Inspired by a recent post by Joey and many different discussions with Nate , on the greatness of the group, Camp Lo, I have decided to join the Youtube Revolution and post their very awesome “Black Nostaljack,” prolly the favorite music video of a 10th grade Passion of the Weiss. Hopefully, if you all don’t hate it, I’m going to make this a regular feature, highlighting a different video each week that no one has prolly thought of in years.
For those of you, not familiar with the supreme excellence of Camp Lo, hopefully the video will stream faster on your computers than it streams on mine, but either way you can get a glimpse of what made them so original. Keep in mind, they were coming out of Harlem in the mid-90s, the same period when the Big Willie era of rap was running full steam. You had Jay-Z, Biggie, Puffy, and all the rest talking about flossing and balling. Meanwhile, with a viable underground hip hop scene just beginning with Company Flow’s “Funcrusher” album”, there was little room for rappers who weren’t interested in talking about diamonds and drugs (see Nas’ transformation from the Nasty Nas of Illimatic to Nas Escobar on the Firm LP). Floating somewhere in between the braggadocio of the “Big Willies” and the Company Flows of the NYC of 1997, were the two MCs that constituted Camp Lo, Sonny Chiba and Geechie Suede, flowing on their own slang-heavy psychadelics meets blaxploitation trip. Needless to say, they flew a bit under the radar and few people bought their outstanding debut, “Uptown Saturday Night.”
And this video here explains a great deal more of what made Camp Lo so unique, as it basically put the two rappers inside an episode of Good Times. This video is the hip hop analogue to Weezer’s “Buddy Holly,” and since Camp Lo has never made as song as bad as “Beverly Hills,” I’m going to give them the one up on Weezer. Just check out the clothes Camp Lo rock in this video, making Andre from Outkast’s sartorial insanity/excellence seem a little less inspired when you take into account that this video was made in early 1997.
Following Uptown Saturday Night, Camp Lo essentially disappeared from the scene for the next five years until their album “Let’s Do It Again” on small-time label, Dymond Crook appeared in May 2002. I haven’t heard it and would be curious if anyone else has. But by 2002, the rap world was completely different and Camp Lo’s return effort barely created a ripple.
Since then, Camp Lo has barely been heard of, other than an appearance on Aesop Rock’s “Bazooka Tooth,” lp. Apparently, a big fan of Camp Lo, Aesop tried to get them to appear on the track and it turned out they’d heard of him and were fans. The track “Limelighters,” was only lackluster, but it again proved that Camp Lo were two of the most unique mc’s ever put on wax. In a world full of L’il Wayne’s, Young Jeezy’s and Chingy’s, I get nostalgiac for a time when two rappers who didn’t rap about gats and slanging crack could get mainstream love, without having to subvert their music to make it appealing to 13-year old girls and Dave Matthews-loving frat boys (yeah, I’m talking about Kanye West). In a world when Pitchfork says that L’il Wayne’s “syrupy leftovers murder most gushy singles” you know something is terribly awry. Apparently, the Fiery Furnaces and irony loving scribes at Pitchfork obviously must have forgotten that this is the same L’il Wayne who once replied that after every show he makes sure to, “slang dick and fuck a ho.” Yeah, that’s the fucking bard of our times.
So with Camp Lo having put out a new song “Bed Rock,” and rumors of them signing to Talib Kweli’s label flying around the Internets, it raises my hope that perhaps this once-great group can be resurrected. Nothing can save the mainstream rap world from being saturated by a bunch of no-talent-ass clowns, but if nothing else this video can entertain everyone for five minutes and remind everyone of a great duo that time forgot.
On “Temporary Like Achilles” from his Blonde on Blonde album, Bob Dylan delivered the line, “I’m Helpless like a rich man’s son.” And judging from many of the children of the wealthy that I grew up around, there seemed to be a corresponding increase in degeneracy with obscene quantities of wealth. However, if nothing else, “Thank You For Smoking,” represents the culmination of the ambition of two rich kids made good.
Adapted from Christopher (son of William F. ) Buckley’s 1994 novel of the same name by Jason Reitman (son of Ivan, who also directed the film), “Thank You For Smoking,” is one of the most biting, sharp and well-made satires I’ve ever seen.
The film details the life of champion tobacco lobbysit, Nick Naylor, the self-titled “Sultan of spin.” Essentially, the film is a vehicle to poke fun at a wide range of topics including Washington cronyism, phony Senators, sleazy lobbyists, Hollywood agents and the field of journalism. And it succeeds on every level.
Perhaps the toughest thing to do as a comedy writer is to make an audience emotionally relate to a character while putting him through a series of outrageous absurdities done for comic gain. Nick Naylor, played by Aaron Eckhart in an dead-on, Academy Award worthy role, not only makes you laugh for the duration of the film, but he actually makes you feel for him as he shills for the tobacco industry, while desperately trying to maintain a conscience and present himself in a positive light in front of his young son. Yet for all the emotion compressed into the scenes between Naylor and his child, this is by no means a sappy film, in fact almost every scene is hilarious. Just when you think the film is going to segue into some maudlin “everyone’s learned a lesson,” homily, it shifts back into complete satire, ultimately coming back to one point: everyone needs to be held accountable for their own actions and decisions. I’m so sick of films that try to shove some over-arching moral down your throats (see my point with Crash…obviously racism is bad, now what) but “Thank You” never does anything of the sort.
It would’ve been the easiest thing in the world to have made a polemic against smoking, prolly one of cheapest targets for criticism that one can imagine. Clearly, no thinking person thinks smoking cigarettes is an objectively good thing (though if one wanted to make the argument that smoking is and always will be “cool” I’ll be the first one to agree with them). But instead of telling you smoking is bad, the film’s message essentiually is: make your own decision whether or not you want to smoke. But take a look at all of these pricks around you that are trying to shape the argument and further their own agendas.
But this film could’ve been easily lost not just by a lessor director and writer but also in the hands of lesser actors and while I often malign actors, the actors in this film all turn in outstanding performances. Particularly worth noting are the aforementioned Eckhart who completely nails the character, as well as the always exceptional William H. Macy, who plays a grand-standing anti tobacco senator. Not to mention Rob Lowe, who plays a sleazy Hollywood agent prone to dressing up like a Geisha Girl. Needless to say, it is Lowe’s best performance since he tried to exploit a feeble public access show for profit back in the early 90s. Disappointingly, he did not speak Mandarin in Thank You For Smoking to order Chinese Food.
Also worth noting was Adam Brody of the “OC” who turns in a scene-stealing performance as Lowe’s assistant. Seriously, I know it sounds bizarre but I think Brody is one of the best comic actors out there. The guy was one of the principal reasons for Season 1 of the OC being incredible television (yeah don’t hate on me for this, the first season was truly outstanding) and Brody single-handledly made the train-wreck second season of the OC watchable. Though by Season 3, nothing could’ve made that show worth anyone’s time. At any rate, Brody also kills it in this flick.
I know that most of my blogging time is spent inveighing against something, be it a celebrity, a film or a lame musician, that’s why I feel it’s important to single out when something is done right, because it’s all-too-rare in our feeble Simple Life generation. So definitely check out “Thank You For Smoking,” I can almost guarantee you won’t regret it. And if you do regret it, then you prolly are better off going to the multi-plex to check out the Larry the Cable Guy Film, because the world definitely also has a shortage of Jeff Foxworthy imposters.
In 1996 there wasn’t a bigger rap group on earth than the Fugees, the group that practically invented the formula of making rap music for white people who don’t like rap. In that sense I suppose you can call them pioneers, as this was well before the two-pronged sonic disaster of Kanye West and the Neptunes became the soundtrack for people with bad taste in hip-hop. Yes in 1996, the world belonged to the crew of Lauryn Hill, Wyclef and Pras as they ascended to the top of the charts with their second album, The Score.
Following The Score, the Fugees became international superstars, as Lauryn Hill’s Miseducation cd became the CD in everyone’s collection that hasn’t been listened to since 1998. Additionally, Wyclef scored big with “The Carnival” (which while I am no fan of the man, I’ll give him credit for making at least one damn fine album) . And as for Pras, it would be easy to say that he was the Ringo of the group, the one that no one ever said they really liked. He was just “there.” But to call him the Ringo of the group is to give Ringo Starr short shrift, as anyone who has seen “A Hard Days Night” knows, Ringo Starr is all sorts of awesome.
In reality, Pras is more like Nick Mason from Pink Floyd, as both filled holes that could’ve been filled by just about anybody. In Pink Floyd, Mason played a very simple percussion and never contributed to any of the song writing. And in The Fugees, Pras’ basically was just there to fill out the last eight bars of a song with another voice so that people didn’t get sick of hearing only Wyclef and Lauryn Hill.
And while its been rumored that the Fugees are recording a new album, no one really cares anymore, as Wyclef has turned into a crackhead’s caricture of Bob Marley, Lauryn Hill has dedicated her life to fucking the offspring of Bob Marley, and other than his one shining moment on the Bulworth soundtrack nearly a decade ago, the only time anyone ever thinks about Pras is never. Well, unless my friends and I are re-hashing a scene that involves my good friend, Davey Crockett calling Pras a “fruit bar” on the set of his “film.” Until now.
Just last week, the NY Post reported this stunning development in the life of Pras, as the once and future Fugee is planning to appear in a documentary about homeless ness called “First Night” in which he’ll live on the streets for nine days with a mere $9 in his pocket. And being the Hollywood players that we are here at the Passion of the Weiss, we have an exclusive preview of Pras’ nine days on the street, provided for you by Pras writing in the third person. (with a creative debt owed to the Lou Reed blog)
Day 1: Life on the street will be tough for Pras. It makes Pras feel like a Refugee from Guatanamo Bay, Pras feels like messing around the border like he is Cassius Clay. Pras likes messing around borders. Maybe this week will be fun for Pras. Within ten minutes someone will recognize him as a ghetto supastar and his problems will be solved. [10 minutes pass by] No one has recognized Pras yet. Oh well, it does not matter, what matters is how many mics he will rip today, on the daily. Pras does not know the answer to that question. Pras does know it is starting to get chilly. Pras will buy himself a jacket with his $9 dollars. Pras has bought the jacket. Pras is warm now. Fu-La-La-La.
Day 2: Pras is hungry and must buy something to eat. Pras has no money, if only he hadn’t been so stupid to have spent all of his money on a warm jacket. Now Pras is warm but starving. This is a contradiction. Pras does not like contradictions. But he does like Wyclef Jean. Wyclef Jean will feed Pras. Damn this cellular telephone. Why can’t Pras talk to Wyclef Jean? What does it mean “this number that you have reached is no longer in service?” Wyclef Jean would not change his number without telling Pras? Would he?
Day 3: Pras is dread-locked Rasta, Buffalo Soldier, but more importantly Pras is so so hungry. Pras might be Buffalo Soldier but there are no Buffaloes in New York City. This makes Pras sad. Once Pras read a story about a coyote that got lost in Central Park. Pras could definitely see himself eating a coyote in Central Park. Ready or Not, here Pras comes, gonna find a coyote and eat him slowly.
Day 4: Central Park is not all that it is cracked up to be. But Pras knows that it does have crack. He found this out when another dread-locked rasta tried to sell Pras some crack for $10. Pras asked him if he took credit. The dread-locked rasta only laughed at Pras. Pras screamed at him and told him that he was a major rap star and that he would be very sorry for messing with him. He also told him about the song “Ghetto Supastar,” and how he knew ODB. The crack dealer only responded, “I deal crack. Obviously I did too.” This did not make Pras feel special.
Day 5: Pras has not eaten in five days. It is the daytime now. Pras sits 90 degrees underneath palm trees, Smokin’ beadies as Pras burns his calories. Brooklyn roof tops become Brooklyn tee-pees. But Brooklyn roof-tops do not have food. Pras believes that Pras is going to die. Someone please help him.
Day 6: Pras remembers Lauryn Hill from Pras’ internationally renowned supergroup, the Fugees. Pras and Lauryn are friends. One time, she even let Pras watch while she had sex with Wyclef. That was fun for Pras even if they would not let him join in. Pras will call Lauryn for help. [Pras talks with Lauryn Hill]. Lauryn Hill told Pras to pray to God. Pras will pray to God, but God cannot bring Pras food. Pras’ lack of money is killing Pras. Softly.
Day 7: Once a very long time ago Pras was in a movie. Maybe the director of the movie can help Pras out of his predicament. Maybe the director can also teach him what the word predicament means too. That would be nice.
The movie was called Turn it up. Pras loved that movie even though that was where Pras met Ja-Rule. Pras did not like Ja-Rule. Ja-Rule told him to “Holla holla.” Obviously, Ja-Rule did not know who Pras was. Pras does not holla. He yodels. He is a cowboy. Yo-da-lay-hee-ho. Pras has just lost control of his bladder due to hunger. Pras is wet. Pras is very wet. Pras is in no mood to call the director of Turn it Up.
Day 8
Pras has a plan. He will go into a store and show the bodega owner his face. They will recognize him. For certain. And if they do not recognize him, Pras has decided that he will rap for them a verse from a very merry song. Everyone likes very merry songs. Pras knows this for certain. Pras will tell the bodega owner that he is a black ceasar who dates top divas. He will tell them about diplomatic legalese and how he has no time for a Visa. Pras will tell that they just begun, and how he’s gonna shoot them one by one. Pras will strike with the forces of King Solomon
and lett bygones be bygones. And so on, and so on. Pras will teach these cats how to live in the ghetto. Pras will keep it retro-spective from the get go. He will lay low, let his mind shine like a halo. Pras will politic with ghetto senators on the d-low.
Alas when Pras walks into the owner of the store and sings his song, the owners do not understand a word of what he is saying. The owners are Nepalese. Pras does not like Nepalese. Lauryn Hill told him once to never trust a Nepalese and to only trust Haitians. Pras listens to Lauryn Hill all the time. Even if she is miseducated he does not care. Pras only cares about the music. And about food. Pras will now gnaw on his arm.
Day 9 Today is Pras’ last day on the streets. It has not been easy. Pras does not know if he’s going to make it. Wait a minute, he sees a blue angel. Pras likes blue angels. Once he wrote a song about a blue angel. No one liked that song. Not even Pras. It does not matter, Pras is so hungry he will con the angel into coming close to him, then when he least suspects it Pras will eat the angel. The angel will be delicious. It will taste just like smurf. Pras will live after all. Salvation.
Don’t really have much time to write a full-fledged blog today, as I’m trying to squeeze in some real writing before watching Al Franken and Ann Coulter debate tonight which should be an engaging contest to see who can be the biggest douchebag. (Even though I hate Franken a good deal, I feel no one can out douchebag Coulter. Ever).
But since I’m not posting anything substantive today, I just wanted to mention that I saw Annie Hall this weekend for the third time and if you haven’t yet seen it, I can’t recommend a movie more. I know it’s not some sort of stunningly new revelation that Annie Hall is a good flick, considering it won Best Picture in ‘77 and most people over the age of 30 regard it as one of the finest comedies ever made. However, as many of my readers (I assume) are under 30, many in our generation typically regard Allen as the semi-washed up filmmaker that married his stepdaugher. Regardless of what you think of the man’s private life, the fact remains that Annie Hall is prolly the best comedy I’ve ever seen. If you like “Seinfeld,” there’s a great chance you’ll love this film, as much of the Larry David/Jerry Seinfeld-esque schtick owes a major creative debt to Woody Allen.
The thing about the film isn’t just that it’s a funny movie, but the way in which he melds together time and place and emotion is stunning. Additionally, Allen is perhaps the most creative comic mind I’ve ever seen, throwing in animated scenes, turn to the camera asides and other absurdities that a lesser filmmaker would’ve tried to make avant-garde or artsy. Simply put, the man is/was a genius, no matter how disturbing the whole Soon-Yi thing is. I apologize for not having a more complete review, as this is rather shoddy, but please check out this film the next time you’re looking to rent a movie. Without a question, I’d place it as my favorite comedy of all time. Though be forewarned, I place Zoolander as number 2 for whatever that’s worth. So check it out if you haven’t yet seen it and if you have, I’d recommend seeing it again, the more I see it, the more I pick up and marvel at.
In case you’re wondering why the name of my concert reviews section no longer contains the word cardigan, I’ve inserted the word sport coat instead, having declared that in 2006, the sport coat over a t-shirt and jeans is the one uniform that scenesters and hipsters alike can agree on. The only way to really tell the difference these days is by glasses and a beard, which no scenester would dare sport, lest be be unable to get into the Lobby.
So in addition to having been fighting off scourges of opossums infesting these parts, I’ve been taking in some of these indie rock shows, doing my best to be a caricture of a hipster. Seriously, I need to take up smoking and bitching about “the man” way more. Fuck, I’m 2/3rds the way there, not having a 9-5 and living in Los Feliz and going to Spaceland every five minutes.
This was the scene Sunday night around 11:00 when fellow blogger/self-proclaimed other “assimilated negro”/indie rock enthusiast/future NBA powerplayer Nathaniel Jones and I rolled up to Spaceland to catch the set of Norweigian band, Serena Maneesh. Now, I hadn’t heard a damned thing about this band other than reading an 8.6 review on Pitchfork, and figured that for $10 I certainly wasn’t going to be doing anything better on a Sunday night. I was right.
To truly picture the scene of what going to see Serena Maneesh was like, picture yourself in Oslo, Norway in the year 2050. You really like Norweigian jam band music but don’t know where to go to find it, suddenly you stumble into a smoke-filled Euro-trash bar to discover the greatest band in the Oslo of 2050: Serena Maneesh.
The lead singer, a whirling dervish, writhing onstage while playing furious dissonant licks on his guitar, head wrapped in a Jimi Hendrix like doo-rag, flailing non-stop, dropping his knees to the wooden stage, snapping his head back in intense concentration. Occasionally, forgetting where he was, what city, what time, what planet to unleash some furious guttural primal chords out of some sort of heavy Norweigian nightmare.
The bassist, at least 6′2, blonde, a dead-ringer for Nico in her prime, dancing rhythmic on-stage non-stop. This was a tough situation for me, as I whisper multiple times to Nate: “So is that a chick or a dude, because either she’s really hot or I seriously have issues.” Luckily, I emerge intact when she is revealed to in fact be a woman, which was what I had been leaning towards for most of the show. Not that she was particularly mannish or anything but when you’re 6′2 and a woman people are going to ask questions. Then again she was from Norway. Isn’t every woman in Norway above 6-foot?
The other lead guitarist spends most of the show in his own world, churning out his own blend of sharp blurring noise, while to his right, a tamborinist/flute player/other relatively attractive woman in the band wails non-stop and dances maniacally.
In the far corner of the stage stands a violinist, at attention, who is furiously concentrating on his playing that somehow blends in seamlessly to the collage of white noise that the band unleashes.
And the music somehow blends into the hot sweaty midnight Sunday night club, powerful waves of sound undulating evenly, all five members of the band, throwing sound together to create an even yet riotous orgy of noise. Think My Bloody Valentine goes Scandinavia. To be quite honest, the sound was so thick I couldn’t even make out any of the lyrics as Nate and I were unsure whether he was singing in Norweigian or in English, but it didn’t matter, the violent beauty of the music hung heavy over the scene, and by the end of the show when the lead singer/guitarist and the other guitarist unleashed a deafening and ferocious 10-minute squall of feedback and distortion after the other members had left the stage, followed by their impromptu decision to trash the stage, well color me fucking impressed.
Prior to this show, I’d grown worried that my taste in music was a tad too conventional and maybe I wasn’t avant-garde enough to appreciate the live shows of freaks like Animal Collective. Serena Maneesh proved this theory wrong. They were weird as fuck and all sorts of awesome. Check out some of their tracks here (I particularly recommend the bottom three tracks). I like these songs but I’m going to pull out the old cliche and just come out and say that listening to it on your computer is definitely not the same as seeing this band live. So go see them the next time they’re in town. In the words of Dell Preston speaking of Ozzy Osbourne in Wayne’s World 2: “They Put on a Great Show.”
Passion of the Weiss Rating: 8.75 crucifixes out of 10
It was apparently Scandinavian import week here in Hipster-ville 90027, as Swedish by way of Argentina singer Jose Gonzalez rolled into town. But if there is any Scandinavian musician more different from Serena Maneesh as Jose Gonzalez you’d be hard pressed to find him.
An acoustic and wildly talented classical guitarist who us apparently huge in Sweden (then again so was Ace of Base), Gonzalez is mellow. And when I mean mellow, I mean like if I had decided to take a nap ion the middle of his set, I probably wouldn’t have had much difficulty. I mean like, the bartender couldn’t make shaken drinks during the set because the rattle of ice cubes was disturbing the performance.
This is no knock on Gonzalez in the least, as me along with the rest of the crowd at the Jensen Rec Center in Echo Park this Tuesday night paid close rapture to Gonzalez, sitting and singing softly on his six-string guitar. The thing about going to a Jose Gonzalez show is that it needs to fill a specific mood. For instance, you and your boys aren’t about to get drunk and rowdy and want to see a Jose Gonzalez show. Not quite. It’s more the type of show you bring your girlfriend to and in the process win major bonus points.
The venue I caught the show in was perfectly suited for the occasion . An actual rec center by day, Jensen (sub-let by the Echo at night) had clean white upholstered couches, warm and cozy brick walls and a roaring fire that all contributing to the mellow and pristine mood of the evening. It felt like you were in Greenwich Village or something circa 1962, that sort of laid back cool vibe.
As for Gonzalez, his technique on the guitar is incredible. I’m no expert on the instrument, but he appeared to be the most talented acoustic guitarist I’ve ever seen, creating a rolling, fluid and layered sound, singing in a hushed Nick Drake-esque tone. Again, this music is not utilitarian, but after getting harassed earlier that night by wildlife gone wild, the Jose Gonzalez show was outstanding. I recommend checking him out soon before he blows up with the Jack Johnson/sorority girl crowd who will undoubtedly love his “sensitive and touching melodies.” At least, I hope that they get into him so at least they can have something decent in their album collection filed between Good Charlotte and Incubus. He’s already got his songs playing on a television commercial, so it’s only a matter of time before he gets big. Check him out here.
And did I mention the man did an outstanding cover of Joy Division’s “Love will Tear us Apart.” Well, he did, which I enjoyed because as a blogger I’m obligated to like Joy Division, or so I think. What can I say it’s tough conforming to being a non-conformist, but I’m working on it.
Passion of Weiss Rating: 8.25 crucifixes out of 10
Pity being Tapes N’ Tapes. You just played 16 shows in four days at South by Southwest last weekend. You’ve played one show each night since that festival ended and after your first song, the your drummers snare breaks. I would’ve wanted to kill someone, but Tapes N Tapes handled it well, telling jokes to the crowd while borrowing a new snare from also recommended opening band Cold War Kids.
Playing last night to a sell-out crowd at Spaceland in Silverlake, Tapes N’ Tapes was no doubt riding the buzz of making Pitchfork’s vaunted Best New Music list with an 8.3 review that it received just two weeks ago. (and by the way, 10 bucks to the guy who can get the bottom of the review and decipher what the fuck P-Fork’s reviewer is talking about. Seriously, do they purposely look for reviewers with large vocabularies and coherence deficiencies, because if so sign me right the fuck up).
In some circles (read 10 people on the Internet) Tapes N’ Tapes are the hottest new band out there, and while the praise can at times reek of hyperbole, the band are quite good. Sounding like Modest Mouse crossed with Pavement, Tapes N’ Tapes played an abbreviated set of maybe 10 songs, and put their best effort into each one. Though I have to say, the guys looked understandably tired and I’m sure this wasn’t their best performance. And considering they’re on their 20th show in 8 days I’ll surely cut them some slack.
And tired seems to be the operative word right now, because quite frankly I’m tired of writing right now and you’re undoubtedly tired of reading. So I’ll be brief. The Tapes N Tapes show was very good. Some of their songs song amazing live particularly, “Insistor,” “Cowbell,” and “Just Drums.” Their album is also worth checking out so buy it. Listen to some stuff here.
Judging from the set that they played last night, Tapes ‘N Tapes are an impressive band with a great deal of potential. Whether they will turn out great is anybody’s guess, but I wouldn’t put it past them. They have a warm and affable stage presence and they are all outstanding musicians, particularly their drummer who despite breaking his snare is quite spectacular. Tapes ‘N Tapes are definitely recc’d.
Passion of the Weiss Rating: 8.3 crucifixes out 10 (because while P-Fork might be written by a bunch of over-literate Vassar grads, they did nail this rating perfectly)
In case you’re wondering why the name of my concert reviews section no longer contains the word cardigan, I’ve inserted the word sport coat instead, having declared that in 2006, the sport coat over a t-shirt and jeans is the one uniform that scenesters and hipsters alike can agree on. The only way to really tell the difference these days is by glasses and a beard, which no scenester would dare sport, lest be be unable to get into the Lobby.
So in addition to having been fighting off scourges of opossums infesting these parts, I’ve been taking in some of these indie rock shows, doing my best to be a caricture of a hipster. Seriously, I need to take up smoking and bitching about “the man” way more. Fuck, I’m 2/3rds the way there, not having a 9-5 and living in Los Feliz and going to Spaceland every five minutes.
This was the scene Sunday night around 11:00 when fellow blogger/self-proclaimed other “assimilated negro”/indie rock enthusiast/future NBA powerplayer Nathaniel Jones and I rolled up to Spaceland to catch the set of Norweigian band, Serena Maneesh. Now, I hadn’t heard a damned thing about this band other than reading an 8.6 review on Pitchfork, and figured that for $10 I certainly wasn’t going to be doing anything better on a Sunday night. I was right.
To truly picture the scene of what going to see Serena Maneesh was like, picture yourself in Oslo, Norway in the year 2050. You really like Norweigian jam band music but don’t know where to go to find it, suddenly you stumble into a smoke-filled Euro-trash bar to discover the greatest band in the Oslo of 2050: Serena Maneesh.
The lead singer, a whirling dervish, writhing onstage while playing furious dissonant licks on his guitar, head wrapped in a Jimi Hendrix like doo-rag, flailing non-stop, dropping his knees to the wooden stage, snapping his head back in intense concentration. Occasionally, forgetting where he was, what city, what time, what planet to unleash some furious guttural primal chords out of some sort of heavy Norweigian nightmare.
The bassist, at least 6′2, blonde, a dead-ringer for Nico in her prime, dancing rhythmic on-stage non-stop. This was a tough situation for me, as I whisper multiple times to Nate: “So is that a chick or a dude, because either she’s really hot or I seriously have issues.” Luckily, I emerge intact when she is revealed to in fact be a woman, which was what I had been leaning towards for most of the show. Not that she was particularly mannish or anything but when you’re 6′2 and a woman people are going to ask questions. Then again she was from Norway. Isn’t every woman in Norway above 6-foot?
The other lead guitarist spends most of the show in his own world, churning out his own blend of sharp blurring noise, while to his right, a tamborinist/flute player/other relatively attractive woman in the band wails non-stop and dances maniacally.
In the far corner of the stage stands a violinist, at attention, who is furiously concentrating on his playing that somehow blends in seamlessly to the collage of white noise that the band unleashes.
And the music somehow blends into the hot sweaty midnight Sunday night club, powerful waves of sound undulating evenly, all five members of the band, throwing sound together to create an even yet riotous orgy of noise. Think My Bloody Valentine goes Scandinavia. To be quite honest, the sound was so thick I couldn’t even make out any of the lyrics as Nate and I were unsure whether he was singing in Norweigian or in English, but it didn’t matter, the violent beauty of the music hung heavy over the scene, and by the end of the show when the lead singer/guitarist and the other guitarist unleashed a deafening and ferocious 10-minute squall of feedback and distortion after the other members had left the stage, followed by their impromptu decision to trash the stage, well color me fucking impressed.
Prior to this show, I’d grown worried that my taste in music was a tad too conventional and maybe I wasn’t avant-garde enough to appreciate the live shows of freaks like Animal Collective. Serena Maneesh proved this theory wrong. They were weird as fuck and all sorts of awesome. Check out some of their tracks here (I particularly recommend the bottom three tracks). I like these songs but I’m going to pull out the old cliche and just come out and say that listening to it on your computer is definitely not the same as seeing this band live. So go see them the next time they’re in town. In the words of Dell Preston speaking of Ozzy Osbourne in Wayne’s World 2: “They Put on a Great Show.”
Passion of the Weiss Rating: 8.75 crucifixes out of 10
It was apparently Scandinavian import week here in Hipster-ville 90027, as Swedish by way of Argentina singer Jose Gonzalez rolled into town. But if there is any Scandinavian musician more different from Serena Maneesh as Jose Gonzalez you’d be hard pressed to find him.
An acoustic and wildly talented classical guitarist who us apparently huge in Sweden (then again so was Ace of Base), Gonzalez is mellow. And when I mean mellow, I mean like if I had decided to take a nap ion the middle of his set, I probably wouldn’t have had much difficulty. I mean like, the bartender couldn’t make shaken drinks during the set because the rattle of ice cubes was disturbing the performance.
This is no knock on Gonzalez in the least, as me along with the rest of the crowd at the Jensen Rec Center in Echo Park this Tuesday night paid close rapture to Gonzalez, sitting and singing softly on his six-string guitar. The thing about going to a Jose Gonzalez show is that it needs to fill a specific mood. For instance, you and your boys aren’t about to get drunk and rowdy and want to see a Jose Gonzalez show. Not quite. It’s more the type of show you bring your girlfriend to and in the process win major bonus points.
The venue I caught the show in was perfectly suited for the occasion . An actual rec center by day, Jensen (sub-let by the Echo at night) had clean white upholstered couches, warm and cozy brick walls and a roaring fire that all contributing to the mellow and pristine mood of the evening. It felt like you were in Greenwich Village or something circa 1962, that sort of laid back cool vibe.
As for Gonzalez, his technique on the guitar is incredible. I’m no expert on the instrument, but he appeared to be the most talented acoustic guitarist I’ve ever seen, creating a rolling, fluid and layered sound, singing in a hushed Nick Drake-esque tone. Again, this music is not utilitarian, but after getting harassed earlier that night by wildlife gone wild, the Jose Gonzalez show was outstanding. I recommend checking him out soon before he blows up with the Jack Johnson/sorority girl crowd who will undoubtedly love his “sensitive and touching melodies.” At least, I hope that they get into him so at least they can have something decent in their album collection filed between Good Charlotte and Incubus. He’s already got his songs playing on a television commercial, so it’s only a matter of time before he gets big. Check him out here.
And did I mention the man did an outstanding cover of Joy Division’s “Love will Tear us Apart.” Well, he did, which I enjoyed because as a blogger I’m obligated to like Joy Division, or so I think. What can I say it’s tough conforming to being a non-conformist, but I’m working on it.
Passion of Weiss Rating: 8.25 crucifixes out of 10
Pity being Tapes N’ Tapes. You just played 16 shows in four days at South by Southwest last weekend. You’ve played one show each night since that festival ended and after your first song, the your drummers snare breaks. I would’ve wanted to kill someone, but Tapes N Tapes handled it well, telling jokes to the crowd while borrowing a new snare from also recommended opening band Cold War Kids.
Playing last night to a sell-out crowd at Spaceland in Silverlake, Tapes N’ Tapes was no doubt riding the buzz of making Pitchfork’s vaunted Best New Music list with an 8.3 review that it received just two weeks ago. (and by the way, 10 bucks to the guy who can get the bottom of the review and decipher what the fuck P-Fork’s reviewer is talking about. Seriously, do they purposely look for reviewers with large vocabularies and coherence deficiencies, because if so sign me right the fuck up).
In some circles (read 10 people on the Internet) Tapes N’ Tapes are the hottest new band out there, and while the praise can at times reek of hyperbole, the band are quite good. Sounding like Modest Mouse crossed with Pavement, Tapes N’ Tapes played an abbreviated set of maybe 10 songs, and put their best effort into each one. Though I have to say, the guys looked understandably tired and I’m sure this wasn’t their best performance. And considering they’re on their 20th show in 8 days I’ll surely cut them some slack.
And tired seems to be the operative word right now, because quite frankly I’m tired of writing right now and you’re undoubtedly tired of reading. So I’ll be brief. The Tapes N Tapes show was very good. Some of their songs song amazing live particularly, “Insistor,” “Cowbell,” and “Just Drums.” Their album is also worth checking out so buy it. Listen to some stuff here.
Judging from the set that they played last night, Tapes ‘N Tapes are an impressive band with a great deal of potential. Whether they will turn out great is anybody’s guess, but I wouldn’t put it past them. They have a warm and affable stage presence and they are all outstanding musicians, particularly their drummer who despite breaking his snare is quite spectacular. Tapes ‘N Tapes are definitely recc’d.
Passion of the Weiss Rating: 8.3 crucifixes out 10 (because while P-Fork might be written by a bunch of over-literate Vassar grads, they did nail this rating perfectly)
Despite his utter inability to connect with mainstream America, actor Matthew McConaughey is adament that he will not be discouraged by his lack of box office success, and will continue to make movies with integrity.
“America’s tough to please,” the self-described “wacky actor,” said. “I guess they don’t “get” the brand of zany humor that I and only I possess. What am I supposed to do, just make movies that everyone can enjoy? I act because it is the form of art that I choose to practice. And if some housewife in Des Moines, Iowa finds the version of reality presented in “Failure to Launch” too bleak, then that’s her problem.”
Critics have pointed out that McConaughey hasn’t exactly failed to connect with middle America, as his latest film “Failure to Launch” debuted at number #1 with a stellar first weekend gross of $24.5 million. Most contend that McConaughey is too dense to understand that this is objectively good.
“Whatever, $24.5 million, big deal. I don’t care about how much I’m paid. I don’t care how much my films make. I care about changing lives,” McConaughey passionately declared. “Do you know how many people’s lives were altered because of my movie “The Wedding Planner?” Do you know how many women became Wedding Planners because of that film? Do you know how many men became doctors so they could snare attractive women like J. Lo. The number is flabbergasting.”
McConaughey admitted that he used the word flabbergasting because he didn’t know an exact number and it sounded like a good placeholder. He also admitted that he didn’t know what the word flabbergasting means.
“My vocabulary might not be large,” the witty Texan said. “But I’ll tell you what is large. My heart. And to me there is nothing finer than a witty deconstruction of our social mores done in the form of the 90 minute romantic comedy. There’s nothing better. What’s going to happen? Which man is the woman going to pick? The suspense is enough to kill a person.”
Mike Dupree, the director of “The Wedding Planner” confimred that McConaughey is different from many of the other thespians that he has worked with in the past.
“He is truly an actor’s actor,” Dupree said. “Most of the other thespians that I have worked with are only interested in collecting their paychecks, but Matthew is interested in art. Not art like just your average good movie, but art in the highest sense. He is the Leonardo Da Vinci of the silver screen, though he hasn’t designed an elaborate code….yet!”
As for his upcoming role in “Dear Deliah,”, McConaughey will play America’s most widely read female advice columnist, Deliah. And Deliah has a secret — she’s a he. By day, he produces a male-oriented cable television show; by night, he doles out sage sisterly advice under a pseudonym. [Ed. Note: This is actually true. I swear]
McConaughey claims that “Dear Deliah,” will be his greatest role yet.
“When theatergoers see me as Deliah, it’s safe to say that everyone will drop to their knees and venerate me as the greatest actor who ever lived,” McConaughey said. “You might think this film is similar to my other ones in that yes, it is a romantic comedy, but it’s totally different. This time, I’ll be in drag. I’m not that familiar with film history but I believe this is the first time this has ever been done. And no one can fill out a pair of panty house like me. No one! Not like I’d know or anything.”
So I’m confused. I was supposed to love the Arctic Monkeys three months ago when they were “underground.” But now they’ve gotten more mainstream. They were on Saturday Night Live, tickets for last night’s concert at the Henry Fonda Theater were going for $250 on Ebay and most scary of all, last night’s venue was packed with agents and “Hollywood types.” The horror.
This left me in a quandry. Since I’m a “blogger,” aren’t I supposed to be ahead of those types? O Aren’t they supposed to read me to find out what’s hip and what’s cool? But wait, when I told people that I was seeing the Arctic Monkeys, most people hadn’t even heard of them. So was I still cool and underground for getting tickets to the show? My head was spinning madly. This was going to be tougher than I thought. Did I like them? And if how how much? Did I like “like” the Arctic Monkeys? Or was I supposed to sell my two tickets for a week’s salary? I knew immediately that I really needed to tap into my keen blogger powers of perception and analysis.
But then wait…there’s more…as I walked into the theater, a terrible thought crossed my mind. Maybe I was supposed to hate them now because they’re too mainstream. I mean maybe all this love was really just a way of masking my hate. And what would I do in four months when “I Bet That You Look On the Dancefloor” is being played at Bar-Mitzvah’s nationwide? This was fucking difficult.
Of course, I’m being sarcastic and this situation hasn’t just been pointed out by me, as its been eloquently satirized by others. In particular, I recommend checking out Best Week Ever’s hilarious Four Stages of the Arctic Monkeys (click here).
But the whole instant deification of a group that was unsigned and unknown six months ago, truly epitomizes the insanity and absurdity of living in this Internet age that we’ve somehow stumbled into.
To recap if you aren’t a music nerd, the Arctic Monkeys are a band out of Sheffield, England that has been getting furious amounts of buzz on both sides of the ocean over the past few months. The furor started towards the end of last year when on the strength of some Internet demos, they swept Britain by storm. The Brit tabloid, NME named their debut album the fifth best album of ALL TIME, and everyone in the entire world was henceforth captivated by their stirring guitar rock anthems.
Oh, you didn’t notice when that happened to you. Perhaps that’s because the echo chamber of the Internet makes everything seem much larger than it is. In reality, the Arctic Monkeys phenomenon was the real deal in England, as their album’s first week sales broke all records in Limey Land. But over here, things have been more tame, as the band broke into the charts at #23. Which explains why most people that you talk to really have no idea who the Arctic Monkeys are.
But if you read the “mainstream press” (to be said with a roll of the eyes and a stomp of the foot) thinks the Artic Monkeys are the real deal, or least if you believe a gushing LA Times review of the Monkey’s San Fran performance two days ago or a recent New York Times article that declared them massively talented and their album a “modern classic,” or even if you believe rapper/political expert/Genesis groupie, Kanye West who delivered this head-scratching comment several days ago: “The guy on the drums is real tight, man. He’s got that whole British vibe going on and he brings that Phil Collins, Genesis sound to the table. I can always tell if a band have a British rhythm section due to the gritty production.”
Sidenote: Is it me or does Kanye West starting to sound like Hansel from Zoolander, making a bunch of comments that strain so hard to sound deep but are everything but. It’s only a matter of time before Kanye drops, “Sting, he’s a real hero of mine. The music he’s made over the years. I don’t listen to it much. But the fact that he’s doing it. I respect that.”
But I’m rambling again, back to the Arctic Monkeys. Basically, what this band is notable for is harnessing the power of the Internet to blow up really fast. They’re essentially the Howard Dean of music. Rocketing to becoming an immediate front runner and much hyped sensation only to spur an immediate backlash, where people disavow that they’d ever liked him in the first place.
So right now, if you’re keeping score, the Artic Monkeys are somewhere in that crucial in-between stage. Think the moments between when Howard Dean got those dual Newsweek and Time covers but well before “the scream” that followed the Iowa primary.
As for my opinions on the Monkeys, I’d downloaded a few of their tracks and had liked but not loved what I’d heard. I liked them enough to put hem on mix CD’s I’ve made, but didn’t like them enough to actually buy the album when it came out. That sort of like. But nonetheless, from the incredible things I’d heard about them, I was expecting my world to be thrown upside down by the insane genius of the band. Okay, perhaps not, but I was expecting to be pretty impressed by their live performance.
But to be quite honest with you, the thing that impressed me the most about the band was that they came onstage to Warren G’s “Regulate.” Yeah, you heard me right, it definitely was a clear black night and a clear white moon and at that moment, I can’t lie, I was pretty sure the Arctic Monkeys were going to deliver the show of a lifetime. But they didn’t.
First off, don’t get me wrong. The Arctic Monkeys aren’t bad. They’re pretty good. But when I saw them live, one fact became unmistakably clear: the Arctic Monkeys are nothing more than four 19 year olds with a talent for writing fairly catchy songs.
I’ll put it this way. Think back to when you were 19 years old. How ready were you to be a rock star? I don’t know about you but when I was 19 years old the only two things I knew how to do well were hit a baseball and take a bong rip (and to be quite honest, the only difference between now and then is that I probably can’t hit very well any more….a baseball that is [insert drum roll here]).
Instantly, it struck me that all this hype, all this attention, all this ink was being spent on four teenagers who were only a “pretty good,” but far from great band. A band that clearly has a great deal of potential and one day may deliver on the great things that were being said of them, but right now I really would only classify them as slightly better than the Libertines but not as good as Bloc Party.
During the band’s 50-minute set they ran through all the songs you may have heard from the Monkeys, “Fake Tales of San Francisco,” “When the Sun Goes Down,” “Put on Your Dancing Shoes,” “I Bet That You Look Good…”, and no one can deny that those songs are very catchy, very poppy and quite good songs. But outside of those four songs and maybe two others, the rest of the concert was filler, a bunch of songs that sounded like a bunch of 19-year olds who really liked The Libertines, The Strokes, early Clash…you get the drift.
There is no denying that Monkeys have a substantial amount of talent and they put on a fun show. Not good. Not great. Just solid. They clearly aren’t any sort of musical virtuousos which of course, isn’t mandatory to be a great band (see the Ramones and The Sex Pistols) however it would’ve been nice to hear one or two searing guitar solos. Didn’t happen. Watching them live was a rather pedestrian, like listening to the album at a really high volume.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to hate on them, just state that the astronomical levels of buzz they’ve generated is not exactly warranted. Onstage, Alex Turner, the Monkeys’ lead singer is fairly tentative, occasionally shuffling around with his guitar from one side of the stage to the other, seeming as though he doesn’t quite know what to do. For most of the show, he rocked a hoodie up and you couldn’t really see his face. Essentially, he looked like what he was: a teenager who hasn’t yet learned how to rock a crowd. As for the rest of the band, they displayed a workman-like facility with their instruments and pretty much remained stationary. This is expected. They’re 19 years old. Nonetheless, it didn’t seem to matter, the LA poseurs in the front of the crowd didn’t seem to notice. They went wild anyways (and I don’t even want to get into the 50-year old executive type in a shirt and tie who immediately called his wife [I presume] when he left the venue and said: Wow, those dudes totally rawked!!”)
People often talk about rock as a young man’s art form. This of course, is unquestionably true. At 23 years old Bob Dylan and Neil Young were dropping albums like “Bringing It All Back Home” and “Everybody Knows This is Nowhere,” two of the most brilliant albums ever produced. But the difference between a 23-year old and a 19-year old is staggering. At 19, no one has settled into themselves and everyone seems to be unsure of everything: what girl to like, what profession to have, do I prefer Coors Light or Bud Light? Those types of concerns. I mean, at 19, I was pretty damned certain that I was going to go to Columbia Law School to be an entertainment lawyer. The truth is my 24-year old self would’ve wanted to knock my 19-year old self out, as I’m sure my 34-year old self will look my blogging as puerile scribbling (at least one can hope).
The point is, how can one expect a bunch of 19-year olds to be musical saviors. I’m aghast that the press could be this lazy to annoint the Arctic Monkeys as the chosen ones. I’m not saying that in four years the Arctic Monkeys might be the best band in the world. They are certianly talented and have the potential to one day be something great. The lead singer has a great lead singer’ s voice, one that translates infinitely better to an album than it does live, and they write some pretty clever pop songs that no doubt would be great to hear while drinking a couple beers in a bar somewhere.
But it remains to be seen whether the Monkeys will ever deliver on their early promise. They might actually peak young, a result of too much too soon. They might just try to copy their sound for subsequent albums since it worked so well on this one. Or they may re-invent themselves and continue to develop as artists. One really can’t say. It will be a shame
though if they don’t develop, because they certainly do have the potential to be something truly excellent. They just aren’t there quite yet, a fact that their live show, at least for me, clearly illustrated.
If I had to guess at the future of the Arctic Monkeys, I’d point to the example of Howard Dean, the first but definitely not the last instant sensation that the Internet has crowned. Soon, there will be a backlash against this band in cool circles, but eventually they’ll get over it. The Monkeys won’t turn into the next Beatles just like Dean didn’t become the next JFK. The truth is they’ll probably find their own niche somewhere, just like Dean did in becoming head of the Democratic Party. So don’t worry if you didn’t jump onto the Arctic Monkeys bandwagon early enough, it’s the 21st century, within 15 minutes the media and the Internet will build a new hero only to destroy them six months later. By the way, I don’t know if you guys have heard, but there are these four 14-year olds that have made a two-song demo in an industrial slum in Brighton, England. They call themselves the The Almost Readies. They’re going to be huge. Better add them to your Myspace friends list soon.
Passion of the Weiss Rating: 7 crucifixes out of 10
A few weeks ago, I was browsing the New York Times’ website when I came across an article that discussed how the Western fashions depicted in the film, “BrokebackMountain,” were the newest trend sweeping through the fashion world.
According to the article:
“In New York, Ralph Lauren has opened two stores devoted to RRL, his line of clothes with a vintage Western feel; Los Angeles is next. At Rockmount Ranch Wear, the venerable Denver retailer, sales of Western shirts are up 25 percent in the last year. On eBay, Western hats, belt buckles and shirts are up 25 percent in the last month alone. The latest collaboration between a hot fashion designer and an old-school brand is Marc Jacobs and Wrangler. Mr. Jacobs has gone into the Wrangler archives and reinvented some classic cowboy wear from the late 1940’s and early 50’s. He also showed Western shirts in his own spring collection.
And the Dsquared spring collection, a nostalgic cowboy roundup (complete with leather aprons for shoeing your horse), has been one of the season’s best sellers at stores like Saks Fifth Avenue and Bergdorf Goodman.”
This was disturbing. I had thought that people had learned their lesson several years back when for about six months to a year, sorority girls and frat boys rocked cowboy hats, a trend I found particularly insidious. If I had been blogging back then, you better believe I would’ve written an article how the frat/sorority crowd was to cowboy hats what hipsters were to trucker hats: i.e. a feeble attempt at irony. Nice work guys. Way to be stereotypes.
My point is, I thought we’d all learned our lesson. Cowboy hats are stupid unless you’re a fucking cowboy. As is western gear. Alls I’m saying is if you’re going to rock the Western look you better be chewing Skoal and have a horse with a name like “Steel” or “Mr. Ed.”
Luckily, in my fear that this insidious trend was returning I consoled myself with the belief that the article appeared in the New York Times’ Thursday Styles section. How accurate could journalists be? Journalists typically write trend stories of two kinds. One is based off of a small slice of the urban population (think 200 people in Williamsburg, Brooklyn) who have adopted some silly trend that never leaves that particular area. However, a scoop-happy journalist eager to best the competition writes a story about something that isn’t a trend (see flash mobs, blogging, L’il Wayne…you catch my drift)
The other type of trend story that journalists write are about trends that are already “over” in hip circles. For instance, by the time journalists caught onto the Uggs phenomenon no “cool” women would’ve been caught dead in them. Accordingly, in an effort to get a head-start on being totally scooped, they tried to start other trend stories (anyone remember Muk-Luks? Anyone ever actually see anyone in a pair of Muk-Luks…nuff said).
Essentially, I figured the Brokeback fashion story was like the former, a bunch of rich hags and metrosexual New Yorkers were buying western garb at like three boutiques and the Times had jumped the gun on this being a trend. I was wrong. The cancer has spread much further than I ever imagined.
At first, I was driving through Silverlake the other day, adjacent to the Los Feliz neighborhood where I like to throw rocks at passing cars, rant, rave and smoke funny cigarettes. Very funny cigarettes. And what did I see by the Trader Joe’s Silverlake. That’s right. A man in a cowboy hat. And not just any cowboy hat. A Brokeback style Cowboy hat. There was no irony inherent in this fashion adoption. He was going for the gusto. He was trying to be a trend-setter. I resisted the urge to projectile vomit. But it was cool, I told myself. This is Silverlake after all. Spin Magazine did name it the hippest neighborhood in America (I had to make that joke somewhere on this blog..honestly, Spin, your crediblity is shot when your readers named My Chemical Romance the band of 2005. And by the way, letting Klosterman go, that’s what people would refer to as a death-knell). If anyone in Los Angeles would rock Cowboy fashion it would be some yupster Silverlaker.
But that’s what they wanted me to believe. They wanted me to lure me into thinking the trend was an aberration of sorts. But I wasn’t fooled, particularly when I was at the Kibbitz Room of all places for a friend’s b-day when it happened again. Another cowboy hat. On another person. And this wasn’t just within the super hipstery confines of Silverlake, this was the fucking Kibbitz room. I mean this was Westside. I mean this was terrible.
I’m not sure how far this deleterous disease has spread and if there’s anything we can do about it. Maybe it’s just my repellant luck to have gotten my eyes tasered by two of Los Angeles’ lamest specimens. But I think not. I think this is the new trend. I think that within days there’s going to be some jackass trying to get into The Lobby wearing a Brokeback Mountain Cowboy Hat. Now I’m not against this because it has gay connotations. I’m against this because it’s just fucking stupid. You people aren’t cowboys. You people make six figures a year. Act like it. No one’s going to believe you’re Clint Eastwood because you wear the same hat. In fact, I think Jack Palance at 84 years old still could kick the shit out of the two 20-somethings I saw rocking the cowboy look.
Please be forewarned of this damning development. The end could be at hand. The cowboy look might indeed be returning. I swear to God if the trucker cap look comes back, I’m honestly moving to Canada. Then again knowing my luck, I’d stumble into the one neighborhood in Vancouver where people dress up like mounties, just to be “ironic.”
In an unprecedented case in the realm of online social networking, Mission Viejo teenager Austin St. Claire, has sued Myspace.com for false advertising, claiming that contrary to popular belief, Myspace is NOT a place for friends.
“Austin has been subjected to unbelievable amounts of mental anguish, thanks to this insidious plot being waged upon us by News Corp.,” St. Claire’s attorney, Noah Mandelbaum said. “When he contracted into a deal to be a member of the Myspace online community, he was promised that Myspace would be a safe haven where he could develop nurturing and caring relationships. Sadly, the reality has been anything but.”
According to Mandelbaum, the 18-year old St. Claire had been a normal teenager until getting lured into what he deemed, “the greatest time suck since the ancient Greeks invented philosophy.”
“It’s not like I went into Myspace expecting to have my life turned topsy-turvy, just maybe to meet some girls and reunite with people I’d lost touch with.” St. Clair said having been instructed by his attorney that “topsy-turvy” is a good word. “They promised me a place for friends. I haven’t met any friends. I’ve just been messaged by a bunch of shitty bands. How am I supposed to be friends with a band if they can’t even play a note.”
But St. Clair added that the constant pressures from having to decide whether or not to add a band or not were the not the only reasons for his psychic strain.
“It’s tough,” St. Clair admitted. “At first, I added a bunch of really hot girls in bikinis and everything was going great, but then it seemed like other girls that didn’t have photos of themselves in bikinis were intimidated or something by all the hot girls I was friends with. I mean, if they can’t handle that Tila Tequila and I are such close friends than I probably wouldn’t want to date them anyway.”
MySpace.com founder Tom Anderson was unavailable to comment, but issued a written statement about the case.
“Somebody needs to tell Austin St. Claire to mind his f****-ing business. He needs to shut up. We’ve got a good thing going on here over at Myspace and he needs to ruin everything,” Anderson wrote. “What’s wrong with him? Does he not understand the concept of metaphor? It’s not “really a space for friends.” Besides, it’s not our fault that he doesn’t have any game.”
But according to St. Claire, the suit has nothing to do with money and everything to do with dashed dreams.
“I went to Myspace for the purity. For the love. For the fact that I could customize my page with Thomas’ Myspace Editor V3.2b and believe that it expressed my individuality to the full depths of my soul,” St. Claire said. “Sadly, that reality is no longer true. If only it were a place for friends then perhaps I wouldn’t have had to sue. But what’s done is done. I’m trying to look at things on the bright side. After all, deleting my Myspace account actually spurred me to go to College. That way I can get a Facebook account. I wouldn’t have known how else to live.”
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