keeps you from lurking around the liquor cabinet silently.

Now don't take this the wrong way, Posts in the Form of a Letter. I really thought we were going to go the distance, and I'd turn you into some kind of regular feature (which I've never done before, you know; you were my first!). But recently, you've become kind of hacky. I'm sorry, Posts, but it's the truth. Everybody in the world seems to want to use you to make their point, and through them, I've seen that maybe you weren't as clever as I thought you were.

I think too much of you to give you a "It's me, not you," because frankly? You've become worn-out. But the good news is that, given your huge popularity in the blogosphere, I just know you'll forget about me in no time. Best of luck in all your future endeavors.

Keep keeping your head up,
Rokken Roll

2006-09-17T10:39:00.000-07:00

To Call a Spade a Spade

My name is Brian. I am a hipster.

I listen to a certain type of music; I wear a certain style of jean; I work a low-paying job in the media; I drink too much and spin miracles of logic to justify it; I have an artistic outlet that, while almost completely unnoticed, keeps me from feeling like a work-a-day; I’m nostalgic for my childhood without trying to re-create it; I try my best to keep to the unspoken social compact of the L.E.S.—I’ll look my alterna-finest if you’ll do the same, and then we can both revel in the myth that we live in a stylish utopia; I live in a cheap loft in an poor neighborhood in Brooklyn; and until today, I’ve never once said the words, “I am a hipster.”

Isn’t it amazing that we live in a city overrun by hipsters, and yet at the same time, no one is a hipster? Is there a subculture more filled with self-loathing than ours?

Of course, I never set out to become a hipster. Never did I wake up and say to myself, “This is how a hipster dresses, and so this is how I’ll dress. That is the kind of job he has, so that’s the one I’ll take.” It just slowly came together like that, in a far more abstract way, and now here I am, as a fully-formed specimen. Of course, you didn’t set out to become a hipster either. It just happened, and then one day you looked up and suddenly belonged to a group.

(And it goes without saying that anyone who actually does do this consciously, in an effort to fit the profile, is not a hipster and could never be one; they are livestock, each and every one.)

So why the self-negation? Why is it a crime to admit what we are?

One answer is that “hip” scares people off, sounds too congratulatory, excluding the unwashed masses in the ill-fitting jeans. Feh. Another is the Groucho Marx effect, that ideally we like to think of ourselves, each and every one, as individuals, and so announcing membership in our little group has always been, and always will be, a cardinal sin. A little closer, I think, but still not the essential truth:

It’s still that stupid, fearful, desperate need for ironic distance.

Now obviously, I’m not saying anything new here—hipsters love irony???? Whaaa?—but while it’s our most recognizable quality, it’s also our most obnoxious. And now it’s become so pervasive that it’s turned us against ourselves. We’re a generation divided against itself, terrified to admit what’s obvious, that we happen to exist as a collective. And that each member of that collective, whether he likes it or not, has been given the name “hipster.” It doesn’t change the fact of our existence, that name, so why is everyone so terrified of it?

In the same way that liberals have allowed “liberal” to become a dirty word, we have thrown the word “hipster” under the bus. And the only way out of that is to reclaim the word.

There’s actually a lot to love about hipsters. We love loud color and loud gestures. We create things. We can be jaded and boring, yes, but we balance that out with moments of pure joy. Sometimes we’ll even admit that a lot is still good with the world, and that we’re all doing OK within it, thus far.

We value culture, read great books, go to museums, take trips, keep informed about the world, but at the same time we do it without becoming effete assholes. We love reality television and US Weekly, not because it gives us some ironic pleasure, but because it allows us to see exactly where things stand, and where they’re headed. We refuse to plug our ears up to what’s going on simply because it’s distasteful.

Our problem is that we still haven’t found our voice, collectively. We haven’t found a way to say the things that we see are plainly obvious. Maybe Jon Stewart will say them occasionally, or Springsteen will hit a nerve every now and then, but they aren’t part of our generation. We’re still not saying anything loud enough, resoundingly enough, without sounding shrill or over-privileged. When we speak to the world, we still speak as children, and we need to get past that. That’ll come in time, I hope. Otherwise we’ll continue to be defined by our silence, and by the generation in power, or even by our own worst image of ourselves.

So say it along with me: I am a hipster. Try it. I am a hipster. Don’t be scared, no one will laugh. I am a hipster. Yes, actually say it out loud. Exactly. Again, all together now. We are hipsters. It’s about time.

2006-08-11T14:33:00.000-07:00

I Thought I Knew How to Do Hyper-Links, But I Guess I Was Wrong

I don't even deserve a blog.

2006-08-11T14:14:00.001-07:00

I Have Nothing to Give But Miscellany

1) In an ongoing attempt to clear the skeletons out of my closet, I find it good to cop to some guilty pleasures every now and then. It's almost like making myself your blood brother, showing you I mean it and am both stupid and unafraid, giving you good dirt should you ever need it down the road. That said, the new Fergie song is disgustingly catchy. Her verses are questionable (obviously), but if you can just ignore that and get to the chorus, you'll start to feel it in the pelvis. It's kind of an M.I.A. rip, but at least she's stealing from the right people.

Also, I had this enormous, technicolor crush on her when she was on Kids, Incorporated, BTW. Stacey!

UPDATE: Looks like I somehow missed Pitchfork trashing it yesterday, which is actually a relief. It means this is an actual guilty pleasure, and not a bullshit one (see "Since U Been Gone," "Promiscuous," "Ain't No Other Man," et al).

Next, Evanescence. The new song is a thunderbolt. It's rhythmically complex, not as glossy as most nu-metal but still a clean production, and the video looks gauzy and rich. Even the lyrics are kind of good, with a great modern rock title, "Call Me When You're Sober." (Side note, however: can we call a moratorium on dramatic, choreographed dancing in rock videos? Yes it looks pretty but now it’s been done, so let My Chemical Romance have their thing. Unless of course you dance on treadmills.)

2) Has a song ever been made worse by the addition of a horn section? I would say, for the record, no. Never. Therefore, if logic follows, horns ALWAYS make songs better. Can't we just add horns to every song we ever loved? Couldn't somebody pay Danger Mouse to do that?

I'll put it to you then, dear reader: I dare you to name a song that would have been better without the horns. It's music's version of naming a sequel that was better than the original movie (actually that answer's easy: Back to the Future and Ghostbusters). Still, I defy you to name one song that should have been stripped down.

2006-07-31T20:17:00.000-07:00

Extremely Close and Incredibly Precious
A Paxton-Pullman Vortex for the New Generation

Think about it--you’ve never seen Jonathan Safran Foer and Sufjan Stevens in the same room, have you? Have you? When one shows up somewhere, why does the other seem oddly absent? Did Sufjan really need to get his harmonium from the coat check, just as Safran showed up at the Literacy Benefit? And did Safran really have to email a haiku about Darfur to Kofi Annan, ten minutes before Sufjan played Southpaw?

Safran and Sufjan. Sufjan and Safran. Maybe you hadn’t thought to be suspicious about it, but maybe that’s just because you’ve never had reason to. UNTIL NOW.

And it’s not just their names either, those too-perfect, vaguely Ottoman-sounding names. They both live in Park Slope. They’re both cutesy as fuck. They’re both quiet, and fragile, and thoughtful, and attractive in a feminine way. They both have ideal bone structure. They both inspire a mind-blowing hatred in other young artists that threatens to have that bone structure rearranged.

They’ve both written an over-reaching masterpiece before their thirtieth birthday. They’ve taken on subjects and conceits that were probably too much, too soon, and yet they pulled it off well enough to erase any doubt about their genius. They give some meaning back to that word, genius, a word that’s been thrown around like rice for far too long. Their art is baroque and ambitious and modern and precious and yet curiously full. It resounds.

I kind of wish my name was Soren Supermann, and I wrote plays about Stalinist superheroes who still sleep with the nightlight on. The three of us would hang out by the pond at Prospect Park and skip stones, and have funny, earnest conversations with children and their au pairs.

But everyone knows that that’s impossible. I hate Stalinists, I can't stand conversations with children, and, as we've already established, they’re the same person.

2006-07-18T17:47:00.000-07:00

A Letter to a Trainwreck

Part 2 in our continuing series, “Letters That Will Never Be Read”

Dear Pete Doherty,

I love you. I love you sooooooo much.

Forgive me for being forward, Pete, but I wanted to get that out of the way. I think it’s important that we remember this as we keep reading. Up the Bracket is one of my favorite albums of all-time. The first side, all the way up to “The Boy Looked at Johnny” (but not counting the miserable “Radio America”), is probably the most classic string of songs this era has produced. It’s slouchy and elegant and tuneful and rebellious and yayed-up, and was the soundtrack to more nights than I could tell you. I’ll never forget that.

That said, you’ve really got to get your shit together, Broseph.

There’s myth-creating, fine. I think you’ve been pretty naked in your ambitions on that front, between the tabloid shit, the Kate Moss saga, your determination to be photographed with syringes stuck in your arm (or sticking them into passed-out girls, whatevs). We get it—you mean it. You don’t have to prove yourself by taking this to its only logical conclusion. I’m not telling you anything you haven’t already thought about, either—I think you’re actually fucked-up like a fox, and fully aware of what you’re projecting.

The problem is, you haven’t produced enough great work to die as a genius, guy. If you die now, you die as a buffoon who wrote a few great tunes and fucked a really hot chick. That would be fine for most folks, but I think you’ve got more in you. I think you could be one of the greats, one of the icons, if you can just focus on the goddam work.

The Libertines had a few classics, but was mostly uneven and tossed off. Same for that godawful collection of demos you passed out. You should’ve kept those in the vault. And now Babyshambles seems headed in the same direction—for every “Fuck Forever” or “Killamangiro”, we have to put up with an entire side’s worth of forgettable sketches. You aren’t good enough to sketch, Pete, not yet. Finish the fucking tunes, weed out the bad ones, and make the records as sharp as guillotines.

If you really want to die, do it after three or four timeless albums. I’ll definitely be heartbroken, and I’ll probably write some misguided obituary about what could have been. There’s no sense in your death at any point, but less than no sense now, before you’ve done what you could to become what you set out to be, earnestly, an Englishman and a hero.

Sincerely,
Brian

2006-07-14T16:11:00.000-07:00

Indie Rock Makes Me Tired

It’s not actually that the music itself does, mind you. I’m mostly unapologetic about being an indie schmuck. What I can’t handle is the volume. Which is to say that I can handle the actual volume, I can’t handle the physical volume. The amount of shit I need to hear. I can’t handle trying to keep up with 5 new albums reviewed on Pitchfork everyday. I don’t have the time to troll Kim’s for hours at a time, picking out CD’s and then putting them back because I can’t justify $15.99.

Vinny’s going to buy it anyway. Vinny buys everything, sad, nameless indie bands with stupid fucking names, bands that will never be heard by more than 400 people. Bands like The Fellowship of Brothers. Like Lulu Lulu. And Chapter 13: The Forgotten Chapter. He buys more stupid shit than I even knew existed, just because he loves to be surprised so much. When he can find a tiny band to love that he plucked out of the used rack, like a demigod, determining that this band won’t be forgotten, not by me, not today. I love that about him. He also makes four times more than I do.

But even if it weren’t about money, and I could just download whatever album I wanted, for free, I don’t think it would matter. I’d still be behind. I don’t feel the urge to read four music magazines a week, ten different blogs everyday at work. I don’t have the stomach to hit the Mercury on a whim, to see if whoever’s playing is any good, because it makes sad to sit through bad sets. I only hit safe and sanitized shows by bands that I already know, at safe and sanitized venues like Irving, and even then only rarely.

I don’t feel the pressing need to buy new CD’s every week, especially new bands, when there are so many bands that I love coming out with second and third albums. I’m still trying to weed out the bad bands that I liked too much their first time around—can’t figure out why I ever liked Fischerspooner the way I did—without worrying about a new batch I might realize I never liked much to begin with.

I could care less about The Knife. I could give a fuck about Tapes and Tapes. They’re probably great (the Tapes and Tapes video is a classic, the only thing I’ve heard), but I just don’t care enough to find out right now. Maybe that’ll change, and I’ll get a second wind and start buying discs and obsessing about every Next Big Thing again. I’ll blow hundreds of bucks and subscribe to NME, and I’ll take only my week off all year to go down to Austin next spring. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll never listen to music the way I listened to music when I was 15.

I know that makes me sound sad and old, but I know I’m not old. I’m just tired.

2006-07-07T12:51:00.000-07:00

“Banquet” Will Survive Nuclear Holocaust

Remember 2005? Remember when those really annoying Brit bands started getting a lot of attention? The Futureheads, The Kaiser Chiefs, Arctic Monkeys, Bloc Party…they all played this derivative angular shit, kept their Northern accents real thick, and aped Gang of Four like it was going out of style. (It was.)

“I Predict a Riot”? Exciting for a few minutes, hooligans getting beat down, OK, but then nope, this is actually kind of tuneless. Ditto for the other fucks—it sounded so trendy, so intentionally gritty, and in the end disposable. I was glad when they started going away a bit (though granted, Arctic Monkeys’ trajectory started a bit later, and so the backlash is just beginning for them.)

Except for that one tune, “Banquet,” the one that got flogged for months at every bar, club, or house party where anyone ever denied hipsterdom.

That Bloc Party song wouldn’t go away, actually sounded the sleekest and the trendiest of that whole bunch, and yet it never sounded old. Actually, it still doesn’t. When it came on during the theme park scene in Entourage the other night, it sounded fresh as ever. That’s a pretty amazing thing. Trendy, and yet incredibly persistent. A Bungalow-esque phenomenon. They've created a cockroach, a twinkie that’ll outlive every other bit of organic matter in the city.

2006-05-20T16:24:00.000-07:00

A Letter to a Guy at the Regina Spektor Show

Dear Guy in the Orange Neighborhoodies T-shirt,

You don’t know me, but I know you. You live in Bushwick, because you pronounced it “Williamsburg’s logical conclusion.” You don’t really like Regina Spektor that much, but you know she “attracts more desperate hipsters than Craigslist.” You wear boating shoes (WTF?). And you really, really, really love the song “Samson.” I don’t blame you—it’s a very nice song.

But please, friend. Please. Please stop yelling for songs at shows.

If you watch closely before the show, someone will tape a piece of paper to the floor of the stage. There will be many words written on this paper, and taken together, they will form a list made up entirely of song titles. These are the names of the songs that will be played at the show, in that particular order. This is called a “set list.”

Maybe your song is on this so-called “set list,” and maybe it’s not. But shouting the request at every odd moment of silence probably won’t change what’s written on that paper. Probably, it’s just going to make you the target of some horrible crime, the victim of an unspeakable brutality as you walk home to Bushwick. I’m sorry, maybe this is a tad harsh, but after listening to you shout that same, single word into my ear for an hour and a half, I want to hate-crime you.

Do you see what you do to me, guy in the orange Neighborhoodies t-shirt?

We know! We get it! You downloaded the song way before it made the album, and so you want everybody to know that you know the new shit. You’re down. We know this, amigo. Respect.

And OK, sure, call out a request once to make your preference known. I'm a reasonable guy. You paid your money, and you want to hear your favorites. Lovely. But shouting it all night, six inches left of my ear lobe? Do you think she didn’t hear you the first twelve times, fuckbreath?

Listen: she plays a variation of these same tunes every night, and she needs to keep things fresh. She plays the songs that are speaking to her, and she skips the ones that aren’t. It's in everybody's best interest to keep the performer engaged. If she hasn’t played your tune for you already, she probably won’t. And if she does, it’s probably because of what she wrote on that paper, an hour or so before stepping onstage. Like I said, the words on the paper can’t hear you. Just me, and Regina, and everybody else in this cavernous fucking room. And we all hate you. Everybody hates you, soooo much, and the worst is that you don’t even know it.

I’m sorry you had to hear it like this. But please stop shouting.

Sincerely,
Everybody

2006-03-25T16:45:00.000-08:00

The Kindest Words Ever Sung

I haven’t really listened to a lyric in years, I think.

This is a bit of a weird thing, as I’m a writer who’s batshit about pop music. In theory the lyric would be the intersection between my obsessions, and so I should be freaking out over every syllable until each one is wrung dry. In theory though, universal health care kind of makes sense. In theory, Death Cab is a remotely good band. In theory, Vin Diesel is the perfect action hero. Sorry, theory.

Turns out I shut my brain down to everything but the melody, to structure and chord changes, to the candy-coating of the pop. What could possibly be gained from the average pop lyric? Do Adam Levine or Alex Kapranos have an insight to share and I’m just missing it?

No, the lyrics are just an excuse for a vocal melody, no more important than la-la’s or da-doo-doo-doo’s. Nonsense syllables in place of lyrics actually seem more true in a pop song, because that’s all I’m hearing anyway. Blah-blah-bliggedly-blah-major chord-minor fourth-blah-blah-bliggedy-blah.

I think the only time I ever listen to lyrics is when my heart’s been broked.

I caught myself, a few months ago, searching hard in the lyrics of old Motown tunes, trying to find some parallel to my real life, something to anchor this song into my psyche. Occasionally I’d catch a nugget, some “Hang on to your heart,” or “The best revenge is living well,” and I’d be certain that this is what pop music is here for. For late, late, late at night on a Wednesday, when everybody’s long asleep. For whiskey and jukebox nights. For when you feel like you don’t have many friends.

The song can actually be a better friend when shit’s unstable, because friends can be unstable too. Music, lyrics, they’ll never be. You always know how Nick Drake will make you feel. Nick Drake will never forget to call you on a Friday night, to let you know that he actually got blazed and won’t be going to the bocce bar. Bocce’s no fun by yourself, and Nick Drake will never forget that.

You can always be certain that Otis Redding will be for this particular mood (an elegant Sunday, after sleeping in), while Animal Collective is for a different one entirely (tripping in Prospect Park on a Monday afternoon).

No two moods are ever exactly the same, like snowflakes or vaginas, and there are infinite albums to fill those infinite needs. And generally, I find, the need that rings out the loudest, the one that pop exists for is the need to just make it all OK. Just tell me, pop music, that next week I won’t feel like this. Even two weeks from now, that’d be OK too. Or even just for these next two and a half minutes. Is that cool, pop song? It’d really mean a lot.

Pop tunes, these razor-cut gems, they make it possible to come out the other side. I mean, you know that you will eventually, of course. Everyone knows that, and it never makes it any better. It’s something that comes from your brain, rather than your belly. Pop music makes you know it in your belly.

In three weeks I’m going to meet a girl. She’ll have bangs that cover up one eye and these slinky black boots. She’ll make fun of my scarf, and how much I love milk. Three weeks after that she’ll forget her wallet at my place, and she’ll come back and surprise me in the night, and she’ll stay Monday night too, and then on Tuesday we’ll feel a little weird, but it’ll be OK. This is how things turn out sometimes. It’s pretty fucking great. Pop tunes, in their own little language, whisper this into my ear when I really need to hear it.

“Hey Jude.” Any tune off After the Goldrush. The “Layla” outro. “Maps.” “Tangled Up In Blue.” Painful as it may be to admit, “Everybody Hurts.” Astral Weeks. The Drifters. The walking guitar line that opens “Under the Bridge.” Spiritualized, Let It Come Down. Pete Doherty and Carl Barat singing their breakup to each other in “Can’t Stand Me Now.” I could go on for days and days. “Tonight, Tonight.” The intro to “Heavy Metal Drummer.” When “Crown of Love” swells into the chorus. Ronnie Spector in “Be My Baby.” Sweet Jane, sweet “Sweet Jane.” You can’t help but feel it. The little kids’ voices that fade into the start of “If You’re Feeling Sinister.” The Band. Our Endless Numbered Days. The Modern Lovers, “Roadrunner.” That goddam refrain from “No Woman No Cry.” That goddam refrain from “No Woman No Cry.”

Everything’s going to be all right. I swear to God. Everything’s going to be all right.

2005-12-15T16:49:00.000-08:00

I Really Like The Like
(As More Than Friends)

Call me Humbert. I don’t care.

The Like give my blood a direction, and I’m not afraid to say it anymore. I know they’re probably still in high school, but that’s OK at this point. I’m only 25. My Camaro’s got a bitching hydraulics system. I know they’re just privileged LA industry kids, probably doing this for independent study credit at Crossroads, but I.

Don’t.

Give.

A.

Fuh.

Huck.

The video’s got such a sick conceit—three pouty ingénues playing their instruments and loving the camera, with softcore cinematography and SYNCHRONIZED SWIMMERS to round it out. The director sticks mostly to close-ups of the singer (the vicious alpha), then cuts to wide shots of the drummer (probably the funny one, the one who drinks the most), and then moves to an achingly slow pan down the bass player body (the secretly slutty one, by virtue of her not being alpha). To her credit she’s a prize herself, and she wears hotpants to boot. It’s strictly molester material, an indie version of late nineties’ statutory pop, but they totally make it work. Granted, they aren’t that young, but also granted—neither am I.

The single isn’t too shabby, as girl-group singles go, but I can’t imagine I’ll be listening to it in a year. One reviewer compared it to Ashlee Simpson, which is totally uncalled for, but they do tread dangerously close to WB territory, all glossy and adorable. They’re exactly what their name promises, the physical embodiment of the word “like”.

That’s kind of it, I think. No grand argument, no point of any kind, just that I like my swimming synchronized, and my bass players in hotpants.

2005-11-28T12:45:00.000-08:00

A Bit of a Letdown

According to Spin.com, the kings of Strong Island have been doing more than gelling their hair and opening tanning salons: “Gotti brothers linked to 50 Cent shooting”.

HOLY SHIT! The shooter on the grassy knoll was Carmine! I always knew those kids were hard as nails, but fuck! (Frankie: "Puddup a you hand! Ima shootoo ena face!" 50: "Go fuck yourself, pizza pie." Nine shots ring out. 50: "My jaw! My beautiful jaw!") People love to take their potshots, pointing out the obvious--kids who do D-list celebrity singing shows or write cookbooks for fat people shouldn’t pose like tough guys—but give the kids a break. They’re getting paid, and what’s more gangster than that?

And now they're gonna take credit for shooting 50? I had these guys pegged all wrong!

Actually, it turns out if you actually read the article that “the Gotti brothers” referred to Irv and Chris Gotti, the guys from Murder, Inc. I guess that makes more sense, but man. For those brief seconds between reading the headline and clicking on the link, I thought the universe was so much cooler than it actually is.

2005-11-27T22:10:00.000-08:00

It's Reader Mail Time!!!!

Today I received the following note from Sam, a loyal reader since September, who writes, "If it's shorter and quicker posting, then why haven't you posted again? Maybe there's some sarcasm I'm missing." A good point, Sam, but I think ultimately you'll find that it's always a mistake to confuse sarcasm for laziness. It's hard as hell to wait tables 3 nights a week, pal. Sometimes I get lost watching planes take off out my window, or building cushion forts, and I just can't drag myself all the way to the computer. Sooooooooooooorry.

I wish that was sarcasm. Sarcasm is so much cooler than sloth.

2005-11-22T09:44:00.000-08:00

Actually It’s a Mission Statement

Today, I’m starting a new phase in the life of Rokken Roll:
Shorter posts, more frequently, peppered in between the long-winded columns. You kids don’t have time for delay tactics and introspection when you’re cruising the blog circuit. Getting caught means getting fired, and getting fired means printing resumes, and that’s just not worth the effort. Besides, twelve paragraphs is so 2003. The new model for the universe is adult ADD (or so I read in Paper) and so let’s give them what they want. I am modern. I am in the moment permanently. VH1 is the future of culture, and so I will be too. Calling it ADHD is so 2001.

So in the spirit of quick-cut narration, being topical and current and completely disposable, I race to the point of the piece. It’s a head’s up, if you will, about this kid from Chicago who’s about to blow up. His name’s Kaynie West, and I don’t want to say I discovered him, but…I’ve known about this cat for a long time. Some people say he’s a backpack rapper (like that’s an insult), but I think he’s more like those luxury trunks people used to take on transatlantic liners. He’s battered and elegant and timeless, is what I think I’m trying to say. He got into a car accident and almost died, and had his jaw wired shut, and then he rapped through the wire on a track called “Through the Wire”! Isn’t that sick?

He’s so underground that when you google him you get absolutely no references. How street is that? Even my grandmother shows up on some family tree website, and she never even put out an album. But for serious though, just wait until his next record drops. His name will be everywhere, and you will thank me then.

I love you, Kaynie. Good luck out there.

2005-11-03T18:52:00.000-08:00

Does This Column Make Me Look Gay?

The Magic Numbers are the latest band to take a reacharound from the British press, before they even put a record out stateside. As the enthusiasm of Brit-crits is an obvious fact by now, I won’t bore you with the hyperbole of men with posh names, chasing every statement with triple exclamation points. Suffice it to say, they like these dudes. The fact that MOJO gave them five stars, though, says there may be some fire behind the smoke, given that MOJO alone has avoided the hype factory of London, each rag trying to out-proclaim the others.

And to tell you the truth, upon actual listening—versus overseas declarations—the Magic Numbers turn out to be pretty fucking good, a bunch of longhairs with Southern guitar lines and French-braid harmonies.

They’re likely to be lumped in with My Morning Jacket by every profiler this side of glossy, but that’s hardly their fault. Some over-caffeinated writer, pressed by a deadline, will write some story about the new scene, this harmonic Mason-Dixon thing, and to get it past his editor he’ll have to give it a clever name. He’ll call it Moonshine-Prog, or Indie-Allman or something, and then he’ll kick his feet across his desk. And the editor will chomp down on his cigar end and squint, and he’ll say, “Goddamit I like that, kid. That’s some damn good copy.” Then he’ll flip the writer a dime and tell him to take the lady out for a steak. (By the way, isn’t that best way of asking a girl out: “Can I buy you a steak?” Foolproof, I’m telling you.) Point is, no matter how they’re treated in the press, their music’s killer and they deserve to be huge.

Their only problem is how desperately unattractive they are. And don’t misunderstand, I’m not talking about a Jaggeresque ugly-hot thing, where sheer electricity is enough to erase the most tragic flaws. I’m talking flat-out unattractive.

They’re two brother-sister duos combined in a four-piece, all pasty and friendly and non-descript, like overweight throwbacks to the Seattle scene. The lead singer looks like a glandular Bo Bice, with long flowing roadie hair and an awkward beard. The rest follow his lead: a Kevin Smith lookalike here, a couple of Donnas castoffs there. They don’t have enough flatout style to make you forget their faces, anything at all to make you ignore their improbability as rock stars. In fact, they make me more conscious of it.

They make me long for a Stroke or a Libertine or even a King of Leon. I want my rock stars to be completely fucking timeless, with jagged hair and jeans that fit.

So what if that does make me sound gay? I do pushups, motherfucker.

But really, is it asking too much for my rock stars to drive Bentleys into swimming pools, or to derail the careers of supermodels? Is it asking too much for them to look like rock stars, to be rock stars? I understand that in the perfect world, the music is the only thing that matters. I get that. And I do like to think of myself as a pop purist, worshipping the actual record before everything else, the context or the visuals or the romantic backstory. I really know in my bones that the pop song is king, and that everything else is peripheral and fleeting. Still, I have a huge problem with the Magic Numbers, just because they have a look that isn’t there, an aesthetic black hole, more Blockbuster Manager than Rock God.

In their first appearance on Top of the Pops, presenter Richard Bacon made some crack about their collective weight problem, and they walked off the show. Without playing. On Top of the Pops, one of the biggest stages in all the UK. They just walked off. They set up the most obvious dichotomy on that stage—douchebag media snark vs sincere artistic integrity—and they showed themselves clearly victorious. If they do end up being the huge band that they should be, the Tops of the Pops episode will be held up as a defining moment, and Richard Bacon will go down in infamy as that guy, that grinning prick. The problem is that they won’t end up as huge as all that, because the pop audience at large is as shallow as I am. I guess we deserve it then, whatever gruel we get fed, for ignoring our Magic Numbers and clinging to our stylish and forgettable Kasabians.

So where do I fall in the dichotomy, with my homoerotic pleas for sharp cheekbones and good tailoring? Probably closer to Dick Bacon. The snark that drips from these fingers could choke Craig Kilborn. It could drown Mo Rocca in a bathtub of one-liners and inane references. I know I’m wrong! So fucking what? I still want my rock stars to be rock stars! I just can’t resolve this thing. I know in my brain that the Magic Numbers are worthy, and yet I still haven’t gone out and bought the album (or burned it even). O, I’m too conflicted to live! There’s just no satisfying answer, like with the women who know that they should want sensitive men, but all they really do want is to have their panties torn and their hair pulled. Either way, I hereby give up.

But seriously, though. I told you I was straight.

2005-10-28T11:04:00.000-07:00

Do You Remember Rock and Roll Radio?
an imaginary interview

Lowry Mays, founder and CEO of Clear Channel Entertainment, is one of the most powerful men in music, though his name and face may not be known to you.

He’s a big, rich Texan, a good old boy, but this Texan didn’t get rich off sweetheart oil contracts or self-imposed energy crises--nay, he made his fortune through the deregulation of the radio, and buying up a healthy interest in concert venues and advertising to round out his unparalleled holdings in radio. At last count, he owns over 1,300 radio stations, 700,000 billboard displays, and sold 75 million concert tickets to Clear Channel run or sponsored shows last year. The tide may be a-turning, though. Last week, Clear Channel fired two top executives after a New York state investigation found them to have engaged in the illegal, lucrative practice of payola—labels bribing radio programmers to add their big artists to station playlists. More indictments are expected from the Spitzer investigation, and the big boys are starting to sweat.

I sat down with Mr. Mays in the comfort of my mind, and these were the fictional things we said—

Mr. Mays, Fortune Magazine called Clear Channel “one of the most successful stocks of the ‘90’s”. Might I say—huzzah, sir.
Thank you.

What would you say was the single biggest factor in Clear Channel’s rise to power— strong-arming artists into playing only Clear Channel owned venues, forcing record labels to pay to get their artists played on your stations, or squeezing out your competition with the help of close friends in office?
I mean, why choose one? Ha! Ha ha!

In particular though, is there any one thing that sticks out in your head?
Well, the Telecommunications Act sure tickled my underside! That thing let me go hog wild, buy up a whole buttload of radio stations. I just had myself a field day. Less regulation equals less competition equals more stations for big daddy. It’s just a big game, son.

You’re sure good at it. Who’s better—the car, the thimble, or the battleship?
I prefer the cannon. (thinks) Hey, wait a second--

The FCC recently passed a measure which would allow for single owners even more power within a particular market. Unfortunately, the House reversed the FCC’s decision, keeping ownership regulations in place. Bummer, huh?
Bummer? (thinks) No, I don’t think so. I haven’t done that since prep school.

After 9-11, you provided Clear Channel stations with a list of songs that were not to be played in light of recent events. Why did you include in that list John Lennon’s “Imagine”?
Are you slow, boy? “Imagine no possessions”?

Yes, but don’t you think a song of tolerance and peace could have helped people through a difficult time?
Listen, I don’t have to justify myself to you. It’s like Gandhi said: “What’s right isn’t always popular, and what’s popular isn’t always right”.

What? I don’t know quite what to say. If you’re Gandhi, would that make Lennon the British imperialists?
You figure out the metaphors, college boy.

Fair enough, but following this theme of blacklisting, isn’t it true that after their anti-Bush comments, you banned the Dixie Chicks from all Clear Channel stations?
You bet your skinny ass! You don’t mess with Texas, and you don’t mess with Dubya.
(At this point, Mr. Mays takes an antique six-shooter from the coffee table and fires it repeatedly into the ceiling, raining down dust and plaster on our heads.)

That’s right, I had forgotten that you and the President are friends.
Oh sure! Me and the Blackout Kid, we go way back.

That’s fine, but don’t you think it sets a dangerous precedent to lash out at artists for voicing a contrary opinion?
It’s a free country, son.

Exactly!
Yes, exactly.

That’s what I’m saying.
That’s what I’m saying too.
(There is about a minute and a half of silence, after which Mr. Mays makes 3 phone calls. From what I can infer, he purchases an adult-contemporary station in Jacksonville, a classic rock station in Hartford, and the Beatles back catalogue.)
Sorry about that. I’m back now.

I’m confused, Mr. Mays—are you saying that the Dixie Chicks are free to say what they want?
Sure! And if I don’t like what they say, I’m free to put my boot up their asses.

But to control so many media outlets, and to use those outlets to put forth the specific agenda of a president with whom you have a close, personal friendship?
What’s wrong with that?

Kind of reeks of fascism, doesn’t it?
Why are you so insistent on labels? Can’t we just let it be?

Did you just quote John Lennon?
God bless America!

Steve Miller said in a recent interview, “[Clear Channel’s] lack of a sense of humanity is shocking.” How would you respond to that?
Hyoo-ma-nitee?

There have been allegations that the practice of pay-for-play programming, though illegal, is still alive and well at Clear Channel stations. Is there any truth to the allegations?
I don’t know what you’re talking about. Our programmers receive money only from independent record promoters.

Yes, but those promoters get that money from the record companies! It’s still payola, only now there’s a middle man!
Now you’re getting bogged down in semantics. Let’s stop splitting hairs, and get to the real issue here: I really, really love making money! And if I can get money from advertisers and the record companies? Boy, now you’d think I was slow if I said no to that!

But the reason payola was outlawed in the first place was that it made it virtually impossible for new artists to break on the radio. The only acts that could afford the payola would be older, established acts with millions of dollars in record company money behind them.
So?

So the music must suffer then, by definition! If new artists can’t get exposure on the radio, and the same tired acts are endlessly rotated on every Clear Channel station in the fucking union—
Actually, I own stations in 65 countries.

Whatever! The point is that this system promotes homogeneity! Thousands of stations playing the same hundred songs! By its very essence, it must be a static system, because new acts can’t afford to break, and established artists have no competition. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer!
(chuckles) Welcome to Texas, boy.

So you don’t care that Clear Channel is directly contributing to the decline of American music?
Who said the radio had anything to do with music?
(At this point, there is a clap of thunder outside, and Mays’ eyes widen fiendishly)
Mwah-hah-hah-hah!!! Mwah-hah-hah-hah!!!

Fuck Clear Channel. Fuck Lowry Mays, the FCC, payola, King George the Second, deregulation, the Republican party, and the state of Texas. But most of all, fuck Clear Channel. As Conor Oberst recently said, “If there’s anyone who cares about music as an art form, now’s the time to make a change. There will be no more real music anymore if we keep letting people shove it down our fucking throats.” But what can I do, you ask? Well, Clear Channel loves to espouse the virtues of pure capitalism, so why can’t we play their game? They offer us product--radio stations (in New York, Q104.3, Z100, and Power 105), and concerts (they own Irving Plaza, the Beacon, and the Roseland)—and we have the absolute, sovereign fucking right to boycott that product. Starve them. If you don’t want to go that far (you really want to see Echo & the Bunnymen at Irving next month), it’s enough just to fight the deregulation of radio ownership laws. Write your Congressmen. Tell them you support Sen. Russell Feingold’s Competition in Radio and Concert Industries Act. There is hope, and it looks like Clear Channel can be toppled, but you can’t sit by, can’t let them shove this tripe down our throats. Regardless of what they might tell you, we do have significant power. Use it. Fuck Clear Channel.

2005-10-12T11:08:00.000-07:00

Good Charlotte and the Order of the Phoenix

Good Charlotte just trashed their drumkit on TRL, and I’m not sure exactly what to say. That they did it a few years ago too, in front of ten million people at the VMA's, amongst the strobe and the glitz and the Hiltons—these things should mean something, but I’m too full of poison to put a thought together. That no matter how stale, and safe, and hopelessly calculated it seemed, it still calls to mind the ghosts of VMA’s past (in particular, a stringy-haired suicide and an ill-fated bass toss)—this pisses me off even more. Still though, I’ve got nothing to say. Good Charlotte just trashed their drumkit in front of Lil' Jon, Vanessa Minillo, and fifty hormonal tweeners, and I’m absolutely fucking speechless.

I was walking down St. Mark’s the other night, in front of that t-shirt place on the corner of 2nd Ave. I passed a bunch of punks going the other way and didn’t take much notice, until I picked out a face at the center of the crowd--the lead singer of Good Charlotte.

“Oh, that’s weird,” I thought. “That dude goes out with Hillary Duff. I’ve seen his videos, I’ve heard his record. He really hangs out with the St. Mark’s punk crowd?”

It seemed so strange, after all. He had the tattoos, the Misfits t-shirt, the wallet chain, but still. I’ve seen his videos, I’ve heard his record—he’s a pop star, nothing more or less. He just looked so much like a punk that I was taken aback.

So for the sake of our discussion, I should probably make a few things clear:
Being tattooed is not punk.
Hanging out with Kelly Osbourne is not punk.
Playing three chords, no matter how fast or sloppy, is not punk.
Trashing the drumkit (especially trashing the drumkit) is not punk.

These things are the trappings of punk, certainly, related to punk, yes, but not necessarily punk themselves. So you ask, “What then is punk, Bedroom-Rock-Critic?” I’m not sure I can articulate it. I’m not sure I should even try.

There was this guy, Jonathan Richman, who played at CBGB’s in the late 70’s. He was a punk. Never mind the fact that he dressed like a dad, or that he sang these goofy little songs about the Ice-Cream Man or the Abominable Snowman. He was a fucking punk. I’d say it’s a lot more punk to sing about ice cream when the crowd expects anarchy, than it is to sing about anarchy when the crowd is waiting for it. At any moment, our boy Jonathan could’ve taken a beer bottle off the forehead, and yet he kept strumming along, smiling goofy into the sweaty, hostile crowd. That is punk. It’s not a definition but it’ll have to suffice.

But that still doesn’t explain why I’d flip out about Good Charlotte, just because they reminded me of something Kurt Cobain did 13 years ago. Who gives a shit? It just seemed right for me to get indignant, to shout at the screen, “You didn’t earn that, you fucking apes!” But why? What Cobain did was brilliant, at times affected and calculated in its own way, but brilliant. He trashed his drumkit and it screamed. He fractured a hand, split his forehead open on the high-hat and somehow it yelped.

After a while though, it became expected of him. After every Nirvana show, the crowd would wait for the guitar to be shoved through the amp, for Cobain to hurtle recklessly into the drumkit. He became an ape himself, performing a task that was expected of him, like some alterna-Wayne Newton doing his signature stage move. It was said that he grew to hate trashing the stage, because it wasn’t punk anymore, because it had become a safe and accepted expression of rebellion. During their final tour of Europe, Cobain used to hand his guitar to a roadie, smile acidly at the crowd, and then walk offstage. That was punk. He knew that it was a constantly moving target, and that the target had shifted away from trashing the drumkit. It wasn’t punk anymore, and so he stopped doing it. And now Good Fucking Charlotte comes along, looking the part of punk but playing the role of patsy. They trash their drumkit, and they have no idea how silly they look doing it.

If I were a more dramatic man, someone apt to make grand, sweeping statements, I’d say, after watching them trash their shit, that punk is dead. That’d be dumb.

It’s been said a million times, and never, never ever ever has it been true. Not once. They said it when Joe Strummer died; they said it when the Sex Pistols broke up; they said it again when the Sex Pistols reunited, for a cynical, opportunistic “Comeback Tour” 20 years later; they said it when Green Day had their first big moment, when Rancid signed with a major label. They even said it when Blondie got big, because New Wave was supposedly this ultra-commercial bastard child of punk, destined to destroy the original artifact.

That’s bullshit of course, not because it hasn’t happened yet, but because it will never happen. It couldn’t. Whenever things seems hopeless or bleak, whenever the Good Charlottes seem to be winning, punk explodes in that very place—the Sex Pistols blew out of recession-wracked London, the Dischord scene began as a response to the frat-pack, paternal mentality of 80’s DC, grunge came out of 8 years of Reaganomics and a completely desolate pop landscape.

Who’s to say what will come out of this time and place, this era of renegade foreign policy and sterile pop posturing? What brilliant nuggets of punk will George Junior be responsible for? Mark my words, it’s already begun. New manifestations of punk, like tentacles, have begun to spring up in unexpected places—Kanye calling out the Administration on live TV, or Bright Eyes denouncing Clear Channel from the Clear Channel stage, or even within the simple apolitical purity of our Exploding Hearts, three of whom died in a tour van accident a few summers back. It’s already begun, believe me. Because punk isn’t a thing, because it’s not a definable entity (like wallet chains or faux-hawks), it can never be destroyed, and instead will always rear its head when it’s needed most. The Phoenix will always rise, the opposition will always spring up most violently. Rest assured.

The thing is, frankly, that I can’t say punk is dead after Good Charlotte’s bullshit, simply because no matter how horrifying it seemed at the time, in the end it’s harmless. Good Charlotte could never kill punk because Good Charlotte were never punk in the first place. And punk, real punk, that constantly moving target, will always be, can never be mimicked or diluted or destroyed. Cobain’s ghost will always remain sacred, and a thousand Sex Pistols reunions could never erase their original legacy. So go ahead then, Faux-Hawk, trash the drumkit. Trash the drumkit, and wear the tattoos, and play your three chords, but know that you’re harmless, a patsy, a joke.

Punk’s not dead.

2005-10-10T12:49:00.000-07:00

Indie’s not a Place, Dude, It’s a State of Mind
by Chester J. Hornrim

(Brian is currently in hostage negotiations with a deranged handyman at his Bed-Stuy apartment building. His regular column will, God willing, return soon—and if it doesn’t, then the handymen will have already won. In the meantime, here’s some random guy that he met at Alt.Coffee.)

So I’m walking down Delancey the other day, and I hear two guys talking about Yo La Tengo. Of course I’m super-psyched, because you know I love Yo La! (That’s what I call them, because I’m a hard-fucking-core fan)…Anyways, so I turn around and I see that these supposedly “indie” guys are wearing suits! Honest to goodness suits! That just about threw me into a tizzy, let me tell you. Indie rock is not the home of businessmen and squares, and it certainly isn’t the home of suits. We were in the street (so I didn’t do anything), but if we were at Piano’s or a Deerhoof show or something, you better believe I would have said something totally sarcastic under my breath.

“Hey douchebags!” I would have said. “Futures are up on the Asian market, huh? Compucore’s a stinker! Buy, sell! Buy, sell!” And then they would have given me some weird look or something, and I would have gone to the bathroom. But in my head, I’d totally be thinking, “Stick to your Toby Keith records, you work-a-day slaves! Leave Yo La to the real fans!” That would have showed them. People always tell me I’m the most sarcastic person they know, I might add.

I carry a messenger bag! I knew about your favorite band even before the band did! I ironically mourn the death of irony! Doesn’t that mean anything to these people?

It’s like you can’t even trust bad people to like bad music anymore. It’s like, back in the day, I could just look at a kid wearing Vuarnet and Reebok Pumps and just know, “Oooooh, that kid’s all up on the TLC tip.” Or like, when my stepdad Craig was all stoned on the couch after another day of mooching off my Mom, I could just tell he was going to throw on some craptastic Deep Purple album and call me a “fag-boy”, maybe flick my ears until I ran to my room and slammed the door. Now it’s just all gone to shit. I haven’t heard from Craig in four and a half years, but hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if I ran into him at Other Music, picking up some Lightning Bolt seven-inch. Fucking Craig, man.

Anyways, this got me thinking about my boys Yo La…I mean, they’ve been my favorite band since I was in the sixth grade (remember? I knew about them before you did, sucka!), but now I’m starting to wonder—if people in suits know about Yo La, who else does? Donald Rumsfeld? My abusive not-father? Doctor Fucking Phil?!? I mean, Christ! It makes me think that Yo La might not be as indie as I always thought, that they might be swimming in that tepid, piss-stinking swamp also known as the MAINSTREAM!!! If that’s where they’ve been hanging out, then maybe I’d better towel myself off. Maybe I need to find myself a new swimming hole, one with a ropeswing and hot, naked indie chicks who talk about Derrida and then make out with one another. Most importantly, my new swimming hole has to be a secret, one that only I know about (and the naked indie chicks, of course!).

So here, officially, in front of my 16 readers, I renounce my previous favorite band, Yo La Tengo. It a momentous occasion, and you should all feel privileged to play witness. Yo La is officially dead to me. I have no Tengo. And hey, while I'm on a roll, here’s a question for you: what does the La in Yo La Tengo stand for? Give up?

The answer’s not integrity, I’ll tell you that much! Certainly isn’t indie cred, because they definitely don’t tengo that anymore!

(What did I tell you about my sarcastic wit? Huh? Huh?)

2005-10-07T11:32:00.000-07:00

Don’t Think Twice, I’m All Right (I Swear)

To say to someone, “You mean nothing to me,” is one of those things that immediately become untrue as soon as it’s said. The very act of speaking it, with even that minimum of thought and effort and desire to wound, makes the claim null and void. “I care about you enough to tell you that I don’t care about you,” is the truer subtext, regardless of the words or their bluster.

To write a song that says, “You mean nothing to me,” especially one of the most wistful and elegant in the pop canon, is almost laughable in its bullshit (if it weren’t so heartbreaking).

That goddam photo, that timeless soft-lit shot on a snowy street in Soho, it’s more than just an album cover. It’s obviously been carefully framed, even though it tries to pass itself off as a throwaway, a candid snapshot of the skinny poet and his stunning ladyfriend arm-in-arm. It always evoked a nostalgia, a need for that moment in that place to be this moment in this place. It always seemed to be a misty-eyed hope to freeze the early 60’s in time, with its unspoiled Greenwich Village, its communist poets and self-righteous balladeers and postwar optimism.

It’s nothing so universal or ambitious. Now it seems just a plain and simple longing for that girl, Suze Rotolo, the devastating brunette, Dylan’s former love and the raison d’etre of the whole shebang. Freewheelin’ has long been known for its social effect, for its rabblerousing conscience; for me it’s just a breakup album. Forgetting “Blowin’ in the Wind” and “Masters of War” and “Oxford Town”, placed carefully to keep the presence of protest and the 60’s zeitgeist, the bulk of the album is, quite simply, about a girl.

And at the dead center of this album, the first song on Side Two, is one of the most glorious breakup songs ever written, a gently-plucked, bravely-sung ballad that bids adieu to an inconsequential love. Don’t think twice, kiddo. You never had the power to break me anyway. You did to me what you could (and that wasn’t a lot), and now I’m headed off down the road. Don’t think twice--it never meant that much.

He never drops the affect, never lets the mask down for an instant. It’s a breathless performance, a mighty attempt to prove his steadied keel, his recovery. The voice doesn’t waver, the guitar glides along never limping, the lyrics don’t whimper about the perceived wrongs, or drop into sniveling self-pity. He never asks that most familiar (and human) of breakup questions—Oh why?! Oh dear, why me?!?—and actually opens the song by telling her not to bother either. We were together and now we’re not. That’s that.

He’s an untouchable, this kid Dylan.

Trouble is, no matter how well he can wear the mask, feign his invincibility, he’s as human as human gets. He freely admits, Now I wish there was something you would do or say / To try and make me change my mind and stay. Whether or not he would isn’t broached, but at the very least, he wants something back from her, some sense of her regret echoed back at him, and it hasn’t come. She remains silent and it kills him. And yet he contradicts himself in the next stanza: And it ain’t no use in a-calling out my name, gal/ I can’t hear you anymore. He’s still treading that line, playing the tough-guy troubadour, trying to bail without his chin quivering, and at the same time trying to keep the door wedged open behind him.

Later he tosses off another chin-scratcher, another deceptively vulnerable dismissal: Goodbye is too good a word, babe / So I’ll just say “Fare thee well.” “Goodbye” isn’t too good a word, babe, it’s commonplace and obvious, the most boring one he could use. “Fare thee well” is Elizabethan fucking poetry, and that’s what he chooses to leave her with. He’s not really casting her aside with disinterest—he’s constructing a palace in his wake, something grander than she to make her truly feel the loss. It’s not all right, and I’m leaving this on your doorstep, to make you think twice, thrice, a million times, every night before you sleep until the lonely day you die. You inspired this, and now that’s done. Feel it.

Even the song’s kiss-off, its closing stanza, one of the best Dylan ever wrote, betrays itself—Now I’m not saying you treated me unkind / You could’ve done better, but I don’t mind / You just kind of wasted all of my precious time / So don’t think twice, it’s all right. A waste of time does not merit this song! A waste of time is something that annoys briefly, a housefly or a detour, an old crank at the checkout line with a bundle of triple-coupons. A waste of time wouldn’t have made a deep-enough dent, given him the emotional capital to conquer this song, this pageant of mournful harp, wounded bluster, and a stiff upper lip.

He’s drowning in affect to try and prove himself unaffected. He’s running circles around himself just to contradict himself by his very running. Is he trying to shoot himself in the foot? Is he aware of his posture’s failure, of the vulnerability that seeps through? It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. As with everything else, the only thing that remains is the artifact, the record, and without the posture we’d be without the song.

The only real weapon, the only way for him to truly prove his disinterest, would have been to follow her lead, to throw up a great wall of inscrutable silence. And for the artist, for a hyper-verbal sadsack, that’s easier said than done.

2005-10-06T12:19:00.000-07:00

With a Little Stank on It

People have been making a whole lot of noise about Joss Stone lately, and I’m just struggling to get a handle on it. She’s 18, British, white, and she sings with some heavy soul; these things added up make for a solid gimmick, if you ask me. “A pretty British girl who can sing like Sam Cooke? Sign her up!” It’s the kind of thing that even the most butter-fingered rock writer could get a handle on (e.g. a brother and sister who aren’t actually brother and sister, oh my!), and turn into decent copy. The thing is, though, the girl really can sing. She’s got all the vibrato, the pipes, the note-bending virtuosity that you could want, and it’s pretty damn impressive.

Something about it, though. Something about it just leaves me cold.

She reminds me of a high-school kid trying to pull off King Lear. Most high-school kids would butcher Lear, leave it on the stage in tatters for the acid-victim janitor to sweep up. Even the most brilliant high-school kid wouldn’t do much better. The best you could hope for would be a talented parrot, a mimic to sound off all the inflections of a Derek Jacoby or an Olivier. They could sound like the real thing, but after all the studied monologues and pregnant pauses, the only thing left would be wax-paper facsimile. They just don’t have the blistered palms that Lear requires--they’re little kids playing dress-up.

Did Billie Holiday have to be a junkie? Or Syd Barrett a synapse-fried burnout? Did Tina need Ike to blacken her eye?

You know who I like? That little tramp Aguilera. Now don’t get me wrong here--I’m not out to provoke angry letters from rightfully-indignant women. I call her a tramp because that’s her game in “Dirrty”, to push the right of women to do what they like, for tramps to be tramps unapologetically. I don’t deny her that right, or the terms she wants to play with. If she wants to get dirty, to exist as X-Tina, then I won’t pretend otherwise. It’s the people who insist on denying it that imply a shame there, not me. Roll in the dirt, snort it off Linda Perry’s ass if it makes you happy.

No, I really really do like her. Those ballads? Hot damn! And I hate ballads! When she lays it down, aside from all of the vocal hysterics, I believe her. There’s something just beneath the surface that makes it echo, some unresolved shriek that won’t sit quiet.

Because she’s got two of the qualities most crucial to an artist—fearlessness and pinpoint sensitivity to criticism—she makes a whole lot of heartbreak for herself. She puts herself out there as an intensely sexual being, says there’s nothing wrong with that, lives a personal life that lends credibility to what she sings about, and then seems absolutely destroyed when douchebag writers call her a tramp. I don’t even doubt that she’s genuine in her devastation.

I hear that same devastation in those ballads, and that’s what makes them work. It’s like she’s done this terrifying thing, got naked in a room full of cameras and lights, and then needed these ballads to convince herself that she’s not wrong, even when she’s being attacked by soccer moms and Billy O’Reilly.

“Beautiful” is self-affirmation, and so it can be seen as some cheesy Dr. Marvin Monroe shit, but at the same time it’s also an enormous, resounding “Fuck you”. I feel this way, I will act this way, I will sing about acting this way, and fuck you, because that is true. Fuck you, because I know I’m not wrong, I know I shouldn’t be ashamed. That’s pretty badass, I think.

Because there’s an important distinction to be made here: where Christina’s sexuality is real (and therefore her artistic stance valid), Britney seems a puritan dressed-up as a coquette. She really does have the same middle-American hangups as the soccer moms, and so her artistic sexuality is a farce, something she hates but deals with to stay in the spotlight. It’s her discomfort that makes things dirty, closer to (dare I say?) whoring herself out. Christina owns her sexuality, and her art is an extension of that; it’s stanky, but it’s pure.

Now I’m not saying that young Joss Stone should squeeze into chaps and shake her shit. Actually, I really hope she doesn’t. I just think she needs to get run over by a bus, or have a nervous breakdown and move to a hovel in Harlem, or get left at the altar by the guy from Maroon 5. Even a simple Vioxx addiction might do it.

I’ve got nothing against the girl, of course. She seems really sweet, and it’s for purely selfish reasons that I wish the plague upon her head. Because when she comes out the other side, desperate and bruised, she’ll put out a record that’ll make me cry. Because she does have that pure talent, but the cutesy stuff will be gone, as will that damn glossed-up perfection, and thank God for that.

Because I really can’t wait for that record, that stunning, battered, glorious piece of stank.

2005-10-02T13:38:00.000-07:00

Too Cool for School

I know you. You listen to your Cabaret Voltaire and your Beefheart, and you can't wait for your last check to clear so you can pick up the new Wolf Parade, post haste. Your pansexual busboy friend just burned you a copy of Nillson Schmillson, and you were really psyched about that Fela import you bought, even though you still haven't taken it out of the plastic. You are a cool, cool cat.

The Strokes? What about them? They blow, right? Yeah, I know. The Strokes! Ha!

I mean, at first they were cool. Back when nobody knew about them, you were a fan. Back in the days of skinny ties (before trucker caps even!), back during the summer of '01, when you would go and see their shows at the Mercury, or even before, when they were still playing dives like Arlene's.

Yeah, they were pretty good back then, right? But then they blew up, and it all went downhill after that. Their record came out, the teeny-boppers glommed on, you saw them out on Avenue A every other night--they just started to suck. And of course you found out about their silver-spoon backgrounds, about their parents (Jules's dad owns the Elite Modeling Agency, Albert's dad was a minor popstar in the '70s), and that just put it over the top. The Strokes were so over, so 2001. By the time your little sister put the Strokes poster up on her bedroom wall, it didn't even bother you. Am I right or am I right?

You are, as the French say, a douche.

I understand the concept of backlash and its inevitability (especially in the face of such blitzkrieg success), but come on! Aren't we all beyond that? Isn't it obvious that all backlashes are knee-jerk, mindless and dull? That anyone can look at a successful band and yawn dramatically and say, "Oh them? I'm soooo over them"?

Know what? I yawn at you. Yes, sir. I do yawn at you, sir. You are boring, and you are sheepish, and you can't deal with the fact that mainstream success does not have to be avoided. I know you've been brought up with this stupid indie mentality that popularity equals selling out, and that commercial failure equals artistic integrity, but that's crap. Commercial failure occasionally means your album just plain sucked, guy. Sorry, but it's the truth.

And the thing about their upbringing, about their rich parents and their adventures at Swiss boarding schools? Who cares? The debut is still the same thrilling one they put out before the circus began. It doesn't mean that "Someday" isn't one of the tightest, bounciest pieces of twitch-pop I’ve ever heard. It doesn't change the fact that when the chorus hits on "Hard To Explain," my chest swells to near-burst and I want to break a window with my forehead. Still! After four years of obsessive listening!

So the fact that Jules' dad owns a modeling agency really doesn't bother me, because Jules himself made a brilliant record. That's all that matters in the end. You've just got to be able to separate the work from its context. If it was a brilliant record, I don't care, I'd listen to "Uday and Qusay Sing The Hits": As long as it's a brilliant record, the context is meaningless.

Sure, people sell out all the time. They compromise their art for the sake of a record deal, or they gloss up their sound for the great Viacom-Universal-Bertelsmann-Clear Channel behemoth. Of course that happens, and of course it sucks, and when it does, those bands deserve all the righteous backlash we can muster.

But that didn't happen with The Strokes. They're the same band, but now they've sold a million records and they're international superstars. I think the only problem here, mon ami, is you, and your inability to think for yourself. Just because that design student you met at Max Fish tells you The Strokes suck, that doesn't make it so.

Their new record comes out next month; you should get over your hip self already and pick it up. And while you're at it, check out "My Funny Valentine," Uday's duet with Natalie Merchant. It's divine.

(Though of course it goes without saying that the "you" in this column is just a rhetorical device, and not actually you, my beloved reader. Wink, wink!)

2005-10-02T13:30:00.000-07:00

The Genius of Calvin Broadus
(or “How to Short-Circuit the Game”)

Be careful what you wish for, like the old folks say. Live by the sword, die by the sword. Count no man lucky until he is dead.

Hip-hop today, now that Jay’s jumped up to the boardroom, has boiled down to a whole bunch of pretenders, Kanye (rightfully) ruling the universe, Em detoxing in Detroit, and a lurid office pool--who’s going to die first, Ja Rule or 50? Lots are thrown, dates argued, and the ground rules are laid. I’ve got 50 going first, sometime in late November, with Ja following on his heels in February.

Yeah, sure, ole Louie Farrakhan stepped in and brokered some kind of truce, and yeah, Murder Inc’s gone all cuddly and now they’re just calling themselves “The Inc”, but come on. Does anyone really think they’re breaking bread and swapping mixtapes with Dre and 50? That there won’t be some run-in at say, The Source Awards, some catastrophic, eight-posse throwdown that won’t start this whole thing up again?

And it’s not even like these guys are mortal enemies. The personal stuff aside, the bigger issue’s just about maintaining an image, one that backs up the rufftuff lyrics. Coming off like the biggest, baddest, alpha-est motherfucker in the game. Because if you turn into an Ashanti-duetting, bandana-rocking teddy bear, the streets’ll make you a punchline faster than you can say “Ladies Love Cool James”.

Except that when you start playing this game, there’s no room for error, not really any way out. No one needs mention the bi-coastal back and forth, the terror that came out of that, and it seems like things are headed there again. It’s either soft and cuddly laughingstock or big-time, badass, post-mortem hitmaker. Either or. Neither nor.

And then there was Snoop.

He was a hardass at the beginning, stone-cold and sneering in the videos, representing the LBC. He was the dude at The Source Awards screaming violence at the East Coast crowd, taunting, “Ya’ll ain’t got no love for Snoop Dogg and Doctor Dre? Ya’ll ain’t got love for Death Row? Fuck ya’ll!” Hell, he was the guy at the VMA’s who got pushed onstage in a wheelchair, who rapped at his own funeral. Murder was the case that they gave him, remember?

That’s the same guy who’s now doing AOL commercials with Jerry Fucking Stiller! He’s invented this godawful lingo that even the most suburban white kids won’t use anymore, was an honorary spokesman for Girls Gone Wild, played a pimp in an Owen Wilson movie, and had a show that was honestly called “Doggy Fizzle Televizzle”.

Dude turned himself into a cartoon character, and I think it’s brilliant.

Of course some might be quick to smirk at Snoop, to look down on him for his AOL shilling or the Izzle debacle. They’d be quick to call him a sell-out, a joke. They wouldn’t be entirely wrong, but that’s not really the point with Snoop anymore.

Because while poor old Ja lets himself get punchlined by the public, Snoop beat them to the joke. He looked at the game, found it distasteful (at least possibly fatal), and then side-stepped it. He’s still in the spotlight, still making all the money he could want, and yet his safety’s no longer an issue. Neither is his credibility or his alphaness--who can hate a cartoon character? Snoop took the game, hit a blunt, looked back at the game, smirked, exhaled, ordered takeout, and then short-circuited the game like he was Johnny Five. He doesn’t need to strut and preen and bump chests with all of the other cowboys—he just has to maintain the Looney Tunes image and cash his considerable checks.

Bravo, Calvin, bravo, young Snoop. A pasty-faced white kid salutes you.

2005-09-28T15:32:00.000-07:00

I’ve Never Even Been to L.A.!!!!
(a brief sidetrack into fiction)

At a sidewalk café, a gnome-like busboy sets a table. It’s quiet on the street, midmorning. Women in futuristic sunglasses walk by with bags, tasteful bundles, dogs in purses, and delivery boys ride by on their bicycles. The busboy lays down a fork and turns, picks up a white tablecloth, folded, and flings it out in front of him. It snaps out and luffs down, and he lays it gently on the last table. The lunch crowd will be arriving soon--

There is a distant rumbling, a quiet-getting-louder rumble, the engine of a car moving fearfully fast. The busboy squints down the street: he sighs and shakes his head. “Dios mio,” he mumbles. He scurries into the restaurant, behind a concrete support post, and braces himself--

Then there is a car (!), an angular red car (!), and the rumbling is now a ripping, too loud and then! The car vaults the curb and hits the street sign on the corner. The driver splashes gracefully through the windshield, onto the sidewalk, knocking over tables in a shower of splintered glass. The street sign is gilded gold (Hollywood and Vine), and it stands unmoved. The remains of a Ferrari ignite around it. Then there is quiet, except for the faint whisper of burning car.

The busboy tiptoes out of the restaurant toward the driver, who is slowly standing up. The driver is brushing himself off and he is shaking his head.
“That was awesome!” he says.
A concerned maitre’d has appeared from the dark of the restaurant:
“Are you OK, Mr. Lee?”
Tommy chuckles. “Hell yeah!” he says. He walks over to the burning frame of his car, split nearly in half, and circles around it, surveying. “I’m really running out of cars here!” The rearview mirror is dangling by a wire, and then it drops to the street with a metallic clatter. “These things aren’t cheap, and we all know my records aren’t selling like it’s ‘86!” He laughs loudest at this. “Hey, is there any way you could call me a tow truck?”
The maitre’d nods. “Absolutely, Mr. Lee. One will be here in a moment.”
“I’m sorry this keeps happening,” Tommy says, as he starts to hobble off. “I really am.”
“Mr. Lee, your head’s bleeding profusely…”
Tommy swipes a hand across his forehead, and looks down to check it out. “You know you’re right?” He throws his head back, laughing loud. “Hot damn!” he shouts. The maitre’d motions for the glass to be swept, the tables righted, but the busboy is already sweeping. The maitre’d disappears into the dark restaurant.

Minutes later, the wreckage is gone and the forks are replaced. The busboy stands in shadow behind his support post, watching all. An aging producer sits by himself, reading the trade papers and sipping a grapefruit mimosa. He is famished, and he waits impatiently for his mango-infused crab-encrusted crème brulee. He hasn’t eaten in a week; he hasn’t worked in a year. A comely blonde is sitting in the corner of the patio, and she is making a call on her microscopic cellphone. This is her first day in L.A.! An emaciated brunette (she’s been here for a year) is sitting on the other side of the patio, and her phone rings shrilly. She looks at the caller-ID and shakes her head.

“Jessica, where are you? I’ve been waiting for, like, five minutes!”
From the other side of the patio: “What are you talking about, Madeleine? I’ve been waiting for you for, like, five minutes!”
“Whatever, tramp!” says a smiling Madeleine. “So what are you doing?”
“I’m just sitting here reading Catherine Zeta-Jones’s autobiography. It’s really, really good.” She takes a sip of her passion-fruit daiquiri: she pokes her eye with the mini-umbrella.
“She wrote a book?” Madeleine asks.
“Yeah, US Weekly says she’s a genius with words. It’s all about her struggles with the paparazzi. Oh, and her eating disorders. It’s an inspiring story of a woman’s struggle to assert herself in a male-dominated industry. That’s what People says, anyway. I’m only on page 9.”
“That is inspiring,” says Madeleine, as she drops her fork. The busboy is at her side, laying a new one on the table. “I’m kind of using her career as a model for my own.”
“OH MY GOD, MADELEINE!” shrieks Jessica. “ME TOO!”
Madeleine pulls the phone away from her ear, frowning. “You don’t have to yell, Jessica, I’m right here. On the phone.”
“Sorry,” says Jessica. “It’s just that she was a pop star, and then she was a movie star, and then she married a movie star! And that’s exactly how I want my career to be! But music is my first love, of course. I can’t wait to get a record deal!”
“Tell me about it,” says Madeleine.

The aging producer has just ordered another grapefruit mimosa, and on that dead-empty stomach, he’s feeling the buzz. A runner (the busboy’s cousin) brings him his mango-infused crab-encrusted crème brulee from the dark of the restaurant.
“Ahhhh, food!” he thinks. “And crab-encrusted too! My favorite encrustation!”
He gobbles the first bite, the second bite, the third, but then he stops. He frowns. He motions for the busboy. “You can hardly taste the mango infusion!” he says. “It may as well be infused with guava, for all I can tell. I can’t eat this!”
The busboy nods, and takes away the offending dish.
“Guess it’ll be another week before I eat,” thinks the producer. “Oh well!”—

Jessica shrieks!
Madeleine shrieks!
Her hand now shaking wildly, Jessica stage-whispers into her phone: “Oh my God, Madeleine! You’ll never guess who I’m looking at right now—Anna Nicole Smith is walking right towards me! And she’s got her whole camera crew following her around!”
Madeleine is shaking too, and she’s practically yelling into her phone: “That’s nothing, Jessica! Kelly Osbourne is walking towards me! And she’s got her whole camera crew too! This is the most amazing thing ever!”

Up Vine walks Anna! Up Hollywood: Kelly! Indeed, camera crews follow each, in a hurried swarm that circles around each eye: Anna! Kelly! Big, lumbering cameras sit on shoulders, and packs of lowlies are circling and focusing and shushing the people on the street. Key grips run around the fringes managing wires, and best boys hold bottles of imported water and their own headshots, which they hand out at random as they walk (“Kevin Halsey Miller—actor, singer, dancer. I’m a triple threat! Kevin Halsey Miller—actor, singer, dancer. I’m a triple threat!”). The swarm surrounding Anna is getting closer to the swarm surrounding Kelly!

“OH MY GOD!” whispers Jessica. “This is my big chance!”
“What are you talking about?” whispers Madeleine. “This is my big chance!”
They both leap up at once and, snapping their phones shut, run out to the street—
“Jessica!”
“Madeleine!”
“I didn’t even know you were here!”
“I didn’t even know you were here!”
Madeleine swipes wildly at Jessica’s face with her inch-long nails, and Jessica throws a pointy elbow into Madeleine’s newly-botoxed cheekbone. As Madeleine doubles over, Jessica sprints over to the two camera swarms, now face to face at the corner—

“Heeeeeey, Kelly,” says Anna. “I love your show! Don’t you just love mine?”
“Fuck you, cunt,” says Kelly, the pink tips of her black hair ablaze.
“That’s assault!” shouts someone from Anna’s camp. “That is verbal assault!”
“But Kelly,” Anna drawls. “Why’re you so mad with me?”
She curls her lip up into a big, medicated pout.
“Oh don’t act like you don’t know, you whore!” shouts Kelly—
The busboy brings the bill out to the aging producer. He has now finished the second mimosa, and he sways dangerously in his seat--
“Oh my goodness, I completely forgot Muffy,” says Anna. She reaches into her blouse and pulls a tiny dog from the depths of her bosom. The dog is holding a bottle of pills in his jaw, wrestling with it. “No you don’t, you naughty Muff. Those beauties are for Mommy!” She pulls the pills from his jaw, uncaps, and then empties the bottle down her gullet. “That should do,” she says dreamily—

Jessica has reached the cameras first, and she spreads her arms out, opening herself up to her adoring public. “Finally!” she says as an aside. “And here I was thinking I’d have to give handjobs to get walk-on parts at UPN!” She clears her throat, and (holding a finger in one ear) hums a note (d-sharp). Then she sings!
“And then a hero comes along, with the strength to carry on…”
“Who the fuck are you?” shouts Kelly, turning.
Keeping the same melody, Jessica sings: “I’m a singer and a star, only you don’t know me yet, but soon you will and so…”
“Will somebody shut her the fuck up?” Kelly shouts.
“Oh I don’t know, Kelly,” says Anna. “Her lyrics’re kind of puuuuuuurdy…”
Now Anna is rocking back and forth, in time with Jessica, with stringlets of drool swaying from the corners of her mouth.
“I said, ‘Shut her the fuck up!’” yells Kelly.

Handlers and hangers-on run gingerly over to Jessica, but Jessica swats them away with superhuman strength. “Not today, you faggots!” she growls. “Today is about Jessica Alba-Henderson!” Anna’s stylist is thrown high through the air, but he tucks into a perfect barrel-roll as he hits the ground—he works nights as a stunt double for Lorenzo Lamas. Five-hundred dollar jeans are ripped down one thigh, but it’s actually OK because it gives the jeans street-cred. A Sidekick is trampled tragically underfoot—

Still with the singing, near-operatic now: “And you cast your fears aside--”
“Seriously, Keeeeelly,” says Anna. “What’s the matter? Why’re you always so mad, kitten?” Her eyes are heavy-lidded, and she’s humming along with Jessica’s singing now.
“He’s got bloody Parkinson’s!” she shrieks. “And he’s married! To my bloody Mum!” She advances on Anna--

Out of nowhere there’s an abrupt end to the singing! Another tussle begins! Madeleine has recovered, and in a sprint she’s collared Jessica with a flying leap. They roll around on the pavement, pulling out tufts of each other’s over-treated hair—
The busboy, seeing the commotion, runs out to stop the catfight. He pulls Jessica’s arms back and yanks her away, but as he does she takes a wayward stiletto to the forehead. Jessica slumps over in the busboy’s arms, and Madeleine slips her shoe back on. She stands and glowers over the unconscious girl.
“Mom always said I was the star of the family,” she says. “Guess she was right.”
She turns from her lifeless sister to the cameras, now ready for her face time—

The aging producer, shifty-eyed, sneaks a bite of Madeleine’s untouched salmon and caramelized-pineapple baguette. He checks again to see if anyone is watching him, but the busboy was the only one around. Then he bails on the check and darts from the scene, clutching handfuls of napkin rings and silverware, his mouth still full--

Getting hit in the face must have re-triggered the toxins in Madeleine’s cheeks, because as she speaks, her face twists and contorts horribly. Every few seconds there’s another spasm, and it screws her face into a pucker and slurs her speech—
“Oh Romeo, oh Romeo,” she cries. “Wheyrefowre art thou Rhwomeo?”

Muffy is licking Jessica’s face, and the busboy is trying to shoo her away—

“I still don’t know what you’re taaaaalking about, Kelly,” says Anna.
“You slept with my father, you pill-popping blob!” Kelly shouts.
“No bubble-brains, that wasn’t me,” chuckles Anna. “That was Delta Burke!”
“But that’s impossible, I saw the camera crews in his bedroom…”
“Of course, silly-head!” Anna laughs. “She’s filming a reality show about her divorce from Gerald McRainey! The whole thing was on Fox last night! Didn’t you see?”
Kelly shakes her head, and begins to mutter oaths of vengeance on Delta Burke’s full-figure. Madeleine drops to a knee and then pops up to her tiptoes, back and forth manically, as she is playing both slurred parts of the balcony scene (“Twuht’s in a nerm? That itch we call a rhwose…”) Anna smiles beatifically and holds out her arms for a hug. Kelly sinks her face into the ample bosom—

Across the street, the maitre‘d has appeared from the restaurant to find an empty patio, three unpaid checks, and a busboy missing. He storms into the street and grabs the busboy by the collar—
“Did you let our customers walk out on their checks?” he asks. “Could you possibly have abandoned your post?” This he asks with mortal horror.
The busboy, still cradling the unconscious Jessica, can only nod slowly.
“YOU’RE FIRED!” the maitre’d roars--

Hand in hand, Anna and Kelly are now walking off down the boulevard. The camera crews follow closely, as does Madeleine, who’s still delivering her dialogue through fits of facial paralysis. Producers from each show are swapping phone numbers, so that they can combine footage later. They’re going to make this into a season finale, a very-special episode.
“Did you know that Delta Burke is Anna’s closest friend?” Anna’s producer asks.
“Really?” Kelly’s guy asks.
Anna’s guy nods, smiling strangely. “She knew that Kelly would be here today too. We had it all timed perfectly.”
“Really?”
Anna’s guy nods again, laughing heartily now. “Boo-yeah!” he shouts.
“Now that’s what I call good TV!” the other yells.
The producers high-five, then give each other bro-hugs--

The busboy takes off his black t-shirt, and places it under Jessica’s head. He lies her on the sidewalk, and from a payphone calls her an ambulance. He leaves his dirty washcloth on an empty table. Then he climbs onto a bicycle, parked in an alley beside the restaurant, and begins to ride off.
As he leaves he passes another crowd, this time of still photographers, jogging backwards in the other direction. The crowd slows, then stops. In the middle of the photographers (all dressed in bright nylon jogging suits), is Catherine Zeta-Jones. She is wearing big round sunglasses and gray sweatpants.
“Do you guys want anything?” she asks the paparazzi. “I’m gonna grab a water.”
The photographers shake their heads, murmuring their thanks.
“Oh, and fellas?” She turns back to the photographers. “When I come out, get one shot of me smiling and laughing, and then one shot of me really mad, like I totally hate you.
“OK?”

2005-09-28T10:58:00.000-07:00

OMG, I Heart John Mayer

These are trying times for little sisters. Gone are the heady days of 1997, a mythical time when boy bands roamed the earth, and Carson still hosted TRL. Our unsinkable economy has tanked, as has the pop market that banks on kids with 20 bucks to blow. These days, Justin’s rocking a fedora and a starlet, Britney’s been Dursted and then twice-betrothed, and Backstreet’s back--back at the theme parks and burger joints that spawned them. So what’s a little sister to do? Certainly not dig into her older brother’s record collection, a shining pillar of taste and refinement; no, that’d be too easy. My guess? Your little sister’s been listening to the wonder-bread stylings of John Mayer and Jason Mraz.

John Mayer wears white button-downs, and he bats his eyelashes just so. His videos feature audience shots of girls shrieking and swooning, even though you know they just had their braces tightened and they’ve got a quiz first period. One of his songs has the lyric “We’ll swim in a deep sea / of blankets”; if that wasn’t a line written during study hall, I don’t know what is. And how would a deep sea of blankets work anyway? Seems like you’d get all tangled up. Maybe that’s part of the metaphor! (Right now, little sisters everywhere are rolling their eyes and huffing: “Whatever, you just don’t understand his poetry,” they’re saying. “He’s totally sensitive.”).

Whenever people describe his voice, they use words like “husky” or “smoky”. I’m surprised they don’t use words like “lukewarm” or “painfully blatant Dave Matthews rip”—which, by the way, is about as lukewarm as it gets (lukewarm squared? Law of diminishing returns much?) Maybe ‘02 was a slow year for music, because his debut was nominated for an assload of Grammy’s; amazingly enough, he lost to Norah Jones (lukewarm to the lukewarmth power). Better luck next year, Johnny.

Jason Mraz is one mellow homeboy, a boogie-boarder on the great wave of life. I know this because of the totally carefree angle of his trucker cap. When he tells me in his single, “I won’t worry my life away!”, it’s like, “Hey Jason! Why you gotta point out the obvious?” Jason just wants to kick back on the porch, crack open a brewski, and listen to Ben Harper songs on repeat. And what’s so criminal about that? Christ. Jason is that guy, that miserable guy at the party who always brings his acoustic guitar. You know that guy? The one who comes in and turns off all the music, and then makes you listen to him butcher “Wish You Were Here”? After the fifth time he sings the chorus, you want to bash his fucking guitar and put the Digital Underground back on, but you don’t because he’s Jenny’s little brother, and Jenny’s a stone fox. Right?

I think the thing I hate most about this kid is that he named his single “The Remedy”. The remedy? After listening to it a few times, I’m pretty sure the remedy involves taking time to appreciate your pals, and the good times and stuff, just maxing and relaxing. Thanks, brah. If you’ve got the remedy, then may I have the plague from now until eternity.

It’s really not that I have anything against these guys, per se. They play mind-blowingly mediocre music, and they angle for the sensitive suburban high-school crowd. There’s nothing wrong with that, I guess, it’s just not my thing. Mraz is just a harmless little troll, Opie with a guitar and a record deal. That’s fine--his discs will line bargain bins for years to come. Johnny Mayer, on the other hand, seems to have real talent, and so my actual beef is probably with him. He went to the Berklee School of Music, is articulate and charming in interviews, and is in the position to put out some really good stuff; why then must we suffer through these awful teen-crush ditties? Every song he puts out is like watercress on matzoh. Can you throw me a dollop of mayo to spice shit up here?

Maybe it’ll take him time, and maybe his next album will be closer to Jeff Buckley than Richard Marx. The sensitive white-boy thing can be done well, but it can’t be pandering, and it can’t be safe. It seems like the guy’s so worried about mass appeal that he’s turned into the dreaded Radio-Friendly Unit Shifter, and that’s a fate worse than death.

It is possible too that, like the little sisters say, I just don’t get it. After all, this music wasn’t made for me, so who am I to criticize? My little sister thinks it’s the bomb-diggity, and maybe I should just defer to her wisdom. She’s got the albums, she’s got the posters, and I’m pretty sure I found a big heart drawn on her notebook, with E.G. + J.M. 4 EVA written inside it. Fuck it then. If it’s good enough for my little sister, it’s good enough for me. Jason Mraz and John Mayer are more than OK in my book.

JK, I still totally H8 them! LOL!

2005-09-23T14:17:00.000-07:00

Unknown Pleasures

I have this friend, a weird little kid who dresses up like a mod and worships Andrew WK. He’s the guy I always end up with at the party, on the gamey loveseat in the corner, passing back and forth the last bottle of champagne. By this point someone has inevitably put on the Duran Duran, and the kids are raging right over us, crunching toes, and so we have to yell at each other over the din. The new Devendra record is brilliant! Really? Yeah! And British Sea Power too! Who? British Sea Power! They called their debut The Decline of British Sea Power! How badass is that?

It goes on like this every night, with the champagne and the bleary eyes, until one of us passes out, or my roommates drag me home. His taste is impeccable, his style refined. His parents are both storied academics, and he claims to be a cat person.

The other night we were yelling at each other, and he leaned in real close—
“I’ve got a confession to make,” he said.
“Oh yeah?” He passed the bottle and waited for me to swill the rest.
“Yeah, but you can’t tell anyone.” I crossed my heart, just trying to focus.
“I’ve been listening to a lot of Jamiroquai lately.” As he said this he winced, like a mutt beneath a rolled-up newspaper.
“Jamiroquai, huh?”
He nodded.
I smiled. “That’s great, man.”

Iron Maiden is not a guilty pleasure. People are always trying to say their dirty secret is heavy metal, especially Iron Maiden. They giggle a bit when they say it, and they fake like they’re blushing, but you know they don’t mean it. They aren’t really ashamed, because they know they haven’t confessed anything. Iron Maiden is not a guilty pleasure. Maybe they were, once, long ago, but by now they’ve been accepted wholesale, and they’ve become as legit as any T. Rex or Roxy Music. There’s nothing guilty about the Maiden, and people who try to pass them off as some dark secret are faking the funk—they’re trying to have their cake and eat it too. If you want to tell me something guilty, well by God do it. But when you make like you’re letting me in on a secret and give me Iron Maiden, then fuck off. Same goes for Cyndi Lauper, or Devo; these are not guilty pleasures. (And God help you if you try to admit to that Kelly Clarkson song—that’s just a great record, straight up.) You can’t have it both ways, chief. You’re either a cool cat who won’t admit to his dirty laundry, or you’re a badass who’ll cop to an unhealthy Jamiroquai obsession. You can’t be both though. You can’t confess to something that’s cool.

I suppose I should address another possibility, one far more terrifying than either of these—that a person could be guiltless, without any shameful Jamiroquai’s to cop to. I’ve been assuming that everyone has their secrets, and they either choose to admit or not, but it’s possible that some people don’t have any secrets at all, not a single guilty pleasure. Could you imagine? How boring it must be! Could such people exist, these robots programmed only for Pitchfork-approved music? No Soul Asylum? No Ja Rule? Come on, little Automaton! If you want to rock out to Lou Bega, then by all means do it. I won’t think less of you. Your friends won’t think less of you (unless they’re automatons too, in which case you deserve each other). No, I think everyone should have some good slutty secrets, a few Sugar Ray records hidden away somewhere.

Furthermore, I think people should be completely up front about them. Enough of this cool-cat bullshit, this snobbery and these impeccable record collections. Sure, The Kinks are transplendent, but they’re even cooler side by side with a Chumbawumba record. Alone they’re kind of boring: everyone’s got a Kinks record. It’s the imperfections that make things interesting. So you listen to Toby Keith in the shower? Wear it on a t-shirt. Cranking Slipknot when no one’s around? Shout it from the rooftops, tag it on a subway car.

There’s only one question left now, I suppose--what’s my own unknown pleasure? And I’m afraid, for the sake of a healthy blogger-to-imagined-audience relationship, that I can’t answer. Would you still respect me in the morning, if you knew I listen to “Trapped in the Closet, pts 1-87”, every morning before I brush my teeth? I’m supposed to keep up a certain level of decorum; my taste is impeccable, my style refined.

But fuck that. There will be no hypocrisy here, no hiding behind lame-ass expectations. I listen to some terrible shit. I can throw you a bone, and I’ll do it without a shred of dignity:

It’s Hootie. I’m a huge sucker for Hootie. “Let Her Cry”, “Time”, “Hannah Jane”, any of them. “Hold My Hand” is a little bit cheeseball, but it’s not like I’m gonna skip it when it comes on, right? I wasn’t a big fan of Fairweather Johnson, but Cracked Rearview was a stone-cold classic. I even liked Darius Rucker’s soul album from a few years ago. Is that guilty enough for you? Christ! Put that one in your pipe.

So are you sated yet, you vultures? I’ve laid myself bare, sinned against the critic’s nature, and now I lie down at your feet. Take your potshots if you will. Just promise not to tell anyone, OK?

2005-09-20T14:18:00.000-07:00

Listen!
By King Rick Solomon

The voice doesn’t, in point of fact, actually know you. This is hard to accept.

Because it really does seem, when you’re listening to the bulky headphones late, late at night, that somehow, in some Twin Peaksy way, rock stars have been peeping in your sunless apartment windows. They’ve been cold-calling forgotten ex-girlfriends, reconstructing torn-up ATM receipts, tailing your taxi in that shadowy Impala a block back, sitting down to corned beef and cabbage with your charmed mother. It seems like the whole of life has led up to this freeze-dried moment, sitting cross-legged on this kitschy carpet, as this voice sings away the same ragged laments that seemed suffocating, just two and a half minutes before. Doesn’t it?

And it isn’t about an idol, a totem, a preening sex god in leather pants with one foot perched on the monitor. It’s about a buddy. It’s about the purest distillation of platonic love, from a coddled stranger in another universe, encoded in binary and then released again, poured through these plastic earmuffs like rainbows and unicorn breath. It’s about a voice that somehow knows everything true and just and terrifying, every answer that still seems to defy logic.

The voice becomes the best friend.

Coldplay has, quite possibly, the worst band name in recorded history. They have the combined edginess of a hamster. Chris Martin is one of the most defiantly generic lyricists of his generation, the lovechild of Joey Ramone and K.C. (of Sunshine Band fame). I never meant to cause you trouble/I never meant to do you wrong/Oh but if I ever caused you trouble/Oh no I never meant to do you harm”??? You can’t rhyme a word with the same word, guy.

They’ve become decent-enough songwriters, sure, but after 3 albums the formula has already laid itself bare—sensitive ballads that build to crashing peaks, thoughtful mid-tempo question marks, and blissful major-key anthems. Beyond that, they’ve refused to stretch in any direction. Do they ever want to rage? Do they ever want to write songs about fucking? Aren’t there any other notches in their emotional spectrum, outside of melancholy and bliss? And yet despite all of this, they are (aside from their big daddy U2) the biggest rock band on the planet.

Bright Eyes has a problem with—actually, there’s little that young Conor has a problem with. He’s actually pretty sweet. I guess if I had to find fault, he could do without those droopy eight-minute ambient noise pieces that he opens his albums with, the ones where he’s really saying, “I’m so sweet that you won’t turn me off, even though you know you want to.” Though getting better with age, he still drops into preciousness and self-indulgence and self-loathing far too easily (but I’m sure that’s part of his appeal for the satchel-toters and suicide girls, the Hello Kitty set). His electronic album was just this side of weak. His pronunciation gets too pronounced, too stylized and pretentious, even when he’s trying on a regular-ole drawl. Still—he might be the most important solo artist on the indie scene, and the fawning worship he inspires sometimes seems unreal, too intense. Indie boys want to mope like he mopes, and indie girls want to rip off his faded cowboy shirts with their teeth.

Phish was oftentimes phenomenal (when they weren’t enraging), but were they worth the life of ragtag devotion shown them by thousands of tourheads? Four unimposing goofballs put cheesy lyrics together with musical chops, secret ambition with a killer lighting guy, prog structures with endless jazzrock. They ended up with something that became religion to many people. Kids actually gave up their fucking lives to see every show, drove by night, parked in the lots and set up tables, to sell overpriced beer or gooballs or garlic grilled cheese or some shit, moving just enough product to buy the night’s ticket, the night’s drug. These kids lived like Dickensian orphans, just to hear a vaguely-nerdy jam band from Vermont.

These guys are the voices. These guys are the best friends (had you already guessed?).

It’s not anything native to the music, to the songwriting, to the actual sonic structure that’s most important here. Those things are important, yeah, but at heart it’s something so much more visceral and electric. It’s just the voice, quite simply. There’s something bleeding, dripping from the voices of these men, some pure texture that instantly passes on every bit of humor and memory, curiosity and experience and infinite sadness that hides in their skulls. You hear the voice, you know the man. Intimately. Watch the faces in the wash of red and white lights, eyes closed in silent prayer, listening to the gentle voice of Trey Anastasio. See the swaying of an entire stadium, cellphones aloft, while earnest Chris Martin sings one of those crashing ballads. Close your eyes as Conor Oberst belts the last-ditch high notes, the teenager as angry duckling, yawping into the breach on “If Winter Ends”.

There is nothing more intimate possible, within the structure of pop music, than the union between the voice of one man and the ear of another. It’s so simple that it becomes electric. In a way, the music almost gets in the way, creates an interfering medium (singer --> song --> listener), where the actual sound of the voice, and the humanity that’s transferred, is perfectly direct (singer --> listener). These men burn their brightest through their voices, and all that’s required of the listener is to listen. The audience doesn’t have to parse meanings or understand chord changes, they just have to be present. The desperate love that passes from one side of the speakers to the other is so tangible, so delicious and free that it’s hard to recognize a gap between the idealized union and an actual friendship. The voice is there to make you feel less alone. The voice won’t ever argue semantics, or eat your Thai leftovers, or take a few-months break to figure her shit out. The voice is a blessed constant, one of the very few.

And all you have to do is listen to the voice. It’ll become your best friend.