"Since U Been Gone" is its own genre now. Problem is, if you want to join in and can't afford Dr. Luke & Max Martin, what you get is Aly & AJ's "Chemicals React," which draws an outline it can't fill.
Patrick from Athens writes:
"You may have noticed that the address on the mailing label for your Sears typewriter is to a man living at 3910 Telstar Circle in Huntsville, AL.
Telstar is an interesting name for a street in Huntsville. Though the town was in the deep south and Jim Crow was in effect throughout much of the region, Huntsville is where the rocket scientists lived. Huntsville is where NASA has its research labs in AL, and It's where the famous Space Camp is located.
Telstar Circle is probably named for the Telstar Satellite, the first communications satellite, pictured here.
I grew up in this South, at a time when Sears would mail a man a typewriter, and most of the streets were named for old white men and their families: Eberhart Ave, Woodruff Court, Britt David Elementary School. I lived on a road too far out in the country to have a name: it was just Route 2, Box 288.
A street named "Telstar Circle" resonates neo-futurism. I imagine the original owner of this typewriter and his neighbor thinking Deep Thoughts for a living. (Of course, Edmund Teller—father of the H Bomb—worked in Huntsville for years, so we're not talking about saints, here.)"
I love that language. It has no truth value. But I love it. I think Julianne and I will be up in the Nokia tomorrow waiting for "Reasonable Doubt." At least I hope so.
It's not mathematically possible.
What do you do when hyphy artists make snap tracks and don't tell anyone? Who will make the world safe for The Pack?
Whoever produced the new Nas track did a fairly good job of replaying and paraphrasing ESG's "U.F.O.," retaining some of the decelerating/accelerating echo plonk of the original and ending up with something—by necessity, without Martin there to hit the plate reverb—smoother. Cut corners, work-arounds and quick fixes: sweet dreams are made of these.
Almost as old as I am. I, however, do not come in a self-contained brown suitcase with a pack of Ko-Rec-Type and an extra ribbon.
"Why is your butt supposed to be private when it's so big and everyone can see it? And it sticks out?"
In Nashville, for the first time. Lefty Frizzell is on the iPod, and your host is on the wonky wireless.
A sentence went missing from next week's Radiohead column. It got lost somewhere between "command-X" and "command-V." It goes like this:
"I, too, have become a little dotty for Radiohead."
I read a piece thirty-five times and I simply can't see the sentences any more. Ghost words register as "there." They're not there. They're gone.
Why I love the webs: "Oh, Zooey, you mad, tights-loving tights-lover." Jessica, Heather—whoever you are, may God speed your travels.
“You know how you get to play that little cocktail drum kit on ‘Bangers ‘n’ Mash’“?
“Yes, I remember.”
“You get such a big round of applause just for playing that fucking Madchester baggy beat. I want some love, too.”
“OK. Play the little drums all you want. Play them on the new song.”
“You know, Thom, there are TWELVE new songs. Can you be more-”
“I don’t care, I don’t care. ‘Down Is The New Up.’ Do that one.”
“It won’t make a big difference anyway. When I do my jazz hands things in the chorus and stand up at the piano while singing, the people’s love for me will be clear, and clearly triumphant.”
“Fuck’s sake, Jon, I’m taking the piss. You’re a better drummer.”
“Have you ever gotten a good look at what I’m up to during ‘Street Spirit’“?
“Not really. I’m a bit busy, you know, with the SINGING and the personality and all that.”
“I am playing a not uncomplicated guitar bit with my hands, AND, with the HEADSTOCK OF MY GUITAR, playing the keyboard part. AT THE SAME TIME.”
“Couldn’t Ed do some of that?”
“Do you know what else, Thom?”
“Don’t say the lesbian P.E. teacher thing.”
“I didn’t say it. I’m just repeating what an audience member said. With that fauxhawk and the Ben Sherman, you look EXACTLY like-”
“You fake plastic motherfucker.”
[Whirling, World Cup-inspired brawl ensues. First pressings of Ligeti LPs are broken, entire notebooks of Twombly-esque figures are drenched in organic fruit juice.]
“Nice one. See you at check.”
[DEPRESSINGLY NECESSARY DISCLAIMER: This is a flight of fancy, an imagined conversation. I did not actually witness or overhear this conversation.]
What is in a woman's handbag?
Remember in "Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen," where Lola/Mary and Ella decide, in a deeply selfish and un-Christian way, to sneak into Sidarthur's final show? Lola and Ella can exhale now, because the concept of Sidarthur has become the reality of Cartel.
Whatevs—the soundtrack CD gives you Cherie's mighty "I'm Ready," but withholds Nu's almost-as-mighty "Just Another Girl." The song will play forever diegetically—just look—but it was not included on the audio tie-in. And you know we like that song. This is not right what they are doing.
I attended this show. I smelled much sweet bud, but I was not, happily, surrounded by talking broheemses. My immediate broheemses were dancing. The man directly next to me was celebrating his 37th birthday.
Revisiting the experience has been instructive. I have even become fond of the well-mannered young woman who makes a trip to the bathroom during "Kid A." If you—like I once did—think Thom can be a bit wet, observe his Ed Grimley goodfoot here. (The footage is from the previous night, June 4, but Thom did pretty much the same dance on Monday.)
And who uses videotape? Why isn't the new song called "Hard Drive"? Or "iCam"? Or "Cameraphone"? (The answer probably concerns the musicality of certain phonemes and which vowels allow you to sing long, long notes.)
Question: Is Ray Cash to Lupe Fiasco as Del was to Q-Tip? Or is this just the return of Saafir and Ahmad? Either would be fine. After umptillion well-intentioned attempts to recreate the summer of 1991, the PG-13 funk of the Native Tongues has returned. If God smiles upon us all, The New Tongues will back up and jet out of the the soul-jazz cul de sac. (Yes, I know Ray Cash is connecting Cleveland to Houston and working within 2006 g*ngsta syntax, but I still find him closest in affect to a rude backpacker like Del.)
If he didn't spend so much time with Lord Douchebag, Rhymefest might not be talking about men being "pussified" by growing up in a house run by women, the hilarity of avoiding child care payments, and the finer points of leasing vs. owning women. I think he'd still be a turd. You know something is up when the two best tracks are a Mark Ronson chop of a Strokes song disguised as a D'Angelo tribute and a Necro King Cole duet with ODB. Dude, you're not even Kurious. You're Madkap.
"Mom, what does that say?"
"Hustler Club, New York's number one spot for ladies."
"Huh. That's weird. Usually advertisements are for things you can buy."
"How do you spell cruller?"
"C-R-U-L-L-E-R, but there's a thing over the U, an...oom-"
"Right. An oompah."