Care of Cell 44

Unless you’ve somehow heard my rather pitiful attempts at coughing, you probably wouldn’t know that I’ve been sick for the last few days. I’m talking full on hallucinating that Johnny-Depp-is-trying-to-kill-me type sickness*. So sick that my entire, somewhat drug assisted viewing of the Oscars consisted of me repeating ‘What the fuck is up with Ellen Page’s weird ass parted bangs?’ over and over. I couldn’t even feign disgust at Casey Affleck and his dreamy hair losing Best supporting actor to Javier Bardem’s decidedly less dreamy mop

Now, that I’m (for the most part) recovered, I can see the great thing about short-term sickness: When you’re better it’s

a) unfucking debatable. Where as opinions may differ on the relative merits on award ceremonies when there is no ‘best male hair’ category, you just can’t argue when your sickness is alleviating. There’s a feeling that you can’t reason with because:

1) It’s right

2) Feelings don’t technically exist, thus you look insane talking that cannot talk back. Then again, for the longest time I didn’t think Jay Leno’s mouth existed behind his chin. ZING!

For me this feeling became evident when I started feeling the tiniest bit guilty that I hadn’t moved from bed for the best part of three days.

b) It’s a good feeling. You notice things that you take for granted. For example, I never noticed how great a song Alameda was, but bam, there it is,

I still want to marry Ellen Page though, I don’t care what her bangs look like. There’s a joke in there somewhere I’m too lazy to find it.

Also, apologies for this almost Sex and the City type post. Suddenly I have the need to fill a pair of pumps and talk about things that 18-45 women can totally relate to.

*Sadly, that is dead serious. It’s my most vivid memory from Sunday Night.

An exercise in trying my patience: Ah gentlemen, I believe this is what we call a Quagmire

You know, the more I write this the more I realize that I’m like the person who arrives late to the party and won’t shut up about things that are blatantly obvious to everyone else. In this case the said party was four decades ago, which makes it even sadder. And, just like most parties, this is fucking boring beyond belief, but it’s a nice cover whilst I try and think of other things to write: Call it the Levees to my Hurricane Katrina, only instead of a disaster worthy of making Kanye West spitting odd aphorisms there be will only an enormous void.

Awkward and inappropriate metaphors aside, I think that this post includes the music that is closest to what I’d normally listen to. Do with that information what you will.

The Flying Burrtio Brothers
The Gilded Palace of Sin

Length of Neglect: Out of the four decades that the record existed, it has only been in possession for a couple months.

Reason for Neglect: Hey look over there! A hobo is absconding with your car keys! Get him!

As I mentioned in my rather succinct one sentence review last week, I've become quite enamored with the music of Gram Parsons. Since he was a member of this band, I guess you could call it a secret shame that I've haven't actually listened to The Gilded Palace of Sin yet (See? Even my secret shames are boring). In addition to Mr Parsons, The Brothers also featured a veritable who’s who of up and comers at the time.

The great thing about this record is that it really feels like it was the tipping point for modern alt-country, something that isn’t as noticeable with Parson's solo records. The invention and subsequent integration of new recording methods are perfectly clear on Gilded Place. The advent of multi-track recording seems like an event that the band welcomed: Many tracks featuring a separate singer on both the Left and Right speakers. Although sometimes disconcerting, it also sounds like a precursor to the Eagles, a band that was ubiquitous with country sounding vocal harmonies.

Just as there are songs that best described as 'woman beatin’ music’ there are also the political anthems that seemed so endemic to the period. The dichotomy of influences appear everywhere: Hank Williams is just as relevant here as counter culture at the time.

There in lies the beauty of this record- For every inch music changed, society crept alongside it, and it shows throughout the record. For every song that references LSD, there is another that bases itself on the old ‘cheatin’ woman’ scenario. Rather than making both types displaced, Parsons and company make them somehow work, a mash up of old and new. Generally the former trumps the latter: Dark End of the Steet sounds like a play on the old standard Long Black Veil, and Sin City is an especially poignant look at the dilemmas of city living.

The old may be better, but it was the combination of both it and new that made it enduring and important. Although the Draft Dodging My Uncle may not have kept not have the same relevance today, it’s still a competent lesson in political songwriting ( something that doesn’t seem particularly relevant today either..)

Considering the social upheaval that was occurring at the time, this CD remained strangely traditional, but, like so much of the other music created around the Vietnam War era, it had a profound impact on music over the past 40 years. It’d be fair to call The Burrito’s the Velvet Underground of country music, but I don’t think that Gram Parsons was a transvestite.

Lightspeed Champion
Lightspeed Champion

Length of Neglect: It’s only been out a month, so there, a month.

Reason for Neglect: Hey, look a Hobo and he….oh shit, I’ve done it already.

It would be unfair- although not entirely unfounded- to say that Bright Eyes is alt-country for people who don’t like alt-country. That’s not to have a go at them, it’s just that they’re much more accessible to the average person than someone like, say Whiskeytown.

In keeping with this analogy, it would be just as fair to say that Lightspeed Champion is Bright Eyes for people who don’t like Conor Orberst.

I only say this because this record is basically Bright Eyes, only with Devonte Hynes in the place of Conor.

Almost everything that made legions of teenage girls weak at the knees is still here, just in a lesser form. Mike Mogis and Nate Walcott (the two ‘other’ members of Bright Eyes) provide help on the instrumental side, and it their fingerprints are all over it: most of these songs sound like they could be off I’m Wide Awake it’s Morning.

Same with the confessional diary type lyrics that inhabit every song: Hyne’s seems intent on spilling out details that most others would overlook.

In fact the only thing that is really different is the voice: Hynes’s voice is more overpowering than Oberst’s wavering vibrato, but there are still moments when it you could swear its Conor crooning over a lost love.

Endless comparisons aside, Champion is quite a departure from Hyne’s previous work. He previously made almost every sort of music with the unfortunately named Test-icles, so a change to making country tinged pop is rather odd. It’s difficult to say how this reversal of musical taste is suited to Hynes. His voice occasionally veers into Brit-pop territory, resulting in an odd mix of Blur-esque vocals and Lap steel guitars. Other times you’d swear he’d lived in Nashville -or rather Omaha- for all of his life.

On the other hand, his lyrics are perfectly suited to the music, ranging from I Could Have Done Better Myself, a Saul Williams-esque tale of his first sexual encounter to Devil Tricks For a Bitch, which has more than a few similarities to Lover I Don’t Have to Love. The albums highlight is in the Nine-minute ramble-a-thon that is Midnight Surprise. Featuring so many movements that you’d swear it OD’d on laxatives, it switches from gentle to brutal throughout.

An exercise in trying my patience : Day 4

Okay, so my plan to discipline myself hasn't been so successful. Actually, I only lasted a couple of hours been I went running into the arms of an old flame. The fact that this flame was Bruce Springsteen doesn’t matter (actually it does, because me running into the arms of a man is creepy if you don't know what circumstances I'm referring too). Anyway, I'm still moving along through the unlistened music I've acquired over time, just at a much slower pace. Call it a lowered work rate if you must, but I prefer to call it adaptive standards.

The latest victims are a timeless record by an old war horse, and a (soon to be) classic by a decidedly less war horsy young lady.

Blue Oyster Cult

Collections

Reason For Neglect: You know how you do something and then regret it straight afterwards? Think Britney’s parents circa 1980. That’s how I felt when I bought it for Seven (count ‘em!) dollars. A bargain to be sure, but just because a 70’s rock CD is cheap doesn’t always mean that I need a 70’s rock CD.

Time of Neglect: Eh. About a year. Although ‘neglect’ kind of implies that I cared about it in the first place.

I, like so many others, am perhaps best described as a casual BOC fan: I love Don’t Fear the Reaper, appreciate the numerous references to the band within pop culture and would recognize that distinct symbol anywhere. Basically, I am exactly who this CD would be aimed at.
Past that one song, I never really bothered to explore their back catalogue, I mean, isn’t Don’t Fear the Reaper already more song awesomeness than any one band deserves?
After listening to Collection, I’d still probably class myself as a casual BOC fan, but now at least I know what I’m being casual about: Well done rock music with an emphasis on Satan and all things that accompany him. Even Burnin’ For You, rocking as it is, still contains numerous references to our sun burnt southern neighbor. Which is cool, I mean Elliott Smith had depression and alcoholism, BOC have Satan.
None of the tracks were ever going to top Reaper, but I wasn’t really expecting that. In terms of sound, when they miss the mark (and they) there’s a sound that’s like unlike Wolfmother. And that’s not always great. I mean, sorry to be a buzzkill, but I’ll probably live happily if I never hear Godzilla again.

At any rate, it’s worth having this knocking about to remind a generation of little shit that BOC was something more than the ‘cowbell’ band.

Keep it or Kill it? Well, I bought this CD, so I’m hardly gonna throw it out am I? Plus, there’s a few keepers on it.

Bob Dylan

Blood On the Tracks.

Length of Neglect: Probably coming up on a year and a half.

Reason For Neglect: Um, the name Blood on the Tracks reminds me too much of Lindsay Lohan’s recent career. Plus I was too lazy to rip the CD to my computer. Oh, and I had heaps of early Dylan, so that was doing me fine.

Anyway, believe it or not, this CD really got me thinking about Conor Orberst. I’ve always been one of the ‘Yeah, Conor is a great songwriter, but he’s no Dylan’ kind of people*, but Blood on the Tracks has started to turn me towards the other way of thinking. You’re gonna make me Lonesome may be as Blonde on Blonde as anything he’s ever written, but Tracks otherwise has has more of country feel. Take for example almost ten minute Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts, which really reminds me of the Bright Eyes song Waste of Paint. Although Waste of Paint is a personal story and Jack of Hearts is anything but that, the rambling and parable type nature of them make them more similar (to me) than old grizzled music journalists may give them credit for.
True, Bright Eyes has never written a cut time bassline that that, but the other dichotomies between these two songs eventually led me to my main problem with Dylan, and it’s a rather odd one: I don’t generally get a lot of personal feeling off Dylan.

Call it an a musical off shoot of that unbearable ‘Chemistry’ dating cliché, or me still being too dumb to appreciate Dylan, whatever the case, it exists to some degree.
I have nothing but respect for his songwriting skills, and I sure enjoy listening to his music, but I don’t always like the way that he delivers his message. You kind of expect some ‘pour your heart’ Bright Eyes esque songs’, especially considering this was written during the break up of his first marriage.
True, It’s undoubtedly one of Dylan’s more downbeat albums, but his feelings are not always at the forefront, instead lurking ever present in the background. Maybe that’s just the mark of a great songwriter and I’m too stupid to pick up on it, but Blood doesn’t strike me as the type of album that you cry yourself to sleep listening to. Of course, this is barring If You See Her, Say Hello, which actually sounds like it’s written directly about Dylan’s relationship.

When Dylan really hits me is when he talks about disillusionment: The sometimes Catcher in the Rye esque Tangled Up and Blue and Simple Twist of Fate probably rate as the some of the most well written songs ever. They feel more like short stories than pop songs, and I guess that what make’s him so great: He’s no confessional, singer songwriter type pussy, he’s a fucking storyteller.

Now, Bright Eyes are never going to be a force to match Dylan and the Band, nor will they ever change Rock and Roll the way ‘Play it Fucking Loud’ did, but I can now at least see why people say these type of things.

*These people may not actually exist.

Keep it or Kill It: Keep it. Not only Is it Dylan, it’s Dylan at his best

Feist

The Reminder

Length of Neglect: Only a week! How’s that for prompt listening?

Reason for Neglect: Come one! It’s only a week, that’s not that long.

With all the terrible voices in the world (yours truly holding one of them) it’s nice to see (hear?) a brilliant voice getting the recognition it deserves. I refer not to the endless barrage of ipod ads (although that is awesome for her) but to the sparse production that inhabits most the songs of The Reminder. The gentle acoustic guitars, banjos and percussion gives Ms Feist’s vocal chops a chance to shine. Call a fair reaction to this being one involving equal parts shock and happiness. Especially considering that her credentials include a membership on Broken Social Scene, one could be forgiven for expecting a cacophony of endless atonal yelling and instrumentation.

All this discretion is fortunate, considering that her angelic-if-it-wasn’t-so-bad voice is the best thing about the CD. Ranging from a whiter Nina Simone (Brandy Alexander) to a less gruff Neko Case (Past in Present), it’s a tough prospect to not enjoying some aspect of her.
Continuing along the lines made by Neko Case (The New Pornographers) and Jenny Lewis (Rilo Kiley), Feist’s latest solo record delves more into a country and folk sound than their previous group work may lead you to expect. Although it hurts me to say it, I must admit that The Reminder is probably stronger than Rabbit Fur Coat, although the lyrics are missing that abject sense of cleverness that was evident in the latter.
Ignoring gender lines, a more (or should be less?) feminine of Sufjan Stevens is a almost unavoidable comparison: The sublime, usually solitary vocals and gratuitous use of any instrument that doesn’t need plugging in. This similarity is evident in brilliant songs like Intuition.

The rest of the tracks are generally of the same high caliber, but special mentions go to I feel it All and the John Mayer-esque electric riff on Honey Honey.
Of course much of the hoop-lah surrounding The Reminder is because of Apple’s less than litigious use of 1,2,3,4 (written by an Aussie no less!). Once again, smart move by those silicon valley chaps, it’s catchy care free lyrics and resplendent melodies make it the thinking person’s version of Girlfriend.

In fact it’s so catchy that doctors are recommending people get immunized for Feist Fever this winter! Stop me someone!

I apologize for my excitement, but it’s one of those CD’s that you just can’t help enjoying

Keep it or Kill it: Keep it. One of my favourite new CD’s.

An experiment in trying my patience: Day 1

Gazing upon my music collection, I can't help but notice two things:

1) I need to learn instruments exist outside the realm of acoustic guitar.

2) There is too much music on my computer that I haven't yet listened to.

The first is unavoidable. I like the music that I like, and nothing can change that. It probably makes a pussy, but that's okay. If you can name a movie then I've probably cried at the end of it, so I am under no illusions regarding my manliness.
The second however, can be. So, in a move partly inspired by the Av Club's Popless, I am going to listen to only new music for the next couple of weeks. That's right. No crying myself to sleep listening to Elliott Smith, or just crying whilst listening to Jenny Lewis. Hell, I'm not even going to listen to the Jayhawks and pass off their ideas as my own.

Chances are this idea is stupid, and will end in me getting drunk and listening to Under the Blacklight within the first twelve hours. But damnit, life is like a lemonade stall, you can't make lemonade without cracking some lemons. Especially if it was Liz Lemon. Man, I'd crack her. Eh? Eh!

The benefit of this is threefold: I'll free up space on my hard drive by deleting shitty music, I'll broaden my musical horizons, and maybe, just maybe, I'll learn a thing or two about music. And life, can't forget life.

The only exceptions will be music that I'm learning to play. And whatever I feel like listening to at the time.

But I am going to *try* and only listen to new music.
Going through the Alphabet alphabetically (as is so often the case) I'm going to start with....




AC/DC
Back In Black



Length of Neglect: A couple of months. I got it from my cousin on Christmas. Not as a actual present, please understand, I was just given it.

Reason for Neglect: I had other things to do. Plus there's my natural hesitation to avoid listening to anything Australian.

Thoughts:

Upon hearing this for the first time, I can't help but notice that:

A) It's good.

B) Angus Young and company have the mental capacity of twelve year olds, and the musical aptitude of geniuses.

Seriously, is every second line in this record a sexual innuendo? Sure, I like chicks too, but it hardly seems like they're even trying to disguise their dirty little lines. I understand that people found it harder to detect sexual messages in that tumultuous decade known as the eighties, but the undertones are like asperger's at a Threadless convention.
I'd like to say that I was surprised, even shocked at the frequency of their boasting , but the first track is called Let Me Put My Love In You, so I suppose that I had it coming (Oh dear god, I read that line and snickered, I've listened to them too much.)
Anyway, it sure is a good CD. Everything just seems to fit together with a precision that one wouldn't typically be applied to hard rock. The multiple guitar solos intertwine perfectly with Young's dementure influenced crazy man method of singing/screaming.
What else is there to say that hasn't already been said by others ? Back In Black hardly holds any surprises, but I certainly feel an overwhelming sense of patriotism after hearing it.


Keep it or Kill it? Keep it




Blind Faith
Blind Faith

Length of Neglect: About the same as AC/DC. I got this one of my uncle, who I will just say now, has one of the finest CD/Record collections I've seen.

Reason For Neglect: I'm honestly not sure. I'm been listening to Layla and other Assorted Love Songs to quench my Clapton thirst, so that my explain my tardiness. My forty year tardiness.
However, it does not explain why I felt the need to use the term 'Clapton Thirst'

Thoughts:

I'm going to say something. I think Eric Clapton is overrated.

I love much of his music, and I understand the profound influence on some musicans. I just don't think that much of his back catalogue justifies his legacy. For every brilliant Blues song he has made, it feels like there are (at least!) two boring others drawing on a more reggae or pop influenced sound. Don't get me wrong, I have enormous respect for his longevity (over 40 years at this point!) and when he's on, there are few that can match him.
Blind Faith's only CD consists of but six songs (which are all rather long), but is one his career highlights. Made Post Yardbirds and Pre Dominoes, it's just as bluesy as Clapton ever got on any of his solo records. The albums opener (and highlight) Had To Cry Today as a nine minute exercise in electric perfection, whilst Well...All Right's chorus strays perfectly into pop territory.
To think that Clapton (and the other members) were younger than I am right now when this recorded is equal parts staggering and depressing.


Keep it or Kill It? Keep it. This is Vodka Drinking music right here.

CD's I listened to this week.

Chris Walla- Field Manual

Walla's solo debut Field Manual has a sound reminiscent of a Death Cab pre that episode of the OC, albeit after recieving a considerable amount of spit 'n' polish in the production department. Tracks like The Score demonstrate a more guitar orientated spin on a sound that fans will already be familiar with. Call it a meshing of Death Cab's career up to this point, with guitar based rock on one side, and it's more recent pop values on the other.
Field Manual has all the trademarks of a Chris Walla produced record. It's smothered in that slick yet baroque feel that was so integral to albums that Walla created for other bands, such as the Decemberist's The Crane Wife, a CD that was defined just as much by his twiddling behind the knobs (minds out of the gutter please) as it was by Colin Meloy and company.
Whilst Crane Wife featured tracks recording the lamentations of Russian scientists during the siege of Stalingrad, Field Manual turns to more traditional songwriting. Walla is the master at crafting pop-rock music - and in that sense Field Manual is just like a Death Cab record- with sing song choruses and clean melodies.
As the style seems to be today, a solo indie record has to involve some kind of discourse towards the Bush Administration*. Of course politics is all down to personal opinion, but his vague and mostly uninspired political lamentations can be hard to hear through his habit of over enunciating vowels. Perhaps a trick perhaps learned off Mr Gibbard, it works best in the Hurricane Katrina inspired Everybody needs a Home, which, political differences aside, still wrangles it's way into the albums highlights.

A similar case can be made for A Bird is a Song, a concept seemingly doomed to failure as it is self explanatory. Despite every conceivable ounce of common sense saying otherwise, it somehow works, but the final refrain of 'Keep you feathers clean and dry' sounds more like a PSA for birds than part of a cohesive song.
Although it's pretty much is exactly you'd expect if someone told you 'The Guitarist from Death Cab made a CD'. It's still enjoyable, but better to be enjoyed as a precursor for Death Cab's soon to be released Stairs.





* I swear to god, in 2009 Saddle Creek is going to have to shorten every release by at least three tracks.



Jack Johnson: Sleep through the static



Sleep Through the Static is the soundtrack for Jack Johnson's graduation from Barre-chord obsessed surfer to Singer-Songwriter. Sure, the nursery rhyme esque lyrics remain, but he , like everyone else, seems to have grown sick of his sound. It's hardly a transformation of Dylan esque proportions, but multi-instrumentation (especially electric) is the order of the day. So it seems is multi-inspiration, with vague (and mainly average) impersonations of John Mayer (Sleep through the Static), James Taylor (Enemy) and even something resembling a non-whispering Iron and Wine (Adrift). Johnson still has trouble with trying to get across exactly what he means, often stumbling over his own tongue to get out an odd turn of phrase. Even the worst tracks are strength by the addition of a second guitar, giving them more depth, a bonus, given Johnson's typically untextured back catalogue.






Gram Parsons:

Damnit.
If I could make music then it would sound like this.

Gone Baby Gone

Contentious acting decisions aside, Ben Affleck seems like a pretty clever guy. Assuming that guns and threats about family members figured frequently in the negotiations for Daredevil*, then after Gone Baby Gone I'm willing to forgive him for almost anything. It's the Hollywood version of a clean slate. Although to be fair this is his second after Good Will Hunting, but that was for writing, so we're talking separate Get Out of Jail Free Cards here.

Patrick Kenzie (played by little bro Casey Affleck) is a private detective hired by relatives of Amanda, a child who was presumably kidnapped by nefarious forces. Believing that the police are focusing too much on the 'big picture' of the kidnapping ,he, together with girlfriend/ loyal sidekick Angie (Michelle Monaghan) search for the child, relying just as much on their knowledge of the city and the people that inhabit it as traditional police work. Throughout, Affleck plays to a more working class slant on the traditional private detective, both in terms of social status and experience, as it is obvious that a kidnapped girl is miles out of his normal job description.

The plotline's three very distinct chapters give Affleck ample time to not only tell a story that could almost define the term 'neo-noir', but also to wax philosophical on the relationship between parent and child. In very loose terms, it feels a little like faux indie love fest Juno, in that it turns from something very mass audience friendly into a self propagandizing discussion on the morality of parenting children. Although they have very different endings, the scary thing is, just like Juno, it works.
The utter craziness of the whole situation is incredible: if a few months ago you told that I would saying that Ben Affleck was involved in one the best noir movies in decades, then I would have laid you out like you were the dude off Desperate Housewives.

Gone Baby Gone is his first shot (no pun, please, I'm pouring my affections for Ben Affleck onto the page) at directing, and simply put, he nails it like it was... must.resist.putting.Jennifer.Garner.joke.here.
Affleck not only succeeds at capturing some of the most visceral (both visibly and emotionally) scenes of the year, but he integrates them into a movie with a sense of belonging, familiarity and style. Set among the streets of lower class Boston, it feels just as much an homage to the landmarks and the people that live there as it does a kidnapping movie. Throughout Gone he casts a forgiving and loving eye over those who we would normally stereotype as being trailer-trash, or whatever other racial stereotype is applicable.
In addition to Affleck's role as director, special commendation should go to Michelle Monaghan who give a wonderfully understated performance as baby Affleck's sidekick. She was typically found sitting in a vaguely threatening way, just to the left of Affleck's character, often appearing to play a role that would typically be more suited to a large, surly looking male.


Also, look for the sequel this fall called Gone, Totally Gone, I understand that it's a revealing look at Misha Barton's post the OC career.

That's right. I went there. Yall can't stop me.



* I mean Daredevil the movie, not accepting Matt Damon's challenge to marry Jennifer Lopez.

*Actually, you know that scene in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang Where Robert Downey Jr gets his ass kicked for picking a fight with a potential rapist/creepy dude? That's what it would have been like. Not to imply that you're a rapist or anything, just that you could totally kick my ass.

Thought Processes That Occupied my Brain 10.02.08

Sorry, I don't think anyone really cares.

Sometimes, on a special day, the stars align in a perfect way. A act is preformed that is truly a mark of the gods, and a triumph that the pharaohs of old would have been proud of.

Note: Artist's representation of events.

My two favourite literary sources in the world are released on the. same. fucking. day. Plus, this time they hardly had any ads in them at all. They where so thin. It was like they where throwing up everything they ate just for me.

Since they're starving to death for me, I figure that I should write a short review judging them, because trust me, all anorexic people like to be judged. You have to be believe me on this one.

Wired: Lots of interesting articles, including yet another one on Radiohead, written by David Byrne. Great, two things I don't really care about in the one article. No, I'm kidding, it looks to be wonderful, although I continue to be at a loss as to my people are claiming that In Rainbows is heralding an enormous change in the music industry.

Also some Michael Gondry in there. The kids love him right?

Verdict: You're be Weird not to love Wired.

Esquire: This issue had the best Funny Joke from a Beautiful Woman ever, because Olivia Wilde was said woman.

Secondly, the interviews: Johnny Depp sounds like nothing but a standup guy, and John McCain strikes me as the best presidential candidate. Provided he doesn’t die between now the election. Or you know, have a bout of senility and think that he’s haberdasher working for the Bolsheviks in 20^th Century Russia.

It's also the 'What I've Leant' issue, and I would no kidding pull this issue out of a burning house just to keep it. Turns out Emmylou Harris is pretty smart, in addition to having a good set of pipes.

Oh, and the Chuck Klostermann article sucked like a hooker a bad dental plan. I'm not sure even he knew what he was talking about.

Verdict: All other issue of Esquire Espire to be like this one.

Eh, I guess it's slightly better than the music, which isn’t saying much.

Resignation that's someone is eventually going to hear it, in conjunction an odd spout of de-self loathing has made me want to name my sometimes referenced/ never heard CD.

So far I like the name A Road By Any Other Name. It agrees with the themes I'm singing/whispering/moping about, and it's in that Fall Out Boy/ PATD (!) 'not really clever but they think it is so don’t hurt their feelings' kind of way.

Of course, expect this to change when regularly scheduled hatred resumes.

Maybe you should name one ‘Terry Schaivo’, because your songs need to be put the fuck down.

Speaking of songwriting, after Rainy Day Music being drilled into my head over the past few weeks I have a new fixation: Writing songs about imaginary sad women. I'm not sure why, but there's something about songs like Save It For a Rainy Day and The Eyes of Sarah Jane have a wonderfully endearing quality to them.

Plus, they're wonderfully relaxing to write, and because they're imaginary (and of my own creation) so there's no need to worry about 'legal' troubles from uptight women who think that evening dumpster diving isn't a valid pastime…

Bitches.

Speaking of Bitches, what's up with teenage girls swearing that they're 'like, almost an alcoholic'.

Bitch, drinking three cruisers at a party and blowing some douche bag doesn't make you a alcoholic. Eric Clapton was an alcoholic; you're just a fucking idiot who likes putting bad tasting fluids into their body (get it. eh? EH?! ).

Wow, I'm really with the vitriol tonight huh?

Must. Resist. Joke. About. Kirsten Dunst, rehab, blood and oddly shaped teeth.

And in keeping with the respect towards the fairer sex tip:

I’m not much a method actor. This is mainly because I don’t act. However, after learning the solo to Skynyrd’s ‘I Ain’t the One’ and drinking a reasonable amount of whiskey I feel the need to make a woman feel my pain.

Also, attach wheels to my house. Gotta love the wheels on the house business.

People are always giving shit to rednecks, but when the shit hits, they can just haul ass and still have their home in close vicinity.

(Kind of) Recent CD's that I (Kind of) listened to this week.

First an amendment to my previous post:

Lindsay Lohan has to go and see a car crash as punishment for drink driving. Pity, if they wanted her a train wreck then they could have had her look at her career.

Oh, and I don’t know if you’ve heard, but some German airlines has opened up a new ‘nude’ airlines. Yeah, apparently Senator Larry Craig still went into the bathroom out of habit.

Bruce Springsteen- Magic

The thing (among so many others) that that I enjoy most about Bruce Springsteen is the 'worst times are over' type of positivity that he imbues many of his characters with. Classics like Thunder Road and Altantic City are practically exercises in positive thinking under undeniably shitty circumstances (along with being some of the well written songs...ever\

The most baseball-bat-over-the-head obvious example of this comes during almost-creepy-for-a-50-year-old-guy-to-be-singing Girls in the their Summer Clothes (which also happens to be one of the best Springsteen in decades. Yes, decades*) in which the character proclaims that things have been a little tight/but I know they're going to be okay.

When one considers the cynical nature of other Magic songs, such faux positivity appears almost ironic.

Nothing on Magic comes close to his seemingly unilateral support of Vietnam veterans that was Born in the USA , but every traditional Springsteen ballad hides a line that be applied to whatever political strife Springsteen turns his head to (see In The Future ,which is also a song whose hook, and sing-a-long bridge never quite made it out of the 80's) . It's probably not a shock that President Bush junior often cops the brunt of this criticism, with Last to Die being a track that contains some of the least unbridled (and admittedly well done, although the track is one the lesser lights) criticism of the Iraq War. Even the CD's opening track Radio Nowhere seems to be a statement on the America's ambivalence towards it’s seeming wayward path after 9/11.

Political grumbles aside, perhaps biggest comment that can be made to towards Springsteen is that, even decades on, he can still evoke the spirit of Americana that seems so damn appealing, even though it may have never actually existed. Long Walk Coming and You'll Be Coming Down are so Springsteen that it sounds like he's something imitating his previous records (albeit very well).

*Since it's bad to go brackets with brackets, I'm just going to say it here: If right now I had to die to a sound, it would to be to the chord change at the beginning of the chorus.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club- Baby 81

I have a problem. Okay, I many problems. The one most relevant to this discussion isn't so much my fault as it the mysterious cosmos that dictates concert lineups in Tasmania. See, I tend to like bands as soon as they've just played. Last year it was Modest Mouse, this year it was Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. It's not so much jumping on the bandwagon as it is me simply not being aware of said band until it's too late. Granted, I probably wouldn't have actually gone to see them, but at least a heads up would have been nice.

Last week a talked I about Black Mountain’s In The Future as being a tribute to times past, and how after three decades Zeppelin's song remained very much the same. Baby 81 is the same thing, except instead of Zeppelin, they're going for Rock in Roll in general. Or more specifically, what they think Rock and Roll is.

Sometimes the garage band philosophy goes too far, and BRMC fall into the enormous hole that is currently inhabited by groups like tribute band/fodder for urinating monkeys Jet. This understandably put me off, as even the fact that I'm from the same country as Jet makes me slightly nauseous, but whatever right? Sure, they sometimes sound slightly like Jet, just a Jet that possesses some sort of ability other than whining about how DJ’s are taking all their jobs.

BRMC do a pretty good of inhabiting that space between the hole that is derivate and the sheer cliff that is originality. It’s not great, but it’s sure not terrible, it just succeeds at existing.

Birthday Monologue

Yes, I know. Just humor me (I wish I could do the same for you.)

I got a Laptop for my birthday. I must say, it's rather awesome. Now I can update my blog wirelessly through my local Wi-Fi connection.

Sorry, I didn't understand 90% what I just wrote, you know, like how Aborigines don't understand the word 'sorry' unless it's followed by 'here's a fuckton of money'

So, Wayne Carey huh? The more we hear about this guy, more bizarre his whole story sounds. The story is that he's going to be pleading insanity. Yeah, apparently at the time he thought he was a Collingwood player.

Sure, the whole Wayne Carey thing sucks, but Heath Ledger's death is so worse. Now we're hearing that the Masseuse that Ashley Olsen hired wasn't actually qualified to be a masseuse, which is good, because Ashley Olsen isn't actually qualified to be an actress.

No, but if there's anything worse than dying, it's dying whilst high, and Heath Ledger's friends and co stars have come in defense of him using drugs. Jack Nicholson has said wonderful things about him, Juila Stiles has given her shoulder for the family tears, and even Brokeback co-star Jake Gylanhall has gotten behind him.

But of course, now that he’s dead, one thoughts can’t help but turn towards his funeral. A bunch of people staring at a pale white dude and wishing that they could leave.

Oh wait, that was my birthday party.

So big Election week in the states huh? This week it’s ‘Super Duper Tuesday’ for Hilary Clinton. Of course, this isn’t to be confused with ‘Buy Two Hookers Get one free Tuesday’ for Bill.

As I understand it has been some controversy with the casting booths. Yeah, apparently Senator Larry Craig was expecting something very different when he walked in.

But of course, now that he’s out of the race, Mitt Romney is going back to his day job: Looking like the guy who pushes people into traffic for insurance money.

Listmania.

As of tomorrow, I will no longer be 21.
I don't say this expecting presents, or sympathy, or ill will, or anything else that you may care to throw my way. If anything, I say it to drill the fucking fact into my head.
Don't get me wrong, I think it's great that we celebrate mediocrity*, I just hate it when it's my mediocrity that the attention is being drawn to.

I mean, in another year I'm almost going to be into of my very early mid 20's**, and that scares the holy living shit out me. People around me are having kids, something that I acknowledge with an equal mix of awe, respect and an emotion that I playfully call 'petrified beyond all fucking belief'

People are doing and achieving things, and I have nothing better to do than wonder how ugly Frances Mcdormand feels in this picture.


I mean, I'm not gay, but Jesus Christ, that's George fucking Clooney**.



Anyway, my point is, tonight more than usual, I feel inadequate beyond belief.
After all, after being on the planet for approximately the same time as me:

-From anecdotal evidence, most people have graduated University.

-Eric Clapton had been in both the Yardbirds and Cream, who where about to release Disraeli Gears, one of the most important CD's on the 21st century. Of course, he was also a superstar in his own right, and only had that Layla riff going through his head at around this time.

Sorry, I just need a moment for this to set in: Clapton was my age when he wrote Tales of Brave Ulysses. Fucking hell, I doubt I could play that shit.

-Ryan Adams had written Houses on the Hill, a song that, for around two and a half months this year, was the most brilliant song I'd ever heard. Of course, he didn't know who Robert Christiagu was, so at least I have something on him

-Duane Allman was almost dead when he was 22.

-Bruce Springsteen released Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J. Which you know, only had Spirit in the Night on Side Two. Nothing special there sir.

-Lindsay Lohan kissed a number of girls that is exponentially higher that of which I could achieve. (Boys Lisa! Girls kiss Boys!)

-Conor Orberst had hair that I could only dream of. He also wrote Lifted or The Story Is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground. A CD that deserves more recognition outside of teenage girls.






Things that I achieved whilst being 21:

-Wrote around two dozen exceptionally bad songs that deal with depression, resignation and disillusionment, which are all perfectly healthy things for someone my age to be actively pontificating on. I'm not sure if I said it yet, but these things are fucking bad.

I heard that one of them was hanging out with Tara Reid, and Tara was getting the 'come hither' looks.

They're so bad that playing them loudly gets rid of the whole monster problem in Cloverfield.

They're so bad that they were accepted to play on the Grey's Anatomy soundtrack


-I write the funniest blog in my family. Quite an achievement considering that:

a) I cannot write.

b) I am not funny.


-Submitted three quotes to Zachbraffquotes.com (whatever happened to that?), which at the time of writing stand at 83, 118, and I'd rather not discuss the last one. But it's doing okay...


-Managed to do exceedingly stupid things a lot. a lot


-Realized that for a chick who sings about 'smoking him in bed' that Jenny Lewis is surprisingly strict about restraining orders.


-That said restraining orders to do not apply to mail or web cams.


-Didn't have the energy to think of funny things for this list.







*Without such a philosophy the French wouldn't have Bastille Day. ZING!

**This is admittedly an exceedingly odd statement, but one that I mean seriously. It's also what John Mayer was walking about in Why Georgia, which again, makes we wonder about my priorities when I have nothing better to do than quasi-quote John Mayer on some piece of shit blog.

***Or should I say: but George Clooney, That's George fucking Clooney.