4 Non-Blondes is a band you could look at, know they were annoying as people, and sense what they smelled like. And Linda Perry continues that to this day. Here’s a recent clip of her talking about how she loves beaver (ha! ha! she’s a lesbian! get it?) and how Justin Bieber looks like a girl. HAW HAW HAW!
Not Linda Perry. You’d think Rachel Madow had more fashion sense than this.
I’m not above remarking on Justin Bieber’s epicence quality, but I put some effort into it. There’s something about a tanned, tatted-up raccoon-eyed Skeletor making a lowball joke about a boy who looks like a girl (a joke that would have KILLED in 1982) with an acrid, molting bowler that’s – ugh! And the interviewer laughs, as he is obliged to, while Perry pretends to be the new Fran Liebowitz! No, Oscar Levant! Oh, you raconteuse, you!
I remember hearing it and thinking, “This is the most obnoxious fucking
hollering I’ve ever heard in my life.” I could envision the horrible,
horrible female that was singing it, and I knew that it was gonna be a
hit, just by how bad I hated it. I knew that it was going to be played
for years by every fucking bad girl band that came through my local bar,
and sung on every karaoke night for the rest of time.
Aaah. Hate can be soothing. I’ve read the article twice now, each time brings solace. The world feels less empty. A friend and I have been howling and barking about “What’s Up?” for about 20 years. Knowing others loathe it is good, we as a species may still get shit done. When the apocalypse comes (zombies, Jesus regulating, Shiva feeling done, Ragnarok, whatever) it’s pleasing to know that instead of hoarding food, weapons, finding shelter – there will be a few of us who have our priorities straight. While the swine are squealing about, we the elite aesthete force, hearts full of pride in humanity and art and civilization, that will destroy all record of “What’s Up?”
Someone had to Windex these before & after the video shoot.
Justin Timberlake’s song “Mirrors” drones like a leaf blower that changes the pitch by waving the nozzle up and down. Most of the time when it comes up, I change the channel or jump to another track.
Mirrors are overdone as a metaphor or object of contemplation. Or, they’re perfectly natural things to regard but it’s tough to come up with anything new. But while enduring a few minutes of “Mirrors” and listening to the words, a thought emerged: “What if it isn’t addressed to another person, at all?“
I doubt that is an original thought about this song. Glamorous people have to look at themselves the normal amount PLUS as a matter of commerce. “What’s new/the same about my appearance? Will it maintain/build/detract from my marketability?”
Attractiveness can be a burden. “It’s hard for people to take me seriously!” attractive people claim, with merit. We nod, thinking inwardly “How many traffic tickets have I ended up with compared to what you were able to talk your way out of?”
Attractive people: “No one ever asks me out. They’re too intimidated by my looks.” We laugh with compassion, thinking inwardly: “When we hang out, we can’t even go to the grocery store without you getting looks and hit on a half dozen times. Your lack of dates comes from something else. Or you’re measuring loneliness in hours and days, not weeks, months, years.”
(Yes, it is a brooding, complex experience running errands with me. Seething, cutting resentments and anthropological assessments makes the time pass faster.)
Some lyrics to ponder:
You were right here all along. It’s like you’re my mirror,
My mirror staring back at me.
I couldn’t get any bigger
With anyone else beside of me.
And:
I can’t ever change without you, you reflect me, I love that about you
And if I could, I would look at us all the time.
The whole song, should you listen/endure it, is full of psychological gems of this sort.
9 lines of despair then 5 of exaltation in love and friendship. I enjoy the turn at the end of this very simple poem.
Jumpstarting (and applying a prolonged cardiopulmonary resuscitation to) my writing aspirations the last three (!) years, especially the last two, definitely has me engaged in the typical carping of hopeful artists caught in the throes of enthusiasmos/manqué anxieties. “How can THAT person be successful? Ugh, such mediocrity in the agora!” Yes, my annoying artist side engages in conspicuous use of Greek terms even more often than French.
Sonnet 29 by William Shakespeare
When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d, Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate, For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
“Desiring this man’s art” I take as a mix of envying another’s accomplishment and salesmanship (or saleswomanship), not so much the substance of the work. And those who find creating art a refuge relate to often being unsettled and grouchy about it: “what I most enjoy contented least”.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. PopoZão. PopoZão.The objects of the Sonnets shift between a Dark Lady to a handsome young man. Shakespeare’s sonnets to the young man reach greater heights. While there is a romantic reverie at the end here, this poem sums up much about how I feel about friends I have known and those in the present. I am fortunate in friends, and while envy of celebrities and other artists kicks in frequently, in times of even light reflection the burdens of fame and the coteries that form around it look annoying as hell. Glad for my friends and the people I love. I’m content to keep them instead of being like, say, Kevin Federline digging on his own song “PopoZão”. Federline surely had “friends” telling him this song was great. Ye gods, this moment from 2006 is golden:
“Lost in Love” is a fucking bonkers song, and either Air Supply deserves more street cred or should be constantly monitored by police.
Air Supply was the soundtrack for a puppy love phase the summer 1981. Me, a 12 year-old townie in Eugene going into 7th grade. Her: a sophisticated older lady, age 14, from another town and headed to high school. I told her I was 13. Hey, age ain’t nothin’ but a number. Am I right, “I’m a 27 year old man who married my 15 year old girlfriend Aliyaah to avoid getting jailed” R. Kelly?
Any-hoo, summer camp ended and we went to separate towns and … those Air Supply songs? On the radio? They felt the way WE did. The world didn’t understand, but Air Supply was there!
One dude was named Graham Russell. The other was named Russell Graham. I think. There may be a handy resource for looking up such details but damned if I’m leaving this laptop to go to a library.
Jump about 17-18 years later, I’m joking with my friend Paul about Air Supply. He does the BEST (okay, only) impression I’ve seen of the lead singer’s manner of holding a corded microphone and gently shifting his weight back and forth. We start running over songs and realize every Air Supply song we can think of is an apology. Hilarious! Wimps! (Them, not us.) The topic gets left alone. I still avoid listening to Air Supply, as it fills me with puppy love shame. Certainly my summer girlfriend got a significant upgrade over me in the course of her life. Yet, there were eternal promises made that I’ve fallen short of.
Jump forward to now. Looking at a karaoke experience coming up, a friend wants to duet on an Air Supply song. Sure. Confront the fear, can only make me stronger. A few days I listened to “Lost in Love”. Of course I still knew the words, but I hadn’t contemplated them for a while. They are weird and terrifying. Let’s take a look! (After the video)
I realized the best part of love is the thinnest slice, And it don’t count for much. But I’m not letting go, I believe there’s still much to believe in.
What is “the thinnest slice”? Is love best when it’s portioned out by a miser? Tough for anyone, who has watched a movie or tv show about killers who imprison a person they fetishize, to NOT grow alarmed by these initial words. Still, let’s assume positive intent and that he wants to believe in this love bond in defiance of some undefined oppositional force.
So lift your eyes if you feel you can. Reach for a star and I’ll show you a plan. I figured it out, What I needed was someone to show me.
Why would the love object have difficulty raising her/his eyes? Sadness? Hogtied and laying on the floor? Let’s go with sadness. Positive intent. He’s addressing the love object, and boasts about having figured something out concerning reaching toward stars and getting a plan. Presumably, it wasn’t the love object who showed him, as she/he cannot even look skyward.
You know you can’t fool me, I’ve been loving you too long. It started so easy. You want to carry on. (Carry on)
Palpable menace here. Goodwill over positive intent diminishing. Our fingers start moving toward the phone to call for help. Imagine the two lines being reversed: “I’ve been loving you too long. You KNOW YOU CAN’T FOOL ME!” So, the love object may have tried to fool him, he protests here that’s not gonna happen. Things started simply, and the love object wants to carry on. To persist in love? To cry out for help? Damned vague. (Now I’m) lost in love and I don’t know much. Was I thinking aloud and fell out of touch? But I’m back on my feet, And eager to be what you wanted.
Now the dynamic has changed. He was the man with the star and a plan. Now he’s obsequious. He has stumbled or been off-balance and now regained his footing. The disorientation is possibly related to having shared his thoughts aloud. Was there something wrong about the thoughts? He seems to speculate there is. Now he’s changed for the love object, can’t she/he see that? Does she/he not approve?
Air Supply. Run. As fast as you can.Lyrics repeat several times, including a musical bridge with outer space noises. Then reaches the climax where a yielding to the moment has far exceeded a craven thankfulness for a thin “slice” of love. Now the narrator is engorged, intoxicated, and in a revelry over his now abundant portion of love. Now I’m lost, lost in love. Lost in love, lost in love. Now I’m lost, I’m lost in love. Lost in love, lost in love.
But as any creature with an appetite learns, satisfaction is a temporary state. The cravings return and one must consume again. To move from a niggardly “slice” of love to an outright banquet. The song is a warning.
“Aaaaaaawwwwllllll…”A post today on the A.V. Club celebrating the song “Wonderwall” by Oasis vexed me. I never got into Oasis. The lyrics to their hit songs were simple and pointlessly riddled with Beatles and Rolling Stones references. The word “wonderwall” is a George Harrison reference. And hearing more than one song of theirs is exhausting. Not because of their high energy, but they nag.
Their brotherly squabbles were occasionally fun to read/listen to. Re-listening to the song to see if I feel any differently about it 16-17 years on, the answer is I don’t. I still feel like the only tension to Oasis songs is whether lead vocalist Liam Gallagher will find a third note to sing, or even a second. Pass.
Jokes about Taylor Swift dating a lot feels like unsavory slut-shaming. I don’t dig that.
Taylor Swift sings hyper-produced songs with gimmicky hooks. Good. Inane. Fine. She also has a penchant for dating male celebrities. It’s an old showbiz move: two celebrities date, both are kept relevant in gossip circles, careers extended. Lovely. Go, kids, go.
What’s the frequency of her dating? Whom she’s dating is in the news a lot, but the pace of her dating doesn’t seem that unusual. Not that she needs anyone’s approval, but is it that much different from high school or college dating?
What rankles most is her using her dating history to sell records, over and over, then the objection to comments on her relationships/marketing strategy. She’s profiting from the national hobby of assigning each of her songs to a particular boy/man she’s dated. Nifty. It works. Adds some needed flavor to her Applebee’s blandness.
Okay, strike what was said earlier, what bothers me the most about her songs that blame bad behavior on, and screeching her independence from, these purported villains is that I’m sympathizing with her targets, who typically don’t respond in kind to her histrionics. Things are so warped that I feel empathy for her targets, including soporific talk-singer John fucking Mayer!
One of Swift’s ex-boyfriends, Harry Styles, who is in English boy band One Direction gave an interview where mumbling about Swift came across as dignified. She mocked him in her Grammys performance, a truly weird dyspeptic fantasia disturbing and tedious simultaneously, using a British accent. Styles’ response? “She’s always good on the stage. She’s been doing it a long time. She knows what she’s doing on stage. It was just another good Taylor Swift performance. It was good.” Boring yet classy.
Taylor Swift or her advisors have set on the strategy to keep milking the dating song dedication angle over and over until it doesn’t yield anything anymore, but she may be authentically motivated by a lot of rage. Choose one or the other, but don’t muddle them up and wonder why people are laughing. It would show some character if she realized “Hey, I’m just an angry beast, and I’m going to re-launch the riot grrl concept for Millenials and be the new Kathleen Hanna or a less scabby and bewildered Courtney Love.”
In defense of Love, her dating Kurt Cobain and Billy Corgan got them to help her out with songwriting and production, making her art better.
Even in a boy band, Justin Timberlake awkwardly showed signs of wit. “Pop” by N’Sync had some funny, self-aware parts in the video. No, I never bought any N’Sync songs. I confess, under duress, to buying “I Want it That Way” by Backstreet Boys: a pinnacle of the Max Martin formula! The enigma about “that way”! During “Pop” there were already rumors about N’Sync members splintering off, commencing the inevitable “Now I’m a solo teen idol with a boner” phase. Oh, the heap of bodies lining that path. Don’t look. Walk on.
I eyerolled when Timberlake’s Justified album was released. Ugh. Does it come with a packet of Axe Body Spray, the external douche for douchebags? Whatever. Ignored the first few singles. Then I started liking “Rock Your Body” (video warning: Timberlake’s facial hair tries too much in the “Imma man” department. Cf: DiCaprio, Leonardo). A well-produced tribute to Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall album, with Janet Jackson in the backing vocal. Okay, at that I nodded a little cred Timberlake’s way. Also heard Howard Stern confessing to liking the album. Hurm.
Then “Señorita” came out and seemed to prove all the over-the-top Axe Body Spray milieu I feared. Especially the call & response at the end.
Then, although it had already been released, I gave a closer look/listen to “Cry Me a River”. Like the rest of the world, I initially saw the video and thought “Ah! Justin’s mad at Britney. He’s got an angry edge. That’s a lot of venom given they both told us over and over they were virgins. Whatevs.” But then I realized it was THE Timbaland in the video, and that he must have produced the song. I like Timbaland’s work with Missy Elliott: he has a good ear, daring, and the confidence to be funny in a field of dour faces.
Timberlake was an utter chickenshit during the 2004 Super Bowl halftime show, acting as if it were an accident and leaving blame on Janet Jackson. The cue for tearing at Jackson’s dress was “I’ll have you naked by the end of this song.” The moment was deliberate. Shame on him also for causing the phrase “wardrobe malfunction” to be added to our pop culture lexicon. But, worse, was the media and government fines imposed because of the shock, SHOCK that we mammals have mammary glands. The rest of the world laughed at our puritanism and prurience. Again.
Years pass. His album FutureSex/LoveSounds is released. It’s a full-on Timbaland production. They have great rapport. I bought the whole album. Interesting, solid stuff. No wisdom within it, but catchy and melodic and fun.
When punchy one night with friends, “Sexyback” came onscreen and I changed the refrain from “Go ahead be gone with it” to “Go hippie gone wigga.” It summarizes the life path of many of us males grown in hippie-strong Eugene, Oregon. That’s still what I think of when it plays.
I have considered taking a sample of the “Ya!” that ends each lyric to play in my real life to punctuate every sentence.
“Do you have any more wheat hot dog buns?”(Ya!)
“No, I’m not interested in giving money to the University Alumni Association.” (Ya!)
“Will you PLEASE pick up your juice bag straw wrapper?” (Ya!)
Seven(ish) years later a new Timberlake/Timbaland album is en route. I’ll buy it on faith.
A few whiffs of Axe Body Spray emit from the computamer/phone-amajig in the new official lyric video for “Suit and Tie” the lead single for the upcoming album. “Lyric” videos are a new-ish thing where the artist doesn’t promise to have much in the way of visual production effort, but does provide a relatively accurate transcript of the lyrics onscreen. I appreciate the anti-art of emphasizing vapid lyrics by making them visually prominent.
And am I now, in 2013, rehearsed to karaoke “Señorita” at some point, including the call & response? Yup. Le douchebag? C’est moi!
In ‘The Book of Mormon’ musical program, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (LDS = Mormons) had a series of full-page ads somewhat rolling with the humor of the show to invite people to delve deeper into their religion. Warm, welcoming, with a QR code! LOADS better than ads taken out by Scientologists, which tend to be prickly and defensive.
Bear in mind that for a hundred+ years the Mormons did not allow blacks to fully join the priesthood (in Mormonism, all males may become priests able to minister to their families and gain full entrance to the temple). Why was there supernatural racism in a book purportedly full of wisdom and love? Blacks took the wrong side in the war in Heaven, silly! There was a group of people who were less valiant in the God versus Satan war, and that group got their skin turned black as punishment
10th LDS President Joseph Fielding Smith (in the 1960s): “There were no neutrals in the war in Heaven. All took sides either with Christ or with Satan. Every man had his agency there, and men receive rewards here based upon their actions there, just as they will receive rewards hereafter for deeds done in the body. The Negro, evidently, is receiving the reward he merits” (Doctrines of Salvation, 1:61, 65-66; emphasis added).
With Look magazine in October 1963, President Joseph Fielding Smith had more ripe quotes, including:
“I would not want you to believe that we bear any animosity toward the Negro. ‘Darkies’ are wonderful people, and they have their place in our church.”
More from Smith, including the Old Testament “mark of Cain” meaning an entire person’s skin was pigmented dark as a curse:
“Not only was Cain called upon to suffer, but because of his wickedness he became the father of an inferior race. A curse was place upon him and that curse has been continued through his lineage and must do so while time endures. Millions of souls have come into this world cursed with black skin and have been denied the privilege of Priesthood and the fullness of the blessings of the Gospel. These are the descendants of Cain. Moreover, they have been made to feel their inferiority and have been separated from the rest of mankind from the beginning… we will also hope that blessings may eventually be given to our Negro brethren, for they are our brethren–children of God—notwithstanding their black covering emblematical of eternal darkness” (The Way to Perfection, 101-02).
Contemporary racist rhetoric for the 60s? Sure. But based in allegedly holy writ. This stuff doesn’t have the excuse of being culled together by flawed, dumb human beings thousands of years ago, or 1,500 years ago. The Book of Mormon was written in the 19th century under hilariously shoddy & scammy circumstances by a twice-convicted con man (Joseph Smith). Actually, it was not written by Smith. It was dictated. Speculation is that Joseph Smith could not write, but could ape the verbal rhetoric of the King James Bible. He read aloud, translating from golden plates from behind a curtain (Smith never let anyone else see these golden plates).
Lo, and behold! Haters, attend! Deliverance is nigh! Among growing social pressure, in 1978 the Mormon President Spencer Kimball received a call directly from God that black people are a-okay and can become full members of the Mormon Church. And there was much rejoicing. A PBS account of how this revelation (blacks are nice, and definitely not eternally cursed for decisions their ancestors made in a fantasy some dude made up!) swept through in a wave of relief is amusing. Thank god?
Okay, I passed out and suddenly find another few hundred words I’ve typed up about the flaws of believing in magic books written by fellow primates and blind faith in magic institutions run by fellow primates. How does this keep happening? Is it Satan? Odin? An instrument of Shiva? Shake it off. Concentrate.
Mormons, on a personal level, can be really nice people. But so can everyone else.
The Mormon Church contributed millions to the Prop 8 campaign in California, banning same-sex marriage. It learned nothing from their “black” experience on wanting to ban civil rights. Their millions of dollars poured into California hurt thousands of families, inheritance rights, ability to see spouses/partners in the hospital. If “traditional” marriage is meant to create children, should we ban marriages that don’t produce children? Of course not. History will judge Mormons and anti-gays harshly. Good.
Scientology remains the most annoying western religion. Is anything more annoying than dim-witted people thinking they are super-smart because they repeat it to themselves, and pay thousands to have it said to them, over and over again? Tom Cruise thinks he’s smarter than all psychiatrists, for Christ’s sake!
For the record, my gut instinct remains that Tom Cruise is a genuinely nice guy, but worried about holding on to talent and success and wanting routines and rituals to maintain and build on that success and praise.
Andrés 3000 from OutKast (and effectively a solo artist): enough with your primping razor commercials with professional squinter Adrian Brody and that cuddly Spanish actor. You’re so fresh and so clean, we GET IT, but we don’t like you for your grooming. We like you because you’re funny and funky in your music.
Get back in the studio and make another album. Take in Big Boi if possible, or not.
I have no idea whether Billy Joel has recorded an album in the last thirty years. The Billy Joel I know has a weird chip on his shoulder about being disrespected by critics in the late 70s and 80s for, I guess, not being Paul Simon?
New York already has a Paul Simon. It only needs the one Paul Simon. I don’t see Billy Joel falling into a sustained melancholy like Paul Simon, or at least ENJOYING the melancholy like Paul Simon. I would go eat pizza with Billy Joel without thinking. I’d have some hesitation about eating pizza with Paul Simon, though I have more of his music.
The Nylon Curtain is a favorite album. I haven’t listened to it all the way through since the 80s. The songs aren’t all great, but even as a kid listening to it on cassette what was appealing was Billy Joel making an effort to stretch. “Goodnight Saigon” is a moving song. “Pressure”, thinking about this right now, might have been inspired by Peter Gabriel. Especially the video. Oh shit. I may have to go on a walk after posting this.
“Allentown” is a hallmark song for Joel. Listening it today it’s still pretty great, and he marvelously adds seven or eight syllables in the first word of “restlessness was handed down”. He may STILL be in the studio in the middle of pronouncing “restlessness”. I remember reading in Rolling Stone mentioning the people in Allentown, PA not caring for the song. That saga is interesting.
“We Didn’t Start the Fire” is a horrible fucking song. Not a horrible song for fucking (that too), but on the all-time list of awful songs. Bottom five on my list. Baby boomer apologia. If reading the mention of the song compels you to listen to it, you got a Google or iTunes, go for it. I won’t link to it. I love you way too goddamn much to be that conduit.
“You May Be Right” is a future karaoke song for me. Once done, I may expire fully content. Joel’s performance below gets cut off before the finish. He is a major dorkus malorkus here, unclear whether he knows that or if he thinks he’s being menacing. Whatever he’s doing, he’s OWNING it here, which deserves RESPECT, you mook, and you may laugh when you start viewing this, but when it ends abruptly you will feel blueballed/ovaried!
