Taking my time along the edge
Shifting sand stumble swag and moment to moment hollow smirk
Helium headed extremes
Blankets of bad imagery
Recollections are soured by scolding clocks and empty stares
"That's so sweet" rings semicircles around Corazon til the shattering
Taking my time along the edge
Justifications, justifications
Lies I throw on the pile
Revelation cookie cutter
Assembly line saboteurs
Remorseless murderess and the nights in foreign arms
To be nestled between Schism and One Love is a golden gift
This is not me, ma'am, my embarrassing half is a shade your Blacklight reveals
Like potential heirs on motel duvets
Taking my time along the edge
How I wish the ride was over
I vomited twice before the 3rd Loop
I'm in the subject of a cursive sentence
The predicate is verbose pretention
I am empty
Let me off
Speeding up along the edge
The hilt is black as the tunnel
The tunnel is life
Deceived by length, I ran to the blade
Shimmering in the light as it mirrors the Sun
I see Heaven in the tip
I run quickly along the edge
Violets turn to Roses
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Lady Of The Western Lake (Poem)
A smart man keeps his imaginary friends close and his enemies far away
Were I a smart man, I would know the difference
For I was Anti-Arthur for a day
Taking the sword to the Lady Of The Western Lake
On the eve of new beginnings
Prepackaged wine waterfalls, and I waded purple fields in confusion, maintaining a pleasant “catch-up” phase at a high-end home's back
The Queen was North, and the Lady's loves did play
Dispelling rumors in stone, our mutual hater was muted, and we wrote like Lennon/McCartney early on
Eyeball to eyeball
There I was, answering a subliminal, an ad out in a space collectively “mine”, a flight of fancy for ebony
The stopwatch was zero, and we were well acquainted
The stopwatch was one, and two, and I loved the Western Lake
And I swam by routine, and I took two cupfuls, to carry home in a fishbowl
And my imaginary friend was close, and my enemies, far away
Were I a smart man, chapter 2 would be fiction
For the enemy grew close
A jealous and begrudging thing
Claiming love made in China, bought from pride, mailed with dissent
An “If I can't have you, no one can” mantra
And I, a fool
Aspirations of poetry and ignorance of the Shakespeare on my arm
Prying with masterstrokes and shooing the Lady away
Me, removing my armor, and taking East, re/morse each mile
Karma incarnate
A season away from the sun was stupidity's just reward
Karma incarnate
Rowing cross oceans, hiking morning mountains of untrained hounds
Karma incarnate
Squirming at the long and lifeless rats as they squirm back, wishing for the thumbs to write “Food.”
Karma incarnate
Hiding my treasures from a mad young prince
Karma incarnate
Adulterous late nights, anorexic walls and gossip, a fort where knights keep their own while they wage wayward war
Karma incarnate
Where they took my music away, and my soul followed
Karma incarnate
Reminding myself of my days as Anti-Arthur, and the Western Lake by moonlight, where my sword had a good cause, one worth fencing for
Passage West
The lake was there, but my imaginary friend was gone
My enemy mocked,
My armor rusts without nightswimming
So I sit in discomforting regret
And someday hope to be Anti-Arthur again
And take my eager sword to the Lady Of The Western Lake
On an eve of new beginnings
Were I a smart man, I would know the difference
For I was Anti-Arthur for a day
Taking the sword to the Lady Of The Western Lake
On the eve of new beginnings
Prepackaged wine waterfalls, and I waded purple fields in confusion, maintaining a pleasant “catch-up” phase at a high-end home's back
The Queen was North, and the Lady's loves did play
Dispelling rumors in stone, our mutual hater was muted, and we wrote like Lennon/McCartney early on
Eyeball to eyeball
There I was, answering a subliminal, an ad out in a space collectively “mine”, a flight of fancy for ebony
The stopwatch was zero, and we were well acquainted
The stopwatch was one, and two, and I loved the Western Lake
And I swam by routine, and I took two cupfuls, to carry home in a fishbowl
And my imaginary friend was close, and my enemies, far away
Were I a smart man, chapter 2 would be fiction
For the enemy grew close
A jealous and begrudging thing
Claiming love made in China, bought from pride, mailed with dissent
An “If I can't have you, no one can” mantra
And I, a fool
Aspirations of poetry and ignorance of the Shakespeare on my arm
Prying with masterstrokes and shooing the Lady away
Me, removing my armor, and taking East, re/morse each mile
Karma incarnate
A season away from the sun was stupidity's just reward
Karma incarnate
Rowing cross oceans, hiking morning mountains of untrained hounds
Karma incarnate
Squirming at the long and lifeless rats as they squirm back, wishing for the thumbs to write “Food.”
Karma incarnate
Hiding my treasures from a mad young prince
Karma incarnate
Adulterous late nights, anorexic walls and gossip, a fort where knights keep their own while they wage wayward war
Karma incarnate
Where they took my music away, and my soul followed
Karma incarnate
Reminding myself of my days as Anti-Arthur, and the Western Lake by moonlight, where my sword had a good cause, one worth fencing for
Passage West
The lake was there, but my imaginary friend was gone
My enemy mocked,
My armor rusts without nightswimming
So I sit in discomforting regret
And someday hope to be Anti-Arthur again
And take my eager sword to the Lady Of The Western Lake
On an eve of new beginnings
Utopia (Poem)
Come, jilted
With your celebratory wire and your pause
Elegant, cellophane scraping on the window of my memory
Faulty mind pipe leaking hopes for you
(I'm getting it fixed, its a ways off - you understand)
Perceptive leper, and thus the cost is a cliche'd pun
But I build my utopia to keep you out
Imagine the Lil Rascals affair
Occult, Conspicuous, Splendid and Plenty in the Cadbury's Undertones I akin to purple and gold
London and beautiful back gardens
Envisioning Bergholt Crescent simplicity
The sub zero sun, unsolicited neighbor, and double decker with Mom over the Troll
Hallelujah, as I let Shaun William Ryder do his thing
He was when I was unaware of free
And Dad helped a Chameleon and a Slave and a Sellout and a Messiah, the Newest (at the time) Angelic Androgyny to dream of Rio, and the Blind Land Ma was one-eyed enough to lead
My Checkerboard frets make muses of Stub Kryptonite as he lay out wounded in all ways by a precarious love
The symmetric contrary reminder of a conch brilliance before velvet, and the curtain I'll bow behind technically
Yamaha Moccassin, and Stiched Bottle Dam, Meager Distractions and One Love, point South
The fake wolf Adam pets, in the Dairy Queen's Courtyard, as the white flag of "mah nigga, mah nigga" ad nauseum sits on a dull roar for him
You took me home remorseless, keeping both wheels, and I pawned you off on Phys Ed when you weren't looking
But we saw the Lighthouse!
We Saw The Lighthouse through our foggy, our weird and typical
We Saw It through still standing vertigos
We Saw It through Bill Hicks
We Saw It through Cate Blanchett's best role the Academy missed, a folk singer I like
We Saw It through her dismissive, matching purples, and escape route knowhow, her daggers for me, and her fuel for God's Gift, on his Blond throne in gentrified (so we thought) Santa Monica
We Saw It through her fickle lens, fixated on the closet door, the BFF, and the Flip Cup Guru
We Saw It as he walked Venice for bemused wtf and Jim wept
We Saw It through goofy grin 2pm mornings, microwaved coffee, a mother who fakes a smile, and 2 dogs who never have to
We Saw It through the beer goggle glass of This Heightened Consciousness
... I found the line of silver on the corner underneath the Palms, inescapably home, and wondering, just like you said, and the Guru laughed, missing the tender implications, were that loyalty begat loyalty, and the knowledge that a rock keeps you upright, and the unfamiliar tingle of faith in permanence
If only you'd seen what I'd seen - your mind would change irretrivably, and my hand holding yours would mean comfort alone
There were things to do, fungal activities, and a multitude of explorations, possibilities of a night beyond "Not Bad"
Work required to surpass the awkward explanation for a girl who can't kiss
Work required to get out the Frogs' Skin on my own
Work required to build my utopia, one I build with saltwater in my eye
I built my utopia to keep you out, and listened for a bang on the wall
With your celebratory wire and your pause
Elegant, cellophane scraping on the window of my memory
Faulty mind pipe leaking hopes for you
(I'm getting it fixed, its a ways off - you understand)
Perceptive leper, and thus the cost is a cliche'd pun
But I build my utopia to keep you out
Imagine the Lil Rascals affair
Occult, Conspicuous, Splendid and Plenty in the Cadbury's Undertones I akin to purple and gold
London and beautiful back gardens
Envisioning Bergholt Crescent simplicity
The sub zero sun, unsolicited neighbor, and double decker with Mom over the Troll
Hallelujah, as I let Shaun William Ryder do his thing
He was when I was unaware of free
And Dad helped a Chameleon and a Slave and a Sellout and a Messiah, the Newest (at the time) Angelic Androgyny to dream of Rio, and the Blind Land Ma was one-eyed enough to lead
My Checkerboard frets make muses of Stub Kryptonite as he lay out wounded in all ways by a precarious love
The symmetric contrary reminder of a conch brilliance before velvet, and the curtain I'll bow behind technically
Yamaha Moccassin, and Stiched Bottle Dam, Meager Distractions and One Love, point South
The fake wolf Adam pets, in the Dairy Queen's Courtyard, as the white flag of "mah nigga, mah nigga" ad nauseum sits on a dull roar for him
You took me home remorseless, keeping both wheels, and I pawned you off on Phys Ed when you weren't looking
But we saw the Lighthouse!
We Saw The Lighthouse through our foggy, our weird and typical
We Saw It through still standing vertigos
We Saw It through Bill Hicks
We Saw It through Cate Blanchett's best role the Academy missed, a folk singer I like
We Saw It through her dismissive, matching purples, and escape route knowhow, her daggers for me, and her fuel for God's Gift, on his Blond throne in gentrified (so we thought) Santa Monica
We Saw It through her fickle lens, fixated on the closet door, the BFF, and the Flip Cup Guru
We Saw It as he walked Venice for bemused wtf and Jim wept
We Saw It through goofy grin 2pm mornings, microwaved coffee, a mother who fakes a smile, and 2 dogs who never have to
We Saw It through the beer goggle glass of This Heightened Consciousness
... I found the line of silver on the corner underneath the Palms, inescapably home, and wondering, just like you said, and the Guru laughed, missing the tender implications, were that loyalty begat loyalty, and the knowledge that a rock keeps you upright, and the unfamiliar tingle of faith in permanence
If only you'd seen what I'd seen - your mind would change irretrivably, and my hand holding yours would mean comfort alone
There were things to do, fungal activities, and a multitude of explorations, possibilities of a night beyond "Not Bad"
Work required to surpass the awkward explanation for a girl who can't kiss
Work required to get out the Frogs' Skin on my own
Work required to build my utopia, one I build with saltwater in my eye
I built my utopia to keep you out, and listened for a bang on the wall
Dumb (Poem)
Abysmal aficionado
Winding your clocks for you
Stealing your smile and wearing it better
Insult/injury emporium promotional sale - stay for your formative years, the bitterness is free
Stay, and we'll put our culpable glass on you
Try not to look responsible, you'll stay young forever
Empty your pockets, not your chest
Don't let her know she's your universe, bank left at the cannery, plan for the 3rd wedding, carry out the 1st finally
Mercy's a four letter word
Why? There is no 'why' - if there were, it would be a five letter word
Do you want to see her?Then we know how to torture you
Brand new pictures with a grin you've never seen
Endless proof, honest dislike, underwhelmed as usual
Self doubt and drink, drugs, volume and shaking fists
Coming to terms with inferiority
Dream a little dream
A fairness catalyst paying it forward with good nature
Hope swims heavy in the head of the wise eternal
God conductor push cart fate to good ship end, index tapping, knots from nothing, loose ends gone at the end of the line
Queen
Pious absorption of flesh in the draw
Flesh somehow bolder, illustrious, luminous, grander than any
Narcissist and the patient adjacent
Waiting
Good dog
Nausea hypochondria hyperventilation hypertention aches pains stings left side numbness
Whenever we're a third through four, but that and chocolate are the choices
The fog won't leave me ugly
Outside
Missing
Not aiming right, not aiming enough
Yearn, ow, walk it off
Or a totally understandable, natural emotion
We laughed to ourselves
The concept of it being all illusion
Hollow chest - you gave it to her, didn't you?
Dumb motherfucker
Winding your clocks for you
Stealing your smile and wearing it better
Insult/injury emporium promotional sale - stay for your formative years, the bitterness is free
Stay, and we'll put our culpable glass on you
Try not to look responsible, you'll stay young forever
Empty your pockets, not your chest
Don't let her know she's your universe, bank left at the cannery, plan for the 3rd wedding, carry out the 1st finally
Mercy's a four letter word
Why? There is no 'why' - if there were, it would be a five letter word
Do you want to see her?Then we know how to torture you
Brand new pictures with a grin you've never seen
Endless proof, honest dislike, underwhelmed as usual
Self doubt and drink, drugs, volume and shaking fists
Coming to terms with inferiority
Dream a little dream
A fairness catalyst paying it forward with good nature
Hope swims heavy in the head of the wise eternal
God conductor push cart fate to good ship end, index tapping, knots from nothing, loose ends gone at the end of the line
Queen
Pious absorption of flesh in the draw
Flesh somehow bolder, illustrious, luminous, grander than any
Narcissist and the patient adjacent
Waiting
Good dog
Nausea hypochondria hyperventilation hypertention aches pains stings left side numbness
Whenever we're a third through four, but that and chocolate are the choices
The fog won't leave me ugly
Outside
Missing
Not aiming right, not aiming enough
Yearn, ow, walk it off
Or a totally understandable, natural emotion
We laughed to ourselves
The concept of it being all illusion
Hollow chest - you gave it to her, didn't you?
Dumb motherfucker
Evening Prayers (Poem)
Beg in bedsheets, kids.
New worlds are seeping out the light crater in star proximity disco ball brilliance bite size swarms of grandiose confetti in the black.
Our hero shifts in Camry discomfort, rickety gold-plate wall ghettos, adjacent to home/hell duplex compounds.
Neighbor.
Neighbor to family - one hustler of strays, blinking driven snow aryan irises and being proud, forging a deal and breaking a promise, to get the gold plated rickety fed and returned in time to soften the blow of destitution.
Neighbor to friends, aspiring to family and filling vacancies while the gold plated rickety re-rickets under our hero the wheelman.
Neighbor to foes, kin for a certain tag, blowing their ride and trying to ricket the rickety out from under you.
Neighbor to mentors, conspicuous as hey look, turning all the wrong heads towards the golden rickety ricketing in the molten light.
Neighbor to the Montague to your Capulet, a capsized lawman, lending the initial bills, before those golden plates wobbled like Jah; bad experiences sitting awkwardly in his stomach as he takes the shit side of karma into his own hands, crispy cautionary, as karma christens herself “melanoma” just for him, and leaves him rickety as your home.
Neighbor to closeted Reagonomics conspirators, lamenting the eclectic tones in the sun, dreaming in three garish colors that make themselves known outside your rickety golden cave, walking away from explosions and getting the girl, grunting in slow motion aviators reflecting collateral “necessity” in head-shake grimace deluxe packaging while they're in the back, overpricing something over at Goodwill for a Lincoln.
Beg in bedsheets, teens.
Take the best parts with you, and eat!
Eat! Jovial things, take handfuls and ache from fulfillment, hold your sides in satisfaction.
Eat for those sans mouth post grand mal while looking for height.
Eat for those empty in even their walled up exteriors.
Eat for those without hands to hold forks and so clutch molars about fumbling silver but ever fail at shoveling without inertia.
Eat for those who hug the linoleum before asked, overeager to please, pleasing no one.
Eat, and pay, for those who steal their bread. You may have met them. I have, and am not the company I keep yet (thank Christ).
Beg in bedsheets, worker bees.
Learn from the Camry Cottage.
Learn from the bumper-stickered case, and the semi-Schneider acolyte technician tool therein.
Learn from God's Gift, a rain puddle near my lake.
Learn from the Ranch, where they herd Ports, and Ports alone.
Learn from the Guatemalan who takes dick and gives nothing while she vends for those who only buy the best.
Learn from the empty doll-house, the house girl lonely.
Learn from a whore.
Learn not to give her housewife lessons; even the 101's are beyond her, so learn other quick routes from Calablackless to Universal.
Learn that you can't ask the 150 driver to stop at your corner.
Learn you're not special, you spoiled brat.
Learn proper translation of stream-of-consciousness.
Learn to be a handful; thusly, you'll get me, only (a handful get me).
Learn to play on words without stamping your feet, lest the words go away.
Learn from Arleta, the bazooka tooth on empty, the crystal clarity, the sleepless summer and a 1000 full pages of poetic indiscretion and obtuse rhyme schemes that I still can't wrap my satin head around.
Learn from prose prayers, the paupers' ghostwritten love notes to luck, to sky, to green and blue, keywords on Google, hoping luck and sky show up, clicking Images, trying to see their faces.
Learn from Search Engines that come up empty.
And love.
Learn about love before you learn from it.
Beg in bedsheets, men.
We're going in.
New worlds are seeping out the light crater in star proximity disco ball brilliance bite size swarms of grandiose confetti in the black.
Our hero shifts in Camry discomfort, rickety gold-plate wall ghettos, adjacent to home/hell duplex compounds.
Neighbor.
Neighbor to family - one hustler of strays, blinking driven snow aryan irises and being proud, forging a deal and breaking a promise, to get the gold plated rickety fed and returned in time to soften the blow of destitution.
Neighbor to friends, aspiring to family and filling vacancies while the gold plated rickety re-rickets under our hero the wheelman.
Neighbor to foes, kin for a certain tag, blowing their ride and trying to ricket the rickety out from under you.
Neighbor to mentors, conspicuous as hey look, turning all the wrong heads towards the golden rickety ricketing in the molten light.
Neighbor to the Montague to your Capulet, a capsized lawman, lending the initial bills, before those golden plates wobbled like Jah; bad experiences sitting awkwardly in his stomach as he takes the shit side of karma into his own hands, crispy cautionary, as karma christens herself “melanoma” just for him, and leaves him rickety as your home.
Neighbor to closeted Reagonomics conspirators, lamenting the eclectic tones in the sun, dreaming in three garish colors that make themselves known outside your rickety golden cave, walking away from explosions and getting the girl, grunting in slow motion aviators reflecting collateral “necessity” in head-shake grimace deluxe packaging while they're in the back, overpricing something over at Goodwill for a Lincoln.
Beg in bedsheets, teens.
Take the best parts with you, and eat!
Eat! Jovial things, take handfuls and ache from fulfillment, hold your sides in satisfaction.
Eat for those sans mouth post grand mal while looking for height.
Eat for those empty in even their walled up exteriors.
Eat for those without hands to hold forks and so clutch molars about fumbling silver but ever fail at shoveling without inertia.
Eat for those who hug the linoleum before asked, overeager to please, pleasing no one.
Eat, and pay, for those who steal their bread. You may have met them. I have, and am not the company I keep yet (thank Christ).
Beg in bedsheets, worker bees.
Learn from the Camry Cottage.
Learn from the bumper-stickered case, and the semi-Schneider acolyte technician tool therein.
Learn from God's Gift, a rain puddle near my lake.
Learn from the Ranch, where they herd Ports, and Ports alone.
Learn from the Guatemalan who takes dick and gives nothing while she vends for those who only buy the best.
Learn from the empty doll-house, the house girl lonely.
Learn from a whore.
Learn not to give her housewife lessons; even the 101's are beyond her, so learn other quick routes from Calablackless to Universal.
Learn that you can't ask the 150 driver to stop at your corner.
Learn you're not special, you spoiled brat.
Learn proper translation of stream-of-consciousness.
Learn to be a handful; thusly, you'll get me, only (a handful get me).
Learn to play on words without stamping your feet, lest the words go away.
Learn from Arleta, the bazooka tooth on empty, the crystal clarity, the sleepless summer and a 1000 full pages of poetic indiscretion and obtuse rhyme schemes that I still can't wrap my satin head around.
Learn from prose prayers, the paupers' ghostwritten love notes to luck, to sky, to green and blue, keywords on Google, hoping luck and sky show up, clicking Images, trying to see their faces.
Learn from Search Engines that come up empty.
And love.
Learn about love before you learn from it.
Beg in bedsheets, men.
We're going in.
Friday the 3rd (Poem)
This lake has leeches
Charming, chewing
Dig for gold and gulp and get your fill
Outnumbered by nosferatu
Soul sucking, rather die than ride or die
Wait your turn
Long, long line
Succubus Indian Giving good Lincolns from Machart Mobiles
Magnum opus opiate hopes rope a dope us
Mid name James recycle nooses, or at least considers
Drastic respite
The best of us need rest
The worst lay down
Holy are the ones of rigid will
Holy are the ones of pushy conscience
Verdant emerald fields, shimmering in bundles, crystalline coats
Sequins on tree stars
Evaporating dry leaf
Jackets of sugar on shoulders of all
The insecurity of the heart
In OG Bullet Time
Damned be a temptress
Mandrake mandible beauties
Mounting patience and pincer of thighs
Reduction, sans chaos
That will grow like hair
Knots and tangles, and jealous Nubians
Friday night Springsteen operettes
Open roads, dreams, and soulful eyes, ahead
Casting tanzanite glare on tomorrow
Phil Spectral oversweetened melodramas
We're Keats' few fine plays, you and I
Tangible in twilight, true in the haunting
Happily possessed by a romantic
Blowing kisses at the enemy
The Foe!
Foe to kindness!
Foe to preservation, lamenting an honest protector in an ulterior alley!
Foe to herself!
Foe to alacrity, to regenerative cells, that which lets a heart heal quickly!
Foe to good nature, sapping Leo of loyalty, priests withholding the cross, and the last vindication!
Priests withholding Heaven!
Give
Up the Ghost, Into Greed
Priests put the withheld cross over "Of Yourself", the Give you don't get when you get but don't give
You get what you give to karma
In that, you are Foe to your future
September begins grim
Friday the 3rd, 2010.
Boots to bear the 4th. This lake has leeches.
Charming, chewing
Dig for gold and gulp and get your fill
Outnumbered by nosferatu
Soul sucking, rather die than ride or die
Wait your turn
Long, long line
Succubus Indian Giving good Lincolns from Machart Mobiles
Magnum opus opiate hopes rope a dope us
Mid name James recycle nooses, or at least considers
Drastic respite
The best of us need rest
The worst lay down
Holy are the ones of rigid will
Holy are the ones of pushy conscience
Verdant emerald fields, shimmering in bundles, crystalline coats
Sequins on tree stars
Evaporating dry leaf
Jackets of sugar on shoulders of all
The insecurity of the heart
In OG Bullet Time
Damned be a temptress
Mandrake mandible beauties
Mounting patience and pincer of thighs
Reduction, sans chaos
That will grow like hair
Knots and tangles, and jealous Nubians
Friday night Springsteen operettes
Open roads, dreams, and soulful eyes, ahead
Casting tanzanite glare on tomorrow
Phil Spectral oversweetened melodramas
We're Keats' few fine plays, you and I
Tangible in twilight, true in the haunting
Happily possessed by a romantic
Blowing kisses at the enemy
The Foe!
Foe to kindness!
Foe to preservation, lamenting an honest protector in an ulterior alley!
Foe to herself!
Foe to alacrity, to regenerative cells, that which lets a heart heal quickly!
Foe to good nature, sapping Leo of loyalty, priests withholding the cross, and the last vindication!
Priests withholding Heaven!
Give
Up the Ghost, Into Greed
Priests put the withheld cross over "Of Yourself", the Give you don't get when you get but don't give
You get what you give to karma
In that, you are Foe to your future
September begins grim
Friday the 3rd, 2010.
Boots to bear the 4th. This lake has leeches.
Monday, August 2, 2010
This Modern Empire - Love Is The New Black
Coldplay, Fix You. Death Cab For Cutie, Soul Meets Body. Talib Kweli, Get By. The Verve, Lucky Man. That song Lupe Fiasco put on a Twilight Soundtrack.
These are songs I almost like.
Some say almost doesn't count. Those people have never heard NYC by Interpol – everything was awash in melancholia so beautiful you'd halfway expect virginal elf babies to have cried every drop of it – then Paul Banks cooed something about the subway being a porno, and the fact that subways reek of urine made me wonder what kind of porn Paul Banks watches.
Have you ever heard a song that went the wrong way once in its chord progression and made you deduct points? Things were flying smooth on that 5-hour flight, everything was great for the first 3; the movie was Judd Apatow, it was censored but you didn't care; attendants came quick as you humanly could press the button, with your drinks, before you could ask for them; the in-flight meal was steak, and was prepared by someone who actually ate red meat; hell, y'got laid in the bathroom. THEN a half hour of turbulence left you shaking for the rest of the flight, and you told everyone it was the worst time you've ever spent off the ground since that time someone who isn't me took mescaline in the Mojave.
It should affect one's summary of the overall product in the way one bad song affects an otherwise good album: scarce mention of the misstep, and a high score nonetheless. Problem with songs are, they're only about 3 minutes; people don't like gray areas in that amount of time, either suck or don't.
The way it realistically affects said song is a considerable drop in the approval rating, rather than a slight one in the case of an album - unfortunately, this often means that an otherwise good or at least TOLERABLE song falls to the wayside, forgetfulness scattering it the edges of the mind.
Love Is The New Black, is one of these songs.
Therefore, I call the modernity of this imperialism into question (fyi: you can't see this grin, but I'm doing it as hard as I can)!!
First, this kind of reminds me of Throwing Copper-era Live. Not necessarily a bad thing; hell, if I could churn an “I Alone” and a “Lightning Crashes” out at the same time, I'd make super-serious, vaguely spiritual videos too.
That solo, though, pure Southern Rock. Or at least English blues trying to ape Southern Rock. And damn if that isn't a sound I miss hearing. In fact, that won back a few of the points this track lost when it took a wrong turn (more on that in a sec).
In itself, that jump's a fairly admirable move - going from melodic indie pop to ballsy rock is a dynamic shift I would LIKE to see Frank Black brag about (and am glad Cobain didn't live to steal, considering his guitar skills).
I suppose the point that it bobs whence it should weave, so to say, is the point where a fuzzed out mini solo segues us into the bridge. There's something strangely twangy about it in that semi-alt-country sense that, in a flash, reminds me of too many Whiskeytown misfires when Ryan Adams shoulda known to edit himself. Its a complete tonal shift, and I understand that it was a chord change, and that was sort of the point, but DAMMIT, if you can't make a chord change fit the overall aesthetic of the song, it runs the risk of detouring someone completely out of the groove! The groove is important, it's the little universe that a song (a good one, at least) creates; it's the illusion of that intimate setting. That segue broke the fourth wall.
Melodically, its lovely; not quite “majestic”, but of course, I haven't used that word to describe rock and roll since the Verve were together the first time.
It maintains a momentum that keeps the listener's attention quite unwaveringly, until that twangy guitar pre-bridge thing made me think Nashville, when I'm pretty sure you're going for Zeppelin, or at least Oasis.
The chorus is sufficiently lighter-worthy, and the refrain at the end is a great touch. And YES, while there're parts I do like of this song, before and after it broke my heart (sniff), at this point, it feels like you're trying to win me back. But I've seen the character flaws now, and as enamored as I am with the rest of you, the back of my mind will always be on that short misstep. I have already subconsciously deducted those points, and put “Love Is The New Black” in the pile of those songs that, for one reason or another, I will always, almost like.
(sigh)...
These are songs I almost like.
Some say almost doesn't count. Those people have never heard NYC by Interpol – everything was awash in melancholia so beautiful you'd halfway expect virginal elf babies to have cried every drop of it – then Paul Banks cooed something about the subway being a porno, and the fact that subways reek of urine made me wonder what kind of porn Paul Banks watches.
Have you ever heard a song that went the wrong way once in its chord progression and made you deduct points? Things were flying smooth on that 5-hour flight, everything was great for the first 3; the movie was Judd Apatow, it was censored but you didn't care; attendants came quick as you humanly could press the button, with your drinks, before you could ask for them; the in-flight meal was steak, and was prepared by someone who actually ate red meat; hell, y'got laid in the bathroom. THEN a half hour of turbulence left you shaking for the rest of the flight, and you told everyone it was the worst time you've ever spent off the ground since that time someone who isn't me took mescaline in the Mojave.
It should affect one's summary of the overall product in the way one bad song affects an otherwise good album: scarce mention of the misstep, and a high score nonetheless. Problem with songs are, they're only about 3 minutes; people don't like gray areas in that amount of time, either suck or don't.
The way it realistically affects said song is a considerable drop in the approval rating, rather than a slight one in the case of an album - unfortunately, this often means that an otherwise good or at least TOLERABLE song falls to the wayside, forgetfulness scattering it the edges of the mind.
Love Is The New Black, is one of these songs.
Therefore, I call the modernity of this imperialism into question (fyi: you can't see this grin, but I'm doing it as hard as I can)!!
First, this kind of reminds me of Throwing Copper-era Live. Not necessarily a bad thing; hell, if I could churn an “I Alone” and a “Lightning Crashes” out at the same time, I'd make super-serious, vaguely spiritual videos too.
That solo, though, pure Southern Rock. Or at least English blues trying to ape Southern Rock. And damn if that isn't a sound I miss hearing. In fact, that won back a few of the points this track lost when it took a wrong turn (more on that in a sec).
In itself, that jump's a fairly admirable move - going from melodic indie pop to ballsy rock is a dynamic shift I would LIKE to see Frank Black brag about (and am glad Cobain didn't live to steal, considering his guitar skills).
I suppose the point that it bobs whence it should weave, so to say, is the point where a fuzzed out mini solo segues us into the bridge. There's something strangely twangy about it in that semi-alt-country sense that, in a flash, reminds me of too many Whiskeytown misfires when Ryan Adams shoulda known to edit himself. Its a complete tonal shift, and I understand that it was a chord change, and that was sort of the point, but DAMMIT, if you can't make a chord change fit the overall aesthetic of the song, it runs the risk of detouring someone completely out of the groove! The groove is important, it's the little universe that a song (a good one, at least) creates; it's the illusion of that intimate setting. That segue broke the fourth wall.
Melodically, its lovely; not quite “majestic”, but of course, I haven't used that word to describe rock and roll since the Verve were together the first time.
It maintains a momentum that keeps the listener's attention quite unwaveringly, until that twangy guitar pre-bridge thing made me think Nashville, when I'm pretty sure you're going for Zeppelin, or at least Oasis.
The chorus is sufficiently lighter-worthy, and the refrain at the end is a great touch. And YES, while there're parts I do like of this song, before and after it broke my heart (sniff), at this point, it feels like you're trying to win me back. But I've seen the character flaws now, and as enamored as I am with the rest of you, the back of my mind will always be on that short misstep. I have already subconsciously deducted those points, and put “Love Is The New Black” in the pile of those songs that, for one reason or another, I will always, almost like.
(sigh)...
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Hotel In Saigon, by Bright Midnight
My quandary: heightened expectations.
These things are buggers to the senses, clouding common sense with the idiocy of “hope”, and bolstering one's own cynicism when they bear bitter fruit.
If the hype surrounding a new band intends to cause a stir half the size of 9-11, let's look at the list of influences as Ground Zero.
I suppose it speaks to the Velvet Underground's persistent influence over the decades that bands who so obviously take shreds of Reed's rags (conveniently ignoring Cale's idiosyncrasy so much of the time) can woo the NME's panties off like cheap wine Every. Damn. Time.
And who's not a culprit there? Bowie famously spun all of Lou's faggier tendencies into gold; the Jesus and Mary Chain and Sonic Youth cribbed White Light/White Heat's nails on chalkboard temperament and called it art (which is quite Warhol-esque in itself, ironically); and dare we not forget the Strokes, would be heirs to that New York Kingdom, and Bright Midnight's Golden Calf. Not to imply worship on their part, since after all, in Bizarro Land, Oasis were true originals.
And since I've brought up the Gallagher Brothers in my obtuse ramblings, “Infant Days” is to Strokes' “Last Nite” what Oasis's “Little James” was to “Hey Jude.”
To their credit, “Hotel In Saigon” at least doesn't sound like something Julian Casablancas opted out of the Room On Fire sessions.
Lyrics invoke the elements for poetic effect (more on this in a minute), a jazzy break after the second chorus a la Krieger, the bass-heavy, bluesy stomp – enough to appear as an attempt for the Doors' enigmatic sound, but the end result is more than a little reminiscent of latter-day Chili Peppers. Post-Californication-type shit. When the George Clinton-inspired jamming gave way to middle-aged Kiss FM tendencies.
Here, the post-punk-inspired staccato guitar lines give way to what sounds like an unsigned ska band trying to swagger like Page – melodic garage pop, I can dig, cos Bright Midnight may skirt on plagiarism, but they at least steal effectively. But they're about as convincing as R.E.M are with distortion.
I will give the rhythm section their due, though; the drummer makes a groove sound easy - he's a tad late with the cymbals on occasion, but he switches to double time at the drop of a hat, further shoving that loose, jamming aesthetic down the listeners' respective throats.
Fact is, the whole unit sounds fairly tight, and that's an element that makes or breaks four-on-the-floor moments like these.
Herein lies the issue: there's nothing deep or mysterious about the city. Morrison got a pass as a Kerouac/Ginsberg acolyte because he profited from the right imagery; he thumbed his way across the desert, dropped too much acid and made too much uncomfortable eye contact with the iguanas along the way. By the time he got to Venice, something as simple as wearing leather pants was an ironic metaphorical statement that made the Soho crowds cock their heads to the side thoughtfully; “How post modern,” they thought as he reaped the benefits of backstage trim and his copy of Aldous Huxley gathered dust.
I can tell the frontman, with his vague yet purposeful visuals and vocals-via-diaphragm, wants to be abstract, and, dare I say, shamanic in presentation. And there's nothing wrong with wanting hot chicks to think you're deep. But a lyricist and vocalist with an indirect approach requires a sound that is just as indirect. This sound is very much direct, even for its few left-field touches and grasp of dynamics.
And that said, it's still the little things that make the big differences. For example, ending with that jazz break at 3:37 instead of refraining the main riff was the choice you should have made (I know it crossed one of your minds)! That's one of those subtleties that separates the MOR, the overeager, and the just plain hip. The third ones play to strengths, and surprise every now and then. Everyone else... just kinda dashes heightened expectations. Like people who use the Velvets as a jump-off point... Strokes, for example. :
These things are buggers to the senses, clouding common sense with the idiocy of “hope”, and bolstering one's own cynicism when they bear bitter fruit.
If the hype surrounding a new band intends to cause a stir half the size of 9-11, let's look at the list of influences as Ground Zero.
I suppose it speaks to the Velvet Underground's persistent influence over the decades that bands who so obviously take shreds of Reed's rags (conveniently ignoring Cale's idiosyncrasy so much of the time) can woo the NME's panties off like cheap wine Every. Damn. Time.
And who's not a culprit there? Bowie famously spun all of Lou's faggier tendencies into gold; the Jesus and Mary Chain and Sonic Youth cribbed White Light/White Heat's nails on chalkboard temperament and called it art (which is quite Warhol-esque in itself, ironically); and dare we not forget the Strokes, would be heirs to that New York Kingdom, and Bright Midnight's Golden Calf. Not to imply worship on their part, since after all, in Bizarro Land, Oasis were true originals.
And since I've brought up the Gallagher Brothers in my obtuse ramblings, “Infant Days” is to Strokes' “Last Nite” what Oasis's “Little James” was to “Hey Jude.”
To their credit, “Hotel In Saigon” at least doesn't sound like something Julian Casablancas opted out of the Room On Fire sessions.
Lyrics invoke the elements for poetic effect (more on this in a minute), a jazzy break after the second chorus a la Krieger, the bass-heavy, bluesy stomp – enough to appear as an attempt for the Doors' enigmatic sound, but the end result is more than a little reminiscent of latter-day Chili Peppers. Post-Californication-type shit. When the George Clinton-inspired jamming gave way to middle-aged Kiss FM tendencies.
Here, the post-punk-inspired staccato guitar lines give way to what sounds like an unsigned ska band trying to swagger like Page – melodic garage pop, I can dig, cos Bright Midnight may skirt on plagiarism, but they at least steal effectively. But they're about as convincing as R.E.M are with distortion.
I will give the rhythm section their due, though; the drummer makes a groove sound easy - he's a tad late with the cymbals on occasion, but he switches to double time at the drop of a hat, further shoving that loose, jamming aesthetic down the listeners' respective throats.
Fact is, the whole unit sounds fairly tight, and that's an element that makes or breaks four-on-the-floor moments like these.
Herein lies the issue: there's nothing deep or mysterious about the city. Morrison got a pass as a Kerouac/Ginsberg acolyte because he profited from the right imagery; he thumbed his way across the desert, dropped too much acid and made too much uncomfortable eye contact with the iguanas along the way. By the time he got to Venice, something as simple as wearing leather pants was an ironic metaphorical statement that made the Soho crowds cock their heads to the side thoughtfully; “How post modern,” they thought as he reaped the benefits of backstage trim and his copy of Aldous Huxley gathered dust.
I can tell the frontman, with his vague yet purposeful visuals and vocals-via-diaphragm, wants to be abstract, and, dare I say, shamanic in presentation. And there's nothing wrong with wanting hot chicks to think you're deep. But a lyricist and vocalist with an indirect approach requires a sound that is just as indirect. This sound is very much direct, even for its few left-field touches and grasp of dynamics.
And that said, it's still the little things that make the big differences. For example, ending with that jazz break at 3:37 instead of refraining the main riff was the choice you should have made (I know it crossed one of your minds)! That's one of those subtleties that separates the MOR, the overeager, and the just plain hip. The third ones play to strengths, and surprise every now and then. Everyone else... just kinda dashes heightened expectations. Like people who use the Velvets as a jump-off point... Strokes, for example. :
Thursday, July 29, 2010
We Tryna Party, by AJG
As a guy that prides himself on being pretty learned in music, I'm not sure I know when the phenomenon of made up words for songs, albums, and subgenres began. Maybe it was those countercultural bands, using words that were anagrams of drug references to sneak the lingo in and get an inside joke out to share with their fans..
That would make the fact that I'm quite used to them somewhat telling, I suppose. I've tolerated them before; Crunk, for example. I liked the 808's and rawness of it. It used the simplest instruments to make booming distorted sounds. Not unlike Punk.
Still, the "Crunk" sound, championed and pioneered by Lil Jon and (to a much greater extent) Three 6 Mafia, has its downside too; e.g., when Jon wrote tracks for two r&b singers, with an almost "eh, what the hell?" level of nonchalance, and accidentally took a previously awesome sound commercial.
So, I was a bit pissed off, as a punk at heart - it was like the changeover from the acidic nihilism of '77 to the sometimes mind-numbing Post Punk that would follow years later.
I suppose that was why I always appreciated "Hyphy", yet another made up word for a musical subgenre. If Crunk was the underground Punk movement that lost its steam in the beginning of the 80's, Hyphy was the Alternative Underground that provided a decent chaser for those who enjoy simple rawness.
Hyphy, being 'dance music' in its most primal sense, tends to take a more minimalist approach, melodically, and sometimes overall. I've heard Keak Da Sneak shit that's so quiet, yet so tense and moody I got minor chills.
Granted, none of it is quite surpassing Eno-levels of subtlety and composition, but let's just be honest: beats aren't and never have been an auteur's game. They're mainly built on very short loops, and chord changes are things that, if brought up in conversation with many rap producers, would result in a puzzled expression not unlike a dog that has been told an anti-semitic joke.
sadly, (for the segue of the week), none of that aforementioned subtlety or minimalism is present here. just BITCHES. and lots of them apparently. no, I don't refer to islamic afterlife numbers, but the sheer amount of times the word BITCH is used, so clearly and perfectly enunciated that it suddenly didn't seem to be so far removed from the romantic poet's lexicon (if keats ever called a girl a BITCH, he'd say it lyrically like this). it just seems like those BITCHES were weighing heavily on his mind when he wrote this, or at least while recording it, because it stands out, as if it were the only word capitalized in a paragraph of entirely lower case letters.
This is the kind of hamfisted anthem I'd imagine if Soulja Boy wanted to help cross Aphex Twin over, if he did the entire track first on a Frootyloops 3 demo then sent it to England and told him to add the hihat, but "not to overdo it".
The clunky manner in which this is executed is further shown through the lyrics, or as we in Scheezyland prefer, the "Ain't Shakespeares". One of these Paul Banks-sized gems of erstwhile poetry is as follows:
Tell your girl that she can kick it like the b*** know karate
, hastily followed by zomgroflmao on the Youtube video for Drake's "Forever" instrumental, which is obviously the truth, as it explains the little stop/start couplet mid 2nd verse so perfectly that you couldn't feasibly make that up.
I admit I've taken some inflections over time, perhaps snarling a little bit more than I normally would because that's how so-and-so-personal-hero-in-back-of-my-head might do it, but I go further BACK for musicians to steal ideas from; so, while most rappers are trying to croak like Wayne, I take a little bit of Lou Reed's deadpan sneer thing, or Mark E. Smith's enunciation.
After all, you should always bear in mind, AJ, that most people reviewing hip hop are generally short on memory and even shorter on imagination. If you read the times, you can go back to the 70s or 80s and snatch something fairly unknown, make it brand new, and be called a flogging genius (now if only I had some witty way to add Molly to the end of this sentence).
AJ, and I insist on calling you AJ, cos AJG makes me think of MJG and 8Ball, and it's taking my all to refrain from another “Crunk is Punk” tangential menstruation, my critiques are misplaced, at best; Hyphy, much like it's forebear, Crunk, is very much a genre of music that succeeds on a subconscious level. It's psychosomatic. You hear, you're off the couch, more or less.
The thing that's probably keeping you from exceeding the Soundclick Circuit at this point is that at the end of the day, this song is a bit of a boorish creature, at the end of the night. It's a dullard, it's Buzz J. Killington, complete with the fascinating story about the bridge.
The synths aren't airy enough to have their desired effect of trance-esque halcyon. The punchlines aren't potent enough to warrant cutting the track out from under them. The voice itself has the sense and sensibility of self-satisfaction (4x fast), which strikes as an almost tangible reminder of the sub-par delivery and lyricism.
I imagine the rule of pop music that's truly reveling in its poppiness, like much of the Soulja Boy School of Choruses, is not to make the listener roll his eyes too quickly from a particularly clumsy lyric; my eyes glazed over the moment that alcoholic intoxication was compared in sensation to buckshot removing the back of my skull and the majority of my face... and that was the second line.
Of course, the last time a line turned me off so quickly was Ke$ha, or however you spell it, as she wasted perfectly good Jack Daniels to brush her teeth. So perhaps critical damnation is a good thing sometimes.
That would make the fact that I'm quite used to them somewhat telling, I suppose. I've tolerated them before; Crunk, for example. I liked the 808's and rawness of it. It used the simplest instruments to make booming distorted sounds. Not unlike Punk.
Still, the "Crunk" sound, championed and pioneered by Lil Jon and (to a much greater extent) Three 6 Mafia, has its downside too; e.g., when Jon wrote tracks for two r&b singers, with an almost "eh, what the hell?" level of nonchalance, and accidentally took a previously awesome sound commercial.
So, I was a bit pissed off, as a punk at heart - it was like the changeover from the acidic nihilism of '77 to the sometimes mind-numbing Post Punk that would follow years later.
I suppose that was why I always appreciated "Hyphy", yet another made up word for a musical subgenre. If Crunk was the underground Punk movement that lost its steam in the beginning of the 80's, Hyphy was the Alternative Underground that provided a decent chaser for those who enjoy simple rawness.
Hyphy, being 'dance music' in its most primal sense, tends to take a more minimalist approach, melodically, and sometimes overall. I've heard Keak Da Sneak shit that's so quiet, yet so tense and moody I got minor chills.
Granted, none of it is quite surpassing Eno-levels of subtlety and composition, but let's just be honest: beats aren't and never have been an auteur's game. They're mainly built on very short loops, and chord changes are things that, if brought up in conversation with many rap producers, would result in a puzzled expression not unlike a dog that has been told an anti-semitic joke.
sadly, (for the segue of the week), none of that aforementioned subtlety or minimalism is present here. just BITCHES. and lots of them apparently. no, I don't refer to islamic afterlife numbers, but the sheer amount of times the word BITCH is used, so clearly and perfectly enunciated that it suddenly didn't seem to be so far removed from the romantic poet's lexicon (if keats ever called a girl a BITCH, he'd say it lyrically like this). it just seems like those BITCHES were weighing heavily on his mind when he wrote this, or at least while recording it, because it stands out, as if it were the only word capitalized in a paragraph of entirely lower case letters.
This is the kind of hamfisted anthem I'd imagine if Soulja Boy wanted to help cross Aphex Twin over, if he did the entire track first on a Frootyloops 3 demo then sent it to England and told him to add the hihat, but "not to overdo it".
The clunky manner in which this is executed is further shown through the lyrics, or as we in Scheezyland prefer, the "Ain't Shakespeares". One of these Paul Banks-sized gems of erstwhile poetry is as follows:
Tell your girl that she can kick it like the b*** know karate
, hastily followed by zomgroflmao on the Youtube video for Drake's "Forever" instrumental, which is obviously the truth, as it explains the little stop/start couplet mid 2nd verse so perfectly that you couldn't feasibly make that up.
I admit I've taken some inflections over time, perhaps snarling a little bit more than I normally would because that's how so-and-so-personal-hero-in-back-of-my-head might do it, but I go further BACK for musicians to steal ideas from; so, while most rappers are trying to croak like Wayne, I take a little bit of Lou Reed's deadpan sneer thing, or Mark E. Smith's enunciation.
After all, you should always bear in mind, AJ, that most people reviewing hip hop are generally short on memory and even shorter on imagination. If you read the times, you can go back to the 70s or 80s and snatch something fairly unknown, make it brand new, and be called a flogging genius (now if only I had some witty way to add Molly to the end of this sentence).
AJ, and I insist on calling you AJ, cos AJG makes me think of MJG and 8Ball, and it's taking my all to refrain from another “Crunk is Punk” tangential menstruation, my critiques are misplaced, at best; Hyphy, much like it's forebear, Crunk, is very much a genre of music that succeeds on a subconscious level. It's psychosomatic. You hear, you're off the couch, more or less.
The thing that's probably keeping you from exceeding the Soundclick Circuit at this point is that at the end of the day, this song is a bit of a boorish creature, at the end of the night. It's a dullard, it's Buzz J. Killington, complete with the fascinating story about the bridge.
The synths aren't airy enough to have their desired effect of trance-esque halcyon. The punchlines aren't potent enough to warrant cutting the track out from under them. The voice itself has the sense and sensibility of self-satisfaction (4x fast), which strikes as an almost tangible reminder of the sub-par delivery and lyricism.
I imagine the rule of pop music that's truly reveling in its poppiness, like much of the Soulja Boy School of Choruses, is not to make the listener roll his eyes too quickly from a particularly clumsy lyric; my eyes glazed over the moment that alcoholic intoxication was compared in sensation to buckshot removing the back of my skull and the majority of my face... and that was the second line.
Of course, the last time a line turned me off so quickly was Ke$ha, or however you spell it, as she wasted perfectly good Jack Daniels to brush her teeth. So perhaps critical damnation is a good thing sometimes.
Snow, by Artificial Wonders
The Halo Soundtrack...
Think about the Halo Soundtrack for a second. That is the most epic, sweeping collection of orchestral works I've heard in contemporary time. Strings of liquid texture swell upwards, the overture like the tide, rippling over each other, messily and loudly, yet purporting a sense of grandeur and scope nonetheless. Those 15-20 second loops of melancholic chords are emotive and mournful tones, things that affect on an unconscious level.
Isn't that sad, in it's own way, though? That the only recent time one can recall hearing a piece arranged in the classic sense is to provide melodrama to compensate for Master Chief's lack of personality as he rampages across the universe with whatever two guns he can find? That Game Scores in general are the last bastion for a lot of instrumental work that the top 10 minded have grown too impatient to comprehend on its own merits? Maddening.
Still, the respect for the genre is there, as well as understanding for its origins; no one buys ambient music any more, but Konami would still like someone to provide some ambiguous background noise to make James Sunderland jump out of his boy panties while he's tripping over freaks in Silent Hill; I don't think instrumental music has been in the charts since Herbie Hancock did his Head Hunter thing, but that doesn't mean some voiceless drone and fanfare won't fit the thematic bill during a firefight in Alpha Centauri somewhere; Trip Hop hasn't seen real numbers in far longer than the genre deserves, but Hugh Laurie and the rest of the House cast mined and found a little golden nugget to remind us all what we forgot about.
So, while the musical snob in me might wince at the thought of the wayward auteur who cannot sell his wares any other way than to sneak them in through the muzak door, I breathe some minor relief knowing that talented fellas like Parker Files are the ones who have something to say in terms of the direction that muzak is headed.
I first reviewed something by Parker (preferably known as Artificial Wonders) called 3 Bottles, a piece that, in terms of subtlety, sounded equivocal to Trent Reznor remixing the Terminator Soundtrack. And the original one at that. So there were a few cheesy, misplaced synths making themselves known with largess and regrettable volume that took much away from the spirit of the animal itself, which was, at its heart, a very well arranged piece of progressive electronic music.
Skip ahead – me, throwing my chips in during the first week of the Critics Corner contest with a piece described as “obnoxious” at best; me and my finest attempt at the infectious hook.
My song was panned, and I'm glad for it, if truth were told, cos there were better offerings present at the contest, one of which being an Artificial Wonder in the flesh: a short, acoustic piano piece called Snow.
At 1:46, Snow is a startlingly stripped down affair; such makes it stand out in correlation with the other members of that contest as well as with his other work. It begins with higher keys played in staccato succession, a minor echo causing the notes to bleed into each other.
Then it stopped. A pause, and I recognized that familiar knack for drama and tension that truly makes a composer.
It begins again, albeit at a lower octave, with the aid of a single synth string, looming overhead, building ever so slightly in intensity as the two sounds feed off of each other in a swirl of ambient bliss.
It stops again, and that knack for composition hits me again, makes me think the guy's got that mystical “it” that people talk about before I realize that I'm a cynic at heart and I should know better.
The 1:00 mark, it starts again, the piano, even lower, but resonating all the more; the synth, joined by others like it to create harmonics; they sway like the winter winds the song suggests should accompany it.
These last three quarters of a minute are taken in as they must be, in accordance with the song's descriptor - “A Song about Dreams and Aspirations” - and thusly inspire my mind to wander. I picture fields, vast green ones; skies, endlessly blue; cherry blossom trees shedding confetti at their feet; silhouettes of men holding lone hands to crosses perched above them; other images follow and I find myself moved, and wonder aloud when exactly the last time it was that I heard a modern piece of music that MOVED me!
Rather than segue into the diatribe I've been inspired to bark out loudly, I shall instead pat Mr. Wonders on the back. As the track ends with another short succession of high notes and fates into memory, I feel like it cleanses that memory of horrible tunes I've had to withstand, and leaves only things I like, things with a genuine emotional arc, and real chops to back it up. Things like Massive Attack, Brian Eno, and yes, the Halo Soundtrack.
Think about the Halo Soundtrack for a second. That is the most epic, sweeping collection of orchestral works I've heard in contemporary time. Strings of liquid texture swell upwards, the overture like the tide, rippling over each other, messily and loudly, yet purporting a sense of grandeur and scope nonetheless. Those 15-20 second loops of melancholic chords are emotive and mournful tones, things that affect on an unconscious level.
Isn't that sad, in it's own way, though? That the only recent time one can recall hearing a piece arranged in the classic sense is to provide melodrama to compensate for Master Chief's lack of personality as he rampages across the universe with whatever two guns he can find? That Game Scores in general are the last bastion for a lot of instrumental work that the top 10 minded have grown too impatient to comprehend on its own merits? Maddening.
Still, the respect for the genre is there, as well as understanding for its origins; no one buys ambient music any more, but Konami would still like someone to provide some ambiguous background noise to make James Sunderland jump out of his boy panties while he's tripping over freaks in Silent Hill; I don't think instrumental music has been in the charts since Herbie Hancock did his Head Hunter thing, but that doesn't mean some voiceless drone and fanfare won't fit the thematic bill during a firefight in Alpha Centauri somewhere; Trip Hop hasn't seen real numbers in far longer than the genre deserves, but Hugh Laurie and the rest of the House cast mined and found a little golden nugget to remind us all what we forgot about.
So, while the musical snob in me might wince at the thought of the wayward auteur who cannot sell his wares any other way than to sneak them in through the muzak door, I breathe some minor relief knowing that talented fellas like Parker Files are the ones who have something to say in terms of the direction that muzak is headed.
I first reviewed something by Parker (preferably known as Artificial Wonders) called 3 Bottles, a piece that, in terms of subtlety, sounded equivocal to Trent Reznor remixing the Terminator Soundtrack. And the original one at that. So there were a few cheesy, misplaced synths making themselves known with largess and regrettable volume that took much away from the spirit of the animal itself, which was, at its heart, a very well arranged piece of progressive electronic music.
Skip ahead – me, throwing my chips in during the first week of the Critics Corner contest with a piece described as “obnoxious” at best; me and my finest attempt at the infectious hook.
My song was panned, and I'm glad for it, if truth were told, cos there were better offerings present at the contest, one of which being an Artificial Wonder in the flesh: a short, acoustic piano piece called Snow.
At 1:46, Snow is a startlingly stripped down affair; such makes it stand out in correlation with the other members of that contest as well as with his other work. It begins with higher keys played in staccato succession, a minor echo causing the notes to bleed into each other.
Then it stopped. A pause, and I recognized that familiar knack for drama and tension that truly makes a composer.
It begins again, albeit at a lower octave, with the aid of a single synth string, looming overhead, building ever so slightly in intensity as the two sounds feed off of each other in a swirl of ambient bliss.
It stops again, and that knack for composition hits me again, makes me think the guy's got that mystical “it” that people talk about before I realize that I'm a cynic at heart and I should know better.
The 1:00 mark, it starts again, the piano, even lower, but resonating all the more; the synth, joined by others like it to create harmonics; they sway like the winter winds the song suggests should accompany it.
These last three quarters of a minute are taken in as they must be, in accordance with the song's descriptor - “A Song about Dreams and Aspirations” - and thusly inspire my mind to wander. I picture fields, vast green ones; skies, endlessly blue; cherry blossom trees shedding confetti at their feet; silhouettes of men holding lone hands to crosses perched above them; other images follow and I find myself moved, and wonder aloud when exactly the last time it was that I heard a modern piece of music that MOVED me!
Rather than segue into the diatribe I've been inspired to bark out loudly, I shall instead pat Mr. Wonders on the back. As the track ends with another short succession of high notes and fates into memory, I feel like it cleanses that memory of horrible tunes I've had to withstand, and leaves only things I like, things with a genuine emotional arc, and real chops to back it up. Things like Massive Attack, Brian Eno, and yes, the Halo Soundtrack.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Namaste
Let it be known, I am not a Buddhist. I am far too cynical, self-destructive, and maintain a regretful aspiration to materialism.
Yet, it should be said that my main focus has because the search for wisdom and peace. And I do suppose that those are my connecting threads to Zen, something we all hope for in our lives.
I'm not terribly smitten with the term "inspirational" when pertaining to a man; it draws the sour aftertaste of a hopping, nauseating optimism, a Tony Robbinish odor that permeates hopefulness until it becomes so uncool to help one's self that oneness is undesirable. It's granola, it's khakis, it's soft rock, it's Gordon Lightfoot.
But let us shed our varied pretenses, if only for the duration of this blog, and be blunt in our desires for ourselves - and since such inspiring self-help diatribe is the road (the middle of, no less) to boorish and bland, allow me to regulate myself to uncool mannerisms and speech: wouldn't inner peace be swell? I mean, I don't give a gosh darn what those cool, blinged out buggers say - I like crocs!
Now, let's LOL, quietly to ourselves for oxymoron's sake, and continue.
Call me Namaste McGee. Writing is one of the things I do, and I have moods for many occasions. Peaceful is the one I wish to someday make my governing mood, and, if you've an open mind, I can guide you to things that will quiet your souls. Things like books and music, that will strengthen your Headphone Atmospheres, if I might just coin a phrase for your relaxing time to yourselves (y'know, your therapy, your bubble bath ladies, your rejuvenation).
So, drop by and read up, if you like. And remember that the Meaning to all of this, if you're serious, is a Lyrical Overture, Verifying Existence. If you're in a less-serious, but humorous state, then the Meaning is merely 42.
:)
Yet, it should be said that my main focus has because the search for wisdom and peace. And I do suppose that those are my connecting threads to Zen, something we all hope for in our lives.
I'm not terribly smitten with the term "inspirational" when pertaining to a man; it draws the sour aftertaste of a hopping, nauseating optimism, a Tony Robbinish odor that permeates hopefulness until it becomes so uncool to help one's self that oneness is undesirable. It's granola, it's khakis, it's soft rock, it's Gordon Lightfoot.
But let us shed our varied pretenses, if only for the duration of this blog, and be blunt in our desires for ourselves - and since such inspiring self-help diatribe is the road (the middle of, no less) to boorish and bland, allow me to regulate myself to uncool mannerisms and speech: wouldn't inner peace be swell? I mean, I don't give a gosh darn what those cool, blinged out buggers say - I like crocs!
Now, let's LOL, quietly to ourselves for oxymoron's sake, and continue.
Call me Namaste McGee. Writing is one of the things I do, and I have moods for many occasions. Peaceful is the one I wish to someday make my governing mood, and, if you've an open mind, I can guide you to things that will quiet your souls. Things like books and music, that will strengthen your Headphone Atmospheres, if I might just coin a phrase for your relaxing time to yourselves (y'know, your therapy, your bubble bath ladies, your rejuvenation).
So, drop by and read up, if you like. And remember that the Meaning to all of this, if you're serious, is a Lyrical Overture, Verifying Existence. If you're in a less-serious, but humorous state, then the Meaning is merely 42.
:)
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