So Apalled

The past year or so, at least in the pop world, has been all about feeling good. Whether by fantastical theatrics, brain-dead escapism, manufactured nostalgia, or direct salutes to vapid hedonism, this has been a good time for the “me me me” mentality. Not totally surprising. We are in a recession, plus the internet has encouraged listeners to be less faithful patrons. So they want the quick fix, the easy escape.

But insularity due to internet and otherwise can also be the focus of an artist’s work. Interestingly, two albums of 2010 that took similar approaches and dealt with similar themes—willfully difficult, confessional albums that grapple with one’s success and image—were received by the music press quite differently: one was instantly panned or ignored, while the other was almost unanimously praised without qualification.

When M.I.A. released Kala in 2007, she was a critic’s darling, and not for nothing. The album took risks with its junk-chic appropriation of disparate styles, but its dance-floor accessibility hinted at the possibility that its follow-up album would send M.I.A. into the mainstream spotlight. Then, in 2008, Slumdog Millionaire introduced the mainstream to “Paper Planes,” and so a breakthrough follow-up seemed inevitable to many.

But then, once famous, the artist’s trademark taste for the provocative was shaped by the press as bratty and hypocritical. Lynn Hirschberg’s now infamous hit piece on M.I.A. seemed to seal the artist’s doom, even after it was revealed that Hirschberg herself was being a bit bratty, and was not being completely honest about the details of the article.

Weeks later, M.I.A.’s paranoid and defiant third album, MAYA, was released, and critics were no longer charmed by the Sri Lankan provocateur’s willful ways. Like Hirschberg, they characterized her as petulant and ungrateful. I’ll admit that M.I.A. does sometimes come off as a prima donna, but she’s hardly the only musician guilty of that charge, and yet she seemed to get shit for every little thing she did or said.

Contrast that with Kanye West. This man can do or say almost anything, and though he gets some initial criticism, all of the shit he pulls seems to work in his favor.

I am still almost utterly confused as to why Kanye West is worshipped by the music press, especially since his praise seems to increase with every album. His early stuff had a clunky charm to it, so I can see the appeal, but as his ambitions increase, his limitations as a performer become more and more apparent, so I’m baffled as to why no one seems to care.

On his new album, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, the everyman appeal of his early albums is completely gone, and the egomaniacal superstar is in full effect. This is his own willfully difficult album that seeks to explore the less savory aspects of his psyche, a reaction to his latest peak in popularity and infamy. And, surprise surprise, everyone LOVES this album!

Now, I'm not surprised that Kanye has a bigger fanbase than M.I.A., or that his new album is selling a hell of a lot more than hers. After all, Kanye wants everyone's adulation, and practically expects it with this new album. M.I.A.'s new album was clearly designed as a reaction against her fame, and so it shouldn't surprise that it doesn't have mass appeal. Plus, the opinion of the larger public depends more than anything on promotion and exposure, something Kanye's got in spades, while M.I.A. only got a spotlight from Paper Planes due to its inclusion on the soundtrack to a popular film.

I'm not talking about popularity. What I don't get is the reaction from people who should know better: The music press. I’ve listened to MAYA and Dark Fantasy quite a bit, and I am just totally incredulous as to why M.I.A. got bashed and Kanye got blown, both nearly unanimously, by music critics.

MAYA isn’t as brilliant or exciting as Kala, but it’s great for what it is: a lo-fi mood piece for the underground clubs. Dark Fantasy is far from anything that should be considered for Album of the Year; it’s got some good moments, but largely showcases Kanye’s lack of true pop star chops. A review from AllMusic argued that even the less savory aspects of Dark Fantasy made it fascinating. A comment like that is perfectly valid, since at least it openly acknowledges the album's flaws, and its polarizing appeal. To me, anyone who says it's perfect or majestic or important just sounds like they are ignorant of a lot of other music, both past and present, and simply lack a proper context for this music.

This entry was written to set the record straight.

For those who are interested, here’s a track by track rundown of both albums:

1. Kanye – Dark Fantasy: From the first few seconds (after Nikki Minaj’s poor attempt at a British accent, that is), you already know that Kanye is going for BIG on this album, but the yearning gospel choir wailing throughout makes the track sound more like an embarrassing throwaway demo from the Soft Bulletin sessions than anything actually moving or gripping. Like the album itself, the song wants to be important, but doesn’t try too hard to reach this goal. Cringe-worthy Moment: “Too Many Urkles on Your Team, that’s Why You’re Winslow”

M.I.A. – The Message: Not really a song, but a decent intro track. It doesn’t overstay its welcome, and sets the tone of technoparanoia that permeates the rest of the album.

2. Kanye – Gorgeous: The wank-fest continues, this time with some electric blues guitar noodling through the whole track. Raekwon has a good verse, and Kanye pops out a clever line (“What’s a Black Beatle anyway? A Fuckin Roach!”), but the raps are buried in that repetitive guitar sample, which plods through with no force or rhythmic pull, making this a stagnant second track.

M.I.A. – Steppin’ Up: The first proper song starts things off with the shrieks of power drills, and the beat builds from there. M.I.A.’s vocals are icy and ominous, and the use of autotune accentuates the robotic detachment of her delivery. The lyrics are silly compared to her verses in Kala, but still, this is a totally bad-ass way to get the album started.

3. Kanye- Power: The main sample here is pretty cool, and adds an energy that is absent from the preceding tracks. Things get less impressive when the song veers into arena rock territory, with King Crimson’s “21st Century Schizoid Man” providing a clunky refrain. A decent party track overall, but certainly not brilliant.

M.I.A. – XXXO: As a single, this was underwhelming, but as a smooth chaser to the caustic Steppin Up, it works nicely. The rapid switch from aggressive cacophony to melodic pop accurately sums up the schizophrenic mood of “MAYA,” and also teases listeners who wanted M.I.A. to assimilate into the pop pantheon. Not for nothing is the refrain of the song “You want me to be somebody who I’m really not.”

4. Kanye – All of the Lights (Intro): A fine instrumental prelude to the next song.

M.I.A. – Teqkilla: Here’s a proper club anthem, in the vein of “10” and “Bamboo Banga,” but it revives the abrasive edge of Steppin Up, with M.I.A.’s vocals buried under booming claps and braying analogue synths. Although not immediately obvious, the lyrics here reveal a much more intimate side of the artist; the fierce woman who famously aimed to speak for dispossessed people around the world now trapped in a haze of hedonistic inebriation. Seen in this light, and taken in context with the rest of the album, the overpowering sugar rush of the beats and synths take on an oppressive, claustrophobic quality, adding a layer of irony that is almost certainly intentional, but no less tragic for that.

5. Kanye – All Of the Lights: Finally, something to be excited about! This is a killer tune, and I’ve been playing it a lot. It’s not unqualified genius here—tellingly, Kanye still gives a delivery that is eaten up by his own production, this time resembling a strange fusion of Lil’ Wayne and Eminem—and so the track doesn’t stand up to his earlier successes like “Jesus Walks.” Still, the gestalt really works despite some lackluster components. This is what the rest of the album should sound like: grand, sweeping, larger-than-life stuff that is moving and yet makes bodies move.

M.I.A. – Lovalot: Another dramatic switch in sound from the previous number, yet Lovalot’s quiet ambience is no relaxing escape; it uses space to create tension, sounding akin to the early works of Suicide (an obvious influence on this album). Describing the brutal determination of the wife of a freedom fighter, the song also serves as a statement of purpose for M.I.A. herself. And nowhere is the album’s uncanny mix of confessional tenderness and defensive ferocity more deftly blended than here.

6. Kanye – Monster: This is another attempt at a banger, and it works reasonably well, despite being long and fairly monotonous. Yet again, though, Kanye as an MC is upstaged, this time by guests Jay-Z and Nikki Minaj. He does make an effort to stand out, with exaggerated phrasings of his verse and some ear-grabbingly inscrutable lines (“Ever had sex with a Pharoah? I put the pussy in a sarcophagus!”), but he just doesn’t have a gift for vocal command. I don’t worship Jay-Z, and think Minaj’s verse here to be all affectation/no feeling, but both guests clearly dominate the track. This one’s not bad, but the whole approach, along with some other tracks on the album, sounds like a lesser version of what the Roots did on their last three LPs.

M.I.A.-Story To Be Told: A relatively minor song, which isn’t the strongest on its own, but fits rather well within the album. Its murky mixing and repetitive mantra make for a thoroughly hypnotic mood piece, albeit one that keeps the heads nodding and sounds great at high volumes.

7. Kanye-So Appalled: Taken on its own, So Appalled is enjoyable, especially in that rap tracks rarely bask in noisy melancholy as much as this one does. Listening to the album as a whole, though, this is where the momentum starts to putter out. Plus, the backing track may be unique for mainstream rap (see Dalek for a purer version), but it’s not unique in and of itself; it actually recalls late 90’s electronica (think movies like the Matrix), which is hardly earth-shattering.

M.I.A.—It Takes a Muscle: A cover of the obscure 1981 tune by Dutch synth pop group Spectral Display. M.I.A.’s version has more feel-good vibes than the haunting and glacial original, but there’s a weariness in her delivery that may or may not be related to the topic of the song, but is nonetheless quite affecting.

8. Kanye—Devil In a New Dress: This starts out nicely enough, with a RZA homage of cooing R&B vocals lending a sensuous and mysterious air to the proceedings, but it just doesn’t go anywhere. Kanye has no problem turning various found sounds into interesting hooks; but he really seems to falter when it comes to shaping the hooks into something more substantial. Like so much of the album, this is a decent idea that is stretched into nearly six minutes of nothing, save for his puzzling/charming nasal chant of “Satan, Satan, Satan.” I’m officially bored here.

M.I.A.—It Iz What It Iz: My description of Story to Be Told pretty much fits here as well, except the sound isn’t as murky or spooky, and also not as interesting. Still, it keeps a decent groove, and works fine within the album.

9. Kanye—Runaway: A spare, dramatic solo piano intro erupts into a seemingly earnest “Toast for the Douchebags/A Toasts for the Assholes,” an anthem of blatant, cliché-ridden crudity that would make R. Kelly proud. Then, once the song proper fizzles out, we get four whole minutes of…autotune solo! Pointless note wanking that exists only to establish some rock-centered notion of artistic credibility and ambition, and to take the run time to nine minutes. What a joke of a song. Kudos for lifting my boredom, I guess, but irritation isn’t the cure I was hoping for.

M.I.A.—Born Free: This relies heavily on Suicide’s “Ghostrider,” but it turns that spooky churner into a full-on rocker. This is a perfect example of how purely electronic sample-based music can be as exciting and dangerous as punk was. Gritty, snarling, sardonic, and unapologetically lo-fi, Born Free is one more gleeful middle-finger to the crowd that just wanted another “Paper Planes.”

10. Kanye—Hell Of a Life: The dirty analogue bass riff here is a nice start (furthering the later-period Roots connection) but the Black Sabbath interpolation is both too obvious a sample and too wayward a mutation of it. If you want a huge rock sound, Iron Man is the song to take from, but this doesn’t go for caveman thomping metal riffs; it goes, once again, into noodling territory, so the Sabbath reference just reinforces Kanye’s desire to be a 70’s arena rock dinosaur. Hell of a Life Dream. For a genius, that is.

M.I.A.—Meds & Feds: Taking the snarl of Born Free up a couple of notches, Meds & Feds borrows a fragment of the guitar from Sleigh Bells’ “Treats” for its amped-up mayhem. Where the original song was a blissed-out amplification of Sabbath-grade monster riffs, this a club stomper that’s as psychedelic as it is vicious.

11. Kanye—Blame Game: With Kanye’s touch, even John Legend’s velvety voice can be made hard to listen to. More R.Kelly-esque fusions of earnest R&B sound and cheap smutty “honesty.” Then, instead of another aimless solo, we get three minutes of Chris Rock bantering away at how great Kanye made some girl’s pussy. That probably sounds more interesting than it actually is, though; the real thing is almost impossible to get through without advancing to the next track.

M.I.A.—Tell Me Why: This doesn’t work too well for me. It sounds like it could have been a stomping pop anthem, but was released before it was completed. Most of the songs on MAYA benefit from a murky, moody production style, but this just sounds confused.

12. Kanye-Lost in the World: This owes a lot to the Bon Iver song it samples, but it’s a good track, and thankfully resurrects my interest in the album. This and the proper outro are an effective way to end the album.

M.I.A.—Space: To me, this is an improved version of Tell me Why. They share similar melodies and tempos, but this is much better realized. Sweet, psychedelic, and…spacy. In a way, it also makes Tell Me Why more relevant, since these two similar tracks make for a nice closing medley. Intentional? Probably not, but it solidifies the sonic consistency of the album, and bows out gracefully.

13. Kanye – Who Will Survive in America: A fine outro that makes extensive use of Gil Scott-Heron’s poetry. Perhaps not so wise to showcase someone whose work is so obviously superior to everything on this album that precedes this homage, but hey, it sounds nice.

.....

To reiterate: I'm not faulting Kanye for making this album, or anyone for liking it. I'm also not faulting anyone for disliking any M.I.A. Taste is subjective, and everyone's entitled to an opinion. What is troublesome to me is that people frame Kanye as what I call a musical Shaman: a figure who can do things that normal people cannot do (or at least have never done before). And this just isn't true. Kanye has some gifts as a producer, but his sound is largely derivative of other more innovative producers (most notably RZA), and there are others who make far more impressive music, both performed (the Roots) and sampled (Big Boi/Outkast). It's as if there's a tendency to rely upon the more traditional requirement of worshiping a musical genius (like a Beethoven, a Miles Davis, or a Jimi Hendrix), while having no real criteria for their talent except for the fact that they are popular. Without the magical ether of press hype and internet gossip to frame Kanye as this generation’s troubled genius, he’s only a mediocre producer and performer. It's fine to like music from someone who's just okay, but do we have to act as if they are some sort of God?

And why this difference between MAYA and Dark Fantasy? Maybe it's an issue of contrast from past albums: people were excited by the diplo-matic promise of Kala, and so were disappointed when MAYA was so damn negative. As for Kanye, people were puzzled and divided by his synth pop/autotune/emo experiment "808s & Heartbreak," and so were positively joyous to get a good ol' fashioned hip hop release with Dark Fantasy. But even Kanye's polarizing Metal Machine Music-album got better reviews than MAYA! "808s" has a 75 on Metacritic, while MAYA has a 68.

And sure, MAYA may have been intended to shed fans simply wanting another Paper Planes, but that doesn't justify the critics belittling her efforts as whiny or cheap. Why are Kanye's whining and cheap quips written off as "fascinating?" Is it Sexism? Ethnic or political xenophobia? Simply the fact that some writers have a critical narrative they had already invested in Kanye (particularly his Importance), and perhaps can afford to be more fickle with their treatment of M.I.A.? There may be a bit of all involved. But I'm still largely at a loss to explain these two divergent critical reactions.

All I know is that I gave both albums a chance. With MAYA, my perseverance paid off, and I was pleasantly surprised. With MBDTF, I mostly got bored and frustrated.

Here's hoping next year will see more integrity in our music press.

2010 Shows Me Its Stuff

It was suggested in the comments section of the last post that I make an End of the Year list of songs that represented "Good Music That I Came to Know in 2010" rather than the more puritanically objective "Albums Of Note that Were Released in 2010" kind of list that, especially given the advent of the internet, is becoming increasingly less representative of how we actually soak up music.

I thought it was a good idea, and so this post has a list of songs that represent my experience of 2010. There are a whole bunch of other songs not listed I could have put on, but this isn't meant to be definitive or anything. It just gives a flavor of the stuff, old and new, that caught my ear throughout the year. The fact that I'm not including already-established favorites on here does mean that my seasonal infatuations with afrobeat (spring), 70's dub (summer), melancholy folk (autumn), Penderecki & Diamanda Galas (late fall), and 90's hardcore rap (very recently), among others, are not represented.

But you can still get a pretty good idea of my year from this list, especially from the prominent presence of synths. It was just a synthy kind of year: from my mining of classic early synth pop, to Vince Clarke & Depeche Mode serving as the soundtrack to my adventures in Japan last May, to the dark, crystalline textures that perfectly accent the colder months.

Here's the list, with links for your listening pleasure.

Dalek – Blessed Are They Who Bash Your Children’s Heads Against a Rock (2009)
Mars – Helen Forsdale (1978)
M.I.A. – Steppin Up (2010)
Depeche Mode – Nothing’s Impossible (2005)
Crystal Castles - Year of Silence (2010)
The Knife – Geology (2010)
Spectral Display – It Takes a Muscle (1981)
Avey Tare – Cemeteries (2010)
Yazoo - I Before E Except After C (1982)

Jorge Ben – Errare Humanum Est (1974)
Kraftwerk – Numbers (1981)
Soulja Boy Tellem – Pretty Boy Swag (2010)
Whodini – Friends (1984)
Osvaldo Golijov – Lua Descolorida (2006)
Janelle Monae – Come Alive (2010)
Big Boi – Daddy Fat Sax (2010)
Diamond Rings – Show Me Your Stuff (2010)
Patrick Wolf – Time of My Life (2010)

Anything crucial that I should know about? Show me that stuff!

No Year of Silence

Oh, the written word. So rigid, so unyielding. When committed to writing, ones’ capricious fancies are frozen in time, never to escape or change. When I wrote earlier to complain the death of the indie music boom, I was simply voicing some concerns over the artistic trajectories of musicians whose earlier works mean a lot to me. Thinking about it, I was just ranting. But typing it out seemed to make my thoughts so much more dramatic, my conviction of a downward trend in musical creativity so much deeper. Even by the end of the post, I seemed to backpedal, for fear of appearing too definitive in my assessment.

This caution has turned out to be well-founded, at least for now. Many of the artists who had me worried or disappointed (e.g., M.I.A., Antony, Avey Tare, and even Sufjan Stevens) have provided some pleasant surprises for 2010, and the year has yielded a nice crop of great music as a whole. From exciting newcomers (Janelle Monae, Twin Shadow, etc), to impressive solo debuts (Big Boi, Jonsi), to welcome revivals of classic sounds (Bryan Ferry, Brian Eno), there’s a lot to enjoy from this year.

For almost as long as it’s been out, I ranked the Knife’s “Tomorrow, In a Year” as my favorite album of 2010. And it’s still way up there among my favorites, still haunting and beautiful. But an unlikely contender has since creeped up the ranks, gaining my attention and eventually my heart. I think--at least in this current state, with this current exposure to the albums I’ve heard--I would actually say that the (phenomenal!) second album of Crystal Castles is the best thing to come out this year.

When I first heard this one, my instant reaction was that it was a dilution of what made their debut LP appealing. Admittedly, though, when I first heard that first LP, I found it more grating and gimmicky than appealing, but those punk mutations of video game sounds were too damn charming for me to gripe about for long. I had to admit, as should everyone by now, that songs like "Crimewave" and "Love & Caring" are among the cream of the crop of music from the past few years.

While the debut was punchy and immediate, its sequel introduces a depth to the CC sound that many (including myself, at first) mistook for unnecessary polish. It’s true that the new one’s not as sonically jagged as the first, but polished it surely isn’t, and necessary it is (note: this particular definitive commitment of thoughts to the typed word is likely influenced by the cold, dark winter nights that currently plague me). “II” might lack the novel edge of its predecessor, but it trades that novelty for much better things. First, it’s got variety, which will almost always win me over. The best moments of Castles I are still fucking exciting stuff, but let’s admit it: it’s tough to get through the whole thing without skipping a bunch of lesser tracks. This second one though is very nicely balanced and consistent. And while the band’s brilliance was previously only exemplified by their rave-ups, this has a lot of quieter moments that are just as powerful as the club stompers (e.g., “Violent Dreams”).

In addition to pure listenability, the Castles have added so much to their trademark sound: a dark, murky sensuality; a psychedelic paranoia; an ineffable frailty lurking within their washes of distortion and vocal treatments. To me, it’s almost like a fusion of the Knife’s Silent Shout with the second half of Sung Tongs by Animal Collective, which probably explains why I love it so much. All of these albums are fresh and exciting in sound, and yet all are singularly and profoundly expressive as well (and I must say that they all make me wish they were around when I was still doing drugs—it’d be so great to hear their twisted soundscapes in various altered states, but that’s neither here nor there). I’m hoping that others who were initially underwhelmed by the band’s tweaking of their sound will eventually come to appreciate this as being the better effort. Slow-growers like this demonstrate why professional reviews of music just don’t have a grip on the way music works. And this is especially problematic for tastemakers who are constantly on the hunt for the next new sound, or next big act. It’s very likely that there’s music to be enjoyed every year, it just sometimes takes time to reveal itself.

So, with all that in mind, let me finish by crowning Crystal Castles (II) as “The Greatest Fucking Album of 2010 In Any Genre! No Question About It!”

Next week, a post complaining about how music will likely suck in 2011.

That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore

As mentioned earlier, my music taste in high school was a mixed bag. Some stuff I’ve always loved, some stuff I fell out of and later revisited, and some stuff I’ll probably never touch again. One sub-population of those last bands could perhaps be lumped and labeled as “comedy rock.” I don’t think I’ll ever be able to come to terms with that crap.

But ten or twelve years ago, I was a fan. I loved Adam Sandler’s “They’re All Gonna Laugh At You!,” The Bloodhound Gang, and the President of the United States of America. Eventually, though, it got old. I mean, how many times can you hear a joke before it’s not funny anymore? Not much. Music is at its best when it’s expressive, so if the only point of a song is to get a chuckle, it’s not going to have much staying power once the laughter subsides.

When you compare the extreme highs and lows of the Funny spectrum, like “Amish Paradise” vs. “Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima,” the distinction is obvious: one is dripping with intense feeling, and the other is….a slightly amusing reworking of an older hit song (try to guess which one is which). But there is a good deal of bands situated in the murky middle of that spectrum, and my reactions to them grow more complex.

Take the Darkness. I really, really wanted to dislike them when I first read about them in music mags. Their cheeky embrace of 80’s hair metal stylings just seemed to reek of cynicism. But upon hearing their stuff, I was impressed. It may all have been a joke, but the efforts they made to take that joke to its fullest were apparent. The songs have admittedly limited repeat value, but they’re damn fun pop music. They almost convinced me to check out some authentic 80’s hair metal. Almost…but not quite.

A harder one to judge is Robyn Hitchcock. Musically, he’s a seamless blend of Syd Barrett and John Lennon, but his lyrics are even more odd than those two points of reference. He’s at his best when his words balance his rabid paranoia with surreal whimsy. But his songs are all over the map in terms of Funniness, from dreamily expressive, to almost-joke territory (somewhat close to the Darkness), to unbearably comedic. I can say that I generally like him, but I always have to approach with caution, since any album is likely to have at least two or three joke mines lurking within.

Then there’s Frank Zappa, who I’m pretty sure I hate. Worshiped by almost everyone I know (though I was happy to read that Lester Bangs, Lou Reed, and John Cale all shared my distaste), Zapp crapped on all of his creative ideas with crass, sardonic humor and a flat vocal delivery that lets you know that he could care about these songs if he wanted to, but he just doesn’t have time for such trifles. This approach stands apart from that of his friend and contemporary, Captain Beefheart. Both shared a fondness for novelty songs and toilet humor, but Beefheart was totally committed to his craft. You could tell that he loved the music he made; he lived it and breathed it, jokes and all. Zappa just wanted to demonstrate how above pop music he was. His use of jokes was at the expense of the music he parodied.

In my opinion, the Residents are a more successful incarnation of what Zappa was trying to do. They can be overly jokey, and also overly preachy about the evils of pop music, but they actually make stuff that they like making. If you hate pop songs so much, and you ambitiously call upon muses like Stravinsky and Varese, then why spend your whole career making doo wop songs about poop? The Residents hate pop music, so they make delightfully weird soundscapes that provide an alternative to the music they satirize. Zappa thought that being funny was enough, but without any real ties to the music he made, he’s only slightly more respectable than Weird Al.

Again, for me, it’s a ratio that determines whether I tolerate or loathe these middle points on the humor scale. And this forces the continuum into a binary distribution. Either it’s a good song tarnished by cheap cheek, or shitty comedy rock with little or no redeeming musical qualities. The Tiger Lilies, the Dead Milkmen, and Senor Coconut are on one side; The Decemberists, They Might Be Giants, and Tenacious D are on the other.

Try to guess which one is which.

I'm a Lil' Mad At Cha

I’ve been listening to 2pac recently. His ties to the Death Row crew always made me hesitant to get into his albums, since I can only take so much of their G-Funk sounds and their violence-as-pornography philosophy. But I can’t deny his talent as a performer, especially his commanding delivery. Most MCs use a producer’s beats to accentuate the force or emotional sentiment of their raps, which is usually true for 2pac as well. But his style also has the effect of accentuating the power of his backing tracks, making an otherwise forgettable beat into something intensely rhythmic, almost tribal.

Add to this a reflective, sensitive side to provide some interesting internal conflicts and contradictions, not to mention a high-profile death—which, along with the shooting of rival Notorious B.I.G., ushered the end of a long reign of hardcore gangsta rap—and you have the makings of music legend.

I’m not surprised that he has such passionate fans and followers (though I’m a bigger fan of Biggie’s work), but I can’t help feeling that he also established a trend in rap superstars that’s less admirable: that of the narcissist thug.

He wasn’t the first, of course. Chuck D’s paranoid, insular rants likely set a significant precedent, and Ice Cube’s solo work is perhaps just as conflicted, just as polarizing, and just as self-righteous in its wounded ego stroking as 2pac’s albums. But 2pac was so huge in the mid 90’s, arguably a bigger star than Ice Cube ever was, and his legacy has now exploded into the realm of myth. He is considered a poet, a philosopher, a saint to contemplate and adore. His ego-centric navel gazing just seems much more powerful a symbol than any previous candidate.

I also realize that megalomania and martyr complexes are not unique to rap stars; from Elvis to Axl to Fred Durst, these poisonous traits have long been part of the rock world. A key difference to me, though (and perhaps I’m wrong on this) is that most idiots who rock out to G’n’R or Limp Bizkit don’t obsess over the personas of their favorite frontmen; they just like the catchy, aggressive music. This is quite different for rap stars: it almost seems as if the artists’ overblown regard for themselves is a large part of their appeal. Think about the big rap stars of the past 15 years: Jay-Z, DMX, Eminem, Kanye West, Lil’ Wayne. Each successive star seems as if they’re trying to outdo each other in their narcissism. Each of these artists frames the trials of their life as moments as grand and massive as Moby Dick.

What is the appeal? I realize that braggadocio has been an important component of hip hop culture since its very beginning, but this is an ugly mutation of that tradition. To me, it seems much closer to the cult leaders who command their devoted followers through the sheer force of their charisma and sense of grandiosity. Biggie over-romanticized violence as well, but at least he knew the merits of humor and self-deprecation. He comes off as charmingly human, while these other artists, talented though they may be, can’t help but seem like cartoons by comparison.

I like some of Kanye’s songs (and some of his antics are unintentional comedic gems), but I can’t sit through a whole album of his prima donna bullshit. Simply telling me that you’re God doesn’t make it so (though it seems that a large portion of the world begs to differ). And Eminem may just be the “Bob Dylan of Hip Hop” (whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean), but he’s also a bitter, whiny asshole; an eternal victim who wants to tell you why it’s not his fault he’s an asshole. Some people may like an artist wanking all over them like that, but I like at least a little foreplay before I commit to that kind of relationship.

So while I tip my 40 to the memory of Mr. Shakur and his undeniable talents, I take the rest of that shit to my head, to drown out the cries of the shrill, privileged martyrs he’s unleashed upon the world.

Many Drug Memories Ago...

...I was at an outlaw party in an abandoned warehouse in West Philly, whacked out of my mind on some really strong E and acid (a practice known as "candy flipping"). Everything was so epic to me. I felt as if the world was ending that moment, and it was beautiful. Suddenly, my hazy thoughts are interrupted by a burst of noise from the speakers: it's a thunderous boom of what sounded like horns used in battle. The sound was so powerful and strident, it enveloped everything in its path. Whatever the DJ (Scott Henry) was playing, it was simply magic stuff.

I tried for a few weeks after that to get a hold of that showstopping horn track. I scoured the new releases racks in the dance record shops, and asked around. Finally, it ended up on a Scott Henry mix tape that I bought, and I got to hear that magic track whenever I wanted. Only, the thing is, the track wasn't so magic after all. You may remember this one.

Yeah.

...Maybe a year later, I was in a club, again soaring high on some really good E. I was thoroughly enjoying the set, which was some pretty high energy dream house and trance (I can't recall the DJ though). Suddenly, the beats stopped, and everything was silent, save for some lovely synth washes. Eventually, I could hear an angelic voice emerging from the swathes of silken melody, kissing my ears with words that I could barely make out. Something about "a better one." Was it "Are you the better one?" Or "In a better world?" I had to know what this song was, it was so fucking beautiful to me. So fragile, almost sad. So special and majestic. And the fact that I had no idea what this mystery woman was saying to me was perhaps part of the appeal. I heard the track couple more times in clubs, again on drugs, and always I got this same feeling; that warm, inviting voice slowly emerging from the ether and tugging my heartstrings before the surging beat returned to carry the song to anthemic heights.

I also tried my darndest to find this track, and this one was more elusive than the first. A good deal later, my friend mentioned that she bought some new tracks and asked if I wanted to hear her spin them. We went to her place, and she pulled out her first record. She said she was ultra excited to get this, that this was a track that everyone loved, and that I'd know it right away when I heard it. And, lo and behold, as soon as I heard it, I realized that this was my cherished song! Only, this time, the magic was completely gone, and my angel-soft mystery anthem was replaced with this!

Pretty embarrassing.

So, yeah, I guess the moral of the story is:


Do drugs.


Do a lot of drugs. Because if drugs have the power to turn these pieces of shit into the glorious crescendos of feeling that I've experienced, into profound emotional moments, then there's no telling what other wonders they can do.

The End.

"_______________"

A few years ago, I wrote a post for my brother in law’s music blog about the surge of “post-rock” bands that seemed to be growing at the time. Even a few weeks after writing that, I was unhappy with it. Looking back at it, it seems as if I was a trendy ass overeager to promote and identify with some new, cool musical movement.

The biggest problem is with that label, “post rock.” Like almost all well-known music labels, it generates unnecessary distinction, as well as a false sense of cohesion. Although Battles, A Silver Mt. Zion, Animal Collective, Liars, Xiu Xiu, Growing, and other bands of their time seemed to embrace a break from traditional pop and rock purism in favor of simply mixing together interesting sounds and textures—which does seem to fit the description of being Post-Rock, or at least Post-Rockism—it should be noted that, while some of these bands were friends and collaborators (like Animal Collective and Black Dice, for instance), there was no official Post Rock Movement among these bands, like the 60’s Flower Power movement, or the 80’s hardcore movement. If anything, there were hoards of stoned out scenesters enjoying a slew of pompous, lugubrious chamber-shoegaze bands that were also labeled post rock. These bands all seemed to sound the same (My Bloody Valentine meets the Kronos Quartet), and were anything but fresh, exciting alternatives to the same old clichés. Not to mention the fact that plenty of earlier bands have shared a philosophy and approach that could be considered to be "post-rock": Faust, The Residents, This Heat, John Zorn, and (later period) Talk Talk, to name a few.I would have been wiser to refrain from using the damn label in my post, freeing my excitement for certain new bands from unnecessary baggage.

But it’s not just post rock. It’s the same for “punk rock.” This term can be used to represent a general philosophy, a specific sound, or a member from a scene of a certain time and place. And a lot of confusion can result from this ambiguity. I was always drawn more to “Punk as Philosophy,” and so my collection of punk heroes came to include early outcast pioneers like Captain Beefheart and the Shaggs, but these are obviously not punk rock to most people.

How to distinguish the “punk” from the “new wave?” My, what a task! Was New Wave the original term for what later came to be known as punk rock (like Richard Hell or the Dead Boys), or was New Wave a cynical attempt by record execs to capitalize on the punk movement with a more marketable pop sound (like XTC and Oingo Boingo)? Who is more punk, the Talking Heads or the Exploited?

Were the krautrockers German proto-punks, or were they hippie jam bands, or prog-rockers? What does it even mean to be krautrock? Most people think of the minimalist, hypnotic rhythms of CAN and Neu! when they reference krautrock, but Faust, Amon Duul II, Cluster, and other 70’s German bands sounded nothing like that. Additionally, this prototypical krautrock sound can be found on Yoko Ono albums from the same time as CAN and Neu!. Is Yoko more krautrock than Faust?

Humans use labels. It’s part and parcel of our use of language, and it also helps us to simplify complex situations. But I often feel that, nowadays, our labels are no longer used to help us. These abstractions have taken a life of their own, not unlike Plato’s Forms. We are now bending over backwards to preserve the integrity of these Forms, and our communication suffers in the process. This is seen in other domains (“Is this film really novelle vague?” or “I can’t understand how one species can change into another”) but it’s gotten quite out of hand in the music world.

I don’t really care if something is Post-Punk rather than No Wave, or if something counts as Industrial, I simply want to use words to describe the sound, attitude, and maybe the affiliations of a band I'm talking about. I’ll use any word or combination of words to get my ideas across, as long as they work.

So, I must retract my past endorsement of so-called Post Rock bands. I retain, however, my admiration for Bands-Who-Make-Unique-and-Hard-to-Classify-Music-Usually-Fusing-Unlikely-Sounds-and-Moods-for-the-Sake-of-Self-Expression.

Check out some of these guys if you haven’t: Faust, This Heat, Pere Ubu, Mars, Animal Collective, OOIOO.

Quick Thoughts on 2010

Just thought I'd give a quick run-down of notable albums released this year. There should probably be a lot more here, but hey, I'm only human.

The Knife - Tomorrow in a Year: What could have easily been a cheap gimmick (an electro-opera based on the life and works of Charles Darwin) turns out to be a haunting and beautiful extension of the Knife's sound, a work that feels both profound and personal. There are moments on here (such as the Variation of Birds) that drive me pretty close to tears. Not from sadness, but from a vicious, ecstatic beauty that colors the album's best songs.

Most fans of the synth pop anthems from Deep Cuts and Silent Shout are likely disappointed with this one, as only three tracks have anything resembling a beat, and none of it was made for the dance floor. But those of us who also look to the Knife for their moods and textures will have much to savor here. This isn't an album of warped pitch-shifted vocals, but it does have the same fascinating contradictions of Silent Shout: the raw humanity woven from synthetic programming; the warmth emanating from sounds of dark, icy cold. Quite possibly my favorite release of the year.

Crystal Castles- Crystal Castles: Their second eponymous release finds this synth duo refining their sound a bit. Almost like the Doolittle to the first album's Surfer Rosa. The extremes are more extreme (as on Doe Deer), but the band's more accessible sensibilities are also indulged (see: Suffocation), making for a follow-up that could be considered diluted by some and schizophrenic by others. Me, I think the best moments of the first album (my favorite: Love and Caring) can't be topped, but overall, the second one is more consistently satisfying. More variety, more ambition, more staying power.

Cocorosie - Grey Oceans: The production is full and crisp, the arrangements are more subdued, and yet this is undeniably a Cocorosie album. Animal noises, plucked arpeggios, hip hop beats, and creepy vocals chanting creepy lyrics. I'm not sure why tastemakers like Pitchfork have chosen these gals as targets of unrelenting mockery and condescension; this one, like all of their albums, is fairly easy to listen to. Some are arresting in their beauty (opener Trinity is Crying), and some are simply catchy, like Lemonade. It's not as much a progression from their standard sound as I would have hoped for, but it's still quality stuff.

Janelle Monae - The ArchAndroid: Having written a post about Janelle, I will simply say here that her album's got so much going on, I still haven't totally soaked it all up. Not everything here works (why is Of Montreal anywhere near these songs?), but there are oodles of strong moments to keep me anxious for more.

Jonsi - Go: I was a bit hesitant to pick up this solo release by Sigur Ros' frontman, as I feared a shameless foray into pop narcissism. His solo album's actually not that different from the last few Sigur Ros releases: direct, sunny, jubilant. His unearthly voice sounds just as (if not more) inviting singing joyous major key melodies as the more well known somber side of SR. Lead track Go Do is just a rush of pleasure all the way, as is Boi Lilikoi. What can I say, but "Go Jonsi Go!"

The Roots - How I Got Over: Having recently released two phenomenally direct expressions of anger and frustration (Game Theory and Rising Down), the Roots have decided to take things down a notch for their newest LP. The songs seem permeated by the troubles of recent times, each adding to a general feel of melancholy. Despite the gloom, hope perseveres through the album, and strong melodies throughout make "How I Got Over" a stately, if bittersweet, affair.

M.I.A. - MAYA: Another victim of overcritical press (due, at least to some extent, by this NYT piece, and Maya's overdramatic reaction to it), M.I.A. turned in a solid album that will probably get more praise as time passes. It's not as ambitious, not as diverse, and not as energetic as her past work, but its noisy, insular sound works well as a mood piece, albeit one that sounds great at high volumes. Oh well, Haters gonna hate.

Liars - Sisterworld: Their last album, Liars, was a bit disappointing to me. Sure, it had some great songs (and no bad ones), but it all felt a little too rock for Liars, a band known to be obnoxious, but never bland. Sisterworld seems to me to be the proper sequel to Drums Not Dead; this is an intense tribal experience that borrows from rock's sonic palette without conforming to its ideology. Check out: Proud Evolution, Drop Dead.

Joanna Newsom - Have One on Me: It's nice to hear our elven mistress of the harp allowing her sound to mature. I found her first album to be fine, but ultimately too cloyingly whimsical to truly enjoy. Her follow-up, Ys, is challenging and well worth repeated listens, but it too can be a bit stuffy sometimes. This new double-album reins in much of Newsom's more grating tendencies, and boasts a largely subdued, relaxed sound. Admittedly, I haven't fully absorbed this massive, sprawling opus, but Easy, Kingfisher, and No Provenance are my current favorites.

Xiu Xiu - Dear God, I Hate Myself: With each successive release, Xiu Xiu has grown a bit more user friendly in their approach. This is only relative to their past work, of course, and so their lead single (and extremely hard to watch video) is unlikely to top the charts. Jamie Stewart will always be a polarizing force in music. His vocals are like an unnerving fusion of Ian Curtis' ghost and an insufferable Valley queen (this being a compliment, to me at least). His band always loves to mix seemingly unmixable sounds and moods---synth pop & folk, melody & shrieking noise, terror & hilarity---and, despite some additional clarity, this one fits pretty well in their canon. Meaning, you'll either love it and hate it, or you'll fucking despise it and burn it from your memory.

Big Boi - Sir Lucious Leftfoot, Son of Chico Dusty: I just got this one last week, but I'm already in love. Big Boi gets a lot of flack, even from Outkast fans, who feel that Andre 3000 is the true source of the group's talent and charm. This release puts all that shit to rest. Dre isn't anywhere on "Leftfoot", and it's one of the best Outkast-related albums I've heard. From the intro to the end, it's just really tight, funky, fun pop music. While not as conceptually ambitious as his protege Janelle, Big Boi offers some powerful competition in his ability to bum rush you with weird and wonderful sounds that move you physically, if not emotionally.

The Arcade Fire - The Suburbs: The album can largely be summed up in six words: At Least It's Not Neon Bible. Arcade Fire's Funeral wasn't perfect, but at least 2/3s of it was a burst of raw, urgent feeling that was also damn good art rock. With Neon Bible, their sense of drama turned into melodrama, and their passion fizzled into world-weary introspection. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised to hear the levity in songs like Month of May and the Suburbs when they leaked. The rest of the album is about as good as these songs, it's pretty consistently listenable, although I can't decide if the lyrics to Rococo are ingeniously dippy or a complete embarrassment. The problem is, they never got that sense of urgency back. So while it's nice that they're no longer mopey arena rock, they do sound a bit like...conventional arena rock. I dig Springsteen and all, but even he had more intensity than this! Baby steps, I guess...


Sufjan Stevens - The Age of Adz (not yet released): I haven't heard the EP that he put out recently (what do I look like, a fan?), but this new cut from his upcoming LP shows some promise. It's nice that he's finally given up that damn Church Band Plays Vince Guaraldi style that makes his music almost sickeningly twee. He's gone back to electronic music, and some of the beats are pretty interesting. His voice remains the same, though, and in this context, he sounds like a more respectable version of Death Cab for Cutie. So that means that I'll probably like this stuff more than his cutesy folk and Death Cab, but I won't, you know, actually like it.

Panda Bear: Tomboy (not yet released): Panda Bear's first solo LP was a tender and life-affirming (not to mention underrated) modification of the Animal Collective sound. His follow-up was a pleasantly hazy, if homogeneous (not to mention overrated) affair. From the sound of his new single and its superior B-Side, his upcoming album is going to sound more like the latter than the former. A touch darker, perhaps, but the hypnotic swirl of Person Pitch is definitely still there. I guess at best, it'll be a modest improvement over his last effort, but at this point, I'm a little more curious as to how Avey Tare's solo release is going to sound.

Antony & the Johnsons - The Swanlights (not yet released): God Dammit, Antony! What the hell happened to you?? I know I only have this one song to go on, but it leaves much to be desired. First off, it's derivative. The off-kilter drums sound like those on Kiss My Name, and the chords sound like (the much, much better) Fistful of Love. It's nice that you're exploring moods outside of your typical negative ones, but what happened to your artistry? Your sense of danger? Please don't let me down on this one! You could be the new Scott Walker, but it's like you want to be the next Melissa Etheridge....

That's it for now. My opinions on these albums could change as I spend more time with them, and perhaps later they will require more extensive exegesis. If anyone has a recommendation (or warning) for me regarding new music, let me know!

E is for Energy

Okay, it’s not that surprising that I got into the music of the rave scene. There was, after all, the drugs, which I readily sought out and enjoyed. There was also the appeal of partaking in (admittedly, the dying gasps of) a cultural movement that, unlike punk or goth, was still around for the partaking. And, though I’d been loathe to admit it for most of my life, I’ve always had an affinity for dance music.

Strangely enough, my now open affection for dance and club numbers (even the trashy throwaway crap) is part of the reason why I’m reluctant to embrace my history as part of the rave scene. Trance, house, techno and such are all touted as gold standards of dance music. Their presence is now ubiquitous: you’ll hear this stuff in cartoons, in cosmetics stores, in restaurants, and countless club mixes of famous songs. But while the general phrase “dance music” will likely conjure the 4/4 stomp of TR-909 drum kits in most people’s heads, the truth is that I don’t find that style to be good dance music at all.

Dance music should, of course, make you want to dance. It should also sustain and replenish this urge, so that the dancing is relatively continuous. Trance and techno rarely made me want to dance, unless I was on some speedy E and would dance to pretty much anything. At best, the thunderous thumps of these tracks make me want to bob my head. But that’s it. My body is not called to action. Instead, I end up in a trancelike state, due to the relentless repetition of the sounds. Which was totally fine for me in my partying days, since “partying” often meant sitting slumped against a wall in a club or factory, deep in a K-hole. Breakbeats are a little better for body movement than the simple streamlined throb of standard rave fare, so they kind of make me want to dance. But they’re repetitive too, and my urge washes away after only a few minutes.

No, there’s so much more music out there that actually makes me want to get up and get down. I think the playlists from Studio 54 in the early 80’s (including Liquid Liquid and Yoko Ono, among many others), and the Madchester music of the Hacienda in the late 80’s had stuff that moved bodies, and offered much more variety than the endless boom shi boom shi boom shi of typical rave music. New Order made joyous dance anthems, and they featured a wide range of textures, tempos, rhythms, and beats. Even the Eurodance stuff (think Haddaway’s What Is Love), which all sounds pretty similar, makes for a better dance experience, due to the punctuation provided by distinct songs, rather than unleashing a seamless melding of indistinguishable tracks.

That variety is crucial for an optimum dancing experience. Variation within a song, and variation from song to song. It provides points of contrast that turn one’s time on a dancefloor into a dynamic journey, rather than movement in a vacuum. I don’t even think this is just my own personal preferences. If you’ve ever been to a rave, I’m sure you noticed that most of the kids who weren’t doped into oblivion were dancing in curious ways. Almost no hip or pelvis movement was present, it was almost always a stiff, treadmill-type hop that kids did to the propulsive stomps of techno and trance. Given the nature (and speed) of the beats, it seems like an appropriate way to move to the music. But unless you’re meth’d out of your mind, that shit is boring as hell. No fun at all.

Even if you go to a trashy Jersey Shore type club, you’ll see more variety of movement there. And it’s no surprise that, in addition to trance and house beats, the DJs often mix in high-energy rap and R&B cuts as well, not to mention the occasional 80’s club track. Yes, the dancing is raunchier and far less “cool,” but there’s a lot more hearty fun being had at these places, trashy though they may be. I’m convinced that the endless barrage of simple repetitive beats mixed by DJs at raves encouraged the use of harder drugs, since it induced a trancelike state in party goers that is quite far from dancing.

Maybe if they had thrown in a little ABBA or Gang of Four once in a while to provide some contrast, people would have concentrated on the dance floor, the drugs would have remained casual and fun, and the scene wouldn’t have turned so dark. Who knows?

All I know is that if they would have played shit like this more often, maybe I would have stuck around.

Or this. Or this. Or this. Or this. Or this. Or this.

See No Evil, Listen to No Evil

The last post about Jane’s Addiction makes me think about my revisionist musical history in general. There are a good amount of bands or albums that I once loved, subsequently abandoned in shame, only to later to buck up and get back into those songs later down the road.

Of course, everyone wants to have a story like “I was in 5th grade when I hitched a ride to Manhattan and saw the Voidoids and Television at CBGB; I was changed forever!” to make themselves seem cool. And some people do have those kinds of stories. But most of us live boring lives, especially when we’re 12 or 13, and our introduction to cooler music isn’t nearly as pristine or heroic as we’d like it to be.

So I mentioned before that I first started to get into some respectable bands when I was 13. Before that, I had two musical “revelations.” In 5th grade, I decided that I was no longer interested in the tastes of my older sisters (rap and metal, respectively), and that I should seek a sound of my own. I was watching TV and came across one of those “Sounds of the 80’s” commercials (where all the song titles scroll up against a romantic fireplace), and decided that 80’s music would be my thing. But then later my sister suggested I check out a new radio station that played “weird” music. This was Y100, a new station that specialized in alternative rock. Comparatively, this was cooler stuff, but I was still very young, and couldn’t differentiate Nirvana from Collective Soul at this point. Then, in middle school was when my bro and I befriended some hip outsider kids, and we started to soak up music that wasn’t in heavy rotation. Here the seeds of my awakening were sown.

But it wasn’t that easy. It’s true that, in my freshman year of high school, my favorite band was Jane’s Addiction, and around this time I was first getting into punk bands like the Cramps and the Germs, as well as Sonic Youth and Siouxsie & the Banshees. But I was still listening to the radio. I still loved Metallica, especially the Black album. My two favorite new bands were Everclear and The Presidents of the United States of America. Even my transition to punk had a lot of skater pop-punk peppered in there. My first two shows I ever went to (other than Christian music) were the Queers and the Pansy Division, both on the pop-punk haven Lookout! Records. I really loved NOFX, as well as the Dead Milkmen. Plus, my hormones made me particularly susceptible to the angst of Nine Inch Nails, and Marilyn Manson was another charismatic figure who sucked me into his cult of personality, at least for his first album. I remember making one of my first mix tapes for myself, and it was a mess of styles! Jane’s Addiction, the Bloodhound Gang, Jim Carroll Band, the Roots, the Queers, My Life With the Thrill Kill Kult, the Sex Pistols, David Bowie (Hunky Dory), Type O Negative, the Cramps, The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Violent Femmes, Bone Thugz n Harmony, and more. Yikes!

By Sophomore year, my tastes were further refined. My punk was getting purer, with the old ska-core and pop-punk bands ignored in favor of 2-tone ska, classic punk like X-Ray Spex, hardcore and riot grrl. I realized that Marilyn Manson was supremely uncool once he was all over the radio, and vehemently spoke out against him (though I secretly harbored a respect for him until at least one more year). As a replacement, I was being turned on to the more respectable goth and industrial bands like the Cure and Skinny Puppy. Nirvana and Metallica were definitely off limits, also supremely uncool. I eventually renounced hip hop a second time (the first being when I decided to get into 80’s pop), further chiseling down my preferences to suit some mad concept of sonic purity.

By 11th grade, it could probably be said that I was “cool.” I was hanging out with the slacker kids, doing drugs, and philosophizing on the merits or faults of various underground bands and styles. I guess I was happy, but looking back, that old self sure seems insecure and stuck up. It was all quite a rapid change of lifestyle though; from 1994-1997, I had gone through a dramatic transformation of environment, physique, hormones, cognition, culture, religion, morality, and identity. Perhaps this quest for musical purity was in some way a move toward a stability of sorts, a way to synthesize everything that I had absorbed into something coherent. But it was also because I wanted to seem cool.

Eventually, the importance of adhering to the underground began to wear off. Even as early as 12th grade, I began to take an interest in classic rock bands I had very recently dismissed as soulless dinosaur music. But still my progress was slow. A few years later, I realized that the Weezer album I had at age 13 was actually really damn good. I eventually made amends with Jane’s Addiction, and with hip hop music in general.

Not too long ago, I came across an old Dead Milkmen album I used to have, and I think it’s fucking brilliant. They may not have been authentic punks in their day, but they had a self-deprecating sense of humor that makes them a hell of a lot more appealing than the snide punk derision of Angry Samoans. I’ll listen to the Bosstones once in a while, though mostly for nostalgia. I can listen to early Metallica now without a flinch of embarrassment, and I’m actually really into Nirvana. I’ve grown to like some Nine Inch Nails (Downwward Spiral), but generally still find it and Marilyn Manson a bit hard to bear after puberty. Some other stuff I’ve revisited, and wish to hide away forever: Type O Negative and The Fucking Presidents! So embarrassingly bad...

The 90’s in general are a period that I’ve been revisiting for some time now. Part of the fun/challenge is immersing myself in sounds that I’ve been trained to be ashamed of, and seeing how those feelings hold up. I’m in the process of reevaluating early 90’s R&B, like Boyz II Men and En Vogue, and there’s some damn fine pop music here that is often reflexively scoffed at by folks trying to protect their credibility.

Which, of course, I understand. I may be getting better at not caring about seeming cool, but I’m not completely there. Which is why I’m not going to discuss my short-lived infatuation with trance and techno music… That shit Never happened, ya hear me??

Wrestling With Addiction

I’ve lately been revisiting the albums of Jane’s Addiction, a band with whom I’ve had a tumultuous, tempestuous relationship.

They have the honor of being one of the first bands to get me into music outside of a radio DJ’s playlist. It was 1994: My brother and I were recent transfers from a culturally cloistered private Christian school, now attending a public school filled with kids who were shipped in from the tougher parts of town. Needless to say, we didn’t fit in. Our perfect bubble of social harmony had since burst, and people everywhere were looking at these two shy, preppy kids like the new meat in prison. It was our first taste of being outsiders, so it was appropriate that the three or so kids we eventually came to befriend happened to be into music and movies that actually celebrated outsider culture.

I knew that my one friend really liked Jane’s Addiction, but I myself had never heard them. One day, I noticed that my older sister had a copy of Ritual de lo Habitual, and so I got her to play some tracks for me. Coming from someone who, not long before, considered the 10,000 Maniacs’ cover of Because the Night to be “weird,” heavy qualification is necessary, but I was totally blown away when I heard “Been Caught Stealing.” It was just so…different…from everything I’d heard before. A bit later, I got my own copies of the albums, and a love affair had begun.

Jane’s was the first band that I really obsessed over. I was slowly getting into more authentically underground bands at this time, such as the Cramps and Siouxsie & the Banshees, but Jane’s Addiction had most of my attention for at least a year. In truth, I had fallen victim to the cult of personality of Perry Farrell, whom I regarded as equal parts audacious and profound. His lyrics opened me up to ideas of hedonism and bohemian decadence, and his quasi-philosophical navel-gazing was revelatory for an adolescent whose analytical faculties were just reaching their peak. The remaining chips of my childhood shell—unquestioning conformity, a morality shaped by belief in a Christian God—were beginning to fall away, and Jane’s Addiction had a significant part in this process.

But as I immersed myself deeper and deeper into the sights, sounds, and philosophy of outsider culture, I began to regard my once beloved band as not being radical enough. Their albums sounded too flashy and overproduced to someone now absorbing the Germs and John Waters. And Perry’s pontifications had helped to stir my own ruminations about the world, but at some point his lyrics began to seem vapid and narcissistic rather than profound. I eventually abandoned JA in favor of bands that were rawer, more direct, more extreme, and more underground than this prog-rock revival act from the LA Strip.

Time thankfully has softened my scenester elitism, though it wouldn’t be at least until 2000 or so that I would give my old favorite band another listen. And even then, I would only listen to their first LP, a live album, free from (most of) the production trickery that, in my eyes, marred their reputation as an underground band. Then I brought back Ritual, since it is relatively cleanly produced compared to Nothing’s Shocking--and then finally I just gave in and went back to all of their stuff.

I had been blinded by my expectations of the group for so long, but at long last, I saw them for what they were, and embraced them. Yes, Perry is indeed a hopeless narcissist, a spoiled trust fund wannabe posing as a bohemian street rat. Yes, Jane’s arrangements and solos can be ostentatious, and yes, their production really takes away the effect of a band playing live. But that’s okay.

All those years, I had been shocked and ashamed to realize that, despite their reputation as a punk fusion act, or an alternative legend, Jane’s Addiction had so many trappings of a metal band. Not punk at all!

But who the hell cares? They do have the grandiosity (and the egos) of progressive rock and metal musicians, but thankfully they temper that with beautiful, hypnotic melodies. And the production sure doesn’t fit a neo-punk band, but I’ve since stopped caring about what is punk or not, and instead appreciate the hazy, syrupy quality that the studio effects bring to their sound, adding to their feel of sensual mysticism. I still can’t really take most of Perry’s lyrics seriously anymore, but he does have some gems, usually when he sticks to being vague and poetic, as on Ocean Size and Three Days. The lyrics on No One’s Leaving still make me cringe, but, hell, I can still enjoy the music.

I never gave their reunion album “Strays” much of a chance, but given this quote from Porno for Pyros bassist Martyn LeNoble about the album’s producer:

‘Bob Ezrin didn't really understand Jane's Addiction musically. I remember arguing with him, "Like man, have you listened to Ritual?" He goes, "Frankly, I can't get through it. I think it sounds horrible. I'm going to make this a real rock band instead of an art rock band." Well, he succeeded. He took all the magic out of it. He made a rock record.’

I think my evaluation of the songs as neutered, contemporary rock dilutions of the Jane’s sound is probably accurate. I hear that the band has reunited once again, this time with original bassist Eric Avery, and that they’re working on a new album. Here’s hoping they make something worthy of their legacy. Over the years, I have come to appreciate just what they brought to the music world, and it would be great if they could bring it back just one more time.

Mental Damns and Other Instruments of Moral Stimulation

So, Mel Gibson has recently done something outrageous. Again. And this time, it seems as his fans have finally given up on him. It took quite a lot of his shit to get people to actually acknowledge how crazy he is, but now the damage is done.

This drama has got me thinking again of a general question, that more often than not takes place in the Music World: What are the acceptable relationships between Artist and Fan? Or more specifically, What will it take to make a Fan stop loving an Artist’s work, or refrain from investing in the first place? The answer will obviously differ from person to person, but I’m not sure I would know how to answer for myself.

Michael Jackson, John Phillips (of the Mamas & the Papas), James Brown, Phil Spector. All of these artists have legions of devoted fans, as well as armies of scornful critics and protesters. Some people refuse to indulge in the pleasures of paltry pop songs that support, or are even associated with, a creep or a criminal. Others, such as myself, don’t mind separating the art from the artist—at least to some extent.

Is Michael Jackson creepy? I think most people agree that he was far from normal. His infamous fascination with children and youth in general definitely set off alarm bells, my own included. Even if one concedes (as I do) that he was twice found not guilty of sexual acts with children, due to a lack of convincing evidence, it’s nonetheless clear that any adult even innocently having sleepovers with young kids has got some problems.

Still, I don’t think the bizarre details of his later life in any way tarnishes his earlier contributions to the entertainment world. His songs recorded with the Jackson 5 just burst with jubilant energy; Off the Wall is a pitch-perfect pop album; and Thriller, with its exciting fusion of disparate styles, and its immaculate fashioning of pop iconography, rightly turned him into a superstar. I don’t think there’s an ounce of lyrical or emotional depth to his craft, but he made simple into something sublime. If anything, his later story is a cautionary tale against the lure of celebrity, which often destroys the lives of talented people who are hungry for any kind of acceptance they can get.

Of course, if Michael had released singles like “Don’t Stop til You Get Enough Preschoolers,” or “Dirty Diana (A Diaper Story),” a line would have been crossed. I can appreciate the art of someone whose personal life I disagree with, but only if there’s something in the art that I can relate to (and condone), which requires a song not triggering my moral disgust.

I must admit, though, that I sometimes even let this criterion slide. Perhaps because there’s some historical relevance to it, but also because it’s an admirable challenge to humanize someone you’d love to hate, I decided to buy some films by legendary filmmaker D.W. Griffith, whose “Birth of a Nation” boasts some openly racist depictions of blacks, and even incited racially motivated attacks when the film was released. The imagery is troubling, as is Griffith’s worldview, but the film is also expressive in style, and quite revolutionary in its technique. Similarly, I am constantly irritated and turned off by the casual misogyny and homophobia of gangsta rap, yet the honest rage and anxiety that fuel the best works of Public Enemy and Ice Cube are enough to keep me coming back, if grudgingly.

I guess if the main topic of a song (or any piece of art) is something I’m against, I’m likely to avoid it. This is why I don’t play “Homosexual” by the Angry Samoans, “Blow Bubbles” by Bad Brains (even though the members later apologized for the homophobia of their youth), “Treat Her Like a Prostitute” by Slick Rick, or “Support Our Troops, Oh!” by Xiu Xiu, even though I like other songs by those groups. Or maybe it’s like there’s a tug-of-war battle between my emotions for approach and withdrawal: sometimes, despite some feelings of distaste, I am still drawn in; other times, despite a fondness for some musical or expressive element, my dignity gets the better of me, and I am compelled to get the song far, far away from me, and then I go take a shower. Still others I easily label as unlistenable or abhorrent, due to repulsive moral content and a complete lack of saving graces. Examples, thy names are Eminem and Guns ‘n’ Roses.

I like to be consistent with my evaluations, and yet it’s hard to be consistent (or rational) when emotions run high. Not surprisingly, many people who indignantly condemn a particular musician or artist for moral failings are often forgiving of others who have done terrible things. Many people who can’t even think of listening to Michael Jackson songs anymore have no problem jamming out to “I Feel Good” (performed by a wife beater) or “Be My Baby” (produced by a wife murderer). I won’t even begin to try to understand the logic of it. Such stances definitely seem hypocritical to me, or at least unintentionally contradictory. Still, as much as I may strive for consistency and coherence in my own opinions and evaluations, ultimately I can only act upon what I “feel” is right. And if I righteously condemn these folks for being slaves to their feelings, then I’d be a hypocrite too.

Well, dammit, I do condemn them, hypocrisy be damned. I can’t help it! They’re just so unreasonable! My emotions won’t just let it slide. So I willfully fall into my own trap of hypocrisy and incoherence, all in the name of consistency and a regard for reason.

...

… Perhaps I should cut off this line of thought, lest I go the route of a certain unsavory Australian actor, and sever my ties with my friends and professional connections. I should stop all of this emoting and evaluating. I feel it in my guts…

As if Born to Them

*Some thoughts have a certain sound, thought being equivalent to a form. Through sound and motion, you will be able to paralyze nerves, shatter bones, set fires, suffocate an enemy or burst his organs.*

So I was writing earlier about how artists from the mid-80’s on who identify with hip hop and R&B scenes value street toughness over tender emotions, and how this limits the expressive range of the music.

Well, that still holds for most everyone, but a notable exception has emerged. Urban pop music has found a potential savior: her name is Janelle Monae.

She may never get the acclaim she deserves. It just might not be the right time for her grandiose, left-of-center approach to pop. Her new album, Archandroid, is getting glowing reviews from critics, and faring pretty well in sales, but so far she’s not grabbing the public’s attention like, say, Lady Gaga. And she really deserves that spotlight, because unlike Gaga (and most pop of the past 20 years), she’s the complete package.

She can sing, she can move, she can write, she can play, she’s got command of her image, she’s got videos to excite and challenge, and she’s got loads of ambition to make Music that Matters (think Stevie Wonder rather than Bono and Scott Stapp). She’s definitely sexy too, but that’s incidental; what really attracts is the magnetic force of her multimedia visions for pop entertainment.

Most importantly, she anchors her dizzying, genre-hopping Concept album with earnest emotions, grounded in her concerns for a real world. There’s irony and detachment to her schtick, but unlike so many other icons today, including her friend Big Boi from Outkast, the saccharine rush of her pop mannerisms masks the joys and frustrations of an average human being. It’s catchy and glamorous, yes, but intelligent and expressive, and not afraid to seem a little different.

I’m hoping she becomes the sensation she deserves to be. She’s got the magic of Thriller-era Michael Jackson, but she’s also got substance to her material. She knows that Walt Disney and Broadway can’t magically wash away the world’s problems, and so she uses her songs and her showmanship to provoke her audience into thinking about the world around them.

At worst, she’ll succumb to the pressures of our cynical media culture and cash in on easy exploitations of her artistic vision. At best, she’ll transform the pop universe, paving the way for creative and expressive entertainers, and encouraging urban black musicians to unabashedly reclaim the full range of the emotional spectrum in their deliveries beyond anger and cool bemusement. Most likely though, she’ll be a cult sensation, but that’s not so bad.

At least we have an exciting new artistic personality with a whole career to look forward to, even if she’s not the Kwisatz Haderach of urban pop music. She may have some eventual missteps (it's almost inevitable), but it will be a pleasure to follow Janelle Monae as she dons her various cloaks of style and concept.

The Sleeper Has Awakened!

New Pleasures

One thing I can’t stand—and it’s something that I used to do, so I can’t be too judgmental—is when someone sweepingly dismisses a band as simply being a rip-off of some other band.

I once played a few tracks from My Bloody Valentine’s “Loveless” for a co-worker, and he actually claimed that they were just clones of The Velvet Underground.

...Huh??!!!

This idea of originality is an interesting criterion of musical preference; People can get downright righteous about it, and yet no one’s all that steadfast in applying it to their own tastes. Think about it, if you have ever written off a band that you claim defiles some ideal of artistic innovation (and who hasn’t?), and you have one album in your collection that’s derivative of another sound, guess what? You’re a hypocrite.

If I’m gonna rag on the Yeah Yeah Yeahs for copping the Kill Rock Stars sound, it should be assumed that I also hate Clinic, who openly borrow from Suicide and the Silver Apples. And Modest Mouse for mashing Pavement and the Pixies. And Stereolab for sounding like Sergio Mendes and Neu!.

Ad infinitum.

I know, I know, everyone takes from some other artist. Music doesn’t exist in a vacuum, and everyone acknowledges that every artist has inspirations. And notions of innovation and imitation sometimes do seem really clearly distinct, at least for certain exemplar bands. For instance, take Led Zeppelin and the Raveonettes. Led Zeppelin outright stole old blues songs, yes, but they altered them almost beyond recognition, and made a signature sound that was both complex and visceral. So even if they were dicks for slighting the original artists in their songwriting credits, they still can be seen as innovators. In contrast, the Raveonettes just sound like the Jesus & Mary Chain. Melodies, beats, riffs, distortion effects, vocal style, even lyrical content. Pretty much a carbon copy, with no discernible idiosyncrasies. It’s easy to see that they’re imitators.

But it’s not always so clear a distinction. When is it an homage, and when is it just a lazy copy? The Cramps are considered the pioneers of “psychobilly,” which is just rockabilly with a ghoulish image and a slightly more aggressive sound. But the rhythms, the chords, and the vocal affectations are all knowingly taken from pre-established sounds. The Gun Club is another highly respected psychobilly band, but they just repeat the Cramps’ stylistic homages, with a little more speed. The White Stripes are a band clearly influenced by these groups, and interestingly they’ve gotten flack as being imitators. But what’s the real difference from the Gun Club and the White Stripes, aside from about twenty years? Not much, in that both wear their influences on their sleeves, and are content to belt out a fast and dirty hybrid of their favorite rock sounds. There is a bit of the arbitrary, here, yes?

People who are fans of a certain genre or genres (i.e., most music fans) have many artists who aren’t that different from each other stylistically, especially to an outsider’s ear. Are the Dead Boys that different from Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers? Is State of Alert radically different from Minor Threat? Dissection from Darkthrone? Frontline Assembly from Skinny Puppy? King Tubby from the Upsetters? Alan Jackson from Kenny Chesney?

No, but the fans can’t get enough bands within these narrow stylistic ranges. They appreciate the subtle differences between the bands, and balk at people who say it all sounds the same. Excuse me? The Birthday Party and the Pop Group are the same? Preposterous! The Pop Group obviously have a funkier, spacier sound, while the Birthday Party etc etc etc. This is something that almost everyone does. When you are really receptive to a sound, you care enough to specialize in all of its details. Which is another way to say that you listen to a bunch of bands that sound really similar, and you don’t mind it.

I think when most people do the tossed off “They Just Sound Like X” dismissal, they are simply not receptive to new sounds at the moment. Sometimes you’re in the mood to absorb new bands, and sometimes you’re not.

Not to rag on my brother in law, but he does this all the time to me. He told me once that Nirvana's "In Utero" album was ripping off Sonic Youth, and that the Feelies just sound like the Velvet Underground.

First off, come on: would you ever confuse these bands? To me, the most valid evidence for brazen imitation is if I can actually mistake a song or general sound as belonging to an older group. If so, I can confidently dismiss the newer group as a mere copy. The aforementioned Raveonettes sound so much like the Jesus & Mary Chain that I actually have confused them before. If someone told me that Interpol’s “Obstacle 1” was a long-lost Joy Division track, I could probably be persuaded.

But no one would ever confuse any song off "In Utero" with a Sonic Youth song. Period (Unless you only listen to Jazz vocalists from the 40s and refer to all rock music as “that racket”). The influence is certainly there, but Nirvana has its own sound, and it’s unmistakable. Glenn Mercer of the Feelies does have a voice that recalls Lou Reed, but you could never, ever mistake a Feelies song for a VU song. There’s more to their sound than a vocal tic (not to mention that Reed’s own vocal affectation was an open nod to Bob Dylan).

Second, when said Dismisser also likes the Strokes, who have Lou Reed vocals as well as guitars that sound like the Feelies, can’t we just admit that there’s something other than originality that’s keeping you from connecting with “Crazy Rhythms?”

In the past, when I criticized a band as being derivative, I was often oversimplifying what I really felt. For instance, I don’t actually mind when bands conjure up the spirit of Ian Curtis (Xiu Xiu’s Jamie Stewart does it to great effect in “I Love the Valley Oh!”), but when Interpol does it, it usually comes off as a forced affectation. More generally, bands who merely borrow the aesthetics of an influence rather than an expressive component risk being obscured by the large, looming shadow of their references. It’s not that Interpol sounds too much like Joy Division for me, it’s that they don’t get it quite right. They remind me of Joy Division, but they also remind me that I should be listening to Joy Division instead of Interpol.

But this instance of the Feelies vs. The Velvet Underground vs. the Strokes is a different matter. This just screams: “Sorry dude, Nothin doin. I will end this encounter with an attack on your band’s credibility, and you will bring it up no more.”

I try not to make these sweeping dismissals anymore. Nowadays, I’ll simply say, “I’m not really into it” and leave it at that. I also try to be less stringent in my criteria for originality. I don’t think I’ll ever get a Raveonettes album, but hey, if people like the Jesus & Mary Chain sound, and want more of it, who am I to judge?

I’m hoping for a day when people are a little more honest about their personal, subjective biases rather than turn the matter into some argument for objective good taste. And admit that originality is in the eye of the beholder.

Otherwise Nirvana's just a Sonic Youth ripoff, Sonic Youth (and My Bloody Valentine) just aped the Velvet Underground, the Velvets listened to too much Dylan, Dylan was just a Woody Guthrie wannabe, Woody was a John Jacob Niles clone, and John Jacob Niles is really derivative of that 8 year old girl in the Appalachians who sang for him one day in the '20s, that girl stole lyrics from Irish Immigrants, who learned them on an English trade ship, ad infinitum.