Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Feel like a chuck wagon cuz I'm all 12 horses

William Congreve, newest member of the Re-Up Gang

"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned."

-William Congreve, The Mourning Bride (1697)

No Shakespeare didn't write that shit. Yes it's misquoted, just like Bogart never said "play it again, Sam" and no one ever said anything that is actually quoted. Yes, Clipse thought the quote was "hell hath no fury like a couple of brothers from the same mother who have been slighted by music business M&A." So the scorn'd woman doesn't really make it into the album, just like the Doctor didn't make it into the album that claims to advocate him. Yes, both albums should've been called The Chocolate Starfish and The Hot Dog-Flavored Water. Yes, this album is very good, if only because there are no skits that don't involve Ghostface and a foul-mouthed rugrat...and there's a reference to "Blues Clues."

BTW, FMT is in talks with a couple of esteemed but obscured and hermetic rap scholars who have reportedly been working on a complete annotation of HHNF. Both of these cave-dwelling boom-bap thinkers have published myriad treatises in rare but much sought-after trade journals regarding Wu-Tang chess schematics, Kool Keith's displaced schizoid diatribes, and Ja Rule's retardedness. Rumors have attributed their work to JD Salinger by way of Thomas Pynchon and Fluff Guppy by way of Pharaoh Monch. Trust us, however, these two heretofore-anonymous scholars are very real; indeed, they enjoy afternoon bocci matches and weekend outings to thimble museums. FMT is in talks for publishing rights to the HHNF annotation project, and it looks good. Sordid Puppy will most likely be tapped for and introduction.

We'll keep you posted.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Happy Halloween

Mr Bean was a classic TV show. Too bad the movie was crap.

Happy Thanksgiving from your homeboys at Foodmantooth. It's worth mentioning that the inspiration for the title of this humble weblog came from a fervent desire for vittles. We love sustenance, and you should too. Thanksgiving is fantastic because of its simplicity; no gifts are exchanged besides heaping bowls of mashed potatoes and stuffing, and the holiday escapes the commercializing forces that are rampant among its peers. I'm not sure if holidays can be said to be each other's peers.

Eat, drink, and eat and drink more. That's the Foodmantooth way.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

I Can't Feel Your Fist

El-P's I'll Sleep When You're Dead...March 20 2007

Thunderball is my favorite Bond flick ever. Connery plays the role he was born for better than ever, and there's a dope underwater harpoon battle at the end. SP just saw Casino Royale the other day after reading Manohla's open groupie application to underwhelming narcissistic douchebag David Craig (and his bitch-ass crew, who if you want to be down with...). It's bad, really bad, worse than any of the Pierce Brosnan tripe and almost as bad as Yo Momma!. CR opens with an awkwardly overdone chase scene, featuring acrobatics worthy of Hot Flying Sheninjas, but I kept an open mind thereafter because I REALLY WANTED TO LIKE this flick. There's a couple of hot chicks in the movie, and several bitchin cars, but everyone knows that these shows are meant to be a showcase for Bond and his tantalizing slimy carry-on. David Craig is about as slick as my epidermis in the dead of nuclear winter and he carries his one-liners off about as well as Dimmer's cohorts ("I didn't know they made leprechauns in black"...nice) do theirs. Craven Dead better go the way of George Lazenby, or the world is going to be submitted to more of this homoeroticism (no Dancehall Reggae...but oiled up naked man has no place in a Bond movie, and you know this). They need to hire someone else -- Furman P, perhaps -- before this franchise is permanently discredited.

The Game's new album came out last week, and the NYTimes, who seem eager to establish themselves as the newest humpers of mainstream hip-hop, drooled. I couldn't be bothered, because I downloaded the "One Blood" remix and it's 27 hours long so I feel like the album's not worth my money. Jay-Z's Kingdom Come dropped today, a fact I was reminded of early this morning when I roused myself and caught Oliver Wang ethering him and his on NPR in eloquent fashion. Looks like I will not be contributing to Memphis Bleek's do-rag fund this time around. A week from today, Hell Hath No Fury, the Clipse's new album, which I won't describe as "long-awaited" or "eagerly anticipated," because that would be trite, will hit shelves. I don't mean to be the one to cleave the rainclouds, but "Mama I'm Sorry," which made its way onto this mixtape, isn't stimulating any glands (For what it's worth, the D-Block tracks on the same tape show real promise for that crew's upcoming releases (not that this wasn't enough)). I'm not making any rash projections here, for fear that Furman might launch me into the next dimension, but if Hell is anything less than stellar we're going to have a problem.

Next Tuesday, a young canine's devotion to an art form is tested for what may be the last time. Don't forget to tune in.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

"Across the herbaceous nap below..."

Reportedly, this is the cover of Hell Hath No Fury

Hey! Everyone cares about this.

Through routes and thoroughfares unbeknownst to yours truly, a copy of Thomas Pynchon's new novel, Against the Day, landed in my unreadied mitts today. It's due to drop out of the heavens next Tues, but, if like me, you maintain in your ward a posse comitatus of ninja/pirate mule operatives, you can probably procure the 9 years-coming beast (1085 pages, 3 lbs 6 oz) now with relative felicitousness. Funny, my specially-bred retinue of warrior-pariahs didn't even tell me they were gonna hook me up. Anyway, if you don't roll deep with shadowy underlings who can tap the most down-lowest subterranean black markets with with the casual flick of a shuriken or point of a scimitar, you gon hafta wait til tuesday. Oh yeah I heard it's soon gonna be illegal not to read this book, so getcha paper up. This bastard goes for 35 ramshackles.

I've read about 20 pages. It opens with a boisterous quintet of aeronauts, called the "Chums of Chance" aboard the flying-ship Inconvenience. Here are their names:

Randolph St. Cosmos
Darby Suckling
Lindsay Noseworth
Miles Blundell
Chick Counterfly
...and their Henry James-reading dog, Pugnax

Choice quotes:

"...moreover, the complexities that would attend rigging Blundell in the necessary paraphernalia would tax the topological genius of Herr Riemann himself."

"Across the herbaceous nap below, in the declining light, among the brighter star-shapes of exploded ballast-bags, running heedless, as across some earthly firmament, sped a stout gentleman in a Norfolk jacket and plus-fours..."

I feel like I just got Only Built 4 Cuban Linx 2, 3, and 4 all on the same day. You really gotta get yourself some ninja/pirates.

Luca Brazzi...

Ghost - Mr. esteemed largemouth bass, you look like you need to eat some fake drugs.
Bass - No, what I need is to suppress my incredulity with regards to this album actually coming out.

Ghost - Yo, someone in there who ain't gonna cold dog this fade?

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Cali Agents - The Good Life

It's like 73 degrees out. I feel like I live in CA. That's why I'm going to listen to this classic record all day long.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Vote or Suck

If you vote, she'll like you. I swear. Go vote.

*Disclaimer: Foodmantooth still ain't no political blog, yo, but this needs saying. These statements are Sordid Puppy's, not Furman's.

At times, it sort of sucks being part of America's youth. Don't take that statement as an appeal to the sort of whiny, "emo" (already regretting having used that term) sensibilities that bemoan the very opportunities and luxuries afforded us, those we enjoy just for living (as citizens) in the U.S.A. In many ways, young Americans have it better than anyone on the planet: economic and social disadvantages aside, educational opportunity abounds. We have, historically, a relatively open class system, one that avails most of us of a fighting chance to move up in society. We are, on average, wealthier than our peers on other parts of the globe; we own (or are give access to) cars by the time we're twenty and live in apartments with our friends when we go off to college. Jobs, dead-end and otherwise, are plentiful and help us fill our pockets so that we can empty them at the bar, the mall, or the bank. Yeah, it's pretty great being young in America -- things are made gloriously easy for us.

I suppose, then, that I should rephrase: America's youth sucks. For those of you living in a textbook or on a barstool or on top of your significant other, today is November 7th, 2006, and it's Election Day. Across the country today, grown ups add another chore to their daily routines: they vote. By grown ups, I am referring to anyone with the intellectual and moral maturity to recognize that our Escalades on spinners drive around cities, towns, and fields that are part of states that are part of a country called the United States, and that said country is a Democratic society with a representative government. Armed with this awareness, grown ups choose to take an active part in the decisions of said government and the selection of the people that will represent them in government.

In 2004, Snuff Pity launched the "Vote or Die" campaign (or whatever), whose aim, I think, was to get young people to vote. If it was, this wasn't really made clear by anything but the inane slogan itself, and the aberration that was "Vote or Die" makes crystal our problem. "Vote or Die" was far less a declaration of political determination than a fashion statement. It was a passing fad, a way for Diddy to self-promote and make a few dollars off t-shirts. Those same t-shirts, emblazoned with the "movement's" disingenuous motto, ended up in the bargain bin at my local Against All Odds just days after the election. As I recall, they shared shelf space with the stupid, stupid "Why?" tees modeled off the one Jada wore in his ineffectual "conscious" video of the same name (on a side note, it's funny that Kiss now refers to himself as "Al-Qaeda Jada," considering his previously asserted distress over 911). All the while, the geezers, whose comfort was (and still is) ensured by youthful apathy, pointed and laughed at the pathetic appeals for change.

Sordid Puppy wants to let his inner dog out on Diddy, Jada, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, and every other person of influence who claim to have a vested interest in seeing young Americans stand up for themselves but fail to follow through and see that it happens. SP also calls out every news network that has a bias, one way or another, that does not exercise the responsibility it has to clearly articulate its (hopefully) informed opinion. Fox News is a behemoth in America's cultural battlefield because it leaves absolutely no question as to the agenda that it pushes, and that is why it is effective. CNN is an absolute sham because it dances around opinion pieces and balks at sounding partisan. I'm not really sure what MSNBC's story is, but I know that this man is the best out on cable news.

Sordid Puppy, speaking of his own mind, and not wishing to misrepresent the illustrious Furman, is kicking off a campaign of his own, whose slogan is not too many letters away from Diddy's but whose effect, in contrast, is real. "Vote or Suck" is the mantra. If you wake up today and do not vote, then you probably don't give a shit. However, if you wake up today and get your daily Foodmantooth fix, hear about "Vote or Suck," and STILL don't vote, then your failure to participate will result in the nagging, unremitting awareness that you are a douchebag. This is not my intention -- it is, rather, that this knowledge spurs you to exercise your rights.

Choose voting, not sucking. I love you.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Project Pat - Raised In The Projects

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Xgau disses Greil Marcus with 128 bars

Are they drinking pounders?

Just when you thought a band couldn’t possible eclipse the royal ball-washing that was the critical reception to TV on the Radio’s Return to Cookie Mountain, there came a bunch of dudes from Minneapolis who like beer, AC/DC, and apparently make music as good as Bob Dylan. Yes, folks, The Hold Steady, already big with critics [1] because their music seems to be about words and America rather than notes and outerspace, recently dropped their third album, Boys and Girls in America, and as a result, the Times gave them a exciting interactive feature: a map of the US, dotted with free (!) snippets (better than nothing) of Hold Steady songs about the corresponding place on the map. The profile that spawned said cool interactive feature was written by inveterate anti-rockist Kelefa Sanneh and was considered to be so good that it costs $4.95 to read online (on TimesSelect, which has a orange icon that tells you it’s special).

Luckily, I know people who know people who hacked into LexisNexis, so I got that shit sans ads about “Classic Paul Krugman” columns (that guy does have a solid mustache, though). Anyway, Sanneh loves The Hold Steady, probably because they aren’t from New York (even though they live in Brooklyn now), really skinny, in their mid-twenties, clad in patent-leather white belts, recycling angular post-punk chugging art rock, and featuring gypsy instrumentation, nautical narratives or singers who sound constipated and really sad. This is true for other critics too. The Hold Steady are a refreshing respite from bands whose music and lyrics are just trying so hard either to be important art like Sonic Youth, or to seem like they really aren’t trying, like Pavement.

The Hold Steady are “compiling a guide to the country's wasted wayward youth” Sanneh writes. So in turn, Sanneh compiled a guide to the Hold Steady’s “states of America,” which runs though all the places Finn writes about, such as Minneaolis, MN, Modesto, CA, and Hostile, MA, which doesn’t exist. I suppose the way Finn writes specifically, rather than metaphorically or allegorically, about all the places where kids get drunk, listen to punk rock and kiss each other, is grounding and unpretentious; instead of telling us, for instance, that he’s an “American aquarium drinker” (come on, that would be gross). Sanneh’s article is a bit bizarre, as he doesn’t explicitly evaluate the Hold Steady’s music, let alone call them the best band in the world; although he is basically implying as much by writing a 2000-word profile about them in the Times. I mean, Frank Rich only gets like 1000, and he writes about how art can change the world, or something.

The internet loves the Hold Steady too., the taste-making website that has convinced all the aspiring hipsters in the world that indie rock and coke rap are the only really cool musics, gave it up to Finn and his merry men by slapping a 9.4 on Boys and Girls in America. Like a rogue gymnastics judge, ‘Fork may have irresponsibly commended a stunted, prepubescent Chinese girl. Or sold a shitload of Hold Steady albums to kids wearing Chuck Taylors that were made 39 years after the great salesman/basketball player died [2]. Pitchfork is a site that made its name with overblown, name-dropping, pedantic 1000 word reviews that come conveniently labeled with visible ratings. So if a band gets a 9.3, that means that 93% of their album is NOT derived from Pere Ubu or 93% or their choruses will make semi-attractive girls take off their clothes. More than anything, though, Pitchfork is a buyers guide, or downloaders guide, or shoplifters guide [3] for indie kids. As much as mp3 blogs generate conspiratorial instahype, it takes a good rating from Pitchfork to get your indie album cyberjumpin off the cybershelves of iTunes. In the case of the Hold Steady, the indie kids coppin Boys and Girls aren’t gonna find ominous melodies that sound like they were recorded in caves, or accordions, or “literate lyrics”—the stuff they have been taught is music that will make the girl with bangs like you. They’re gonna find Thin Lizzy and a guy mumbling about something.

So enter Chris Ott, former Pitchfork writer, to diagnose the critical success of The Hold Steady in one installment in a series for the Village Voice called “Blogwash: Deciphering Internet Praise” [4] Ott is positioning himself as a Dale Peck of music criticism, pulling hatchet jobs on heavily lauded bands of late: “the death-dirge apocalypso fusion of Bowie/Byrne protégés TV on the Radio and the Arcade Fire, and the ill- defined nihilism of Deerhoof.” [5]. Or more precisely, it is the critical hordes responsible for the consensus that deserve the blade. For Ott, recent pop music criticism is an “anxious universe of early adoption” which has “celebrated the dourest, most difficult or deranged music [it] can find.” Calling TVOTR and The Arcade Fire the most difficult and deranged music around is certainly a strange position. Both bands write structured songs, use simple rock progressions, sing in a language that is not made up, don’t wear assless pants, etc. I would agree that the dressing is conceptual and pretentious, and in both cases impedes what is basically some kind of relatively exciting rock music. But difficult and deranged these two bands aren’t. Deerhoof is the farthest of the Ott’s triumvirate away from typical rock song structures, and their singer is a little Japanese woman, but its not like they’re playing Ascension-era Coltrane or writing rap songs about Centaurs. Ott makes another inexplicable claim when he writes that all three of said bands “descended” from Pere Ubu (who I’ve already referenced here once so Ott knows I’m down). It would be one thing to say that all three bands were influenced by Pere Ubu, or that Pere Ubu was such a revolutionary post-punk band that almost all of the bands still playing off-kilter smart punk rock are cribbing them, or at least paying homage (although you could site another more successful post-punk band from Ohio as having the same influence). It’s another thing to say that Pere Ubu is the one and only father of all three bands. Ott puts a quarter in his ass with that one.

In the Hold Steady piece, Ott hangs out with the band and shows them the Pitchfork review, which they laugh at. The review compares the band to Pulp, which Ott says is ridiculous because Jarvis Cocker is skinny and does a lot of coke, whereas Finn is fat and drinks beer. Ott also talks to the band about critics’ insistence on comparing Boys and Girls to Springsteen. “Because there’s piano?” the guitarist asks before he says that he’s more likely pay royalties to Jimmy Page. Personally I think he should pay the guy who invented music. Naturally, though, Finn is most indebted to Paul Westerberg. Hailing from the same Midwestern coldplace as the Replacements, The Hold Steady aspire to play the kind of everypunk beer music Westerberg and co. did so thrillingly.

The problem with this comparison though, is that Westerberg was a great songwriter, and one of the best rock singers of all time. Finn on the other hand, is not a singer at all. It’s not that he “has a bad voice,” like Dylan or “has no range” like Strummer or that “he doesn’t bother to sing in tune” like Malkmus. All three of those guys are tremendous singers because they end up conquering and using to their advantage what at first seems to be limitation. As Dave Berman, a great singer who can’t sing, says, “all my favorite singers couldn’t sing;” indeed, besides Paul McCartney, who is probably Kaiser Soze, and Jeff Buckley, who should’ve taken drunken swimming lessens, the history of rock is all frontmen who can’t really sing. The best of them find such a commanding way to try that they fool us into thinking they’re actually musically accomplished in a technical way.

Finn is more aptly compared the incorrigible post-punk bleaters Mark E. Smith and John Lydon (formerly Rotton), both of whom have little interest in or capacity for making sounds with their voices that have much to do with what the people playing instruments behind them are doing. For the fan-critics, Finn’s mumbling is a virtue, because it puts his lyrics upfront, even if they’re unintelligible. His nuanced yet commonplace tales of kids getting messed up are supposed to tell us something “specifically universal” or “universally specific” about America. Or something like that. But, come on, its not like he’s Ice Cube! Some of his lines would have even Papoose on his heals, and some of the stories are worthy of Kerouac’s methed-up, pit-stained beat scroll [6]—all are very difficult to hear.

I should say that Finn does try to sing more on Boys and Girls, and when he parleys with the guitars, the songs take off: “Chips Ahoy!” and “Massive Nights”. The melodies come out and bring the lyrics with them, not vice versa. I never heard the words on the first two Hold Steady albums, because, save the “Hoodrat Friend” song, Finn and the guitars were in different places entirely. They couldv’t slapped some Tupac verse on there and the effect wouldn’t have been much different. The pianos and keyboards, played by a guy named Franz Nicolay who has a Poirot mustache, help reconcile Finn and the power chords/four on the floor AC/DC rock. About half the record is very good in this way. As far as the other half goes, the songs don’t make you want to bust out 140 pound dumbbell sets with each arm, so you don’t end up caring about what Finn is blathering about.

Ott seems to like the album more than me, but this might be because he got to hang out with the band. He’s more concerned with the blogwash, though, which he thinks might be “more damaging than any dances or dates Finn was coldly ejected from.” According to Ott, “boundless praise” has dug a “dank hole” [7] for the Hold Steady to climb out of. I’m not sure what he means by this. Is this metaphorical moist cavern making Finn sad because he won’t have the thrill of eating mustard for lunch, or is it that critics, even though they like him and his band, don’t really understand them.

Call me crazy, but if you’re in a band, and some modicum of people buy your records, rather than say, throw a handful of thimbles at you when you play, aren’t you one of the luckiest people above the poverty line? Aren’t you supposed to be happy people are letting you play guitars and yell into microphones for a living? I hope Finn and co. aren’t in the frame of mind Ott implies, because that would make them raging fuckbaskets. Bands have only one responsibility, and that’s to be a band and make records. Any band that lets themselves be killed by critics is not worthy of their own hair.

More likely, what’s going on here is that Ott wants to play a game of critical one-upsmanship, which has nothing to do with music, or anything besides criticism. He implies that the Hold Steady are in on his game, but I have a feeling they’re not looking checking the equine orthodontia like he implies. Ott drinks beers with the Hold Steady and they totally know what he means and they laughed with him about the Pitchfork guy, so they’re bros. But The Hold Steady do stuff that people can get drunk to. Ott writes words.

Ultimately, all this hubbub about the Hold Steady is about delivering indie-rock from its own annoying rubric. It still loves itself and insists that indie-rock isn’t really a genre, thus unwittingly perpetuating itself. But for writers, indie-rock has been decidedly uncool for about 10 years, when Pavement broke up and Sonic Youth bought a minivan. Yet since the post-2000 renaissance of cool indie-rock brought about by well dressed New York bands who knew exactly who to bite and how, indie-rock became an annoying pop-cultural [8] infrastructure. And the critical opinion about faux-critics, which moves infinitely faster than the culture which aligns the faux-critics, is instantly allergic to consensuses that come about when an cultural infrastructure like indie-rock’s solidifies. So critics like Ott and Sanneh, who position themselves outside of the indie consensus, have been floundering to find an antidote to the problem. They’ve been grasping all over the extrarock horizon, from MIA to the Clipse to Tom Ze and fucking Cam’ron of all people, to gain respite from Conor Oberst, Sufjan Stevens, and other little indie guys who are very annoying. But the problem is that most pop music critics are rock fans who want a fucking rock band to rock out to that also unwittingly making the greatest art ever. (Basically, this non-existant band is Radiohead if they were an unassuming American band that didn’t have anxieties about technological progress.) They are dying for a rock band to somehow reinvent a genre that’s been unreinventable since 1978. Not just a reason to throw modestly priced beer at people, but a reason to throw expensive beer at people and then send a time-capsule into outer space because aliens need to feel this science.


[1] Which every critic makes sure he or she mentions, to make sure that he or she is not coming across like “hey I’ve got the scoop on this band”; rather, he or she is letting the reader know that he or she is outside any buzz machine and even though he or she is writing a “review” or a “profile,” he or she wants to comment on the perceived critical acclaim as much as the band or record in question. This way, he or she is above the pedestrian “review” or “profile” form, and on his or her way to becoming the next Hunter S. Thompson. What if the grammatical construction “he or she” was changed to “pat”? Would anyone be opposed to that?

[2] Chuck Taylor died in 1969 of a heart attack, but, according to Wikipedia, not before he making excellent use of the Converse Corporation’s expense account while on the road hocking shoes. I can’t tell you how glad that some Wikipedia scholar made sure to research Chuck Taylor’s spending habits. I mean, I’m about to eat a sandwich.

[3] “Yo, I totally just jacked Destroyer’s Rubies.” “Why?...Because I only have enough bones for Hell Hath No Fury and I wanna make sure the counter girl knows I’m hard and I like wordplay.” “It got pushed back again? Well fuck, Pitchfork reviewed it, I read the review this morning, they said there was a lot of wordplay!” “Pitchfork only reviewed it because a guerrilla/pirate label released it in Djbouti? Oh well shit can I mail order the import?” “What?...There are no planes in Djbouti? Well how’d ‘fork get it?” “It was smuggled in by the guy in the Decemberists who stowed away on a Morrocan merchant clipper?” “Fuck maybe I’ll just pay for this then.” “Wait what did the Decemberists get…an 8.4?” “Nah its gotta be above 9.0 for me to utilize my bones and cop it when it drops.” “Fuck it, I’m buyin Futurefuck/Assclown, girls love that guy and when I buy it, the counter girl, I think her name’s “Summer” or “Autumn,” mos def one of the seasons, I forget which one—anyway, she’s gonna respect me so much for admitting I like JT that she’s gonna ask me if I wanna share a California roll later!”

[4] “Blogwash” is a good blog pun, although “blogorhea” is still my favorite. But man, besides puns, there is so much blogslang (not in the lexical archives of its all so hard to keep track of. Even “blog” is slang for “weblog” which is short for “world wide web log.” I love the luddites who use the term “weblog,” but not as much as I love people who say “the web” instead of “the internet.” Anyway, here’s an entry at urbandicitonary that is by far the best thing I’ve seen on that site. I mean, this was clearly written by a genius:


a blogosphereatronisaurausr ex is the latest hot shit, its whats so much cooler then top 8 on myspace. its when you paste a picture of aunt jemima maple syrup on your page, with a picture of your number one friend on the bottle instead of aunt jemima. yeah its pretty awesome

insert picture of a bottle of syrup with your best friends picture on it, and not aunt jemimas, unless aunt jemimas your best friend in which case i love you.
" my friend lil suzy took me off her top 8 an replaced me with some girl named muffinhips, but its ok, cause iam on here blogosphereatronisaurausr ex so i knw iam still her #1 boo. "

tags: batcave blog pogs ice skateing latin porn
by Jeph` roseville Aug 29, 2006

I like that whoever wrote it (not me by the way) made sure to put the appropriate tags on there.

[5] Now even though I’m not as up on my death-dirge apocalypso as I used to be, I would agree that critics [insert fellatio reference] TVOTR and the Arcade Fire like their [insert male genitalia (plural) reference] are made of [insert something that is sweet yet savory, like grilled shrimp]. TVOTR’s latest, mentioned at the head (NPI), is the most egregious example of plainly inaccurate critical consensus since Late Registration, which is for everyone to poop on all the time (besides "Diamonds are Forever"). The Arcade Fire played one of the best live shows I’ve ever seen, so I have more love for them, even if everyone does too and their record has the old “doesn’t capture the live show” thing going on. Ott is way off the mark with Deerhoof, however. Not only is the ‘Hoof the unimpeachable kind of shit, they’re too off-kilter and they have a singer who sounds too much like a Pokemon to get the same kind of mainstream critical attention as TVOTR and the Arcade Fire.

[6] Another thing reviewers of Boys and Girls in America make sure you know is that the title is from On the Road, which Finn invokes in the first lyric: “there are nights when I think that Sal Paradise was right. / Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together.” If I interviewed Finn, I would ask him if his wife engineered a clothesline rotisserie of T-shirts like ‘Ouac’s did as he hammered furiously at the scroll that would make him the voice of people who hated culture and were mad, mad, and delirious to write parodies of him as soon as his style became stale.

[7] Why is this metaphorical hole “dank”? Music critics should not be allowed to use adjectives anymore.

[8] The Indie-rock/hipster culture must be thought of as a decidedly Pop-cultural phenomenon. Whereas OG, actual independent rock (ie The Minutemen, Pavement, SY, Mission of Burma) actually stood against pop culture, the new alliance of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, the internet (Pitchfork and the blogosphere) with artistically ambitious rock music has created a startlingly homogenous culture that anyone in the world can not only instantly access but also opt into wholehog without any connection to a social or musical movement against some conception of the mainstream or pop sensibility. So although indie-rock is identified with literature, critics, and art, it is in effect no different from any other permutation of pop cultural music, such as hip-hop, emo or TRL pop.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Zion I & The Grouch - Hit 'Em ft. Mistah FAB