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)
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Graceland
I almost died this morning. That sounds dramatic, but it’s the truth. A block away from the office, a large white truck, one of those Suburbans or Expeditions, some massive truck that gets like eight miles to the gallon, drifted over from the oncoming traffic, bearing down on my Focus hatchback. Fortunately, I have the reflexes of a moderately athletic twenty-five-year-old man and I swerved across three lanes to avoid the truck and my almost-certain death. I assume the driver was asleep or texting or picking a grape up off the floor, because after laying on my horn, they recovered and swerved back into their own lane.
I was pretty shaken up. It’s not every day you confront your own mortality. I arrived at work a minute or so later and sat in the parking lot shaking. Paul Simon’s “Graceland” had been playing at the time of the almost-accident. At first I thought, it was an odd bit of music for the occasion; “Graceland” being one of the most beautiful, joyous albums ever created – me ruminating on what my life would be like if I somehow survived a head-on collision with truck going 45 as the Paul Simon’s sweet voice echoed in my brain. And then it hit me: if I had died, the last thing I would’ve heard, “You Can Call Me Al,” is a pretty cool song to go out on. And then it hit me again: If I was able to have that kind of thought, so shortly after a near-death experience, “Graceland” truly must be my all-time favorite album… something which I’d been debating over the past month or so.
I feel comfortable saying it’s my favorite album and not qualifying the statement. I assume anyone who’s ever listened to the album would surely understand. If for some crazy reason, you’ve never listened to “Graceland,” feel ashamed, getting caught by your mother masturbating to a JC Penny catalogue ashamed.
Simon somehow seamlessly infuses African music and musicians, with Zydeco and Tex-Mex music and musicians, then encompasses the whole sound into this beautiful little package, akin to a pop song. Is it pop music? World music? Does it matter?! It’s just perfect music, from start to finish, every song, beautiful, wonderful, complex, simple and subtle bass lines that expertly fill gaps, horns, accordions, Ladysmith Black Mumbazo, Los Lobos, The Everly Brothers, Linda Ronstadt, harmonies and rhythms as unique as they are beautiful, fucking Ladysmith Black Mumbazo for crying out loud!
It’s autobiographical, inspired, inspiring, and my god, the lyrics, the lyrics!!! And I’m not even a lyrics guy but:
There's a girl in New York City,
Who calls herself the human trampoline,
And sometimes when I'm falling flying
Or tumbling in turmoil I say
Whoa so this is what she means,
She means we're bouncing into Graceland.
And I see losing love
Is like a window in your heart,
Everybody sees you're blown apart,
Everybody feels the wind blow.
It just doesn’t get any better than that. And these feelings aren’t new, they weren’t suddenly brought on by the trauma of almost becoming a statistic this morning. “Graceland” has endured for years… dating back to my senior camper summer at Camp Seneca Lake, singing “You Can Call Me Al,” cooking with Alex and Julian this was in the background, the first record Christine played when we finished unpacking in our new apartment… it’s a part of me, seems like it always has, and always will be.
Something about that is comforting. In the face of death, I felt calm, at peace; it was the music. Immediately after I swerved away from the truck, I turned off my CD player. There was no way I was going to let something as silly as almost dying, tarnish in any way, shape, or form, an album I love so very much.
I was pretty shaken up. It’s not every day you confront your own mortality. I arrived at work a minute or so later and sat in the parking lot shaking. Paul Simon’s “Graceland” had been playing at the time of the almost-accident. At first I thought, it was an odd bit of music for the occasion; “Graceland” being one of the most beautiful, joyous albums ever created – me ruminating on what my life would be like if I somehow survived a head-on collision with truck going 45 as the Paul Simon’s sweet voice echoed in my brain. And then it hit me: if I had died, the last thing I would’ve heard, “You Can Call Me Al,” is a pretty cool song to go out on. And then it hit me again: If I was able to have that kind of thought, so shortly after a near-death experience, “Graceland” truly must be my all-time favorite album… something which I’d been debating over the past month or so.
I feel comfortable saying it’s my favorite album and not qualifying the statement. I assume anyone who’s ever listened to the album would surely understand. If for some crazy reason, you’ve never listened to “Graceland,” feel ashamed, getting caught by your mother masturbating to a JC Penny catalogue ashamed.
Simon somehow seamlessly infuses African music and musicians, with Zydeco and Tex-Mex music and musicians, then encompasses the whole sound into this beautiful little package, akin to a pop song. Is it pop music? World music? Does it matter?! It’s just perfect music, from start to finish, every song, beautiful, wonderful, complex, simple and subtle bass lines that expertly fill gaps, horns, accordions, Ladysmith Black Mumbazo, Los Lobos, The Everly Brothers, Linda Ronstadt, harmonies and rhythms as unique as they are beautiful, fucking Ladysmith Black Mumbazo for crying out loud!
It’s autobiographical, inspired, inspiring, and my god, the lyrics, the lyrics!!! And I’m not even a lyrics guy but:
There's a girl in New York City,
Who calls herself the human trampoline,
And sometimes when I'm falling flying
Or tumbling in turmoil I say
Whoa so this is what she means,
She means we're bouncing into Graceland.
And I see losing love
Is like a window in your heart,
Everybody sees you're blown apart,
Everybody feels the wind blow.
It just doesn’t get any better than that. And these feelings aren’t new, they weren’t suddenly brought on by the trauma of almost becoming a statistic this morning. “Graceland” has endured for years… dating back to my senior camper summer at Camp Seneca Lake, singing “You Can Call Me Al,” cooking with Alex and Julian this was in the background, the first record Christine played when we finished unpacking in our new apartment… it’s a part of me, seems like it always has, and always will be.
Something about that is comforting. In the face of death, I felt calm, at peace; it was the music. Immediately after I swerved away from the truck, I turned off my CD player. There was no way I was going to let something as silly as almost dying, tarnish in any way, shape, or form, an album I love so very much.
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.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
The Sweet Smell of Burnt Cocaine
Okay, this is totally late, but I don’t care. I can’t think of anything else to write about and it’s totally worth talking about.
Christine and I went to the Hollywood Bowl a few weeks ago and caught The Decemberists playing with the LA Philharmonic. And it was awesome! More on that shortly.
First, the Hollywood Bowl is the coolest place in the world to see a large, outdoor concert. This I’m convinced of, despite having only been to maybe a dozen or so outdoor concert venues. It’s so fucking cool though! We parked at Hollywood and Highland (where the Academy Awards are held), walked through the heart of tourist central Hollywood and arrived at the bowl, a veritable oasis in the heart of urban tourist sprawl. Before taking our seats, we sat with some of Christine’s friends and chatted with them at a picnic table while they drank wine and ate tasty snacks. Then we walked to our seats, opened the bottle of Chianti we brought, and dug into our picnic dinner. Apparently, if the LA Philharmonic is present, you can bring wine and beer into the Hollywood Bowl, no questions asked. And that is so fucking cool! Plus you’re in this amazing, gigantic, yet somehow intimate concert space, and there’s virtually no indication that you’re anywhere near Hollywood. It’s just hills and trees and vegetation surrounding you. You quickly forget where you are and manage to focus all your senses on tasty wine and fantastic music. I love the Hollywood Bowl. I can’t stress that enough.
A Band Of Horses was the first opener. They’re good. Christine likes them a lot. I thought the Bowl was too big of a venue for them, but they were nice. I honestly don’t have too much to say about them. They seemed good (I know I said that already), but I was focused on wine and picnic dinners and people watching and taking in the sheer beauty of the bowl. I can’t stress how cool it is there.
Next up was Andrew Bird. A guy I worked with when I first came out to LA, was kind enough to make me an incredible mix that featured a Andrew Bird song on it, so I got to be really cool, and tell everyone ahead of time how excited I was to see him, even though I’d only heard about a half-dozen of his songs. I was right though. He’s ridiculous. If you haven’t heard Andrew Bird, you should… especially if you can catch him live. He plays alongside a drummer and bass player (or at least he did on this night). Andrew Bird plays the violin (incredibly well), loops it with a foot petal, whistles , loops that with a foot petal, then picks up the guitar and plays that. Then puts down the guitar and picks back up the violin. Then he whistles some more and somewhere along the ride, he sings too. And he does it all so well. I have trouble describing his style. To say he’s a singer/songwriter who plays violin and loops samples just doesn’t seem to do him justice. To say that after seeing him perform a 45 minute set, I was convinced there was no way The Decemberists playing with the LA Philharmonic could possibly be as impressive as he was, probably is a better testament to how awesome he was. If you don’t believe me, check this out.
I was wrong by the way. The whole, ‘there’s no way The Decemeberists could be as good as Andrew Bird’ thing. Yeah, I was an idiot, because The Decemberists with the LA Philharmonic was one of the coolest things, I’ve ever seen or heard. I’m not going to go song by song and explain every nuance of the show, just a few highlights instead.
They opened with “The Crane Wife, parts 1 and 2.” From the first few notes that the Philharmonic played, I knew I was in for a treat. And moments later when I heard several string players hit a chord in unison and the big bassy French horn kick in, I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically. It’s so rare that music surprises me, tickles me, touches me. Watching an incredible band play really sophisticated songs with the help of one of the nations best symphonies is a quite simply a treat, and I wasn’t quite ready for what I was about to hear. The songs were so well-orchestrated, so layered, so pleasing to my ears, I couldn’t help but laugh and laugh; it seemed the only sensible thing to do.
My other favorite moment of the show came when the crowd greeted the band with raucous approval as they launched into “Los Angeles, I’m Yours.” For those of you not to familiar with The Decemberists, “Lose Angeles, I’m Yours” is perhaps the single most beautiful tribute to the city I call home; it also happens to be a scathing rant about everything that makes LA such a deplorable place. Christine informed me that people in LA love songs about how awful LA is. And why not? Everyone here is from somewhere else, there’s no attachment to this city, no hometown pride; it’s cool to turn up our collective noses at a city a renowned for neon dreams, materialism, and greed. On this night, some 17,000 fans collectively celebrated our home by cheering along to a song that actively shits on it.
In the past I’ve written about the things I enjoy in live music: technical virtuosity, energy, hearing something unique – something that may never be recreated, and surprises. Suffice to say, this show had it all. (Here’s a link to a video of them playing “The Infanta.” I don’t think it quite does the sound justice… although it pretty well mimics my view.) Did I mention I love the Hollywood Bowl?
Christine and I went to the Hollywood Bowl a few weeks ago and caught The Decemberists playing with the LA Philharmonic. And it was awesome! More on that shortly.
First, the Hollywood Bowl is the coolest place in the world to see a large, outdoor concert. This I’m convinced of, despite having only been to maybe a dozen or so outdoor concert venues. It’s so fucking cool though! We parked at Hollywood and Highland (where the Academy Awards are held), walked through the heart of tourist central Hollywood and arrived at the bowl, a veritable oasis in the heart of urban tourist sprawl. Before taking our seats, we sat with some of Christine’s friends and chatted with them at a picnic table while they drank wine and ate tasty snacks. Then we walked to our seats, opened the bottle of Chianti we brought, and dug into our picnic dinner. Apparently, if the LA Philharmonic is present, you can bring wine and beer into the Hollywood Bowl, no questions asked. And that is so fucking cool! Plus you’re in this amazing, gigantic, yet somehow intimate concert space, and there’s virtually no indication that you’re anywhere near Hollywood. It’s just hills and trees and vegetation surrounding you. You quickly forget where you are and manage to focus all your senses on tasty wine and fantastic music. I love the Hollywood Bowl. I can’t stress that enough.
A Band Of Horses was the first opener. They’re good. Christine likes them a lot. I thought the Bowl was too big of a venue for them, but they were nice. I honestly don’t have too much to say about them. They seemed good (I know I said that already), but I was focused on wine and picnic dinners and people watching and taking in the sheer beauty of the bowl. I can’t stress how cool it is there.
Next up was Andrew Bird. A guy I worked with when I first came out to LA, was kind enough to make me an incredible mix that featured a Andrew Bird song on it, so I got to be really cool, and tell everyone ahead of time how excited I was to see him, even though I’d only heard about a half-dozen of his songs. I was right though. He’s ridiculous. If you haven’t heard Andrew Bird, you should… especially if you can catch him live. He plays alongside a drummer and bass player (or at least he did on this night). Andrew Bird plays the violin (incredibly well), loops it with a foot petal, whistles , loops that with a foot petal, then picks up the guitar and plays that. Then puts down the guitar and picks back up the violin. Then he whistles some more and somewhere along the ride, he sings too. And he does it all so well. I have trouble describing his style. To say he’s a singer/songwriter who plays violin and loops samples just doesn’t seem to do him justice. To say that after seeing him perform a 45 minute set, I was convinced there was no way The Decemberists playing with the LA Philharmonic could possibly be as impressive as he was, probably is a better testament to how awesome he was. If you don’t believe me, check this out.
I was wrong by the way. The whole, ‘there’s no way The Decemeberists could be as good as Andrew Bird’ thing. Yeah, I was an idiot, because The Decemberists with the LA Philharmonic was one of the coolest things, I’ve ever seen or heard. I’m not going to go song by song and explain every nuance of the show, just a few highlights instead.
They opened with “The Crane Wife, parts 1 and 2.” From the first few notes that the Philharmonic played, I knew I was in for a treat. And moments later when I heard several string players hit a chord in unison and the big bassy French horn kick in, I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically. It’s so rare that music surprises me, tickles me, touches me. Watching an incredible band play really sophisticated songs with the help of one of the nations best symphonies is a quite simply a treat, and I wasn’t quite ready for what I was about to hear. The songs were so well-orchestrated, so layered, so pleasing to my ears, I couldn’t help but laugh and laugh; it seemed the only sensible thing to do.
My other favorite moment of the show came when the crowd greeted the band with raucous approval as they launched into “Los Angeles, I’m Yours.” For those of you not to familiar with The Decemberists, “Lose Angeles, I’m Yours” is perhaps the single most beautiful tribute to the city I call home; it also happens to be a scathing rant about everything that makes LA such a deplorable place. Christine informed me that people in LA love songs about how awful LA is. And why not? Everyone here is from somewhere else, there’s no attachment to this city, no hometown pride; it’s cool to turn up our collective noses at a city a renowned for neon dreams, materialism, and greed. On this night, some 17,000 fans collectively celebrated our home by cheering along to a song that actively shits on it.
In the past I’ve written about the things I enjoy in live music: technical virtuosity, energy, hearing something unique – something that may never be recreated, and surprises. Suffice to say, this show had it all. (Here’s a link to a video of them playing “The Infanta.” I don’t think it quite does the sound justice… although it pretty well mimics my view.) Did I mention I love the Hollywood Bowl?
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Pandora's Juke Box
It’s quite possible that I’m not on the cutting edge of this. In fact, I’m almost certain everyone already knows about this. But on the off chance that some of you out there are as incredibly un-hip as I am, I’m here to preach to you about a website that is a true godsend. Cali’s husband, Paul, turned me onto this a week ago and I quickly became a believer. Pandora.com. I repeat: Pandora.com. Now say, “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!”
The website is simple: Start by either entering the name of band or song you like. If you enter a band, Pandora will play a song from that band and give you a description of the music. For example, I typed in “The Roots,” and Pandora played “Love of My Life” off “The Roots Come Alive.” Pandora told me The Roots are characterized by, “hardcore rap influence, east coast rap roots, funk influences, syncopated beats, and duo rapping.” Based on those characteristics, Pandora then automatically created a playlist for me. Next up was “Grown Man Sport” by INI, featuring, “east coast rap roots, heavy backbeat, swingin’ beats, group rap arrangements, and jazzy hooks.” Then “The Easy Spell” by Mos Def. Then “Doo Rags” by Nas. “Proceed 2” by The Roots. “Militia (Pete Rock Remix) by Gangstar. And so on… For each song, I could give a thumbs up or down, based on whether I liked it. A thumbs up and they continue to play similar stuff including that song, a thumbs down and they shift the playlist in a different direction. You can pause, skip tracks (although a limited number in an hour), but not fast-forward or rewind within the song. If you enter a song at the original prompt, you go through a similar process, except, instead of playing that song, they’ll play a similar sounding song. If you type in “Stairway To Heaven,” they might play something like Aerosmith’s “Dream On.”
It gets better. If you sign up for a FREE account, you can have up to 100 different selections (bands or songs) to make playlists from (and Pandora remembers them all and your preferences). You can combine all of those different “playlists” and Pandora will automatically form a “quick mix” incorporating music from whatever you select… whether it be 10 bands or 100. Basically, it’s like setting your iTunes library on random, only, your library is like a million times bigger. And yes, obviously it’s not the most convenient way to listen to music, but considering the possibility, nay, probability of broadening your knowledge of music, the few quarks seem well-worth it. So do yourself a favor and check this puppy out.
The website is simple: Start by either entering the name of band or song you like. If you enter a band, Pandora will play a song from that band and give you a description of the music. For example, I typed in “The Roots,” and Pandora played “Love of My Life” off “The Roots Come Alive.” Pandora told me The Roots are characterized by, “hardcore rap influence, east coast rap roots, funk influences, syncopated beats, and duo rapping.” Based on those characteristics, Pandora then automatically created a playlist for me. Next up was “Grown Man Sport” by INI, featuring, “east coast rap roots, heavy backbeat, swingin’ beats, group rap arrangements, and jazzy hooks.” Then “The Easy Spell” by Mos Def. Then “Doo Rags” by Nas. “Proceed 2” by The Roots. “Militia (Pete Rock Remix) by Gangstar. And so on… For each song, I could give a thumbs up or down, based on whether I liked it. A thumbs up and they continue to play similar stuff including that song, a thumbs down and they shift the playlist in a different direction. You can pause, skip tracks (although a limited number in an hour), but not fast-forward or rewind within the song. If you enter a song at the original prompt, you go through a similar process, except, instead of playing that song, they’ll play a similar sounding song. If you type in “Stairway To Heaven,” they might play something like Aerosmith’s “Dream On.”
It gets better. If you sign up for a FREE account, you can have up to 100 different selections (bands or songs) to make playlists from (and Pandora remembers them all and your preferences). You can combine all of those different “playlists” and Pandora will automatically form a “quick mix” incorporating music from whatever you select… whether it be 10 bands or 100. Basically, it’s like setting your iTunes library on random, only, your library is like a million times bigger. And yes, obviously it’s not the most convenient way to listen to music, but considering the possibility, nay, probability of broadening your knowledge of music, the few quarks seem well-worth it. So do yourself a favor and check this puppy out.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Emmit Otter's Jug Band Christmas
Christine and I drove up the coast, along Highway 1, to San Francisco a couple of weeks ago. If you live in California and you’ve never done this drive I highly recommend it. The scenery, especially around Big Sur, humbled me. Prior to the scenic stretch of the drive, Christine and I entertained ourselves with a surprisingly fun game, that I was unsurprisingly bad at. We tuned my Sirius satellite radio to the indie rock station and played a modified version of “Name That Tune.” Christine, who listens to “Morning Becomes Eclectic” on a near daily basis, kicked my ass. But the surprising thing was how much music neither of us had ever heard of. I mean for every Decembrists or Modest Mouse song, there seemed to be three or four by artists like Art Brut (eh), Bear Hands (Modest Mousy), Bees (Really chill, cool stuff), Kings of Leon (Big ups Anthony – you were right, really good stuff), and a handful of other indie bands I’ve never heard and can’t remember. So aside from keeping Christine awake and laughing at my ignorance, we both ended up getting a pretty good education.
Our last night in San Francisco, my friend Marcia took us out to a wonderful hole-in-the-wall, in the Mission District. It was the Tamale Lady’s birthday party. Who is the Tamale Lady you ask? Well, apparently around the Mission and Lower Haight, she’s pretty famous for dropping by bars late night and selling tamales to drunk, hungry patrons. To honor her, we paid ten bucks for dinner and a few hours of some (all you could drink) tasty San Fran microbrew (whose name escapes me, although let me recommend almost anything by Russian River, especially Pliny the Elder, and also the Racer 5 IPA). To top the evening off, the birthday celebration, which took place mostly outside on an expansive patio, featured a jug band.
An honest to god, real life, actual jug band. Complete with jug player, washboard percussion, spoons, kazoo, and washtub bass. It was quite a sight for these drunken eyes, and surprisingly enjoyable to listen to with these drunken ears. The kind of music I wanted to hoot and holler to. And you know what? I did. Stood up and clapped and banged around, and then promptly sat down when I realized I was the only one doing it. It was a good trip.
Our last night in San Francisco, my friend Marcia took us out to a wonderful hole-in-the-wall, in the Mission District. It was the Tamale Lady’s birthday party. Who is the Tamale Lady you ask? Well, apparently around the Mission and Lower Haight, she’s pretty famous for dropping by bars late night and selling tamales to drunk, hungry patrons. To honor her, we paid ten bucks for dinner and a few hours of some (all you could drink) tasty San Fran microbrew (whose name escapes me, although let me recommend almost anything by Russian River, especially Pliny the Elder, and also the Racer 5 IPA). To top the evening off, the birthday celebration, which took place mostly outside on an expansive patio, featured a jug band.
An honest to god, real life, actual jug band. Complete with jug player, washboard percussion, spoons, kazoo, and washtub bass. It was quite a sight for these drunken eyes, and surprisingly enjoyable to listen to with these drunken ears. The kind of music I wanted to hoot and holler to. And you know what? I did. Stood up and clapped and banged around, and then promptly sat down when I realized I was the only one doing it. It was a good trip.
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
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Coffee Shop Music Scene
First, I apologize about the lack of entries lately. I’ve sequestered myself at a coffee shop, here in Hermosa, in order to crank out a pilot during my five week vacation. Nearly all of my time and energy has gone into writing, although I must admit there’s nothing more enjoyable to me, then taking a break in the middle of the day to walk my buddy Hayden’s massive Labradane, Herman. There is perhaps no greater piece of mind, then experiencing the unconditional love of a good dog.
Anyway, back to the coffe shop. Java Man. You should know this about me: I don’t much care for pastries and sweets, refuse on principle to pay nearly nine dollars for a turkey sandwich that I could just as easily make at home, hate the taste of coffee and almost all coffee-related products, but I fucking love the coffee shop. I like that I’ve become a regular. I suppose spending six hours a day there will do that. They know what I’m drinking when I walk in. It’s hot tea in the morning (I vary it up, Earl Grey or this is kick-ass green tea called Fiji) and Iced in the afternoon. I have a little spot by the window that I like. It’s great for dog watching and checking out the most attractive forty year old women you could ever imagine. They’re not that nasty, botox, boob job, liposuction, alien-looking-like, forty-something that plagues Hollywood. These women are beach trophy wives and they’re hot. Okay, some of them definitely have boob jobs. But I’m losing my point.
The coffee shop is the only place I really get productive writing done. I focus there. I sit at my table, sip my tea, put on my iTunes, and write. Recently, I discovered a wonderful thing about Java Man. Because they offer free wireless internet, I’m part of the Java Man network. That means, every other guy in the place writing a script, listening to their music with iTunes, is plugged into the network… and if they’re decent enough, then like me, they’ve set their iTunes preferences to allow other people to check out and listen to their music library.
This is the single best method I’ve found for sampling music for free. Yesterday, I listened to The Street’s “Original Pirate Material,” off Hey Sexy Girl’s library. I’ve heard The Streets before, really like them, was briefly obsessed with their single “Never Went To Church,” but I don’t own any of their complete albums. I will shortly though. Thanks to Hey Sexy Girl, I discovered that “Original Pirate Material” is from top to bottom a fantastic hip-hop record. Ultra chill, great beats, wonderful production, and I’m a sucker for a British accent.
The day before I listened to Jay-Z’s back from retirement “Kingdom Come.” I’d heard about four singles from the album on the radio, wasn’t too impressed. “30 Something” had some impressive lyrics, but I wasn’t crazy about the beats. “Show Me What You Got” (the one from the Bud ads) was a bit too smooth for my tastes. The title track, “Kingdom Come,” which samples “Superfreak,” was nothing special. Then listening to it the other day in Java Man, I felt like maybe Jay shouldn’t have come back. This album paled in comparison to “The Black Album.” That was, until I got to the last track, “Beach Chair,” produced by Coldplay’s Chris Martin and Dr. Dre. Featuring Martin on the song, it was the only track on the album that felt full of soul. It’s probably not catchy enough to release as a single, but it’s far and away the best track on the album and left me with hope.
Quick sidebar. I have no idea what makes a good single. I think I’ve said this before, but in my opinion Kanye West’s “Gone” was the best produced hip-hop song to come out last year. And I understand releasing “Gold Digger” and “Heard ‘Em Say” as the first two singles from “Late Registration,” but I can’t for life of me understand why “Touch The Sky” and “Drive Slow” were the next two released and no one ever heard “Gone.” Craziness. But like I said, I don’t understand how and why a single gets chosen. And I like Jay-Z and Kanye are probably doing alright without me as an A & R guy.
Back to the coffee shop. There are a lot of thirty something guys in the shop and everyone of them seems to have tons of The Dead Kennedy’s in their library. That and Aerosmith’s “Pump.” And show tunes, tons of show tunes. Maybe it’s a generational thing, but this is all seems a bit odd to me. I think if I knew people were going to be browsing my music library, that I might avoid having a significant chunk of it dedicated to show tunes, but that’s just me.
And maybe these guys don’t care. After all, it’s all pretty anonymous. I have no idea who Hey Sexy Girl really is. It’s fun to guess. I assume it’s the prematurely balding guy in the corner, the one with a book on web design and cigarette stains on his teeth. Or maybe it’s his buddy, that he always talks with. The long haired smoker, who talks shit about his ex-girlfriend and he’s better off without her, but it’s so painfully obvious that he’s lonely, that he makes eye contact with me wondering if maybe I’ll talk to him.
There’s no way to know, unless I’m listening to the music and the guy quits out of iTunes and stands up and walks away. Not knowing only adds to the voyeuristic pleasure of it all though. You take a person, check out what may or may not be their music collection, and then construct a personality profile, imagining what they’re like as people. It’s people watching with a musical twist. And when I’m not writing, it’s one of my favorite things to do.
A few other little tidbits. I’ve had the opportunity to go through my own music and dust off some cobwebs, so a few quick thoughts:
1. The Beta Band “The Three EP’s” is perhaps the ultimate coffee shop album.
2. If you like reggae and you like Radiohead, check out Easy Star All Stars… it’s exactly that… reggae covers of Radiohead songs.
3. If you like jazz and you like reggae, Ernest Ranglin is the shit!
4. Gillian Welch is a white girl with some serious soul. You might know her from the O’ Brother Where Art Thou Soundtrack… she does some awesome Appalachian folk music. I mean, white chicks with soul are few and far between. I’m struggling to think of any. Maybe Nelly Furtado? Amy Winehouse? Lily Allen? Anyway, check out “The Devil Had A Hold Of Me,” if you don’t believe me.
5. Vic Ruggiero’s “A Live At The Ladybug House” is everything that a singer songwriter should be live in concert. Great singing, neat and tidy guitar, and lyrics about nasty women and booze.
Anyway, back to the coffe shop. Java Man. You should know this about me: I don’t much care for pastries and sweets, refuse on principle to pay nearly nine dollars for a turkey sandwich that I could just as easily make at home, hate the taste of coffee and almost all coffee-related products, but I fucking love the coffee shop. I like that I’ve become a regular. I suppose spending six hours a day there will do that. They know what I’m drinking when I walk in. It’s hot tea in the morning (I vary it up, Earl Grey or this is kick-ass green tea called Fiji) and Iced in the afternoon. I have a little spot by the window that I like. It’s great for dog watching and checking out the most attractive forty year old women you could ever imagine. They’re not that nasty, botox, boob job, liposuction, alien-looking-like, forty-something that plagues Hollywood. These women are beach trophy wives and they’re hot. Okay, some of them definitely have boob jobs. But I’m losing my point.
The coffee shop is the only place I really get productive writing done. I focus there. I sit at my table, sip my tea, put on my iTunes, and write. Recently, I discovered a wonderful thing about Java Man. Because they offer free wireless internet, I’m part of the Java Man network. That means, every other guy in the place writing a script, listening to their music with iTunes, is plugged into the network… and if they’re decent enough, then like me, they’ve set their iTunes preferences to allow other people to check out and listen to their music library.
This is the single best method I’ve found for sampling music for free. Yesterday, I listened to The Street’s “Original Pirate Material,” off Hey Sexy Girl’s library. I’ve heard The Streets before, really like them, was briefly obsessed with their single “Never Went To Church,” but I don’t own any of their complete albums. I will shortly though. Thanks to Hey Sexy Girl, I discovered that “Original Pirate Material” is from top to bottom a fantastic hip-hop record. Ultra chill, great beats, wonderful production, and I’m a sucker for a British accent.
The day before I listened to Jay-Z’s back from retirement “Kingdom Come.” I’d heard about four singles from the album on the radio, wasn’t too impressed. “30 Something” had some impressive lyrics, but I wasn’t crazy about the beats. “Show Me What You Got” (the one from the Bud ads) was a bit too smooth for my tastes. The title track, “Kingdom Come,” which samples “Superfreak,” was nothing special. Then listening to it the other day in Java Man, I felt like maybe Jay shouldn’t have come back. This album paled in comparison to “The Black Album.” That was, until I got to the last track, “Beach Chair,” produced by Coldplay’s Chris Martin and Dr. Dre. Featuring Martin on the song, it was the only track on the album that felt full of soul. It’s probably not catchy enough to release as a single, but it’s far and away the best track on the album and left me with hope.
Quick sidebar. I have no idea what makes a good single. I think I’ve said this before, but in my opinion Kanye West’s “Gone” was the best produced hip-hop song to come out last year. And I understand releasing “Gold Digger” and “Heard ‘Em Say” as the first two singles from “Late Registration,” but I can’t for life of me understand why “Touch The Sky” and “Drive Slow” were the next two released and no one ever heard “Gone.” Craziness. But like I said, I don’t understand how and why a single gets chosen. And I like Jay-Z and Kanye are probably doing alright without me as an A & R guy.
Back to the coffee shop. There are a lot of thirty something guys in the shop and everyone of them seems to have tons of The Dead Kennedy’s in their library. That and Aerosmith’s “Pump.” And show tunes, tons of show tunes. Maybe it’s a generational thing, but this is all seems a bit odd to me. I think if I knew people were going to be browsing my music library, that I might avoid having a significant chunk of it dedicated to show tunes, but that’s just me.
And maybe these guys don’t care. After all, it’s all pretty anonymous. I have no idea who Hey Sexy Girl really is. It’s fun to guess. I assume it’s the prematurely balding guy in the corner, the one with a book on web design and cigarette stains on his teeth. Or maybe it’s his buddy, that he always talks with. The long haired smoker, who talks shit about his ex-girlfriend and he’s better off without her, but it’s so painfully obvious that he’s lonely, that he makes eye contact with me wondering if maybe I’ll talk to him.
There’s no way to know, unless I’m listening to the music and the guy quits out of iTunes and stands up and walks away. Not knowing only adds to the voyeuristic pleasure of it all though. You take a person, check out what may or may not be their music collection, and then construct a personality profile, imagining what they’re like as people. It’s people watching with a musical twist. And when I’m not writing, it’s one of my favorite things to do.
A few other little tidbits. I’ve had the opportunity to go through my own music and dust off some cobwebs, so a few quick thoughts:
1. The Beta Band “The Three EP’s” is perhaps the ultimate coffee shop album.
2. If you like reggae and you like Radiohead, check out Easy Star All Stars… it’s exactly that… reggae covers of Radiohead songs.
3. If you like jazz and you like reggae, Ernest Ranglin is the shit!
4. Gillian Welch is a white girl with some serious soul. You might know her from the O’ Brother Where Art Thou Soundtrack… she does some awesome Appalachian folk music. I mean, white chicks with soul are few and far between. I’m struggling to think of any. Maybe Nelly Furtado? Amy Winehouse? Lily Allen? Anyway, check out “The Devil Had A Hold Of Me,” if you don’t believe me.
5. Vic Ruggiero’s “A Live At The Ladybug House” is everything that a singer songwriter should be live in concert. Great singing, neat and tidy guitar, and lyrics about nasty women and booze.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
For Liana...
Bug Girl is getting married this weekend. In honor of her, I decided to give Tom Petty a second chance. When I was a kid, I remember watching the video for “Mary Jane’s Last Dance.” It won a bunch of awards I think, but I thought it was weird. All the corpses, the close-ups of Tom (not pretty), the morgue, the mortician, the corpse in the wedding dress that Tom eats dinner with and then dances with. It weirded me out. Plus, I was just old enough to know that Mary Jane was a euphemism for marijuana and I couldn’t for the life of me understand what marijuana had to do with death.
There were other videos: In “Free Fallin’,” images from the fifties were interspersed with modern shots of skateboarders and cute young girls, coming to age in Lose Angeles. I think I was too young to really understand what the song and video were all about, but I remember being sketched out by creepy-looking Tom, big shades and all, looking like a pedophile overseeing the cute young girls. “Runnin’ Down A Dream,” was animated, awesome, and profoundly confusing. Why did he ride a bed like a horse and fly away in the end? Did he catch that dream? What the hell was the deal with Animated Tom and that midget King guy smoking a cigar, dancing on top of the earth? I was probably about ten, but I sensed there was something off about this man.
My feelings were cemented in sixth grade when I drove with the Hutchison family, listening to a Tom Petty best of album. Raymond’s older brother, Camden, commented that Tom Petty was nothing but “a Bob Dylan knock-off.” Camden was two years my senior and very smart. He seemed to know a lot about a lot of things. I trusted he was right and for the next ten or so years, I repeated that slogan. At some point time, I stopped just regurgitating his musical rhetoric and actually believed what I was saying.
Tom had that same kind of nasal Bob Dylan voice, played the guitar and harmonica, and seemed to sound vaguely similar, but vastly inferior to the best singer SONGWRITER in the history of rock. His songs weren’t as well written, his music less interesting, his creepiness far more annoying than Bob’s irritability. I convinced myself that Tom was just a lousy clone of Bob, and cast Tom out without a second thought.
Bug Girl loves him. Swears by him. And she’s got some pretty great taste in music, so I started listening to Tom again with a few thoughts in mind. The first idea was that any singer/songwriter put up in a head to head battle against Bob Dylan is going to lose. Bob Dylan is the best. Period. I refuse to argue about this. It’s a fact. The second idea, one that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, is that disliking a band because I think it’s cool to dislike them (see my thoughts on the Dave Matthews Band in my last entry) is decidedly un-cool.
So for the past few months, I’ve been listening to Tom Petty when his songs come on the radio. I re-watched some of his old videos on youtube. I spent some considerable time thinking about his music. And you know what? After careful consideration… he still sucks!
No, I’m just kidding Liana. You were (mostly) right, Tom Petty is a damn fine singer/songwriter. A number of his songs are well-written, interesting, unique, and aesthetically pleasing. Christine pointed out that he was in the Traveling Wilburys with Bob Dylan and George Harrison, so amongst his peers, he’s pretty highly regarded too. I don’t have any real insights into his music; it’s just good stuff and that’s good enough for me.
I guess if I could take anything away from this experience, it’s that sometimes you have to give music a second chance. I have a mandatory three-listen rule when I get a new album. I don’t think it’s fair to make up your mind about something until you’ve really given it a few listens. And if you spend more time listening to what others think about a band than you do actually listening to the band’s music, you haven’t really given the band a fair chance. Also, despite being a good musician, and I refuse to argue about this, Tom Petty is the ugliest rock star I’ve ever seen.
There were other videos: In “Free Fallin’,” images from the fifties were interspersed with modern shots of skateboarders and cute young girls, coming to age in Lose Angeles. I think I was too young to really understand what the song and video were all about, but I remember being sketched out by creepy-looking Tom, big shades and all, looking like a pedophile overseeing the cute young girls. “Runnin’ Down A Dream,” was animated, awesome, and profoundly confusing. Why did he ride a bed like a horse and fly away in the end? Did he catch that dream? What the hell was the deal with Animated Tom and that midget King guy smoking a cigar, dancing on top of the earth? I was probably about ten, but I sensed there was something off about this man.
My feelings were cemented in sixth grade when I drove with the Hutchison family, listening to a Tom Petty best of album. Raymond’s older brother, Camden, commented that Tom Petty was nothing but “a Bob Dylan knock-off.” Camden was two years my senior and very smart. He seemed to know a lot about a lot of things. I trusted he was right and for the next ten or so years, I repeated that slogan. At some point time, I stopped just regurgitating his musical rhetoric and actually believed what I was saying.
Tom had that same kind of nasal Bob Dylan voice, played the guitar and harmonica, and seemed to sound vaguely similar, but vastly inferior to the best singer SONGWRITER in the history of rock. His songs weren’t as well written, his music less interesting, his creepiness far more annoying than Bob’s irritability. I convinced myself that Tom was just a lousy clone of Bob, and cast Tom out without a second thought.
Bug Girl loves him. Swears by him. And she’s got some pretty great taste in music, so I started listening to Tom again with a few thoughts in mind. The first idea was that any singer/songwriter put up in a head to head battle against Bob Dylan is going to lose. Bob Dylan is the best. Period. I refuse to argue about this. It’s a fact. The second idea, one that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, is that disliking a band because I think it’s cool to dislike them (see my thoughts on the Dave Matthews Band in my last entry) is decidedly un-cool.
So for the past few months, I’ve been listening to Tom Petty when his songs come on the radio. I re-watched some of his old videos on youtube. I spent some considerable time thinking about his music. And you know what? After careful consideration… he still sucks!
No, I’m just kidding Liana. You were (mostly) right, Tom Petty is a damn fine singer/songwriter. A number of his songs are well-written, interesting, unique, and aesthetically pleasing. Christine pointed out that he was in the Traveling Wilburys with Bob Dylan and George Harrison, so amongst his peers, he’s pretty highly regarded too. I don’t have any real insights into his music; it’s just good stuff and that’s good enough for me.
I guess if I could take anything away from this experience, it’s that sometimes you have to give music a second chance. I have a mandatory three-listen rule when I get a new album. I don’t think it’s fair to make up your mind about something until you’ve really given it a few listens. And if you spend more time listening to what others think about a band than you do actually listening to the band’s music, you haven’t really given the band a fair chance. Also, despite being a good musician, and I refuse to argue about this, Tom Petty is the ugliest rock star I’ve ever seen.
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.
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