We are moving! We are moving!

Hi there.

Thanks for dropping by. In case you were wondering, this site is going on a sort of hiatus. By which I mean, I like the URL too much to shut it down entirely, but as of a month or so ago, all the content of this blog (existing posts and new ones) will be located at the following dope spot:

Yeah, I Got .com

So please do take a spin over that way for your cantankerous music discussion needs. It’ll be worth the trip, I promise. (Which is an easy promise to make, since a trip on the internet requires so little effort, it’s almost indistinguishable from making no effort at all; how could any site not be worth the trouble?)

Thanks for your time and effort,

The Management
motherfuckermotherfuckermotherfucker.com

A discussion between NPR writer, Evan Auerbach, and NPR listener, Carl Twocargarage.

Note:
In this discussion, Mr. Auerbach’s comments are taken verbatim from his recent piece, “Gift Ideas For The Hip-Hop Fans In Your Life,” which appears at npr.org. Mr. Twocargarage’s comments were made in his car, to no-one, while listening to NPR on his commute.

Evan Auerbach of NPR and the blog, Up North Trips.

Carl Twocargarage of suburban listenership.

Evan:
…You could go the traditional route when hunting for the hip-hop head in your life—vinyl reissues of Public Enemy and DMX albums, the “Halftime” 12-inch, to name just a few examples. But here we’ll suggest some less obvious ideas for everyone from the indie-label-budget baller all the way up to that I-woke-up-in-a-new-Bugatti paper spender.

Carl:
That last part was just gibberish. I do remember Public Enemy from back in the 1980s when hip-hop was called rap, though. But who performed “Halftime”? Should I… know that, somehow?

Evan:
2013 was a comeback year for Cam: He dropped a mixtape and a movie, and reunited with Dame Dash—even if it was only for a commercial. Killa managed all of this while reintroducing the world to his new-look Dipset clothing line.

Carl:
Okay, I asked my middle-school-aged grandson who “Cam” is and he had no idea. So I asked my son, who said that “Cam” is short for “Cam’ron” and told me I should look it up on “Pitchfork,” before making an excuse and hanging up. Guess the cat’s still in the cradle on that one.

But I didn’t catch who “Killa” is. And is Dame Dash anything like Dame Edna? Because if so, you’ve got my attention—that “lady” is hilarious (and she’s no lady, if you know what I mean)!

Evan:
For people who think 808s were invented by Kanye West, this book is an education.

Carl:
Is an 808 like an LOL? Because I know that one. I’m not totally lost, here.

Evan:
Isn’t there a rule that once you hit your 30s you can no longer refer to yourself as a Ciroc Boy? If there isn’t there should be.

Carl:
“Ciroc Boy?” Okay, look—how much homework am I supposed to be doing to keep up with you people? This feels like the time I had to go to that downtown record store to buy the new Phil Collins album because Suzy had the car and I couldn’t get to Target. I mean, they had the CD in the store, but the guy at the counter acted like he didn’t even want to touch it, much less ring it up. Made me feel like I was already a grandfather. To be honest, he was a real prick.

Evan:
DJ Paul, of Three Six Mafia, is an Oscar winner, a multiplatinum recording artist and the creator of a line of BBQ products. Perusing his site is really a gift to yourself, especially since, in true Memphis fashion, he’s put up 10 (downloadable) free recipes, too.

Carl:
“In true Memphis fashion”? Seriously: I know what recipes are, I know what downloading is and I know what “free” means. And I’ve never been anywhere near Memphis. Do you people not have editors over there because it’s radio, or something?

Evan [subliminal between-the-lines observation]:
Look, if you’re so out of touch that you don’t get my references, maybe NPR just isn’t your jam, grandpa. We have our finger on the pulse up in this m.f.—if it’s too hip, you’re too old. We’re rocking Cam’ron, yo! NPR is where youth culture lives.

Carl:
It has nothing to do with being young or old. It’s about basic journalistic practices and common goddamn courtesy. Flip your ego over and play the B-side, son.

Evan:
I’ll get down with AARP and dance on your grave. Dipset! G-g-g-g-Unit! Kendrick Lamar! Pusha T!

Carl:
Fine, fine; twerk your socks off, junior. I’ll bring your grandparents over to watch. It’ll be a time.

THEE OH SEES: ARE EYE PEE (ELL OH ELL JAY KAY)

Okay, guys, I hope you are sitting down. Ready? Thee Oh Sees are not breaking up, but are going on hiatus. Wait wait wait! It’s okay, guys—they are not breaking up! They are just going on hiatus.

Look, Pitchfork has run it all down for you guys, guys. So, look: Thee Oh Sees are going on hiatus. But they are not breaking up. They will have a new album out in Q1 2014, gang. But the main dude and the singer chick are moving out of San Francisco!! So that’s a factor. And to different places!! But to other Californian locales. So that’s a factor, too.

But seriously, gang, let’s keep this all in perspective. It’s not the end of the world. The Oh Sees are not breaking up. They are just going on hiatus.

To be clear, let me quote the main Dwyer guy, who writes in all capital letters, which must mean something: “THIS IS JUST A WELL DESERVED BREAK,” he said to the internet, “AND A TRANSITIONAL PERIOD.”

I WAS VERY RELIEVED TO READ THAT, I MUST SAY!!

Annie Southworth, who is the booking agent for The Oh Sees, is quoted in a newspaper as saying the following words in a row: “They need a break after five years straight, so yes… hiatus time. Will be a little hard to continue with all the different locales so who knows what is going to happen… Cross fingers, we all are that it’s not completely over.”

CROSS FINGERS, WE ALL ARE!!

And Stereogum continues her quote, informing us that other factors are germane to the membrane, as regards the main Dwyer guy: “He’s been living in the Mission on 17th and Valencia, and watching that neighborhood as well as the city transform has been enough for him. He’s over it.”

OVER IT?

OVER IT?!

OH GOD THEE OH CEES

PLEASE

SAY IT’S NOT COMPLETELY OVER

PLEASE

SAY YOU WILL CONTINUE GARAGE ROCKING FOR OUR PITCHFORKS

PLEASE

THE WORLD NEEDS MORE WHITE DUDE ROCKERS IN THE WORLD

FOR OUR PITCHFORKS AND OUR DUDES

PLEASE

FIND A NEW NEIGHBORHOOD THAT YOU ARE NOT OVER

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

OKAY

OKAY

BREATHE

Okay.

Listen, guys:

Thee Oh Sees are going on hiatus. But they are not breaking up.

Goodnight, sweet prince Dwyer guy.

May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest; until, like, whenever.

NPR + WSJ = HIP

Note: There’s no story here. For the record, I acknowledge that making fun of music coverage on NPR is like shooting fish in a barrel, where the barrel is filled with fish and made of fish.

But still, it was objectively hilarious to hear Marc Myers, of the Wall Street Journal’s music appreciation division, run through a fistful of utterly forgettable and Starbucks-primed Christmas tunes on Morning Edition today.

A Nick Lowe novelty tune—that’s not only funny but “hip”? Sold!

A “bluegrass” gal who’s—get this—in her twenties? Stop the (coffee) presses!

A sultry-voiced chanteuse singing over a cool jazz trio, sounding like Norah Jones fronting the Vince Guaraldi Trio? Oh, get out of my dreams and get into my Saab—wait, and she’s hip, too? Shut the front door!

Maybe it’s just me; I don’t know if I can explain this, if you’re not giggling already. He’s from the Wall Street Journal. He’s providing an overview of this year’s crop of holiday music. He’s using the word “hip.” Okay, hang on—he’s the author of the following books (per Wikipedia):

How to Make Luck: 7 Secrets Lucky People Use to Succeed

Affluent for Life (ghost written for Ted Ridlehuber) [Yes, the Ted Ridlehuber]

Ernst & Young’s Profit from the New Tax Law

So, you know—clearly, “hip” is his beat. (Man.)

It’s almost as goofy as mashing up* Raymond Carver and Jay-Z—where we’re all like whaaa? Oh, no, they didn’t… But they did, yo! NPR, you so cray-cray! Can you dig it? Clever! Pithy! Implicitly challenging notions of the entrenched and the innovative! Like, the conventional/established short story form of Carver and the, um, hang on—the, uh, way edgy, super-innovative and totally not conventional musical expressions of people like Jay-Z, Kanye and Drake, who are, like, definitely pushing the envelope.

(Note: The envelope is filled with money and is made of money.)

The calls are coming from inside the house.

* Never mind; it’s something the kids used to do when NPR was discussing the Beatles and listening to their grandchildren debate which was “the best Tribe album”?! (or whatever!).

An Open Letter of Envy and Reluctant Admiration

To the Woman in the Produce Section Who is Slowly, Carefully Picking Out Her String Beans One by One:

Oh, dear heart—if I had your capacity to focus so precisely on so mundane a task, without finding myself bored to the point of fury within the first fifteen seconds, I could gather all the pills I take for my ADDs and pitch them to the four winds.

If I had that—you fantastic creature—along with your ability to apply such clearly heartfelt dedication to the profoundly trivial, this blog would soon overflow the internet.

And if I had those things—my treasure—and, too, the free time it takes to do what you are doing—oh, sweet mercy! I would be utterly, literally and so, so joyously unmotherfuckingstoppable!

Thank you, apparition of pasts and futures unspeakable, for giving me a glimpse of the man I could have been; and may, one day, yet still be. I will carry your memory with me until my ultimate breath—and speak of you to the angels.

Noisey continues to be the Ozzy Osbourne (modern day) of shock.

Thank you, Dora the Explorer, for bringing twerking back. Love, America.

Miley Cyrus is punk as fuck? Daring! Controversial! Someone call the punk police; this dude is in danger of WTFing the Vice readership’s beards right into the East River.

Christ, Noisey. You really are coming off like the jocks who have “Smells Like Teen Spirit” blaring from their SUVs while they slap around that queer emo kid in the parking lot behind the Dairy Queen before letting him loose and throwing your Bud Lite bottles at him as he runs away.

I mean, for real: “Miley Cyrus is punk as fuck”—seriously? And I’m fully aware that your post was conceived, written and titled to engender exactly this response, but trust me—I don’t mean it like, “Seriously, dude? You really think Miley Cyrus is punk rock?” No; what I mean is, “Seriously? That’s how punk as fuck you seriously think you are, that you seriously believe you can say that and seriously make a case to back it up, and seriously look at yourself in the mirror and take yourself seriously?”

To start with, let’s skip the whole, “Dude, punk rock is all about being in opposition to the corporate machine and she’s just pop and dude, MTV! Teenybopper! Hannah Montana!” spiel; not because it’s beneath the author of the Noisey piece, but because it’s beneath me (and pretty much anyone else who might be reading this). Those points aren’t even relevant to this discussion. I’ll just start with a quote that articulates the point around which the Noisey argument seems to center:

[Ms. Cyrus is] more punk rock than all the mascara-wearing dorks playing the Warped Tour, more punk rock than old-ass bands on their third reunion tours, more punk rock than you or me.

Look. Come on. Just because punk* sucks now doesn’t mean we just turn on the TV and redefine the word to fit whoever’s currently freakin’ out the squares. There have been spotlight-seeking quasi-iconoclasts for a long-ass time. That doesn’t mean they have anything to do with “punk.”

And you can call this a reactionary or “rockist” response, or whatever, but that’s just avoiding the truth: You might as well have said, “Miley Cyrus is jazz as fuck,” or “Miley Cyrus is rock ‘n’ roll as fuck,” or “Miley Cyrus is James Joyce as fuck”—it would have been just as wrong and just as right: She is causing a commotion and getting parents and other authority figures all up in a tizzy in the same way those things used to, back in the day. It doesn’t mean she has anything to do with anything beyond pop music and kids’ TV shows; trying to squeeze her into some kind of punk paradigm is just… well, it’s as goofy as thinking twerking is some kind of fresh, new thing.

Without even trying, Miley is straight up spinning circles around every single pop star who is trying to be edgy right now. Kanye West? Please. She makes Yeezus look like Kidz Bop 24. Kanye West is a giant narcissist who spends every waking minute thinking of how to cement his place as The Greatest Artist Of All Time™.

Okay, now you’re just being silly. Sure, Kanye is a giant narcissist, but comparing his new album with hers is asinine. While Yeezus doesn’t have a lot to startle anyone who’s had an ear toward underground rap music since the mid-nineties or so, it’s still a pretty oddball record for a chart-topping, multi-platinum artist to release.

Miley Cyrus’ album is by-the-numbers contemporary dance-pop; safe, “risqué” by Mom Standards and as edgy as the last Ke$ha product. Unlike Yeezus, it’s product for profit, not product in spite of its creators’ better judgment. With his album, Kanye West is potentially jeopardizing his stature as a profitable hitmaker and gaining a rep as an iconoclastic hypocrite (e.g., if anyone asks him to reconcile his ambiguous lyrics about oppressively expensive fashion with his $120 t-shirt, etc.).

Either way, you have to try just as hard to dodge that ballsy (even… punk?) element of Yeezus as you do to identify anything transgressive or meaningfully boundary-pushing about a teenage girl wearing tight clothes and dirty dancing in the almost-nude. Or wait, is this 1982? Stop the presses—a hot young pop starlet is showing off her body and being rebellious—the punks are taking over!

I’d say I’ve watched the video five dozen times and I can’t even tell you how the song goes. Most times, I’ll just watch it on mute and drop my jaw at how mind-bogglingly ridiculous it is…

Oh, right—I almost forgot the implicit “I don’t actually listen to the music part” part. It’s an amusing little escape hatch, but come on; either step up and own this shit or step off, Tiger Beat.

Anyhow, in closing, sure; Miley Cyrus as “punk” does make sense from a site littered with ads for Doc Martens, Ray-Bans and The Gap—now that’s punk fucking rock, kid. Garnier Fructis is punk as fuck. You read it here first.

* Note: “Punk” in this sentence refers to “punk” found on iTunes and at the mall. I’m not actually claiming or conceding that punk sucks right now; I’m just keeping the discussion within its stated parameters—Warped Tour and old bands. Personally, I think there’s more to punk than that, but I don’t expect to find it at the mall.

Beards vs. brains: Zombie shark jumps zombie zombies.

“When it comes to an ironic re-creation of an iconic photo, my commitment to my beard trumps my commitment to my zombie schtick. You have to weigh your priorities, man.”

Hey, guys! So, can we all agree that the whole zombie thing has run its course and file it away in the attic next to the pirate stuff?* Solid.

I mean, I know Halloween is coming and I’m not trying to be all Captain Bringdown, but for reals, yo: Superhero zombies? Meh, fine; whatever. Kinda lame and blandly opportunistic, but par for the course.

But when Archie and Jughead and the gang show up at the party (via the Today show, guys?), it’s a hint that the party might actually have moved over to Applebee’s.

…Check, please?

* Being sure to leave a space for the box of beard combs, mustache wax and vests.

Don’t cry for me, Williamsburg: MIA NFL CYA LOL

It’s fun 2 B on TV! Sue ya l8rz! J/K Madge lolz! Spank me again! I am not part of this moment!

Okay. This will be a mess, but at least it’ll be a mess with integrity; which is more than I can say for M.I.A. (at least, in this particular context) or for Noisey, the music blog/site arm of the ever-widening Vice mag firehose. Here are a few of the angles Noisey is taking on this tempest(t) in a teapot (note: bolding mine):

MIA’s importance as a cultural figure cannot be denied or argued. Unlike other self-proclaimed political artists, who claim to have an agenda beyond releasing tracks with a message that’s forgotten as soon as they’ve cashed their cheque, MIA is actively involved in humanitarian issues.

I beg to differ. I contend that her importance can be both argued—she’s not intrinsically any more important than Ke$ha (which, yes, is actually an argument, although both of these pop stars do seem to like to feel that they’re making an impact); and, since you mention it—yes, even denied. To wit: Since when have we all agreed that pop music as a commercial genre is the same thing as “culture”?

Seriously; put down the Justin Timberlake and that record by Alan Thicke’s kid and try to remember a time back when you knew how to differentiate hip from hype. Sure, M.I.A. can be a notable pop-cultural figure; why not?—but, well, you know what they say about taking the gold in the Special Olympics.

There are plenty of people out there making more interesting (and less conventional) pop music, not to mention music that’s less overtly constructed out of hit pop single tools, tropes and tricks. There are also plenty of people who less sensationally back up their political philosophies with their actions, rather than shouting from soapboxes made of Sony/Roc-A-Fella/Interscope dough before stepping behind the curtain for the part where the suits swing through to drop off the royalty check. [Note: Somebody call Chumbawamba and see if they still get Christmas cards from the folks in Crass.]

It’s possible that the NFL didn’t do their research. Fine; they brought in Madonna, whose long-expired edge is so blunted that it knows everyone can tell it’s SO HIGH right now DUDE JUST BE COOL OK!!! Safe as houses, right? But to be fair, there’s a chance that the intern whose bro showed him that YouTube clip with the hot Indian (or w/e!) chick didn’t dig a little deeper into the dark, iconoclastic, insurrectionista underworld in which M.I.A. resides, before shooting her name up the pipeline to the half-time show decider committee (who, everyone knows, never leave their houses and only have the Internet on their computers LOL) . So, yeah; culpable? Definitely. When you hire M.I.A., you get M.I.A., even if you should have known better and done your (simple-ass) homework. Ignorance of the ignorance of the law is no excuse.

But is M.I.A. a victim here? Similarly, not at all. Maya chose to step up and play with the big kids. She signed on the line, took the check and then willingly opted to use her high-profile moment to be far-out and edgy and freak out the squares, man! And fair enough—I mean, seriously, why not take a moment in the midst of all the glitz and decadence of the Super Bowl half-time show to make a heartfelt, articulate plea on behalf of your suffering siblings—or, you know, just pull an f.u.? But to expect to walk off that Super Bowl field without an invoice clinging to your spiky heel is either profoundly delusional or absurdly naïve. M.I.A. may be the former; she’s certainly not the latter.

But it’s been a little while; let’s get back to the Noisey perspective (and yes, I fixed your dipshit punctuation, son):

And while Maya didn’t hijack the performance to promote a political agenda [OH FUCKING COME ON NOW, REALLY? THANKS FOR THAT CLARIFICATION YO BECAUSE I THOUGHT THIS WAS SINEAD O’CONNOR ON SNL ALL OVER AGAIN], it would be safe to assume that her opting to stick her finger up at the camera wasn’t a immature grasp for attention—as the NFL suggests—but rather, when caught up in the moment, a way of conveying to the largest audience possible, that yes, she “[doesn’t] give a shit.” At least not about a sporting event that grosses over $150 million while her own people are suffering as the rest of the world turns a blind eye.

Look, homes: You can’t have it both ways; either she’s innocent or she’s guilty. If you’re defending her, saying she was “caught up in the moment” diminishes her statement by defining it as a spontaneous whim. If you’re not sympathetic to her, it supports the perspective of her as an opportunistic headline-chaser. But you’re trying to work both angles—saying it was a spur-of-the-moment impulse (hey, take it easy on a gal, lawyers—we’re just playin’!) and a meaningful political statement about her suffering people (hey, can we get some of those Occupy kids to Instagram this moment or something?).

It’s Rage Against The Machine 2.0; wanting to be the spokesperson for the downtrodden via the corporate assembly line. But whether you’re a wannabe agit-pop star or a blog hack for a dwindling franchise, you can’t get upset when the multinational conglomerates you’re in bed with don’t play fair. You knew who you were getting jiggy with when you took the money, honey. And not to “go there” and all, but yes, it’s great to procreate with a right-on, green-minded, forward-thinking hero of the people; and hey, if he’s the multimillionaire heir to a liquor and record label fortune, that doesn’t hurt either, does it? Come on, you guys—some of these suits have names and faces, okay? They’re people just like you or me! Point taken: Playing for both sides can be fun, as long as everyone sticks with your playbook.

So, to edge toward wrapping this up: Look—if M.I.A.’s defense is that the NFL isn’t actually as family-friendly as it claims to be, or whatever, then what does that make her (rebellious, spontaneous, iconoclastic, calculated, meaningless, meaningful, on-purpose, on-the-fly) gesture? Was it a statement, somehow, about how the NFL is hypocritical in its messaging? Because if it was, then, dude: We are on—glove thrown, challenge accepted, pistols at dawn, yo. Because the NFL is some bullshit, no argument here. But if that wasn’t the point of her bold-ass middle finger, then… well, her defense is kind of more or less basically a little bit of a sorta cheap copout, right? Like, “OK, maybe I was kinda rude—but you guys were totally rude first! I’m calling it!”

Endnotes

Whew. Well, glad that’s ov—wait, what? Dude, 4 rlz, Chris Brown? Really? That’s the guy you bring in for a hott collabo when your NFL defense hinges on accusations of misogyny? Seriously, are you high (or just pre-emptively terrified of male hegemonic oppressions and stuff or whatever Rihanna call me OK because this guy seems totez nice but maybe he’s got a temper idk lolzzz)?

The DATA plan.

No computers were used in the construction of the flyers shown in this post. (Click on through for larger views.)

One night, some years ago, my bandmate and I spent a thoroughly enjoyable few hours at Kinko’s, working on a flyer for an upcoming show. I brought fifty or so copies of the final version home with me and peeled one off to show my roommate, whose comment was, “Nice flyer. So, when’s the show?”

Yes: I’d forgotten to include that information. I slapped my forehead and called my bandmate, who slapped his and called us both morons, and we agreed to meet back at Kinko’s the following evening to add that important detail (and run off another batch of copies).

As I lay in bed that night, I concocted the following mnoronic (you see what I’ve done there) device, which I include herewith:

DATA

Date

Address

Time

Admission

These are all of the core, crucial, essential elements that any flyer should have, whether it’s a punk rock show or a lecture on the intrinsic hegemony of the modern workplace. (The only item left out is “Age,” which, in regards to all-ages shows, can be a crucial factor* in the punk scene; I’ll leave it to the reader to decide whether or not to add a third “A” to this device.

Chris Ware has not approved this message.

The next day, when I met my bandmate at Kinko’s, I told him excitedly about my invention. His reaction wasn’t what I’d hoped for.

“Keep it to yourself,” he said. “No need to broadcast how dumb we are.” And, on thinking it over in the cold, hard and rapidly dimming light of the new day, I had to concur.

But I think enough time has passed since then—and I have no doubt whatsoever that there are still people in bands absent-minded, distracted, forgetful or just plain dumb enough to make these kinds of mistakes. It’s for that dopey but loveable crowd that I’m finally going public with the DATA system. Simple, memorable, effective. (Maybe jot it down somewhere so you don’t forget it.)

Oh, what a nite.

* Inexplicably, Crucial Factor is not the name of a straight-edge, hardcore, metal or any other band. xCRUCIALFACTORx WTF

Poptimism in the truest, most graspingly desperate sense of the (made-up, hilarious) word.

Wow, Pitchfork; so, in the new world, do we really have to dig under Nickelodeon spinoff sitcom rocks to find the debuts of future pop starlet also-rans so that we can give them a 6 out of 10 next to music made by (and ostensibly for) grown-ups?

Apparently, we do.

Well, all right! Hell, let’s crack open the Night Train and get it over with! My friends; my good, good friends: Here’s to comparing Carly Rae Jepsen to—well, to anything in the world, out of haplessly ambitious ass-coverage and sheer desperation.

It’s okay, Pitchfork. The last ten years haven’t been a colossal waste of time—they’ve just been an exercise in discovering just how far down this thing can go.

…And here we are. See you on the other side!

P.S.: Just kidding; see you at “South By.” We’ll be the ones in the party tent rocking glow-in-the-dark label promo gear and doing shots!

M.I.A. + Beck’s: We’re not putting labels on anything.

M.I.A. + G.Q. = hott pixx (SHUT UP SHEZ TOTES AN ARTWORKISTA AN THAt)

Given her “It’s not me, it’s you” response to last year’s Super Bowl hullabaloo (check back soonish for some brilliant thoughts on that whole bushel of b.s.; spoiler alert: Both sides are culpaballs), one might have the impression that M.I.A. doesn’t give a lot of thought to her participation in broad-scope, PR-driven corporate promotions.

And one might have a point there. After all, M.I.A. didn’t really exercise free will or personal choice (or responsibility or actual thought) in regards to her participation in Beck’s “Let’s get some mid-level pop stars to design our beer bottle labels” program, apparently. In fact, the whole thing was pretty much out of her hands, to hear her tell it.

[Quotes from her Spin interview on the subject cut ‘n’ pasted verbatim (M.I.A. 4 RLZ); free ‘n’ easy translation (M.I.A. 4 LOLZ) provided by a confidential source. Tough-ass, hard-hitting interrogation administered by seasoned/accredited pop music thinker Julianne Escobedo Shepherd.]

M.I.A. 4 RLZ

So how did you wind up working with Beck’s?
Things have their way. I was in India at the time doing artwork anyway, and somebody sent it to me, and it kind of fit with the theme of what I was making. And so I said yes because I felt like it was perfect.

I didn’t really peg you for a beer drinker!
I’m not too much of a beer drinker, but when I was at art school, Beck’s always sponsored shows and stuff like that. I remember it being like a beer haze, not for me, but for most of my friends.

You developed the whole label design?
Yeah, I was making that as a painting, or with those elements anyway, and I put together a version for them out of what I was making for myself at the time.

M.I.A. 4 LOLZ
I was doing this artwork anyway. I’m not really much of a beer drinker. Back in ARTWORK SCHOOL, though, it was like beer-goggles central! I mean, not for me, mind you. Hey, anyone who remembers Beck’s in the nineties wasn’t really there, nahmean? But seriously, other people drank beer and I didn’t. I said “Beck’s,” back there, right? Not “beer”? Okay.

Anyway, when Beck’s called my agent, I just sent over some artwork I was making at the time and took the check. I mean, the check didn’t taste like beer. Beer’s just gross. Wait, I said “beer,” not “Beck’s,” right? Hey, is this being recorded?

M.I.A. 4 RLZ

What are you most looking forward to having —
I’m not going to say anything controversial in this interview.

I’m not trying to ask you anything controversial, I just wanted to ask you about your art reaching a larger audience through Beck’s. Have you thought about that?
Yeah, before artists would struggle with the art and commerce thing, but now I think you have to have a certain conviction about your work and I think the canvas is irrelevant, you can put it on anything these days. As long as you’re not like, you know there are certain things I won’t agree to, but sitting down and having a drink, and having a little chat is a good thing, and that’s what people tend to do, you know. They get drunk and get together, so.

Your style is so specific artistically, and recognizable as a generational thing so it’s sort of cool to see in a more mainstream context.
Also, it’s just like, it was like five dudes [doing the] labels and it was like getting that feminist perspective. I just wanted to make something that was like, an evolution of the design stuff but still part of what I did before kind of thing.

M.I.A. 4 LOLZ
In the past, artwork vs. commerce was an issue artworkists struggled with. But now, you have to have a certain conviction about your work. Sure, you can quote me on that. What?

Anyhow, yeah, there are certain checks I wouldn’t take, of course, but Anheuser-Busch? Sure, why not? See if I can blag some of that Spuds McKenzie paper, girl. I mean, it’s not like Bud did those Swedish Bikini Team ads; the King of Beers would never pander to a male demographic with that kind of misogyny. Oh, hey—“feminine” and “feminist” mean the same thing, right?

Plus, let’s be honest: When else am I gonna get mentioned in the same sentence as Jeff Koons, am I right? And… Lemme see that list. Hang on—Ladyhawke did one, too? And, wait; “Hard-Fi”? Who the fuck? Get my agent on the phone—this interview is over.

CONCLU$ION

I mean, not to be a dick about it or anything, but just a note to Ms. I.A.: If you’re cool to partner with a giant corporation and take a check, but get uptight afterward about the aspects of their messaging that are sexist and disrespectful, especially toward women, you might want to consider using your Beck’s fee to pay your lawyer to stop you in advance when Hooters calls.

P.S. re: M.I.A.:

Missing In Activism
Making Income Accidentally
Missed Inebriation in Academia
Multinational Incorporated Artwork
¡Motherfuckin’ IconoKlass*tic AnarKKKista!
Maker of Inflammatory (beer label) Artwork
Molotovs, Insurrection and Accounts-receivable
Moderately Interesting Artist

* …warfare! Gotcha!

WTH, Radiohead?

Every so often, when I think about the selfless charity and noble spirit of brotherhood that moved guitarist Jonny Greenwood to wrench the H from his first name and give it to his friend and bandmate, Thom Yorke, I am so overcome with emotion that I have to stop what I’m doing to take a few quiet breaths and dry my eyes.

ThoJo

Inevitably, the moment passes and I am myself again.

Critic vs. critic: Staging the set.

A multi-point agenda for a discussion of pop music.

Okay. I’ve been skirting the issue for long enough. In the coming days and weeks, I’m going to be digging into a lot of the things that initially inspired me to start this blog. It’s going to be a tough but enjoyable challenge to keep it light, concise, positive and entertaining—I definitely tend toward the verbose and cranky.

Among these will be posts, observations, deliberations and (ideally, even) discussions covering such topics as the following:

1. “Poptimism” vs. “rockism” and other false dichotomies.

Stipulating that music is often “product,” and that this is the case in the majority of popular/“pop” music, how do we navigate the blurred lines* between works of artistic worth and songs/albums/artists whose existence is predicated on calculated profitability? This is in or around, say, the Mountain Goats and Britney Spears (to use two examples of artists with whose work I’m only passingly familiar).

2. “If it’s popular, it can’t be good,” and other fallacies/straw men.

Get under the hood of the whole, “Listen, people wrote off the Beatles as fluff, at the time—but now we know they were geniuses,” thing and hunt around for valid and meaningful examples of this poptimist platform plank. See also: Motown…

Counterpoint: Consider, say, the Neptunes and Timbaland as examples of musical innovators whose work and influence may transcend their immediate context(s); see also: Phil Spector.

3. “Guilty pleasures” and other copouts.

Recognizing that some music we enjoy may not comfortably fit into the critical matrix we’ve cultivated—and identifying and evaluating various methods for coping with this; e.g., denial, secrecy, ironic flaunting, blatant hypocrisy, unabashed ownership, re-assessing objective/subjective critical/aesthetic standards, expansion of tolerance/perception, etc.

Establish the difference between A) reconciling a guilty pleasure to fit within (or hide behind) a set of musical preferences and B) figuring out ways to approach music we like that can accommodate a breadth of styles and sounds without requiring exceptions or explanations. This might involve taking a step back and considering the way(s) we enjoy music, first, before we get literal and bring the kinds of music we enjoy into the discussion. Whoa. (Surely this has been done before; I’ll look into it.)

4. Maintaining consistent standards of evaluation, and other challenges.

What do we expect from pop music? When we hold it up to the standards we apply to “real” music (or “authentic” music, if we apply the rockist perspective), is it acceptable/odd/irrational/unrealistic/poptimistic—even for its most ardent defenders—to be disappointed when it falls short?

Are poptimists just grasping to identify and adore the next Beatles, so as to short-circuit the period of critical disdain and get to the fun part where we all get to take it seriously while we’re dancing? Do people just want to be pre-emptively on the right side of this era’s “disco sucks” battle? If so, in whose service is this done; for whose benefit? The artists’? The labels’? The critics’? The (ugh) audience’s?

Side note: It’s always fun to feel like the opposition; like the persecuted minority. Rebellion is historically cool and intrinsically fun. Imagine if your pals on the battlefield were, like, totally hot red carpet celebs? That’s, like, win-win, right? (We’re all still fourteen, right?)

5. Do we need to talk about this?

I mean, apparently, we do. But I’d like to pose the question, just because it’s come up in conversations along the way. From my own perspective, the lines aren’t really all that blurry—it seems pretty clear to me what’s purely product (or so close as to make little difference) and what’s implicitly or inadvertently got “product” in it, but isn’t intrinsically created as or to be product.

But that’s an “I know it when I see it” viewpoint, which, as we know, is not a helpful or objective basis for judgment. So I’m curious as to why the conversation is necessary—and, I admit, I think I have to include this section to explain/justify my own pontifications on the subject. Because clearly it matters enough for me to get so worked up about it that I started this blog and wrote all this stuff. Why do I give this topic—so much of which I find to be superficial and uninteresting—so much thought?

* oh, like you wouldn’t have

Sorry, can’t talk right now.

Busy hitting “refresh” over and over at the Italians Do It Better site.

This is in or around being an obsessive record-collecting dope (with exceptional taste in music and design).

Seriously; you should look into this label. $5 for a CD? $10 for a record (on color vinyl, with free download, of course)? Free downloads of like half their catalog (or more) over at Soundcloud? Sweet DIY/glam analog/photocopy-style graphic design and really fun, sharply-crafted and overall awesome music?

How is the mainstream music industry collapsing when this model exists?

(Oh, wait; I forgot—greed, aggressive short-sightedness, suing the people they should have been figuring out how to appeal to, and giving today’s limos and lunches priority over staying in business tomorrow. Easy to overlook.)

Important office plasticware update: controversy in the breakroom.

So, I encountered this setup recently:

Now, I want to make it clear that the spoons shown here are spoons in the size and shape of every other regular plastic spoon you’ve ever run across. They’re not soup spoons or sporks—strictly normal, everyday plastic spoons; just like the silhouette on the dispenser there.

This is objectively perplexing, because the question that immediately springs to the mind of any rational person is: “What, plastic spoons are ‘multi-purpose’ Swiss army knives, somehow, but plastic forks and knives are just… what; jerks? In what desperate world is this possibly true?”

But beyond the immediate, knee-jerk bafflement it inspires, this nomenclature also implicitly undermines the iron-clad validity of the hierarchy I laid out in this breakroom breakdown, vis-a-vis the logical order of plastic-ware usefulness.

I’ve given all this some further thought, and I would contend that even if forks are not “multi-purpose” (and I’m certainly not conceding that they are), knives—as I went to great pains to point out in the above-mentioned post—are just as good at cutting solids as they are at stirring liquids. (In fact, they’re more likely to be better at stirring than at cutting, if you think about it.)

What do you think? Where do you stand on the relative usefulness of office breakroom plastic utensils? Please do not tell me.*

In closing, I guess the clear conclusion here is that the jury is still out, and opinion is divided. The conversation continues. I’m keeping an ear to the ground and will probably not be updating this blog with any further developments unless they’re genuinely hilarious.

*Seriously; if you even start to reply, think about what you were about to say and imagine yourself hearing someone else say it. That ought to do it.

Hear the drummer get wicked.

You have to hear this; it’s remarkable. Yes; this is the song that ?uestlove has identified as the first song to use a breakbeat sample.

Yes, it’s the song that signaled the return of Yes from its own ashes (aided by an upstart crow, beautified with the feathers of Buggles), as it launched itself into the 1983 pop charts with this off-kilter, melodramatic pop nugget—a world away from its closest Top 40 predecessor (“Roundabout,” from 1971; it reached #13—you may have heard it once or twice if you’ve been in a bar or a car in America).

But I can offer a gleaming, chrome-plated guarantee that you haven’t noticed the sole, singular, standout deviation from the song’s otherwise immaculately snap-to-grid whiteness: the fleeting little fill, in which drummer Alan White (whose name I am not making up; only UK prog-rock could provide this kind of class-A material) goes brazenly off-brand to get bafflingly, adorably, joyfully and unabashedly jiggy.

It’s a moment endearing and intimate in its brevity; a daring spark of humanity amidst the robotic hum of the Yes machine as it churns through its motions. It’s the pre-teen riding with no hands up to his crush’s house, and then gripping the handlebars when he reaches her driveway. It’s the high-school skate rat executing a perfect ollie and then trading his deck for a tie.

It’s a flash of genuine emotion, immediately smothered and subsumed into the charging golem that is The Yes Comeback Hit Single. But it’s there, man—and for about 1.5 seconds, it gave ‘em hell. The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long. And you have burned so very, very brightly, Roy Alan.

You’ll have to listen closely—it flies past before you even notice it’s going down. You can almost feel the iron fist of Jon Anderson reaching into the mix and clamping down on White’s wrist, as his velvety soprano vibrato intones: “Not here, Alan. By Jove, man—we’re English. This is not what we do.”

Get down—sound of the funky drummer! (It’s at 4:48; close your eyes at 4:40 and relax—you’ll know it when you feel it.)

Note: Holy Christ! I had never seen this video before. When I wrote the above, I was going strictly by the album version. This video is some serious bullshit.

Toyotas of Massachusetts: Family Values vs. Keeping it Green.

It’s hard to wrap my head around this car and what it’s saying to the world—a Prius with a smugly superfluous vanity plate and a Christian fish thing. It’s a red state/blue state paradox; like a Dr. Laura show on NPR. It’s freaking me out, but I like it.

I appreciate the way it comes off as a more genuine, real-life, walking-the-walk embodiment of what this car (which I used to see on the way to work) is telling everyone:

The Prius comes off sort of like the clean-lines, grown up version of the Camry’s jaded, apathetic splatter, doesn’t it?

Either way, both cars are clearly tools for telling people something about their owners; at the minimum, the message seems to be: I care.

How much they care, and about what, are less clear, but one thing we can take away from these two pictures is that the owners of these cars would probably find one another irritating.

What am I—some kind of asshole?

Clearly not.

Oh, you had something better going on this evening?

UNLIKELY

 

Hard to argue.

“If it doesn’t say Pride, it isn’t.”

P.S.: Turn over for coupons, America.

Critic vs. Nihilist: Setting the Stage

For reference, re: where the below conversation began. My 2010 year-end musical “wrap-up” for the Boston Phoenix. Review at your leisure; strictly optional.

12:44 PM Dan: You may be confused – I don’t think 1337 5P3@K overlaps with texting so much

12:45 PM me: Meh; it’s all the province of The Kids, to me (which I realize is not accurate, but my giving-a-rat’s-ass circuits can only handle so much these days)

Dan: I IMPLORE YOU TO GIVE A RATS ASS

me: TAKE A NUMBER

Dan: (no I don’t)

12:46 PM “Vampire Weekend? Fuck off”

me: “Well, at least someone finally said it.”

Dan: “uncredentialed opinion-havers (‘sup, bloggers)”

12:47 PM me: credibility is dying on the vine here people

Dan: ANDREW GRAHAM HAS BEEN WRONGED

12:48 PM me: heh heh heh—that’s not my message here.

I’m sticking up for society as a whole & music in particular.

my rat’s ass! my precious rat’s ass!

12:50 PM Dan: I still find your love for “credentials” perplexing

me: internet populism is a mixed blessing, at best, I feel.

12:51 PM I do believe that a filter of some kind still merits preserving

12:53 PM Dan: right, but a filter based on whose standards? Good writing or interesting perspectives are more important to me than whether or not the New Yorker thinks the person is “credentialed”

12:54 PM me: absolutely; but the “good writing and interesting perspectives” wheat don’t automatically stand out in & of themselves, from the vastly disproportionate levels of chaff out there—

12:55 PM Dan: and that’s where the Phoenix comes in?

me: so I’m not saying a source has to be credentialed by the New Yorker for validity—I’m saying that a source that serves as an umbrella for content, with a clearly perceptible mission/philosophy/purpose behind it—

or even just evident competence in the category/subject matter—

12:56 PM is more appealing to me than the idea of sifting through pages of google search results, etc.

I’m not voting to shut anything down—I just wish the internet &/or presences that inhabit it would step up a little—

accountability, accracy, etc.

12:57 PM (um, “accuracy.”)

(etc.)

Dan: So it’s more of a Protestant work ethic kind of thing?

12:58 PM me: could be… I guess, just not letting “quality” &/or “attention to facts” just passively slip by the wayside in favor of “hey! I have a thought! I have a web connection!”

12:59 PM Like, for example—this stuck in my mind enough that I was able to track it down by the use of a word I found to be so inaccurate that it really bugged me: http://drownedinsound.com/releases/15697/reviews/4141115

1:00 PM *quote:* “Let’s take ‘I Don’t Feel’ for starters. It kicks off like an enraged Tina Turner fronting Huey Lewis and The News: “I hear the footsteps drop and I knock on the doooooor!” she cries, in what is honestly the most vulgar opening five seconds of any song I’ve ever heard in my life.”

1:01 PM Fact 1: Those lyrics are not the actual lyrics; clearly the reviewer listened to them only once, or on a crappy system/pair of headphones. But there they are, representing the song/artist/album.

Fact 2: Either this writer does not know what “vulgar” means, or s/he is a puritan who shouldn’t be writing about non-classical music.

1:02 PM Because there is nothing whatsoever “vulgar” about any part of the song being described, from the first five seconds to the rest of it.

1:03 PM So: Who’s in charge here? It’s the double-edged sword; everyone can do it, so everyone does. Everyone wants to be in the spotlight (the byline, the voice); nobody wants to do the boring stuff (the editing, the fact-checking), etc.

1:04 PM Being right/accurate/factual is SOOOO BORING compared to being awesome & having people listen to you. So what’s the web going to look like when facts & other boring stuff start to disappear & wikipedia is more awesome than any stupid old encyclopedia?

ET

CETERA

just saying.

Dan: perplexing

reviewers, media, and the masses have been wrong and inaccurate about nearly everything since forever

1:05 PM internet is just the new medium.

me: true—but I’m talking about raw numbers going up across the board, in terms of content—

Dan: I remember a Reader’s Digest article I read in 6th grade that purported to contains shocking Black Sabbath lyrics

1:06 PM me: while “credible sources” (newspapers & other outlets with at least an on-paper commitment to truth, accuracy, etc.) disappearing in the landslide.

Dan: They were absolutely factually incorrect, and formed the basis for the commentary that was the remainder of the article

1:07 PM me: Right, exactly—imagine that, times every blogger or web commenter or wikipedia “editor” with an idea or thought

Dan: Similar laments were probably heard when Steve Gutenberg invented the printing press

me: (or an agenda)

Dan: and ultimately, what’s your beef? That the masses will be misled?

1:08 PM fuck them anyway

me: who do you write a “letter to the editor” to, to complain about a wrongly-reported incident or factual error, when there’s no editor?

Dan: you don’t, you send an email to the writer

me: well, yeah—that’s basically it; “history” (as accurately as it can be managed to do so) is worth preserving.

Dan: perception is reality

1:09 PM me: right—the writer—the “uncredentialed” person with no responsibility or obligation to correct anything, as opposed to the representative of an organization with accountability as part of its basis for existence.

1:10 PM I realize that I’m championing a set of corporate entities like newspapers, etc., here—but it’s the concept underlying them that I still feel has merit, however the execution goes down.

Dan: this is my whole point—the credentials and the basis of accountability is meaningless

me: but it shouldn’t be, is my point—

Dan: GOING TO EAT LUNCH PEACE OUT

me: just giving up on the idea of preserving facts & accuracy because there’s no reliable precedent (arguably) is…

a big mistake.

1:11 PM HAVE A GOOD LUNCH PEACE

Mission accomplished.

High-five, internet: I have arrived.

Judge mental.

I fully acknowledge that I’m not getting the whole story, but—based on their overall demeanor and physical appearance—when I see people with tattoos, shirts, bumper stickers and/or sweet airbrushed vehicle art that reads, “Only God Can Judge Me,” I generally have the impression that these are people who God would probably judge pretty harshly.

Office rocker.

I was a temp for eight years. I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire, off the shoulder of Orion. Paranoid bosses muttering “Hezbollah” when someone brown comes into reception. And kittens. Posters and posters of kittens.

This next song is called “You Can’t Recycle the Paper That the Paper Comes In.”

It goes like this:

Oh, you can’t recycle the paper that the paper comes in

I know you think you should be able to

But it says right on the paper that you can’t

And the trash can is right next to the recycling bin

So why is this so hard for you to manage

…Time to die.

Office surprise.

I love the charming, even adorable optimism that quaintly radiates from the little sections in grocery stores where they have Sharpies and Post-It Notes and little boxes of paper clips for sale—like, literally, with actual price tags on them.

They must know that everyone’s office has that stuff for free. Right? I mean—they have to be aware that we all get these things at work.

Office pace.

The Hierarchy of Plasticware

If you’re fortunate enough to work in an office that provides it, the official rank of plastic eating utensils is as follows:

1. Forks.
Everybody uses these. Most food you bring from home or order in will require one, unless it’s a sandwich, in which case you can skip ahead to some other post, Dagwood. The higher the plastic quality, the better the fork, but even the floppiest trash-polymer budget option can generally cover the basics.

Forks are office lunch currency; the lingua franca of the mid-day meal. If you’re out of forks, you’re going to be making do with a spoon and, more than likely, swearing. Because spoons just aren’t built for fork work.

2. Spoons.
This is the catch-all utensil. Necessary for soup and able to stand in for the fork, in a pinch. It’s not as regularly called into service as the fork, since office desserts lean toward cake (as opposed to ice cream) and soup is a fairly sporadic lunch item, especially in the summer months.

The spoon does have the advantage of being able to do double duty more readily, though. Soup or ice cream with a fork? Not on my watch, punk. General Tso’s chicken or secretary’s birthday cake with a spoon? Not ideal, sure—but not really a big deal, either. Spoon’s just hanging out, cool with whatever. Thanks for the assist, guy. Hey, mind if I turn you sideways and kinda saw through this steamed carrot? Great.

3. Knives.
Sorry, who? Oh, right. I remember you from the time I tried that new coffee shop and they didn’t put the cream cheese on my bagel, but threw a little plastic tub of it in my bag, instead. I think that was the last time we ran into one another. Uh, how’ve you been? Listen, I’m running late. You take care, pal.

Nobody cares about knives at work. Except for that one dink who actually cuts up his pizza like he’s the Prince of Douchylvania or whatever, you use them once in a blue moon. If there are no knives, you’ll still be able to eat your lunch just fine. Knives are the lifeguards of the break room beach; you sort of want them around just in case, but as long as you’re doing it right, you’ll never need them.

4. The point of all this.
Why do people stir their coffee with spoons? How asinine is that? Ever notice that spoons run out way faster than they should? And everybody knows that Cheri the office manager doesn’t like to put in orders until all the plasticware is running low, which means—well, you know what it means. Eating your ice cream with a goddamn fork and drinking your soup like you’re some kind of mental deficient. What is this, the Downton Abbey blooper reel?

Solution:
Stir your coffee with a knife, breakroom brainiacs. This ain’t rocket scientry.

Oh, Brooklyn! The Musical.

You can always tell the hour
By the Williamsburg clock tower—
And say, have you seen
The delayed green
At Fifth Ave and Dean…!
Oh, Brooklyn—

We’ll come back to this.

…But for the moment, I just wanted to point out that the following excerpt from the middle section of Steve Albini’s classic treatise, “The Problem with Music”—not always included in online reposts, possibly due to the lower swearing content and/or lack of immediately apparent/transferable relevance to being, you know, cool about band stuff—is, at this current moment, awkwardly and profoundly relevant to America in general and the Internet in particular. (This is in or around “blogging” vs. “writing.”)

But, as I say, we’ll come back to this. It’s late. For now, please complete the assigned reading below, at your leisure, and be prepared for discussion in class when we reconvene.

Excerpt from Steve Albini, “The Problem With Music,” The Baffler, Nov. 1993, pp. 31-38 (why, yes—I do have an original copy):

II. What I Hate About Recording

1. Producers and engineers who use meaningless words to make their clients think they know what’s going on. Words like “punchy,” “warm,” “groove,” “vibe,” “feel.”

Especially “punchy” and “warm.” Every time I hear those words, I want to throttle somebody.

2. Producers who aren’t also engineers, and as such, don’t have the slightest fucking idea what they’re doing in a studio, besides talking all the time.

Historically, the progression of effort required to become a producer went like this: Go to college, get an EE degree. Get a job as an assistant at a studio. Eventually become a second engineer. Learn the job and become an engineer. Do that for a few years, then you can try your hand at producing. Now, all that’s required to be a full-fledged “producer” is the gall it takes to claim to be one.

Calling people like Don Fleming, Al Jourgensen, Lee Ranaldo or Jerry Harrison “producers” in the traditional sense is akin to calling Bernie a “shortstop” because he watched the whole playoffs this year.

The term has taken on pejorative qualities in some circles. Engineers tell jokes about producers the way people back in Montana tell jokes about North Dakotans. (How many producers does it take to change a light bulb? “Hmmm. I don’t know. What do you think?” Why did the producer cross the road? “Because that’s the way the Beatles did it, man.”) That’s why few self-respecting engineers will allow themselves to be called “producers.”

…Tape machines ought to be big and cumbersome and difficult to use, if only to keep the riff-raff out. DAT machines make it possible for morons to make a living, and do damage to the music we all have to listen to.
_________________

Now, all that’s required to be a full-fledged “producer” is the gall it takes to claim to be one. Now, all that’s required to be a full-fledged “producer” is the gall it takes to claim to be one. Now, all that’s required to be a full-fledged “producer” is the gall it takes to claim to be one. Now, all that’s required to be a full-fledged “producer” is the gall it takes to claim to be one. Now, all that’s required to be a full-fledged “producer” is the gall it takes to claim to be one. Now, all that’s required to be a full-fledged “producer” is the gall it takes to claim to be one.

Discuss amongst yourself, Internet.

Too many bands, not enough… Oh, forget it.

“So—I hear you’re in a band these days, Kyle?”

“Yeah, Aunt Beth. We’re called American Car.”

“I am 63 years old and even I am aware that your band will be impossible to find on the internet. Did my sister fall down the stairs while she was carrying you?”

“Sigh. I knew you wouldn’t ‘get it,’ Aunt Beth. Whatever. We’re playing a show next week with Banana Phonetic and Tree Frog Avengers. We’ll be doing a new song I wrote about how a girl made me feel.”

“I want to talk to Kyle. I know Kyle is in there. Kyle, can you hear me? It’s your Aunt Beth. Follow my voice.”

Based on a true story. Well, probably, anyway. You can’t make this stuff up.

What’s under this rock? Oh—hi, me from two years ago.

An Israeli landlord who “invented” lavash flatbread? Met him. A M*A*S*H star’s granddaughter’s peer counselor, packing up the crap she left behind in their shared apartment? High five.

A new boss, brimming with (literally) hours of tales from the mid-life online dating scene? I have shared his journey. Feisty, testy, cranky recent divorcees? They are our people, here. Fat camp + yoga pants? Oh, we got that. Awesomely “empowered”-slash-dreadlocked twentysomething white girls, belting out “Get Up, Stand Up,” as though it had been written for (I daresay even by) them? Ah, this scar is particularly fresh.

A huge room—formerly a chapel—filled with housewives and future housewives of all ages (and the odd* guy), dancing and shaking what their mamas gave them, to the tunes of hott dance traxx and radio-friendly gangsta rap, as though they were “in da club,” rather than at a retreat center, for which they have paid (literally) exponentially more money than the cost of a drink at any given night spot where this music is regularly played for free?

Mermaids who walk among us, on the legs of humans?

Employed, professional adults who can’t come in to work when Mercury is in retrograde?

Avowed, committed vegans who staunchly refuse to eat animal products of any kind, unless they’re placed directly in front of them (or, you know, on a plate in the room)?

The scrawl of a child’s desperate plea, “Helo hamburger,” in Crayola marker on mural paper?

I have seen these sights, my friends. I have seen them and so, so much more.

Pause.

Breathe deep.

Find your center. Awareness without judgment. Feel the universe in its infinite benevolence and love for your perfect self at this moment. You are the ultimate expression of your potential.

Exhale.

 

“I like that painting, but the only place we could really put it is the yurt.”

 

It’s all here. It’s all here. It’s all happening.

 

* yeah, fairly odd, all things considered

Ocean’s a levelheaded guy.

I’m on record as being fully supportive of Frank Ocean, above and beyond the pop-cultural flareup in the wake of his semi-coming-out announcement. In fact, I’d like to ask that you read the concluding line of my review without the 11^th-hour editorial addition stricken below—

Ocean isn’t reinventing the R&B wheel — and his recent coming out and acknowledgement of same-sex romances has certainly made him headline news — but he’s taking the shiny rims off and letting it spin a little more freely.

—because I purposefully wrote the review without any mention of Ocean’s personal revelation. I felt that the album itself was a really impressive work, which deserved attention on its own merits, rather than simply as the starting point for a discussion about his sexual preference(s).

(Plus, the part my editor inserted into my conclusion monkeyed up what I thought was a nice little turn of phrase.)

In any case, I read the (sort of) recent GQ interview with Frank Ocean and was, once again, struck by the man’s thoughtful approach to what he does. His music expresses that in a variety of ways, but the quote below articulates it literally, and pretty impeccably.

Note: I let the John Mayer mention (and the album guest spot) slide. He’s still a young guy; I imagine he’ll dig deeper next time around. But I still don’t understand how John Mayer gets this kind of nod from people I otherwise respect, like Ocean, Questlove and Dave Chappelle; seriously—what is the appeal?

GQ:
You’re something of a perfectionist,  I gather. 

Frank Ocean:
John Mayer and I were talking in rehearsal before SNL, and he was like, “You love to take the hardest way. You don’t always have to.” But I don’t know about that. It’s like Billy Joel says in that song “Vienna.” When the truth is told / That you can get what you want or you can just get old. We all know we have a finite period of time. I just feel if I’m going to be alive, I want to be challenged—to be as immortal as possible. The path to that isn’t an easy way, but it’s a rewarding way.

I never think about myself as an artist working in this time. I think about it in macro. I feel like Elton John just made “Tiny Dancer.” He just made that shit like last night. Jimi Hendrix just burned his fucking guitar onstage. Right? Freddie Mercury just had the half mike stand in his hand in the fucking stadium. Prince was just on the mountain in “Under the Cherry Moon.” And I was there. That’s how I look at it. Like this shit just went down. You see the mastery that I’m surrounded by? How on earth am I going to take the easiest way? A friend of mine jokes that I have a painstaking royalty complex. Like maybe I was a duke in a past life. But all you have is 100 percent. Period.