Took a mental health day. Sort of. I didn't get much sleep last night. And then I realized that I never bought the book I had reading in for my class. So I went out and bought the book instead of going to class. And now I'm going to read it. Skipping class makes me feel like crap most of the time. But I went back to sleep and it was great.
I have to review my resume and update it. And then compose cover letters. Great.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Stress
I've been all kinds of stressed out. I've been treating stress with fun, monetary and alcoholic releases (though those could all be considered one thing). I have been neglecting the healing power of music. Recently I've been listening to stimulating music. Bursts, explosions. I recently recompiled all my music into a library using the Mozilla program Songbird (like iTunes, but better, kind of).
I took a shower and my mind raced. I turned off the lights in my room, plugged in my headphones, turned up the volume and listened to "Glósóli" by Sigur Rós. Try it. I think Carmen will agree that the song is one of the best ever.
I'm not kidding.
Listen
I took a shower and my mind raced. I turned off the lights in my room, plugged in my headphones, turned up the volume and listened to "Glósóli" by Sigur Rós. Try it. I think Carmen will agree that the song is one of the best ever.
I'm not kidding.
Listen
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Pizza
A friend organized a "pizza throwdown" in the style of the TV show Throwdown with Bobby Flay. I'm becoming disillusioned about the Food Network but that's besides the point.
I came up with the idea of making a pesto, arugala, goat cheese pizza. It was great. Cooking is a selfish art. I made this pizza because I wanted to eat it.
Garlic and herb pizza dough from TJs - $1
Pesto - $3
2 4oz logs of goat cheese from East Village Cheese - $2!
bag of arugala - $2
$8. I will make this again sometime.
I came up with the idea of making a pesto, arugala, goat cheese pizza. It was great. Cooking is a selfish art. I made this pizza because I wanted to eat it.
Garlic and herb pizza dough from TJs - $1
Pesto - $3
2 4oz logs of goat cheese from East Village Cheese - $2!
bag of arugala - $2
$8. I will make this again sometime.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Mashed Potatoes
My mom's mashed potatoes were like glue; paste for construction paper cutouts. A consistency just barely appealing enough to fool one's mind into mistaking it for pudding; the trickery so powerful that one could forget they were eating an entree's side dish and instead thought they were eating dessert. Mother's magic. Aside from this minor setback (Elmer's glue as a side dish), the potatoes were still potatoes, meaning they tasted like potatoes-- earthy and starchy.
For the longest time, I didn't question the confusing potato product. My family rarely ate at many places where mashed potatoes would be an overwhelming, necessary option. In a household where Cheerios were, albeit briefly, considered "junk food" due to the microscopic amount of sugar listed in its nutrition facts, a dish so intent on being liberally fattened up with gravy, butter, cream or any combination therein, was myth in my family's kitchen.
We trust our mothers because they taught us the concept of trust and they made us, through all the attempted teenage lies, understand it. I trusted my mom's culinary abilities. She cooked from scratch and with intense love. The only foreseeable issue was that she improvised. Her improvisation stemmed from a desire for low-fat, healthy food. Substitutions were made all over the place. Chocolate cake made with apricot jam. She was stagnantly opposed to frying; every fat was used in moderation.
For some reason she never used meat thermometers. Often, the meat she worked so hard on preparing, would be dry. This was because my parents were, and still are, strong advocates of the counterproductive method of cutting open meat to see its doneness, the method that no professional, no matter what level of inebriation or apathy, would ever recommend. It's a sin comparable to the burger K.O. of a firm, machismo spatula press that releases the steaming screams of the meat juice that so badly wanted to ride a human's intestinal tract. I'm pretty positive my parents were once victims of the viral, spatula press concept.
I developed a passion for cooking watching my mom so delicately prepare meals. I learned how to boil pasta. I learned how to brown garlic (a hue likely too brown for most people's taste). I learned how to bake. Stick a toothpick in to see if it's done. With a TV in the kitchen, I had access to the Food Network which helped me immerse myself, for those saturated moments, in a world of food totality.
Though I enjoyed my newfound food knowledge, I had one selfish goal in mind: to learn how to make mashed potatoes the real way, in other words, better than my mom's. The possibility of being better at something than my mom, let alone an adult was a thrilling pubescent prospect.
My mom bought, and fell into a state of infatuation with, a hand blender. Salad dressing and banana milkshakes. It was becoming clear, to my mom, that the gadget had many preparatory uses. With this enlightenment came the inadvertent defiling of mashed potatoes. She boiled the potatoes, a good first step. Then, she poured too much 2% milk in, a fairly forgivable step. The last step is almost too horrifying to mention. My mom massacred the potatoes, commanding the blender with her strong right hand, until what was left resembled pale, impotent porridge.
I had to put an end to the monstrosity. For Thanksgiving one year, I found a recipe for roasted garlic mashed potatoes. I found a potato masher hidden deep in one of the scary drawers of kitchen miscellany. I washed the potatoes, cut them into small pieces, placed them into a pot and covered the chunks with cold water. I rubbed a bulbous head of garlic with olive oil, wrapped it in aluminum foil, and placed the silvery package into the hot oven.
After paying close attention, adding a mother-unapproved plop of butter, squeezing the fragrant, whiskey colored garlic cloves out of their paper cocoons to their pillowy demise, tossing in seasonings and gently mixing the potatoes together, I found myself staring at a heap of textured potato mass that resembled the impossibly, and curiously, delicious mashed potatoes from Boston Market that we used to eat at my grandmother's house. I had found a hobby.
The guests attached to the perimeter of the mahogany dining room table that night thought the mashed potatoes were delicious. My mom liked them. I think she understood my subtle, passive-aggressive suggestion that she should prepare her mashed potatoes the proper way. My mom may not have known how to make appealing mashed potatoes but, to be honest, mom, I would eat those potatoes every second if I knew they were made by you. If you had any butter. No, a stick. Just saying.
For the longest time, I didn't question the confusing potato product. My family rarely ate at many places where mashed potatoes would be an overwhelming, necessary option. In a household where Cheerios were, albeit briefly, considered "junk food" due to the microscopic amount of sugar listed in its nutrition facts, a dish so intent on being liberally fattened up with gravy, butter, cream or any combination therein, was myth in my family's kitchen.
We trust our mothers because they taught us the concept of trust and they made us, through all the attempted teenage lies, understand it. I trusted my mom's culinary abilities. She cooked from scratch and with intense love. The only foreseeable issue was that she improvised. Her improvisation stemmed from a desire for low-fat, healthy food. Substitutions were made all over the place. Chocolate cake made with apricot jam. She was stagnantly opposed to frying; every fat was used in moderation.
For some reason she never used meat thermometers. Often, the meat she worked so hard on preparing, would be dry. This was because my parents were, and still are, strong advocates of the counterproductive method of cutting open meat to see its doneness, the method that no professional, no matter what level of inebriation or apathy, would ever recommend. It's a sin comparable to the burger K.O. of a firm, machismo spatula press that releases the steaming screams of the meat juice that so badly wanted to ride a human's intestinal tract. I'm pretty positive my parents were once victims of the viral, spatula press concept.
I developed a passion for cooking watching my mom so delicately prepare meals. I learned how to boil pasta. I learned how to brown garlic (a hue likely too brown for most people's taste). I learned how to bake. Stick a toothpick in to see if it's done. With a TV in the kitchen, I had access to the Food Network which helped me immerse myself, for those saturated moments, in a world of food totality.
Though I enjoyed my newfound food knowledge, I had one selfish goal in mind: to learn how to make mashed potatoes the real way, in other words, better than my mom's. The possibility of being better at something than my mom, let alone an adult was a thrilling pubescent prospect.
My mom bought, and fell into a state of infatuation with, a hand blender. Salad dressing and banana milkshakes. It was becoming clear, to my mom, that the gadget had many preparatory uses. With this enlightenment came the inadvertent defiling of mashed potatoes. She boiled the potatoes, a good first step. Then, she poured too much 2% milk in, a fairly forgivable step. The last step is almost too horrifying to mention. My mom massacred the potatoes, commanding the blender with her strong right hand, until what was left resembled pale, impotent porridge.
I had to put an end to the monstrosity. For Thanksgiving one year, I found a recipe for roasted garlic mashed potatoes. I found a potato masher hidden deep in one of the scary drawers of kitchen miscellany. I washed the potatoes, cut them into small pieces, placed them into a pot and covered the chunks with cold water. I rubbed a bulbous head of garlic with olive oil, wrapped it in aluminum foil, and placed the silvery package into the hot oven.
After paying close attention, adding a mother-unapproved plop of butter, squeezing the fragrant, whiskey colored garlic cloves out of their paper cocoons to their pillowy demise, tossing in seasonings and gently mixing the potatoes together, I found myself staring at a heap of textured potato mass that resembled the impossibly, and curiously, delicious mashed potatoes from Boston Market that we used to eat at my grandmother's house. I had found a hobby.
The guests attached to the perimeter of the mahogany dining room table that night thought the mashed potatoes were delicious. My mom liked them. I think she understood my subtle, passive-aggressive suggestion that she should prepare her mashed potatoes the proper way. My mom may not have known how to make appealing mashed potatoes but, to be honest, mom, I would eat those potatoes every second if I knew they were made by you. If you had any butter. No, a stick. Just saying.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
For Carmen (and T) (and Genesar) (and Ausar) (and Bfly) (etc.)
Something happened yesterday and its simple significance wasn't particularly clear until this moment: the one where I woke up with a dire need to urinate and now, against all better judgments, I decided to defer returning to sleep. And now to wake me up further, judg(e)ment has two spellings?!
My brother Justin and I have had a long history of disagreeing on music. I remember trying particularly hard to make him like Green Day's Dookie in the live backseat of a '92 station wagon. It was probably 1995. Maybe 1996. A melange of music was starting to make me interested. The main vehicle for discovering music was MTV. After that came VH1 and the radio. I became very interested in singles, mainly by one-hit wonders; there were a lot of them. The Presidents of the United States of America were one of these bands though they did have a couple big songs, "Lump" and "Peaches", and they also recorded the Drew Carey Show theme ("Cleveland Rocks") and the theme for the Disney Channel original movie, "My Date With The President's Daughter." (Meet the unbelievably, surprisingly, stupid and useless pop-culture proficiency I hold in my head.) I fell in love, hard and fast, with Oasis' "Wonderwall". I'm not sure why exactly, but the song is just staggering. Random bus kids and I would sing it on the way to school. After my purchase of Dookie, I picked up Oasis' "What's The Story Morning Glory" I tried to get Justin interested in it; he just wasn't.
The reason why this is important is that, to me, music, as with all art, means nothing unless it can be shared. I could dig into this and try to explain it but I think it rings truer if left alone. Art is meant to be shared. Liking a song is not nearly as great as playing it for someone and seeing their positive reaction.
My brother wasn't having it. He had his own interests (I think). Video games being one. I kept trying through middle school, attempting to get him to listen to Blink-182 and various other pop-punk bands. Why this bothered me was that he didn't really listen to any music. He had played the viola because my mom thought he was sensitive (don't get me started) and quit because it very plainly sucked. I was wrapped up in music and I felt bad he wasn't.
Something happened in high school and he started developing a taste for music. And for some reason, the reverse of what I initially set out for happened: I didn't really have any intense interest in listening to his favorite bands. We were individuals and we listened to different music. I suppose this was to be blamed on development. So very slowly would I go to my brother and ask what it was he was listening to. Neutral Milk Hotel, Pavement, Sonic Youth, Built To Spill, Modest Mouse. All bands I had some peripheral recognition of, but never felt an urge to listen to. Needless to say these bands make some incredible music which I eventually found out. I still take longer than necessary to listen to bands my brother really likes but at least it's not just me; it works in reverse.
Why is this important? Last night I recommended that my brother listen to Kevin Devine's new album. It leaked, unfortunately for Kevin, but fortunately for the point of this writing. After one friend told me she didn't really like it and another said it was amazing, I sent Justin a link to it. I could see in his iChat status that he was progressing through the songs. Every once in a while he made a comment about one of the tracks. At the end he said, "that's one of the best albums i've heard in a long time." It was slightly surreal, like two parallel lines somehow crossing, if only for a brief second of inflated importance.
My brother and I connect on many things on a regular basis but our music interests have remained largely parallel. I don't know what to think exactly but for the first time in a while, the power of music feels stronger.
My brother Justin and I have had a long history of disagreeing on music. I remember trying particularly hard to make him like Green Day's Dookie in the live backseat of a '92 station wagon. It was probably 1995. Maybe 1996. A melange of music was starting to make me interested. The main vehicle for discovering music was MTV. After that came VH1 and the radio. I became very interested in singles, mainly by one-hit wonders; there were a lot of them. The Presidents of the United States of America were one of these bands though they did have a couple big songs, "Lump" and "Peaches", and they also recorded the Drew Carey Show theme ("Cleveland Rocks") and the theme for the Disney Channel original movie, "My Date With The President's Daughter." (Meet the unbelievably, surprisingly, stupid and useless pop-culture proficiency I hold in my head.) I fell in love, hard and fast, with Oasis' "Wonderwall". I'm not sure why exactly, but the song is just staggering. Random bus kids and I would sing it on the way to school. After my purchase of Dookie, I picked up Oasis' "What's The Story Morning Glory" I tried to get Justin interested in it; he just wasn't.
The reason why this is important is that, to me, music, as with all art, means nothing unless it can be shared. I could dig into this and try to explain it but I think it rings truer if left alone. Art is meant to be shared. Liking a song is not nearly as great as playing it for someone and seeing their positive reaction.
My brother wasn't having it. He had his own interests (I think). Video games being one. I kept trying through middle school, attempting to get him to listen to Blink-182 and various other pop-punk bands. Why this bothered me was that he didn't really listen to any music. He had played the viola because my mom thought he was sensitive (don't get me started) and quit because it very plainly sucked. I was wrapped up in music and I felt bad he wasn't.
Something happened in high school and he started developing a taste for music. And for some reason, the reverse of what I initially set out for happened: I didn't really have any intense interest in listening to his favorite bands. We were individuals and we listened to different music. I suppose this was to be blamed on development. So very slowly would I go to my brother and ask what it was he was listening to. Neutral Milk Hotel, Pavement, Sonic Youth, Built To Spill, Modest Mouse. All bands I had some peripheral recognition of, but never felt an urge to listen to. Needless to say these bands make some incredible music which I eventually found out. I still take longer than necessary to listen to bands my brother really likes but at least it's not just me; it works in reverse.
Why is this important? Last night I recommended that my brother listen to Kevin Devine's new album. It leaked, unfortunately for Kevin, but fortunately for the point of this writing. After one friend told me she didn't really like it and another said it was amazing, I sent Justin a link to it. I could see in his iChat status that he was progressing through the songs. Every once in a while he made a comment about one of the tracks. At the end he said, "that's one of the best albums i've heard in a long time." It was slightly surreal, like two parallel lines somehow crossing, if only for a brief second of inflated importance.
My brother and I connect on many things on a regular basis but our music interests have remained largely parallel. I don't know what to think exactly but for the first time in a while, the power of music feels stronger.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Also
This just came into my head in the shower. I'll post all the lyrics to this song. "The Poison" by Pedro The Lion.
the poison makes its way through my body slowly
into the pleasure centers of my brain
if you were here i would admit that i'm an asshole
but now it's over and i can't stay sober
though it isn't like i've tried
on the front porch or on an airplane on vacation
or out for dinner in a nearby town
i was so proud just to have you sitting with me
but now it's over and i can't stay sober
pour and swallow follow one drink with another
i'll keep on til you agree to come back over
or until there are x's on my eyes
my old man always swore that hell would have no flame
just a front row seat to watch you true love pack her things and drive away
Can't find the mp3, sorry. Those last two lines. THOSE LAST TWO LINES.
the poison makes its way through my body slowly
into the pleasure centers of my brain
if you were here i would admit that i'm an asshole
but now it's over and i can't stay sober
though it isn't like i've tried
on the front porch or on an airplane on vacation
or out for dinner in a nearby town
i was so proud just to have you sitting with me
but now it's over and i can't stay sober
pour and swallow follow one drink with another
i'll keep on til you agree to come back over
or until there are x's on my eyes
my old man always swore that hell would have no flame
just a front row seat to watch you true love pack her things and drive away
Can't find the mp3, sorry. Those last two lines. THOSE LAST TWO LINES.
Sorry guys
This blog sucks. However, the good news is that after reading David Foster Wallace's "Big Red Son" I am motivated to write some essays. I also just remembered the moment that sparked my interest in cooking. There will be writing.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Back in the day
Rap lyrics I wish I had written if I were at all interested in writing rap:
"Back in the day was so great, the hardest decision we had to make was iced tea or lemonade" - ZC
"Back in the day was so great, the hardest decision we had to make was iced tea or lemonade" - ZC
Thursday, February 19, 2009
A Praise Chorus
This is the coolest thing ever.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Praise_Chorus
Also, I spoke to Arthur Schwartz on the phone an hour ago about street food. It was cool. Used to listen to him on the radio in the car with my mom.
http://www.thefoodmaven.com
It's weird talking to someone about a subject they know a lot about... and you're not totally familiar with all their work.
Off to work.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Praise_Chorus
Also, I spoke to Arthur Schwartz on the phone an hour ago about street food. It was cool. Used to listen to him on the radio in the car with my mom.
http://www.thefoodmaven.com
It's weird talking to someone about a subject they know a lot about... and you're not totally familiar with all their work.
Off to work.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Los Campesinos at Bowery Ballroom
Really unbelievably fun. Gareth, Neil and Tom jumping into the crowd to play "Broken Heartbeats Sound Like Breakbeats" was one of the best concert moments I've ever experienced. Pure euphoria.
Titus Andronicus killed it also. Super fun show.
Titus Andronicus killed it also. Super fun show.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Teen.
I wrote a quick poem for my class.
Teen.
a peculiar thing happens when the sun goes down
the lights go up and they are
BRIGHTER
than the sun
an island in the sun
is no match for the transformation
the transmogrification
into a nocturnal metropolis
the city that has poor sleeping habits
comparable eating patterns
a constant hunger
cloaked in everyday
satisfaction
an irregular heartbeat
a thick presence
someone
call
a
doctor
but there's nothing wrong with ol' NEW York
city of bad habits
dirty deeds
stuck in a liminal state
constant, effervescent
identity crisis
sneaking out
to grab a drink
get high
not necessarily on drugs
on the car emissions
the heat of good times passing
the warm air rising from the subway grates
the impossible smell of the seasons
the near-death
the far-life
the teenager
Teen.
a peculiar thing happens when the sun goes down
the lights go up and they are
BRIGHTER
than the sun
an island in the sun
is no match for the transformation
the transmogrification
into a nocturnal metropolis
the city that has poor sleeping habits
comparable eating patterns
a constant hunger
cloaked in everyday
satisfaction
an irregular heartbeat
a thick presence
someone
call
a
doctor
but there's nothing wrong with ol' NEW York
city of bad habits
dirty deeds
stuck in a liminal state
constant, effervescent
identity crisis
sneaking out
to grab a drink
get high
not necessarily on drugs
on the car emissions
the heat of good times passing
the warm air rising from the subway grates
the impossible smell of the seasons
the near-death
the far-life
the teenager
Casiotone
Casiotone For The Painfully Alone - "Old Panda Days" (Mediafire)
I've dreamt of this haunt
The ghosts of 1666
The hazy lecture halls
Lund cathedral in wisps
The bells get carried aloft
By the strong nordic wind
But don't remind me of how oft
I got carried away with them
At uni we went
Insane when we took cocaine
Now I don't think I ever want
To hear "genius of love" again
Ive been searching this town
And all I have found
Are nights of bad sex
With stupid boyfriends I shouldn't have kept
In a stupid flat I never swept
So taxi take me away
The sullen students and corner cafes
Remind me of old panda days
Give me old panda days
I've dreamt of this haunt
The ghosts of 1666
The hazy lecture halls
Lund cathedral in wisps
The bells get carried aloft
By the strong nordic wind
But don't remind me of how oft
I got carried away with them
At uni we went
Insane when we took cocaine
Now I don't think I ever want
To hear "genius of love" again
Ive been searching this town
And all I have found
Are nights of bad sex
With stupid boyfriends I shouldn't have kept
In a stupid flat I never swept
So taxi take me away
The sullen students and corner cafes
Remind me of old panda days
Give me old panda days
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Always
Even if you can't stand the song (Tom's voice is particularly nasal), the video is fantastic.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Inches and Falling
I forgot about this album. The Format released Dog Problems in the summer of 2006. Totally amazing. Will write about it sometime.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
The Wrens at Bowery Ballroom 3/13!
The Wrens are playing at Bowery Ballroom for a KEXP Benefit on 3/13! Ah!
Los Campesinos!
"OH WE KID OURSELVES THERE'S FUTURE IN THE FUCKING BUT THERE IS NO FUCKING FUTURE!"
One of my favorite bands. Hopefully I can see them on Valentine's Day or the day after.
"By the light of the LED display of a VCR recorder
You kiss my neck, I whisper in your ear, "this is my downfall"
As you squint and you grimace, we both know your heart's not in it
By the glow of a thousand fireflies in a travelodge en-suite:
They think the future's bright as halogen, we know it's pretty bleak
And I'm trying to be sexy, biting at the air that falls in front of me.
Your telegrams are more and more less detailed by the day
And all the characters are strangers and the pubs have different names
I tell a joke that I'd like to meet them but they loathe me and I hate them back
Absence makes the heart grow fonder
Fondness makes the absence longer
Length loses my interest, I'm a realist, I'm insatiable
Swapped counting days until I fly, with hours before your reply
You said he got his teeth fixed
I'm gonna break them
I've got a heart on fire
He said he's got his sights set
On getting to you
I've got a fist on fire
You feel terrified at the thought of being left behind
Of losing everybody, the necessity of dying
Oh, WE KID OURSELVES THERE'S FUTURE IN THE FUCKING,
BUT THERE IS NO FUCKING FUTURE
I'm just practising my accents, picking at old sutures
I taught myself the only way to vaguely get along in love
Is to like the other slightly less than you get in return
I keep feeling like I'm being undercut
Charlotte says, "It's more constructive than the one in Canada,
When you got drunk,
Ate loads of crisps
And threw up by a football pitch"
I know it is,
And really that's what worries me,
I feel like I should
Hurt.
You said he got his teeth fixed
I'm gonna break them
I've got a heart on fire
He said he's got his sights set
On getting to you
I've got a fist on fire
I cannot emphasise enough that my body
Is a badly designed, poorly put together vessel,
Harbouring these diminishing, so-called 'vital organs'
Hope my heart goes first,
I HOPE MY HEART GOES FIRST!
And
We are beautiful,
We are doomed."
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Some of the best news in a long time
Blink-182 is back together. No band has really meant as much to me as them. It's going to be a good summer.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Joe Ades Memorial
Reverend Billy led the Joe Ades memorial service in Union Square.
"You can see above us... George Washington's hand is reaching out... for a peeler..."
"You can see above us... George Washington's hand is reaching out... for a peeler..."
Friday, February 6, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Deja Entendu
I'm going to start writing again. Soon. I don't know if anyone else thinks the topic is interesting but I've been writing a lot about music and its connection to memory. It will probably end up being an essay collection. I love music not just for music but how songs become marked with memories. It's something that never fades.
One album that means a lot to me is Deja Entendu by Brand New. I know that a lot of my friends don't like this band. Brand New was a band that came at just the right time for me. Songs that are perfect for syncing to high school life. Songs about girls, friends, etc. Pretty immature stuff. In any case, it's really something to watch a songwriter's maturation. Jesse Lacey was a great songwriter to being with but he became even better.
Most people think he's whiny and "emo" and all those stupid tags that people can't seem to get past but he's a truly special songwriter.
Yes, he writes sad songs and yes, I have a penchant for writing about despondent tunes. Give it a listen. You may be surprised.
"If it makes you less sad I will die by your hand. I hope you find out what you are, I already know what I am. And if it makes you less sad we'll start talking again. You can tell me how vile I already know that I am.
I'll grow old and start acting my age. I'll be a brand new day in a life that you hate. A crown of gold, a heart thats harder than stone but it hurts a whole lot and its missed when its gone.
Call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not. I'm glad that you can forgive, I'm only hoping as time goes on you can forget.
If it makes you less sad, I'll move out of this state. You can keep you yourself. I'll keep out of your way. And if it makes you less sad I'll take your pictures all down. Every picture you paint I will paint myself out.
It's cold as a tomb and its dark in your room when I sneak to your bed to pour salt on your wounds. So call it quits or get a grip. You say you wanted a solution, you just wanted to be missed.
Call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not. I'm glad that you can forgive. I'm only hoping as time goes on you can forget. So you can forget.
You are calm and reposed, let your beauty unfold. Pale white like the skin stretched over your bones. Spring keeps you ever close, you are second hand smoke. You are so fragile and thin, standing trial for your sins. Holding on to yourself the best you can. You are the smell before rain, you are the blood in my veins.
Call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not. I'm glad that you can forgive. I'm only hoping as time goes on you can forget."
I mean, come on. It's worth listening to the song just for the line "You are the smell before rain, you are the blood in my veins." If that doesn't hit you... you may or may not be cold blooded.
There's also this song:
Shipwreck as metaphor for love gone wrong. Got it. Trite, but so well executed. He also mentions Montauk which scores points.
"Sent out an SOS call
It was a quarter past four in the morning
When the storm broke our second anchor line
Four months at sea
Four months of calm seas
To be pounded in the shallows off the tip of Montauk Point
They call them rogues
They travel fast and alone
One-hundred-foot faces of God's good ocean gone wrong
What they call love is risk
'Cause you always get hit out of nowhere
By some wave and end up on your own
The hole in the hull defied the crew's attempt
To bail us out
Flooded the engines and radio
Half-buried bow
Your tongue is a rudder
It steers the whole ship
Sends your words past your lips
Keeps them safe behind your teeth
But the wrong will strand you
Come off course while you sleep
Sweep your boat out to sea
Or dashed to bits on the reef
The vessel groans
The ocean pressures its frame
To the port I see the lighthouse
Through the sleet and the rain
And I wish for one more day
To give my love and repay debts
The morning finds our bodies washed up thirty miles west
They say that the captain stays fast with the ship
Through still and storm
But this ain't the Dakota
And the water's cold
Won't have to fight for long
(This is the end)
This story's old but it goes
On and on until we disappear
(This is the calm)
Calm me and let me taste the
Salt you breathed while you were underneath
(We are drowning)
I am the one who haunts your
Dreams of mountains sunk below the sea
(After the storm)
I spoke the words but never
Gave a thought to what they all could mean
(Rest in the deep)
I know that this is what you want
A funeral keeps both of us apart
(Washed up on the beach)
You know that you are not alone
I need you like water in my lungs
(This is the end)
This story's old but it goes
On and on until we disappear
(This is the calm)
Calm me and let me taste
The salt you breathed while you were underneath
(We are breathless)
I am the one who haunts your
Dreams of mountains sunk below the sea
(After the storm)
I spoke the words but never
Gave a thought to what they all could mean
(Rest in the deep)
I know that this is what you want
A funeral keeps both of us apart
(Washed up on the beach)
You know that you are not alone
I need you like water in my lungs
(This is the end)"
I think there is some fantastic songwriting buried under not-so-desirable vocals (for some people) and I think that's really unfortunate. You wouldn't not read a book because of the author's speaking voice would you? Eh? Lyrics aren't necessarily looked at as writing but I think they should be. Lyricists are writers in a different medium, that's all. THIS STORY'S OLD BUT IT GOES ON AND ON UNTIL WE DISAPPEAR.
One album that means a lot to me is Deja Entendu by Brand New. I know that a lot of my friends don't like this band. Brand New was a band that came at just the right time for me. Songs that are perfect for syncing to high school life. Songs about girls, friends, etc. Pretty immature stuff. In any case, it's really something to watch a songwriter's maturation. Jesse Lacey was a great songwriter to being with but he became even better.
Most people think he's whiny and "emo" and all those stupid tags that people can't seem to get past but he's a truly special songwriter.
Yes, he writes sad songs and yes, I have a penchant for writing about despondent tunes. Give it a listen. You may be surprised.
"If it makes you less sad I will die by your hand. I hope you find out what you are, I already know what I am. And if it makes you less sad we'll start talking again. You can tell me how vile I already know that I am.
I'll grow old and start acting my age. I'll be a brand new day in a life that you hate. A crown of gold, a heart thats harder than stone but it hurts a whole lot and its missed when its gone.
Call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not. I'm glad that you can forgive, I'm only hoping as time goes on you can forget.
If it makes you less sad, I'll move out of this state. You can keep you yourself. I'll keep out of your way. And if it makes you less sad I'll take your pictures all down. Every picture you paint I will paint myself out.
It's cold as a tomb and its dark in your room when I sneak to your bed to pour salt on your wounds. So call it quits or get a grip. You say you wanted a solution, you just wanted to be missed.
Call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not. I'm glad that you can forgive. I'm only hoping as time goes on you can forget. So you can forget.
You are calm and reposed, let your beauty unfold. Pale white like the skin stretched over your bones. Spring keeps you ever close, you are second hand smoke. You are so fragile and thin, standing trial for your sins. Holding on to yourself the best you can. You are the smell before rain, you are the blood in my veins.
Call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not. I'm glad that you can forgive. I'm only hoping as time goes on you can forget."
I mean, come on. It's worth listening to the song just for the line "You are the smell before rain, you are the blood in my veins." If that doesn't hit you... you may or may not be cold blooded.
There's also this song:
Shipwreck as metaphor for love gone wrong. Got it. Trite, but so well executed. He also mentions Montauk which scores points.
"Sent out an SOS call
It was a quarter past four in the morning
When the storm broke our second anchor line
Four months at sea
Four months of calm seas
To be pounded in the shallows off the tip of Montauk Point
They call them rogues
They travel fast and alone
One-hundred-foot faces of God's good ocean gone wrong
What they call love is risk
'Cause you always get hit out of nowhere
By some wave and end up on your own
The hole in the hull defied the crew's attempt
To bail us out
Flooded the engines and radio
Half-buried bow
Your tongue is a rudder
It steers the whole ship
Sends your words past your lips
Keeps them safe behind your teeth
But the wrong will strand you
Come off course while you sleep
Sweep your boat out to sea
Or dashed to bits on the reef
The vessel groans
The ocean pressures its frame
To the port I see the lighthouse
Through the sleet and the rain
And I wish for one more day
To give my love and repay debts
The morning finds our bodies washed up thirty miles west
They say that the captain stays fast with the ship
Through still and storm
But this ain't the Dakota
And the water's cold
Won't have to fight for long
(This is the end)
This story's old but it goes
On and on until we disappear
(This is the calm)
Calm me and let me taste the
Salt you breathed while you were underneath
(We are drowning)
I am the one who haunts your
Dreams of mountains sunk below the sea
(After the storm)
I spoke the words but never
Gave a thought to what they all could mean
(Rest in the deep)
I know that this is what you want
A funeral keeps both of us apart
(Washed up on the beach)
You know that you are not alone
I need you like water in my lungs
(This is the end)
This story's old but it goes
On and on until we disappear
(This is the calm)
Calm me and let me taste
The salt you breathed while you were underneath
(We are breathless)
I am the one who haunts your
Dreams of mountains sunk below the sea
(After the storm)
I spoke the words but never
Gave a thought to what they all could mean
(Rest in the deep)
I know that this is what you want
A funeral keeps both of us apart
(Washed up on the beach)
You know that you are not alone
I need you like water in my lungs
(This is the end)"
I think there is some fantastic songwriting buried under not-so-desirable vocals (for some people) and I think that's really unfortunate. You wouldn't not read a book because of the author's speaking voice would you? Eh? Lyrics aren't necessarily looked at as writing but I think they should be. Lyricists are writers in a different medium, that's all. THIS STORY'S OLD BUT IT GOES ON AND ON UNTIL WE DISAPPEAR.
Pernice Brothers
Another band I doubt anyone has ever heard of. Found them on Pandora. Fantastic band. I wish I could find more songs to post. http://www.pernicebrothers.com/av.php Click on "Nobody's Watching," the album on the right, and listen to "Clear Spot."
Detachment
College is a weird fucking time. Things change on a very regular basis. I looked at the photos I was tagged in on Facebook so far this semester and, first of all, there aren't that many. Second, I feel so detached from these images, even ones taken a few months ago. I'm not totally sure what it is. And it's impossible to feel this way until a significant enough amount of time has passed to make it so. During the summer I wasn't thinking that I would feel like a completely different person this school year, but in retrospect it was inevitable. It's always inevitable.
So what do I do about it? Nothing. If I was out of my mind, I would untag every photo of me until this semester started because the more current ones hold a "better" representation of who I am in 2009. Aside from what some friends of mine think about Facebook, I think it serves as a really interesting control to see what we've become. It's difficult not to be very aware as a Facebook user and this awareness lets us keep some sort of ground. You know all of those embarrassing photos from your seventh birthday party? It's like having those online to be seen by anyone. In this way, it's somewhat passive, but we are more open. Sure we can choose to hide photos but by not hiding them are we not allowing ourselves to be more human, exposing what we may see as our own flaws? This is not to say that Facebook is great because I can feel Mark Zuckerberg slowly pulling at my brain from the inner-cavity of my ear. Do you think he gets laid because of Facebook? That's where this discussion will go.
So what do I do about it? Nothing. If I was out of my mind, I would untag every photo of me until this semester started because the more current ones hold a "better" representation of who I am in 2009. Aside from what some friends of mine think about Facebook, I think it serves as a really interesting control to see what we've become. It's difficult not to be very aware as a Facebook user and this awareness lets us keep some sort of ground. You know all of those embarrassing photos from your seventh birthday party? It's like having those online to be seen by anyone. In this way, it's somewhat passive, but we are more open. Sure we can choose to hide photos but by not hiding them are we not allowing ourselves to be more human, exposing what we may see as our own flaws? This is not to say that Facebook is great because I can feel Mark Zuckerberg slowly pulling at my brain from the inner-cavity of my ear. Do you think he gets laid because of Facebook? That's where this discussion will go.
Dirty Pop
Pop music from the 90s was so hypersexual. It's almost unbelievable to pay attention to some of these lyrics. That'll be a post for another time.
I recorded a cover of Jordan Knight's "Give It To You." You can listen to/download it here: http://www.myspace.com/nickrkmusic. The song has the most absurd lyrics. "Anyone can make you sweat, but I can keep you wet."
You say its been too long
since you had some
You say I turn you on
like a fire that's burning inside
You think that I'm the one
You see in your dreams
I know what you mean yeah
It's creepin around in your head
me holding you down in my bed
You don't have to say a word
I'm convinced you want this
Chorus:
Baby you know I can give it to you
I can't deny you do it right
Just let me know and I'll give it to you
Just show me where, I'll take you there
Baby you know that I'll give it to you
Your body needs a man like me
Anything goes when I give it to you
You know without a doubt, I'll turn you out
I'll give it to you
The feeling is fine, giving you everything of mine
I'm the place to be
and soon, you'll see
I don't care who leads
As long as we move horizontally
Anyone can make you sweat
But I, can keep you wet
It's creepin around in my head
Me holding you down in my bed
I can't wait to give you some
I'm convinced you need it
Chorus
It's creepin around in my head
Me holding you down in my bed
You don't have to say a word
Just relax, I'll do the work
I can't wait to give you some
I'm convinced you need one
Chorus
I want to satisfy your every wish and mine baby
I know just what you need and I could get you off baby
No one could ever do you like I do you right baby
There's nothing we can't do once we're together, oh baby
The feeling is fine giving you everything of mine
Okay, so I took artistic license with the lyrics. I promise I will stop referring to this song.
I recorded a cover of Jordan Knight's "Give It To You." You can listen to/download it here: http://www.myspace.com/nickrkmusic. The song has the most absurd lyrics. "Anyone can make you sweat, but I can keep you wet."
You say its been too long
since you had some
You say I turn you on
like a fire that's burning inside
You think that I'm the one
You see in your dreams
I know what you mean yeah
It's creepin around in your head
me holding you down in my bed
You don't have to say a word
I'm convinced you want this
Chorus:
Baby you know I can give it to you
I can't deny you do it right
Just let me know and I'll give it to you
Just show me where, I'll take you there
Baby you know that I'll give it to you
Your body needs a man like me
Anything goes when I give it to you
You know without a doubt, I'll turn you out
I'll give it to you
The feeling is fine, giving you everything of mine
I'm the place to be
and soon, you'll see
I don't care who leads
As long as we move horizontally
Anyone can make you sweat
But I, can keep you wet
It's creepin around in my head
Me holding you down in my bed
I can't wait to give you some
I'm convinced you need it
Chorus
It's creepin around in my head
Me holding you down in my bed
You don't have to say a word
Just relax, I'll do the work
I can't wait to give you some
I'm convinced you need one
Chorus
I want to satisfy your every wish and mine baby
I know just what you need and I could get you off baby
No one could ever do you like I do you right baby
There's nothing we can't do once we're together, oh baby
The feeling is fine giving you everything of mine
Okay, so I took artistic license with the lyrics. I promise I will stop referring to this song.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
David Bazan
Making posts provides the illusion that I'm being productive.
David Bazan is one of the greatest songwriters not known to too many. There seems to be a pattern here. He was the force behind Pedro The Lion. If you enjoyed that, check out his cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" (which is essentially a cover of Jeff Buckley's cover). He has an intensely robust voice.
He also does a fantastic cover of "Political Science" by Randy Newman.
If you haven't heard this song before, listen to it right now. No, Randy Newman didn't just create the music for Toy Story.
David Bazan is one of the greatest songwriters not known to too many. There seems to be a pattern here. He was the force behind Pedro The Lion. If you enjoyed that, check out his cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" (which is essentially a cover of Jeff Buckley's cover). He has an intensely robust voice.
He also does a fantastic cover of "Political Science" by Randy Newman.
If you haven't heard this song before, listen to it right now. No, Randy Newman didn't just create the music for Toy Story.
Walk Away Renee
I've been attempting for a while to delve into music from the 60s to see what was popular/what still sounds good. This song is just awesome. Simple, short, killer melody.
RIP
On my lunch break today I went to Serious Eats and was horrified when I read that Joe Ades, the Union Square peeler guy passed away.
I don't even know what to say about him. He captivated audiences so simply with the confident power embedded in his thick, booming British voice. He was cutting potatoes and carrots for chrissake! But the man was a genius. He was a salesman, a man practicing an art lost to the slimy car dealer. Joe baked in the sun during the summer, dressed to the nines in a suit every day he was out there. I saw him only about a month and a half ago, drawing in his usual crowd. It was hard not to smile at his enthusiasm. I purchased one of the peelers once and he made some joke about me not having any friends because I bought only one.
Living in New York City is depressing. An overwhelming sense of nostalgia hits us young and it never stops.
RIP Joe.
Vanity Fair article: http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2006/05/grafter200605
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26976442/
http://newyork.seriouseats.com/2009/02/video-legendary-nyc-vegetable-peeler-guy-salesman-joe-ades-dies.html
Obituary: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/03/nyregion/03ades.html
Aluminum
I was at a party at Water Street one night. A song came on and I asked people what it was. No one knew. I walked up to the iPod, typed it into my phone and saved it as a note. Great song. Not sure how it fits into my mood at 1:41AM on a Tuesday but I'd like to share it.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Kettle Brand Baked Potato Chips
Unreal. I grew up on health food and never had potato chips in the house. I convinced my mom to buy a shiny blue bag of Wow! Ruffles, made with the mysterious oil-substitute Olestra. They were delicious. Then I shat oil slicks. Then Lays introduced Baked Lays which were horribly disgusting and sweet. My dad like(s/d) them. I love Ruffles and Lays and Kettle chips but they're too high in fat for the serving size. It's just not worth it even in moderation. The geniuses behind Kettle brand potato chips introduced a line of baked chips that are just incredible. They are crunchy, salty, tasty and just oily enough to make you love them like regular potato chips. AND THEY'RE BAKED. THE SERVING SIZE IS TWENTY CHIPS! THAT'S LIKE 3-4 FINGERFULS. 120 Calories in a serving. 3 grams of fat, 0.5 grams of saturated fat. And of course, potassium. Re-dick-you-lus.
The Dodos
Polyrhythmic drumming and really interesting fast, textured guitar parts with a tinge of blues. The Dodos put out one of my favorite releases of 2008, Visiter. One of the most original acts around. Only two guys but they can really fucking play.
Stream "Walking"
Bruce
I didn't watch the Super Bowl. Sorry everyone. However, I'm currently watching the halftime show on YouTube. Holy shit can Bruce work the crowd. Unbelievable. I'm late in the Bruce phenomenon as my parents were never fans. I grew up on Billy Joel. I know, I know, Bruce is pretty much better all around (sorry, LI). Both have some great songs, both have songs that I find undesirable. That's how it is. Don't really like the new single.
Went to the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre to check out Asssscat 3000, Sunday night improv show. Great time.
Shout out to Genesar for looking out.
More posts coming.
Went to the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre to check out Asssscat 3000, Sunday night improv show. Great time.
Shout out to Genesar for looking out.
More posts coming.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
No comment
There have been no comments so I will provide you with videos for which I have no comment.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAsBZB4pjHM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAsBZB4pjHM
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Owen
The thrill of discovery is one of the best feelings in the world. I've mentioned this before, and probably will mention it every time I talk about a band or artist, but discovering music is one of my hobbies and passions. I like to constantly think that my favorite song is one that I haven't heard yet (it may not even be recorded or conceived yet, but I'll ignore those more astronomical thoughts so I don't drive myself batshit insane).
I had heard of Owen but never listened. On this message board I used to go to sometimes, everyone loved Owen. I read the name all the time but for some reason didn't feel the urge to listen. It's difficult to make the effort to listen to something new. Listening intently to new music is a consuming process, it takes a lot of energy to "get into" something. It varies from artist to artist but I think it's true. Do I pay attention to the music? Do I pay attention to the lyrics? Do I pay attention to the singer's voice? It's really easy to feel safe with a static music collection, with songs you know. I urge people to challenge their current tastes and start listening to everything. Come across a band name and instead of ignoring it, go to Hype Machine and search for it. Listen to a song and understand why it's good and bad. We don't learn too much from quality sources. After hearing Nickelback songs, I understand why I would never write songs like theirs. After seeing Gran Torino, not only do I just NEVER WANT TO SEE A MOVIE EVER AGAIN, but I know that I will never write a script like that (you know, when I get around to it...).
Owen is Mike Kinsella, veteran of the Chicago music scene who played in Cap'n Jazz and American Football (who I will probably write about soon). After those bands broke up, he started a solo project, recording songs late at night in his parents' house on a Digi 001 setup. Most of his songs have a very similar musical style. Layered acoustic guitar parts with lush, airy parts floating all around. Every once in a while there will be a clean, electric guitar part and maybe a short, distorted guitar solo. As fantastic as the music is, what really makes Owen shine is the lyrics. In my opinion, Mike Kinsella is one of the most gifted lyricists of his time. And I don't think too many people even know who he is. He doesn't sell out shows and he doesn't tour all that often.
"Breaking Away" is one of his most beautiful songs, with an awesome movie-and-bicycle-referencing title. After being at the bar, he sings, "I'm a bicycle. I'm too tired to ride home." Two-tired. Brilliant. (Lyrics)
I also really admire lyrics that can be read linearly, in a paragraph. "The Ghost of What Should Have Been":
"What else in this room reminds me of you? The windowsill with a crucified pit of an avocado still sits in water. What else in this room reminds me of the relationship I’ve ruined. The tables I made strong enough to hold your magazines, but not your tired legs. One more week in this apartment, one more week of being haunted by the ghost of what should have been. What else in this fucking empty room reminds me of fucking you? An orphaned couch where I spent some long nights while you went out with our friends. What I wouldn’t do to be a ghost like you, to be somewhere new. To leave everything, the way you left everything that reminded you of me. One more week in this apartment, one more week of being haunted."
The "crucified pit of an avocado" refers to an avocado plant, which is when you stick toothpicks into an avocado pit and place it in a glass of water.
The observation that it looks crucified is so simple and poetic. What I also love in this song is the parallel structure. "What else in this room reminds me of you?" becomes "What else in this fucking empty room reminds me of fucking you?" The tone and meaning of the line changes completely with the addition of a few words.
In "Poor Souls," he narrates his desperate search for a one-night stand:
"long night. last call. blood-shot eyes from some drinks too tall. i breathe in deep and i swear to god i'll die if i go home alone tonight. i raise my head slow hoping to find a girl i don't know, but wouldn't mind showing a good time to, feeling alright with, doing something we might regret in the morning. you, in the cardigan - you're tired of all your friends. and you, with your hair pulled back just right --you're bored with all your friends. i want to be with you tonight. our legs crossed and our tounges tied. now which one of you poor souls wants to drive me home?"
His songs are simple but that is exactly what makes them so poignant. Simple but extraordinary.
"Tell me again what you were thinking when you got that bruise tattooed, forever black and blue."
Stream "That Tattoo Isn't Funny Anymore" (Lyrics)
I had heard of Owen but never listened. On this message board I used to go to sometimes, everyone loved Owen. I read the name all the time but for some reason didn't feel the urge to listen. It's difficult to make the effort to listen to something new. Listening intently to new music is a consuming process, it takes a lot of energy to "get into" something. It varies from artist to artist but I think it's true. Do I pay attention to the music? Do I pay attention to the lyrics? Do I pay attention to the singer's voice? It's really easy to feel safe with a static music collection, with songs you know. I urge people to challenge their current tastes and start listening to everything. Come across a band name and instead of ignoring it, go to Hype Machine and search for it. Listen to a song and understand why it's good and bad. We don't learn too much from quality sources. After hearing Nickelback songs, I understand why I would never write songs like theirs. After seeing Gran Torino, not only do I just NEVER WANT TO SEE A MOVIE EVER AGAIN, but I know that I will never write a script like that (you know, when I get around to it...).
Owen is Mike Kinsella, veteran of the Chicago music scene who played in Cap'n Jazz and American Football (who I will probably write about soon). After those bands broke up, he started a solo project, recording songs late at night in his parents' house on a Digi 001 setup. Most of his songs have a very similar musical style. Layered acoustic guitar parts with lush, airy parts floating all around. Every once in a while there will be a clean, electric guitar part and maybe a short, distorted guitar solo. As fantastic as the music is, what really makes Owen shine is the lyrics. In my opinion, Mike Kinsella is one of the most gifted lyricists of his time. And I don't think too many people even know who he is. He doesn't sell out shows and he doesn't tour all that often.
"Breaking Away" is one of his most beautiful songs, with an awesome movie-and-bicycle-referencing title. After being at the bar, he sings, "I'm a bicycle. I'm too tired to ride home." Two-tired. Brilliant. (Lyrics)
I also really admire lyrics that can be read linearly, in a paragraph. "The Ghost of What Should Have Been":
"What else in this room reminds me of you? The windowsill with a crucified pit of an avocado still sits in water. What else in this room reminds me of the relationship I’ve ruined. The tables I made strong enough to hold your magazines, but not your tired legs. One more week in this apartment, one more week of being haunted by the ghost of what should have been. What else in this fucking empty room reminds me of fucking you? An orphaned couch where I spent some long nights while you went out with our friends. What I wouldn’t do to be a ghost like you, to be somewhere new. To leave everything, the way you left everything that reminded you of me. One more week in this apartment, one more week of being haunted."
The "crucified pit of an avocado" refers to an avocado plant, which is when you stick toothpicks into an avocado pit and place it in a glass of water.
The observation that it looks crucified is so simple and poetic. What I also love in this song is the parallel structure. "What else in this room reminds me of you?" becomes "What else in this fucking empty room reminds me of fucking you?" The tone and meaning of the line changes completely with the addition of a few words.
In "Poor Souls," he narrates his desperate search for a one-night stand:
"long night. last call. blood-shot eyes from some drinks too tall. i breathe in deep and i swear to god i'll die if i go home alone tonight. i raise my head slow hoping to find a girl i don't know, but wouldn't mind showing a good time to, feeling alright with, doing something we might regret in the morning. you, in the cardigan - you're tired of all your friends. and you, with your hair pulled back just right --you're bored with all your friends. i want to be with you tonight. our legs crossed and our tounges tied. now which one of you poor souls wants to drive me home?"
His songs are simple but that is exactly what makes them so poignant. Simple but extraordinary.
"Tell me again what you were thinking when you got that bruise tattooed, forever black and blue."
Stream "That Tattoo Isn't Funny Anymore" (Lyrics)
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Proscuittitarian
pro-sciut-ti-tar-i-an |prəˈ sh oōtˈte(ə)rēən|
1. a person who only eats prosciutto, the Italian ham cured by drying that is typically served in very thin slices.
2. Carmen Petaccio
1. a person who only eats prosciutto, the Italian ham cured by drying that is typically served in very thin slices.
2. Carmen Petaccio
New Music
Facebook embodies the best and worst of technological advancement and convergence. The worst of it is when I'm bored and get lost clicking around, engaging tons of useless data. It's great! Sometimes you find someone that you have an unexplainable mutual friend with. And sometimes you randomly find the name of a band and you decide to look them up. I found The Motorcycle Industry somewhere and gave them a listen. Great, fun pop-rock(/punk?-who the fuck knows) band out of the Bay Area/now-NYC/NYU. Just released an album called Electric Education.
"Jesse From The Program" is a killer track. The lyrics are modestly awesome.
"Five dollars for a whiskey/Please don't ignore me when we get to class on Monday, okay thanks/Ten dollars more for the door fee/Dude, this band I'd ignore in a heartbeat/So could you find it in your soul to evaluate whether you want to be friends with me outside of a really super duper shitty social situation?/'Cause fake friends are better than nothing at all/And fake friends will get you nowhere/'Cause fake friends go better with drugs and alcohol/And fake friends are there after all." Probably not completely accurate as I just transcribed the lyrics but whatever. Remember all those friends you added before freshman year to cope with the overwhelming amount of people in your class you'd probably never meet? Fake friends. I still have one or two. I keep em around.
Or "Everything Sounds Better With Drums"
"Dude, I just want to make ten dollars an hour so I can go to Amoeba records and buy colored vinyl that I'll never play. Or vintage t-shirts. Maybe some novels that I'll get halfway through. Or imported DVDs with subtitles too. I'm hitting on the same girl at the NYU Bookstore, oh my god, not again."
Fuck. Yeah you know EXACTLY what I mean.
All the songs are great. I'm going to buy it soon.
Check out this band, they have some NYC dates coming up.
http://www.myspace.com/themotorcycleindustry
"Jesse From The Program" is a killer track. The lyrics are modestly awesome.
"Five dollars for a whiskey/Please don't ignore me when we get to class on Monday, okay thanks/Ten dollars more for the door fee/Dude, this band I'd ignore in a heartbeat/So could you find it in your soul to evaluate whether you want to be friends with me outside of a really super duper shitty social situation?/'Cause fake friends are better than nothing at all/And fake friends will get you nowhere/'Cause fake friends go better with drugs and alcohol/And fake friends are there after all." Probably not completely accurate as I just transcribed the lyrics but whatever. Remember all those friends you added before freshman year to cope with the overwhelming amount of people in your class you'd probably never meet? Fake friends. I still have one or two. I keep em around.
Or "Everything Sounds Better With Drums"
"Dude, I just want to make ten dollars an hour so I can go to Amoeba records and buy colored vinyl that I'll never play. Or vintage t-shirts. Maybe some novels that I'll get halfway through. Or imported DVDs with subtitles too. I'm hitting on the same girl at the NYU Bookstore, oh my god, not again."
Fuck. Yeah you know EXACTLY what I mean.
All the songs are great. I'm going to buy it soon.
Check out this band, they have some NYC dates coming up.
http://www.myspace.com/themotorcycleindustry
The Hump
It's a weird time of year. Winter break just ended and classes for the Spring are starting up again. My midlife-college-crisis brain is applying nostalgia to everything. Three more semesters and I'm no longer a student. But hey, as the great MrChiCity3* says, "Fuck that shit, fuck that shit." I have to concentrate on the now. As Kevin Devine sings in "Less Yesterday, More Today," well... "Less yesterday, more today. I've got to start living that way." So that's it. I can find all my answers in songs. Can you?
Lyrics
Kevin Devine's Put Your Ghost To Rest came out in October of my freshman year. On the day of its release I walked in the cold to the Purevolume loft on Broadway, close to or in Chinatown, to sit with 10 people on beanbag chairs and watch Kevin play a few songs. It was special.
WHATEVER. Rediscovering music that I haven't listened to in a while is always a great experience. Thanks to Stereogum I found out that The Wrens recorded a new song live at Abbey Road Studios called "Pulled Fences." It's a reworked, somewhat spontaneously created version of a demo that was released a while back called "In Turkish Waters." It's great. Right after I listened to the song, I listened to The Meadowlands in its entirety. The album is so perfect that it doesn't make sense. It's rough in parts but it's entirely beautiful. I'm going to write an essay about it soon. I had an amazing experience being introduced to The Wrens at the CMJ show NYU hosted in October of my freshman year. The Walkmen, The Wrens and Friday Hyvonen. In my opinion, Frida and The Wrens blew The Walkmen out of the water, even though lead singer Hamilton brought out a buzz saw to cut into the band's piano (TOTAL GIMMICK, ass) and they smashed a guitar (possibly a Telecaster). I had heard of The Wrens as they were "signed" to Drive-Thru Records, my favorite label when I was younger, for a brief period. Why I chose to listen to Midtown and New Found Glory instead of The Wrens is something I will attempt to answer FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.
Here you go guys. You ever really want to be able to cry to something (but you can't... or don't want to...)? Carmen used the word transcendent. Do it.
Stream "Ex-Girl Collection"(Lyrics)
Stream "Hopeless"(Lyrics)
Download The Meadowlands
*Ignore this entire post and just watch this video:
Lyrics
Kevin Devine's Put Your Ghost To Rest came out in October of my freshman year. On the day of its release I walked in the cold to the Purevolume loft on Broadway, close to or in Chinatown, to sit with 10 people on beanbag chairs and watch Kevin play a few songs. It was special.
WHATEVER. Rediscovering music that I haven't listened to in a while is always a great experience. Thanks to Stereogum I found out that The Wrens recorded a new song live at Abbey Road Studios called "Pulled Fences." It's a reworked, somewhat spontaneously created version of a demo that was released a while back called "In Turkish Waters." It's great. Right after I listened to the song, I listened to The Meadowlands in its entirety. The album is so perfect that it doesn't make sense. It's rough in parts but it's entirely beautiful. I'm going to write an essay about it soon. I had an amazing experience being introduced to The Wrens at the CMJ show NYU hosted in October of my freshman year. The Walkmen, The Wrens and Friday Hyvonen. In my opinion, Frida and The Wrens blew The Walkmen out of the water, even though lead singer Hamilton brought out a buzz saw to cut into the band's piano (TOTAL GIMMICK, ass) and they smashed a guitar (possibly a Telecaster). I had heard of The Wrens as they were "signed" to Drive-Thru Records, my favorite label when I was younger, for a brief period. Why I chose to listen to Midtown and New Found Glory instead of The Wrens is something I will attempt to answer FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.
Here you go guys. You ever really want to be able to cry to something (but you can't... or don't want to...)? Carmen used the word transcendent. Do it.
Stream "Ex-Girl Collection"(Lyrics)
Stream "Hopeless"(Lyrics)
Download The Meadowlands
*Ignore this entire post and just watch this video:
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