Basically, the film is the story of Christina Ricci/Carolyn McDuffy an incredibly cute and incredibly stupid sorority girl at USC (called Southern California State University) who falls in love with a mentally retarded challenged athlete named Pumpkin Romanoff. Hilarity ensues. Yeah, the movie is that weird. It’s also that good.
In other news, I also covered a Lupe Fiasco set for Rap-Up magazine last week. You can check it here. It’s not my finest writing but it was just a half hour set and it was pretty underwhelming to tell you the truth. Ian’s compared Lupe to Guru from Gangstarr and I think that comparison’s pretty dead-on. I have the feeling if I’d heard Lupe when I was 16, he’d be my new favorite rapper. He’s definitely good and the rap world needs more Lupe Fiasco’s more than they needs Young Jeezy’s, but Lupe’s album seems to be missing something. It’s more admirable and impressive than it is fun to listen to. This is probably why I’ve listened it only twice while I’ve listened to the Method Man CD about 8 or 9 times since I got it.
Oh by the way, remember what I said about the Paris Hilton CD? The part about how critics were going to rush out and praise it as better than expected and a “frothy summer delight.” Well, Check All Music Guide’s 4.5 star review of her new album. All I can say is egads. Well, egads is all that I can say that doesn’t involve the seven words you can’t say on television.
Also…Talib Kweli now has an infrequently updated blog…but a blog nonetheless. Check out his April 18th post. It’s rather good and it raises some interesting questions about the nature of artists and constructive criticism vs. hating on them. At one point, he addresses the issue of critics hating on Common’s Electric Circus while loving Be. In the post, Kweli maintains that Electric Circus was the album Common needed to make to get to Be and critics don’t understand the path of the artist. And you know what? He’s probably right. That being said, Electric Circus is damned underrated. I don’t care what anyone says. I like that album a lot. I like Be too. But it seems that people generally divide themselves into one camp or the either. Oh well.
In my book, there are two choices in the debate for the best rock band to debut in this decade: The Arcade Fire and Wolf Parade. Of course, I could get all trendy and pick some esoteric act doing all sorts of crazy things with guitar feedback and withered tape loops. Or maybe I could even pick some burgeoning hipster icons with beards and face paint who get a visceral kick out of tarring and feathering their audience (not to name any names).
But in an Internet world of constant and deafening buzz towards the next best thing, the hype surrounding these two Montreal bands is warranted. Granted, it’s a bit premature to declare the greatness of either band, particularly given that both have just released one album and one EP apiece. Yet, out of any of the new bands that I’ve seen and heard in the last six years, these two stand above their peers.
Of course, other bands may still emerge from the pack. The Strokes kicked things off with a brilliant debut an an almost as great follow-up, before issuing a wobbly third album coupled with a boring live show. Broken Social Scene and The New Pornagraphers are both outstanding bands and brilliant pop craftsman yet their songs just don’t reach the same emotional heights like those of The Arcade Fire and Wolf Parade’s. The same goes for Franz Ferdinand and Bloc Party. And while I’m impressed, I’m definitely not sold on the supreme greatness of TV on the Radio. And as for Interpol? Well, their first two albums are superb, but I’m not holding my breath for their Capitol Records debut.
In fact, if the hype about their upcoming album is to be believed, the band with the best shot at topping Wolf Parade or the Arcade Fire is The Hold Steady. Yet as staggeringly good as The Hold Steady is, neither Almost Killed Me and Seperation Sunday can match up with the gut-wrenching power and scale of Funeral, Apologies to the Queen Mary, or Shut Up I Am Dreaming (because it counts too…sorta).
Wolf Parade: Directly after finding out that Small Wonder was Canceled
If you’re reading this right now, you’re obviously aware of the Internet and Pitchfork and blogs etc, so I don’t really need to defend the merits of the The Arcade Fire. Everyone likes them. They’re famous now. Spin Magazine named them the 4th Best Live Band in the World. They even got awkwardly namedropped on that Seth Green sitcom that was recently cancelled. Maybe you even pretend to dislike them or think that they’re overrated. But if you do, you’re just being contrarian. And while I respect going against the grain, it goes without saying that when the decade is over Funeral will rank at or near the top of any good 10-year retrospective.
But Wolf Parade is an easier band to disparage. The production on Queen Mary isn’t as effortlessly brilliant as that of Funeral. The song-writing and structures more bizzare and less immediately grabbing. Funeral is the album that you’d give to someone just starting to discover modern rock. Apologies to the Queen Mary is what you’d give them after they’d digested Twin Cinema, Turn on the Bright Lights, Is This It? etc.
Last Friday night, I saw Wolf Parade for the third time this year. The first was at the El Rey this January. The band had recently released their debut and I didn’t know what to expect. Though I enjoyed their album a great deal, enough to rank it as my second favorite album of 2005, I wasn’t altogther certain how the album’s insular almost claustrophobic feel would translate to a live setting. Within minutes, my fears were incinerated and it became clear to everyone in the room that this was a band on the verge of greatness.
Wolf Parade: After Discovering Seasons 1-3 of Small Wonder on DVD
The second time I caught the band was at Coachella in May. Despite being delayed for 20 minutes because of faulty equipment, the band delivered a staggeringly brilliant set to the adulation of the crowd, all of whom seemed sold on the band’s greatness. In fact, everyone I came with declared at the end of the festival that the two stand-out sets came from My Morning Jacket and Wolf Parade.
But not only was last Friday’s show at the Wiltern easily the best show of the bunch, it showcased the rapid improvement of the band over the last eight months. In January, Wolf Parade seemed very much a band in transition, adjusting to newly added guitarist, former Hot Hot Heat guitarist Dante DeCaro (who might’ve made the best trade since Atlanta swapped an aging Doyle Alexander for John Smoltz) and the full-time addition of sound manipulator Hadji Bakara. Since then Wolf Parade has settled into their sound, taking on a more confident stage presence, growing more secure in their capabilities to stretch the sonics of the album’s tightly wound quirky arrangements.
I’ve made clear in the past my admiration for Spencer Krug’s genius, his Shut Up I Am Dreaming album (my clear-cut choice for Album of the Year) and the grim elegant poetics of his songs on Apologies To The Queen Mary. On Friday night, his compelling stage presence and haunting emotion-laden voice were on display and seemed brilliant as always. But whereas in January and May, Krug stole the show outright, as his songs seemed to reach higher peaks than his fellow lead singer, Dan Boeckner, last week’s show showcased the band’s congealed and more fluid sound, with each player attuned to the others’ strengths and weaknesses, each transition perfectly timed, every note hit.
Indeed Boeckner has improved a great deal this year, channeling his Isaac Brock by way of Bruce Springsteen voice with an even more intense fury, furiously writhing on-stage with every note. But it’s not just Boeckner who has spearhead the group’s continuing evolution. DeCaro has also come into his own, providing a more fleshed out and full sound to the band’s already rich layers of noise. And Arlen Thompson, the group’s drummer remains their secret weapon, keeping a steady thudding beat, ensuring that each time shift bursts with power and momentum.
Wolf Parade Takes Matters Into Their Own Hands: Builds Their Own Vicki The Robot
In addition to the songs from Apologies, Wolf Parade displayed several new cuts from their soon to-be-recording sophomore album. Judging from their quality, I’m not expecting a sophomore slump. If anything, they seemed to point towards a more mature sound from the band, in a slower and more proggy way, further removed from the sound of their earlier influences, most notably Frog Eyes and Modest Mouse.
While the concert as a whole was summarily excellent, the high point of the show came during the second encore, when the band tackled the Krug composition, “Dinner Bells.” A 7 and a half minute piece on the album, the band seemed to stretch it out even further and more beautifully in the live setting. Amping the song’s already eerie and haunting quality, the band turned it into an almost funereal dirge evoking themes of a long-gone childhood. While the album version may have sounded a bit thin and a bit slow, live, every bell, clap and chime sounded crystal clear, each twisting jagged guitar chord sounded more immediate, drenched in emotion and passion.
I hate to be another droning voice adding to the hype machine, but sometimes the truth is the truth. And judging from their live show, their debut album, and Krug’s spectacular Sunset Rubdown side project, Wolf Parade are looking more and more like the real deal. Greatness is well within their reach. There are a lot of very good bands out there. There are fewer great ones and even fewer with the chance to one day go down as being important. Wolf Parade is one of them.
#5 Cream–”Tales of Brave Ulysses” from Disraeli Gears
Eric Clapton must’ve mailed anthrax to Pitchfork headquarters in Chicago. That’s the only way that I can reconcile how neither his work in the Yardbirds, John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers, nor Cream yielded one song on Pitchfork’s 200 greatest songs list.
There was a reason why British youths in the 1960’s sprayed “Clapton is God,” graffiti all over London and this song shows why. A fusion of blues-rock, pop and psychedelia, “Tales of Brave Ulysses,” is a simple but gracefully written ballad about the Greek hero Ulysses. Set to the backdrop of Clapton’s rippling guitar licks that almost explode with color and Ginger Baker’s steady drum beat, “Tales” is the high point off of Cream’s finest album 1968’s Disraeli Gears.
In the course of their abbreviated two-year career, Cream wrote several other hit singles, most notably “White Room,” and “Sunshine of Your Love,” but while those singles surely deserve to make any list of greatest songs, “Tales of Brave Ulysses,” showcases the finest writing of the bunch. With lyrics written by Martin Sharp and Eric Clapton, “Tales” maintains a tight focus, a tough task considering that during the mid-60s Clapton was simultaneously tripping on acid while swigging a fifth of Jack during most recording sessions. Plus, it boasts one of the great first verses of the decade:
“You thought the leaden winter would bring you down forever/but rode upon a steamer to the violence of the sun/and the colors of the sea blind your eye with trembling mermaids/and you touch the distant beaches with tales of brave Ulysses/how his naked ears were tortured by the sirens sweetly singing/for the sparkling waves are calling you to kiss their white laced lips.”
Does it reek of hippie-dippy imagery? Well, obviously. But does it rock. Well, obviously. Needless to say, Cream=all sorts of awesome. Lists without Cream=not all sorts of awesome.
#4 Love-”A House Is Not a Motel” from Forever Changes
Quite a way to eulogize recently departed Arthur Lee, easily one of the greatest songwriters of all-time, by featuring none of his songs. The list did include a token Love song “Alone Again Or,” off of Forever Changes. However, that song was written by Love’s other songwriter Bryan Maclean.
Keep in mind, this list included four songs from the Shangri-La’s and two Monkees songs. I’ll just assume that the Shranri-La’s and the Monkees are infinitely better songwriters than Arthur Lee. That makes sense. Besides, that Davey Jones was surely dreamy.
At any rate, any good list of Greatest Songs of the 60’s needs more than one Love song. In fact, I’d argue that off of Forever Changes alone, four songs deserved inclusion: “Alone Again Or,” “Maybe the People Would Be the Times Between Clark and Hillsdale,” You Set the Scene,” and “A House Is Not a Motel.” You could also argue for Love’s cover of “My Little Red Book,” or “Signed D.C,” off of their eponymous first album, “Stephanie Knows Who,” off of Da Capo, or even “Singin’ Cowboy,” off of Four Sail.
Yet out of Love’s inimitable canon of work, “A House is Not a Motel,” stands out as the most eerily prophetic of the bunch, and strangely resonant nearly forty years after it was written. The high point of the song comes directly after the bridge kicks in the one minute mark, as Maclean’s hard folk rock guitar and Lee’s eerie yells fill the space admirably. Then suddenly, out of the wildnerness, Lee seems to descend like a crazed and wild-eyed holy man stepping down off of a mountain with revelations:
“By the time that I’m through singing/the bells from the schools will be ringing/more confusions/blood transfusions/the news today will be the movies of tommorow/and if you don’t think so/go turn on your tub/and if it’s mixed with mud/it’ll turn to gray/and you can call my name/I hear you call my name.”
This song isn’t just one of the 200 Greatest Songs of the Decade, it’s one of the greatest ever written.
Download: Love–”A House is Not a Motel”
#3 The Beatles–”While My Guitar Gently Weeps” from The White AlbumTo the list’s credit, it did include 5 Beatles songs, most of which were well-chosen, “Eleanor Rigby,” “I am the Walrus,” “A Day in the Life,” and “Tommorow Never Knows.” However, I’m still scratching my head over the inclusion of “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.” Clearly, the listmakers weren’t interested in iconic tunes, after all “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “The Times Are a Changin,” and “Purple Haze,” didn’t make the cut. So why include “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” clearly a sappy song, showing the Beatles style still developing. (though it is a fine song).
And if you’re going to have any list of great Beatles songs, any list would be remiss without a George Harrison song. Granted, Harrison only got two or three shots each LP, but the George songs are quite often pop masterpieces. Yet none stands out more than “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” off The White Album, the Beatles’ last perfect album in my book, and an album that didn’t land one song on the list.
According to legend, the Beatles were feuding pretty heavily during the White Album sessions. Paul and John were barely speaking. George was being weird and growing his mustache. And Ringo, well Ringo was Ringo, which means he was being generally pretty awesome. However, when the Beatles brought in Clapton to play guitar on the track, apparently everyone shut up and Paul even stopped serenading Linda McCartney to play the beautiful piano introduction.
Of course, everyone’s heard this song 1,000 times before, but unlike many other Beatles songs, this one is impossible to get sick of. How this didn’ t make the list is beyond me. Then again this song did feature Clapton on guitar, which of course brings up those unsavory anthrax rumors.
#2 Bob Dylan–”It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” from Bringing It All Back HomeBob Dylan is the greatest songwriter of all-time and anyone would be hard-pressed to understand music history or the 60’s if he didn’t understand Bob Dylan. If it weren’t for Dylan, this list would’ve looked a whole lot different and for that reason, the man was probably worthy of more than five songs to make the list. Granted, the Dylan picks were on the money: “Visions of Johanna,” “It’s Alright Ma,” “Dont Think Twice It’s Alright,” “Like A Rolling Stone,” and “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” are all outstanding choices. But if I’m going to include the best songs that didn’t make it, I’d be remiss not to include the Dylan cuts left out.
Picking the greatest left-out Dylan song is practically impossible. There’s “A Hard Rains Gonna Fall,” “Spanish Boots of Spanish Leather,” “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands,” and “Ballad of a Thin Man,” that come readily to mind. But out of anything, “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue stands out as the greatest of the bunch.
Describing a Bob Dylan song is worthless because any combination of words choosen will always pale in comparison to the transcendence of his lyrics. However, not only is “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue,” one of the most beautiful songs ever written, it maintains significant historical importance as it served as Dylan’s kiss-off to the folk scene that he came up in. While the lyrics probably refer to Dylan’s ex-wife, Sara Lowndes, who he nicknamed Blue, he played this song at the jeering fans Newport Folk Festival in 1965, right after debuting his new non-folk songs. The cliche goes that “rock n’ roll would never be the same again.” There’s a reason why it’s a cliche.
#1 The Doors: “The End,” from The Doors Apparently, it’s not cool in music critic circles to like The Doors. This was news to me when I started blogging. After all, as a wise man once told me, “anyone worth knowing has had a Doors phase at some point in their life.” And generally, as I’ve gone about my life, I’ve found that to be true. Nearly everyone cool has had a Doors obsession at one point or another (usually in their 7th and 8th grade years).
This brings me to one of two conclusions. Either music critics are not cool or that they used to have Doors posters on their wall for Junior High. I haven’t decided which is which. However, I will state point blank that dismissing The Doors’ greatness is ridiculous position to take.
Earlier this year, Blender magazine, named “The End,” one of the worst songs ever written. I suppose that’s why Francis Ford Coppola, used the song at the beginning of Apocalpyse Now. Because he really wanted to start off his film with something that completely sucked. Something that had no emotional resonance,
The fact that Pitchfork didn’t include one Doors song in their list of the 200 Best of the Decade
is pretty laughable. Not “The End,” not “Break On Through,” “Light My Fire,” “Strange Days,” “Five to One.” Nothing. You’d think a bunch of guys as obviously intelligent as the Pitchfork writers would respect Morrison. Say all you want about him being stupid, other than Dylan, Morrison might have been the most literate rocker of the 60’s.
People can play elitist all they want, there will never be another Jim Morrison. Gifted with a haunting and rich baritone and the talent to craft surrealist Rimbaud-esque poems, Morrison admittedly had his stumbles, “The Soft Parade” is practically unlistenable. However, the Doors left behind a canon of work that will hold up forever. Just like the Smiths, the Doors will always appeal to alienated youth, thanks to Morrison’s themes of non-conformity and rebellion.
While “Break On Through,” and “Light My Fire,” reveal The Doors’ talent for songcraft, “The End,” might be their greatest work. An 11 and half minute Oedipal epic, “The End,” is one of the most haunting songs ever written. There has never been another song like it and there never will be. People can say all they want about Suicide’s “Frankie Teardrop,” “The End,” will top it every time. You can label Morrison intellecually vapid. You can point to his embarassing behavior. You can call the Doors a band for teeny-boppers. That just isn’t the truth. The Doors might not hold up as the best American band of all-time, but they came pretty damn close.
Here’s a photo of Albert Einstein showing to the class exactly how many incredible songs Pitchfork left off their 200 Greatest Songs of the 1960’s list. I touched on this topic last week midway through their list to express my outrage that “It’s Alright Ma’ (I’m Only Bleeding) only ranked #150, a fact which still rankles me a week later (rankles I say). However, now that the list is said and done, it’s time to take a look at what didn’t make the cut.
Before I touch upon my grievances with this list, I acknowledge the fact that it is damn near impossible to get a group of music writers to make up a Best Of list without any huge omissions. But as I mentioned in my earlier post, this list is chockful of frivolous sugary and sappy pop songs (”I’m a Believer,” The Crystals “When He Kissed Me) that can’t hold a candle to some of the songs that were left out. And don’t get me started about The Jackson 5’s “I Want You Back,” at #2. I don’t even think Joe Jackson thinks “I Want You Back” is better than “Like a Rolling Stone.
But it’s not just the writers’ over-reliance on pop music (that suddenly has become all the rage in music criticism), it’s also their insistence on being needlessly esoteric that bothers me. I’ve probably listened to as much 60’s music as any 20-something on this planet and haven’t heard half of the songs that made the cut. But I imagine I’m not alone. One can point to any page on this list and find songs that no one that couldn’t pose as an extra in High Fidelity has ever heard of. $50 to anyone who’s heard # #119 The Silver Apples’ “Oscillations.”
Ultimately, my point isn’t that it’s wrong to celebrate or include forgetten or rarely-heard gems. That in and of itself is an unquestionably good thing. Yet it’s slightly intellectually dishonest to exclude these songs in an attempt to show off one’s own musical expertise and simultaneously attempt to re-write the canon. In that vein, here are the moments of musical brilliance that Pitchfork declined to mention in an effort to fulfill their girl-pop and boy-band quota. I’m confused, didn’t they used to like rock n’ roll?
10. Neil Young-”Cowgirl In the Sand,” from Everybody Knows This is Nowhere
I’m well aware that Neil Young is predominantly a 70’s musician. Most of his best albums came during that era, as he spent most of his 60’s recording life in Buffalo Springfield and The Mynah Birds (with Rick James on bass….a Chapelle’s Show skit waiting to happen).
And to Pitchfork’s credit, they did include two Neil Young songs: “Down By the River,” (#83) and “Cinnamon Girl” (#67). However, they disregarded all of his work from Springfield, including gems like “Mr. Soul,” supposedly a satirical jab at Mick Jagger; “Broken Arrow,” and “I am a Child.”
But perhaps the most glaring omission was leaving off “Cowgirl in the Sand,” a searing 10 minute meditation on lost love that closed out side two of Young’s seminal Everybody Knows This is Nowhere album. Neil wrote about lost loves many times after this track, most notably onthe Harvest album. Yet his subsequent efforts often took the form of acoustic ballads. Rarely in music history has a love song burned with such primal intensity as this one, as Neil lets off ferocious and bone-shattering guitar lick after lick to fill up the song’s bridge. In the background, the rest of the original incarnation of Crazy Horse sets the stage beautifully for Neil to turn his fury and anguish into the stuff of legend. Without a doubt, “Cowgirl In the Sand,” ranks as among the best album closers in musical history and deserves a spot on any list of Best Songs of the 60s.
#9 The Kinks-”Village Green” from The Kinks are The Village Green Preservation SocietyAny writer could take tips from Ray Davies. In just 2 minutes and a few hundred words, “Village Green,” manages to tell the story of a changed English countryside side-by-side with the tale of a lost love named Daisy who ran off with Tom the Grocer Boy after the song’s narrator left the Village Green in search of fame. One of the most perfect songs ever written, “Village Green,” evokes nostalgia for a fast disappearing time, as the once-pastoral village green becomes sullied by development, the motions of time and the ubiquitous presence of Americans taking photos. Yet by the end of the song, the narrator optimistically and wistfully predicts that one day he will return and he and Daisy will sip tea and it will be like it once was.
This happens all within two minutes. There are only a few bands that one could reasonably claim as the greatest of the 1960’s. The Kinks are one of them. Perpetually underrated, the Kinks had four songs clock in on the Pitchfork list #135, Shangri-La; #115 “Victoria,” #88, “You Really Got Me,” and #29, “Waterloo Sunset.” “Village Green,” might just be the best of the bunch, if nothing else for its economy and simple and elegant poetry.
The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society is arguably the Kinks’ greatest album and yet of its songs made the list. Without a doubt, “Village Green,” deserved inclusion, if nothing else for its role as the center-piece and a mission statement of sorts for one of the 10 greatest albums of the decade. Listen for yourself.
#8–The Grateful Dead “St. Stephen,” from Live/Dead I have several friends who refer to the Grateful Dead as the best “American band of all time.” Not necessarily the best band that happened to come from America, but the best band to take America’s roots music: bluegrass, the blues, jazz, appalachian folk-songs and distill it into a wild and beautiful psychedelic mess. I happen to agree with them.
Yet somehow the Dead didn’t have one song make Pitchfork’s list. Of course, I could speculate on the reasons why, but it would take me a few hours and why bother when you can focus on the greatness of “St. Stephen.” First appearing on 1969’s Axomoxoa, “St. Stephen’s” iconic version is from the Live/Dead album that came out later that year. With its roots in English folk-songs, “St. Stephen,” might not be a focused pop gem like “The Village Green,” with lyrics more imagistic and obtuse, however the song still succesfully adresses the big issues in life: death, ambiguity, fear, etc.
But as underrated of a lyricist as Robert Hunter was, the true essence of “St. Stephen,” comes from the shimmering liquid guitar solos of Bob Weir and Jerry Garcia. A staple in their live shows for decades following the release of Live/Dead, “St. Stephen,” is the Dead at their finest, pure glittering melodic sensibilities unleashed to roam spontaneous and free according to the whims of the band-members and their substance intake. And rumor has it, it sounds better if you’re high.
Download–Grateful Dead-”St. Stephen”
#7 The Yardbirds–”For Your Love,” from For Your Love Why yes, that is Jimmy Page and Jeff Beck to your far right. But despite the fact that during their lifespan, the Yardbirds boasted members such as Page, Beck and Eric Clapton, three of the greatest guitarists of all-time, according to Pitchfork the Yardbirds somehow couldn’t couldn’t write a better single than the Monkees.
But contrary to these not-so-popular beliefs, The Yardbirds did in fact produce some of the 60’s greatest singles. “For Your Love,” was merely the band’s first major hit during a career that produced such pop gems as “Heart Full of Soul,” “Shapes of Things,” “Over Under Sideways Down,” and “Happenings Ten Years Time Ago.”
A lot of bands are credited as being the first to pioneer the sounds of psychedelia (13th Floor Elevators, Love, The Byrds, The Beatles,) but the Yardbirds were as influential as any of them. “For Your Love,” from the eponymous album, is one of the band’s first signs of a move in a new direction from their blues-based roots. In fact, the success of the very rock-like single was one of the reasons that prompted Eric Clapton to leave the band and head to John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers where he could indulge his Howlin Wolf/Muddy Waters fascination (ain’t nothing wrong with that).
Just 2 minutes and 11 seconds, “For Your Love,” might be one of the most haunting love songs ever written. Penned by Graham Gouldman, “For Your Love,” builds with an ominous series of minor-chord progressions, mixed in with Gregorian-sounding chants that compliment Keith Relf’s pained and urgent vocal. But the high point of the song comes right after the innocent-sounding bridge, where the Yardbirds return to the ghostly harpsicord, complimented with bongos. And did I mention this was done at the end of 1964. The 60’s would take the ideas of psychedelia further than this song, but they rarely did it better. After all, there’s a reason why this song is featured prominently in the film adaptation of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
#6 The Jimi Hendrix Experience–”If 6 Was 9″ from Axis: Bold As Love People can have their Ralph Waldo Emerson or their Thoreau, I’ll take Jimi Hendrix in terms of writing one of the greatest American statements of individualism. In 1967, a time rife with uncertainty in regards to the “hippie situation’ Hendrix penned this manifesto. In the course of this five and a half minute track, Hendrix basically writes the prototype for how any good artist should conduct themselves: “by waving their freak flag high.” His words not mine.
But while the lyrics may seem a bit dated after all these years, Hendrix’s ethos remains the same. He doesn’t “care if the hippies cut off all their hair.” He’s got his own “world to live through,” and he “ain’t gonna’ copy you.” But hippies aren’t the only target of his ire, as he mocks “white collar conservatives/flashin’ down the street/pointin’ their plastic fingers at him,” all to prove his point that he just wants to be his own man in his own time. Which in a way is the American dream.
Why “Purple Haze,” was left off this list is another matter of speculation, but I can live with that. I can’t live with a world in which “If 6 Was 9″ isn’t one of the greatest songs of the 1960s. The greatest film of the decade and perhaps of all-time Easy Rider, showcases this song as Capt. America and Billy drive through the heartland. With this song blaring in the backgroud, there’s no need for dialogue. Hendrix says everything they could ever hope to say and more. Download–Jimi Hendrix-”If 6 Was 9″
One of the best aspects of the second disc of Wu-Tang Forever was that it featured a whole lot of the RZA’s trademark babbling. Now unlike most rappers who make dumb boasts on wax and only end up sounding insecure and half-way retarded, the Rza manages to turn normally empty braggadocio into the stuff of minor prophecy. Hilarious minor prophecy. See his soliloquy on the album’s first track “Intro” where in just two minutes the RZA describes how the Wu “ain’t no wack R&B bullshit,” calls other rappers “Cat in the Hat ass rappers, Dr. Suess Mother Goose,” and describes himself as “the King Ruler Zig Zig Ziglar.”
But perhaps the best evidence of the RZA’s knack for prediction comes at the end of “Bells of War.” In the track’s denouement, RZA tells “shorties that they ain’t even got to go to summer school.” Instead they should pick up the Wu-Tang Clan double CD where “they’ll get all the education they’ll need this year.” He also claims that people “ain’t even gonna’ figure it out until the year 2G.” Lastly, he claims that the group is “gonna come back like a comet.”
Flash forward nearly a decade, where any fan of hip-hop has seen the rise and fall of the Wu. And what a rise and fall it was. From the years 1994-1999, the Wu dropped more eight classic albums in just five years. In that period, the world saw the release of Enter the 36 Chambers, Wu-Tang Forever, Ironman, Liquid Swords, Tical, Return to the 36 Chambers, Uncontrolled Substances, and of course, Only Built For Cuban Linx. This isn’t even including Cappadonna’s The Pillage, an album which proves way before the Game that an average rapper could make a pretty great album with the right production and guest appearances. Indeed this five year streak might be the greatest run of any group in hip-hop history.
The Other King Ruler Zig Zag Ziglar (No Word On Whether Or Not He’s a Fan of the Wu)
Okay fine, so the RZA was sort of wrong. The Wu did return in 2000with The W, which I wouldn’t exactly describe as being like a comet. It was more a roman candle, it had some solid tracks that were pure fire, but it also had “Conditioner,” featuring Snoop and ODB. It might be one of the ten worst songs I’ve ever heard by a great band. Pretty much you know you’re in for a bad Wu-Tang song when its name involves some sort of hair care product (see “Black Shampoo.”)
In the new century, Wu-Tang has been maddeningly inconsistent and seem to have done everything possible to alienate their fan base. With the exception of Ghostface and to a lesser extent the GZA and Masta Killa, every Wu release prior to this year had been sub-par. $10 bucks if you’ve listened to Immobilarity or Mr. Excitementmore than twice. And I’m not even going to touch the debacle that was Tical 2000, because despite the album’s forward-thinking name, it dropped in ‘98, which could just as markthe start of the Wu’s decline.
To compound their middling albums, the Wu’s live show continually left their fan base disappointed. During this period, I once caught the Wu at the House of Blues. Not only did the group come on three hours late, but they came out sans Method Man and ODB (well…no surprise there). On top of that, they played for just 45 minutes before spending the last 15 minutes of the show having an impromptu dance party with the skeezy ho’s in attendence (are there any other kind at a Wu-Tang concert?).
On another occasion, Crockett and I attempted to see Inspectah Deck and Cappadonna. Not only did I get two joints confiscated at the door (still the only time this has ever happened to me), but Deck and Cappa never even showed up. By midnight, all we’d seen was a group of no-names who had repeatedly called out “all white devils,” in spite of the fact that the audience was roughly 75 percent cracker. Then at 12:15, a voice blared from the loudspeaker that Deck and Donna were “stuck in traffic on their way home from dinner and they’d be there soon.” As it was a Tuesday, we decided to bail and no, they weren’t offering refunds.
If It Were Socially Acceptable, I Would Drape Myself In Velvet
By 2006, almost everyone had left the Wu for dead. Sure, a Wu member would put out the occasional solid solo album, but for the most part, any Wu fan believed their glory days to be in the past. But this year has proved that logic to be extremely myopic. Because as the RZA long ago foresaw, the Wu indeed have returned like a comet.
Almost everyone reading this blog is aware of the greatness of Ghostface’s Fishscale. Not only is this Ghostface’s best album since 2000’s epic, Supreme Clientele, but it’s likely the best major label rap album since Jay-Z’s Blueprint in 2001. Contrary to popular belief, not all bloggers had been drinking the Ghostface kool-aid prior to Fishscale. Sure, I can pretty much recite the contents of Ironman and Supreme Clientele from heart, but The Pretty Toney Album and Bullet Proof Wallets were wildly inconsistent. Yet with Fishscale, Ghostface has managed to secure his legacy as one of the 10 best rappers to ever grace the microphone. It’s the equivalent of Barry Bonds at 36 years old, suddenly exploding for 73 bombs. You knew he was destined for the Hall of Fame beforehand, but in its wake, he became a first ballot HOF’er.
Of course, there are stumbles (putting your daughter on wax is never a good idea, hear that Eminem?), but Made In Brooklyn recalls a period when you actually could press play on a rap record and not be besieged by a barrage of ignorance, hate and misognyny. I’ve said this before, I don’t necessarily hate modern rap for the fact that they rap about hateful things. Hell, I loved Dr. Dre and Snoop as much as anyone, I hate them because they are bad rappers that rap about hateful things. Two strikes and you’re out in my book.
Masta Killa’s album is a solid 8.0 in my book. Some of the beats are sub-par and there is of course the filler that accompanies any rap record, but I’ll be damned if the album doesn’t also feature some of the strongest rapping that you’ll hear all year. Tracks like “It Is What It Is,” “Nehanda and Cream,” “Street Corner,”"Easy MC’s,” and “Ringing Bells,” could fit nicely onto any classic Wu album. And then of course, there’s “Iron God Chamber,” which features guest spots from U-God, Method Man and the RZA, who delivers one of the most hilariously fierce verses I’ve heard in a long time. “I was born in the bower of razor blades/right next door to Hades/I used to be afraid of the devil as a boy/but now as a grown man I realize he is just a toy.”
Download the track here and if you like hip-hop and the Wu, I recommend picking up Made In Brooklyn, it’s a worthy addition to the group’s canon.
Apparently, the Fourth Time’s The Charm
But perhaps the biggest surprise in the re-birth of the Wu is the latest album, from Method Man. Entitled 4:21: The Day After and slated to drop on August 29th, Method Man’s new album might be the best work he’s ever done.
Over the past few years or so, Method Man has gone on record as being pretty much angry about everything. Whether he’s complaining about the treatment that his ill-fated television show with Redman received, or Jay-Z’s work as Def Jam label boss, or the lukewarm critical reception of his recent solo albums, Method Man reminded me of a one-time phenom who blew his oppportunity to play in the bigs by constantly trying to hit home runs every time he came to the plate.
Sure, Tical is a great album, but no one would ever rank it in the first-tier of Wu classics. And his subsequent two solo releases are among some of the worst to ever come out of the Wu camp. In paticular, Tical 2000, easily ranks as one of the worst purchases I’ve ever made. 27 tracks deep. 24 of them unlistenable. So despite the fact that the singles I’d heard off 4:21 seemed pretty promising, I had low expectations for Meth’s new album. I shouldn’t have.
4:21 is the album that Meth should’ve released in 1998. Full of anger and rage at those whe slighted him, Method Man sounds re-born, his vicious swaggering slurring flow still pristine after all these years. Simply put, the album is a clinic on how to rap. Few rap albums don’t bore me after 30 minutes let alone an hour (4:21’s run-time), but Method Man’s album is as close as any rap album will come to Fishscale this year.
It might not feature the virtuouso story-telling of Ghostface, but the album is replete with furious raps and hard-hitting beats (Scott Storch might even have partially redeemed himself for making the Paris Hilton album). Practically every member of the Wu drops in on this triumphant comeback album. A full-fledged review is unneccessary as Oh Word has already done the work for me, but this album is worthy of all the praise you’re inevitably going to hear about it.
Download “Intro” here, (No RZA babbling but a great track nonetheless)
If Only ODB Had Been Alive to Do a Cover of “Miss You”
If mainstream rap sucks in 2006, the Wu has done their part to resurrect the art form, dropping the best two rap albums of the year. For the first time in seven years, I’m excited to hear what the future has in store. Rappers are notorious for having abbreviated careers, but the Wu has proved to be the one group that may beat the odds. Indeed with this late-career resurgence, the Wu have turned themselves into the hip-hop analogue to the Rolling Stones. If Enter the 36 Chambers was their Aftermath and Supreme Clientele their Exile On Main Street, and Iron Flag, their Black and Blue, the Wu seems to be past their mid-70’s “heroin and Hefner” phase and entering their late 70’s glory period. In that vein, 4:21 may just be the Wu-Tang’s Some Girls. If that’s the case, the Wu has at least one great album left in them. Perhaps they can call it Tattoo Wu.
Yeah. I listened to it. I didn’t want to. I had to. Because on some level if you’re paying attention to pop culture in the year 2006, Paris Hilton remains an inescapable force. Whether you want to or not, at some point you’ll inevitably turn on the television to see a re-run of The Simple Life. Or you’ll be at the mall and stumble past a case advertising her new perfume. Or you’ll be at the market buying groceries, waiting in line next to a rack of colorful celebrity magazines (or even Vanity Fair), with Hilton’s disinterested elitist eyes staring cooly at you from the cover.
So when I had the chance to listen to her album, I stared plaintively at my computer, offered a few choice expletives to the heavens and downloaded all 11 tracks, figuring it’d be an ample target for a few cheap laughs. And on some level, it was laughable. There are moments on it where you can’t stifle exploding in hysterics at the hubris that she and the record executives had to try to turn one of the most untalented people in America into a pop star.
But the truth is that Paris isn’t actually an album that can be reviewed. Because on some levels it’s more than just an album. Sure, on the surface, it’s 11 poorly written, extremely well-produced tracks, full of handclaps and hard synths and slinking choruses. At the most basic level, it’s just another dumb pop album from just another dumb pop star princess about the boys that like her and how cool she is and how sometimes late at night she actually has a feeling or two.
But ultimately when the layers are peeled back from this shining and grotesque beast of an album, it’s like staring into the rotting state of mainstream American music, and to a certain degree, the state of the nation of a whole. Sure, this statement is a bit hyperbolic (prolly more than a little). But the truth is that the status quo of America 2006, is one of inauthenticity: inauthentic leaders using inauthentic evidence to start authentic wars, major league baseball stars lying about their usage of illegal substances, tabloids fast becoming Americans most well-read publications, and hip-hop having turn into a masquerade party of fake crack dealers and untalented hacks (paging Rick Ross and Dem Franchise Boyz) consistently ranking as the nation’s most popular “artists.” So why shouldn’t Hilton, America’s reigning queen of inauthenticity become a pop star. It would seem the only natural progression.
You Are Getting Sleepy…Very Sleepy…Oh my God….Being Sleepy Is Like So Hot
Whether we like it or not, Hilton is the dark undergrowth of the American dream, the scion of a wealthy family, the living embodiment of what has become the American cliche: Money can buy everything. From her hair extensions, to her purported nose job, to the ditzy blonde persona that she plays on The Simple Life, little about Hilton is real, yet this inauthenticity hasn’t stopped her from becoming a pop culture darling. In a “reality television time,” Hilton is the living embodiment of the idea that celebrity and reality are products to be manufactured, like airplanes, trains or automobiles. (a fine movie if there ever was one). Even her dealings with the press are nothing but lies, witness last month’s absurd claim that she’s currently celibate and has only had sex with two men in her life (they just happened to have been on videotape that’s all).
But with The Simple Life’s ratings fading and her movie career seemingly stagnant, pop music seemed to be the most logical career option for Hilton. Hell, if Lindsay Lohan could go platinum, why not Hilton? Fast forward a year and now we have Paris, an album that will inevitably divide music critics into two camps. One of them will reflexively savage it, pointing out Hilton’s innumerable flaws and misdeeds. This camp will likely call her rise to a success a sign of the apocalypse and this album a stunning exercise in stupidity.
The other group of critics will inevitably rush to praise the lavish and rich production, Hilton’s “better than expected voice,” they’ll probably use phrase like “summer fun,” and a “frothy delight.”
But while the critics who’ll malign this record are generally more right than the ones who will praise it, on some levels both will be wrong. After all, many of these same people regularly praise the vapidity and forced sexuality of Justin Timberlake, the calculated machinations of the Black Eyed Peas, or the empty bragadocio and talentless misogny of the Yin Yang Twinz (who made more than one critics top 10 list in 2005).
Lemme Get This Straight Mr. A&R…You’re saying that all we have to do is add a talentless white girl and change the phrase ‘keepin’ it real’ to ‘gettin’ it started’ and we’ll become America’s Sweethearts. It’s almost too good to be true.
Like the Rick Ross album I wrote about a few weeks back, this album isn’t by an artist. It can’t be evaluated as a piece of music. Judging this record’s merits is like assessing the design of a car: it’s sleek and well-designed, it has a fresh coat of paint, and it runs with an engine that has no soul. No heart. And sure, this sounds heavy-handed and bombastic, but so is this album. In the future, if anyone is curious to know what pop music sounded like at the turn of the century, one only needs to press play on this record.
If anything it’s a love-letter to the wonders of auto-tune and what ornate and rich production can do to mask the fact that the pop star empress has no clothes (usually literal, for once figurative). Listening to it is like taking a tour through the past few years of music: the ubiquitous Scott Storch providing keyboard flourishes and mapping the sonic landscape, the Gwen Stefani-esque hollaback yells, the cries to “get it started,” jacked from the Black Eyed Peas, the Britney Spears-esque cooing, Ashlee Simpson/Kelly Clarkson studio post-punk layering to accompany many of the hooks.
Of course, there’s a requisite hip-hop cut, featuring Fat Joe and Jadakiss. Fat Joe in particular delivers one of the most unconvincing intros to a song that I’ve ever. When he hollers out “TS..This is that Paris Hilton, Scott Storch and Don production,” it’s hard to stifle laughter. As usual, Jadakiss delivers a solid verse, filled with his lyrically empty but compelling street tales. I’m pretty sure at this point, he writes them like Mad-Libs. As Hilton coos the song’s hook (Everytime I step out of the house, the boys want to fight over me because I’m so so so sexy) you can almost hear Fat Joe and Jadakiss discussing what it’s like to have sold their souls.
They Paid Me $100 k for mine, how much did they pay you, Joe? Of course, there’s the prerequisite song sure to be interpreted as “addressing issues” in Hilton’s personal life. This one’s entitled “Jealousy,” and I’m sure it will be construed as being targeted towards Nicole Richie. I’m also sure Hilton didn’t write it. I’m also sure that no one will really care
As you might expect, the album is filled with lyrical gems like “my heart beats like a drum whenever you come,” and “tonight, I’ll be your liquid dream,” (insert vomit here). But lyrics aren’t the point of any pop album. The music is. But rarely has anything felt as ingenuine, as forced as this. It’s like listening to one vast joke being played out on wax, being played out on the American consumer. It’s been said that no one ever lost money underestimating people’s intelligence and judging from the reception of “Stars Are Blind,” this album will sell and it will sell big. And most people won’t care that she doesn’t believe a word that she says, as long as it’s catchy. And in a way it is.
The truth if this album had the name Kelly Clarkson, or some 21 year-old Norweigian chanteuse on it, critics would fall over themselves to praise it. I’ve never listened to anything I believed in less. It’s a bunch of empty words strung together over ridiculously catchy beats. In a sense, they’ve constructed a glorious facade for the hollowness of Hilton. They say that a people get the leaders they deserve. If that’s the case, they’d also get the pop stars they deserve. Listening to this album is like looking at the reflection of America in the mirror. And like Paris Hilton herself, it isn’t pretty.
As many of you already know, Pitchfork is in the midst of its 200 Best Songs of 60’s list. Now as much as everyone bitches about Pitchfork, their lists have been among the best things they’ve ever done. Sure, you can point out how absurd it was when they named “Low,” album of the 70’s or put “Daydream Nation,” ahead of “The Queen is Dead,” on their 80s list. But for the most part, Pitchfork’s lists have been relatively on-point.
But on this one, I’m going to have to take a stand. If you go over to their website today, you’ll see Bob Dylan’s “It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding) ranked at #150. How in God’s name is it possible that a song this brilliant could be ranked behind The Monkees’ “I’m a Believer?” Are the Pitchfork writers taking music advice from Lloyd “The Monkees Were a Big Influence on the Beatles” Christmas? Egregious.
About 9 months ago when I started this blog, I had the bright idea of running a feature every week where I’d write about a different album that meant a lot to me. Well, that thought only got as far as “Bringing It all Back Home,” and “The Queen Is Dead.” However, I discuss “It’s Alright Ma,” the greatest song ever written, at length in that post.”
The fact that this didn’t crack the top 10 of the Pitchfork list is pathetic and generally illustrates why I find most music critics of the Pitchfork ilk so irritating. Just because “It’s Alright Ma,” is a well-regarded song, they didn’t have to knock it down a few places, they did it just to be contrarian. At any rate, the list is certainly worth checking out. It’s a good read even if they completely snubbed the full scope of Dylan’s lyrical brilliance. I’m sure he’ll have some other songs pop up a bit higher on the list, but there’s just no excuse for ranking this one so low.
Let’s play a game, it’s called pretend you’re the CEO of the GAP, one of America’s most well-known retail brands. And let’s say that your stock has been torn to shreds over the past few years as your firm has seen its net income and revenues stay flat. What do you do?
Well, apparently, the answer to the question is Fall Out Boy. Yes, Fall Out Boy, a fact which I noticed as I drove through Los Angeles this morning and was treated to the GAP’s newest ad campaign, featuring 50 foot high billboard images of Pete Wentz, currently the lamest rock star in America (stay quiet Brandon Flowers, you’re number two).
I’m not sure how on earth GAP thinks that making Fall Out Boy their spokesmodel is going to rehab their image and lagging sales. Doesn’t Hot Topic already have the fey Goth/emo demographic on lockdown? Besides, GAP isn’t exactly losing out on that market, they’re losing out on the kids that have decided to buy into the evil empire of Abercrombie & Fitch and their low-budget Mexican equivalent, American Eagle.
Needless to say, I used to know people that worked at GAP and even they’d make jokes about the company’s acronym (gay and proud). And having Pete Wentz as your spokesmodel doesn’t exactly burnish their credentials as a hetero-friendly firm.
Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with GAP trying to get all fabulous. More power to them. But I have a feeling the suits at the head of the company didn’t have the faintest idea that they might as well have gotten Lance Bass to be their new spokesmodel. I can just see it now…their big shot VP of marketing, in his lavish corner office, thinking to himself “hmm..the kids seem to love these Fall Out Boys…I used to like punk rock….these kids are punk rock…I wonder if we can get them to be our new models. They’d really hit our key demos.”
But instead of edgy, they get the exact opposite: a straight-edged bassist from a crappy emo band who was humiliated earlier this year for posing completely nude with a poster of Morrissey in the background. Add that to the fact that on the billboards Wentz looks like he’s about to proposition a young sailor boy and essentially, one can conclude that GAP has come out of the closet. It’s okay GAP, there’s no shame in it. Be proud of who you are, Everyone is ready to accept you. But it is 2006 and you’re not fooling anyone at this point. The jigs up.
So I installed a new version of Itunes and for some reason, I can’t play any Youtube videos or any other sort of Internet video. For some strange reason, the Quicktime function that came with the new Itunes has become my default Internet video player and won’t play anything. Now when I go to youtube, I just get the Quicktime Logo and a Question mark where the Youtube video would normally be . If anyone knows how to fix this or can help point me in the right direction to fix it, I would be greatly obliged. Anonymous Man Man commenters/hipster swine, this does not include you, as your instructions would probably just to be to clang cacophonously on my keyboard while growing a beard.
Get your girl a gift that even the top music stars would die for. At Abazias you can create and design your own custom engagement rings, necklaces, and even watches.
Pumpkin is the best movie you’ve never seen. Seriously. This is why I wrote an On Second Thought piece about the film for Stylus this week. Check it out and please see this movie. If you like Ghost World and Heathers, you’ll like Pumpkin. Trust.
