As Joey aptly put it yesterday morning, the just leaked Camp Lo in Black Hollywood, is a legitimate contender for best hip-hop album of the year. Especially considering ‘07 has been nothing but aging veterans trying to make classics past their prime, against all the odds. Redman was solid but unspectacular and loaded with filler. Prodigy was good but honestly, that isn’t the Prodigy of old, we all know that. Pharoahe was on some Andre 3000 shit. Again, good but no Internal Affairs or Stress. The entire second half of Devin the Dude was a throwaway. And Raekwon? Only Built 4 Cuban Linx 2 is about as real as Anthony Michael Hall’s girlfriend “from Canada” in Weird Science.
I’ll save the proclamations for the full review, but in my opinion, Lo are the only vets to actually pull it off. This might be their best album yet and I’ve already made it clear how much I love Uptown Saturday Night. Just listen to album opener, “My Posse from the Bronx” and tell me if it isn’t the best intro since “Shakey Dog.”
What Rafi and Dallas are doing is invaluable to the youth of America. Knowing how to finagle one’s way into VIP status, spot weed carriers, and the proper time to use the port-a-potties is essential knowledge that everyone should have. Indeed, these two intrepid young men are proving that like ODB and the Wu-Tang, Internets Celebrities are for the children.
And in honor of my getting the opportunity to interview Stephen Stills and sound like a complete jack-ass telling him how awesome he is, here’s two tracks from his 1972 masterpiece, Manassas.
Download:
MP3: Stephen Stills-”Colorado”
MP3: Stephen Stills-”So begins the task”
Just trying to keep track of the music world in 2007 can give you a splitting migraine. Bands pop up seemingly out of the ether, hit next-big-thing status in a matter of weeks and then appear on your kid brother’s Myspace page a mere four weeks after that. Vampire Weekend are the latest of the bunch: a hipster-hyped four-piece of recent Columbia grads with a wry sense of humor and a jones for Paul Simon’s “Graceland,”
Despite being anonymous just a few months ago, the boys in Vampire Weekend are riding high at the moment, earning major articles in the NY Times, Rolling Stone, and Stylus. So when they rolled into town to play a two-night set at the Troubadour and the Silverlake Lounge, the record industry hounds turned out en masse to to see if the much hyped and more importantly un-signed Manhattites could live up to the advance billing.
The answer, unsurprisingly, is both yes and no. It feels unfair to place such unreasonable expectations on a band with just a slim three-song EP under their belt. Granted, the songs on the EP are solid and catchy Unicorns style shchizo-pop with a pronounced afro-beat influence, but these kids aren’t re-inventing the wheel either. They’re just updating Graceland for the new millenium, writing cute and quirky pop tunes sending the hipster nation into pleasant nostalgia of being todders toddling around to “You Can Call Me Al.”
Apparently, Vampires Spend Most of their Weekends on Cape Cod
On the plus side, Vampire Weekend have a lot going for them. First of all, they’ve thankfully resisted the urge to contrive some sort of ridiculous, cooler-than-thou cigarette dangling persona that has plagued New York bands over the last half decade (if Interpol ever decides to wonder why critics were so merciless on their latest jaunt, they might want to consider not looking like such assholes next time). Indeed, Vampire Weekend look nothing like what you’d expect from the latest NYC sensation. Their look is straight prep-school Polo, boat shoes and Oxford shirts, which doesn’t do much to mask the fact that these guys look all of 12 years old. Vampires are apparently only supposed to drink blood, but judging from non-threatening boyish air lead singer Ezra Koening, I’d wager that they only drink milk.
As for their live show, they certainly filled out the cracker-box Silverlake Lounge (a rather easy task but still). Koenig’s voice is unusually strong and powerful. As a front-man, he possesses a sense of spontaneity rarely seen in bands at such an incipient stage, blurting out the occasional extemporaneous “ay ay ay”, lending a playful vibe to the proceedings without veering into eye-rolling irony territory. Drummer Chris Tomson keeps things moving swiftly, pounding the drum kit with stutter-step world beat-accentuated rhythms.
Breezing through a light-hearted 35 minute set, the band ran through the entirety of their self-titled EP and several other tracks bound to make their full-length debut dropping later this year. While I’m still partial to the Islands in the competition to see who can best re-make Graceland for the 00s, Vampire Weekend remain an ingratiating bunch, one worthy of the attention lavished on them. While it remains to be seen whether they can evolve beyond their Paul Simon fixation to develop a wholly new sound of their own, they’re a fun band with a lot of potential. And to quote Black Sheep, “you can’t beat that with a (Vampire) bat.” Read Circa 45’s Take on their Phoenix show and the 7″ he purchased there
Read Floating Away’s Take on their Troubadour set
Last Thursday, prior to watching Dr. Dog tear the roof off the Echo, the band did something that forever earned them my eternal respect: choosing N2 Deep’s “Back to the Hotel” as their intro music. Utilizing the famous Lafeyette Afro Band/”Show ‘Em Whatcha Got” sax riff, “Back to the Hotel” beat Wreckx N’ Effect’s “Rumpshaker” “to the gate by a good six months. While it might not have been nearly as awesome as Teddy Riley & Co.’s ode to ass-shakin’, hearing “Back to the Hotel” for the first time in 15 years brought back nostalgia of dubbed tapes off the radio and grainy videos on the Box. It also brought the sad realization that one of my favorite childhood songs is actually pretty bad. Neither guy in N2Deep could rap for shit, their lyrics are Mims- sophisticated, and the video looks like it was done by a team of bored convicts in possession of a beat-up 8 mm camera.
Revelations Gleaned From Watching N2 Deep’s “Back to the Hotel” video for the first time in 15 years.
98 percent of N2 Deep’s video consists of dudes mean-mugging the camera and/or driving around in a beat-up hoopty. On the one occasion that viewers are able to see one of N2 Deep’s women, she appear to resemble like A.C. Green, albeit with bigger breasts
I’m reasonably certain that N2 Deep’s girl troubles stemmed from the fact that they were throwing the world’s worst party. If you’re seriously trying to get some girls to go back to the hotel with you, chances are they won’t be down if all you’re doing is sipping “purple chongos” in a parking lot with 45 other dudes somewhere in Vallejo.
Jonny Z clearly had things more figured out than his friends in N2Deep. He got them to shout his name out in a song, plus in the song he got to have his hand up some girls mini-skirt, rendering him forever immortalized as though he were painted on a faux gangster Grecian urn.
Rhymes that probably should never be uttered in a rap song (Part I): “ Cause you know what I mean when I’m feelin kinda funky/ A sick honky, straight going donkey.” Unless your name is MC fucking Eeyore.
Rhymes that probably should never be uttered in a rap song (Part II): “And burn rubber up the block/ Back to the tele, I gotta get some new cock.” Unless, you’re talking about KFC. And even then….
The black sax player fake-playing the saxophone in the video did not score nearly as many credibility points as N2Deep must’ve hoped he would.
What kind of rapper brags about having money in his sock? Who carries money in their sock after the 7th grade?
N2Deep are what would have happened if Dante and Randall from Clerks tried to make a gangsta’ rap video.
Marring an otherwise peaceful weekend, Harrison Lancaster of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, was pronounced dead on the scene, at 9:45 p.m. on Saturday night, after his head reportedly exploded in the midst of Yoko Ono’s headlining set at the Pitchfork Music Festival in Chicago. No by-standers were apparently hurt, though several hirsute spectators complained to festival organizers about being irritated by the violent and geyser-like eruption, as it disturbed their enjoyment of Ms. Ono’s gong playing and cauterwauling.
Lancaster’s friends expressed shock and sadness at the loss of the man, they called “Hipster Harrison.”
“I started to worry about Harrison the moment, we arrived,” his best friend Bradford Sadler, of Park Slope, Brooklyn said. “He loved Slint. They were his fourth favorite American post-rock experimental noise collective of the 80s, but when Sonic Youth played Daydream Nation, Harrison almost hyper-ventilated. He always loved that record. Well, maybe not always. At first when he came to Brooklyn, he hated Sonic Youth. So we told him that he was too stupid to understand their brilliance. So he locked himself up in a closet for 48 hours with nothing but a copy of Daydream Nation, some nude pictures of Kim Gordon and a case of PBR. It really earned our respect.”
After Sonic Youth’s set closed down the first night of the festival, Lancaster returned to his hotel room and according to his friend, Sadler , he seemed fine. Yet interviews conducted with other guests at the downtown Chicago Sheraton, Hotel, speak to a reality that was anything but.
“I don’t know what that kid was doing in his room and I’m not sure I wanna’ know,” life insurance salesman and Sheraton guest Marvin Bradshaw said. “I kept on hearing loud moans and he kept on screaming ‘GIRL TALK’ ‘GIRL TALK’. Maybe the kid was calling a phone sex line or something?”
What’s that? You Don’t Love Girl Talk? But you HAVE to love Girl Talk. That is, unless you’re a conformist. You’re not a conformist are you? ARE YOU?
According to Sadler, Harrison’s hysteria only seemed to increase with every Saturday set.
“It was so hot and Harrison refused to rest for even a second. He wouldn’t miss anyone’s set. He was so excited to see Battles that he brought his calculator. I tried to explain to him that that wasn’t what Math Rock was, but he was just so thrilled to be there.”
It was only after the Battles performance when Lancaster’s health truly started to go downhill.
“I told him that he couldn’t actually be in three places at the same time, but he wouldn’t listen,” Sadler said. “He kept on running around in circles, trying to see all of Mastodon, Clipse, & Dan Deacon’s set. When I tried to stop him, he just sneered at me and told me that “I’d never get to go to Blood Mountain. And that Hell Hath No Fury for anyone who wasn’t Spiderman of the Rings.”
Dan Deacon: So Irritating, He MUST be Brilliant
According to Dr. Lewis Applebee, the first physician to attend to Lancaster, the 22-year old Sarah Lawrence graduate’s death stemmed from over-stimulation produced by the festival’s blend of esoteric and challenging independent music, the heat of the Chicago Summer and Yoko Ono herself.
“Everyone knows that when you mix heat, hipsters and Yoko Ono, tragedy is bound to strike,” Applebee opined. “Seeing Yoko must’ve put Harrison over the top. Her high-pitched shriek is the anti-dog whistle, in that normal people hear a shrill, obnoxious wail, while only the specially trained finely honed hipster ear can decipher it’s true spastic brilliance. Add that to Harrison’s already fragile condition and you have a recipe for spontaneous combustion.”
Sadler eulogized his fallen comrade, pouring out a little Pabst Blue Ribbon for the dead.
“It’s just so sad that Harrison didn’t get to see Deerhunter. I think he would’ve really loved those kids. There was nothing Harrison enjoyed more than a band making music that really challenged the notions of what it it means to make avant-garde music for art-school kids with trust funds, music critics and avant-garde art-school kids with trust funds who write online music criticism .”
Harrison Lancaster was survived by his parents Chad and Veronica and his turtle, Captain Beefheart.
I was supposed to have a different post up today, but fate struck in the form of my cell crumbling in my palm last night. Yes, you heard me right, it literally crumbled in my palm. You see a car backfired, I juggled it, caught it in mid-air and when I opened up my hand, it looked like it had been guillotined. I didn’t even know such a thing was possible.
Naturally, I have no land-line (thanks telemarketers), so I’m forced to drop everything to go into the Verizon Store to get it fixed. I anticipate this trip will take roughly the run-time of listening to the new T.I. record back to back and will probably be even more dull (if such a thing is possible). The thing about going to a Verizon store is no matter what time of day you roll up , you can always count on a few things to occur: you will wait in a long line while listening to Fergie. Secondly, you will encounter an employee who will give you some sort of static, involving the phrase, “uh…sir your plan doesn’t cover that.” Third, mid-way through the second hour you will fantasize about committing some sort of mass murder involving a cell phone lighter charger , three of the four Black Eyed Peas (that App. D. App fellow can stay, just because) and a pack of double AA batteries. Maybe that’s just me. Either way, I’m just hoping the gods of cellphone maintenance take mercy on my soul. Pray for me.
Here’s the thing about the Beastie Boys: they’ve always been annoying. Despite their frequent brilliance, success has always come in spite of and not because of Ad-Rock, MCA, & Mike D’s adenoidal yawps and frat-boy lyrics. And yet, despite being blessed with Screech Powers-like voices, the mercurial trio has had an astonishing run over the past three decades.
Then they dropped To the 5 Boroughs, 2004’s feeble concoction of grown-man rap and hoary nostalgia, a record that managed to double as a 45 minute commercial for the NYC Tourism Bureau. It’s not that the record was bad per se, it’s more that listening to it was like seeing the balding Wizard quivering behind the curtain. For the first time in their career, the Beastie Boys were looking backward, vainly groping to make a record that would’ve sounded at home in the rap world circa Licensed to Ill. Without the intricate sonic collage of the Dust Brothers, the weed-break jam interludes of Check Your Head and Ill Communication, or the spaced out playfulness of Hello Nasty to protect them, their flaws were exposed, their voices turned strident and shrill, their personas warped into a dull abyss of gray hair and ancient B-Boy slang. It was the sort of album you hear and immediately say, “Fuck it. This band’s finished.”
Which is why it’s kind of shocking that The Mix-Up is actually good. Here we have 12 eminently listenable grooves indicative of the band’s ability to synthesize a wide variety of noise into a wholly unique sound. Album opener, “B for My Name” shakes with a bell-bottomed funk and the sound of MCA peeling off bass lines that wouldn’t be out of place in a Blaxploitation underworld of fedoras, long black overcoats, and hand-cannons. Think the second half of Check Your Head (i.e. that moment when everyone realized that despite the fact that the Beasties couldn’t really play their instruments, they had the uncanny ability to craft things that just sounded good).
And Yet Sadly, The Beasties Never Possessed the Ability to Make Things Look Good
In that respect, The Mix-Up doesn’t present anything innovative, nor is it any sort of triumphant career coda; it just sounds good. “14th St. Break” floats at stoned heights, pairing psychedelic vaguely Indian-sounding guitars with haunting whirling Rhodes notes courtesy of Money Mark. The Latin vibe of “Suco De Tangerina” sounds like what you’d expect to hear if one of the world’s best Holiday Inn bands decided to guzzle a quart of tequila and chase it with some low-grade Tijuana dirt weed. I’m sure that description alone is enough to convince most people not to give the record a shot, but remember: the Beasties have made a career out of making things work that sound atrocious on paper. (Ever hear the one about the rich white Jewish kids from Long Island that decide to kick raps about beer and girls?)
Touching upon dub, afro-Cuban jazz, hip-hop, and Stax soul, The Mix-Up encompasses nearly every sound the Beasties have attempted in their 28-year existence, save for punk. Sure, it’s a little lazy, a little meandering, and most definitely a little jammy, but it might also be the most fluid and loose-limbed work the band has ever done. Either way, it’s nice to hear something new from a band that clearly needed to mix things up. Originally published at Stylus
Today marks the debut of Passion Play, an occasional column designed to highlight the notable unsigned bands that send me their demos and actually manage to successfully navigate the treacherous distance between my mail box and my stereo. Yes, Disco Vietnam is the work of fellow Stylus writer, Barry Schwartz, so yes there is obviously a conflict of interest. But to paraphrase, Eric Cartman, it’s my hot bloggy, I’ll do what I want.
What: (The story of Disco Vietnam in their own words): Barry wrote a song. Barry asked his brother Kenny, who is good at drums to play drums on the song. Then Barry asked Jared who is good at everything to play bass on the song. Then Barry wrote more songs. Barry then asked his brother Kenny, who is good at drums to play drums on these songs. Then Barry asked Jared who is good at everything to play bass on these songs. Then they said, let’s name ourselves Disco Vietnam. And then they recorded these songs with this guy named Ryan. Then everyone loved them and they became rich and famous. The end… of the beginning
Where: Huntington Station, NY
When: Disco Vietnam’s debut EP, Get at Me Corruption, was released last month to the delight of both disco lovers and Vietnam lovers.
Why: Few bands step out of the box with a debut single as obscenely catchy as Disco Vietnam’s “The NP (Natalie Portman).” With wry tongue in-cheek lyrics, jangly Brit-pop guitar chords and propulsive bullet train drums, Disco Vietnam are akin to a cross between Oasis and Ted Leo if they’d grown up in New York, smoking blunts, listening to the Wu and lusting after Natalie Portman, every Jewish male’s favorite screen sex symbol. Indeed, Get at Me Corruption is a very solid debut, one vaguely reminiscent of that first Bloc Party EP that had the Internets going nuts a few years back.
In addition to his work fronting Disco Vietnam, lead singer Barry Schwartz also produces some of the best hip-hop beats around. Also produced under the Disco Vietnam moniker, Schwartz’s instrumentals bang with a dusty D.I.T.C. rawness, trapped somewhere in a glorious haze between Buckwild and Just Blaze. Plus, one beat called “All Men are Jerks Because All Bitches are Crazy,” is perhaps the greatest song title of all-time.
As if this all this wasn’t enough to have you checking for Disco Vietnam, the band’s Myspace blog might be the best in music. Peep DV’s hilarious analysis of Lindsay Lohan and tell me otherwise.
My best friend hates The Decemberists because he thinks their green screen challenge was a cynical attempt to exploit Stephen Colbert’s popularity. Another friend is driven to fits of rage because Decemberists front-man Colin Meloy’s faux-Anglo accent contorts simple words like “Crane” into a polysyllabic jumble that spelled phonetically would read something like: craaaaaaahhhhhaaaaayyyyaaaaaannnnnneeeee. (give or take an “e” or two). And I’m sure if you really looked hard enough you could find dozens of reasons to dislike the Decemberists (six of which involve Herman Melville).
I’d totally agree too, if not for the fact that the Decemberists are really really good. Of course, this isn’t news. They’ve been around for five years, dropped four alums, signed to Capitol, and managed to come at #12 on the year-end list of your all your favorite misanthropic weed-head bloggers. But still, there’s something about Meloy that puts people off. On-stage, he hides behind a pair of faux-dorky plastic glasses suggesting playground outcast made good. He valiantly tries to rock out but always looks forced and contrived, limbs flailing with stiff and wooden gestures reminiscent of the scene in Austin Powers when Dr. Evil mechanically performs the “macarena”
And then there’s his anachronistic and hopefully erudite lyrics which reek of “I’m smart and I know it” arrogance.
But it’s cool. Dude’s got a right to be cocky. From the start,The Crane Wife was a concept filled with over-ambition and literary conceit. After all, prog-rock epics about Japanese folk tales aren’t supposed to make for good listening. But somehow, Meloy pulled it off–flawlessly. With Crane, the 33-year old former creative writing student finally learned how to seamlessly stitch together the mess of ideas in his head, from orchestras constructed on the cheap, to his graceful and labored-over lyrics, to the years of music geekery Meloy spent as a teenager in Montana pair of headphones strapped onto his head, listening to Replacements records (he wrote the 33 1/3rd book on Let it Be)
Is That a Guitar or are You Just Happy to See Me?
Fresh off a whirlwind 12-month promotional blitz that transformed the band from esoteric hipster darlings into standard bearers for the “indie”-fication of the mainstream,
headlining at the Bowl was certainly a crowning moment for Meloy. And backed by the entire Los Angeles Philharmonic, the Decemberists made the most of it, delivering a memorable and virtuoso set, plucking gems off of each of their four records to be fleshed out in fantastic color by the orchestra. A consummate professional, Meloy was able to maximize his advantages and minimize his short-comings, sounding fantastic, stretching syllables to brobdingnagian proportion, voice bouncing smoothly off the Bowl’s natural amphitheater. “The Crane Wife” felt monstrous and epic. “O Valencia” swelled to great heights buoyed by the Phil’s fluttering strings. “Infanta” made several young hipsters rush off to join the nearest infanta (look in San Pedro, guys.)
Anyhow, the contradiction inherent in the Decemberists was best illustrated by one of the night’s highlights, their performance of “Los Angeles, I’m Yours,” off of Her Majesty, the Decemberists. As Duke aptly put it: “hearing someone from Portland sing ‘its hollowness will haunt you,” and “How I abhor you” about our city seems like a little bit of a fuck you. It’s especially biting when you consider that it’s one of the few songs where Meloy’s not singing from the perspective of an 18th century sea captain….Do you think that after the show, as they read Chaucer on their tour bus, they occasionally glance up from their books and share a laugh about how they got 14,000 Angelinos to sing along to those lyrics? I do.”
I do too. But right now, the Decemberists are having the last laugh. And you can’t deny that it’s truly deserved. Few bands around are as capable of delivering complete and fully realized performances, both live and in the studio. Love him or hate him, you can’t deny that Meloy is one of the finest writers in rock. Even if Stephen Colbert’s still roughly a thousand times cooler.
Andrew Bird: Nearly as good as Larry, Admiral, & Tweety BirdI’ve seen Andrew Bird once before and it never ceases to amaze me how talented of a performer he is, playing the violin, the xylophone and the guitar, all of them with great skill, often in the same track. Plus, the guy is a world-champion caliber whistler and just writes fantastic songs. The set was evenly split between 05’s excellent, Andrew Bird & the Mysterious Production of Eggs, and this year’s comparably good, Armchair Apocrypha. It was all over pretty quickly, just 45 minutes or so, but Bird deservedly won himself a whole lot of new fans. I would’ve liked to have heard, “Fake Palindromes,” my personal favorite of Bird’s tunes, but I can’t complain.
Band of Horses Lead Singer, Grizzly Adams
I’m surprised how little flak, Band of Horses have gotten for sounding practically identical to My Morning Jacket. Not like it bothers me. They aren’t the Editors ripping of Interpol note for note. It’s more that along with his Bigfoot Beard, lead singer Ben Bridwell shares Jim James’ frail extraterrestrial croon. Which is kind of tough to complain about, considering Jim James probably has the best voice in music. Plus, one time I was at a bar in Seattle, talking about the local music scene with Davey Crockett and his cousin. I mentioned how I liked Band of Horses, to which his cousin pointed at the bartender and informed me that I’d just ordered a beer from Bridwell. That’s keeping it real. Either way, BoH was slotted right at the program’s 7:30 start time and while the crowd was only 60 percent full, those that were there saw a very impressive performance from a very solid band, one deserving of the hype thrown their way.
Ian Cohen usually writes for Stylus. Occasionally, he drops some knowledge on us here at The Passion. Cohen’s Corner is something akin to what you’d expect Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey to have been like, if Handey was smarter, jewier and really really into Wu-Tang. Enjoy.
There are a couple of calls I always look forward to. One is when my fiancée unwittingly goes to Atlanta in the summer and realizes that it’s Gay Pride Day and that there better be a liquor store she can walk to, because she sure as shit won’t be able to get anywhere any time soon. The other is when my mans an’ ‘em Wops calls from New York because he foolishly attempted to take a cab during Puerto Rican Day parade and now it’s in the process of nearly being turned over. Puerto Ricans and gays: two groups who use their day of pride to wave a bunch of flags and fuck up traffic. You’d think they’d get along better, really.
“Turn On The Bright Lights” is one of the best records of the decade and possibly the only album that sounds as good on an NYC subway as “Muddy Waters.” I also fucked with “Antics” because I missed the memo to do otherwise. With that in mind, here’s my review of the new Interpol record: halfway through my first listen, I decided I’d rather hear “The M.G.M.” instead. Make of that what you will.
I’d feel more comfortable with the Sixers drafting someone named Thaddeus if the NBA was a yachting league.
When you’re drinking a Tab, anyone who notices that fact immediately becomes the funniest person in the known universe. This is a fact.
I’m OK with Pitchfork consistently overrating southern rappers because it leads to hilariously apologetic reviews when they refuse to admit an album sucks in spite of all evidence to the contrary. If they could apply their unconditional love of trap rap to child bearing, they’d all be parents of the year. Someone (you can probably figure out who) actually said this about the new T.I. record: “Even if the concept falls flat, though, T.I. vs. T.I.P. still warrants a listen, if only because T.I. seems constitutionally incapable of releasing an album full of uncompelling music.” When it’s all said and done, I will probably have listened to “Rockstar Mentality” at least a dozen more times than T.I. vs T.I.P. and that’s a record I actually had to review. T-t-t-totally dude.
Suffice to Say if You are a Rapper With the Word “Boy,” or “Boyz” in Your Name, You Probably Suck. Fat Boys Excluded
Not that any trip I take to Ikea ends up something less than profound, but after today’s experience in Costa Mesa, I’ve come to realize that the Old Testament is built upon some pretty egregious lies. Chief amongst them are that Jews really aren’t good at building shit; a fucking futon busted my ass, and you’re telling me that some Hebrew built a motherfucking ark? Or the Egyptian pyramids? I mean, is it a coincidence that Jesus had to move on to a new line of work?
But now I’m a futon owner, which makes me really excited because now dead prez and I have something in common. And yes, that’s pretty much how horrible I am at interior decorator I am; I was willing to drive an hour each way to Orange County because after being in Philadelphia (where there’s, like, THREE within driving distance…that’s insane) and Athens, I simply have no idea what else to do. Before that, my apartment’s décor could best be described as “functional drug abuser,” where your furniture consists of a guitar, bed and TV. I know it would set me back about six years or so, but I was ready to go out and buy Radiohead and Van Gogh posters again just to have some shit put up on the walls. Or calling home and saying, “yeah- all those CD’s in the garage…ship that shit out. Your son might have to turn his apartment into a soup kitchen because he can’t think of shit else to take up space.”
I always find the “at least it doesn’t suck” line of thinking to be a bit reductive in music criticism. Remember when the Cure came out with that record in 2004? Anyone? Yeah, they have almost none of the original members, the main dude picked a producer that was totally wrong for them and I’ll probably never play it two months after its release, but AT LEAST IT DOESN’T SUCK- four stars! In unrelated news, “Zeitgeist.”
But Have Billy Corgan and Moby Ever Been Seen Together in the Same Room at the Same Time?
Look, sometimes I think about penning an OST for Stylus for all of Corgan’s post-”Adore” works, but then I think better of it because listening to “TheFutureEmbrace” isn’t something you’re liable to catch me doing when I could be…I dunno…re-reading today’s post on Fire Joe Morgan or whatevs. I mean, I’ll rep parts of “MACHINA” even though that shit’s so overprocessed, M83 could cover it without having to buy one piece of new gear. And was Zwan really that bad? Just looking at some of “Zeitgeist”’s review, you’d think that was Billy doing Wolf Eyes material or a song-for-song interpretation of “Self Portrait.”
But here’s the strange thing about The Smashing Pumpkins- how do you become that much worse after losing the only two people in the band that didn’t do anything? Has that ever happened before? Usually, the control freak ditches the dead weight and carries on just fine…I mean, look at Wham!.
As Joey aptly put it yesterday morning, the just leaked Camp Lo in Black Hollywood, is a legitimate contender for best hip-hop album of the year. Especially considering ‘07 has been nothing but aging veterans trying to make classics past their prime, against all the odds. Redman was solid but unspectacular and loaded with filler. Prodigy was good but honestly, that isn’t the Prodigy of old, we all know that. Pharoahe was on some Andre 3000 shit. Again, good but no Internal Affairs or Stress. The entire second half of Devin the Dude was a throwaway. And Raekwon? Only Built 4 Cuban Linx 2 is about as real as Anthony Michael Hall’s girlfriend “from Canada” in Weird Science.
