Mild.

I recently (perhaps two months ago?) lamented on those über-cool "journalists" whose fingers act capriciously each December to crank out yet another end-of-year list that ranks albums based on some bizarre scale of self-importance and a deeper desire to impress the douchemongers at Pitchfork (get over it, no one at Pitchfork reads your blog). Alas, as 2007 drew to a close I felt an overwhelming desire to share my top albums of the year. I have refrained from doing so in a battle of the will that was not quite as intense as whether or not to have that "I'm bored as fuck and it's Wednesday evening" beer, but more intense than whether or not to eat the pink cupcake. Thankfully, I used my better judgement and did not succumb to the demons of establishing a musical hierarchy. This relates to why I hate battles of the bands. Music is not a sport. You cannot have a deathmatch between a band of 15 year-olds who play Fallout Boy covers and a few original songs about that girl who doesn't know you exist in some bullshit class like Family Studies (to address that misconception: she absolutely knows you exist. She probably even knows your name, who your friends are, and that you wear cargo pants at least once a week. Regardless of this, there is no way that she will ever, ever "fool around" with you at Steve's party. From what I hear, Steve's parents are going to be upstairs anyway––it's going to suck) against a band of 17 year-olds who play Every Time I Die covers on their Ibanez guitars that are tuned down so low you cannot even hear notes anymore, just devil farts.

I have difficulty reconciling the role of the artist with a basic need to survive. I don't know if I want to survive. Suffering allows for a better artistic flow anyway. 

No matter how you dress it up

When I came-to I found myself as a passenger on an unplowed sidestreet, snowbanks cascading over curbs––as if white-noise was a literal image concocted in the sitting-room of a bungalow (or "ranch-style" house for my midwest American readers). My guide in this noiseless circumstance was a housewife beaten down by self-inflicted, self-preserving burdens; a flesh-eating disease that spawns new epidermic cells. The blind leading the optometrist, if you will.

My self-satisfying goal during this journey was to convince the housewife that all things, grand and miniscule, must be accepted. She was reluctant and stubborn. And feisty. And defensive. And argumentative, but not in regards to anything in particular, just a general desire for argument pervaded any rational thought she may have been capable of.

I could have explained my position to her thusly: I spent the first 20 or so years of my life hiding in the shadow of my death. I would have difficulty getting to sleep due to waves of intense panic that would sweep over me. I saw no escape but to jolt out of bed and pace the room, the house even, walking quickly (to the beat of a Loverboy song in my head, perhaps...), subverting this panic into another energy form. When the panic would subside, back to bed I would reluctantly return, to roll in dampened sheets and baskets full of near-hatched larvae. However, I have learned to accept my impending death and emerge from the shadow. I still am swept over by the occasional wave of panic, but these barrages have generally subsided. We all must accept our deaths (and begin to fantasize over them, concocting the most fashionable manner of death). Once we do so perhaps we can accept something as inconsequential as having to answer the front door for someone else's guest.

At my funeral I would want the playlist to be as follows:

Emily Haines - Crowd Surf Off a Cliff

Beck - New Round

Anathallo - Hoodwink

Arcade Fire - Neon Bible

Taking Back Sunday - One-Eighty By Summer

Blur - Sweet Song

Eisley - Marvelous Things

Thursday - Running From The Rain

Thrice - For Miles

Incubus - Just A Phase

Incubus - Earth To Bella (I and II)

Brand New - Okay I Believe You But My Tommy Gun Don't

Brand New - Play Crack The Sky

Brand New - Limousine (MS Rebridge)

Wintersleep - Fog

Everclear - White Men in Black Suits

Idiot Pilot - Militance Prom

Coldplay - We Never Change

Manchester Orchestra - Sleeper 1972

Pilate - Alright

Death Cab For Cutie - A Lack of Color

Metric - Police and The Private

Straylight Run - Later That Year

Patrick Watson - Luscious Life

Tegan and Sara - Like O, Like H

Tegan and Sara - Call it Off

Radiohead - Nude

Radiohead - Like Spinning Plates

Radiohead - We Suck Young Blood

Radiohead - Videotape

Radiohead - I Will

Smashing Pumpkins - Once Upon a Time

Smashing Pumpkins - Stumbleine

That being said, I instead explained myself through frustrated hurls of informative pebbles that barely cracked the surface. With each sentence I uttered, I was verbally attacked. I should have heeded my own pretentious advice and simply accepted the attack. Ah well. 

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