I can make it good, I can make it hood, I can make you come, I can make you go! I can make it high, I can make it fly, make you touch the sky, hey maybe so!
All for swinging you around! 1/Men's Needs/THE CRIBS 2/The Skin of my Yellow Country Teeth/CLAP YOUR HANDS SAY YEAH! 3/All for Swinging You Around/THE NEW PORNOGRAPHERS 4/I Stand Corrected/VAMPIRE WEEKEND 5/Time to Pretend/MGMT 6/My Little Japanese Cigarette Case/SPOON 7/Faith/THE BOY LEAST LIKELY TO 8/Walcott/VAMPIRE WEEKEND 9/Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' (2008)/MICHAEL JACKSON AND AKON 10/Here Comes Your Man/THE PIXIES 11/Can't Cry These Tears/GARBAGE 12/Tomorrow/SEAN LENNON 13/Stuck Between Stations/THE HOLD STEADY
Today is day two of Tauwan's Birthday weekend extravaganza. [I turn 24 tomorrow on the 24th]. And before I get stupid, jump up go crazy, I wanna give a Big Ups to my boy Trevor Macomber all the way in CT holding it down. And, of course, for this:
You open it up and it says Car Wash, and plays the original hit from Rose Royce. Love it. Big ups T-Rev. Big ups!...
"That tone, that when it wasn't perfect, but it was naked...I am not saying to do all your joints like that, but when it's real, it don't really matter, I rather get the emotion, so y'all gotta get naked youknowhwatimsayin? Y'ALL GOTTA GET NAKED! Yougetwherei'mcomingfrom?"-Diddy
Believe me, I adore playing an old school hit like nobody's business, but sometimes there's nothing better than putting on one of your favorite long players, enjoying it for what it is: a tip-top, start to finish "headphone masterpiece".
"I'm glad I hitched my apple wagon to your star!"
After listening to this album from start to finish you almost have the urge to recite the album title with hunched shoulders, palms facing upward, looking slightly confused as if a question mark sits behind the word ever. Best. Party. Ever? That’s a damn good question when the songs that encompass this disc by the english duo Joj Owen and Pete Hobbs deal with child like grown up fears of growing old, growing up,[the toe tapping country breeze of ‘Fur Soft As Fur’] towns full of monsters,[the rhythmic and vocal urgency of ‘Monsters’] and seeing spiders when one closes his eyes. [‘I See Spiders When I Close My Eyes’ a mollifying guitar-strummed-diddy for those with OCD] Seeking comfort from the horrors the duo comes to us for solace, hitching their apple wagons to our stars, and asking us to be gentle with them, all while keeping an eye out for any unsuspecting terror, which may explain why they choose to sleep with guns up under their pillows. Yes it is all very child like indeed, and both the lyrics and musical palette they work with [synths, strings, harmonicas, guitars, tambourines, sweet follow the bouncing ball harmonies, and the like] give off a fluffy children’s book/cd vibe, but the duo is getting at something more. Comfort is the best medicine and with all that is bad out there lurking in the shadows, it’s nice to find that person, place, or thing that makes you feel safe. It’s a sentiment echoed by Jof near the middle of the album on the melancholy ‘Battle of the Boy Least Likely To’ when all he seeks is to get the one he loves alone and next to him. This girl quietly saves him again and again, and that, for him, is truly the best thing ever. Key Tracks: Be Gentle With Me, I’m Glad I Hitched My Apple Wagon To Your Star, Sleeping With A Gun Under My Pillow
So Paula's [and Randy's?] new music video premiered on American Idol last night. Why? Cause they can do that. And you know I stopped what i was doing to take it all in. And you know what? I actually liked it. But only because I love to dance, I love choreography, and at one point in time I actually loved to choreograph. [Homo say what?] And as many of you should know by now, I am a sucker for pop singing females in slick dance routines. I will say this though. Dance like there's no tomorrow? Really? What are those lyrics? It is not 1986 anymore Paula. I swear, it's like she fell asleep on December 31st, 1986, woke up in 2008, called Randy Jackson and was like "I'm ready. I got this. Let's jam. Laker time!"
"Clap your hands everybody, said everybody just clap your hands..."
Though I don't go around shouting my love from the rooftops, I absolutely adore the music these guys produce. I'm curious to hear what's next, especially since what's next includes production and twiddling of the knobs form the one they call Danger Mouse. [Ike Turner was also set to get his shred on for the album, but we all unfortunately know how that story ends.] Should be interesting.
A few weeks back I purchased this here album presented above. Shelby Lynne covering Dusty Springfield standards? Yes please! Imagine my surprise when I pressed play and was hit with some soulful easy listening takes on these Dusty classics. I'm not saying I don't enjoy it, but I was looking for some of that good old fashioned anguish and soul ever so present in a Dusty Springfield arrangement and vocal. What I was looking for, was something like this:
They say this is like the "BEST. TOP 24. EV-ER!", but yeah, I don't know. Both nights were pretty lackluster for me. And this was one of the few performances from last night that I actually watched on the screen and didn't just listen to from the other room. Kudos Ramiele, definitely one of my favorites. And definitely one of the top [2? 3?] performances from last night.
"...Klaxons will in fact cover "Umbrella"-- not the other way around-- at the February 20, 2008 BRIT Awards ceremony, according to a Guardian report. That's cool enough in itself, but here's where it gets fun: Rihanna, up for a International Female Solo Artist award that night, will join them..."
Later:
A few things:
1) So is Umbrella like the new Irreplaceable? 2) Anybody feeling Rihanna's Grace Jones look? 3) Rihanna is totally trying to score a part in Josie & the Pussycats 2: CAT! Scratch! FEVER! 4)I thought she was to be backed by the Klaxons, not the cast of Willow? 5) For some reason, this performance makes me think of this:
"...& THE LORDS OF THE UNDERWORLD!"
6) And finally, why am I always impressed [surprised even?] when she holds that "more" note at the end of the bridge?
QUESTION:Why Does Everyone Hate Hipsters Assholes?
ANSWER(?): "My friend Janet says that one reason it pisses her off is because that look used to be a code. It meant something. If you saw someone walking down the street dressed the same way you were, with the same haircut you had, you immediately knew that they listened to the same records that you did. Now that look has become generic and meaningless. People with blue hair listen to top 40. People spend hundreds of dollars trying to look like they shop at the thrift store. They have appropriated the style, yet discarded everything that the style stood for. Another friend, John, complains about the younger generation taking over his neighborhood while ripping off a lifestyle they don't really understand, "...I should be glad that I still have the opportunity to chase them off my yard to keep them from stealing my teeth or something. Not that they'd know how to fucking bite anything with them".
I needed this lunch break. At the wrinkle in time I'm putting the finishing touches on the leading Wine Sommelier's Exhibit Letter, due Friday to the Department of Homeland Security, ATTN: United States Citizenship and Immigration Services. But the words escape me. I got the ideas, and Esq. provided me with a quickly drafted, off the cuff closing paragraph for the proceeding. But I can't read his handwriting. And currently, he's out of reach. Phone calls, meetings with clients, conference calls to the nines. But none of this should matter. These are just words he said, rearrange them, set them to your own music. But I can't. It ain't hitting. I know what to say, and I know how this should all end, but at this wrinkle in time words escape me. If this were college this would be the point in time where I hit up facebook, read an away message, or merely walk away from the page. But I can't. This ain't college, this is real life; the Real World some might say and I gotta sit here and stare, hunt for the phrasings, and reach for the words cause there's no way out.
UT!
Maybe there is. The clock is striking twelve. Get up. Walk away. The rain, rain? Gone away! Let that sun come out and I walk away. To the kitchen. Sammich time. Outdoors I will go. me, an iPod, Vanity Fair, and this sandwich. This sandwich made today with the script flipped. Added to the mix, warmer meat and softed cheese courtesy of a little time spent in the mi-cro-wave, dijon and mayonnaise mixed; warmed, compressed, steaming up the ziplock.
Our initial encounter started out simple enough. Out he ran, dashing across my feet. "Aww what a cute CA- Wait a minute! That ain't no damn cat, that's a fucking squirrel!" Hillarious.
Seat one?
Too wet.
Water in my lap, lightly across the thighs. Spots on the good clothes. The work clothes. The were it to church and then Hometown Buffet or Sizzler afterwards clothes cause I slide beneath the small space between the table and this here chair cause it was too wet.
Seat two?
Fine enough. Just sit on the edge and open the mag. Phone out of pocket and sitting to my right. Next to that the sandwich. Out in the open, sitting on the ziplock, tantalizing scent being carried through the air like a pie sitting on a windowsill. Must be what caught his nose. Cause the cat, excuse me squirrel is back. And he's wildin' out. Seriously, what it do nigga? You lost something? Now normally a squirrel running to and fro is no cause for alarm whatsoever, but at this moment, in this open, spacious mock villa on the westside for these nine to fivers the squirrel is curiously interested in this table, these four chairs and MYspace.
This is definitely more entertaining this Vanity Fair article on that new Stars Wars game. [Which it must be said I kind of want to play.]
And because when I look down, this fool is looking at me. I mean stopping and looking. Big black eyes all up in my big brown eyes. And it's kind of scary. And I don't want none of his riff raff right now. He already look like he don't play, evil stare or not. This fool, while small and fluffy looking is also missing pieces of hair, not in a times or hard [it is winter and all] and mother nature is a bitch, but more, I lost mass quanties of body hair in these streets keeping niggas at bay.
And that is part of the reason why I am scared. I am in no mood to be attacked in the face by a leaping, flying squirrel. No sir. And yet I play back. Stare in his eyes, barely widen our distance, and even throw him a small piece of my sandwich.
And why wouldn't I? This nigga is bold. So hip to something I got that he is breaking the cardinal rule of "stray" animals and we innocent humans, if we motion for you to move, run off, or fly away, you do it.
But not this nigga?
All on the table, running around the chairs, doing circles around my table. When worst came to worst, he ran up and down and around my OWN CHAIR! WITH ME HALF IN IT.
That's when I stood up.
This was getting out of hand. I mean he didn't want my sandwich right? I threw out a piece, he sniffed it and moved on as if what he really was after was some good old human flesh. So I stood up. And just like that he moved on to my possessions scattered on the table. He sniffed the phone. Nothing. Looked at the magazine. Nothing. And the he went for it. He inched closer and closer to the sandwich until a small piece of dijon mustard stuck to his chin. He sniffed. And sniffed. And sniffed. And just like that, BAM! he snapped up 1/3 of my sanwich. A big ass piece of bread hung from his fangs, smothered in mayonnaise and dijon mustard, as he ran up the tree and nibbled in down in two minutes [you know I watched in amazement when I sat back down] on a giant branch.
And I just watched and watched and watched. What else was I gonna do, finish my sandwich? No sir. So I took apart the other 2/3 of my sandiwch and through most of it away, save the other giant piece of bread that complimented the piece he stole in the first place. I sat and watched, bread in hand, amusing the small group gathering/walking by taking in the squirrel and this urban Steve Irwin.
Eventually I gave up and he wrapped his meal up and came winding down the tree just as anxious, as if nothing happened. Again I tossed him the bread. Nothing. A sniff and scamper into the woods.
Fuck this. I'm out and he's killing my lunchtime buzz. I moved spots, he came back, this time deciding that this second piece of bread was his to own. He swooped it and peaced out. This time I saw no squirrel on a branch munching laboriously on a piece of mayonnaise soaked bread. He no longer needed me, and he got what he want. I got played y'all, and that shit ain't cute.
The iPod was on repeat. And it was doing a pretty good job of playing the hits. Not necessarily single after single after single...it was just getting it right, track after track. And it was also doing a good job reminding me of exactly what is on the iPod, and that other albums exist outside of the four or five in heavy rotation at that moment in time. Take Volta for example. iPod on shuffle. Silence followed by the opening swell of the orchestra. Bjork. Antony. The Dull Flame of Desire. "Damn. Can't remember the last time I put the needle on the track for this one." None of that mattered then. All that mattered was the music. And it had me. As does this remix. Which upon my first encounter with it, prompted another quick "Damn. Can't remember the last time I put the needle on it for this one."
"...These are actually pictures of the twit attempting to show the world how much her feelings were hurt after the backlash from her ridiculous beach video for her single, "Higher," filtered through her thick skull..."
Wow. Just wow.
BUT WAIT!
It gets better:
"...Spencer was recently quoted as saying, "Madonna, eat your heart out. Britney Spears, eat your heart out. I would say we have diamond records coming - they're gonna sell 10-million plus...."
Wow, Spencer. Just wow. 10 million? Of what? Of this:
"Hmm. So these guys are backing Rihanna. I'm curious to see how this all pans out. Stay tuned..."
From Pitchfork:
"...Klaxons will in fact cover "Umbrella"-- not the other way around-- at the February 20, 2008 BRIT Awards ceremony, according to a Guardian report. That's cool enough in itself, but here's where it gets fun: Rihanna, up for a International Female Solo Artist award that night, will join them..."
FILE UNDER: PRIMARIES: So fucking disco!/A Moment of Clarity.
"I think if they want to get married, God bless them. Gay marriage is probably 1 percent of the population, so it's not like it's going to be an epidemic. Hey, trust me, I'm never going to kiss you and say, 'Chris, you're sexy.'"
"Crank it up give it to me come on, Crank it up give it to me come on!"
A week or so back I was alerted to the fact that Janet, "Ms. Jackson if you're nasty", Jackson had posted two new tracks off her upcoming LP Discipline. Off I went, clicking the link, hoping to press repeat. But I didn't. And I didn't see what all the fuss was about. I enjoy me some Feedback, and I love me some Janet Jackson, but these songs were aight.
Skip to the end.
I take that back. Rock Wit U [not to be confused with MJ's Rock WITH You], is an alluringly seductive slice of European house music heaven. With the kind of air and vocal sensuality that Ms. Jackson could pull out in her sleep. It breathes, it pulls, it winks, and it coos. And you'd be a fool to ward off its advances.
