Zilla Rocca is the rap Jack Bauer. Which makes Jack Bauer, the CIA Zilla Rocca. Either way, the terrorists lose.
Before I began my career as a highly paid guest blogger here at The Passion, I worked at a national retailer specializing in music in movies from October 2001 until November 2004. For a music nerd like me, it was great. I made roughly $80-$120 per week, which was enough to support my weekend drinking, new magazines, gas and fast food. Wait, that actually sucked. But I got a sweet discount on CD’s, DVD’s, accessories and old Playstation games (Wu-Tang: Shaolin Style anyone?). I slaved away for three years, selling Scorpions CDs to immigrants, chasing thieves across the parking lot and working my hardest to recommend good albums to people who came in looking to buy the latest Ja Rule record.
Around late 2002, the company decided to start buying back used CDs and DVDs from customers. This was a great idea because crackheads would steal all the newest releases across the parking lot at Wal-Mart and then sell it to us for $8. Everyday. Plus, since we knew they were committing illegal acts, we could make requests for the new Spiderman DVD or the latest Jay-Z CD. It was a great deal: we wanted free stuff, they wanted crack. We could call the cops and deny them crack money, or they could just steal an extra copy of Training Day and everybody would win. Most of the time, everybody did.
The only downside about buying and selling used items is that we would absorb the overstock from other locations when they went out of business. This presented a HUGE problem because we would always get eleven copies of the same twenty titles mixed in with scary metal CDs and shitty west coast rap compilations nobody had any business buying or selling in Pennsylvania. Obviously, our used inventory was stocked full of the boy bands of the late 90s: O-Town, 98 Degrees, LFO, 2Gether (that kinda-funny MTV satirical group with Chris Farley’s brother), and of course the Corey Haim/Corey Feldman tag team of teenyboppers: The Backstreet Boys and NSYNC. Not counting the shaved chest crew, here’s a list of the most returned albums of 2002-2004.
1. Limp Bizkit: Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water.
Fred Durst, at his peak of supreme douchery, thought he could make the worst possible album in the worst possible genre with the worst possible album title and people would buy as many copies as Significant Other. Thankfully, the general public turned on the balding nu-metalist and their wretched single “Rollin” in which Durst rhymed, “I know you’re loving this shit right here, B-I-Z-K-I-T right here.” This technical wizardry would later be used to much dope boy acclaim by Cam’ron, Young Jeezy and Jim Jones only a few years later. Apparently, that kind of lyricism works if you’re not wearing a red Yankees hat backwards and you sell crack on Christmas.
2. Sisqo: Unleash The Dragon.
“Thong, tha-thong, thong thong!�
You see that? I just typed the hook to the biggest song of 1999. Considering the top song on iTunes right now is ‘Crank Dat Soulja Boy,’ I don’t feel so bad for the music buying audience of eight years ago. We’ve actually become dumber.
Unlike Limp Bizkit, Sisqo had some credibility by being a member of the R&B group Dru Hill, which was Michael Vick’s alias back in his Virginia Tech days of giving herpes to sorority chicks. Even his Silver Surfer hair and Kids R Us/Mo Money Mo Problems-styled outfits didn’t seem to bother consumers because, dammit, who else was talking about thongs in 1999?!?? Well, three years later, Sisqo’s opus found its way into the used bins by the dozens. I wonder if the number of returned thongs at Wet Seal and Fashion Bug actually increased during this time period as well
3. Ricky Martin: Ricky Martin
I have to thank Ricky Martin: I was never really comfortable with men wearing v-neck shirts with nothing underneath it. Once Ricky Martin (the album and the man) came out with v-necks in full glory, hair gel-a-plenty, and candle wax dripping on his naked torso, I had all the proof I needed. Straight men and v-necks with no shirt underneath are not a good look.
This album and its massive single “Livin� La Vida Loca” also proved to me that the government does hate rap and will pin a tail to one donkey while there’s hella ass everywhere else. Example lyric: “She’ll make you live her crazy life but she’ll take away your pain, like a bullet to your brain.” Granted, Ricky Martin is a flaming homosexual with pearly white teeth and bronze skin. But just imagine if at his peak, DMX said something similar. His album would get pulled from Wal-Mart. He’d be accused of encouraging suicide. Oprah, Al Sharpton, Bill O�Reilly and the other media clowns would slam him daily. But throw on some snug trousers, quit a boy band and you can recite the lyrics to Cormega’s Dead Man Walking. No problem.
4. Mystikal: Let’s Get Ready/Tarantula (Tie)
My theory with both of these albums is that people really liked “Danger” and “Shake Ya Ass” from Let’s Get Ready and kind of liked “Bouncin Back” from Tarantula. So they put those three songs on CD-R or their first generation iPods, then sold the Mystikal combo pack back to us for a cool $7.00 combined. And who needs more than three songs from Mystikal in their collection? It’s like owning more than 2 Snoop Dogg albums. ‘Nuff said.
5. CrazyTown : The Gift of Game
I forgot to include in my previous post on William (no more periods, I’m done)that he also sucks for helping put together CrazyTown . I remember when they hit #1 with “Butterfly” they did an interview with MTV stating that William was friends with one of the non-talented MC/singers and put him in contact with his other non-talented friend who was already doing Crazy Town. You see, William never stops sucking, even when he wasn’t famous.
I’ll even show you two reviews for this album, one clearly written by a nu-metal enthusiast who helped push this album to platinum status and one written by the type of person with good taste who sold this CD back to us for $1.75. By the way, did you know that KRS-One is on this album?
Review #1 on Amazon.com:
CrazyTown is definetly the band of the future. They combine rap and metal in a way that is unlike anyone else. This is no Kid Rock or Limp Bizkit or any of that. What this is is a totally new level of rapcore. They combine the rhyming skills of rap godfathers Dr. Dre and Ice Cube with the thick guitar chords of Korn or Incubus. And yet they still cease to sound like any one of those. Songs like “Darkside” “Toxic” “Think Fast” and “Hollywood Babylon” are smooth, fast and furious rap metal. The best song on here, “Black Cloud” features Jay Gordon of Orgy, and is a dark, soothing, melodic song. “Butterfly” is their version of a love song, and “B Boy 2000″ pits KRS-One against Epic and Shifty in one of the best collaborations ever. If you just pass this off as a bunch of wiggers with guitars, then you are mistaken my friend. Look for this band to blow up and make it big someday soon.�
Review #2 on Amazon.com (this is the most precise one):
“They dress like punks and play limp-wristed rap-rock. Lameness personified.”
CONCLUSION
When I read articles about the music industry collapsing, I picture the people people who made millions and millions of dollars forcing consumers to buy the entire Crazy Town album for that one song they actually wanted. I think about the same people suing their customers because they refuse to waste their money on garbage like Crazy Town (even Kris Parker feels good about that in retrospect). The economy sucks, CDs are quickly fading and radio is a joke. But at least we have options now. Never again will we be forced to spend $18 on a Sisqo CD.Unless William produces his comeback album.
So I get an e-mail the other day from my friend, Stephanie Frasco, star/mastermind/video vixen of the You Tube series, Ask Frasco. Said e-mail directs me towards the above You Tube video of her and the artist formerly known as Puff Daddy. Needless to say, it’s nice to see that Puffy’s gotten over that whole Kim Porter thing and has moved on.
There’s wolves in the garden,” Chris Richard belts out, midway through the fourth song of The Ortolan, the debut from the Silverlake quartet, the Deadly Syndrome. Every time I hear the line, it instantly triggers memories of an ‘80s movie that shall forever remain nameless, a fact I attribute to having spent one too many high school evenings taking bong rips and watching the highs and lows of a hoops-playing teenage werewolf who may or may not have loved a girl named Boof.
Most of Ortolan’s detractors will probably hear something else in the lupine line. They’ll bitch and they’ll moan about how the Deadly Syndrome sound just like [insert critically acclaimed Canadian rock band] here. And they’ll point out the obvious: Richard’s knock-kneed falsetto resembles Spencer Krug, Winn Butler, Alec Ounsworth, and the rest of the many seeds that David “The O.D.B. of Indie” Byrne planted in contemporary yelp rock.
But they’re missing the point. The Deadly Syndrome aren’t trying to re-invent the Catherine Wheel, their brand of rock gladly reads from the same Canadiandie playbook as the rest: the now-familiar array of odd instrumentation including a xylophone and the accordion and the facility to frame anthems into a off-kilter ‘90s Sub Pop song structure. But, at the same time, the Deadly Syndrome make it their own, displaying a distinctly folk tilt that suggests that they’ve absorbed their share of Fairport and Fahey, in addition to the more contemporary Moon and Antarctica/In the Aeroplane Over the Sea touchstones.
Sars: A Far Worse Deadly Syndrome-
Most importantly, The Ortolan shows an inherent knack for transmitting the wild-eyed schizophrenia of the band’s notoriously frenetic stage show to the studio, a difficult task for veteran bands, let alone a bunch of former film school kids who came out of virtually nowhere to become one of Silverlake’s biggest bands in merely months. The Ortolan feels looser than most first LP’s, almost jammy at times, with not a single song clocking in at under three minutes and nearly a third crossing the five minute mark.
The record’s superficially benign instrumental patches reveal exactly why Steve Aoki was wise in dangling a record deal in front of them approximately 16 minutes after they formed (proving once again that no one is capable of resisting the fried rice at Benihana). “I Hope I Become a Ghost” rides out on a flying dust cloud of mad monk piano keys and caveman drums. “The Ship that Shot Itself” is buoyed by an ethereal accordion line that breathes and swells, fleshing out the bare-bones folk guitar line. “Emily Paints” starts out like lukewarm Hot Hot Heat but resurrects itself mid-song like a forest full of dead trees struck by lightning, burning in an orange crush-colored haze of guitars.
The Ortolan makes the typical first record mistakes, of course. Instead of ending on its arena-rock high note, “Emily Paints” tacks on a keyboard-heavy coda that works live but feels unnecessary on wax. “Hearts” commences with a few shoegaze guitars that seem thrown in just because. And the lyrics are merely passable, not yet reflecting the good sense of humor that the band has evinced in their YouTube videos promoting the record.
In the end, it often boils down to something one of my Stylus colleagues recently pointed out: if something sounds good, it is good. The Ortolan is a very good record, perhaps the finest from the batch of bands that has broken out of Silverlake in the last few years. It remains to be seen whether the Deadly Syndrome will evolve into a great band, but judging from The Ortolan’s frequent moments of excellence, I’m willing to bet its follow-up will be leagues better than Teen Wolf Too.
If I were the Besnard Lakes I’d probably be convinced that Los Angeles was cursed. It’s bad enough that the city of Angels spawned the celebutante Cerberus of Hilton, Richie, & Lohan. But to add insult to injury (or as we say in LA, to fake tan on top of a sunburn) my hometown has failed each time that The Lakes have decamped from the Canadian tundra to bring us their brand of Beach Boys meets Pink Floyd psychedelia.
But their show last Friday night at the Troubadour should’ve been different. Surely word had gotten out about the sheer awesomeness of the Lake’s live set, or at the very least checked out an album that one stoner-rock loving soul named the 4th best of the half-year. Sadly, the Besnard Lakes were up against something bigger than just notorious Angeleno apathy: namely God. Specifically, the fact that not only did the show occur on one of LA’s five yearly rain days, but happened to conflict with the opening night of Yom Kippur. Of course, that might’ve played out fine in Silverlake or Echo Park. But this is the Westside., a place 87.4 percent of the populace is Jewish (maybe), a place where even the dogs are named Murray.
The Besnard Lakes: Better Than Lake Michigan, Lake Erie, & Land O’ Lakes
But despite the fact that the Troubadour was almost eerily empty, The Lakes turned in absolutely stellar performance. As Duke pointed out, “They completely immersed the audience in sound. They’re masters of the loud-soft dynamic. The show reminded me of one of those great Spiritualized or Sigur Ros shows. It was one of those shows where people rush over to the merch table for albums and autographed posters…The fans were just stunned that these guys haven’t blown up yet.”
And it was the only show I’ve been to that forced me to buy ear plugs mid-way through. At times, the band lets loose a four guitar blizzard of sound so violently loud that the walls of the Troubadour quivered. Unlike their first local performance where the band seemed slightly nervous and unsure, they displayed few jitters this time, with front-man Jace Lasek good-naturedly bantering with the crowd about being baffled by the popularity of college football in Omaha, while his wife, bassist/co-lead singer, Olga Goreas playfully badgered someone to buy her a whiskey on the rocks (successfully convincing one dude to buy her a glass of Maker’s Mark).
Displaying a sense of consummate professionalism, the band roared on for an hour and 20 minutes, closing with a headscratchingly good cover of Fleetwood Mac’s “You Make Loving Fun.” Weirdly enough, drummer Kevin Laing does a damn good Christine McVie. It was a great show from a great band, one that figures to be around for a very long time. So whether you were in temple trying not to be bored by God, recovering from Thursday’s Arcade Fire/LCD Soundsystem show where you probably temporarily thought you had found God , or watching the TMZ television show (god help us all), you missed out on an incredible performance. At the Troubadour last Friday night, the Besnard Lakes proved that they aren’t the dark horses any longer, they’re the ones to bet on. Even if they are cursed.
Great Scott is a column by Scott Towler, a war-hero/football star based in Los Angeles. If you don’t believe me, check out his blogger profile. The only thing more truthful than a blogger profile is Wikipedia.
In the wake of the success of Garden State and The O.C. Hollywood went compilation crazy. Hell, they even paid Jack Johnson actual money to do the urious George soundtrack, presumably because seven year olds are the only people who still like his music.
What gets me the most is the thought that the television of yesteryear, much like the music of yesteryear, had a purpose. You didn’t just score a scene because a Peter, Bjorn and John track fit nicely (much less because Universal music owns the show AND the band). And the best of the bunch was The Wonder Years
Jason Hervey: The Man, The Myth, The Mullet
The source music for The Wonder Years perfectly captures the era of its time, in a way that matched the show’s incredible resonance. With an unflinching eye, the series sketched the period when America was at war. Not just with Viet Nam, but also inwardly, trying to decipher exactly what defined a suddenly identity-less nation. The America of 2007 is beset with similar problems and crises that require immediate attention, but in my mind nothing has stepped up that musically captured our zeitgeist the way The Wonder Years did for the 60s.
Maybe it’s pointless to blame the shows. No, let’s blame the shows, and the fact that we keep on producing hour long dramas about idiots living their stupid lives in almost unbearable circumstances. Shows like the O.C. The Times They Are A-Tanning Take a scene from The O.C., a show that has released several mixtapes with music that had little to do with the story’s context.
Ryan: It’s just that, I never knew my father. Seth: Well, my father is rich. I’m a nerd.
Ryan: Look, I can’t deal with your issues right now Seth. Seth: Then get ready for the yacht club party.
Ryan: (pouty) Oh, I hate yacht club parties…they’re always so well decorated, and have more free food and booze than anyone can ever eat.
Seth: Yeah. Let’s waste it and then contribute money to Darfur.
Cue Rooney song.
This choice only makes sense if Rooney is a sailing term. As in, “Tie off the Rooney son, batten down the hatchet.”
Grey’s Anatomy is just as guilty. The Only Show in History to Make Scrubs’ Portrayal of Doctor’s Seem Realistic
On Grey’s, there predictably seems to be a musical disconnect. You’d think they would use music to undercut scenes where someone gets sliced open or dies. Nope, it’s all for scenes where Sandra Oh cries over an ex, or Katharine Hiegl goes on a date in autumn. For instance:
Sandra Oh: So, my date last night was a bust. Heigl: Oh yeah? Why’s that?
Sandra: He called me ugly. Heigl: Wow, that’s the 5th date this week that’s said that. Maybe you are ugly.
Sandra Oh: Good thing I work at a hospital. Heigl: Oh, is that what we do?
Sandra Oh: Yeah, I had almost forgotten since it has nothing to do with the show. Heigl: Hey, at least we’re not on ER…though ER is a better show.
Cue Psapp’s newest kick ass song that gets ruined because it’s raining on an urban street, and somebody doesn’t have a jacket. The only way to salvage this trend is for shows to publicly declare their triviality up-front and then the music will support it better.
Kids Like Gossip. Kids Like Girls. Kids like Josh Schwartz. It’s Genius! Thus far, Gossip Girl does this well. Another of Josh Schwartz’s babies (I guess he had triplets), Gossip Girl does just what it says: creating high drama for upper east side urbanites. Their lives are meaningless, but the drama fits perfectly with what the show is trying to accomplish. There is no Ryan Atwood from Chino, the kid with a heart of gold who needs saving. There are no medical patients getting ignored so fake doctors can bring their personal drama into the ER. Instead, it’s just spoiled high school kids doing what they do best: partying, fighting, and fucking. Because of that, I can’t say there’s a better show out there right now in terms of music. Every song they use seems to fit the scene, no matter how tedious it may be.
Brother: Well, I tried to kill myself.
Cue Eliot Smith
Sister: Let’s get you some fresh air then. Mother: No, he can’t go outside.
Sister: Why, are you hiding him to save face or something? Mother: No…I err…umm
Cue Pixies
And so on and so forth. They’re not asking you to love them, nor are they trying to do something ridiculous with their lives. Instead, they exist in our time, completely disconnected from the rest of the world (as all shows are). But the difference is, they embrace it. They might not hold a candle to The Wonder Years, but aren’t all that far from Beverly Hills, 9021o. And that ain’t half bad.
So I finally got around to compiling a Micromix for the Deerhunter blog. I planned on having it done weeks ago, but in the words of Cheech Marin watching the ghost-Titanic in Ghostbusters 2: better late than never.
The mix consists of a bunch of second Golden Age era-cuts, most of which you guys probably already know, some which you might not. Anyhow, it came out well and is worth checking out if if nothing else but for the commentary on the songs themselves, that may or may not include the secret revelation that the Pharcyde’s “Passing Me By” was slated for inclusion on Home Alone IV: Passed over Passover. Not to mention the rarely discussed fact that Black Sheep’s “The Choice is Yours” was an underground anthem in the pro-choice movement.” Either way, I hope you like it .
Beirut’s balkan flavored Gulag Orkestrar arrived last year swept up in a maelstrom of blog-hype, a buzz so deafening and feverish that it seemed almost irresponsible. And indeed, the band’s first live performances were met with a withering criticism that failed to take into account the fact that not only was Beirut front-man/master-mind Zach Condon not old enough to drink, he looked barely old enough to shave.
Still, the hype was warranted. Gulag Orkestrar was a stunning and frighteningly mature debut. Inspired by a tour of Eastern Europe, Condon delivered an album redolent with an old world scent of strong coffee and tobacco ash flicked onto cracked cobblestone sidewalks, with the clashing, crashing beauty of balkan brass bands roaring from nearby, songs sung by a teenager blessed with a world-weary weathered baritone. And as was stated in the blogger by-laws, I drank the Kool-Aid and named Beirut the best debut of 2006.
12 months later, it’s a bit surprising to see Beirut’s name absent from the Hype Machine charts despite the fact that he’s slated to drop his sophomore effort , The Flying Club Cup, just two weeks from tomorrow. Especially considering Beirut’s new record is perhaps even more outstanding than his first. According to Condon, the album’s inspiration came from “listening to a lot of Jacques Brel and French chanson music– pop songs shrouded in big, glorious, over-the-top arrangements and all this drama– and that was in some sense unfamiliar territory to me. So I started buying new instruments and relying on things I wasn’t necessarily comfortable with, like French horns and euphoniums, carrying these big, epic big brass parts that I used to do all on trumpets, and working with accordion and organ instead of all ukulele– very much throwing myself in the world of classical pop music.”
Stylus writer Nick Southall dropped an A- on it last week and the grade is certainly warranted, as is his sentiment that “it’s a simple formula—the songs are better, the melodies more memorable, the vocals stronger, the sound richer, the arrangements more rewarding.” It’s the sort of sophomore effort to cement Beirut as being far more than just another flash-in-the-pan. And maybe by the time he’s ready to make album #3, he’ll finally need to start shaving. From the Flying Club Cup
For Jews, Yom Kippur is the most solemn day of the year, a chance when we can reflect on the past 12 months, pay penance for our wrongdoings and sit in temple starving ourselves to death despite our stark agnosticism. It’s even less fun than it sounds. In fact, the only thing less fun than sitting in temple on Yom Kippur is listening to records made by the “artists” below. Let us say a kaddish for their careers and atone for their sins.
10. The Barenaked Ladies
“It’s been….one decade since I thought of you….cocked your head to the side and said, “you’re awful….It’s been two days since I laughed at you and quite frankly I’m not sorry.”
9. Adam Duritz of the Counting Crows
Here is a list of Jews that are allowed to wear dreadlocks:
8. Michael Bolton
And I quote:
Samir: No one in this country can ever pronounce my name right. It’s not that hard: Samir Na-gheen-an-a-jar. Nagheenanajar. Michael Bolton: Yeah, well at least your name isn’t Michael Bolton. Samir: You know there’s nothing wrong with that name. Michael Bolton: There was nothing wrong with it… until I was about 12 years old and that no-talent ass clown became famous and started winning Grammys. Samir: Hmm… well why don’t you just go by Mike instead of Michael? Michael Bolton: No way. Why should I change? He’s the one who sucks.
7. Billy Joel
Hey, I got a little something for you, Billy boy. How about retiring? And while you’re at it stop dating girls younger than your daughters. It’s gross. Props on Christie Brinkley though. 6. Carol King
Not only do you not make me feel like a natural woman, you make me feel like burning every copy of Tapestry that I can find. You’re just lucky I didn’t sue for my money back after I actually bought that snooze-fest after Rolling Stone named it one of the best 50 albums ever made.
5. Peaches
As if it wasn’t bad enough that Jewish women had to deal with the fact that they’ll never look like shiksa goddesses, they have to deal with Peaches being arguably the most famous Jewish woman singer in America despite having what appears to be a dead muskrat perched atop her forehead.
4. Matisyahu
It was about time the Jews got their own version of Dem Franchise Boyz.
3. MC Paul Barman
This man once referred to himself as a “cock mobster.” That sounds about right. 2.Barbra Streisand
1
The irony of course being that there is no such thing as “the essential” Barbra Streisand.
1. Barry Manilow
Oy.
Gevalt.
You can test how much you know with some music quizzes you can find on the web, though that’s far from the only kind of quiz out there. Depending on your tastes you can find plenty of movie quizzes that range from modern to classic-themed quiz questions, along with many different sports quizzes as well.
Last week, I had the chance to talk to Bjorn Yttling from Peter Bjorn & John for a piece I wrote in the Arizona Republic. It was an interesting interview for more than just my decision to ask who would win in a hypothetical Battle of the Bjorns between him, Bjorn Borg or Bjorn Ulvaeus. What struck me most about our conversation was how readily Yttling admitted that for the majority of his band’s career they’d openly worried about their lack of popularity.
I can’t imagine a respected American rock musician making that kind of statement. If James Mercer came out and revealed that the m.o. behind Chutes Too Narrow was to sell as many copies as possible and get the headlining slot at Coachella, the Brafflash would’ve started instantly, and not just after the umpteenth time a staggering ex-sorostitute clutching a chocolate martini told you how “Garden State really spoke to our generation.”
Of course, Bjorn (and Peter and John) is from Sweden, the land of Abba, the land of Annie, the land of Bjergen Kjergen from Knuergen near the Bjoergen fjords. A place where popularity isn’t necessary a four-letter world (of course, it might actually be a four-letter word but I don’t speak Swedish). And though it feels as though they’ve been around forever, PB&J were practically anonymous at this time last year, just another band struggling to get their songs in Old Navy commercials and Grey’s Anatomy. Or something.12 months later, they’re on your little sister’s Facebook page (and Kanye West’s), right next to Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes and the Killers. Which is exactly were they belong. Peter Bjorn and John make pop music. They strive for catchy hooks and straight-forward lyrics. The only difference between them and those bands is that they’re brilliant at what they do.
Peter, Bjorn and Uh….Moby?
I wrote in last year’s Stylus year-end List, that “the genius of Writer’s Block lay in its sense of populism. Not the brooding impenetrability of Pynchon and Radiohead, but the everyman pop sensibility of Catcher in the Rye and The Beatles.” The sort of thing that’s impossible to dislike. Of course, this is the Internet, a place where you can always find someone willing to spread hateful thoughts free of charge. And sure, I like to spread hateful thoughts as much as the next Gerard the Bear, but I’m not really sure what the point of websites like this are, Especially considering that 72.3 percent of blog-readers are other bloggers and bored journalists trolling for a story (Hi guys). Mix the two, stir, and voila! Instant backlash. So if it even matters at all (which I truly suspect it doesn’t), let me be the first to start the backlash to the backlash. Not only was Peter Bjorn and John’s set at the Wiltern this Monday better than expected, it was damn right transcendent.
Sure, it was a little surreal being at a show next to a quartet of quasi emo-chicks losing their shit, screaming like A Hard Days Night. But it was well-deserved. Gone were the nerves and timid stage demeanor that had reportedly marked the band’s early U.S. performances. In their stead was a confident and road-tested trio, buffering their almost twee album tracks with serrated bursts of psychedelic guitars, air-tight drumming and endless charisma. Peter struts around the stage, bobbing and weaving with full-on rock star histrionics, he clutches the guitar to his chest and dispenses guitar hero licks that would satisfy even the most jaded rockists. Bjorn is much more funky than any Swede has a right to be, delivering trampoline bouncy bass lines worthy of Soul Train (even if the fanbase is more High School Musical). And John, well he looks like Moby. Which is funny. Because it’s Moby.
The crowd went berserk. Sound flooded the cavernous Wiltern. It made me wonder exactly how high the ceiling is for this band, watching them not just breath new life into the already stellar album arrangements, but reinvigorating the tired “mainstream” guitar-pop genre, ( and to think I had thought Blink 182 had been the nail in the coffin). I’d say that it was sort of like watching The Beatles if not for the fact that I realize how stupid it sounds to say that something was “sort of like watching the Beatles.” So yes, it’s pretty fucking annoying to get your ear drums lacerated by love-lorn 13-year olds who want to make out with Peter Bjorn and OMG! But I’m more than alright with a world in which these guys can become one of the most popular bands around in just six months time. And for the record, Bjorn Yttling can totally take Bjorn Borg and the dude from Abba.
Just to make it clear: (because apparently no one reads these introductions) “The Beat Generation” is Zilla’s column. I, Jeff Weiss, did not write it. However, I did write both “Private Eyes” and “Maneater” for Hall & Oates. I also invented the Roger Rabbit; both the cartoon character and the dance craze.
Everyone’s a rapper: Ron Artest. Tyrese. The back-up guard on the Timberwolves. Randy Savage. Tony Yayo.
And with the massive influx of rappers emerging everyday (thanks Myspace), coupled with the climate of dwindling sales, a serious epidemic of atrocious stage naming has broken out. And to assist my fellow rappers (especially those that started rapping when Killa Season dropped) here’s my official guide to:The 5 Rap Names You Can’t Use Anymore: 2007 Edition.
1) Young/Yung, Lil/Little, Big/Bigg
REASON:.If your name starts with any one of these titles, you will be bagging groceries at Super Fresh within a year of getting your deal or dropping your “street classic” mixtape.
WHO TO BLAME:Jay-Z, every Southern rapper of the past 15 years, Father Time, smoking at a young age, poor eating habits
ALTERNATIVE NAMES:Something more realistic, descriptive and creative.Everyone under 5’8’’ shouldn’t be “Lil” and everyone under 25 shouldn’t be “Young.”
EXAMPLES:“Middle-Aged Murda.” “Average Height Wayne .” “Eating Problem Killa.”
2)Famous Mafia/Drug Dealers (Real or Fictional)
REASON:It’s not a good look to take your name from someone who is either A) doing 25 to life and has no personal connection to you,B) was killed by rivals and/or the US Government, or C) was a fictional character who died in a movie that came out before 1995.
That was a cool trend in 1997 before the movement evolved into the current “Young/Lil’/Big” trend that is so popular today.However, this is nothing admirable when naming yourself after criminals who lost to the law, to the streets, etc. Sure, they made $50 million off cocaine in 1986 and have 23 bodies to their name, but they are now someone’s bitch.Or dead.
WHO TO BLAME:2Pac, The Outlawz, Biggie, Nas, Capone-N-Noreaga, Rick Ross, Freeway, 50 Cent, Brian De Palma, Mario Puzo, Al Pacino, Martin Scorcese
ALTERNATIVE NAMES:Republicans.No one from Michael Corleone to John Gotti, is more gangsta than these mothfuckas. They take money hand over fist.They shit on education and the environment in favor of power and “the hook-up.”They start beef.They lie to the government like it’s a sport.They watch each other’s back.And when one of them get pinched, they make sure it’s only a slap on the wrist.
REASON:This is just pathetic.Why on earth would a grown man wanted to be called Tum Tum?That’s the name of the annoying kid in 3 Ninjas.Freaky Zeaky sounds like the fat boy who farts in class and eats dried boogers.Soldier Boy sounds like the name of the slow kid up the block who used to put mud in his hair, play G.I. Joes on the porch alone and shit himself.
WHO TO BLAME:Peedi Peedi,Jibbs, Webbie, Dipset, Bow Wow, women who smoked while pregnant, global warming, Carrot Top.
ALTERNATIVE NAMES:Really, anything not on this list is an instant upgrade.
EXAMPLES:Here’s some I just made up that are infinitely better than Webbie: Uncle Duct Tape.MC Tire Iron. Matchbook Monster.Rappin’ Dave.Pimp Stamp Collector.T-Politeness.
4)Metaphor/Metafore/Medaphore
REASON:There’s too many rappers with this name and I don’t know why.I think they want to express how poetic or well-read they are.And that’s pompous.Bill Gates doesn’t walk around with bling on.
If you name yourself any variation of “Metaphor,” you resign yourself to two destinies:either as a white nerd rapper who gets murdered at Scribble Jam every year or as a black nerd rapper who flows like Talib Kweli.No one wants either of these.
WHO TO BLAME:Literary majors, Big Pun, Wu-Tang, scientologists, Rawkus Records, HipHopInfinity.com, weed, white people.
ALTERNATIVE NAMES:Any other part of speech, while still lame, will not get you lumped into this group.And that again is an instant upgrade.
REASON:Besides being a pain in the ass to type, having a long acronym or overusing periods to spell your name in 2007 is completely impractical.Technology and culture are moving so fast that people don’t have time to remember what those five straight consonants in your name really mean.
“Hey check out the latest album from D.X.E.F.I.N.Q.”I’m not going to ask what that means because I do not give a shit.And adding unnecessary punctuation is tedious—this is hip hop, people.Less is more.
Don’t give yourself an acronym after you’ve had your name for 5 years.Does anyone really believe Memphis Bleek’s name is an acronym for Makin’ Easy Money Pimpin’ Hoes in Style?Then why does he?
WHO TO BLAME:L.E.G.A.C.Y. of Justus League (uber-annoying to type), The Notorious B.I.G., Wu-Tang, DMX, will.i.am, T.I, Big Daddy Kane, The LOX, One.Be.Lo, Mista F.A.B.
ALTERNATIVE NAMES:As much love as UGK gets from fans and bloggers, how the hell did they name their latest album after their ACTUAL name?UGK means Underground Kingz.Their new album is titled Underground Kingz.That’s like KRS-One making an album called Knowledge Reigns Supreme Over Nearly Everybody and no one calling him on his shit.Or Bell Biv DeVoe making an album called BBD.Retarded.Keep it short and simple.
EXAMPLES:Legacy, The Notorious Big, DMX (he named himself after a drum machine and tried to cover it up later—asshole), William, Tee Eye, Underground Kingz.
CONCLUSION
Over the past few years, garbage names in hip hop have become a serious threat to our children, our music and our family values. If you follow these five easy steps, you will ensure the safety of our streets, the sanctity of our hip hop, and the death of characters like Lil’ Chedda Man, Capone Gotti Castro Click, Bum Bum Boy, Met-a-four and M.I.S.T.A. F.L.A.M.E.S. (Major Innovator Sound Tower Alliance Frequently Letting Assholes Make Everyone Suffer)
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