RECAP + totally RAD mix

i'm one fourths complete with the list! this is the farthest i've gotten on any such endeavor.

recap of 100 through 76:

100. endtroducing... [dj shadow, 1996]
099. parallel lines [blondie, 1978]
098. millions now living will never die [tortoise, 1996]
097. getz / gilberto [stan getz & joão gilberto, 1964]
096. untrue [burial, 2007]
095. q: are we not men? a: we are devo! [devo, 1978]
094. blood & chocolate [elvis costello & the attractions, 1986]
093. chelsea girl [nico, 1967]
092. goat [the jesus lizard, 1991]
091. ys [[joanna newsom, 2006]
090. cosmo's factory [creedence clearwater revival, 1970]
089. pretenders [the pretenders, 1980]
088. zombie [fela kuti & afrika '70, 1977]
087. paid in full [eric b. & rakim, 1987]
086. aja [steely dan, 1977]
085. untitled (led zeppelin IV, zoso) [led zeppelin, 1971]
084. dazzle ships [orchestral manoeuvres in the dark, 1983]
083. sweetheart of the rodeo [the byrds, 1968]
082. ramones [the ramones, 1976]
081. astral weeks [van morrison, 1968]
080. ready to die [the notorious b.i.g., 1994]
079. music has the right to children [boards of canada, 1998]
078. third [portishead, 2008]
077. disintegration [the cure, 1989]
076. maggot brain [funkadelic, 1971]

breakdown by decade:

60s: 4
70s: 8
80s: 5
90s: 5
00s: 3

there is currently a five-way tie between 1968, 1971, 1977, 1978, and 1996 for most represented year with two albums each.

and, to commemorate the occasion, a totally awesome mix, with a track from each album. i tried to avoid the big hits and well-known songs for the sake of variety.

TOTALLY RAD MIX!!!!

check it out!

more power to the people! more pussy to the power! more pussy to the people! more power to the pussy!

76.





maggot brain
funkadelic [westbound, 1971]

with an acid-fried gleam in his eye and a tie-died pot, peace, and pussy manifesto, George Clinton has based a long, wild career on his bizarreness; he's pop's manic poet-shaman, a mystic starchild, reveling in earthly good times with his head in outer space. as leader of the Parliament/Funkadelic collective, he solidified the foundation of funk and blasted it off into the stratosphere, brought the grit, the dirt, the piss, and the vinegar to spotless sheen of disco, and on Maggot Brain injected an intravenous drip of soul into hard rock's clogged bloodstream. Hendrix may have rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible the year before this record was released, but Eddie Hazel proves that the electric guitar wasn't buried with him in a rapturous ten-minute solo on the title track. the origin myth dictates that Clinton told him to "play like [his] momma just died." the result is incendiary: a multi-dimensional pilgrimage through the incomprehensibly vast sprawl of space and the cruel tragedies of time. using a wah pedal and echo effects, Hazel makes the instrument scream, cry, laugh, and sigh like it never has before or since. "can you get to that" is a boot-stomping folk-soul campfire shout-along, while "hit it and quit it" and "you and your folks, me and my folks" are massive funk juggernauts fueled by a subatomic organ and flanged interstellar drums, respectively. the botched drug deal parable "super stupid" takes the Black out the Sabbath and transforms it into a bacchanal celebration, while the raucous party on "wars of armageddon" persists until daylight breaks and beyond. the cover artwork on Maggot Brain encapsulates the tone of the record: ostensibly ecstatic and celebratory, yet rooted in muck; embracing decadence and excess to rise above and not drown in its own shit.

won't you come see me? moment: "can you get to that" is one of the many songs my girlfriend has declared as her "favorite of all time." i've been trying to get her to make a top 10/20/50/100 songs list for a long time and she promises that she will someday, though i doubt that. maybe my obsessive habits will rub off?

crying for sympathy, crocodiles cry for the love of the crowd, and three cheers from everyone

77.





dis-
integration
the cure [fiction, 1989]

though he may despise and disdain the term, Robert Smith, with his pot kettle black eyeliner, moussed, tousled hair and dour almost-dopey mopiness, will always be the archetypal goth, the poster boy for bedroom gloom and overwrought, affected misery. the Cure was far from a one-trick pony with a limp, but ANGST and DEPRESSION are stamped repeatedly on the forehead of Disintegration, the crowning achievement of Smith's career. his moody contemplation and inner turmoil goes Technicolor Cinemascope on this record; the guitars, flanged and phased beyond recognition, chime and soar, the vocals and drums reverberate through the cavernous bunker of the production, while layers of synthesized strings and weeping keyboards supplement the texture. these songs are sweeping and tenaciously grandiose - stadium-sized music for sun shy shut-ins and poetry scribblers. opener "plainsong" announces the record's sound, with Smith's voice echoing desperately across the freezing Wuthering Heights moor, while the "shimmering" [definitely among the most overused words in pop criticism] bells on "pictures of you" underpin the longing of the tea-soaked madeleine cake lyrics. the straightforward, sullenly heartfelt "lovesong" is the most accessible track, while "lullaby" is the sexiest, with a near-funky stop-start rhythm, punctured guitar jabs and whispered vocals. the desolate essence of the album can found within the watery twins "prayer for rain" and "the same deep water as you:" plodding, winding requiems of remorse and reprehension. though it nearly runs out of momentum by the time the wistful pump-organ of the untitled final track materializes in the haze, Disintegration is an elegy to loneliness, a bombastic display of histrionic pomp and the uncontrollable circumstance of just feeling sad, a true fucking epic blurred by flowing tears.

i felt like i could die/it made me want to cry moment: as much as i love this record's scope, tone, sense of space, and quintessentially 80s production, i can't help but mention that i think that Smith is kind of a trite lyricist, darkening the "moon/June/spoon" tradition of simple rhyming with "eye/cry/die." as far as "mope-rock" [i hate that term] icons, he lacks the wit and self-deprecation of Morrissey and the sinister morbidity of Ian Curtis. maybe that's why i could never wholeheartedly embrace the Cure and also why they were much more popular than the Smiths or Joy Division - Smith's lyrics are broad enough to appeal to the masses.

i struggle with myself, hoping i might change a little, hoping i that i might be someone i want to be

78.





third
portishead [island, 2008]

this record is an abomination against the invisible hand of musical evolution; like a two-headed calf, a blobfish, or Andrew WK, the forces of nature dictate that it shouldn't exist. Portishead was driven to extinction by the changing cultural tides, another case of a group defined by and constricted within the context of their time - the mid '90s - and sound - "trip-hop." yet, like a lazarus taxon, on Third they rise from the ashes of obscurity with a record that captures the numbing dread and stultifying uncertainty of twenty-first century existence. Beth Gibbons is a harbinger of doom, an angel of annihilation, a priestess of post-modern anxiety; her reluctant, wounded wail radiates anguish and defeat. she quavers with trepidation on the throbbing "nylon smile," wrestles with desire on the swirling arabesque "magic doors," and confronts her debilitating self-doubt on the cathartic dirge "threads." the apocalyptic, ominous production by multi-instrumentalists Geoff Barrow and Adrian Utley complement Gibbons' laments of despair with battering ram PiL guitar abrasions on "silence," whirring Silver Apple oscillations on "we carry on" and Battle of the Bulge percussive earfuckery on the minimalist "machine gun." Gibbons finds temporary redemption in fanciful equine-derived escapism over the purring pulse of "the rip," the album's emotional focal point. Third is a disheartening, depressing, and yes, slightly melodramatic record, yet its timelessly timely lyrical concerns, the unassailable production, and Gibbons' piercing yowl dispel the foul odor left by the concept of the "comeback" and demonstrate how to gracefully embrace a new aesthetic without sounding like a hack or a has-been.

i love the aughties/statistics moment: Third is the most recently released record on the list and the only one from 2008, which was among the worst years for music this decade. fifteen of the hundred albums on this list were released in the aughties.

convoluted bitching about the "film as art" vs. "movies as entertainment" dilemma

i recently watched the above film after putting it off for a few weeks under the assumption that it would be shrill and manipulative. yes, the film ostensibly deals with a topical issue difficult to approach with grace [abortion], but it is actually more concerned with the power of solidarity and the stresses placed upon connection under the looming threat of a repressive regime. thematic concerns aside, it's a beautiful film: powerfully acted, simply written, and skillfully edited and composed with gorgeous tracking shots and painfully intense extended takes, simultaneously disturbing and eloquent. it's harrowing, it's powerful, and overwhelmingly engrossing.

so, usually after viewing a film, i check out the critical consensus via metacritic. this particular film is "universally acclaimed" with a 97 out of 100 rating. [Village Voice's J. Hoberman has the most compelling review, where he compares the film to recent Hollywood fare about the issue of pregnancy. best quote: "Otilia and Gabitia are not slangy wiseacres."] thus, the critical community has responded to the film with praise and commendation.

now, contrast the critical acclamation with metacritic's user reviews.

aside from the expected anti-intellectual mistrust of critics and bizarre French bashing, quite a few users seem to think that the film was "boring" because "nothing happens" and there's no "story" or "plot." what the fuck? did we even see the same film?

no. we didn't. i saw an elegantly constructed and riveting "film." the negative reviewers and the majority of the American public want to see a "movie" with easily discernible plot points and recognizable dramatic arcs, understandable shot-reverse-shot editing; where every scene, every shot, every line of dialogue exists only to push the "story" forward. these are the same people who say that Citizen Kane is a "stupid movie about a sled" and who think pandering bullshit like The Dark Knight is the best the cinematic world has to offer.

the idea that a film, or a television show, or a book, or a piece of music, has to be formulaic and predictable in order to be "entertaining" reflects sheer intellectual laziness, sorry. why is it so difficult to be "entertained" by being challenged, provoked, or moved, or by the appreciation of aesthetic qualities?

i've been labeled a "snob" by many people, and i suppose i am, but, damnit, why is it such a bad thing to have high standards?

[this is from last october, but for some reason i didn't post it then. HERE IT IS NOW!]

twenty-four, forty-five, sixty-ten, six, seven, fifty-six, sixty-five, forty-four, fifty-three, forty-four, seventeen, eighteen, twenty-three

79.





music has the right to children
boards of canada [warp, 1998]

puckered wallflowers and clucking seekers of "authenticity" may deride electronic music for its toot, whistle, plunk, and boom ostentatiousness and inherent artifice, but the creaky rocking-chair austerity of Boards of Canada leaves little room for the tiresome debate on musical purity. this is wispy music for decaying autumn leaves, a hushed soundtrack to the scintillating blast of white when peering out the window on Christmas morning, or a somber sonic companion piece to the blinding neon lights on an abandoned highway at three in the morning. constructed on the skeletal remains of skittish hip-hop breakbeats and a lush topsoil of woozy, warm keyboards, Music Has the Right to Children is haunted by ghosts of a technologically overwhelmed childhood: toys that yelp "i love you!" on "an eagle in your mind," distorted cassette tapes on "telephasic workshop," and the joy of voice simulation software on "the color of the fire." the abandoned in the shopping mall terror of "turquoise hexagon sun" is sabotaged by the unmitigated skee-ball exhilaration of "roygbiv." birds chirp gleefully while the synthesizer swells and gurgles during the hike in the park of "rue the whirl" and the percussion cracks and fizzles like busted boombox speakers on "pete standing alone." all the elements that make this record such a satisfying listen fuse on "aquarius," a hypnotic swirl of train-in-the-distance organ riffs, ominous trip-hop rhythms, giggling children, and a defective automated counting machine. with its speciously simplistic yet richly evocative soundscapes, Music Has the Right to Children exemplifies the gauzy grandeur and quiet power of instrumental electronic music.

in my ears and in my eyes moment: this album runs on two of my favorite themes: the overwhelming power of technology and the loss of youth and innocence and thus reminds me of two important, technology-laden locations of my childhood: Wagnalls Memorial Library in Lithopolis, Ohio, where i would borrow old, warped Scholastic VHS documentaries and book adaptions, and COSI Science Center in Columbus, which had a bubble-making machine, frightening computer set-ups about living with cerebral palsy, and an "ages of Man" exhibit with an absolutely terrifying display on the Black Death. that shit kept me awake at night.