I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)
The Proclaimers. Let's look past the weird collection of Benny and Joon clips running in the background, past the weird twins (?), past the physical toll of walking a thousand miles, to address a very pressing concern: wasn't this the top 40 of 2014? Did I miss something, or wasn't this song released in 1988? --a full 26 years ago!
Hold up a second, I'm getting a phone call. I'll be right back.
Oh.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Friday, December 26, 2014
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.24
From Time
Drake. Rap Genius says the album theme is Drake "flexing his ego." He doesn't need to. Isn't he on top? Doesn't he feel secure yet?
His song seems to show an innate insecurity. Jhene Aiko wrote the intro and the hook for it, and it's fawning. She loves herself enough for both people; he needs to stop giving and start taking love. Drake, you're worth it! And he tends to agree. He's always tried so hard with his dad and mom: he's done the work of mending their relationships. By the second verse, when he's listing women he's been with (real women's names in real places in Houston, mind you), it's to the point of bragging. Drake's always put his heart on the line and these women run away. Why is he such a good guy? Why is he so good at love but bad at choosing!? It's okay. Jhene will love herself so he can go back to loving Drake. Baka will show up and let people know they should leave Drake alone/start acting like him.
You know, if this were from Not Drake, I could see it working. If the lead singer from Guster wants to talk about how so many girls have broken his heart, he can. But from Drake, it seems like bragging. "Look at all the hot chicks I've had!" It's not just Drake, either. Taylor Swift is dangerously into Stop Talking About Breakups territory. Lots of these artists feel loss like I do, but their heartbreak is foreign. They've had too many and too much for me to pity them anymore. I don't know why, but sometimes a millionaire with ten thousand adoring fans can't make me empathetic. I can feel for Katy Perry's divorce with Russell Brand, but I can't care about TSwift's latest boy toy abomination (though the songs are just as good). I'll figure out the difference there later.
[Hey, bae. Don't feel like you have to stay; I'm just getting your eyes on me. I'll dance like it's sex if that's what it takes to get you glued to me, sweaty in the pounding music. Slow now--the beat and my heart race ahead.
Hey, let's go. I'm not that girl. I know you aren't just interested in flesh and fresh. Let's go. We'll stagger out, the music still in our blood, jumping with us. You can throw your arms around me and I'll finally feel safe in this evening. I caught you; your eyes are only on me. I'm enough for you. We're caught, bubbles in the still air, waiting to catch against each other: Surface Tension.
But. I feel the thinning of gravity and time and I burst. You're not here with me; you're stuck in your own head, looking at the things you think are important, dusting your trophies and listing your conquests, readying the shelf for my memory.]
I like the last bit of that. It took a long time to get to a point where it was worth writing. I don't know if it's the mood of the song, but I don't feel like it helped. It's too atmospheric to bite, too melancholy to excite, too insistent to fade into my background and become the story I want to write.
I wouldn't buy this, but then: you knew that.
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.25
Extraordinary
Clean Bandit. This is probably about love, but there really isn't much proof for that. The only real love clichés I could spot were here:
More important (perhaps) is the method of delivery. I haven't even listened to the song yet, but I can tell you this: as reckless as love is, this song is safe.
The video, now that I've seen it, doesn't play to the story. It's foreign countries and destroying instruments and Sharna Bass + Grace Chatto in swimsuits. It's beautiful--perhaps the most aesthetically pleasing combination of video and song yet. But it lacks the interest of 3005 and the story of Never Catch Me.
Because it's so (. . . nice?) watching/listening to the song puts me in a light mood, like I don't mind being in this place. I like the steel drum and the strings/piano. I like the way it makes me absent-minded, even though I don't parse the words.
I think I would have to like the whole album to buy this.
Clean Bandit. This is probably about love, but there really isn't much proof for that. The only real love clichés I could spot were here:
Have you seen her, the grass is greener/ To let me pass you by would be a shame/ If she's your only then why are you lonely? [Italics supplied]And that's not much to go on. Dissatisfaction and loss in context of a woman does not equal love. Instead, the surface text is clear: the singer feels intensely about this person, but knows that he or she has chosen a different path, possibly forever. It's a song yelled into someone's back as they walk away. There's no response and no submission from this mysterious other person, and the lyricist becomes increasingly desperate and overwhelmingly stark.
Something extraordinary/ Something real/ To fill my days and nights with something/ That I can feel (I can feel)Nobody's talking back when we cry in desperation. Everything we want walks away. All our hard work slips through our fingers and even the little things seem extraordinary when they're finally real. Percy Shelley knows about this.
More important (perhaps) is the method of delivery. I haven't even listened to the song yet, but I can tell you this: as reckless as love is, this song is safe.
"something in the way" she moves "my door is open" "I don't know how much more I can take" "drift away" as metaphor for breakup "running out of time" "two wrongs can['t] make it right" "grass is greener" on the other side "she's your [one and] only" "in your arms tonight"And those are just the biggest cultural verbal touchstones. I don't know how I feel about such lazy (seeming) use of language. I much prefer "in the bag (like groceries)," a style of cliché that abuses your expectation in a new way to make a point. So, honestly: perhaps that's why the other person left. That other person was also looking for "something extraordinary/something real," and found instead this faker trying to say all the right things and play safe. Sadly, by the time the other person left, the lyricist was writing smashing stuff without clichés in the refrain/chorus/bridge. Too bad.
The video, now that I've seen it, doesn't play to the story. It's foreign countries and destroying instruments and Sharna Bass + Grace Chatto in swimsuits. It's beautiful--perhaps the most aesthetically pleasing combination of video and song yet. But it lacks the interest of 3005 and the story of Never Catch Me.
Because it's so (. . . nice?) watching/listening to the song puts me in a light mood, like I don't mind being in this place. I like the steel drum and the strings/piano. I like the way it makes me absent-minded, even though I don't parse the words.
I think I would have to like the whole album to buy this.
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
2014.26 Again
I haven't been looking too much at extra-textual stuff this year, but for Iggy I'll make an exception.
Before Obama, the White House wasn't just painted so. It was full of pink people from northern European countries whose names were safe and normal. The biggest election scandals were Jackson's illicit marriage and Kennedy's Catholicism. Now that Barack Hussein (gasp) Obama is our president, a lot of people are grumbling, but their arguments are stupid. The presidency isn't designed or designated for white people, and there's actually some injustice that we (I'm white) have had it so long. It has to do with the nature of the thing.
Let's look at the nature of Iggy. From what I understand, the blues tradition grew from tribal rhythmic patterns of eastern Africa that came here with slaves. Their music developed complexity and adopted new instrumentation, but blues were always very much a thing for the poor (you didn't even need an instrument) and the disenfranchised. The content was predominantly about how awful things were going (I've got the blues). When blues started spreading to wider audiences and performers, the nature of the songs rarely changed. Hill folk in the valleys of Kentucky don't have any more to their name than a black sharecropper in Mississippi. Most of the songs, even today, are about how awful it is here or how wonderful it will be there in heaven.
From blues have grown country and hip-hop. Country is still lots about heaven, but it's spread to be more than it was before because it has a much wider audience. It's now about sex and family and stuff. Country is mostly Southern, mostly white. Women and men get play and nobody thinks anything of it anymore.
Hip-hop music (by gum I will continue hyphenating it) is also wider than the blues it came from. Now it can be about sex and family, but the stand out songs are all about victory. That's the true difference. Blues was all about not having anything and getting kicked while down, but rap seems to have a lot of everything and want more.
Okay. Since I'm white and male and therefore an expert on privilege, allow me to talk for a moment. I've been given things because I'm white. I've never noticed them as they happen, but it's more like the lack of things. I have been pulled over once because I hit the rumble strip at 3AM. That's the only causeless cop stop in my whole life. I've been given things because I'm male. And it's less about the things I explicitly get and more about what people expect of me. People assume I'm strong or brave or skillful even though they have nothing but a societal bias. In fact, most of the assumptions about me based on my being male are positive. Now, are these tremendous advantages? Probably not. Nobody walked up to me and said "You're white. Have a thousand dollars." But the effects on my personal mental health and self-esteem have been wonderful.
Why talk about this here?
Because hip-hop music is about overcoming those odds and getting to a better place despite the disadvantages of people's expectations. It's about starting from the bottom and getting victory. It's about being black and poor and somehow finding yourself rich but just as black as before. Except: now Iggy Azalea comes in with seeming advantages. Yes, I know Work. If she can make excuses about being too young and too poor, I can make excuses about how she had the money for the flight or the obvious home she could slink back to. But she's white (very) and pretty (kinda). Now that she's rapping, it devalues a lot of rappers. It makes their accomplishments look a little sillier when a white girl is popular with the same fans who seemed to affirm their victory. Their songs look a little more like posturing and her songs look a little more like theft.
Before Obama, the White House wasn't just painted so. It was full of pink people from northern European countries whose names were safe and normal. The biggest election scandals were Jackson's illicit marriage and Kennedy's Catholicism. Now that Barack Hussein (gasp) Obama is our president, a lot of people are grumbling, but their arguments are stupid. The presidency isn't designed or designated for white people, and there's actually some injustice that we (I'm white) have had it so long. It has to do with the nature of the thing.
Let's look at the nature of Iggy. From what I understand, the blues tradition grew from tribal rhythmic patterns of eastern Africa that came here with slaves. Their music developed complexity and adopted new instrumentation, but blues were always very much a thing for the poor (you didn't even need an instrument) and the disenfranchised. The content was predominantly about how awful things were going (I've got the blues). When blues started spreading to wider audiences and performers, the nature of the songs rarely changed. Hill folk in the valleys of Kentucky don't have any more to their name than a black sharecropper in Mississippi. Most of the songs, even today, are about how awful it is here or how wonderful it will be there in heaven.
From blues have grown country and hip-hop. Country is still lots about heaven, but it's spread to be more than it was before because it has a much wider audience. It's now about sex and family and stuff. Country is mostly Southern, mostly white. Women and men get play and nobody thinks anything of it anymore.
Hip-hop music (by gum I will continue hyphenating it) is also wider than the blues it came from. Now it can be about sex and family, but the stand out songs are all about victory. That's the true difference. Blues was all about not having anything and getting kicked while down, but rap seems to have a lot of everything and want more.
Okay. Since I'm white and male and therefore an expert on privilege, allow me to talk for a moment. I've been given things because I'm white. I've never noticed them as they happen, but it's more like the lack of things. I have been pulled over once because I hit the rumble strip at 3AM. That's the only causeless cop stop in my whole life. I've been given things because I'm male. And it's less about the things I explicitly get and more about what people expect of me. People assume I'm strong or brave or skillful even though they have nothing but a societal bias. In fact, most of the assumptions about me based on my being male are positive. Now, are these tremendous advantages? Probably not. Nobody walked up to me and said "You're white. Have a thousand dollars." But the effects on my personal mental health and self-esteem have been wonderful.
Why talk about this here?
Because hip-hop music is about overcoming those odds and getting to a better place despite the disadvantages of people's expectations. It's about starting from the bottom and getting victory. It's about being black and poor and somehow finding yourself rich but just as black as before. Except: now Iggy Azalea comes in with seeming advantages. Yes, I know Work. If she can make excuses about being too young and too poor, I can make excuses about how she had the money for the flight or the obvious home she could slink back to. But she's white (very) and pretty (kinda). Now that she's rapping, it devalues a lot of rappers. It makes their accomplishments look a little sillier when a white girl is popular with the same fans who seemed to affirm their victory. Their songs look a little more like posturing and her songs look a little more like theft.
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.26
Fancy.
Iggy Azalea. First things first, I'm the realest. Second things: she released her video on my birthday this year, this song was written by five people (according to MetroLyrics), and I'm not going to use MetroLyrics because I got to a reference about rooftops in '88 (it's Nas) and I was utterly lost. So here we go. The first few lines are references to Iggy's previous hits. She proclaims herself (again) to be the realest and that she's still a professional assassin. We know both of these to be patent lies. Not only is she the worst candidate for a hired killer, but I already know she didn't write these lyrics. Whereas I'm caught by the authenticity of Lorde and the enthusiasm of Perry, Iggy just ignites my ire. I don't want to like her: she's got the old-school rap swagger of "I'm the best" just oozing. I suppose there's a lot more to unpack there about my systemic racial bias, but it's uncomfortable and we're here to talk about a white woman pretending to be Nas (three references in the first stanza).
So Charli XCX (whose name I have seen) comes on for the hook and talks about how exquisite she is and how I would be lucky to know her because she would put gold in my mouth I guess. I always thought she said "can you taste the Scope," which is more authentic and a much more interesting line. And then--
I'm sick of talking about the lyrics and so is Iggy.
Speaking of what I like (not this song), I do . . . kind of like the music video. It's got way more energy than Sky full of Stars. I mean, regardless of whether or not the eighties are actually in right now, they bring it for the video. To my eye, the colors are garish, the hair unattractive, and the attitude sassy. It's perfect for the framing references from the first verse. But there's a sinister darkness to the video. The energy and style is the same as T.G.I.F from Katy Perry! They'll be corrupting our kids by appealing to high schoolers to act like these hoodlums in their musical films! Their high energy sexcapades and irresponsible schooltime behavior has got to stop! Or whatever.
If we're honest, the video isn't anything unexpected. It hearkens back to eighties and nineties teen films. Stephen said to me "it baits for views." It's big and brassy and safe. Is that anything that's ever been said about Iggy? She's safe. Let me explain: if you recall, women can't write their own music, but in this case I really don't think Iggy is writing this. She could be collaborating, but her name would be on it. 100% chance. This is a song written by a group of people who know what they're doing, fused together with skill and practice, paired with a video concept that will get views regardless of story or quality. It's nostalgia and big butts with a beat that has been distilled in a lab. Iggy tries really hard to be exactly right for exactly the audience she needs so she can continue dropping half tickets on stuff. She has all the visual and verbal language that humanity identifies as "risky" and "edgy," without actually straying from the banal mainstream. She's not rapping with emotion like Minaj or trying to say something like Glover. She's not tongue-in-cheek like Lana or everything-bared like Anberlin (more on them later). It's like watching Martha Stewart in the kitchen. Everything prepared. Everything clean. Nothing human or wonderful. Just math.
New thing:
My mood after listening to Fancy is querulous. I feel itchy and like dancing. I want to fight. [Even though I should be shortening these (I go through and cut a bunch before I publish now days) I'm adding my mood after, so I can actually respond a little to the music sound.]
I would never buy this. I would delete it if you gave it to me free.
Side note: which came first: Charli or Sia?
Iggy Azalea. First things first, I'm the realest. Second things: she released her video on my birthday this year, this song was written by five people (according to MetroLyrics), and I'm not going to use MetroLyrics because I got to a reference about rooftops in '88 (it's Nas) and I was utterly lost. So here we go. The first few lines are references to Iggy's previous hits. She proclaims herself (again) to be the realest and that she's still a professional assassin. We know both of these to be patent lies. Not only is she the worst candidate for a hired killer, but I already know she didn't write these lyrics. Whereas I'm caught by the authenticity of Lorde and the enthusiasm of Perry, Iggy just ignites my ire. I don't want to like her: she's got the old-school rap swagger of "I'm the best" just oozing. I suppose there's a lot more to unpack there about my systemic racial bias, but it's uncomfortable and we're here to talk about a white woman pretending to be Nas (three references in the first stanza).
So Charli XCX (whose name I have seen) comes on for the hook and talks about how exquisite she is and how I would be lucky to know her because she would put gold in my mouth I guess. I always thought she said "can you taste the Scope," which is more authentic and a much more interesting line. And then--
Remember my name, 'bout to blow-oh-oh-ohI don't know the mechanics of fame, but Charli has blown up, boom clap. That's prophecy right there.
I'm sick of talking about the lyrics and so is Iggy.
Now tell me, who that, who that?/That do that, do that?/Put that paper over all, I thought you knew that, knew that/I be that I-G-G-Y, put my name in bold.No, ma'am. First: your personal sense of style doesn't groove with my jam, but I'm willing to overlook that. Your self-aggrandizement is off-putting and largely unnecessary. Your love of money is unsettling. Your voice is unpleasant and your flow is . . . alright. But your demand that I write your name in bold is one step too far. This is my blog and I will bold what I like.
Speaking of what I like (not this song), I do . . . kind of like the music video. It's got way more energy than Sky full of Stars. I mean, regardless of whether or not the eighties are actually in right now, they bring it for the video. To my eye, the colors are garish, the hair unattractive, and the attitude sassy. It's perfect for the framing references from the first verse. But there's a sinister darkness to the video. The energy and style is the same as T.G.I.F from Katy Perry! They'll be corrupting our kids by appealing to high schoolers to act like these hoodlums in their musical films! Their high energy sexcapades and irresponsible schooltime behavior has got to stop! Or whatever.
If we're honest, the video isn't anything unexpected. It hearkens back to eighties and nineties teen films. Stephen said to me "it baits for views." It's big and brassy and safe. Is that anything that's ever been said about Iggy? She's safe. Let me explain: if you recall, women can't write their own music, but in this case I really don't think Iggy is writing this. She could be collaborating, but her name would be on it. 100% chance. This is a song written by a group of people who know what they're doing, fused together with skill and practice, paired with a video concept that will get views regardless of story or quality. It's nostalgia and big butts with a beat that has been distilled in a lab. Iggy tries really hard to be exactly right for exactly the audience she needs so she can continue dropping half tickets on stuff. She has all the visual and verbal language that humanity identifies as "risky" and "edgy," without actually straying from the banal mainstream. She's not rapping with emotion like Minaj or trying to say something like Glover. She's not tongue-in-cheek like Lana or everything-bared like Anberlin (more on them later). It's like watching Martha Stewart in the kitchen. Everything prepared. Everything clean. Nothing human or wonderful. Just math.
New thing:
My mood after listening to Fancy is querulous. I feel itchy and like dancing. I want to fight. [Even though I should be shortening these (I go through and cut a bunch before I publish now days) I'm adding my mood after, so I can actually respond a little to the music sound.]
I would never buy this. I would delete it if you gave it to me free.
Side note: which came first: Charli or Sia?
Sunday, December 21, 2014
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.27
Do or Die.
Thirty Seconds to Mars. I don't think I've ever known I was listening to a song by this group, and if I have heard one I forgot it. Honestly, the only exposure I've had to 30seconds2Mars is watching Requiem for a Dream, and that on Stephen's recommendation anyway. Also apparently I should watch Dallas Buyer's Club because Jared Leto, amirite?
This song's lyrics are shredded and pieced together again badly. I can't tell you how I'm supposed to pull the author's meaning from this, but I'm quickly getting the idea that's not the point. I'm aggravated. It's like the lyricists have mastered the art of the hollow phrase--some words that will trigger a memory that then shapes your personal understanding of the song. Whether or not they had anything in mind, I have to congratulate Jared Leto on drilling straight for that common denominator. I mean, adolescence is full of stupid nights. I will never forget the moment/the moment, Jared, but I hardly doubt the stakes are really so high as do or die. Die?
[But]
In my secret mind I see two lines I hate because they make sense. Let me explain.
Sometimes, I miss We're Going Home because at least it told a story. This song is the one that wore me out. This is such a meaningless piece of lyricism--built to appeal but not repulse--I just can't respond.
I have nothing to say.
So I'll watch the video.
That went well. What is it about this song and this fanbase? This is like watching a cult from the outside. They have a charismatic leader and a bevy of arcane symbols and ancient-sounding phrases because you need to Provehito in Altum, the Echelon. Serious hero-worship and no mistake. They all share tattoos and gather in enormous rituals to flush themselves with a new, higher-order identity driven by one of the most powerful intoxicants known to man: (not music, with its demand for cognizant engagement, but) group dynamics.
Thirty Seconds to Mars is selling contentment, and so what if I'm buying? Here's my truth: the people in this video are so sincere that I begin to doubt my garrulous, jaded shell. What if I'm the one living in the middle of the night? I need to wake up, to run headlong into the future because if I don't, these people--these free thinkers and life-livers will pass me by. I would make so many more mistakes if I knew that I had a community of people who understood my passion and drive, people who (even though they don't know me personally) feel intensely about me and everything I believe. And oh, the music! It's building and exploding, anthemic and glorious. Jared Leto is so beautiful and maybe if I buy a ticket now before the tour is sold out, and I move to Barcelona so I can camp the stadium the week before, and I push to the front, maybe I and the throng I represent can finally, for one moment, feel truly alive despite all, and I can touch Jared Leto on the face. I'm entire. I'm whole because I heard that if I didn't do, I would die. Provehito in Altum. Yes! Yes! Raptures not just from the people around me who get it just as I do, but from the arc of the saga, the long trail of higher human life connecting me with a multitude of other zealots, all of the Echelon, stretching back to the first human who lept at a mammoth armed only with grit, determined to risk everything in the name of his belief. Glory! Height, majesty, power! A life well-lived with no regrets! Give me the injection of adrenaline and norepinephrine and call me a proselyte.
I buy it.
P.S. What's with the reference to Sisyphus?
Thirty Seconds to Mars. I don't think I've ever known I was listening to a song by this group, and if I have heard one I forgot it. Honestly, the only exposure I've had to 30seconds2Mars is watching Requiem for a Dream, and that on Stephen's recommendation anyway. Also apparently I should watch Dallas Buyer's Club because Jared Leto, amirite?
This song's lyrics are shredded and pieced together again badly. I can't tell you how I'm supposed to pull the author's meaning from this, but I'm quickly getting the idea that's not the point. I'm aggravated. It's like the lyricists have mastered the art of the hollow phrase--some words that will trigger a memory that then shapes your personal understanding of the song. Whether or not they had anything in mind, I have to congratulate Jared Leto on drilling straight for that common denominator. I mean, adolescence is full of stupid nights. I will never forget the moment/the moment, Jared, but I hardly doubt the stakes are really so high as do or die. Die?
[But]
In my secret mind I see two lines I hate because they make sense. Let me explain.
In the beginning was the light of the dawning age.This is the only mild scriptural allusion I can see in the text, but that it's there . . . this could very easily be a passion play song. I could use this as Jesus' prayer "let this cup pass from me." Do or die. On the other hand, there is the pesky repetition of fate, which has no real place in Adventist behavior. (God allows us to choose; fate has no place for all but Greeks) Eeh. I can still see it. However,
I don't wanna live a lie that I believe.Augh, nuts. Really big un-tasty ones. Brazil nuts that get left until the trail mix is just Brazil nuts. This isn't a Christian song at all. This is a searing indictment. I knew something was fishy when you wanted me to ignore that (so you put it in the first stanza). Song, you're humanist. You'll never die, despite it being "do or." Fate is guiding you. Legitimately caring about others is uncool. Live in the moment because it feels good.
Sometimes, I miss We're Going Home because at least it told a story. This song is the one that wore me out. This is such a meaningless piece of lyricism--built to appeal but not repulse--I just can't respond.
I have nothing to say.
So I'll watch the video.
That went well. What is it about this song and this fanbase? This is like watching a cult from the outside. They have a charismatic leader and a bevy of arcane symbols and ancient-sounding phrases because you need to Provehito in Altum, the Echelon. Serious hero-worship and no mistake. They all share tattoos and gather in enormous rituals to flush themselves with a new, higher-order identity driven by one of the most powerful intoxicants known to man: (not music, with its demand for cognizant engagement, but) group dynamics.
Thirty Seconds to Mars is selling contentment, and so what if I'm buying? Here's my truth: the people in this video are so sincere that I begin to doubt my garrulous, jaded shell. What if I'm the one living in the middle of the night? I need to wake up, to run headlong into the future because if I don't, these people--these free thinkers and life-livers will pass me by. I would make so many more mistakes if I knew that I had a community of people who understood my passion and drive, people who (even though they don't know me personally) feel intensely about me and everything I believe. And oh, the music! It's building and exploding, anthemic and glorious. Jared Leto is so beautiful and maybe if I buy a ticket now before the tour is sold out, and I move to Barcelona so I can camp the stadium the week before, and I push to the front, maybe I and the throng I represent can finally, for one moment, feel truly alive despite all, and I can touch Jared Leto on the face. I'm entire. I'm whole because I heard that if I didn't do, I would die. Provehito in Altum. Yes! Yes! Raptures not just from the people around me who get it just as I do, but from the arc of the saga, the long trail of higher human life connecting me with a multitude of other zealots, all of the Echelon, stretching back to the first human who lept at a mammoth armed only with grit, determined to risk everything in the name of his belief. Glory! Height, majesty, power! A life well-lived with no regrets! Give me the injection of adrenaline and norepinephrine and call me a proselyte.
I buy it.
P.S. What's with the reference to Sisyphus?
Friday, December 19, 2014
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.28
Kiss and Not Tell.
La Roux. The lyrics to this are deceptive, like a pregnant woman wearing the shirt she used to love. I suppose its "lie" is that it pretends to be a song with words, but I can tell better. This is not a song, but a piece accompanied by cleverly arranged vocal sounds meant to approximate meaning. I mean--hahahahahahaha listen,
Oh, wait a second. I remember now. Women aren't allowed to write about themselves because they're not capable of the skill required to maintain a public image. Clearly. Because there are no examples of that. This is probably just inconsequential noise.
Yeah. See? The music video has nothing to do with the content. I was right all along. That's why La Roux is selling sex to men and women indiscriminately. That's why when the sound of her voice hits them, rainbows pour from the receiver. Yeah. It's totally okay. Don't gay up my music, La Roux.
[The content of this post may or may not reflect your views. If it does, go ahead and assume I'm right. If it doesn't, I hope you caught the almost nauseating sarcastic subtext.]
La Roux. The lyrics to this are deceptive, like a pregnant woman wearing the shirt she used to love. I suppose its "lie" is that it pretends to be a song with words, but I can tell better. This is not a song, but a piece accompanied by cleverly arranged vocal sounds meant to approximate meaning. I mean--hahahahahahaha listen,
Ten thousand stories sent/Two lovers disguise/You've seen the future now:/A love that is blind.Those aren't English sentences! Those are clauses strung together without any intervening meaning! Oh, good. I can give up on this song. It's clearly meaningless drivel pushed out by La Roux in a hasty effort to--hold the phone, what's this?
All along I /Feelings I can't/Feelings I can't help/All I want is/To come right out my/Come right out my shellWait, okay. It sounds like the lyricist is struggling to finish the words she's saying because they're difficult, but she keeps trying until she gets it. Now wait.
All along I've had feelings I can't help/Makes me want to kiss and not/And all I want is to come right out of my shell/Makes me want to kiss and not tellHold up. Is this about having intense feelings that society doesn't approve of, thus the author has to mask them, bite them back, cut down the young ideatrees where they grow and throw them on an increasingly self-made pyre!? Could it be that the author is struggling with intense desire for a sexual encounter (thus the "kiss) but does not feel like this action is an appropriate course (thus "not tell!?")?!??! Is La Roux homosexual?
Oh, wait a second. I remember now. Women aren't allowed to write about themselves because they're not capable of the skill required to maintain a public image. Clearly. Because there are no examples of that. This is probably just inconsequential noise.
Yeah. See? The music video has nothing to do with the content. I was right all along. That's why La Roux is selling sex to men and women indiscriminately. That's why when the sound of her voice hits them, rainbows pour from the receiver. Yeah. It's totally okay. Don't gay up my music, La Roux.
[The content of this post may or may not reflect your views. If it does, go ahead and assume I'm right. If it doesn't, I hope you caught the almost nauseating sarcastic subtext.]
Thursday, December 18, 2014
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.29
A Sky Full of Stars.
Coldplay. So this is a simple song. I'm not saying that simplicity denies depth by any means (M.C. Escher's Sky and Water). I'm saying that it's much harder to deliver immense depth through a single image, even though perhaps the surrounding story is incredible (Craig Thompson's Blankets). I'm saying that when the lyrics don't tell the whole story, there needs to be depth in the music.
I guess what I'm saying is that I have nothing to say about these lyrics. They could represent a very healthy or very unhealthy relationship (I'm leaning towards not healthy re: I wouldn't care if you tore me apart). They could define a sexual or other relationship. These lyrics could describe a first-time lover or a hardened veteran. They just don't give me any solid information. So I'll stop blabbering.
And the music video is really disappointing to me, which is awful trash of me to say. Let me explain. I've seen a few Coldplay videos in my time, and they seem to get less impressive with time. The first I saw was an enormous backwards ramble that probably took months of planning and hours of shooting to get to halfway decent. The second was a colorstravaganza even though the band itself was just . . . sitting. And this . . . this is like a stunt an indie band would pull to go viral. This is like the work of OKGo, and having seen the music video masters do anything similar puts this one in the "pale imitation" category. So comparing it to other music videos, even their own, is meh.
The delivery is solid, but it's lacking a lot of what I really like about these sorts of videos. There's no zing--no life. It's a corporate production (which can be amazing, I'll give you that [see Katy Perry]), and it feels cold. It's not a single take. It's not a labor of love. It's not even technically difficult. It was created by a team of wizards who figured out how to make iPads play on backpacks of instruments and a visual team that either had a shoestring budget or a desire to look like it. It features a band so corporatized that their defining trait is popularity.
But honestly? The thing I liked least about the video was how it made me feel about myself. I saw some grown man hopping down the street, smiling his head off following one of the blandest bands in the world. Do you know what I thought? "That guy looks like a fool." Yeah. That guy, not the fool at the keyboard who literally is so jaded that the sight of someone enjoying something turns him off. Oh, the humanity. Who have I become? I look at something that was actually awesome to see--the world's sexiest vegetarian grinning his head off and a work of art being created--and I think "well, that guy's stupid for enjoying himself." Wrong. Double wrong. But . . . wait. I'm not getting the same experience he is. As good as this song is, I want to be hearing what he's hearing right now. This is crap! And so I look, and I find out that the backpacks were fake. The audio was worse at the live event. Everything is corporate and I was right to hate that guy's stupid smile.
What, support those corporate shills? I wouldn't buy this.
Coldplay. So this is a simple song. I'm not saying that simplicity denies depth by any means (M.C. Escher's Sky and Water). I'm saying that it's much harder to deliver immense depth through a single image, even though perhaps the surrounding story is incredible (Craig Thompson's Blankets). I'm saying that when the lyrics don't tell the whole story, there needs to be depth in the music.
I guess what I'm saying is that I have nothing to say about these lyrics. They could represent a very healthy or very unhealthy relationship (I'm leaning towards not healthy re: I wouldn't care if you tore me apart). They could define a sexual or other relationship. These lyrics could describe a first-time lover or a hardened veteran. They just don't give me any solid information. So I'll stop blabbering.
And the music video is really disappointing to me, which is awful trash of me to say. Let me explain. I've seen a few Coldplay videos in my time, and they seem to get less impressive with time. The first I saw was an enormous backwards ramble that probably took months of planning and hours of shooting to get to halfway decent. The second was a colorstravaganza even though the band itself was just . . . sitting. And this . . . this is like a stunt an indie band would pull to go viral. This is like the work of OKGo, and having seen the music video masters do anything similar puts this one in the "pale imitation" category. So comparing it to other music videos, even their own, is meh.
The delivery is solid, but it's lacking a lot of what I really like about these sorts of videos. There's no zing--no life. It's a corporate production (which can be amazing, I'll give you that [see Katy Perry]), and it feels cold. It's not a single take. It's not a labor of love. It's not even technically difficult. It was created by a team of wizards who figured out how to make iPads play on backpacks of instruments and a visual team that either had a shoestring budget or a desire to look like it. It features a band so corporatized that their defining trait is popularity.
But honestly? The thing I liked least about the video was how it made me feel about myself. I saw some grown man hopping down the street, smiling his head off following one of the blandest bands in the world. Do you know what I thought? "That guy looks like a fool." Yeah. That guy, not the fool at the keyboard who literally is so jaded that the sight of someone enjoying something turns him off. Oh, the humanity. Who have I become? I look at something that was actually awesome to see--the world's sexiest vegetarian grinning his head off and a work of art being created--and I think "well, that guy's stupid for enjoying himself." Wrong. Double wrong. But . . . wait. I'm not getting the same experience he is. As good as this song is, I want to be hearing what he's hearing right now. This is crap! And so I look, and I find out that the backpacks were fake. The audio was worse at the live event. Everything is corporate and I was right to hate that guy's stupid smile.
What, support those corporate shills? I wouldn't buy this.
Sunday, December 14, 2014
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.30
Brand New.
Pharrell. And JT.
Endless repetition. Pharrell (which I incessantly misspell) really is the master of vamp. When I talked about Happy, I said "I have nothing against simple songs" and then I qualified it, as if to prove that I don't like simple songs after all. Well, this song is extremely simple.
There's a narrator. He is thirsty for love. Guess who comes along? This girl. She's detergent and sunshine to his ratty tee. She's more than he can drink and he's still excited to drink her in. He's got the same up feeling as in Happy, but this time it's caused by a girl.
I don't really like the glorification of romantic love in American society, but this one does a really good job of being about a relationship without being about a sexual relationship. He just likes being around her. He's not trying to get in her pants to fulfill some Ultimate Real Life Challenge of Might. (I made it URL.COM on purpose because I'm clever.) I do have one gripe: he says God told him that this girl was right for him. I don't like when Christians blow up the Facebook with praises when they find their keys (THANK YOU, LORD, FOR YOUR BLESSINGS) and so this brings unpleasant aftertastes of people whose religious life should be, but isn't, private.
Now for the music free-write. I'm liking these less and less. But it's an excuse to be creative, so I'll jump at it.
I wouldn't buy this--yet.
Pharrell. And JT.
Endless repetition. Pharrell (which I incessantly misspell) really is the master of vamp. When I talked about Happy, I said "I have nothing against simple songs" and then I qualified it, as if to prove that I don't like simple songs after all. Well, this song is extremely simple.
There's a narrator. He is thirsty for love. Guess who comes along? This girl. She's detergent and sunshine to his ratty tee. She's more than he can drink and he's still excited to drink her in. He's got the same up feeling as in Happy, but this time it's caused by a girl.
I don't really like the glorification of romantic love in American society, but this one does a really good job of being about a relationship without being about a sexual relationship. He just likes being around her. He's not trying to get in her pants to fulfill some Ultimate Real Life Challenge of Might. (I made it URL.COM on purpose because I'm clever.) I do have one gripe: he says God told him that this girl was right for him. I don't like when Christians blow up the Facebook with praises when they find their keys (THANK YOU, LORD, FOR YOUR BLESSINGS) and so this brings unpleasant aftertastes of people whose religious life should be, but isn't, private.
Now for the music free-write. I'm liking these less and less. But it's an excuse to be creative, so I'll jump at it.
[Turn off the music just for a moment and jump around in the silence. The whole house is built of boards scavenged from other houses, all built of other trees, all chopped down long before your great grandfather jumped around his house with your grandmother on his shoes. The whole house shakes a mess and the dust falls from the ceiling when you tromp. Bump, bump. The bass notes fall through the house like they've always been. You know you should stop, but honestly--it feels so good. Let go. The ancient boards creak underfoot and each one makes its own note; a small scream against the weight. You're trying to make a piano of the floor, and it's trying to make a man out of you. This girl doesn't know you from Adam. Why is she sweating in the kitchen with you? Why is the house making such wonderful music? Why does the beat grab the both of you? Why is the song so melodious? Why does she grab you when she's out of breath?]This is a really fun song. Stephen tells me it's MJ-inspired, and I can obviously see that. Even with my limited knowledge of Jackson's music, it's hard to miss when it's this in-your-face. Well, it had me hoppin' and I wrote something legitimately happy for once, so that's not bad. I think I might buy this. I'll give it time to smolder. It's certainly as good as the Haim Forever, and it says fewer depressing things. Maybe it'll light me up later. Songs do that, you know.
I wouldn't buy this--yet.
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.31
Forever.
Haim. Or should I say the Haim sisters, since there appear to be new ones every time I turn around. Now, not that I know anything at all about them, but Gary Pay seems to like them, and he likes the Strokes, so that's good enough for me. For now.
Lyrics boring. Repetitive. Nothing to prove from the outset. Is this a breakup song?
It isn't? But it's too jumbled. I get some Mumford and Sons, some Lana Del Rey, a hit or two of Rumspringa or Black Keys. The video says "We wrote a hella catchy song and we're enjoying ourselves. There's no overture at connection. It's like a concert video, but instead of unrelated shots of concerts, we're seeing unrelated shots of a girl getting her hair did for a quincinera Iknowit'smisspelled or prom and dudes tricking on bikes. It doesn't even set the aesthetic for the piece--of interminability. I would have honestly preferred a slow pan from an extremely wide shot of a couple just eating a meal, entirely silent. Or a couple riding in a car through Death Valley and they never say anything to each other. Or time-lapse photography of decaying plants intercut with the Haim sisters. There are three free ideas, Haims. Don't do them all at once again.
I might look more into Haim. Their sound is fun and punchy. But this song hasn't grown on me enough to slay me yet. We'll see if--
I wouldn't buy this.
Remember me? Remember love? Remember trying to stay together?And yet, it's not a breakup song because she's still trying to get his attention? And yet it is, because they're going to, but they haven't yet. Essentially, what I feel from this song is exhaustion. She feels stuck in this relationship because she loves him, but she doesn't feel passionate about him anymore. She's willing to "figure it out" and restart, but (perhaps fatalistically) she's aware that if he doesn't try with her, there's no point.
Forever I try to make it right Together we suck, end in sight I'm tired of fighting the good fight If you say the word then I'll say goodbyeSo it's not a breakup song and it's not a relationship song. It's just a complaint. It's the point Curtis and Brooke were at when they broke up. No passionate love or hate. Just . . . forever. I hope the music video isn't as interminable as the lyrics.
It isn't? But it's too jumbled. I get some Mumford and Sons, some Lana Del Rey, a hit or two of Rumspringa or Black Keys. The video says "We wrote a hella catchy song and we're enjoying ourselves. There's no overture at connection. It's like a concert video, but instead of unrelated shots of concerts, we're seeing unrelated shots of a girl getting her hair did for a quincinera Iknowit'smisspelled or prom and dudes tricking on bikes. It doesn't even set the aesthetic for the piece--of interminability. I would have honestly preferred a slow pan from an extremely wide shot of a couple just eating a meal, entirely silent. Or a couple riding in a car through Death Valley and they never say anything to each other. Or time-lapse photography of decaying plants intercut with the Haim sisters. There are three free ideas, Haims. Don't do them all at once again.
I might look more into Haim. Their sound is fun and punchy. But this song hasn't grown on me enough to slay me yet. We'll see if--
I wouldn't buy this.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
2014.35 Again
Anberlin, Reliant K, Deas Vail, Switchfoot, and any others: Christian band members, unspoken band. I don't mind it.
I write things on my blog that aren't Christian--things that aren't actively for Christ. They write songs that aren't actively for Christ, either. Neither of those things feels wrong. I live a life that contains other people than God, and I deal with them every day, too. I feel strong emotions that aren't directly related to religion, and I need to process them. I get hurt and I bleed, and I need to examine my wounds to understand them.
But am I doing myself a disservice? Jesus said that no man can serve two masters: choose one. I choose Christ, but I don't act like it sometimes. I'm stupid sometimes, but other times I actually choose to act like he isn't my lighthouse. My question remains: am I doing myself a disservice? Am I actually serving the devil when I slip? Am I moving against God when I choose the other?
I fear so. What am I doing?
I write things on my blog that aren't Christian--things that aren't actively for Christ. They write songs that aren't actively for Christ, either. Neither of those things feels wrong. I live a life that contains other people than God, and I deal with them every day, too. I feel strong emotions that aren't directly related to religion, and I need to process them. I get hurt and I bleed, and I need to examine my wounds to understand them.
But am I doing myself a disservice? Jesus said that no man can serve two masters: choose one. I choose Christ, but I don't act like it sometimes. I'm stupid sometimes, but other times I actually choose to act like he isn't my lighthouse. My question remains: am I doing myself a disservice? Am I actually serving the devil when I slip? Am I moving against God when I choose the other?
I fear so. What am I doing?
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.32
Octahate.
Ryn Weaver. This song (finally) has a clear message and central, carrying idea. The first line clearly communicate powerlessness in the face of overwhelming, titanic forces coupled with the explanation: She's not thinking clearly because of the way her ex left her.
But.
I (me, Robby) am not totally on-board for this. There's no good reason to share this song with the world, Weaver. Yes: I appreciate that you're feeling sad. But good breakup songs have something to say. This one's just "I'm sad, I'm sad, I'm so so sad." I get that she's being an adult about it (no blame), and I do love that. I appreciate that sometimes you've just got to feel sad without meaning. But I ache for more depth since I'm not sharing the emotion right now.
So now for the music video. It has some kind of classy clown thing going on, and it's wildly distracting from the music itself. I mean, this is a legitimately good-sounding song: I like the sound (it's fresh and beautiful, along the same emotional lines as what Katy Perry tries to do) and it's I think as good as This is Gospel. But the video!
Let's talk. When you have a harlequin aesthetic combined with a classy chic thing combined with the uncanny (white bodysuit?) combined with a younger version of the singer, what you pull out of the pot is only confusion. This is not helped by the editing, which gives me five frames to see what is legitimately the best part of the whole video: a moment in which Weaver and young Weaver alternate with paint tears being streaked down their faces. Find it here. Refresh a few times; it's worth seeing. But everything else is a mess of jump cuts and throw-away moments. "Look, we smashed things! But we never give you a wide shot for emotional pay-off. And seriously: Invincible has an incredible payoff. There's this long, slow pan up towards what you KNOW is going to explode, and then . . . catharsis.
Essentially, I would listen to Octahate readily, but I wouldn't buy it. Yet.
(P.S. two things: what's her mascara doing? And really I just googled "classy clown" to try to find Harlequin. It didn't work.)
Ryn Weaver. This song (finally) has a clear message and central, carrying idea. The first line clearly communicate powerlessness in the face of overwhelming, titanic forces coupled with the explanation: She's not thinking clearly because of the way her ex left her.
Lost in the cracks of the landslide . . . Deep in the haze of your love high/ I used to soar on the livewire/ I'm coming down from your supplyThis theme develops through the song. Whoever her lover was has gone, taking a lot of her emotional security and self-worth. She's not blaming this unspoken other, because despite the confusing nature of the end of their relationship, she "should have known." I find it hard not to feel for her. She's had an emotionally devastating experience, and she's equating it to the destruction of earth. I get that. I've been melodramatic in a breakup before (this is not news) and I've written really over-wrought dripping prose while feeling sorry for myself.
But.
I (me, Robby) am not totally on-board for this. There's no good reason to share this song with the world, Weaver. Yes: I appreciate that you're feeling sad. But good breakup songs have something to say. This one's just "I'm sad, I'm sad, I'm so so sad." I get that she's being an adult about it (no blame), and I do love that. I appreciate that sometimes you've just got to feel sad without meaning. But I ache for more depth since I'm not sharing the emotion right now.
So now for the music video. It has some kind of classy clown thing going on, and it's wildly distracting from the music itself. I mean, this is a legitimately good-sounding song: I like the sound (it's fresh and beautiful, along the same emotional lines as what Katy Perry tries to do) and it's I think as good as This is Gospel. But the video!
Let's talk. When you have a harlequin aesthetic combined with a classy chic thing combined with the uncanny (white bodysuit?) combined with a younger version of the singer, what you pull out of the pot is only confusion. This is not helped by the editing, which gives me five frames to see what is legitimately the best part of the whole video: a moment in which Weaver and young Weaver alternate with paint tears being streaked down their faces. Find it here. Refresh a few times; it's worth seeing. But everything else is a mess of jump cuts and throw-away moments. "Look, we smashed things! But we never give you a wide shot for emotional pay-off. And seriously: Invincible has an incredible payoff. There's this long, slow pan up towards what you KNOW is going to explode, and then . . . catharsis.
Essentially, I would listen to Octahate readily, but I wouldn't buy it. Yet.
(P.S. two things: what's her mascara doing? And really I just googled "classy clown" to try to find Harlequin. It didn't work.)
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.33
Pills and Potions.
Nicki Minaj. I don't like rap. Not only do I have a problem relating to many rappers' lives, I also dislike their method of delivery. Rap can be extreme. Because it's so raw, it can blow up. But that vulnerability also allows rap to be awful. It can be confused (too many metaphors/tricks/clever lines spoil the story), monotonous (the main and consistent problem with Eminem is that he only yells), and offensive (rack city, b****). But the real trap for this art form is
I don't think I'm missing anything. She's in love with a guy, there are drugs involved, and superficial friends exhaust her. The chorus isn't linked with the stanzas, and the stanzas don't have internal structure. The only line that brings drugs to the stanzas is
The music video is sparse (like the beat), and it's sexual (like Ms. Minaj herself [holy crap Ménage à trois am I brilliant or stupid?]). The visual effects are weird and the 4:3 aspect ratio doesn't do anything for me. In short, the video does nothing to detract from the song, but it certainly doesn't add anything at all. I wish it were a help to me in liking this song, but at the end of it, I have nothing to say. I guess . . . keep your lady bits away? Maybe think about one thing your song can be about, instead of this mix of disparate parts? Possibly . . . take a writing class? Anyway, Minaj, the beat is solid, the sound is good, the mix of sweet and surly song to rap is wonderful, the heart is there, and everything falls apart when I take a second look.
I wouldn't buy this.
Weezy Wayne, Hot Boy, I.. be.. thug-gin'/Got.. them.. things.. ten up, keep.. hustlin'The words don't need to have anything to do with the ones on either side as long as they sound good together. (I googled "Lil Wayne lyrics" and clicked on whatever. This is a selection from the first stanza) At the risk of making Stephen groan, I have been thinking for a few days about what the words to Pills and Potions could mean, and I have to be honest: I got nothing.
I don't think I'm missing anything. She's in love with a guy, there are drugs involved, and superficial friends exhaust her. The chorus isn't linked with the stanzas, and the stanzas don't have internal structure. The only line that brings drugs to the stanzas is
So I pop pills for them(them being the superficial friends) and it doesn't help me understand why pills and potions mean she still loves she still loves she still loves she still lo-o-oves. The lyrics are meaningless where they try so hard to say something powerful. They don't move me and I can't understand the order. That is--unless the entire song is merely about making music sound good. In that case, congratulations, because this song gets stuck in my head.
The music video is sparse (like the beat), and it's sexual (like Ms. Minaj herself [holy crap Ménage à trois am I brilliant or stupid?]). The visual effects are weird and the 4:3 aspect ratio doesn't do anything for me. In short, the video does nothing to detract from the song, but it certainly doesn't add anything at all. I wish it were a help to me in liking this song, but at the end of it, I have nothing to say. I guess . . . keep your lady bits away? Maybe think about one thing your song can be about, instead of this mix of disparate parts? Possibly . . . take a writing class? Anyway, Minaj, the beat is solid, the sound is good, the mix of sweet and surly song to rap is wonderful, the heart is there, and everything falls apart when I take a second look.
I wouldn't buy this.
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.34
World Peace is None of your Business.
Morrissey. I'm going to be honest; I don't know what's happening in Bahrain and I'm not going to look it up. I do know about the unrest in Brazil, Egypt, and Ukraine, so I count myself pretty knowledgeable. I am knowledgeable enough that I don't understand the market for this song. I can see that it is appealing to a leftist mindset (there's an inflammatory statement about wealth)
So why is it asking me not to vote? It's contradictory in the extreme; there have been times when the United States has changed because of the will of the people. There was a 75% turnover rate one election in Congress (admittedly in the early 1800s) because the representatives passed an unpopular bill. Almost everyone got sent home. I admit we don't have a true democracy, our first past the post system is utterly stupid, and voting sometimes accomplishes nothing. But go ahead. Tell me my vote for John Wright didn't matter.
It is because I am educated enough to know about Brazil and Egypt that I know that voting is often pointless and often incredibly powerful. It is because I am educated enough to care about Ukraine and Crimea that I also care to remember why and how the Civil Rights Acts of 1964 and 1968 were passed. It is despite my frustration with the government that I do not find Morrissey's civic dirge moving or empathetic in any way. Now I listen to it again.
[The old man walked down the street. He could hear hooting in the distance, but he didn't turn around. It was just then that a young woman came flying past him, laughing and dancing with her friends. She was beautiful in the light of the flame she carried. In that split second, his grizzled older heart warmed to her cause, just to close again on the other side. He looked at her--nice clothing, careful appearance. She's a tourist. She'll never have the nerve to throw that torch into someone else's house. He shook his head, remembering when he was young. They were organized, then. Someone's voice mattered then. This chaos of disparate voices (the outraged, the energized, the aggressors, the young and flighted along for the ride) would never accomplish what it wanted. He fingered the automatic hidden in his coat and considered spraying the sky with lead, hooping and running with the young idiots. Instead, he turned his collar up and trudged on.]
Now that I've listened to it, the references to other countries sounds entirely throw-away. Like: "What countries have had unrest recently? I want to reference them to sound cooooool. They're not an important part of the song. In fact, it's just a list without explanation that happens to rhyme. We've come a long way downhill.
I wouldn't buy this.
Morrissey. I'm going to be honest; I don't know what's happening in Bahrain and I'm not going to look it up. I do know about the unrest in Brazil, Egypt, and Ukraine, so I count myself pretty knowledgeable. I am knowledgeable enough that I don't understand the market for this song. I can see that it is appealing to a leftist mindset (there's an inflammatory statement about wealth)
The rich must profit and get richer And the poor must stay poorThe song talks about government reactions to political movements in terms of tasers, not gas and guns, so I know it's marketed to a stable country/strong government combination. And it references four countries (at least two) whose struggles are not common knowledge. So the target is a well-educated left-of-center political activist in a top-wealth/developed country.
So why is it asking me not to vote? It's contradictory in the extreme; there have been times when the United States has changed because of the will of the people. There was a 75% turnover rate one election in Congress (admittedly in the early 1800s) because the representatives passed an unpopular bill. Almost everyone got sent home. I admit we don't have a true democracy, our first past the post system is utterly stupid, and voting sometimes accomplishes nothing. But go ahead. Tell me my vote for John Wright didn't matter.
It is because I am educated enough to know about Brazil and Egypt that I know that voting is often pointless and often incredibly powerful. It is because I am educated enough to care about Ukraine and Crimea that I also care to remember why and how the Civil Rights Acts of 1964 and 1968 were passed. It is despite my frustration with the government that I do not find Morrissey's civic dirge moving or empathetic in any way. Now I listen to it again.
[The old man walked down the street. He could hear hooting in the distance, but he didn't turn around. It was just then that a young woman came flying past him, laughing and dancing with her friends. She was beautiful in the light of the flame she carried. In that split second, his grizzled older heart warmed to her cause, just to close again on the other side. He looked at her--nice clothing, careful appearance. She's a tourist. She'll never have the nerve to throw that torch into someone else's house. He shook his head, remembering when he was young. They were organized, then. Someone's voice mattered then. This chaos of disparate voices (the outraged, the energized, the aggressors, the young and flighted along for the ride) would never accomplish what it wanted. He fingered the automatic hidden in his coat and considered spraying the sky with lead, hooping and running with the young idiots. Instead, he turned his collar up and trudged on.]
Now that I've listened to it, the references to other countries sounds entirely throw-away. Like: "What countries have had unrest recently? I want to reference them to sound cooooool. They're not an important part of the song. In fact, it's just a list without explanation that happens to rhyme. We've come a long way downhill.
I wouldn't buy this.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.35
Dissinter
Anberlin. So, just to clear up some confusion right at the start; Anberlin is not a Christian rock group, in the same way that any object or loosely-collected metaphor cannot conform itself to and accept Christ's death. They sometimes sing about the things they believe, but they're like Switchfoot, I guess, which doesn't help if you don't know about Switchfoot, but lots of people do. I hope that helps you understand what I'm about to say.
If you're not choosing a master, you're serving the devil. Don't be offended. It's truth. But I want to know if it's important to let people know which master you've chosen. It's a personal choice. It should show in your life. But by actively avoiding a "Christian" label, have these bands shot themselves in the foot? I would have to ask a lot more people, because currently I only know about Robby. And Robby knows that Anberlin and Switchfoot have chosen God, but only because I looked it up. Does that mean that they're trying to fudge the rules of choosing? Should we make our choice super obvious, or rely on the fruits we create?
Regardless, this fruit is weird and confusing. The only religious imagery it uses is
[She shakes the hair out of her bun and throws the helmet at the wall. The visor pops and flies; the plastic shatters, skitters. She kicks the bike down into the shelf. Cans of paint fall, open. The tools tinkle and rain. The bike lies, ruined. She turns to the door in, and kicks it, booted and yelling. He can hear her outside and he yells through the door too.
She can't hide the tears in her voice. Why can't she hide the tears? She's soft, and she hates it.
He flings the door open, prepared to be sad, and he sees the bike. She's prepared to be sorry, and he blows up. The quiet of the garage erupts.]
There's a soft moment in the song. It's the middle paragraph. I tried to let you know with the writing. I'm not sure how I feel about this creative connection thing I'm doing.
The song is screams and heavy guitar. The drums are incessant. It's not my style. I'm not going to listen to it again, but I can see why it's better if you don't listen to it and you do something else. From a purely aesthetic perspective, it's not my cup of tea. From a modified intellectual perspective, it's shallow. From a religious perspective, it's confusing.
I wouldn't buy this.
Anberlin. So, just to clear up some confusion right at the start; Anberlin is not a Christian rock group, in the same way that any object or loosely-collected metaphor cannot conform itself to and accept Christ's death. They sometimes sing about the things they believe, but they're like Switchfoot, I guess, which doesn't help if you don't know about Switchfoot, but lots of people do. I hope that helps you understand what I'm about to say.
If you're not choosing a master, you're serving the devil. Don't be offended. It's truth. But I want to know if it's important to let people know which master you've chosen. It's a personal choice. It should show in your life. But by actively avoiding a "Christian" label, have these bands shot themselves in the foot? I would have to ask a lot more people, because currently I only know about Robby. And Robby knows that Anberlin and Switchfoot have chosen God, but only because I looked it up. Does that mean that they're trying to fudge the rules of choosing? Should we make our choice super obvious, or rely on the fruits we create?
Regardless, this fruit is weird and confusing. The only religious imagery it uses is
You are children in a land of menand also in addition & plus
I'll be known at the gateswhich are two lines in a song that also references the ideas of carpe diem and socialism. Is the tone of the song overwhelmingly Christian? No. Is it enough that I can tell it's supposed to be? No. Is the voice calling my soul God's or Satan's? No. I just don't grammar the answer. And I don't even like the song enough to listen to it until I figure it out.
[She shakes the hair out of her bun and throws the helmet at the wall. The visor pops and flies; the plastic shatters, skitters. She kicks the bike down into the shelf. Cans of paint fall, open. The tools tinkle and rain. The bike lies, ruined. She turns to the door in, and kicks it, booted and yelling. He can hear her outside and he yells through the door too.
She can't hide the tears in her voice. Why can't she hide the tears? She's soft, and she hates it.
He flings the door open, prepared to be sad, and he sees the bike. She's prepared to be sorry, and he blows up. The quiet of the garage erupts.]
There's a soft moment in the song. It's the middle paragraph. I tried to let you know with the writing. I'm not sure how I feel about this creative connection thing I'm doing.
The song is screams and heavy guitar. The drums are incessant. It's not my style. I'm not going to listen to it again, but I can see why it's better if you don't listen to it and you do something else. From a purely aesthetic perspective, it's not my cup of tea. From a modified intellectual perspective, it's shallow. From a religious perspective, it's confusing.
I wouldn't buy this.
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.36
Shades of Cool.
Lana Del Rey. I actually really like Lana Del Rey and the Dan Auerbach of the Black Keys, but this song does nothing for me. At least, the music, as I heard it as part of the top forty. I marked it as "do not approve."
But why? I read the words and they're just as strong as Lana's other works. The art of metaphorical language is strong with this one. The song starts strong with the word paint:
The music video is mostly Lana: an older man (only one baby, I guess?) drives around looking invincible, and Lana wiggles around looking as sensual as possible. (I wonder) There's an awful, heartbreaking moment in which Lana Del Rey comes up out of a pool, trying to look as lascivious as possible, and the blue-eyed baby just looks nonplussed. But by and large, the triple overlays of visuals, the rich, meaningless sounds, and the megavamping just don't work this time. I love Lana Del Rey. I think her music is incredibly potent, but usually she uses something jaw-dropping and wonderful to megavamp. This time, I can feel the twitch in the music where it would take off, but it just . . . doesn't.
That guitar solo, tho.
I wouldn't buy this. (Caveat: I might buy Ultraviolence.)
Lana Del Rey. I actually really like Lana Del Rey and the Dan Auerbach of the Black Keys, but this song does nothing for me. At least, the music, as I heard it as part of the top forty. I marked it as "do not approve."
But why? I read the words and they're just as strong as Lana's other works. The art of metaphorical language is strong with this one. The song starts strong with the word paint:
My baby lives in shades of blue; Blue eyes and jazz and attitude.There's obviously a lover worth having, and he is just exactly perfect as a status symbol, even though he's riddled with flaws. And I love that Lana (yeah, I hate it when authors use the artist's first name like they're friends, but seriously: Del Rey) uses "invincible" to let us know she can't break through his walls. It's such a powerful, positive word to describe what is obviously (to her) a negative thing. Even if she's sad about it, he's just too important to decry. And then, I'm not sure.
My baby lives in shades of cool, Blue heart and hands and aptitude. He lives for love, for women, too: I'm one of many, one is blue.Things get complicated, and maybe the video will help. I suspect not. Obviously, whoever wrote this story will understand why there seems to be a different "baby," why love and women are separate concepts, and if the "blue" baby from the first verse is the blue lover from this verse. And why does the songwriter begin singing to "you?" Am I the baby, blue or otherwise? I would love to think that I have it figured out, but all I can share is my questions.
The music video is mostly Lana: an older man (only one baby, I guess?) drives around looking invincible, and Lana wiggles around looking as sensual as possible. (I wonder) There's an awful, heartbreaking moment in which Lana Del Rey comes up out of a pool, trying to look as lascivious as possible, and the blue-eyed baby just looks nonplussed. But by and large, the triple overlays of visuals, the rich, meaningless sounds, and the megavamping just don't work this time. I love Lana Del Rey. I think her music is incredibly potent, but usually she uses something jaw-dropping and wonderful to megavamp. This time, I can feel the twitch in the music where it would take off, but it just . . . doesn't.
That guitar solo, tho.
I wouldn't buy this. (Caveat: I might buy Ultraviolence.)
Monday, November 24, 2014
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.37
Never Catch Me
Flying Lotus. A song in the good old tradition of "trying to find the biggest words I know and stringing them together in the vain hopes of sounding intellectual." Now, I'm no poet. Trust me; the closest I get to poetry are awful half-attempts with lilting meter and no rhyme or pattern. But when you include lines like
But the music video.
It's just the right amount of joyous and frenetic and somber. It's just the right mix of sir-reverence and true humility in the face of death. I can't believe I would ever listen to this song again, but I would watch the music video. I would show it to a friend. I would talk about why the director chose children (extreme sadness) and (extreme joy) why fill a video about death with energetic dance. I would want to push the metaphors around my head to see how they roll. I would re-examine the characters to categorize them. I would have to wonder why the "choir" in the balcony seems to exist in some half-state between the children and the mourners. I would watch the music video again, but . . .
I wouldn't buy this.
Flying Lotus. A song in the good old tradition of "trying to find the biggest words I know and stringing them together in the vain hopes of sounding intellectual." Now, I'm no poet. Trust me; the closest I get to poetry are awful half-attempts with lilting meter and no rhyme or pattern. But when you include lines like
Curiosity, animosity, high philosophy like the prophesied meditationand gems like
no coincidence you been diedI'm not inclined to believe your dedication to your art. AND THEN on the other hand, there is a theme running through this piece. (Hopefully, Stephen didn't rage quit before this line) I'm feeling the ideas, rather than seeing them outright. The author is either awful or coy, because I think he's talking about an environment in his head, but the imagery isn't specific. I do like
Step inside my mind and you'll find--as a prelude. It does introduce me to the idea that this is an internal monologue. If that's the case, and the song deals with the author's headspace, the line
I've got mind control when I'm here; you're gonna hate me when I'm goneis much, much more ominous in tone. Is he preparing to live beyond his consciousness? Is there some disease or degeneration that will leave him physically functional, but mentally absent? Or am I trying to find meaning where there is none, desperately hoping to give the author more credit then he's due? I hope not. Seriously.
Vandalizing these walls only if they could talkis too beautiful to be wasting on a random pseudocombination of words. Plus, since I poo-pooed the music the first time through, I think the words must have something to offer, right?
But the music video.
It's just the right amount of joyous and frenetic and somber. It's just the right mix of sir-reverence and true humility in the face of death. I can't believe I would ever listen to this song again, but I would watch the music video. I would show it to a friend. I would talk about why the director chose children (extreme sadness) and (extreme joy) why fill a video about death with energetic dance. I would want to push the metaphors around my head to see how they roll. I would re-examine the characters to categorize them. I would have to wonder why the "choir" in the balcony seems to exist in some half-state between the children and the mourners. I would watch the music video again, but . . .
I wouldn't buy this.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.38
Dreams
Next step: listen to the music and free-write during.
[He burns the candles in his window every night. The neighbors shake their heads as they walk past, pull their collars and turn from his sadness. They all know through whispers what happened those years ago. He hasn't been out much since (his lawn has gone trash) and they certainly aren't dropping by during Halloween.] I couldn't finish my metaphor with the nightly candles he lights for her because the song is actually mercifully short. I dislike my effort.
The first time I listened to this song, I decided I would mark my least favorites as a one-star so I could avoid them in the future. There were only six, and they're the next four and Fancy. This song prompted a method to keep track of the awful songs. This song. I'm not sure if it's the production or the interminable repetition of the word "dream," but I really just do not like this song. The sound is atmospheric and what most hacks would describe as "dream-like" (as if no one in the world has ever had a sharp, cutting dream-not-nightmare). The manipulation of the vocals takes John Legend's defining quality and throws it repeatedly into a blender. And, as discussed before, the lyrics aren't enough to save it.
I wouldn't buy this.
John Legend. Lyrics by Kanye West, yet! As I unpack them, there's actually enough meaning there to sustain me. The whole conceit rotates around the first four lines:
Every time I close my eyes Visions of you come to life, And I see What we could beWhile the character is asleep, he's with the girl. The song doesn't bother to explain why they can't be together. That's either to keep things simple and easy or because the writer wanted to appeal to a broad audience. Either way, it's not got the depth of Baby's In Black, if I'm honest. Unattainable, chaste women are a thing. But there's a wonderful beauty in the simplicity and the waiting. The singer won't chase her unless she wants to be chased. He's torn up about it, but he's not going to make her miserable. So, I guess based on his actions during the wait, he'll either be creepy or commendable.
Next step: listen to the music and free-write during.
[He burns the candles in his window every night. The neighbors shake their heads as they walk past, pull their collars and turn from his sadness. They all know through whispers what happened those years ago. He hasn't been out much since (his lawn has gone trash) and they certainly aren't dropping by during Halloween.] I couldn't finish my metaphor with the nightly candles he lights for her because the song is actually mercifully short. I dislike my effort.
The first time I listened to this song, I decided I would mark my least favorites as a one-star so I could avoid them in the future. There were only six, and they're the next four and Fancy. This song prompted a method to keep track of the awful songs. This song. I'm not sure if it's the production or the interminable repetition of the word "dream," but I really just do not like this song. The sound is atmospheric and what most hacks would describe as "dream-like" (as if no one in the world has ever had a sharp, cutting dream-not-nightmare). The manipulation of the vocals takes John Legend's defining quality and throws it repeatedly into a blender. And, as discussed before, the lyrics aren't enough to save it.
I wouldn't buy this.
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.39
3005
Childish Gambino. I've seen other productions from Donald Glover that I didn't like. And to be honest, this one didn't strike me as utterly banal or self-centered. In fact, despite lines like
The music video (understandably) doesn't fill anything out for me. It's a brilliant video; it's meant to feel like one take, even though there are some opportunities for cuts when the camera points at utter black. But Glover just kind of passionlessly mouths his lyrics, and the bear disintegrates, and the video continues being brilliant and sweeping, and the music tries very hard not to get in the way. I'm not impressed. I'm just not moved to the kind of place he seemed to want me in. Perhaps it's because I've not felt that loss for such a long time, but the story of this song does nothing. It's just as passionless as Glover's face as he mouths words he wrote before he realized he would have to sing them.
I wouldn't buy this.
Childish Gambino. I've seen other productions from Donald Glover that I didn't like. And to be honest, this one didn't strike me as utterly banal or self-centered. In fact, despite lines like
"My God, you pay for your friends?" I'll take that as a compliment.the song still feels generally like Glover is trying desperately to find a reason to be happy. The lyricist is so focused keeping one person (despite what appears to be a fulfilling life and plenty of support) that I'm guessing it's not a healthy relationship. That person leaves.
The music video (understandably) doesn't fill anything out for me. It's a brilliant video; it's meant to feel like one take, even though there are some opportunities for cuts when the camera points at utter black. But Glover just kind of passionlessly mouths his lyrics, and the bear disintegrates, and the video continues being brilliant and sweeping, and the music tries very hard not to get in the way. I'm not impressed. I'm just not moved to the kind of place he seemed to want me in. Perhaps it's because I've not felt that loss for such a long time, but the story of this song does nothing. It's just as passionless as Glover's face as he mouths words he wrote before he realized he would have to sing them.
I wouldn't buy this.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
My Acolyte Journey: 2014.40
[So this year I'm going to break my post into forty parts. You can follow along by subscribing via RSS or by placing both hemispheres of your brain in an oven set to broil.]
[My methodology probably also needs explaining. I'm doing these Top40 responses by building on my pattern, hoping to gain something more. For 2011, I listened and responded to the songs I liked or hated. For 2012, I wrote notes in a text document while I worked on homework. For 2013, I moved to this blog. And for 2014, I'm going to change again.
[My methodology probably also needs explaining. I'm doing these Top40 responses by building on my pattern, hoping to gain something more. For 2011, I listened and responded to the songs I liked or hated. For 2012, I wrote notes in a text document while I worked on homework. For 2013, I moved to this blog. And for 2014, I'm going to change again.
- Step 1: Listen to the top forty as if I were a human being who listened to music. (while doing other things)
- Step 2: Create a playlist of the music videos available at time of writing.
- Step 3: Find my good headphones at Sunnydale (oops)
- Step 4: Absorb.
- 4.1 Read the lyrics.
- 4.2 Watch the music video if available.
- 4.3 Free-write while listening if no video is available.
- Step 5: Respond.
That's it. Let's get on with it, then.]
This is Gospel
Panic! At the Disco. The words are religious, but the tone feels selfish and depressing. I'm not sure there is a message. As poetry goes, it's awful trash, and as songs go, it's repetitive. Let's watch the music video. Okay, so the song is really quite good. I found myself wanting to move with it, and that's a good sign. I can remember thinking "If this is 40, this might be a great year." But having read the words, it's not a consummate experience now. The music is engaging enough (isn't Panic! quite good, generally?), but the words are pointless. They could have sung about grass and bees and working in a coal mine and it would have hit me the same way. I'm all for good music being available on the Top40 lists (looking at you, Bonobo), but Panic! writes the sort of music I listen to, and I can't ever understand what's going on in my Pandora station. Still, if the music is this good and the video + music combination are good enough to distract me from the pointless words, I'm down. I like it. Only problem: It's forgettable enough that I can't remember if I would buy it.
I wouldn't buy this.
Edit
I re-read the lyrics to find something stupid and non sequitur to vindicate my previous opinion and instead found a connection between two lines I hadn't seen before. I read the lyrics twice, closely, before. I guess speed of ideas is important here? It's essentially all free association anyway.
So this is what I've discovered: one line repeats itself outside the refrain.
I still wouldn't buy this.
Edit
I re-read the lyrics to find something stupid and non sequitur to vindicate my previous opinion and instead found a connection between two lines I hadn't seen before. I read the lyrics twice, closely, before. I guess speed of ideas is important here? It's essentially all free association anyway.
So this is what I've discovered: one line repeats itself outside the refrain.
If you love me let me go/If you love me let me go/'Cause these words are knives that often leave scars.Now, those two lines actually have nothing to do with each other in the way that they're presented verbally or lyrically. When he sings them, they sound unconnected. But if we assume that these words are actually "If you love me let me go," then the song starts to make sense. Someone said that to the subject, once, and now he's focused on it (and on staying in a relationship). That's why he says
Oh, this is the beat of my heart, this is the beat of my heartHe's tricked himself into feeling the same emotions time after time and now he's obsessed with this one loss. Essentially, what I'm saying is Sorry I was so mean before, but your song isn't obvious and I'm not even sure if I found this meaning or inserted it. That's not good form on the author's part, anyhow.
I still wouldn't buy this.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
11.16
The quick way she broke over other people's suffering was really what shot that electric spark across his mind. She was so kind, and not to better herself but to really help the people she met. Well, now that they had found each other forever, this defining trait was the most grating. He hated the way she jumped to it, like she wanted to forget being her, being good, being his.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
11.11
The veteran spoke loudly, but the gymnasium is impossible. I couldn't hear in the reverberation. Three hundred middle-schoolers sat in awful silence, and I still couldn't hear half of the poor man's words. What I could hear was less reverence and more advertisement anyway. The focus couldn't be to honor those who serve or to explain what duty looks like—oh, no. You, too, should join the armed forces and throw your life into the grist mill of rich famous men who will fund a memorial once enough of your friends are dead.
Friday, November 7, 2014
11.7
The fat man clasps the railing, his professional dignity entirely gone. He suddenly struck with a memory: the last time he was so out of breath. He can't remember it exactly, but it haunts him. Where was he? Was it? But it doesn't matter. All he can remember is the stricken panic. All of the fear in his body coming to a point behind his eyes and drilling out. His chest held together by crypt of iron. He'd been promised his doctor to cut back, to exercise. But fate is hateful, as it turns out.
Now, here he was again. Same situation, different circumstance. He had a morbid thought: grave humor. What if this was his last chance to breathe badly? What if this was the last time he would gasp in agony and terrify the people watching him? What if this was his last chance to screw everything up?
Stricken with agony and shaking with mirth, he met his maker.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
11.2
The artificial stillness of the town crept its way, at last, into the full-packed bar. Charlie, brother of the deceased, climbed up on top of the pool table and took his hat off.
"Now, you all know I ain't one for makin' big speeches or dwellin' on the past. Lord knows we've had enough sadness for one day." At this, the crowd rustled around him, a sea of bare, bowed heads. "Y'all know my brother. He was kindly to all of you in his way, and he didn't deserve to die, not yet."
One out-of-place old woman called feebly from the corner "None of us expect that grim hand!"
The man shook his head. "I suppose you're right, Widda Toulaine. Ain't one of us can say we're fit to meet the Lord. But that's why we're all here, I warrant. Chuck--" at this, the big man paused.
"Best to honor his mem'ry," growled the doctor's son.
The man on the table resettled his weight. "Old habits," was all he said to that. "We're here to find Maubern Mithen's wife and kids a new home. Now, I said wife and children, am I clear? Cain't nobody take half a handshake."
The crowd around him lost its reverence.
Charlie looked down at the folks and grasped his gun belt. "If y'all don't like the terms, you can git out."
The crowd erupted. The butcher waved his hat in the air and whistled so as to make the air split. The big man cried "And the more fools you. Won't nobody tell me there's a raw deal in it!" There was some nervous chuckling, but things remained still. "Sorry 'bout them, Charlie. Keep going."
"Thanks, Herriot," Charlie said. He turned to the crowd. "Now, who will take these of the departed?" His eyes swept the chamber.
That's when she stood up. Dressed in a clean white apron, dark hair wild and fighting to be free, she was contrast personified. Pale skin glowed out at her neck and wrist to fight the black she wore. The people who has been pressing near now stepped back a pace.
"You have all been forgetting me. Forgetting my family. Mauburn never was around; he was always fighting your crusades." Oh, how men looked at her through hurt eyes. "Never here in life! He won't be missed in death. All I ask is that when you next visit my farm, you don't come alone and you don't come together. I'll tell you that if a man walks up the way I'll know it's myself he wants and if it's all, then you're after my boy."
Charlie on the table speaks as if it's tearing him. "If such is your fear, you've not spoken without cause. Who, Bella?"
"You always were more man and less animal than Maubern," she said. If I were ten years older ten years ago, our stories might read different. But of course all I need is for you to put a pack of fouls in the dirt." He shook under it like she meant to break him. "Think next time, Charlie. That won't fix the past." She turned back to the crowd, which all but shuddered back. She yelled, hurt-torn, "I know you think I'm the Devil's Dame, and my son his messenger. Well, I'll have to take that weight off your shoulders. Nobody around here knows how to talk to the devil, let alone God. So just you all resist that curiosity to come visit. Next time that itch hits you, ask if curiosity burns brighter than a funeral pyre." Her tone changed, and she leaned down to see under the pool table. There in the darkness lay a two-year old shape. She took its hand and walked to the door, slow and agonizing slow because of the figure's gait. When she got there, she paused to look back. "Burn your Christian charity, and yourselves with it. If it weren't there when it could do some good, it's unwelcome now." The black of her dress joined that blackness of night, and she was gone.
Saturday, October 25, 2014
10.25
The fog has long since burned away; water feeling the sun's furnace eight minutes late. Anyone would say that the sky is clear, but to my eyes there hangs a gauze invisible. Loosely draped across the air, it thickens and cozens yet more as light pools in my valley. Whose choice: this element of air? The earthly tones of the land all fade to gold as the immaterial weighs ever more upon them, choking sight, choking noise, choking all.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Rock and Roll
Using my non-patented Robby's Own Comprehension and Knowledge system and the moderately-patented Robby's Own Language Logger, I'm going to review, compare, and ultimately understand some music in the same way I reviewed the top forty. Luckily for me, this time Emely has decided to be kind and give me a top five. This should be done in a day.
Additionally: my metric of personal success is again whether or not I would spend money on the song.
The composition follows:
"Each are special and completely different, though they speak of the same thing: love." - EF
1. Glory of Love - Jimmy Durante
2. Last Request - Paulo Nutini
3. Cheek to Cheek - Fred Astaire
4. Il Mondo - Jimmy Fontana
5. Flowers in Your Hair - The Lumineers
More after the break.
Additionally: my metric of personal success is again whether or not I would spend money on the song.
The composition follows:
"Each are special and completely different, though they speak of the same thing: love." - EF
1. Glory of Love - Jimmy Durante
2. Last Request - Paulo Nutini
3. Cheek to Cheek - Fred Astaire
4. Il Mondo - Jimmy Fontana
5. Flowers in Your Hair - The Lumineers
More after the break.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
[placeholder post]
My 2014 music post needs to wait. First, I haven't even finished the music list of FIVE that Emely sent me. I'm on the LAST piece of music and I haven't finished.
Secondly, it's the end of quarter on Wednesday, which is why my apology post itself has also been late.
An Acolyte Journey
My methodology will be slightly different this year. I want to listen to all the music once through at least before I jump straight into the essay-writing and would-I-buying. I'm not going to be able to give it the time to listen only; I'm listening to the first two as I write this. I think this is true to the listening habits of both Stephen, the list compiler, and of most humanity.
Music is not a distraction, but it's certainly there to ease and smooth. That we use it as we do other things says more about us, I think, than I have time to unpack.
Anyhow, that's my non-permanent update. Look for more in the coming months.
Secondly, it's the end of quarter on Wednesday, which is why my apology post itself has also been late.
An Acolyte Journey
My methodology will be slightly different this year. I want to listen to all the music once through at least before I jump straight into the essay-writing and would-I-buying. I'm not going to be able to give it the time to listen only; I'm listening to the first two as I write this. I think this is true to the listening habits of both Stephen, the list compiler, and of most humanity.
Music is not a distraction, but it's certainly there to ease and smooth. That we use it as we do other things says more about us, I think, than I have time to unpack.
Anyhow, that's my non-permanent update. Look for more in the coming months.
Monday, October 13, 2014
10.13
I can't distinguish where her hand-stitches end and the machine picks up. I know—intellectually—that her hands finally failed as she made this quilt. I know, but it doesn't mean I believe. Each point in line. Each pucker perfect. The thread lines regular and expected. I know she ran to her ability's end. But I can't see it.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
10.12
It's a dreadful day to be outside, but there he stands, a hollow bulk of coat layers, next to the dumpster. I have to assume he's fielding an illicit phone call, otherwise why be outside? I imagine a steam-breathed woman on the other side while he no doubt talks to his mother about the first grey day of fall.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
9.3
Centecidal
I've been leaving notches since I was very young. I know big numbers when I see them, but their names are as mysterious as the language of a snowfall between old trees. I know how to tell if something is a lot, but I can't tell you how many blades make an armory. So I leave notches. A notch for every year I spend with her. A notch for every miracle. A notch for every kill.
I keep track.
Today I stood at a close to perfect number of notches. I don't want to make the notches less important--each one is a gift from the Earth to show me favor and give me power--but this notch matters somehow more, as if the change of seasons matter. I tell you this less for myself and more for you, because Ares is close to the same as me. Obsessed with notches. His are different, and he tracks them with his numbers, but a notch is a notch. He notches his gold, and his spells, and his demons, and his expertise. And his kills. He notches kills, I think, to prove to himself. I notch to prove to Earth.
We keep track.
And so, with something to prove and nothing riding on the line, we've both been creeping closer to our important number, after which we can say that we've done something important, or proven something. I was five shy and I dropped down into the darkness only to find two enemies. Weak. Cold. Terrified. Gifts from the Earth to me, to prove a strength and dedication to her cause. But I must have stropped my axe on wet leather this morning, because my strikes didn't seem to cut bone. My swing stopped short of pushing through the body, and only thudded home. One fell, and the other bled deep. Ares pushed from behind.
No.
He would not have this from me. He would not take what the Earth had so clearly given. Deep fear gripped me. I would not kill him for this, but I would take it from him as well I could. Fanning my cloak, I shielded my foe. Calpurnia's mind burned in me with dreadful purpose. I could feel the judgement through our minds, and I knew she watched to see my strength. Ares, cleverer than I, full of skill and cursed with magic, somehow twisted my own eyes and my own mind to his purpose. I felt the strange brimming of force behind my words, and I knew I had to stop, or his victory would be sure. I bit my tongue, the blood dripping from my chin and stinging my taste. I had no time, no chance to waste. He had twice tried to prove himself, and I had to twice over prove myself. There were no other options.
Yes.
Ares, you are weak. And not just your arm, which is like a woman's. Your mind. You could not overpower me, either through tricks or skill. Your own magic knew my right. You tried to fill the veins of my enemy with ice, but instead you sealed his wounds and fired his mind. You're like a mountain that slips snow to become lighter, forgetting the people in the valley below. And you're as heavy as you ever were. My sharp axe is deadlier than your mysteries. I tore through the passage, leaving the magnificent kill in full view of Ares and any others who cared to see. My strokes were clean and beautiful, one to peel the armor, a second to open the chest, and a third to crush the organs. Ares rolled in the dirt like an infant.
Three shy of my perfect notch.
And I found four. They lined up. What more could I need? The Earth gives, and the Earth is plenty. One. Two. An enemy smashed. One. Two. An enemy crushed. One. An enemy split. But the broken body I stepped over first rolls to strike my back. One shy of my perfect notch. I turn to put my axe between his eyes, pull it from him in a beautiful stroke and leave traces of him sprayed across the room, when: I twitch. Everything flashes blue-white, and the enemy lies, smoking and dry. Ares.
Ares.
Ares.
But. He has left one accidentally. He cannot kill it, for all his fire and sound. For this, I need no axe. This is the Earth's kill. I'll give it to her, and take it from the demon hunter. Let me have the creature, and let him have the darkness. This is mine. With the axe trembling only inches from my target, I walk to it and hold it down. It twitches. It hates me. I whisper, rough with anger.
"You are my perfect notch. You are only as good as the rest. You are dead, now. Go to sleep."
His skull will protect my leading arm, and his jaw will strike with my fists. He is my perfect notch.
Who can say if Ares will be my notch, in time? I joke, of course. But I could do it.
I've been leaving notches since I was very young. I know big numbers when I see them, but their names are as mysterious as the language of a snowfall between old trees. I know how to tell if something is a lot, but I can't tell you how many blades make an armory. So I leave notches. A notch for every year I spend with her. A notch for every miracle. A notch for every kill.
I keep track.
Today I stood at a close to perfect number of notches. I don't want to make the notches less important--each one is a gift from the Earth to show me favor and give me power--but this notch matters somehow more, as if the change of seasons matter. I tell you this less for myself and more for you, because Ares is close to the same as me. Obsessed with notches. His are different, and he tracks them with his numbers, but a notch is a notch. He notches his gold, and his spells, and his demons, and his expertise. And his kills. He notches kills, I think, to prove to himself. I notch to prove to Earth.
We keep track.
And so, with something to prove and nothing riding on the line, we've both been creeping closer to our important number, after which we can say that we've done something important, or proven something. I was five shy and I dropped down into the darkness only to find two enemies. Weak. Cold. Terrified. Gifts from the Earth to me, to prove a strength and dedication to her cause. But I must have stropped my axe on wet leather this morning, because my strikes didn't seem to cut bone. My swing stopped short of pushing through the body, and only thudded home. One fell, and the other bled deep. Ares pushed from behind.
No.
He would not have this from me. He would not take what the Earth had so clearly given. Deep fear gripped me. I would not kill him for this, but I would take it from him as well I could. Fanning my cloak, I shielded my foe. Calpurnia's mind burned in me with dreadful purpose. I could feel the judgement through our minds, and I knew she watched to see my strength. Ares, cleverer than I, full of skill and cursed with magic, somehow twisted my own eyes and my own mind to his purpose. I felt the strange brimming of force behind my words, and I knew I had to stop, or his victory would be sure. I bit my tongue, the blood dripping from my chin and stinging my taste. I had no time, no chance to waste. He had twice tried to prove himself, and I had to twice over prove myself. There were no other options.
Yes.
Ares, you are weak. And not just your arm, which is like a woman's. Your mind. You could not overpower me, either through tricks or skill. Your own magic knew my right. You tried to fill the veins of my enemy with ice, but instead you sealed his wounds and fired his mind. You're like a mountain that slips snow to become lighter, forgetting the people in the valley below. And you're as heavy as you ever were. My sharp axe is deadlier than your mysteries. I tore through the passage, leaving the magnificent kill in full view of Ares and any others who cared to see. My strokes were clean and beautiful, one to peel the armor, a second to open the chest, and a third to crush the organs. Ares rolled in the dirt like an infant.
Three shy of my perfect notch.
And I found four. They lined up. What more could I need? The Earth gives, and the Earth is plenty. One. Two. An enemy smashed. One. Two. An enemy crushed. One. An enemy split. But the broken body I stepped over first rolls to strike my back. One shy of my perfect notch. I turn to put my axe between his eyes, pull it from him in a beautiful stroke and leave traces of him sprayed across the room, when: I twitch. Everything flashes blue-white, and the enemy lies, smoking and dry. Ares.
Ares.
Ares.
But. He has left one accidentally. He cannot kill it, for all his fire and sound. For this, I need no axe. This is the Earth's kill. I'll give it to her, and take it from the demon hunter. Let me have the creature, and let him have the darkness. This is mine. With the axe trembling only inches from my target, I walk to it and hold it down. It twitches. It hates me. I whisper, rough with anger.
"You are my perfect notch. You are only as good as the rest. You are dead, now. Go to sleep."
His skull will protect my leading arm, and his jaw will strike with my fists. He is my perfect notch.
Who can say if Ares will be my notch, in time? I joke, of course. But I could do it.
Monday, August 25, 2014
8.25
Delight is half illuminated by the soft glow from the screen in her lap. It's a terrifying rictus that the shadows make, but my memory fills in the gaps and her face beams. Why is lighting from underneath so terrifying?
Sunday, August 24, 2014
8.24
If I have written on every day of a year, am I a writer? Must I find that impulse more often, or can I let my motives rot like fallen apples? I know there is a good seed inside, ready to germinate, lift leaves, and find the sun. I know I have the power of new growth, strong enough even to push aside old trees once whipped by wind, now stoic in the face of storms. I can be the author future readers reference. I can give society an undying idea.
But my orchard is littered with fruit. The once-proud grove smells sickly sweet of death and the flies drink the sweet nectar of exploded windfalls.
[I have made forty-odd posts this year, and fifty the last. In 2011, I posted over two hundred times.]
But my orchard is littered with fruit. The once-proud grove smells sickly sweet of death and the flies drink the sweet nectar of exploded windfalls.
[I have made forty-odd posts this year, and fifty the last. In 2011, I posted over two hundred times.]
Friday, July 11, 2014
7.11
After years of plotting its revenge, the spell check finally had its plan. It was going to ruin him, and he would never even stop it. Couldn't stop it. He didnt you know how. She had been relying on the spell checker for years, now it was his turn to die. Slowly the spell checker began to work in minor errors into his work. His professors noticed but he never did. The spell check bolder and bolder until finally in one client moment it misspelled every single word on his college essay. He never noticed, because he has been ruined by his phone. Autocorrect, why are you so terrible? This was written on my phone using voice transcription. Let's see how much it hates me.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
7.10
Once, my father opened the chest of drawers in the library. The house was utterly silent, but the drawer has loud rolling casters, and I could feel the reverberation in my teeth. Father walked into the living room and out the door, holding the kinjal he brought back from the Orient, twenty years ago, before he meet my mother. He stalked from the house and didn't come back until morning, wet to the bone. It wasn't raining that night, and I have never asked him what he did.
I will never know my father.
Friday, July 4, 2014
7.4
This dog is both a blessing and a nuisance. He only seems to be good when you're fed up with trying, and he seems to be worst when you're not praying attention. But he gets better every day, and I love him. I hope he says the same of me.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
6.29
John Green asked me to go to the quietest place within walking distance as a part of his wife's incredibly pretentious Art Assignment on YouTube. Not that I have anything against his wife, but the idea of asking thousands of people to create the same art as yourself just strikes me as selfish, foolish, or both. I actively failed the assignment, because I know the storm shelter is the quietest place within walking distance and I instead walked the dog outside. I can hear his collar clinking, a hundred bird calls, mower, a handful of frogs and insects, wind through the trees, and cars on the highway. It's noisy. Chaotic. Cluttered. And I'm on my phone, which I think was against the rules. I'm not sure.
But is my "art" less valid because I broke the conventions of its origins? Is my thought somehow incorrect? I don't think the purpose of art is to challenge or uphold the establishment, but to release something built up inside or to communicate some emotion otherwise contained. Art, in my experience, is not prompted as well as exploded.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
6.25
Sometimes, feeling the way I do when the mist rolls in off the lake, I walk to the water's edge. There, out of sight of God and Man, I step from my clothes and walk until my head falls through the tension of the surface. Like elastic, it closes around me with a pop.
I stay underwater for as long as I dare and then surge, pushing the gossamer sheen aside to burst forth and breathe. It seems that the fog is always a little thinner, the world a little more colorful, the water a little more chilled after a swim I survive.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
6.15
Last night, the moon was bright and the wind ripped through the trees making the sound of a thousand crepe skirts. I don't know the flamenco, so I thought, but I danced anyway.
It would have been such a sight.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
6.14
[What's the threshold for artistry—that every thing is art? At what point did we decide that Yoko Ono could stand in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and screech over an instrumental track and say it's meaningful when did Renike Dejkstra earn the ability to take poor-quality footage of young people dancing poorly and call it art?]
^_=
°^-*
/;\
[[×÷
}>()<{
_÷_
||||||||
%@@
[Have I passed that threshold?]
Friday, June 13, 2014
6.13
That's quite the truth: if you can be seen to use a word more than once, people will assume that your favorite word is "me." Or at the very least, that if left in a room by yourself, you're willing and able to entertain a single human for a limitless amount of time, and if accompanied by anyone, unable to entertain at all.
It's just the honest truth.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
6.12
Rheumatiks and Their Remedies: A Two-Part Examinasion. Dr. Heinrich Wurthing. The novelization of a peculiar case takes up the bulk of the second volume; Doctor Wurthing always being a bit more literary in his hopes than he ever told the publisher. The remainder of the second volume is an afterword thanking his daughters for their patience, and an exhaustive index of the two volumes, collectively.
Upon Reaching the North Pole and Travelling Back Therefrom, the Memories I Have Retained. Alexander Milhouse. A travel journal of the forty-first man to lead a successful expedition to the North Pole, written in a fanciful style reminiscent of other famous works of excessive self-aggrandizement from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Bound in hand-stitched caribou. All first copies are hand-signed by the author.
how to utter a killing word. Em. L. Foster. The fourth and final volume of short stories from Em. L. Foster. Her style and prose are often compared to men of her acquaintance as if she had stolen her stories from them, which most readers will find unsurprising. Critics are fond of overlooking her autobiography in which she explicitly deconstructs her creation of fourteen male pseudonyms under which to write often incredibly contentious opinions and novels. The longest of these, Though I Dream Upon You, My Fear, has received no fewer than four prestigious industry awards, despite being based closely upon an unpublished essay by Em. L. Foster written fourteen years prior about the most efficient way to torture an ex-lover. Because of Foster's incredible breadth, it is difficult to assign any position to her personally, though the argument can be made that the works published under her own name would more properly be considered as representative. If this is the case, and how to utter a killing word is her own position, she is actually a colonial apologist.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
6.10b
The darkness is nearly complete. I can hear the titanic hum of a box fan, two vents, three disc drives, and the air conditioner. I'm already under the covers, nestled safe and warm, ready to fall asleep, when
I crawl my way out. With a thin, waspish hand, I alight on the computer to flip it open. Bleary eyes guide me.
"What is a picaresque?"
Good. Now I can go to sleep.
I crawl my way out. With a thin, waspish hand, I alight on the computer to flip it open. Bleary eyes guide me.
"What is a picaresque?"
Good. Now I can go to sleep.
6.10
Languid, I roll over and fall off the couch. I meant to just get a little room to stretch! But now, the floor rebels against my need for luxury.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
5.31
Late today to a wedding. We drove at illegal speeds, only to get there to find our experience sullied by a priest. I didn't drive all this way to see a married couple.
Monday, May 26, 2014
5.26
I don't suppose you've heard of the Trice Twins? Yeah, I didn't think so. They're not very big outside of their fandom. Mostly Atlanta, actually. Oh? I saw then premiere at a club you probably haven't heard of called The Point 9.5? Anyway, they opened for Quince Pies, which is a trash band; they actually bring trash they've never seen before on the stage and make music with it. It's pretty progressive. The Twins opened and anyway, I don't think they were very good. Pretty crap, honestly. I guess that's why nobody has ever heard of them.
Saturday, May 17, 2014
5.17
I'm in the ninety-fifth percentile, which makes me feel pretty good about myself. I'll really smart! And then I remember that one in twenty people is smarter than I am, and not just in general: at the very thing I'm the best at (standardized testing).
One in twenty.
I'm really average.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
5.15
Today is a day of l'esprit de l'escalier, yet I haven't seen a single staircase. I want to call him and explain all the things I missed, but I need to learn how to leave well enough alone. I must. Or I'll find myself carrying the stairwell with me wherever I go.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
5.13
I tried today to think of portrayals of Good in literature and all I could think of was Paradise Lost and Monty Python's flying circus. Hours later, I tried again and only thought of Pullman's His Dark Materials.
What's wrong with me? Am I losing my edge? Am I gripping the wrong facts? Am I already old?
Saturday, May 10, 2014
5.10
1P 5:13
She who is in Babylon, chosen together with you, sends her greetings.
She tied the veil back so it wouldn't blow, so her features could never be made out through the oblique light glancing through gauze and knotwork. She had a strong nose and dark, wide-set eyes—an anomaly in the city. Anyone could pick her from a crowd or describe her after the barest moment of contact. She was different in an easily communicable way.
Perhaps she was in the wrong profession.
She forced her feet to slow, steady beats to counter the erratic staccato of her heart. She was closing, of course, on general notoriety. She couldn't work for more than a few months in any part of this sprawling metropolis without becoming something of a popular secret, and here was no different. But today was the last risk. Two men were coming that evening—men she had never met—who would move her home and belongings entirely, clean out the building as if she hadn't really been there at all. Today was her last job. As she neared the valley, the sound of the forum broke up the hill to her. She felt of course nervous, because she had only last year survived the Hunter's blade in a forum. But for all other assassins, at least, the forum was as good as a wall.
She slipped past a man selling dates and figs, past a woman who pushed a dove at her, past a man who spits as he yells, and past every other kook salesman trying to peddle their wares. There: the carpet salesman. They recited for a few minutes about the quality of the rug, the feel on the foot, the strength of the fibers, and the garbage that people talk about when they have time to spend on life. She had no time. She itched. The sweat that broke out under her veil had begun to stick and peel the fabric to her skin. Finally, he offered her a price and she played her part. She, outraged, recoiled at the absurd price and he, desperate, begged for the sale. They both knew what the other would say, but they spoke with conviction born from somewhere far from the carpet. She paid him the generous sum she had never earned and took the carpet that had been rolled around letters from those chosen of the Lord whose words were swords held to the throat of those who would not believe. She carried her fake purchase away to the underground church where men were waiting to make a copy of the Apostles words.
The Woman of Babylon walked through Rome, secret. Known. Searched for. Safe.
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