I was watching “Rock of Love” last night. Awesome show. It’s like “Flavor of Love,” except instead of Flavor Flav, Bret Michaels (of Poison and Pamela Anderson fame) is the bachelor searching for true love in a round by round elimination of a bunch of strippers, groupies, sluts, psychos, and exotic dancers. Last night a mannish whore tattooed “Bret” on her neck, to convince him how “for real” she was about him. Bret was touched, felt a real connection with her.
I like Bret. He comes across as earnest, especially when he discusses why a particular would-be lover of his failed to get eliminated because of her gigantic rack or extra tight ass. As far as misogynistic rock stars go, and let me stress my lack of irony here, he’s a class act.
Then again, I think I’ve always liked Bret. Long before I discovered home videos of him nailing Pamela Anderson, I was a Poison fan. It’s not something I’m especially proud of, but it’s the truth. I even had a Poison poster hanging in my room when I was a kid. I guess even back then, I was SO comfortable with my masculinity, that I was cool with having four longhaired, makeup-wearing men on my wall. Or maybe not. I also had a poster of a man looking through binoculars… the left objective showed an attractive blonde woman in a bikini seductively lying on a red Ferrari and the right objective showed the same blond, lying on the same Ferrari, but in a different pose. So, I had not one, not two, but four images guaranteed to compensate for my pre-pubescent penis.
As hot as that Ferrari-bikini girl poster was, it was nothing compared to my Poison and Guns and Roses posters. Plural? Yes. I was into hair metal, not for the chicks, not for the drugs and booze, I didn’t know anything about that, no, I was in it for the music. The awful, ungodly music.
How did this happen? Well, it’s a prime example of the power of top 40 radio. You see, my mother didn’t listen to music. I remember one Beatles tape that she occasionally played in the old Peugeot, but after that broke down for the ninth time, Mom got a Chevy without so much as a tape player, and the radio was forever tuned to NPR. I remember grooving to the “All Things Considered” intro throughout my youth. Devoid of parental influence, I at least had an older brother that would guide me away from hair metal… until he moved in with my dad. Then it was just me and Z89.
“From the top top top of Mount Olympus…” Z89 was my connection with popular music. And popular music regrettably included Poison in the late 80’s and early 90’s. Also two Paula Abdul albums. (I don’t care what the critics said, “Spellbound” was every bit as good as “Forever Your Girl.”) Without any one to guide my musical interests, I was subjected to whatever Z89 was playing and assumed it must be good. After all, all my friends in school were listening to the same crap I was.
Therein lies the rube. As true as it was in the late 80’s and early 90’s, top 40 stations continue to poison the ears of today’s youth. This is serious stuff people. I’m sorry, I know Timbaland is catchy, but every third song on the radio should not feature him. And my god, why is Fergie played? Ever? Seriously, you don’t think in ten years, when people look back, they won’t chide each other about just how stupid they were to listen to “Fergalicious” or “London Bridges.” (At her absolute best, she’s a lowest common denominator M.I.A.) And don’t get me started on Rihanna’s “Umbrella.”
There’s hope though. For all those parents who don’t listen to top 40 and leave it on NPR constantly, there’s KCRW’s “Morning Becomes Eclectic.” At least in LA. I’m sure you fools in Boston and New York and Chicago have access to some decent daily music show on one of your public radio stations. Please do your kids a favor, don’t allow them to listen to pop garbage. Change the channel. Do you really want your little girls and boys with posters of Fergie and Timbaland on the wall? ‘Cause if you do, I’ll tell you where they just might end up… on some goddamn reality show, tattooing “Akon” on their neck as they try and convince him they’re not just into his money, they’re real for their man. And they’ll mean it.
Showing posts with label Hip-Hop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hip-Hop. Show all posts
Friday, September 7, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The Gym
No matter which gym you belong to, you are undoubtedly surrounded by a handful of weirdoes. They’re everywhere: The fifty-year-old woman whose triple-D implants account for half her body weight, the ginormous Russian body-builder who does pirouettes as he moves from one weight apparatus to another, the guy in the locker room who wants to talk about just how much the Raiders suck while his penis dangles inches from your face, the elderly man who seems to jerk and hyperextend every muscle in his body as he does seated-rows, the meathead who screams and grunts way too loud after every bicep curl. I’m one of those weirdoes too.
It’s not entirely my fault. I’m not conscious of what I’m doing. It’s early. I’m surrounded by strangers. And my headphones seem to alter reality. With music blasting in my ears, I lose the casual awareness that others are around me, possibly observing me. And so I dance. Not like club dancing. There’s neither a bump nor a grind - just awkward white boy nodding of head, tapping of feet. Sometimes I look in the mirror and catch myself playing air guitar, air bass, or air drumming… obviously not at the same time. Note: I do not ever play air piano, that’s not weird, it’s borderline psychotic.
In addition to my air-playing and my body rocking, I’m prone to silently mouthing along to the lyrics. When I work out, I primarily listen to hip-hop, so singing along consists of me moving my lips very fast and taking great care to avoid mouthing the N-word. Despite my political correctness, I look like a creep. It’s not on purpose. It just happens. The noise canceling headphones have the affect that driving in your car has on your sense of privacy – well almost… you won’t find me picking my nose at the gym. That would just be silly.
And while we’re on the subject of the gym, here’s my sixty-minute workout mix.
10 Minute Warm-up:
Aphex Twin – Film (nice, easy, chill, good to start)
Crazy – Gnarls Barkley (pick up the pace, but not too much)
Queen Bee – Medeski, Martin, and Wood (chill and then it explodes in the last minute)
40 Minute Work-out:
The Rooster – Big Boi (This will wake you up)
Heavy Metal – Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (upbeat, rockin’)
Float On – Modest Mouse (upbeat, rockin’ +1)
December 4th – DJ Danger Mouse (Shift to hip-hop through the Beatles and Jay-Z)
Get By – Talib Kweli (Upbeat, awesome)
The Seed – The Roots (more upbeat, more awesomeness)
Organ Donor – DJ Shadow (I dare you not to sweat to this song)
Never Let Me Down – Kanye West (Just when you think the song is ending, Jay-Z comes back for an encore verse)
Deceptacon – Le Tigre (The peak, just when you need it)
10 Minute Warm-down:
Umi Says – Mos Def (ramp into something chill)
No Woman, No Cry – Fugees (and we’re done)
It’s not entirely my fault. I’m not conscious of what I’m doing. It’s early. I’m surrounded by strangers. And my headphones seem to alter reality. With music blasting in my ears, I lose the casual awareness that others are around me, possibly observing me. And so I dance. Not like club dancing. There’s neither a bump nor a grind - just awkward white boy nodding of head, tapping of feet. Sometimes I look in the mirror and catch myself playing air guitar, air bass, or air drumming… obviously not at the same time. Note: I do not ever play air piano, that’s not weird, it’s borderline psychotic.
In addition to my air-playing and my body rocking, I’m prone to silently mouthing along to the lyrics. When I work out, I primarily listen to hip-hop, so singing along consists of me moving my lips very fast and taking great care to avoid mouthing the N-word. Despite my political correctness, I look like a creep. It’s not on purpose. It just happens. The noise canceling headphones have the affect that driving in your car has on your sense of privacy – well almost… you won’t find me picking my nose at the gym. That would just be silly.
And while we’re on the subject of the gym, here’s my sixty-minute workout mix.
10 Minute Warm-up:
Aphex Twin – Film (nice, easy, chill, good to start)
Crazy – Gnarls Barkley (pick up the pace, but not too much)
Queen Bee – Medeski, Martin, and Wood (chill and then it explodes in the last minute)
40 Minute Work-out:
The Rooster – Big Boi (This will wake you up)
Heavy Metal – Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (upbeat, rockin’)
Float On – Modest Mouse (upbeat, rockin’ +1)
December 4th – DJ Danger Mouse (Shift to hip-hop through the Beatles and Jay-Z)
Get By – Talib Kweli (Upbeat, awesome)
The Seed – The Roots (more upbeat, more awesomeness)
Organ Donor – DJ Shadow (I dare you not to sweat to this song)
Never Let Me Down – Kanye West (Just when you think the song is ending, Jay-Z comes back for an encore verse)
Deceptacon – Le Tigre (The peak, just when you need it)
10 Minute Warm-down:
Umi Says – Mos Def (ramp into something chill)
No Woman, No Cry – Fugees (and we’re done)
Monday, July 30, 2007
My Own Self-Satisfaction Mix
I like throwing parties for one reason and one reason alone: I get to make the playlist. I can’t begin to tell you how often I go to parties and there is virtually no thought given to the music getting played. Okay, that may be an exaggeration. I rarely get invited to parties, but often, when my neighbors throw them and I walk by, I can tell the music sucks and I’m happy they didn’t invite me, because I don’t need to go to their really fun, raucous party if they’re going to play lame music. Screw them.
Anyway, Christine and I had a little shindig this past weekend. (I won’t call it a barbeque, because my Southern friend, James, pointed out, that if I’m not smoking the meat, I’m just “grilling out.”) From what I remember, it was a pretty good time. My memory is poor though. I used a margarita recipe my friend Katie recommended: one can of frozen concentrated limeade, one can of tequila, and three light beers… originally it was two, but I had to dilute it somehow. That surprisingly tasty and obviously strong recipe, which I nicknamed “the marga-ruffie,” along with my playlist pretty much ensured that I was going to have fun even if no one else did.
The way you shape a playlist depends on the type of atmosphere you’re trying to set. If you’re having a wine and cheese Christmas party, perhaps jazz and/or bossa nova is more appropriate than hardcore rap. In the case of a late afternoon/evening bbq (fuck James, I’m not from the South), you’re looking for music chill enough that people can talk, but interesting and upbeat enough to keep people drinking and having fun. Songs longer than five minutes are automatically excluded. As are songs with long intros or outros (think Wu Tang Clan’s Method Man intro… it’s torture mother fucker if you have to listen to that at a party). Instrumental music is something I love, but another no-no for party mixes.
My bbq mix was about 40% hip-hop (The Roots, A Tribe Called Quest, Common, Kanye West, Blackstar, Jay-Z, etc.) Maybe 25% of the mix is high energy indie rock (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, The White Stripes, Modest Mouse, The Fiery Furnaces, The Arcade Fire, etc.) The remaining third of the playlist is split up evenly between ska/reggae (The Slackers, Bob Andy, Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff, etc.), classics (Bob Dylan, The Police, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, etc.) and a variety of stuff I was hoping people had never heard, but would be impressed enough to ask you about. (I’ve mentioned many of these bands in the past, but: Aberfeldy, Le Tigre, Andrew Bird, Darrel Scott, Little Brother, Ms. Dynamite, Okerrvil River, Pinback, Sergio Mendes, Vic Ruggerio, etc.) (With that setup, I could pretty much leave my iPod on shuffle and feel confident that the music would flow nicely all night.)
Whether or not anyone liked the music enough to ask me about it or just enjoyed the music at all, is unclear. Again, “marga-ruffies” lead to trouble, trouble which I have very little recollection of. But that was the goal, and whether or not anyone else enjoyed the music as much as I did, I’m fairly confident that I spent a good part of the night nodding along to the music in that way that white boys who truly lack rhythm always do. And the neighbors, who were invited, but were apparently too cool to show up, were very jealous and sad that they didn't come by… at least in my head.
Anyway, Christine and I had a little shindig this past weekend. (I won’t call it a barbeque, because my Southern friend, James, pointed out, that if I’m not smoking the meat, I’m just “grilling out.”) From what I remember, it was a pretty good time. My memory is poor though. I used a margarita recipe my friend Katie recommended: one can of frozen concentrated limeade, one can of tequila, and three light beers… originally it was two, but I had to dilute it somehow. That surprisingly tasty and obviously strong recipe, which I nicknamed “the marga-ruffie,” along with my playlist pretty much ensured that I was going to have fun even if no one else did.
The way you shape a playlist depends on the type of atmosphere you’re trying to set. If you’re having a wine and cheese Christmas party, perhaps jazz and/or bossa nova is more appropriate than hardcore rap. In the case of a late afternoon/evening bbq (fuck James, I’m not from the South), you’re looking for music chill enough that people can talk, but interesting and upbeat enough to keep people drinking and having fun. Songs longer than five minutes are automatically excluded. As are songs with long intros or outros (think Wu Tang Clan’s Method Man intro… it’s torture mother fucker if you have to listen to that at a party). Instrumental music is something I love, but another no-no for party mixes.
My bbq mix was about 40% hip-hop (The Roots, A Tribe Called Quest, Common, Kanye West, Blackstar, Jay-Z, etc.) Maybe 25% of the mix is high energy indie rock (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, The White Stripes, Modest Mouse, The Fiery Furnaces, The Arcade Fire, etc.) The remaining third of the playlist is split up evenly between ska/reggae (The Slackers, Bob Andy, Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff, etc.), classics (Bob Dylan, The Police, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, etc.) and a variety of stuff I was hoping people had never heard, but would be impressed enough to ask you about. (I’ve mentioned many of these bands in the past, but: Aberfeldy, Le Tigre, Andrew Bird, Darrel Scott, Little Brother, Ms. Dynamite, Okerrvil River, Pinback, Sergio Mendes, Vic Ruggerio, etc.) (With that setup, I could pretty much leave my iPod on shuffle and feel confident that the music would flow nicely all night.)
Whether or not anyone liked the music enough to ask me about it or just enjoyed the music at all, is unclear. Again, “marga-ruffies” lead to trouble, trouble which I have very little recollection of. But that was the goal, and whether or not anyone else enjoyed the music as much as I did, I’m fairly confident that I spent a good part of the night nodding along to the music in that way that white boys who truly lack rhythm always do. And the neighbors, who were invited, but were apparently too cool to show up, were very jealous and sad that they didn't come by… at least in my head.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Common Sense
My all-time favorite hip-hop lyrics. The Roots featuring Common. “Love of my Life.” Common’s verse. One big metaphor about hip-hop. Similar to “I used to love H.E.R.” But so much better. I always dreamed of my Stand and Deliver moment. Dead Poet’s Society. Teaching an English class. Specifically poetry. To a bunch of inner-city kids. And I’m finally able to reach them. Finally able to get them grasp what metaphor means. Finally able to teach them to appreciate poetry. And it’s all thanks to my man Common.
I never taught inner-city kids. I probably never will. I was, however, fortunate enough to teach a section of PHI 191 (Ethics and Moral Value Theory) my senior year of college. I envisioned myself a man of the people, in touch with the students. I’d level with them. “I’m a student just like you. You might see me at the bars, might even have the misfortune of catching me dance on Thursday nights at Darwins.” Laughter. Next I’d explain my game plan to them. “I don’t want to make you do busy work or more reading than you have to. I want our class to be a place where we can come and discuss things. I’m not here to lecture you, just engage in a dialogue.” Now as their friend and their equal, I would inspire them. “Philosophy isn’t always about answers. Sometimes the real thinking lies in the question. On most any topic we discuss, there is no clear right or wrong; my job is to help you explain your beliefs and be able to support them with arguments.” Nice. Twelve freshman and sophomores looked at me like I was their savior. It was the first day and none of them knew what an idiot I really was.
There were some awkward moments. Most notably, the SU/Pitt game were I smuggled in a flask of whiskey and after drinking half of it before the game, spilled the rest all over myself. With a gigantic stain that looked like I pissed myself, a drunken Zidane began to scream at the crowd behind me. They were berating Craig Forth and praising Jeremy McNeil. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I said. “McNeil should only be in when we press, he gets lost in the zone… Forth is our anchor. Watch how he moves off ball. Look at how he sets a screen. Check out his understanding of how to play the high low.” Boos. They were booing me. So I screamed back at them, enraged by their ignorance. Everyone hates a big, tall, lanky white guy who occasionally misses lay-ups, but only a true fan really understood that he was our best bet at center. At some point, say fifteen minutes into my screaming, one of my students, the cutest girl in my class – yes I had fantasies of giving her a little after-school tutoring – politely suggested that I might want to take a seat. I told her to go fuck herself, in the eloquent sort of way that only a really good teacher can.
That was nothing. Oh Common, heaven help me for what I did. It was the week before Spring Break and my section had just taken a mid-term in their lecture. They had no new assignments for the break, nothing to study for, and so I was left without much to discuss. I decided it would be the perfect opportunity to break out the Common lyrics. I should’ve known better, but Jewish boys who love hip-hop are not always the swiftest fellers.
I began class by giving them a choice; I was a fair guy after all. We could either review the material they had just been tested on or we could do an exercise in critical reading involving hip-hop, one that would get them out of class fifteen minutes early. They were on board. Having gone out drinking late the night before (my section met early Friday morning), I didn’t do a great job preparing for my lecture, but I thought I’d be fine. My plan was simple. Write the lyrics up on the board, go through them line by line, decipher what the metaphor was referring to in each line, and then do a conclusion about how when my section read their assignments, it’s not enough to just read the words, they had to make a greater effort to think about them critically. I was pretty fucking brilliant when I came up with the lesson plan at last call at the bar the night before.
I was just about finished writing the lyrics on the chalkboard, when I heard one of my students' cell phones ring. Now, cool guy Zidane, was pretty cool about everything… except cell phones. It was my one rule. If you answer your cell phone during class, I’m going to kick you out. Period. I drew my line in the sand early on. But sure enough, one of my student’s phones was ringing. I looked up from what I was writing and gave him a look – turn that shit off. He gave me a wave of his hand and picked it up. I tried to remain calm. I told the student that if he wanted to talk on the phone, he should probably continue the conversation after class. He brushed me off with his hand again, like, “just a second.” I tried harder to remain calm. I told the student I was going to kick him out of class if he continued to talk on the phone. He smiled at me. I was no longer calm.
“Get out!” I exclaimed. He grabbed his bag and headed out. I thought that was the end of it, but a few minutes later he returned to the class and went to sit back down. I was calm now. “I thought I told you, if you answer your phone in my class, especially after several warnings, you can’t stay. Get out!”
That’s when nice guy Zidane, the friendly teacher guy bit, all fell apart. The students didn’t fear me; they thought of me as a peer. In short, they thought they could walk over me and I was not having that on the day I was finally giving my inspiring Common Dead Poet's Society lecture. The guy freaked out. He screamed at me that he was just coming back to get his notebook. He told me to go to hell. I stayed calm this time. “Bye, bye.”
He left again, slamming the door. I thought it was finally time to do my lecture. I was wrong. A minute later the student returned in a blaze of idiotic glory. “Have you ever gotten your girlfriend pregnant?” he yelled as he burst in. I told him that no, I’d never been that stupid. Usually you have to be sleeping with someone in order to get them preggo; I didn’t have that problem at that moment in time. He kept going. “Well that was my girlfriend calling with the results of her pregnancy test and Jesus Christ himself couldn’t have stopped me from answering the phone!”
Now both the student and teacher were thoroughly embarrassed and I hadn’t even started my lecture yet. I told him I was sympathetic to his plight, but if he truly needed to answer the phone he could’ve told me it was an emergency, mentioned to me before class he was expecting an important phone call, or just walked outside and picked up the phone there. Having done none of these things, and deciding to insult me and challenge my authority instead, I was left with no choice to kick him out. “Bye, bye.” I said again. He left in huff, slamming the door.
I should’ve cut my losses right there, but my stupid hung-over self thought I could lift myself out of the hole with my inspiring lecture. Suffice to say that a class full of white kids attending Syracuse University weren’t too familiar with obscure references to Hype Williams, Common’s other albums, his beef with Ice Cube, or the basic trajectory of the commercialization of hip-hop. My lecture fell on deaf ears. The kids were bored out of their minds. They looked at me, the ones who were still awake, with pity in their eyes. I bailed early. And in that moment gave up any lingering thoughts about doing Teach For America or doing anything else remotely beneficial to society.
There are reasons why there aren’t more Stand and Deliver teachers. First and foremost, there is only one Edward James Olmos. If you watch Battlestar Galactica, you know what I’m talking about. Second, students are assholes who answer their cell phones during class. Third, teachers that expect their students to be as passionate about the subject matter as them are idiots; no matter how good their intentions are, no matter how close they are in age, teachers always seem to fail to understand that their students are probably just taking the class because they heard it’s an easy A for an elective that fills some requirement.
So rather than try and force meaning into Common’s lyrics, I’ve pasted them below. Feel free to check them out and if you get inspired stand on your desk and yell out, “Oh Captain, My Captain,” for this old Cousteau.
Yo, yo I was speakin, to my guy 'Riq and
How she was desperately seekin to Organize in a Konfusion
Usin, no protection, told H.E.R. on _Resurrection_
Caught in the Hype Williams, and lost H.E.R. direction
Gettin eight/ate in sections where I wouldn't eat H.E.R.
An under the counter love, so _Silent_-ly I _Treat_ H.E.R.
Her Daddy'll beat H.E.R., eyes all Puff-ed
In the mix on tape, niggaz had her in the buff
When we touch, it was more than just a fuck
The Police, in her I found peace (like who?)
Like Malcolm in the East
Seen H.E.R. on the streets of New York, trickin off
Tried to make a hit with H.E.R. but my dick went soft
Movin weight, losin weight, not picky - with who she choose to date
To confuse the hate, with her struggle I relate
Close to thirty, most of the niggaz she know is dirty
Havin more babies than Lauryn, she started showin early
As of late I realized, that this is H.E.R. fate
Or destiny that brings the best of me
It's like God is testin me
In _Retrospect_ I see she brought _Life_ and death to me
Peace to us collectively, live and direct when we perform
It's just coffee shop chicks and white dudes
Over H.E.R. I got into it with that nigga Ice Cube
Now the fight moved to in life, makin the right moves
Besides God and family, you my life's jewel
I never taught inner-city kids. I probably never will. I was, however, fortunate enough to teach a section of PHI 191 (Ethics and Moral Value Theory) my senior year of college. I envisioned myself a man of the people, in touch with the students. I’d level with them. “I’m a student just like you. You might see me at the bars, might even have the misfortune of catching me dance on Thursday nights at Darwins.” Laughter. Next I’d explain my game plan to them. “I don’t want to make you do busy work or more reading than you have to. I want our class to be a place where we can come and discuss things. I’m not here to lecture you, just engage in a dialogue.” Now as their friend and their equal, I would inspire them. “Philosophy isn’t always about answers. Sometimes the real thinking lies in the question. On most any topic we discuss, there is no clear right or wrong; my job is to help you explain your beliefs and be able to support them with arguments.” Nice. Twelve freshman and sophomores looked at me like I was their savior. It was the first day and none of them knew what an idiot I really was.
There were some awkward moments. Most notably, the SU/Pitt game were I smuggled in a flask of whiskey and after drinking half of it before the game, spilled the rest all over myself. With a gigantic stain that looked like I pissed myself, a drunken Zidane began to scream at the crowd behind me. They were berating Craig Forth and praising Jeremy McNeil. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I said. “McNeil should only be in when we press, he gets lost in the zone… Forth is our anchor. Watch how he moves off ball. Look at how he sets a screen. Check out his understanding of how to play the high low.” Boos. They were booing me. So I screamed back at them, enraged by their ignorance. Everyone hates a big, tall, lanky white guy who occasionally misses lay-ups, but only a true fan really understood that he was our best bet at center. At some point, say fifteen minutes into my screaming, one of my students, the cutest girl in my class – yes I had fantasies of giving her a little after-school tutoring – politely suggested that I might want to take a seat. I told her to go fuck herself, in the eloquent sort of way that only a really good teacher can.
That was nothing. Oh Common, heaven help me for what I did. It was the week before Spring Break and my section had just taken a mid-term in their lecture. They had no new assignments for the break, nothing to study for, and so I was left without much to discuss. I decided it would be the perfect opportunity to break out the Common lyrics. I should’ve known better, but Jewish boys who love hip-hop are not always the swiftest fellers.
I began class by giving them a choice; I was a fair guy after all. We could either review the material they had just been tested on or we could do an exercise in critical reading involving hip-hop, one that would get them out of class fifteen minutes early. They were on board. Having gone out drinking late the night before (my section met early Friday morning), I didn’t do a great job preparing for my lecture, but I thought I’d be fine. My plan was simple. Write the lyrics up on the board, go through them line by line, decipher what the metaphor was referring to in each line, and then do a conclusion about how when my section read their assignments, it’s not enough to just read the words, they had to make a greater effort to think about them critically. I was pretty fucking brilliant when I came up with the lesson plan at last call at the bar the night before.
I was just about finished writing the lyrics on the chalkboard, when I heard one of my students' cell phones ring. Now, cool guy Zidane, was pretty cool about everything… except cell phones. It was my one rule. If you answer your cell phone during class, I’m going to kick you out. Period. I drew my line in the sand early on. But sure enough, one of my student’s phones was ringing. I looked up from what I was writing and gave him a look – turn that shit off. He gave me a wave of his hand and picked it up. I tried to remain calm. I told the student that if he wanted to talk on the phone, he should probably continue the conversation after class. He brushed me off with his hand again, like, “just a second.” I tried harder to remain calm. I told the student I was going to kick him out of class if he continued to talk on the phone. He smiled at me. I was no longer calm.
“Get out!” I exclaimed. He grabbed his bag and headed out. I thought that was the end of it, but a few minutes later he returned to the class and went to sit back down. I was calm now. “I thought I told you, if you answer your phone in my class, especially after several warnings, you can’t stay. Get out!”
That’s when nice guy Zidane, the friendly teacher guy bit, all fell apart. The students didn’t fear me; they thought of me as a peer. In short, they thought they could walk over me and I was not having that on the day I was finally giving my inspiring Common Dead Poet's Society lecture. The guy freaked out. He screamed at me that he was just coming back to get his notebook. He told me to go to hell. I stayed calm this time. “Bye, bye.”
He left again, slamming the door. I thought it was finally time to do my lecture. I was wrong. A minute later the student returned in a blaze of idiotic glory. “Have you ever gotten your girlfriend pregnant?” he yelled as he burst in. I told him that no, I’d never been that stupid. Usually you have to be sleeping with someone in order to get them preggo; I didn’t have that problem at that moment in time. He kept going. “Well that was my girlfriend calling with the results of her pregnancy test and Jesus Christ himself couldn’t have stopped me from answering the phone!”
Now both the student and teacher were thoroughly embarrassed and I hadn’t even started my lecture yet. I told him I was sympathetic to his plight, but if he truly needed to answer the phone he could’ve told me it was an emergency, mentioned to me before class he was expecting an important phone call, or just walked outside and picked up the phone there. Having done none of these things, and deciding to insult me and challenge my authority instead, I was left with no choice to kick him out. “Bye, bye.” I said again. He left in huff, slamming the door.
I should’ve cut my losses right there, but my stupid hung-over self thought I could lift myself out of the hole with my inspiring lecture. Suffice to say that a class full of white kids attending Syracuse University weren’t too familiar with obscure references to Hype Williams, Common’s other albums, his beef with Ice Cube, or the basic trajectory of the commercialization of hip-hop. My lecture fell on deaf ears. The kids were bored out of their minds. They looked at me, the ones who were still awake, with pity in their eyes. I bailed early. And in that moment gave up any lingering thoughts about doing Teach For America or doing anything else remotely beneficial to society.
There are reasons why there aren’t more Stand and Deliver teachers. First and foremost, there is only one Edward James Olmos. If you watch Battlestar Galactica, you know what I’m talking about. Second, students are assholes who answer their cell phones during class. Third, teachers that expect their students to be as passionate about the subject matter as them are idiots; no matter how good their intentions are, no matter how close they are in age, teachers always seem to fail to understand that their students are probably just taking the class because they heard it’s an easy A for an elective that fills some requirement.
So rather than try and force meaning into Common’s lyrics, I’ve pasted them below. Feel free to check them out and if you get inspired stand on your desk and yell out, “Oh Captain, My Captain,” for this old Cousteau.
Yo, yo I was speakin, to my guy 'Riq and
How she was desperately seekin to Organize in a Konfusion
Usin, no protection, told H.E.R. on _Resurrection_
Caught in the Hype Williams, and lost H.E.R. direction
Gettin eight/ate in sections where I wouldn't eat H.E.R.
An under the counter love, so _Silent_-ly I _Treat_ H.E.R.
Her Daddy'll beat H.E.R., eyes all Puff-ed
In the mix on tape, niggaz had her in the buff
When we touch, it was more than just a fuck
The Police, in her I found peace (like who?)
Like Malcolm in the East
Seen H.E.R. on the streets of New York, trickin off
Tried to make a hit with H.E.R. but my dick went soft
Movin weight, losin weight, not picky - with who she choose to date
To confuse the hate, with her struggle I relate
Close to thirty, most of the niggaz she know is dirty
Havin more babies than Lauryn, she started showin early
As of late I realized, that this is H.E.R. fate
Or destiny that brings the best of me
It's like God is testin me
In _Retrospect_ I see she brought _Life_ and death to me
Peace to us collectively, live and direct when we perform
It's just coffee shop chicks and white dudes
Over H.E.R. I got into it with that nigga Ice Cube
Now the fight moved to in life, makin the right moves
Besides God and family, you my life's jewel
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Commercial Music
Many, many, many moons ago, The Black Eyed Peas rapped, “I see you try to diss our function by stating that we can’t rap. Is it cause we don’t wear Tommy Hilfiger or baseball caps. We don’t use dollars to represent. We just use our inner sense and talent.” Forget for a moment, that these are some of the worst rhyming, most awful rap lyrics ever created, in a song (“Falling Up”) dedicated entirely to how well they can rap. Rappers who write shitty lyrics are like writers who wear ugly clothes: it’s to be expected. The Black Eyed Peas, like many hip-hop groups, are full of awful lyrics, but that’s not what bugs me about them. It’s the way they denounced selling out on their first two albums (Bridging The Gaps and Behind The Front), constantly calling out other groups for being “fake,” shortly before they did a mass-market Dr. Pepper commercial campaign. Soon after, Fergie became a prominent member of the band, and they were off and running, doing every commercial you can possibly imagine.
It was sad seeing one of my early favorite hip-hop groups (pre-Fergie) sell out like that. The Black Eyed Peas were at the forefront of turning hip-hop into commercial music (For the purpose of this entry, commercial music refers to music actually appearing in commercials). The commercialization of hip-hop, something that had flourished outside of MTV and network television prior to the ‘Peas and a few others, was a disturbing trend.
Perhaps my own arrogance and desire to be “hip” wouldn’t allow me to listen to music that had been embraced by the masses. People are stupid. That’s not a gross generalization; I’m fairly certain that if you picked ten people at random between the ages of 12 and 55, from across the United States, a majority of them would watch American Idol. I repeat: People are stupid. And my disgust for mainstream stupid people often leads me to hold stupid opinions of my own, just so I can be different than the masses. It was the mainstream, frat boy success, of talented groups like The Dave Matthews Band, which led me away from rock and towards hip-hop in the first place. Now that hip-hop was mainstream, I found myself running blindly towards a genre which prided itself on having a plethora of bands that most people would never hear: indie rock.
I began to explore indie music, sifting through tons of shit, searching for those elusive incredible bands. Generally when I found them and bragged to my friends, they were already myspace friends with them. For the first time in years, I felt like I was behind the curve on what was hip. In many ways, this only resulted in getting me more interested in the genre. I wanted to be the one cluing my friends into which bands they should be checking out. Unfortunately, advertisers have made sure that will never happen.
A few weeks ago, I begged people on this blog to check out a French group called Nouvelle Vague. I thought I’d discovered a talented, obscure band that I could finally share with my friends. A few days later, I heard their cover of “I Melt With You” on a GMC commercial. Suddenly, I was hyper-aware of all the indie rock suddenly appearing in mainstream television commercials. Bands like The Postal Service, The Shins, Modest Mouse, and Peter Bjorn and John (who will henceforth be known as PB&J per my friend Lauren), were appearing in commercials for UPS, McDonalds, Nissan, Pontiac, AT&T, and (ironically?) Napster.
At first, I thought my disgust was purely selfish. The fact that savvy advertisers were smart enough to hire young people with good taste in music to pick the songs for their commercials, would surely be good for indie rock. The added exposure to cutting edge bands and artists, might inform consumers, schooling them on things they should be checking out. That was certainly the case with those catchy Target ads that feature the chorus, “a little bit more… a little bit more… a little bit more… a little bit more…” After some research, I discovered the song was written by Jamie Lidell; I checked out some of his stuff and it was quite good. The fact that I was getting musical advice from a Target ad wounded my pride, but I tried to set aside my ego and focus on the music.
Then the ads kept running and I heard the music over and over and over again. I mean, that’s the point of an advertisement right? Product branding. If you see a product over and over and over again, and it becomes imbedded in your brain, then you’re more likely to spend your money on it. Using catchy music to sell a product is nothing new; jingles have been around… forever? A while anyway. Catchy indie rocks songs are even better though. Jingles are commercials… you don’t hear them unless you’re watching tv or listening to the radio. Indie songs are everywhere, and if the advertisers do their jobs correctly, every time you hear the 5,6,7,8’s “Woo Hoo” you’ll think of Vonage. That’s the power of branding.
So now, my grievance is far from not being on the cutting edge, has nothing to do with the guile of advertisers trying to educate me on what I should listen to, but rather, commercial music is destroying a genre that I’ve grown to love yet again. Commercial branding is so much worse than the Dave Matthews Band frat boy craze phenomenon… a catchy song/band getting overplayed and becoming irritating from that over-saturation. It’s just a matter of time before I see Tide commercials using The Cold War Kids’ (big ups Preeti) “Hang Me Out To Dry” in one of their commercials. And in doing so, Tide, like every other company that uses an indie rock song to promote it’s product, will help ruin a genre of music which prided itself on being anything but commercial.
It was sad seeing one of my early favorite hip-hop groups (pre-Fergie) sell out like that. The Black Eyed Peas were at the forefront of turning hip-hop into commercial music (For the purpose of this entry, commercial music refers to music actually appearing in commercials). The commercialization of hip-hop, something that had flourished outside of MTV and network television prior to the ‘Peas and a few others, was a disturbing trend.
Perhaps my own arrogance and desire to be “hip” wouldn’t allow me to listen to music that had been embraced by the masses. People are stupid. That’s not a gross generalization; I’m fairly certain that if you picked ten people at random between the ages of 12 and 55, from across the United States, a majority of them would watch American Idol. I repeat: People are stupid. And my disgust for mainstream stupid people often leads me to hold stupid opinions of my own, just so I can be different than the masses. It was the mainstream, frat boy success, of talented groups like The Dave Matthews Band, which led me away from rock and towards hip-hop in the first place. Now that hip-hop was mainstream, I found myself running blindly towards a genre which prided itself on having a plethora of bands that most people would never hear: indie rock.
I began to explore indie music, sifting through tons of shit, searching for those elusive incredible bands. Generally when I found them and bragged to my friends, they were already myspace friends with them. For the first time in years, I felt like I was behind the curve on what was hip. In many ways, this only resulted in getting me more interested in the genre. I wanted to be the one cluing my friends into which bands they should be checking out. Unfortunately, advertisers have made sure that will never happen.
A few weeks ago, I begged people on this blog to check out a French group called Nouvelle Vague. I thought I’d discovered a talented, obscure band that I could finally share with my friends. A few days later, I heard their cover of “I Melt With You” on a GMC commercial. Suddenly, I was hyper-aware of all the indie rock suddenly appearing in mainstream television commercials. Bands like The Postal Service, The Shins, Modest Mouse, and Peter Bjorn and John (who will henceforth be known as PB&J per my friend Lauren), were appearing in commercials for UPS, McDonalds, Nissan, Pontiac, AT&T, and (ironically?) Napster.
At first, I thought my disgust was purely selfish. The fact that savvy advertisers were smart enough to hire young people with good taste in music to pick the songs for their commercials, would surely be good for indie rock. The added exposure to cutting edge bands and artists, might inform consumers, schooling them on things they should be checking out. That was certainly the case with those catchy Target ads that feature the chorus, “a little bit more… a little bit more… a little bit more… a little bit more…” After some research, I discovered the song was written by Jamie Lidell; I checked out some of his stuff and it was quite good. The fact that I was getting musical advice from a Target ad wounded my pride, but I tried to set aside my ego and focus on the music.
Then the ads kept running and I heard the music over and over and over again. I mean, that’s the point of an advertisement right? Product branding. If you see a product over and over and over again, and it becomes imbedded in your brain, then you’re more likely to spend your money on it. Using catchy music to sell a product is nothing new; jingles have been around… forever? A while anyway. Catchy indie rocks songs are even better though. Jingles are commercials… you don’t hear them unless you’re watching tv or listening to the radio. Indie songs are everywhere, and if the advertisers do their jobs correctly, every time you hear the 5,6,7,8’s “Woo Hoo” you’ll think of Vonage. That’s the power of branding.
So now, my grievance is far from not being on the cutting edge, has nothing to do with the guile of advertisers trying to educate me on what I should listen to, but rather, commercial music is destroying a genre that I’ve grown to love yet again. Commercial branding is so much worse than the Dave Matthews Band frat boy craze phenomenon… a catchy song/band getting overplayed and becoming irritating from that over-saturation. It’s just a matter of time before I see Tide commercials using The Cold War Kids’ (big ups Preeti) “Hang Me Out To Dry” in one of their commercials. And in doing so, Tide, like every other company that uses an indie rock song to promote it’s product, will help ruin a genre of music which prided itself on being anything but commercial.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Bad Lyrics
Christine and I saw the Aqua Teen Hunger Force movie at the cheap theatre this past weekend. It was unequivocally the worst movie I’ve ever seen. Often times, a bad movie will have some redeeming qualities; perhaps the sheer awfulness of the movie is enjoyable in of itself. This movie had no redeeming qualities of any kind. There were no pros, no laughs, nothing clever, nothing enjoyable, only pain.
The movie attempted to poke some fun at Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight.” I emphasize attempt, because even the most astute viewers who understood a shot was being taken at an awful song, with awful canned drums, and awful monotonous lyrics, probably were so fucking annoyed with the movie, the god damn icing on the cake, came in the form of hearing that awful song. How many fucking times can you repeat the same lyrics over and over and over again? Apparently, if you’re Phil Collins, you can do it over and over again and still have an international hit.
The song got me thinking about the worst lyrics of all-time. The writers, perhaps reading my mind, had a discussion about it yesterday. Prior to their discussion, I planned to use this space for a lengthy debate. Fortunately, one of the writers, Gene, ended the debate almost immediately.
After Mike mentioned the Digital Underground lyrics from “The Humpty Dance,” (“I get stupid, shoot an arrow like cupid, I use a word that don’t mean nothing, like looptid…”) Gene had this brilliant insight (and I’m paraphrasing):
With regards to the Young MC song “Bust A Move,” a certain verse makes absolutely no sense when you think about it. “Your best friend Harry, has a brother Larry, in five days from now he’s gonna marry. He’s hopin’ you can make it there, if you can, cuz in the ceremony you’re the best man.”
If Harry is your best friend, then why is his brother Larry using you as the best man in his wedding? If Larry has a brother Harry, why isn’t he using his brother Harry as his best man? You have to construct a pretty crazy story for why Larry would possibly use you as the best man. Apparently, even though you consider Harry to be your best friend, Larry considers you to be his (?) so much so that he’s going to buck the tradition of using his brother, Harry, as his best man. And while this scenario is possible, I’m going to venture out a limb here and suggest that Young MC is an idiot, but hey, so am I… after all, I went to go see Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film For Theatres with out being stoned out of my gourd.
If you can think of lyrics worse than Young MC’s I implore you to post them in the comments. Here’s your chance to talk some shit, have your voice heard, strike back at every one who hurt you.
The movie attempted to poke some fun at Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight.” I emphasize attempt, because even the most astute viewers who understood a shot was being taken at an awful song, with awful canned drums, and awful monotonous lyrics, probably were so fucking annoyed with the movie, the god damn icing on the cake, came in the form of hearing that awful song. How many fucking times can you repeat the same lyrics over and over and over again? Apparently, if you’re Phil Collins, you can do it over and over again and still have an international hit.
The song got me thinking about the worst lyrics of all-time. The writers, perhaps reading my mind, had a discussion about it yesterday. Prior to their discussion, I planned to use this space for a lengthy debate. Fortunately, one of the writers, Gene, ended the debate almost immediately.
After Mike mentioned the Digital Underground lyrics from “The Humpty Dance,” (“I get stupid, shoot an arrow like cupid, I use a word that don’t mean nothing, like looptid…”) Gene had this brilliant insight (and I’m paraphrasing):
With regards to the Young MC song “Bust A Move,” a certain verse makes absolutely no sense when you think about it. “Your best friend Harry, has a brother Larry, in five days from now he’s gonna marry. He’s hopin’ you can make it there, if you can, cuz in the ceremony you’re the best man.”
If Harry is your best friend, then why is his brother Larry using you as the best man in his wedding? If Larry has a brother Harry, why isn’t he using his brother Harry as his best man? You have to construct a pretty crazy story for why Larry would possibly use you as the best man. Apparently, even though you consider Harry to be your best friend, Larry considers you to be his (?) so much so that he’s going to buck the tradition of using his brother, Harry, as his best man. And while this scenario is possible, I’m going to venture out a limb here and suggest that Young MC is an idiot, but hey, so am I… after all, I went to go see Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film For Theatres with out being stoned out of my gourd.
If you can think of lyrics worse than Young MC’s I implore you to post them in the comments. Here’s your chance to talk some shit, have your voice heard, strike back at every one who hurt you.
Friday, March 9, 2007
The Breakup Mix
Breakups are the worst! Specifically, having someone break up with you is the worst. Fortunately, very few girls have ever been interested in anything besides a friendship with me, so I’ve only been broken up with once. Win-Win. Right?
I’m no stranger to heart break though. I’ve watched far too many Syracuse basketball games in my life not to know what it’s like to have your heart ripped out of your body, smashed with a rusty hammer, and then defecated on. Syracuse is that girl, sexy as hell, but treats you like shit. Every time you start to give up on her, she sucks you back in, only to inexplicably blow a 14 point lead with less than ten minutes to go in the second half. No matter how bad she treats me, how much suffering she causes me, how hard she punches me in the gut, I’ll never breakup with Syracuse.
It’s March though. And that means we’re about to embark on the greatest annual sporting event on the planet – the NCAA men’s basketball tournament. Syracuse is seemingly a lock for the tournament, but knowing my luck, they’ll either be excluded which would cause me to become enraged or they’ll exit early in some humiliating, agonizing way. Either way, I’m going to need something to comfort me.
Enter “Zidane’s Kick-Ass Breakup Mix.” When you’ve had a bad breakup and/or are a SU fan, there’s nothing like a good mix to flesh out everything you’re feeling: pain, suffering, jealousy, cynicism, bitterness, agony, longing, and more pain. Fortunately, when you’re done, you’re a stronger person (at least that’s what I tell myself after every season). Music helps you get there. Trust me. The four things that got me through my lone breakup were reading Nick Hornby’s “High Fidelity” (it taught me I wasn’t crazy), watching “Swingers,” talking about what I was going through, and music. One of the best things to do is blast some Rage Against the Machine and dance away the pain. And when I say dance, I mean wildly punching the air as you thrash around the room. Seriously, try dancing to three songs in a row, you’ll get a lot of anger out and by the time you’re done, you’ll be tired to be depressed. It’s healthy. In addition to Rage, everyone needs some music to flesh out those open wounds and eventually heal them. I recommend the following mix (in no real particular order):
(Note: Before I get started, I should probably mention that I know nothing about how women deal with breakups. This is based on my suffering as a man and a basketball fanatic. Nearly every song on this list is written by a man. I know there are plenty of great female breakup songs, but somehow Janis Joplin’s “Take Another Piece Of My Heart” or any of the other great female breakup songs, didn’t really seem to speak to what I was going through. I don’t know if these songs will speak to the females who read this. All I know is that they were compelling to me.)
1. (“Wasted Days” – The Slackers) I keep bringing up the Slackers in as many posts as possible. Maybe somebody, other than my buddy Vein who turned me onto them, will realize just how kick-ass they are. This is the breakup anthem. “What have I done wrong that I should be sorry? You broke my heart, you left in no hurry. What I'm sorry for, is all those wasted days and all those wasted ways that I loved you.”
2. (“It Makes No Difference” – The Band) This song captures that post breakup feeling about as well as any I’ve ever heard. You know what I’m talking about. After that realization that it’s really over, but long before you’ve started coming to terms with things. By the way, if you don’t own The Band’s “The Last Waltz” go out and buy it. It’s one of the best live albums ever released. Period.
3. (“Ain’t No Sunshine” – Bill Whithers) It’s beautiful and haunting but I can’t help but feel the song ends a bit prematurely. But hey, so do relationships. And 1987 National Championship games. “We didn’t lose; we jus ran out of time.”
4. (“For No One” – The Beatles) They have a song for every feeling and occasion, so obviously the greatest band in the history of rock was going to be on this list. Excluding songs like, “I Want You,” “I’m Looking Through You,” and “Girl” was not easy, but “For No One” is quite simply a perfect song. If you don’t make a point to listen to a Beatles’ album at least once a month, you should start. I’m currently in the middle of another period of falling in love with them for like the fifth time.
5. (“My Girl” – Nirvana – Unplugged) I think this is my favorite song from one of my favorite classic adolescent albums. Have you listened to “Unplugged” lately? It’s incredible. You can taste the bitterness in Curt Cobain’s voice when he gets to that final chorus. “In the pines. The PINES. SUN. SHINE. I shiver… the whole… night THROUGH!” Still gives me chills every time I listen to it.
6. (“You Are My Sunshine” – Norman Blake) As a child I remember singing this in pre-school. How in the fuck was this ever made into a kid’s song? It’s unequivocally one of the most morose songs I’ve ever heard. Don’t believe me? Check out the LYRICS By the time you’re through with this song (along with the previous 5), you’ll be thoroughly depressed. Sometimes after a breakup, that’s exactly how you want to feel. But if you want a pick up, there’s…
7. (“Song For Dumped” – Ben Folds Five) This will get the energy going. Nothing like bitterness to divert from the feeling of anguish. And this is the quintessential bitter boyfriend who just got fucked over rant. My Freshman roommate, Brian, told me he drove around with one his recently dumped high school buddies blasting this over and over again all night. I can see how that would therapeutic.
8. (“I used To Love Her” – Guns and Roses) And if bitterness isn’t working, maybe try a little cynicism. “I used to love her, but I had to kill her. I had to put her, six feet under. And I can still hear her complain…” Misogynistic? Probably. But if you’ve just had your heart ripped out, who really cares?
9. (“Can’t Stand Losing You” – The Police) I had a tough time picking my Police song. “Hole In My Life,” “So Lonely,” “My Bed’s Too Big Without You,” and “Message In Bottle” get honorable mentions for the list. My man-crush on Sting was born during my breakup. The emotion he sang with echoed all the things I was feeling. “I Can’t Stand Losing You” is darkly humorous. “I guess you’d call it suicide, but I’m too full to swallow my pride…” Things were bad, but never this bad. Listening to it, always helped me laugh at myself and keep things in perspective.
10. (“Tell Me Why” – Los Lonely Boys) I know they’re a bit smooth, but I’ve seen Los Lonely Boys in person and they’re shockingly good live. I don’t know if this one can hold a candle to “Ain’t No Sunshine” or some of the previous songs, but I don’t care. I like it. It taps into that time when the breakup is imminent, but you’re still in denial.
11. (“Pictures of Me” – Elliot Smith) Either/Or was and remains not only one of the greatest breakup albums of all time, but one of my all-time top five desert island favorite albums. Picking a single song off it was next to impossible for me. The album is sad, haunting, beautiful, and the best reminder I have of being broken up with. Go buy this album. If you get broken up with, it will be one of your closest companions. And in times of happiness, you’ll appreciate how chillingly magnificent it is.
12. (“My Girl” (acoustic, live) – Weezer) You have to get the live-acoustic version of this. I know some people who think it’s sexist. “I want a girl who will laugh for no one else. When I’m away, she puts her make up on the shelf. When I’m away, she never leaves the house…” Listen to this version and I guarantee that you’ll understand. It’s about a guy whose girlfriend is a cheater and it’s killing him. On this you can hear the suffering in his voice. It taps into that awful, awful jealousy you feel in a way that no other song I’ve ever heard does.
13. (“A Man Needs A Maid” – Neil Young) This is another song that people often confuse as being misogynistic. “I was thinking that maybe I’d get a maid. Find a place nearby for her to stay. Just someone to keep my house clean. Fix my meals and go away.” I know that sounds horrible, but you’ve got to understand the back-story. Young wrote it about his wife, Carrie Snodgress, who cared for him after a back injury. It’s unclear whether or not it’s supposed to be a tribute to her (Young called her his “Maid Marion”). It doesn’t really matter though. I’ve always envisioned the Ethan Frome-like scene of Young bedridden, being taking care of by this woman who hates him, trapped in a loveless marriage.
14. (“How Can You Mend A Broken Heart” – Al Green) Obviously Al Green was going to be on this list. He’s another person, who, if you don’t own one of his CD’s, you need to go out and buy one right away. Whether he’s singing about love or pain, Al’s voice and passion seems to be a mainline to your soul.
15. (“Deceptacon” – Le Tigre) Okay, this defiantly isn’t one of the 20 best breakup songs of all time. I don’t know if it’s a break up song, but I’ve been dying to write about it since I started the blog. The Vein made me a mix and this was the first song on it. It’s awesome! Le Tigre is this female punk band that rocks. Every time it comes on Christine dances like a madwoman. People in the cars around us stare, but she doesn’t care. She can’t help it out, she’s got to wow out and I can’t blame her. It makes the list because there’s a strong touch of bitterness in the lyrics and so much energy, you’ll dance that depression away.
16. (“One Cup of Coffee” – Bob Marley) This is old-school Bob Marley. One of my favorite Bob songs. “One cup of coffee, then I’ll go; though I just dropped by to let you know, that I’m leaving you tomorrow. I’ll cause you no more sorrow. One cup of coffee, then I’ll go.” Part of breaking up is expressing some regret. Even if you’re the victim, you should still be able to look back on the relationship and know you should’ve done some things different. Believing that Nichols, Roberts, and Watkins might lead SU back to the Final Four is regrettable.
17. (“Mysterons” – Portishead) Thinking about that regret, makes me depressed. If you feel like being depressed, there’s always Portishead. The saddest music I know. It’s dark and beautiful and the perfect thing to blast when you feel like being despondent.
18. (“Cry Me A River” – Justin Timberlake) I know it’s Justin Timberlake, but a wise man named Moody taught me all about his brilliance while we were in London together. And this song is one of the ultimate “fuck-you, I’m over you now” songs in the history of music. And good for Justin. Look at Britney these days. She’s a fucking mess. JT is the king of pop. He broke up with Cameron Diaz. He’s the fucking man.
19. (“Stepping Stones” – G Love and Special Sauce) And here’s a bit more of that. Upbeat music, realizing you’re better off without her. But eventually you have to come to terms with the breakup. And when you do, there’s the greatest songwriter of them all…
20. (“Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” – Bob Dylan) This song is about turning the corner. If you’re ever really stuck in a rut and feel like you’re never going to get out, listen to this song. “I’m walkin’ down that long , lonesome road, babe. Where I’m bound, I can’t tell. But goodbye’s too good a word, gal. So I’ll just say fare thee well. I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind. You could have done better but I don’t mind. You just kinda wasted my precious time. But don’t think twice, it’s all right.” No matter how deep a funk you’re in, you’ll claw your way out, just a matter of time. And when you do, brace yourself to it all over again. After all, a new season is just around the bend.
So there you have it, “Zidane’s Kick-Ass Breakup Mix.” Any glaring omissions? Post a comment, let me know. I’ve got one… it was just a little too long to fit on the mix, but The Allman Brothers’ “Whipping Post” from their Fillmore Shows album has to be one of the greatest versions of one of the greatest songs in the history of rock. When I listen to the LYRICS, I can’t help but wonder if Gregg Allman was a Syracuse fan too.
I’m no stranger to heart break though. I’ve watched far too many Syracuse basketball games in my life not to know what it’s like to have your heart ripped out of your body, smashed with a rusty hammer, and then defecated on. Syracuse is that girl, sexy as hell, but treats you like shit. Every time you start to give up on her, she sucks you back in, only to inexplicably blow a 14 point lead with less than ten minutes to go in the second half. No matter how bad she treats me, how much suffering she causes me, how hard she punches me in the gut, I’ll never breakup with Syracuse.
It’s March though. And that means we’re about to embark on the greatest annual sporting event on the planet – the NCAA men’s basketball tournament. Syracuse is seemingly a lock for the tournament, but knowing my luck, they’ll either be excluded which would cause me to become enraged or they’ll exit early in some humiliating, agonizing way. Either way, I’m going to need something to comfort me.
Enter “Zidane’s Kick-Ass Breakup Mix.” When you’ve had a bad breakup and/or are a SU fan, there’s nothing like a good mix to flesh out everything you’re feeling: pain, suffering, jealousy, cynicism, bitterness, agony, longing, and more pain. Fortunately, when you’re done, you’re a stronger person (at least that’s what I tell myself after every season). Music helps you get there. Trust me. The four things that got me through my lone breakup were reading Nick Hornby’s “High Fidelity” (it taught me I wasn’t crazy), watching “Swingers,” talking about what I was going through, and music. One of the best things to do is blast some Rage Against the Machine and dance away the pain. And when I say dance, I mean wildly punching the air as you thrash around the room. Seriously, try dancing to three songs in a row, you’ll get a lot of anger out and by the time you’re done, you’ll be tired to be depressed. It’s healthy. In addition to Rage, everyone needs some music to flesh out those open wounds and eventually heal them. I recommend the following mix (in no real particular order):
(Note: Before I get started, I should probably mention that I know nothing about how women deal with breakups. This is based on my suffering as a man and a basketball fanatic. Nearly every song on this list is written by a man. I know there are plenty of great female breakup songs, but somehow Janis Joplin’s “Take Another Piece Of My Heart” or any of the other great female breakup songs, didn’t really seem to speak to what I was going through. I don’t know if these songs will speak to the females who read this. All I know is that they were compelling to me.)
1. (“Wasted Days” – The Slackers) I keep bringing up the Slackers in as many posts as possible. Maybe somebody, other than my buddy Vein who turned me onto them, will realize just how kick-ass they are. This is the breakup anthem. “What have I done wrong that I should be sorry? You broke my heart, you left in no hurry. What I'm sorry for, is all those wasted days and all those wasted ways that I loved you.”
2. (“It Makes No Difference” – The Band) This song captures that post breakup feeling about as well as any I’ve ever heard. You know what I’m talking about. After that realization that it’s really over, but long before you’ve started coming to terms with things. By the way, if you don’t own The Band’s “The Last Waltz” go out and buy it. It’s one of the best live albums ever released. Period.
3. (“Ain’t No Sunshine” – Bill Whithers) It’s beautiful and haunting but I can’t help but feel the song ends a bit prematurely. But hey, so do relationships. And 1987 National Championship games. “We didn’t lose; we jus ran out of time.”
4. (“For No One” – The Beatles) They have a song for every feeling and occasion, so obviously the greatest band in the history of rock was going to be on this list. Excluding songs like, “I Want You,” “I’m Looking Through You,” and “Girl” was not easy, but “For No One” is quite simply a perfect song. If you don’t make a point to listen to a Beatles’ album at least once a month, you should start. I’m currently in the middle of another period of falling in love with them for like the fifth time.
5. (“My Girl” – Nirvana – Unplugged) I think this is my favorite song from one of my favorite classic adolescent albums. Have you listened to “Unplugged” lately? It’s incredible. You can taste the bitterness in Curt Cobain’s voice when he gets to that final chorus. “In the pines. The PINES. SUN. SHINE. I shiver… the whole… night THROUGH!” Still gives me chills every time I listen to it.
6. (“You Are My Sunshine” – Norman Blake) As a child I remember singing this in pre-school. How in the fuck was this ever made into a kid’s song? It’s unequivocally one of the most morose songs I’ve ever heard. Don’t believe me? Check out the LYRICS By the time you’re through with this song (along with the previous 5), you’ll be thoroughly depressed. Sometimes after a breakup, that’s exactly how you want to feel. But if you want a pick up, there’s…
7. (“Song For Dumped” – Ben Folds Five) This will get the energy going. Nothing like bitterness to divert from the feeling of anguish. And this is the quintessential bitter boyfriend who just got fucked over rant. My Freshman roommate, Brian, told me he drove around with one his recently dumped high school buddies blasting this over and over again all night. I can see how that would therapeutic.
8. (“I used To Love Her” – Guns and Roses) And if bitterness isn’t working, maybe try a little cynicism. “I used to love her, but I had to kill her. I had to put her, six feet under. And I can still hear her complain…” Misogynistic? Probably. But if you’ve just had your heart ripped out, who really cares?
9. (“Can’t Stand Losing You” – The Police) I had a tough time picking my Police song. “Hole In My Life,” “So Lonely,” “My Bed’s Too Big Without You,” and “Message In Bottle” get honorable mentions for the list. My man-crush on Sting was born during my breakup. The emotion he sang with echoed all the things I was feeling. “I Can’t Stand Losing You” is darkly humorous. “I guess you’d call it suicide, but I’m too full to swallow my pride…” Things were bad, but never this bad. Listening to it, always helped me laugh at myself and keep things in perspective.
10. (“Tell Me Why” – Los Lonely Boys) I know they’re a bit smooth, but I’ve seen Los Lonely Boys in person and they’re shockingly good live. I don’t know if this one can hold a candle to “Ain’t No Sunshine” or some of the previous songs, but I don’t care. I like it. It taps into that time when the breakup is imminent, but you’re still in denial.
11. (“Pictures of Me” – Elliot Smith) Either/Or was and remains not only one of the greatest breakup albums of all time, but one of my all-time top five desert island favorite albums. Picking a single song off it was next to impossible for me. The album is sad, haunting, beautiful, and the best reminder I have of being broken up with. Go buy this album. If you get broken up with, it will be one of your closest companions. And in times of happiness, you’ll appreciate how chillingly magnificent it is.
12. (“My Girl” (acoustic, live) – Weezer) You have to get the live-acoustic version of this. I know some people who think it’s sexist. “I want a girl who will laugh for no one else. When I’m away, she puts her make up on the shelf. When I’m away, she never leaves the house…” Listen to this version and I guarantee that you’ll understand. It’s about a guy whose girlfriend is a cheater and it’s killing him. On this you can hear the suffering in his voice. It taps into that awful, awful jealousy you feel in a way that no other song I’ve ever heard does.
13. (“A Man Needs A Maid” – Neil Young) This is another song that people often confuse as being misogynistic. “I was thinking that maybe I’d get a maid. Find a place nearby for her to stay. Just someone to keep my house clean. Fix my meals and go away.” I know that sounds horrible, but you’ve got to understand the back-story. Young wrote it about his wife, Carrie Snodgress, who cared for him after a back injury. It’s unclear whether or not it’s supposed to be a tribute to her (Young called her his “Maid Marion”). It doesn’t really matter though. I’ve always envisioned the Ethan Frome-like scene of Young bedridden, being taking care of by this woman who hates him, trapped in a loveless marriage.
14. (“How Can You Mend A Broken Heart” – Al Green) Obviously Al Green was going to be on this list. He’s another person, who, if you don’t own one of his CD’s, you need to go out and buy one right away. Whether he’s singing about love or pain, Al’s voice and passion seems to be a mainline to your soul.
15. (“Deceptacon” – Le Tigre) Okay, this defiantly isn’t one of the 20 best breakup songs of all time. I don’t know if it’s a break up song, but I’ve been dying to write about it since I started the blog. The Vein made me a mix and this was the first song on it. It’s awesome! Le Tigre is this female punk band that rocks. Every time it comes on Christine dances like a madwoman. People in the cars around us stare, but she doesn’t care. She can’t help it out, she’s got to wow out and I can’t blame her. It makes the list because there’s a strong touch of bitterness in the lyrics and so much energy, you’ll dance that depression away.
16. (“One Cup of Coffee” – Bob Marley) This is old-school Bob Marley. One of my favorite Bob songs. “One cup of coffee, then I’ll go; though I just dropped by to let you know, that I’m leaving you tomorrow. I’ll cause you no more sorrow. One cup of coffee, then I’ll go.” Part of breaking up is expressing some regret. Even if you’re the victim, you should still be able to look back on the relationship and know you should’ve done some things different. Believing that Nichols, Roberts, and Watkins might lead SU back to the Final Four is regrettable.
17. (“Mysterons” – Portishead) Thinking about that regret, makes me depressed. If you feel like being depressed, there’s always Portishead. The saddest music I know. It’s dark and beautiful and the perfect thing to blast when you feel like being despondent.
18. (“Cry Me A River” – Justin Timberlake) I know it’s Justin Timberlake, but a wise man named Moody taught me all about his brilliance while we were in London together. And this song is one of the ultimate “fuck-you, I’m over you now” songs in the history of music. And good for Justin. Look at Britney these days. She’s a fucking mess. JT is the king of pop. He broke up with Cameron Diaz. He’s the fucking man.
19. (“Stepping Stones” – G Love and Special Sauce) And here’s a bit more of that. Upbeat music, realizing you’re better off without her. But eventually you have to come to terms with the breakup. And when you do, there’s the greatest songwriter of them all…
20. (“Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” – Bob Dylan) This song is about turning the corner. If you’re ever really stuck in a rut and feel like you’re never going to get out, listen to this song. “I’m walkin’ down that long , lonesome road, babe. Where I’m bound, I can’t tell. But goodbye’s too good a word, gal. So I’ll just say fare thee well. I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind. You could have done better but I don’t mind. You just kinda wasted my precious time. But don’t think twice, it’s all right.” No matter how deep a funk you’re in, you’ll claw your way out, just a matter of time. And when you do, brace yourself to it all over again. After all, a new season is just around the bend.
So there you have it, “Zidane’s Kick-Ass Breakup Mix.” Any glaring omissions? Post a comment, let me know. I’ve got one… it was just a little too long to fit on the mix, but The Allman Brothers’ “Whipping Post” from their Fillmore Shows album has to be one of the greatest versions of one of the greatest songs in the history of rock. When I listen to the LYRICS, I can’t help but wonder if Gregg Allman was a Syracuse fan too.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Matisyahu vs. Dr. Dreidle
It’s time to set the record straight. I like Matisyahu. I really do, but I can’t help but harbor some angry feelings towards him. After all, the man stole my persona and turned it into millions of dollars. Halloween 2003, I introduced a Chassidic Jewish rapper to the world: Dr. Dreidle. His rhymes were a little unpolished and he lacked an accompanying band or DJ, but his reggae-infused hip hop was months ahead of Matisyahu. His first single, “I Turned In Your Savior, But I Did Not Nail Him To The Cross (That Was Pontius Pilate),” inspired by the Bob Marley tune, “I Shot The Sheriff,” killed at three Syracuse bars that night. And the ladies, they loved him, although some say it was because of the gigantic gold-plated “Chai” he wore on his chest.
Bling aside, Dr. Dreidle was a legit artist. In the summer of 2004, he teamed up with long time songwriter and bass player, 50 Shekels, and the two headlined the Camp Seneca Lake Campstock show. Their hit single, “In Da Shul,” delighted their fan base -- every Jewish kid between the ages of 8 and 16 in all of Penn Yan, New York. And it wasn't just teeny-boppers getting all hot and bothered by two fine looking Jews; their lyrics were something special:
“Go Dreidle, it’s your bar mitzvah. We gonna party like it’s your bar mitzvah. We gonna drink manishevitz like it’s your bar mitzvah. And you know we don’t give fuck because it’s not your bar mitzvah. We be in da shul, our talit looking cool. Look mamma, I got the bling, if you’re into diamond rings. I’m not into pork, unless you want to pork. So come give me a menorah if you want to learn about the torah….”
Unfortunately, a Rich Recht-like national Jewish camp tour was cut short after allegations of an incident involving several female junior counselors and a sheet with several holes cut in it, arose. That left door open for Matisyahu to corner the market.
And he did just that. A former Jewish Phishhead, influenced by hip hop and reggae (sound familiar) became a Chassidic Jewish rapper and his albums flew off the racks faster than fresh-baked homentoshen. Now, I like Matisyahu. I’ll begrudgingly admit that his rhymes are better than Dr. Dreidles, his message purer, and his reggae infused beats pretty fucking dope. If you haven’t heard him, check him out. His albums are really very good.
I don’t recommend seeing him in concert though. Not only is he unable to capture the energy of a Dr. Dreidle and 50 Shekels live performance, but he basically kind of sucks. Or at least the one live show that I listened to sucked. It was full of Matis’ yelling things like, “put your hands up, put your hands up,” “ohhhhh yeaaaah,” and various other high pitched, voice cracking, irritating vocal improvs that were just plain embarrassing. Imagine a twenty something Jewish Phishhead getting up on stage and trying to get a hip hop audience hyped. It’s not pretty.
As a kid, I dreamed of being a hype man. You know, the guys on stage at hip hop shows who get everyone in the crowd excited. But only certain kinds of people should be hype men. Cool people. Cool people with deep bass voices. Cool people with deep bass voices and street cred. Jewish Phishheads have no business getting anyone excited about anything, ever. I mean, I can’t speak for Matis’, but people in parallel lanes shoot me dirty looks when I try to sing driving on the 405. I, like Matisyahu, but he has no business trying to get people hyped. So buy his CD, enjoy it, but remember, your essentially listening to a Dr. Dreidle knock-off… for better or worse.
Bling aside, Dr. Dreidle was a legit artist. In the summer of 2004, he teamed up with long time songwriter and bass player, 50 Shekels, and the two headlined the Camp Seneca Lake Campstock show. Their hit single, “In Da Shul,” delighted their fan base -- every Jewish kid between the ages of 8 and 16 in all of Penn Yan, New York. And it wasn't just teeny-boppers getting all hot and bothered by two fine looking Jews; their lyrics were something special:
“Go Dreidle, it’s your bar mitzvah. We gonna party like it’s your bar mitzvah. We gonna drink manishevitz like it’s your bar mitzvah. And you know we don’t give fuck because it’s not your bar mitzvah. We be in da shul, our talit looking cool. Look mamma, I got the bling, if you’re into diamond rings. I’m not into pork, unless you want to pork. So come give me a menorah if you want to learn about the torah….”
Unfortunately, a Rich Recht-like national Jewish camp tour was cut short after allegations of an incident involving several female junior counselors and a sheet with several holes cut in it, arose. That left door open for Matisyahu to corner the market.
And he did just that. A former Jewish Phishhead, influenced by hip hop and reggae (sound familiar) became a Chassidic Jewish rapper and his albums flew off the racks faster than fresh-baked homentoshen. Now, I like Matisyahu. I’ll begrudgingly admit that his rhymes are better than Dr. Dreidles, his message purer, and his reggae infused beats pretty fucking dope. If you haven’t heard him, check him out. His albums are really very good.
I don’t recommend seeing him in concert though. Not only is he unable to capture the energy of a Dr. Dreidle and 50 Shekels live performance, but he basically kind of sucks. Or at least the one live show that I listened to sucked. It was full of Matis’ yelling things like, “put your hands up, put your hands up,” “ohhhhh yeaaaah,” and various other high pitched, voice cracking, irritating vocal improvs that were just plain embarrassing. Imagine a twenty something Jewish Phishhead getting up on stage and trying to get a hip hop audience hyped. It’s not pretty.
As a kid, I dreamed of being a hype man. You know, the guys on stage at hip hop shows who get everyone in the crowd excited. But only certain kinds of people should be hype men. Cool people. Cool people with deep bass voices. Cool people with deep bass voices and street cred. Jewish Phishheads have no business getting anyone excited about anything, ever. I mean, I can’t speak for Matis’, but people in parallel lanes shoot me dirty looks when I try to sing driving on the 405. I, like Matisyahu, but he has no business trying to get people hyped. So buy his CD, enjoy it, but remember, your essentially listening to a Dr. Dreidle knock-off… for better or worse.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Why am I such a bad dancer?
For those of you who have seen me dance… I’m sorry – it’s not a pretty sight. There’s a lot of misguided hip shaking, arm swinging, and head bobbing as I desperately search for the beat. Usually, I resign myself to a modified “running man.” My head goes up and down or shoulder-to-shoulder, while my arms take turns upper cutting my chin. What my legs do is better left unsaid. Why am I such a bad dancer?
The short answer is that I’m a skinny, white, Jewish boy, without much rhythm. On closer examination, that doesn’t begin to explain my ineptitude. The belief that all Jews, or white people for that matter, are bad dancers is not only a broad generalization (racist) but inaccurate. When I watch “My Super Sweet Sixteen” (MTV guilty pleasure watching at it’s finest) the white kids are cutting a serious rug. (Do the kids say, “cutting a rug” anymore?)
So what makes them so different than me? Well, I’ll get to them a bit later, but first I want to explain why a fairly decent athlete like myself, has to rely on the delicate balance of “just enough booze” when I dance -- too little and I move like the Tin Man, too much and I’m somewhere between doing the cabbage patch and having a seizure, just right and I may walk off the dance floor with some of my dignity still intact.
The answer lies in the music I was socialized with. My mom was not hip. Anyone who has met her will say that she’s very sweet and kind, but no one is confusing her with “the cool mom.” (That was Linda Gerber, aka “the skunk,” aka a regular visitor to the… ahem… imagination of my 15 year old self.) Anyway, the coolest thing my mom ever had me listen to was the Beatles, beyond that, I don’t know if she even listened to contemporary music. I was pretty much on my own when it came to discovering music as a kid, forced to rely on MTV and the tapes my brother was no longer interested in. At the age of 12, my music collection consisted of the following artists: Poison, Guns and Roses, Genesis, Pink Floyd, The Dead Milkmen, Paula Abdul, Neil Young, Vanilla Ice, Fiddler On The Roof Soundtrack, REM, Pearl Jam, They Might Be Giants, Billy Joel, Weird Al, and an additional Paula Abdul album (I had both “Spellbound” and “Forever Your Girl”). What does this eclectic group of musicians have in common? They’re all white.
When Paula Abdul and Vanilla Ice are the closet things a kid has to music created by people of color, it’s damn near impossible to understand what “soul” is. And I’m not just talking about soul music (which much to my delight, I discovered in college); I’m talking about music that has soul in it. The bulk of my black classmates in elementary school grew up listening to the music their parents listened to and you better believe that music had some soul in it. Meanwhile, I listened to what most middle class white kids were listening to… the stuff on the radio and on MTV. Outside of Michael Jackson, MC Hammer, Living Color, TLC, and Salt and Peppa, I don’t remember too many black faces or voices on my TV or radio. And I didn’t have the slightest idea what soul meant.
Now what exactly is soul? Well, it’s hard to pinpoint just what it is. It’s easy to point to various groups or musicians (Al Green, Curtis Mayfield, James Brown, Aretha Franklin and so on) and say they have soul. It’s not so hard to trace the influence of soul artists to funk (Bootsy Collins, Maceo Parker, George Clinton, etc.) and onto hip-hop (The Roots, Jill Scoot, Erykah Badu, etc.) But what is it that all these people have in common (aside from being black)? What about their music makes it soulful? If I had to pinpoint it, it’s a combination of R&B and gospel inspired elements, most notably powerful singing and rhythms you can tap your feet to… and dance to.
In college, I used to go to a bar called Darwin’s every Thursday night and dance my ass off. It was a predominantly white crowd listening to predominantly hip-hop music. After a few cocktails, I’d usually work up the courage to approach a cute black girl and I’d say, “I’m skinny white, Jewish boy, without much rhythm… but I want to learn!” The line never failed and in seconds I was grinding was some cutie that could dance circles around most of the girls in the bar. Inevitably, I always heard the same thing week in and week out: “Listen for the beat. Find the beat.”
But I couldn’t. And it’s not because I was white and she was black, it’s because I was raised listening to Poison (no one is ever going to confuse anything Poison has written for having even an inkling of soul in it) and she was raised listening to stuff you can dance to. Now white kids were in the clear for a while. White music was pop music, and so others had to conform to the white style of dancing. In the 70’s it was disco, in the 80’s it was some sort of manic, arms flailing, seizure-like thrashing (http://youtube.com/watch?v=5Iwmqq1o0Ts - watch how the people dance in the background in this clip from 16 Candles), and in the 90’s it was head banging and mosh pits.
Today, hip-hop culture is pop-culture. White kids and black kids alike are socialized on black music. And while “soul” may be absent from Lil’ John and some of his hip-hop counterparts, check out the most recent Kanye West album and listen to “Gold Digger” or “Gone” and then try telling me there’s not a direct correlation from soul music to rap. Kids of all races are growing up listening to music that has a beat, which leads me back to “My Super Sweet Sixteen.” The white kids in that, bumping and grinding away with careless ease, have no trouble finding the beat. If you grow up listening to music with soul, the beat is just a part of you.
The short answer is that I’m a skinny, white, Jewish boy, without much rhythm. On closer examination, that doesn’t begin to explain my ineptitude. The belief that all Jews, or white people for that matter, are bad dancers is not only a broad generalization (racist) but inaccurate. When I watch “My Super Sweet Sixteen” (MTV guilty pleasure watching at it’s finest) the white kids are cutting a serious rug. (Do the kids say, “cutting a rug” anymore?)
So what makes them so different than me? Well, I’ll get to them a bit later, but first I want to explain why a fairly decent athlete like myself, has to rely on the delicate balance of “just enough booze” when I dance -- too little and I move like the Tin Man, too much and I’m somewhere between doing the cabbage patch and having a seizure, just right and I may walk off the dance floor with some of my dignity still intact.
The answer lies in the music I was socialized with. My mom was not hip. Anyone who has met her will say that she’s very sweet and kind, but no one is confusing her with “the cool mom.” (That was Linda Gerber, aka “the skunk,” aka a regular visitor to the… ahem… imagination of my 15 year old self.) Anyway, the coolest thing my mom ever had me listen to was the Beatles, beyond that, I don’t know if she even listened to contemporary music. I was pretty much on my own when it came to discovering music as a kid, forced to rely on MTV and the tapes my brother was no longer interested in. At the age of 12, my music collection consisted of the following artists: Poison, Guns and Roses, Genesis, Pink Floyd, The Dead Milkmen, Paula Abdul, Neil Young, Vanilla Ice, Fiddler On The Roof Soundtrack, REM, Pearl Jam, They Might Be Giants, Billy Joel, Weird Al, and an additional Paula Abdul album (I had both “Spellbound” and “Forever Your Girl”). What does this eclectic group of musicians have in common? They’re all white.
When Paula Abdul and Vanilla Ice are the closet things a kid has to music created by people of color, it’s damn near impossible to understand what “soul” is. And I’m not just talking about soul music (which much to my delight, I discovered in college); I’m talking about music that has soul in it. The bulk of my black classmates in elementary school grew up listening to the music their parents listened to and you better believe that music had some soul in it. Meanwhile, I listened to what most middle class white kids were listening to… the stuff on the radio and on MTV. Outside of Michael Jackson, MC Hammer, Living Color, TLC, and Salt and Peppa, I don’t remember too many black faces or voices on my TV or radio. And I didn’t have the slightest idea what soul meant.
Now what exactly is soul? Well, it’s hard to pinpoint just what it is. It’s easy to point to various groups or musicians (Al Green, Curtis Mayfield, James Brown, Aretha Franklin and so on) and say they have soul. It’s not so hard to trace the influence of soul artists to funk (Bootsy Collins, Maceo Parker, George Clinton, etc.) and onto hip-hop (The Roots, Jill Scoot, Erykah Badu, etc.) But what is it that all these people have in common (aside from being black)? What about their music makes it soulful? If I had to pinpoint it, it’s a combination of R&B and gospel inspired elements, most notably powerful singing and rhythms you can tap your feet to… and dance to.
In college, I used to go to a bar called Darwin’s every Thursday night and dance my ass off. It was a predominantly white crowd listening to predominantly hip-hop music. After a few cocktails, I’d usually work up the courage to approach a cute black girl and I’d say, “I’m skinny white, Jewish boy, without much rhythm… but I want to learn!” The line never failed and in seconds I was grinding was some cutie that could dance circles around most of the girls in the bar. Inevitably, I always heard the same thing week in and week out: “Listen for the beat. Find the beat.”
But I couldn’t. And it’s not because I was white and she was black, it’s because I was raised listening to Poison (no one is ever going to confuse anything Poison has written for having even an inkling of soul in it) and she was raised listening to stuff you can dance to. Now white kids were in the clear for a while. White music was pop music, and so others had to conform to the white style of dancing. In the 70’s it was disco, in the 80’s it was some sort of manic, arms flailing, seizure-like thrashing (http://youtube.com/watch?v=5Iwmqq1o0Ts - watch how the people dance in the background in this clip from 16 Candles), and in the 90’s it was head banging and mosh pits.
Today, hip-hop culture is pop-culture. White kids and black kids alike are socialized on black music. And while “soul” may be absent from Lil’ John and some of his hip-hop counterparts, check out the most recent Kanye West album and listen to “Gold Digger” or “Gone” and then try telling me there’s not a direct correlation from soul music to rap. Kids of all races are growing up listening to music that has a beat, which leads me back to “My Super Sweet Sixteen.” The white kids in that, bumping and grinding away with careless ease, have no trouble finding the beat. If you grow up listening to music with soul, the beat is just a part of you.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
"Yes, Yes Y'all" - Sergio Mendes
This is far and away the best track from Sergio Mendes' most recent album, "Timeless." For those who don't know Mendes, he's a Brazilian piano player, probably best known for the track, "Mas Que Nada," which was featured on a Nike commercial involving the Brazilian Men's soccer team. Calling the album a Sergio Mendes album is a bit of a stretch. While he does play piano on every track, the creative force (for better or worse) behind the album is producer will.i.am (of the Black Eyed Peas and just about everywhere in pop music). He loads the album with a who's who of hip-hop and pop music: Justin Timberlake, Erykah Badu, Stevie Wonder, Jill Scott, and on "Yes, Yes Y'all," - The Root's Black Thought and Jurassic 5's Charlie Tuna.
While I'm not totally crazy about will.i.am, either as a producer or MC, he definitely scores on this track. Mendes' Latin piano combined with some pretty basic drums and background vocals, is the perfect backdrop for the three MC's to rhyme over. I won't break down their lyrics too much; they're not really saying anything of consequence. Essentially you have three really polished MC's (Charlie Tuna having perhaps the coolest voice of any man on the planet and Black Thought being my favorite MC) rapping about hanging out with one another in Brazil. It's one of the chillest hip-hope tracks you'll ever hear. We've had a few parties and every time this has come on, people start bobbing their head to song and ask me what it is. Unfortunately, the rest of the album is hit or miss. Check it out.
TIMELESS
While I'm not totally crazy about will.i.am, either as a producer or MC, he definitely scores on this track. Mendes' Latin piano combined with some pretty basic drums and background vocals, is the perfect backdrop for the three MC's to rhyme over. I won't break down their lyrics too much; they're not really saying anything of consequence. Essentially you have three really polished MC's (Charlie Tuna having perhaps the coolest voice of any man on the planet and Black Thought being my favorite MC) rapping about hanging out with one another in Brazil. It's one of the chillest hip-hope tracks you'll ever hear. We've had a few parties and every time this has come on, people start bobbing their head to song and ask me what it is. Unfortunately, the rest of the album is hit or miss. Check it out.
TIMELESS
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