Running in the half-light

Is spandex a versatile material? I have internally debated such a notion and found myself at a standstill, because there actually is nothing to debate. Instead, I began to think about how odd it was for my mother to dress her 6 year-old boy in spandex bicycle shorts that had a neon green "racing stripe" down each thigh. The material itself is only used in clothing. One may suggest that due to its elasticity it is in fact a versatile material, but I think I would disagree with such a suggestion. The suggestors makes suggestions based on presuppositions that these suggestions they suggest will be generally accepted as apt observations or factual comments, not mere suggestions. Spandex certainly is versatile in terms of how it can wrap itself around ones body (or a 6 year-old boy's little 6 year-old bum) due to its elasticity, but as an actual material it has little versatility in terms of usage. Superman would probably disagree with me and go so far as to claim he invented spandex (typical "All-American" ego-mania, like Al Gore's self-professed creation of the internet).

If spandex is versatile, Mr. Kent, then so too is morality. Superman certainly saves the world (or, at least the part of the world within a 10-mile radius of Metropolis...so typical of us urbanites to completely shun the suburbs....but really, what the fuck is the GTA? If I was Superman I sincerely doubt I would want to fly to fucking Mississauga), but yet is deceitful in his Clark Kent guise. Is he protecting his identity, or essentially hiding from his duties? Considering that people do not know where Superman is when he is in his mild-mannered Clark Kent guise, how can they reach him to seek his saving grace? The original Superman actually had an even looser moral code, where he would carelessly toss villains around city streets, potentially hurting Metropolis pedestrians. Even worse (gasp!), the original Superman of the 1930s actually helped minorities. Less obsessed with having a pissing contest about his superhuman strength with jerk-offs like Lex Luther, the original Superman actually stopped men from beating their wives (presumably while the men were wearing undershirts) and broke up mobs that planned to lynch black civilians. Realizing that no "All-American" hero would do such a thing, the new editors altered Superman's character in the 1940s and instead taught children important life lessons like how to blow up bad guys on city streets and have snappy little quips to spit out as you do so. 

Thinking of Superman enacting explosions on city streets brings me to another point: his name. His original name on Krypton was Kal-El. Hmmm. Does that not sound a little Muslim? So, Superman is roaming the streets, blowing shit up, named Kal-El, he certainly is not Christian (I have been unable to find the issue "Superman attends Midnight Mass" [although, Superman looks like he would be from a Protestant background anyway....or he could be Irish Catholic come to think of it...]), and he can fly. Not even Jesus could fly. Therefore, if you read Superman comics, the terrorists win.

On the other hand, Superman's misuse of his powers is a genuinely heroic American trait. By neglecting to help the little factions truly in need to instead have wank-offs on the city streets and allow everyone to see how badass and powerful he is, Superman is almost making a documentary about global warming in which a substantial portion of it is a whiny lamentation on how he unfairly lost the Presidency in 2000. The looseness of that moral code is nothing like spandex. I would know, I used to wear spandex bicycle shorts.

In Rainbows (Disc 2)

Ascension (A Misconception)

My saviour is made of straw and felt

Upon his head a hat may rest

He wards off crows and deathly ranks

Propped upright by wood is his preferred stance

My saviour did not die on account of my sins

I rarely shout "Hosanna!" as I parallel his fence

This yeast shall not bake to a bodily bread;

These grapes shall not ferment to a hemoglobic toast

My saviour has feet that dare not tread

Though stationary, he knows all of the world

Loosely dressed in ancestral cloth,

He feeds on needles, pins, and bran

My saviour led me once to love and repentance

Apostled upon the ground, merciless at his feet

Hearkened by silver and its light that shines and blinds,

I enacted betrayal upon supple lips

My saviour is propped upright on a wooden stitch

He oversees my fields sown with silvery flesh

As chariot wheels threaten to paint my crops red,

His feet shuffle seditiously and absolve me of the act

Don't look away, it's just a sanitized exploding airplane.

Seeing as it is in style for "scene" bands to be breaking up like it's going out of style (see what I did there? fucking scenesters...), it would be most fashionable of me (or would it?) to address the unfortunate losses the "scene" has suffered recently. 

Unable to cope with the sheer mediocrity of their existence, The Early November decided to call it quits. That last triple-disc effort was hardly even that––really, they put effort into that? THAT. Repetition of the same word in a sentence irritates me. TEN put on a façade of being over-ambitious with their triple disc release, The Mother, The Mechanic, and The Path, but it took very little for me to see past the framing "concept" of the three discs and recognize what the album really is: a contrived piece of crap. Oh Ace Enders, your childhood was difficult. Your parents only took you to Olive Garden once every two weeks, while the rest of your suburban New Jersey (isn't all of New Jersey a suburb?) friends went every week. Mommy, Mommy, Jimmy got a Super Nintendo, why can't I? Thankfully, Ace Enders already has a solo project in place to continue the strain of mediocrity. The overlord of contrived "scene" mediocrity, Tom Delonge, has even invited Enders to go on tour.

Moving on to another band of contrived assholes, Matchbook Romance has disbanded. Ha, sort of a pun. Yet not. Nothing relating to MBR is clever. Apparently, they ran out of musical styles to latch onto and mimic (poorly) and were thus forced to call it quits. Each album was just a muffled echo of musical fads that reached their peak six months prior: West for Wishing latched onto the sing/scream post-hardcore trend a few Warped Tours too late, Stories and Alibis is a poor man's rendition of pop-punk in the vein of Fallout Boy, and Voices (the greatest travesty of all) has the audacity to mimic the progressive and off-kilter strides of Brand New, Thrice, and any asshole who downloaded a few tracks from Kid A and felt "inspired." I hope the corpse of Matchbook Romance rots while fertilizing the ground surrounding it, providing fresh crops to those who are hungry. 

Also Pisolita and a few other jerkwad bands broke up, remember? Ha, me neither. Seeing as I am growing weary of talking about mediocre bands who have broken up, I will get to my main point: The Blood Brothers. Such an unfortunate loss. Moreover, an unfortunate loss for me personally, because I only started to get into them a few months ago. Yes, they certainly have been making music for 10 years and I could have gotten with the fucking program long ago, but it's a little late to go searching for your lost hamster now, isn't it?!

Call them what you will (I've heard them referred to as "art punk," "avant-garde post-hardcore," and "experimental hardcore") in an attempt to claim ownership of them ("Oh, I'm really into art punk lately. The Blood Brothers are like my faves..hehe"), but I doubt many have even scratched the surface of this band's complexity and sheer genius. Johnny Whitney's high-pitched screams are what that bumbling intern of a singer from Billy Talent wishes he could ascend to (pitch-wise and talent-wise). 

Lyrically, the Brothers reach a healthy balance of surrealism and kitsch that causes you to ironically smirk as you ponder the benefits of doing psychoactive drugs. A fine example of this is on the track "Huge Gold AK-47." To begin with, the song's title alone jumps at you, creeps its way through your nostrils and attacks your brain, tickling it repeatedly (I realize that this appears to be a cocaine analogy, especially after my comment about psychoactive drugs, but you must consider the following: 

1. Cocaine does not tickle your brain, it grabs your brain and twists it, socking one to your central nervous system
   
2. Cocaine is not a psychoactive drug
3. I did not realize the parallels between my ingestion of "Huge Gold AK-47" and the most popular form of cocaine ingestion [you can also smoke it, inject it, even chew the coca leaves] until after writing this blog and reading it over
4. I do admit that similarly to cocaine, the Blood Brothers can be addictive and cause a certain sense of euphoria, but they do not increase your blood pressure or cause long-term health risks

Done and done. Now back to the blog...) causing different thought processes to mingle, entangle, struggle, become one. Yes, the song is about war with imperialist implications in one sense, but the title is somewhat farcical, it creates a caricature of war. Lyrics range from surreal (yet still straightforward), "Those decadent war swans/With faces half drawn/Slinging blood-soaked carols at the slave ship sun," to comically over the top, "Huge gold Ak-47! Huge gold AK-47!/C'mon, it's 4 am, kick down the gate/And spray your ammo like champagne." By creating this type of caricature, we can actually take the song more seriously if we would like to. There are far too many songs about war that really are poor attempts to be intellectual and save the world (Green Day, anyone?), but do not actually represent anything true to the issue. Instead, they are the insensitive and uninformed ramblings of white suburbanites. In the case of "Huge Gold AK-47," it can exist in its own realm. Initially the entire song can be looked at as  a far-fetched song about some sort of otherworldly war, done so in a kitschy manner (think of that movie Stargate). This allows one to separate the song from the endless catalog of war songs and then begin to look at it autonomously when one realizes that there is more to it than bizarre imagery and some whimsical repetition. It is only then that you can appreciate the genius of the lyrics: 

Oh, there's a field inside your face

With breezes sweet as chardonnay

Violins dangling from willow branches

But the soldiers stripped it from your skin

Cracked its ribs in the kitchen

Dressed it in drag and pissed on every inch

On top of all this, the music just sounds fucking cool. Fast-paced, powerful, repetitive in a call-to-arms kind of way. It's music you can listen to on the subway and find yourself nodding your head, then moving your shoulders to and fro, then really nodding your head spastically, open palms banging your knees along with the beat, then in a flurry of self-consciousness realizing that you appear to other passengers to be having a seizure and thinking "perhaps I should tone it down a bit, they keep looking at me from the corners of their eyes," but then not giving a damn and continuing. Fuckers. 

Blood Brothers - Young Machetes

Bands that are dead to me

As we enter the final month of the year and the societal drones are fevered with a flurry of shopping to make up for lost time, misplaced affection, and a need to be good little piggies, many end-of-the-year lists begin to surface, with "critics" picking their top albums/movies/orgies/etceteras. I began to compile this morbid little list of mine about a year ago and it appears in no particular order. So, without further adieu...

1. Eisley - Freshly-released album Combinations strays from their niche sound of dreamy high-pitched coos that soothe and enchant. This album is devoid of the "Scarborough Fair" style lyrics that brought me to an undefined 19th Century-esque world with freely hopping rabbits, love that grows amongst the tall grass, and pretty young ladies wearing brooches. Combinations is fairly generic "chick pop-rock" that is still too good for Lillith Fair, but not good enough for me. This album is proof that no one should ever ever ever under any circumstance marry someone from New Found Glory. Ever. 
2. Motion City Soundtrack - I Am The Movie was like getting sacked by a Moog synth–it is uncomfortable, but sounds fantastic. There is something quite awkward about each track on MCS's first album; maybe it is the oddly misplaced synth or Justin Pierre's too-old-for-his-body voice that reaches a senior's near-raspiness when stretching for notes that are slightly out of range. Whatever it is, all the elements come together splendidly. Commit this to Memory lacks the endearing sloppiness and misplaced synth of the first album. This album is far more calculated and polished. Regardless, it is still an enjoyable listen. Unfortunately, Even if it Kills Me is buddah-awful (that's right, I avoided using God for all my Christian brethren). According to Pierre, it's an album entirely "about girls." What a striking concept. I wonder how they managed to pull that off. There is barely any synth on this album. I realize that the whole synth craze has died down, but the synth is MCS's mainstay, it is what made them what they are. Now they are a corpse that somehow can wiggle it's bones and crank out some craptacular power-pop. 
3. Jimmy Eat World - I spent a fair bit of time antagonizing over Chase This Light. As you surely can tell based on JEW finding itself on this list, the album does not have the staying power I had hoped for. In fact, upon listening to it again recently, well, I couldn't. I tried to listen to it and found myself disliking every track except for "Electable." What a pile of pissy puke. 
4. My Chemical Romance - Such a sad fate has wrapped its way around the black hair, black nail polish, black stage-hands, and black black souls (hah, they wish) of this band. Just as Gerard kicks his drug habit and alcoholism, allowing the band to release a fantastic pop-punk album that incorporates, yes, "dark" themes, a few oddly placed chords, some guitar machismo (compliments of that irritating guy with the frizzy hair), and some visually-pleasing music videos, every 14 year-old girl who pretends to hate her parents decided to swallow this band up and attend their concerts in order to jump up and down and piss me off. Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge was fantastic. It took the model laid out by I Brought You My Bullets... and made sense of it, providing thought-out song structures, hooks-a-plenty, and some other ummm stuff (I hate feeling like I always have to provide three points...damn that hamburger essay model). Ultimately, The Black Parade just panders to this new audience, the ones who incessantly request "the okay song" at concerts. 
5. No Doubt - Remember when Gwen Stefani was a feminist icon for Gen-Y? Me neither! Long gone are the days of her high-kicks and sporting that Indian red dot thing. Once I saw the video for "Wind It Up" (a shameless plug for her fall LAMB line and a tasteless rip-off of The Sound of Music) I could no longer see No Doubt putting out a long-overdue new album that actually had any merit whatsoever. Rock Steady was bad enough and essentially saw ND take a turn towards becoming an 80s rip-off band. Tony Kanal looks absolutely ridiculous holding a keytar (then again, everyone does). Gwen's first solo album should have gotten that whole hip-hop, "I just wanna dance!" phase out of her system. Yet, she had the audacity to release another solo album and expect the rest of ND to just sit with their respective thumbs placed firmly in their respective asses. What's worse is that this second solo album is at least 12 times worse than the first, leans more towards the sad appropriation that is white hip-hop, and includes a song about cellphone reception. There is no way that No Doubt can have any credibility after that. 
6. Weezer - Oh Weezer. You had so much potential. Even if critics believe Maladroit was just Rivers Cuomo's rock and roll wank off, it is their strongest release since their debut. Lyrically it avoids most of the pseudo-intellectual crap Rivers learned at Harvard. Musically it can be bittersweet on songs like "Burndt Jam" or staple your balls to the nearest bulletin board on rockers like "Slob." So what the fuck, Rivers? Make Believe? Really? We are all on drugs? Beverly Hills, that's where I want to be? Hoooooold me? You're as good as dead to me. 
7. Smashing Pumpkins - There is little that can be said here. What a poorly calculated mistake the Corgan made in "reuniting" the Pumpkins. This "reunited" band is no different from Zwan, Corgan's post-Pumpkins Jesus-pondering band that included himself, Pumpkins drummer Jimmy Chamberlin, and a few other assholes who sort of resembled James Iha and D'arcy. Let us look at the lineup of the new Pumpkins: Corgan, Chamberlin, some asshole who resembles James Iha, and some asshole who resembles D'arcy. Then he had the audacity to put out some over-distorted, poorly mixed album under the Pumpkins name that includes deep political lyrics like "Revoluuuuuuuuuuution!" and shows the Statue of Liberty sinking. Remember the lyric in "The Everlasting Gaze," "You know I'm not dead" ? Try singing that to me now, Corgan.
8. Deftones - In 2000 Detones released one of the finest progressive albums to grace mine ears, White Pony. Who would have thought that such a style of music as avant-garde-nü-metal could exist? Chino wails, moans, screams, screeches, and does so wonderfully against a background of ambient noises, distorted guitars, and soothing beats. A few years later they released a self-titled album that marked a return to their 90s aggression, but with a newly acquired thoughtfulness and willingness to incorporate the ambient tools they had acquired recording White Pony. So what in the name of Satan (they do love Satan, correct?) is Saturday Night Wrist? It is directionless filler. They would have been far better off breaking up during the recording sessions, as they claim to have almost done. On certain tracks they fully disregard any elements of progressive ambiance in lieu of straightforward, dull "hard-rock." Then other tracks like "Pink Cellphone" are entirely comprised of progressive ambience and lack anything tangible. It is one of the most frustrating albums to listen to, because you are always expecting something more, something to interest you before each song ends and suddenly it ends and you are sorely disappointed and wonder why you just wasted an hour listening to a band that should have laid down their instruments and gotten jobs at Blinds to Go. 
9. Wintersleep - I shall keep this one short, as I already discussed my problems with Welcome to The Night Sky. The main reason Wintersleep is dead to me relates to their concert last week. They refused to play more than three songs from their previous two albums. Essentially, they shouted a big "Fuck you!" at me, suggesting that they not only have abandoned their old sound in order to gain more mainstream indie success, but also that they refuse to even acknowledge their old selves and crank out some of those old gems. It is as if they are the lead character in one of those 526 teen movies about a loser girl who gets madeover into a foxy vixen who suddenly grows breasts to go along with her new image and will not acknowledge her former self or talk to her old friends. Honestly Wintersleep, I'm not impressed by your new large rack. Just play "Nerves Normal, Breathes Normal."
10. Idiot Pilot - This is the greatest casualty on the list. With the release of Strange We Should Meet Here, Idiot Pilot proved that bands with only two members (moreover, bands with one member who sings and another member who plays guitar and controls loops from his Powerbook) can fucking rock like no other (and do so in a unique and satisfying way). Sure, one might argue that the White Stripes were the first prominent two-member rock outfit, but come on....even if you can get past the fact that they have sadly become a corporate synergy in tight red pants (thanks Coca Cola!), there really is only one member in the band (My deepest apologies Meg, you look adorable at the drum set, but you're terrible). Idiot Pilot changed my views on music and have been greatly influential in my own musical endeavors (they gave hope to two-member loop-dependent bands everywhere....or at least to mine). Then Wolves happened. It wasn't just realeased, it happened. Gone are the glitchy loops. Suddenly there is a drummer on EVERY track. Yes, there is that incessant "glitchy" clicking to accompany the drums on nearly every song, but come on, that's like dumping your girlfriend, meeting a new, less interesting girl, moving in with her, but still having intercourse with your more interesting ex-girlfriend in the apartment you share with your new less interesting girlfriend. Why are you cheating on me, Idiot Pilot?! There are some songs on Wolves that not only lack the musical elements that made you fantastic, but are just awful songs. "Retina and the Sky" is a piece of shit pop-rocker that hinges itself on one off-key chord to claim uniqueness. Sorry, but the sing-song predictable chorus could easily be on an episode of Grey's Anatomy in a scene featuring that Grey chick who cannot muster up the strength to open her damn eyes all the way and some guy who breaks up with her and she decides to just run. She runs down the street which is slick and shiny because it rained that afternoon and she realizes that she has nowhere to go and has been running all this way for nothing. Fucking idiot. "Planted in the Dark" is the only standout track. It actually possesses the courage to have some screaming (seriously, where is the screaming on this album? It only appears on two tracks. And no, screaming is not passé; there is a clear difference between the Jesus-inspired wails for attention on an Underoath album and the true passionate screams of the first Idiot Pilot album). Unfortunately, "Planted in the Dark" cannot save an album that lacks any ingenuity or courage whatsoever. I'm sorry to say this, but Idiot Pilot, you are dead to me. 

Honourable mention: Björk - There are two main reasons why, to me, Björk is barely alive. The first is that she has become a piece of pop-culture, but not for any relevant reason. I do realize that this is not actually her fault, it is the fault of a Western society that gathers up eccentricity with its fat, sweaty fingers to either place on a pedestal or heap scornful, poorly-constructed insults at (you're gay, emo is gay, go cut your wrists, nice hat, and soforth). The first appearance Björk made in a highly publicized mainstream event (The Oscars) essentially placed her in the latter categorization of eccentricity (because of that swan dress). From that point on, assholes, former Limp Bizkit fans (oops, that was redundant), and any sweaty, fat-faced suburban mother with a television set (not redundant, but close) had an awareness of Björk's existence and could poke fun of how "weird" she is. Combine that with her ridiculous decision to have Timbaland produce many of the tracks on Volta and you reach the reasoning through which I have concluded that Björk barely has a pulse anymore. Her album prior to Volta, 2004's Medúlla, was ingenious. On it she only utilizes human voice for instrumentation. This feat was also translated to a live setting, where she appeared onstage with several "instrumentalists." Fantastic. Timbaland is an overused producer who has been given too much credit lately. He certainly has upheld the careers of Justin Timberlake and Nelly Furtado and helped launch the career of Missy Elliot, but Björk did not need his "eccentric" beats. His production certainly is unique in terms of mainstream pop music, but in terms of Björk his production sounds like The Monkees. Björk, you are barely clinging to life. 

Cover for me while I sort out some shit...

It's quite an odd experience to lose something that you never knew you had in the first place. Especially when it is something mental or conceptual.

Oh no, is this going to be some web-based lamentation about lost love or a sock?

No, anonymous web-gazer, it is not. I have not had the oomph, the life-force, the libido, the what-the-French-call-a-certain-I-don't-know-what lately to craft blog posts. Previously the majority of my entries were motivated by newly downloaded music and an axe to grind....or maybe an ice-pick....or a decorative hat-feather. Since that awe-inspiring weekend of not one but TWO drool-worthy concerts (if only drool was a currency, I could have purchased all the tickets to the Manchester Orchestra concert and not had all those shoe-gazing assholes present...and that chick whose clicking heels I could actually hear hitting the floor during "I Can Barely Breathe" as she went to the bathroom to drop a log) I have been relatively at ease. There has not been much irking me. At the same time, there has not been any music I've stumbled upon since then that has really struck me on the chin. That being said, must I be in a state of irritation to connect to music in a profound way? Is there a connection between my unhappiness and musical satisfaction?

The band Holy Fuck has been getting a lot of buzz lately (that means since last week's free "alternative" newspapers came out and each had a feature on the band). I decided to download their album. I vaguely remember seeing them open for Metric two years ago, although all I can actually remember about them is Emily Haines saying their name in a forced shout when she was asking the audience to acknowledge the openers (the other of which was a band called Islands that has since long-passed its "alternative" weekly newspaper buzz and has passed on to the indie after-life––that is, working as a bus-boy at the horseshoe and telling people how you used to be in some band they've probably long forgotten). So, upon listening to this Holy Fuck I shall share my thoughts....

(insert noise alluding to relative indifference)

They do nothing for me. Interesting concept for a band, yes. A traditional take on "modern" electronic music: beats and unique sounds without the use of laptops or loops. Ultimately, though, I find it to be a little pretentious. I can only see one feeling the need to create modern music without the use of modern accouterments primarily for the reason I used the word "accouterments" a moment ago: to self-ascribe a general feeling of superiority.

Now, allow me to briefly address the name of the band. I could go on endlessly about my problems with the name, but I shall keep it concise and do so in very plain sentences. The members of Holy Fuck think that they have fooled the general music-listening public. They think they have done so by giving their band a name that stands out and "pushes boundries" and that they are thus making us rethink the weight we place upon names. If they can name their band vulgarly yet not be a vulgar band, maybe everything must be rethought. Fuck off. You are shamelessly bending over for attention as far as your spine will allow. Don't take a shit on a fancy plate and try to tell me it's steak tartare.

Now I'm irritated. Interesting. Previously, I would be irritated by life and enjoy some freshly downloaded music and then in some mild form connect the two. However, this time I am irritated by some freshly downloaded music. The connection is an actual reaction in this case. Thank goodness I have a beard that can now be stroked repeatedly as I ponder. 

The past is cradled in the lap of the present

Mouse ears, mouse ears

I don't want these mouse ears

They itch 

I have this itch and it has become my nature to scratch

I give up all my scratch to keep these ears intact

I hate them, but cannot shake them

I try to hide them, conceal them, but I cannot suppress what I am

Why do I find tales of abused children endearing?

I'm sorry Hansel, Gretel, those Snickett kids, that girl wearing a hood of red, Dorothy, Alice, Huckleberry et al.

I want to blame the ears, but they are a part of me now

I'm a mouse that will never be caught

Because I already am. 

Working for the church while your family dies

Remember how I mentioned I was a wee bit late for the Neutral Milk Express? Well I must bite my tongue, black my eyes, stub my toes, bite my fingernails, reach to scratch an itch on the small of my back but never quite be able to locate it and instead allow it to consume the back of my mind for the next forty-five minutes all over again. Arcade Fire. Neon Bible. Wow.

Funeral came out in 2004. I latched onto the band early enough to realize they were going to be popular in the "indie" circle (which is more of two circle-like shapes connected by this little curved line...oh shit, wait, it's a pair of wayfarers [yes, the wayfarer-bash count is now at 2]). This was just as Canadian "indie" bands were becoming notoriously cool; Metric, Broken Social Scene, Stars (zzzzzzzz), etc. Arcade Fire stood out from their CanRock peers, however. I saw them perform on Conan and the two background percussionist fellows began drumming on everything around them, including each other's heads. Their music and videos provided one with the experience of viewing the 1980s avant-garde music scene through a futuristic prism. Then everything fell apart (for me anyway...the band actually went on the critical acclaim and commercial success). Right around the time the indie-wayfarer-circle exploded and Dance Cave became overrun with assholes in polo shirts, the following happened to me, interestingly enough, at Dance Cave:

Irritating Drunk Girl probably wearing all H&M: Woah, you like look totally like that guy

Me: Um, okay, thanks

Irritating Drunk Girl probably wearing all H&M: Yeah, you do, you know, like, that guy from the Arcade Fire

Me: Oh, right, because I'm wearing a vest, good job

That just about sums up what happened to Arcade Fire and why I lost complete interest in them.

Well yesterday I stumbled upon Neon Bible, their newest album, released back in March. As per my complete negligence regarding the band I had no preconceived notions regarding the album. I had not read a review or heard a single song in advance. It is an absolutely incredible album. Every single track is fantastic. The album is self-produced, which is notable as well (at least for a self-acclaimed DIY music aficionado such as myself). The standout track for me is "Intervention," which is a track that reaches epic proportions without self-consciously attempting so (like any piece of shit track from American Idiot vainly attempts).

I admit my foolishness. Sometimes my "moral" rejection of anything overly mainstream really ends up in me feeling a mild testicular discomfort. This would be one of those times. I'll be in the bathroom with some ointment if you need me....

Arcade Fire - Neon Bible

Glue it back with little sticks

I have come to terms with the Múm album. You could say I even like it. More than a Raymond rerun (though it does lack suburban Italian-American stereotypes, thus having me conclude to give it a rating of only 4 Lasagnas). It certainly wavers from their past albums, specifically in terms of the vocals. The departure of the Valtysdóttir twins has seen founding member Gunnar Örn Tynes provide vocals alongside a new female vocalist/instrumentalist, whose exciting Icelandic name I'm unsure of. The addition of these male vocals and new-female-member-whose-name-I-am-unsure-of's vocals greatly alter the sound of the band. Hopefully this evening at the Opera House they will bring out old songs as well, although I'm not sure how they will sound without the nearly inaudible breathy vocals of the Valtysdóttir twins.

Go Go Smear The Poison Ivy has Múm move towards a more uplifting sound overall. This is still beautiful music that provides a unique, elf-like (I don't really know if the music is in fact elf-like, but numerous reviews I've read refer to the music as such) experience, but in general it has a happier tune compared to songs from Summer Make Good and Finally We Are No One.

Why are long pants long? Why do doves cry? Why is Sam's Club a complete replica of Costco, including the exact same store layout? I realize that pondering in this territory could consume the rest of my life and no one really likes a philosopher (sure, you tolerate them sometimes, like when a philosopher tags along for a mutual friend's birthday and tries to have "deep" conversations with you at the end of the table and you are feeling increasingly embarrassed and you are trying to return to the main conversation without hurting the philosopher's feelings), but sometimes pondering is enjoyable. My favourite aspect of pondering is the ability to do the pondering pose––you know, weak fist below the chin, head turned slightly upward. Lately I've been pondering quite frequently, yet I have not been attending any birthday outings and singling out unsuspecting outing-goers with my philosophical banter. I am trying to reconcile the notion that one must ultimately act solely for him/herself with my vehement opposition to Ayn Rand's notions of objectivism (that is, the moral purpose of life is solely to achieve one's own happiness). I think there is a thin line that separates the two. To be truly happy, one must ultimately do things for him/herself. However, to suggest that the actual purpose of life is mainly to achieve this singular happiness purports a moral argument that defends selfishness through philosophical reason. It is easy to fall into a life of selfishness when you are inward looking (as I have been lately) and cannot see that your actions effect anyone besides yourself. Ayn Rand was an ardent anti-Communist who moved from the USSR to America and gave in to the dichotomy of the Cold War. She rejected all aspects of Communism and built her philosophical beliefs solely on anti-Communist sentiments. Ultimately, she's not so much a philosopher as she is a bitch.

Múm - Go Go Smear The Poison Ivy

Who does history bleed for?

Or, for whom does history bleed?

I like being able to utilize the "whom"

Think about this: definitions can only belong to the definers and certainly not to the defined. 

Did you think about it?

I'll give you a little more time

Imagine your mustache was narrow. Well, first imagine having a mustache in the first place. Almost unbelievable that there was a time when mustaches were fashionable. No, they are not fashionable now, as hard as hipsters (and Greek women) might try. They simply look awkward upon a backdrop of non-sweatshop-made basic t-shirts and wayfarer sunglasses (really, enough with those, please, I beg of you). A proper mustache requires a fair bit of maintenance. Daily maintenance I would assume. The appearance of any budding hairs outside the confines of the mustache could greatly alter the impact the mustache has on any casual on-lookers and especially on mustache aficionados. I wonder what is more difficult: growing and maintaining a narrow mustache or enduring four years of struggle against lies, stupidity, and cowardice. 

Or, enduring forty-six years of lies, stupidity, and cowardice.

Cat burglars, stealing the lives of mice.

Defining their lives.

Stealing their tails.

Burning their tails.

Whipping them with their own tails.

Owning everything they are when the only thing they are is what you define them as.

It's blood that soaks this cloth

It's cloth that covers this table

It's blood that soaks this cloth

It's cloth that covers our eyes

I've just sat here all night with cloth over my eyes. A thin cloth veil. 

At least I downloaded some great music. 

Gah, my mind is mush (perhaps some type of oatmeal concoction that is initially dry, but you must add boiled water to the mix to moisten it up). 

Nothing profound (not that anything I type actually is profound, just self-serving attempts thereof).

STD - Under The Boards

A prototypical civilian?

It's true, it's true. Words fall short. Syllables. Consonants. Curvature. Enunciate. Conjugate. Enunciate. Conjugate. Repeat.

We ascribe meaning to words through our perceptions of what they should mean. They mean nothing. "I love you"--nothing. The fact that metaphors exist shows the shortcomings of words. We need to assign a value to words by utilizing elements of the natural (or sometimes unnatural) world. The fact that Ralph Waldo Emerson actually manages to (and finds it necessary to) prove his points through metaphor (instead of merely using the device to better illustrate his points or make them sound pretty) solidifies my point. A brilliant and moral man, he concedes to the ineffectuality of words. Standing in the middle of the alphabet is the hollow letter "O." It expands and swallows the rest of the alphabet on both sides, sucking them into the dismal futility of words, sentences, sentiment, monologues, phrases, concrete emotions. Asphalt. Ashen letters. Ground to a sludgy pulp. We drive over these flattened sentiments. Words are flat. Flat and meaningless.

On their first CD, Nova Scotia's Wintersleep sing of the prototypical civilian. In terms of the music world, Wintersleep have become a type of prototypical civilian: they have succumbed to the fate of the loyal indie subject. Indie. Fuck that word. It truly means nothing (especially when bands that sell millions of albums are deemed "indie.") The interesting time signatures are still there. Paul Murphy's dreary, barren vocals are still there. The fairly minimalist lyrics are still there. However, I find a new "danceability" in many of the tracks on Welcome to The Night Sky. Also, I find much of the originality that can only come from their East-coast bubble of alienation to be missing on this album. In terms of prototypical indie albums, this one still kicks major rectum. Yet, in comparison to their first two albums it falls upon the barren ashpalt and withers meaningless.

Welcome to The Night Sky

This is my night of the long knives

Just as the mustachioed one eliminated his political demons, I must dismiss my personal demons with the ruthlessness of a chancellor. No, I do not plan to massacre these demons in an attempt to solidify my hold over the Reichswehr. I have more positive aspirations. I want so badly to transcend this culture that I am a product of. I want to be a product of only myself, like a worm that is cut in half. The original worm-self will spawn a new worm-self that is free of want. The two worms will forever be connected in spirit and likeness. Or in my case, in body as well...making me nothing like a worm at all and perhaps disintegrating this entire worm analogy. However, what I am really getting at is that I would like to be one of the earth, of the soil, of what is truly natural. I want to engross myself in the soil and be free of the supposed need to shell out green for green (see: purchasing a trendy eco-friendly lifestyle that has been manufactured in China by mostly unpaid labour).  

In Rainbows is incredible. My only criticism is how quickly it ends. It feels short and not in the understandable conceptual way that both Kid A and Amnesiac are. Those two albums need to be short in order for the listener to catch up and fully fathom the transcendent qualities of them. They transcend music itself and establish a new aesthetic that can never be achieved by another. As for In Rainbows, it is a more straightforward album than the two just discussed and could actually use a few more tracks. It goes by rather quickly and leaves your fingernails scratching the tips of your other fingers in a desperate attempt to generate more despite a full realization that scratching anything (especially your fingertips) will not generate music--rather, an obsessive compulsion to scratch the tips of your fingers every moment that your mind, ears, soul are not occupied by the palpable bliss of Radiohead (I must mention that certain scratching [that is, of records] may [according to some] result in actual music, but as far as I am concerned, this dj scratching is actually just an alteration of pre-existing music that was created through something more than scratching).

My first link from the previous post appears to have passed on to the pearly gates. Here is a new one:

In Rainbows

Tegan and Sara. What more can I say. For me, I just have to think of, or say aloud (though it would be odd for others to just hear me say "Tegan and Sara" and nothing else, then just sit there and melt in a bubbly serum [not to be confused with my own brand of cervix serum]) their names and instantly the aura surrounding two individuals who are supremely intelligent, morally grounded, whatever the opposite of righteous is, beautiful, humble, whitty, and the best goddamn role models in Canadian music threatens to envelop me and fill my clothing with warm fuzzies that provide both the warmth and comfort you would expect from something called a "warm fuzzy." On top of what incredible people they are, Monday evening at Danforth Music Hall the Quin sisters performed one of the finest musical concerts I have seen. Even the old songs that I do not find particularly striking sounded fantastic. Their on-stage banter and sibling rivalry was entertaining and endearing and made me want to hug my brother all night. To put it plainly, Tegan and Sara Quin are fantastically talented and superior human beings who have my utmost respect.

As you reach the pearly gates of this post, enjoy a fantastic solo performance by Thom Yorke of my favourite song from In Rainbows.

Queue up lads

You can thank me now. You can thank me later. You can do both and then a twist and then do it like this. 

Radiohead-In Rainbows

Inordinately skewed

Fact is fact.
Fact is fact.
I am fact.
In fact, fact is fact.

I was late. I pride myself on being in the "know" musically, ahead of the curve, on top of the heap, so on and such, but I only recently got into Neutral Milk Hotel. I really only began to take a genuine interest in them (him) after hearing Jesse Lacey cover "Oh Comely" last May. Fucking incredible. Like allowing your eyes to free themselves from the constrictive sockets, survey the room without the limitations and influence of your mind, just eyes roaming the room and it feels liberating but with the underlying terror of a new sensation.

But if seeing is believing then believe that we have lost our eyes.

NMH - In The Aeroplane Over The Sea

Talking points from talking heads

Do you enjoy being subject to someone else's history? Do you like feeling alienated and having the tops of fingers beneath your eyes? Do you ever wish someone else could think/breathe/eat/sing/walk/scream/love/laugh for you? Fret not, you are nearly there. Just a few more crises of moral significance. 

I cannot make up my mind on the new JEW album. Obviously, it does not stand up to the previous two albums, those are difficult to top by any means. After the near-progressiveness of Futures, Chase This Light seems like a step back. It lacks the sinister brooding of songs like "Pain" and "Night Drive." However, there still are some definite standout tracks that I already am listening to repeatedly ("Electable" is the main one at the moment). I think I still need a few more listens to truly make up my mind on the album. It simply does not feel like it has the staying power of Bleed American and Futures, at least not thus far. 

So much for the guerilla-art that was Nuit Blanche. When Scotiabank sinks a ton of cash into the event and over-expands it, it is not surprising that it was packed with jerks, mostly lackluster exhibits and an underlying commerciality. Ah well, still a fun night. 

I cannot help but feel that there is no higher ground anymore and if you claim that there is and you are standing upon it then you are simply claiming your own superiority and are actually digging a hole in the elevated ground you are supposedly standing on. Thoughts do not have commas, periods, semi-colons, colons, etc. It is one run-on sentence that starts (I would assume) once you are born and ends (I would assume) only when you die but not with a period it just stops suddenly in the middle of (or end or beginning or 3/4 of the way through) the page. 

The enemy is you as well.

The enemy is I. 

JEW - Chase This Light

Varying degrees of self-reliance

Bow before 2007 Polaris Music Prize winner Patrick Watson. He is the second coming of Sam Roberts (visually at least....his music is actually 875.69% better than that of Roberts). Just as Sam Roberts discards of the beard that made him so scruffily adorable (in exchange for more adult contemporary notoriety...there is an entirely different music world that exists in the ad-con [my slang for "adult contemporary] bubble of MuchMoreMusic...a place where Sarah McLachlan is still putting out albums and James Blunt is considered more than just background music for Grey's Anatomy) Patrick Watson emerges, bearded and all.

Last July, I was so overanxious to see Emily Haines in all her splendour (and believe me, there is a LOT of splendour emitted from Ms. Haines....I think she sweats it out and it smells like incense, but not the cheap kind that Jamaican guys try to sell you in Kensington, I mean the good stuff) that I nearly overlooked opener Watson in lieu of my forward-thinking erection for Haines' set. In retrospect, Watson was fantastic and now I feel like a jerk for only saying so after his winning the Polaris. Fie on me! Fie!

His fantastic album Close To Paradise evokes a certain dreamy similarity to Coldplay's Parachutes album. It is soft music that has an underlying edge, like a butterknife that can still be used for murder, or at least can cut through a tough steak. As well, he incorporates a fantastic wall of sound, layering theramin, strings, horns, organ, accordian, and soforth. 

Interestingly, after reading his wikipedia page, it turns out that Watson had a song featured on Grey's Anatomy. Should I swallow my tongue for my bracketed jab at James Blunt now? Is my own brand of medicine (Ian's Cervix Serum) delicious? Well, fuck James Blunt, high-voiced scoundrel that he is. Yes, I know, he was a NATO "peacekeeper" (that term is questionable when you're a soldier wielding an AK-47) and I should cut him some slack and rub his balls or something. Well, NATO's mission in Kosovo was misguided and "You're Beautiful" sucks giant wang. So fuck that. 

Watson's album is fantastic for a rainy day such as this (or if you're in Korea, everyday). Enjoy. 

Close To Paradise

This persistence of existence

Alterable, malleable. 

Preconceived storylines. 

We're malleable as we stretch across our timeframes, ever-expanding. Taking up more and more space, intellectual or otherwise. 

I'm taking up so much space with my thoughts. Wrinkled brow. Itchy beard. Thinning hair. Released follicles are tension release. Clogged drain. I'll drown not in my sorrow (how poetic! If only...), but simply bath-water that is ever-rising, rejected by the follicled drain. 

Oh boo-fucking-hoo. I'm actually relatively at ease now. 

It's just the room, the sun, and the sky. I like to follow the Harvard School of grammar and utilize that extra comma before the "and" in a list. It is my little effort to uphold a dying grammatical breed. I like the idea of writing that is conscious of itself, commenting on the very manner in which it exists upon the page (or screen). Kind of like a lamer, internet-based John Barth.

I have included a Silversun reference somewhere in this blog. Enjoy the album. 

I look back on the various events in my life: my europe trip with pup, my car accident, my grandfather's death (and the preceding three years of sorrow), androo blowing out the candles on my 7th birthday, when I saw Brand New play Deja Entendu from start to finish, discovering Casa del Popolo, crying myself to sleep because I felt alone and afraid I would die feeling that way, staying overnight by myself in the hospital when I was 4, getting Nintendo, watching my father nearly bleed to death, realizing I was in love and not knowing how I got there but happy that I was there, waking up and hating life, waking up to sunshine and a day that is completely mine and loving life, and that time when blah blah etcetera. Anyway, I look back at these and can only wonder if I was more alive then than I am now. But, as Peter, Bjorn and John (find their enjoyable album attached...and notice the lack of that last comma in their name) would put it, "I laugh more often now, I cry more often now, I am more me." I'm still in the process of figuring out who "me" is, but I have a better idea now than I did all those nights I cried myself to sleep and dropped my stuffed animals down the stairs in desperation. 

Silversun Pickups

P, B, and J - Writer's Block

I quiver with each of your technological advances

As I read about Canada's good financial fortunes today, I realized the pitfalls of a Western economy. The structure of taxation that has its roots firmly planted is one that brainwashes us to be consumers. Instead of heavy taxation of one's income--a punishment for earning a living--why not tax the overconsumption of goods, especially those that are harmful to the environment? Eh? Eh?

Guess who has male pattern baldness? ME! Guess who was prescribed Propecia today by his doctor? ME! My life is slowly becoming a Propecia commercial. I already asked my doctor about it, as they suggest I do in the ad. Then after picking up my prescription (and shelling out 200 bucks...that's right, my drugplan doesn't cover it!) I went and lived my life to the fullest. I had dinner with my wife, I tossed the football around with my son in the backyard while wearing my newly purchased corduroy J. Crew jacket, and then I finally buried that dead hooker that's been sitting in the trunk of my Lexus (my wife would only buy the "It's compost I've been cultivating in the trunk" excuse for so long). Initially I was rather despondent when Dr. Phillipson told me (in his soft, sweet South African accent...awwww) that I did indeed have male pattern baldness and I could thank my father for it--the whole "You get your hair fortunes from your maternal grandfather" thing is bullshit, by the way. I just wanted to sob under a willow tree. Then everything was better when I was told by the pharmacist that I would have to pay for the Propecia all on my own. Actually, wait, that worsened the despondency. I wanted a stiff drink. Or a stiff penis. Or a stiff drink stirred by a stiff penis. Yes, that's it. 

Well, I read the little instructions that came with Propecia and I was suddenly enlightened and in a better mood. I put down my drink, pulled the penis from out of my mouth, and continued my life as Propecia would like me to: I washed the car and waved to the neighbors. Propecia not only stops hair loss, it actually can help you grow back some of the hair you lost. It takes about two months to fully kick in, so by then I'll know if I want to transplant some of my bum hair onto my head. You'd think the prospect of a poo-smelling head would discourage me, but it does not. 

I then began to take some advice Michael Ian Black (find a link to download his hilarious new comedy album enclosed) gave to heart: just add an exaggerated "Yayyyyy" to the end of any misfortune or negative statement and it suddenly becomes positive. Male pattern baldness, yayyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

MIB-I am  wonderful Man

de facto Terminalization

Yes, time slips away. Through our fingers, we're caught in a perpetual state of losing time. It's probably all over the floor and we're stepping on innocent little seconds and minutes and hours and days that have seeped their way through the crevices between our fingers. I thought I was grasping so firmly. I suppose I thought incorrectly.

I was under the impression that I worked at 8am today, which essentially caused me to structure my day (in my new dayplanner! Woweeeeee) in a very precise manner:
-Work 8-5. The End.
No no, there is more...
-Go to parents house after work, get digital camera and laundry. Perhaps say a casual "hello" to my parents if time permits. Otherwise, nod as I walk out the door.
-Finally transfer the necessary funds between accounts to pay my soul-crushing (or is it soul-searching?) tuition.
-Have all this done by 9pm and then go out and do pretentious hipster things

However, today I threw all my time on the floor and stomped on it with rubber soles. Now it's warped. Not a time warp (like the song from Rocky Horror) – rather, warped time. I actually have to work from 1-10. I realized this once I was already at work. So, I left that wretched environment and its flourescent bulbs, white walls (it might as well be an asylum) and in an attempt to restructure my day, am now at my parents house. Live fast, have no regrets. Fuck off. I regret stopping off at this suburban land-mine. Yes, a suburban land-mine. I have to watch my step, for at any moment I could step upon dangerous territory and be blown to bits (verbally at least) by Walter, who's been overly touchy and overly cruel lately to compensate. Well, I didn't realize that I could step in a mine while remaining stationary in front of the coffee maker, brewing a delicious mixture of Tim Hortons fine ground and Second Cup butter pecan coffees.

As I ran to make my escape and ensure my limbs are still connected to by body, I stepped into another north of civilization (see "suburbs") land-mine. However, this one looked like a cross between a mountain lion and Robert Plant circa 1972. It was Marcy, who stumbled out of bed like a recovering anti-depressant addict (actually, it's tranquilizers) upon hearing the commotion between Walter and myself. I managed to send her back to the lion's den rather easily however and avert disaster in a shaken room....or hallway.

Now let us pray.

Rather, prey. On the innocent and naïve who actually pray. Delicious.