i'm moving:

LONG LIVE THE EPHEMERAL

bye!

convoluted bitching on why i hate sports

aside from a few painful minutes of witnessing the remaining members of my once favorite band embarrass themselves in front of millions of people and a couple quick glances at the family room TV while walking to and from the bathroom and kitchen, i didn't watch any of the Super Bowl. i didn't care. i derive absolutely no pleasure from watching grown men in grotesque costumes dash around a field and crash into one another in pursuit of a unassuming leather ellipsoid. i'm being [obnoxiously] facetious, but i genuinely just don't get it. and it's not only professional football, it's the culture surrounding all competitive sports from Little League on up.

that's not to say i dislike athleticism, or even the idea of sports in general. when it's on the level of a bunch of neighborhood kids playing field baseball, a couple friends engaging in a game of PIG, or even intramural sports at a school or business, i think sports can be a great thing. like any other game - video, card, board - the function of sports at this level is to foster camaraderie; it's all about connection and the satisfaction derived from working with other people towards a common goal. and good-natured competition can be rewarding, on both a personal and social level. of course, there's the health aspect as well, playing a sport is an excellent way to stay in shape [or so i'm told]. it's when sports go beyond an excuse for a group of people to get together and have fun/exercise that they become problematic for me:

- education:

it is inherently contrary to the goal, function, and purpose of education for a school - whether it be a small high school or an enormous public university - to slavishly devote so much time, effort, and monetary resources to the maintenance and promotion of athletic programs. and while this attitude may stem from my personal experiences in high school - i consistently felt that my GRAND ACCOMPLISHMENTS as a scholar and as a member of academic teams were undervalued by the faculty and completely overshadowed by the achievements of the star school athletes - it goes beyond petty envy. the administration at my school had a "sports director" position that paid well above and beyond a tenured teacher's salary; this is analogous to university-level coaches being among the highest-paid public servants in their respective states. considering how difficult it is for teachers to make a decent living and how entry-level positions at colleges are dwindling fast, this seems like a gratuitous and baffling waste of resources. then there's the type of people who get hired as coaches, and, by extension, P.E. and health teachers. they usually have no proper educational training and no real commitment to or interest in academics. my high school's baseball coach was a truly despicable human being - and i can say that about only a small handful of people i've known in my life - who was allowed to teach a health class where he would make such claims as "women who wear revealing clothing are asking to get raped." no wonder so many girls in my class were mothers or impregnated by the time of graduation; sex education should not be ordained by such an incompetent and destructive individual. yet, he was allowed to keep his job, presumably because he brought in so many victories on the baseball diamond. [i know that was tangential, but i had to get it out!] proclaiming that athletic programs bring in money for the school reeks of stat-juking bullshit. if sporting events do turn a profit - and i'm sure they do at a college level more so than at a high school level - how much of that money is pumped back into the program? maintenance of facilities and equipment is dauntingly expensive [it was always disheartening to hear that IU spent thousands and thousands of dolla dolla bills for a new basketball stadium or whatever]. it becomes another snake-eating-itself self-perpetuating cycle. school-sponsored athletics are a blight on public resources and anathema to education.

- social value:

1. gender issues: i don't want to delve too much into gender studies, but sports encourage a culture based on antiquated heteronormative and patriarchal social values. rabble-rouser Andrea James' provocative blog entry on this subject had me, a godless constructivist, feeling like a damn reactionary, but it's rather obvious that the stereotypes and gender divides associated with sports are woefully outdated. speaking from my own experience, it's obnoxious that as a dude, heteronormative values dictate that i should actively give a fuck about Peyton Manning or Ron Artest or whoever and that NOT caring signifies wimpiness, and by implied extension, femininity.

2. faux-regionalism and rivalry: i think regionalism is awesome in general, especially in a cultural sense, and i unequivocally support any attempt to preserve it. however, the "regionalism" associated with sports culture - whether it be rivalries amongst teams, supporting the "home team," or a arena or stadium becoming an integral part of a city's image - is superficial at best. to me, regional culture is based on food, language, art, music - idiosyncratic, organically developed elements that are singular to that specific city or community. from the very little i know of the history of professional sports, before the establishment of national leagues and codification of rules and regulations associated with them, each city had its own unique way of playing. professional sports are an extension of the monoculture that developed in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

[HISTORY DEGREE TANGENT] shifts in labor [increased wages and a shorter workday led to more leisure time], the growth of the middle class, and rapid changes in technology [the telegraph and, later, the telephone] and transportation [railroads and the automobile] fostered the development of a consumerist monoculture and the industries associated with it, including professional athletics.

monoculture isn't always a terrible thing, but it's infuriating when misconstrued as regionalism. so when you go "root root root for the home team," you aren't supporting the local culture of your city or community, you're supporting a national multi-billion industry developed a little over a hundred years ago to suck up your new found wealth and leisure time, you dirty, stupid proletariat.

and rivalries between college teams are just dumb and obnoxious, sorry.

3. the spectacle of public violence: there's a lot of theory out there stating that professional sports [and violent films, viral videos, etc.] occupy the primal need/desire in the popular consciousness for ritualized, public violence. thus, it replaces human sacrifice, public executions, blood sport, gladiatorial battle, and other such lovely endeavors. this thought process assumes a very cynical, Hobbesian view of human nature, and who knows, it may be somewhat correct. and if it is, how fucking sad is it that there's still a need for this type of spectacle. look at European soccer riots or the drunk, belligerent dad getting into fights at Little League games. are people really inherently violent, irrational, stupid beings?

i know i'm firing on all cylinders here and that i'm making some rather wild, spurious arguments, so i'll end things with a little list of why part of me CAN see the appeal of competitive sports:

1. aesthetics of shape and movement: artists have known it for millennia; the human form is beautiful. yeah, bodybuilders are nasty because they don't look natural, but a well-sculpted figure is undeniably aesthetically pleasing. the body in movement is even more so. this is the appeal of a sport like boxing for me, which i can easily associate with ballet and dance [Raging Bull captures this very well]. plus, it's really fucking cool to see a person move at seemingly impossible speeds [Micheal Phelps at the Olympics, for example]. even football can be engaging on this level. an acquaintance of mine made an incredible experimental short film [that i wish i could find on the internet] based entirely on found footage of OJ Simpson making touchdowns. it was hypnotically beautiful and absolutely compelling.

2. cults of personality and the romance: some athletes are undeniably badass. Muhammad Ali is the quintessential example, but i could name several others from every sport. and some sports, baseball in particular, have a certain romantic appeal based on folkloric legends and popular myth. in some senses, Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, and even someone like Michael Jordan are just as integral to the American cultural heritage as Robert Johnson or Mark Twain or John Ford or any creator/chronicler/exemplar of the American experience.

3. camaraderie: i know i was kind of denouncing monoculture earlier, but i can certainly recognize its appeal. it plays into a fundamental desire to be a part of something bigger and grander than yourself. and when you're at a bar with your buddies downing cheap beer while cheering on your favorite team on the big screen TV, you're connecting to an intangible sentiment that unites you with hundreds, thousands, or millions of other people. it would take a real asshole to find fault in that.

now i'm not a neurotic or my business spasmodic, and my only excuse is: everything comes from chaos

71.

colossal youth
young marble giants [rough trade, 1980]

if punk was a reaction to the gaudy ostentation of popular music in the 1970s - the soppy hoariness of AM radio, the overwrought bombast of the stadium, and the coked-out decadent sheen of the discotheque - this record may be the purest example of the counter-mainstream D.I.Y. approach punk suggested. recorded cheaply, all first takes and few overdubs, and released on a then-unknown independent label, Colossal Youth opts for stark minimalism over grandiosity, reflective contemplation over brash confrontation. this is unmistakably a catchy, accessible pop record, yet its tenor is foreign, unfamiliar, and defiantly singular. whereas points of reference Suicide and Silver Apples were noisy, if not hostile, Young Marble Giants are somber, quiet, and as austere as an abandoned bunker or a desolate provincial cemetery. even within the context of an era that abounded in creativity, Colossal Youth is genuinely sui generis. the structural components are consistent throughout the record: the jaunty, punctured throb of a bass, the ghostly lub-dub of a primitive drum machine, the twang and scratch of a Rickenbacker, the carnivalesque drone of a homemade synthesizer, and the deadpan near-monotone drawl of vocalist Alison Statton. just as important are the gaps, the spaces, the reverberations; Young Marble Giants aren't hoarders of sounds and Colossal Youth is as uncluttered as an obsessive compulsive's desktop, creating a near-claustrophobic tone of immediacy. the record has many revelatory moments, from the corroding calliope swirl of "the man amplifier" and the slasher film build-up of "n.i.t.a." to the sardonic, ennui-ridden bourgeois critique of "eating noddemix" and the aching poignancy of "salad days." however, the highlight - and the most pristine distillation of the record's minimalistic aesthetic - is opener "searching for mr. right," which contains Statton's most elegiac vocal melody. though it may bear little sonic similarity to the majority of British punk, Colossal Youth is a quintessential illustration of the true mission of the movement: allowing disaffected, disillusioned youths and weirdos across the nation the opportunity to create distinctive, engaging, gorgeous music.

burn out, rather than fade away moment: aside from a collection of early singles, and an EP released before their disbandment, Colossal Youth is the only Young Marble Giants record. this, of course, adds to its mystique. incidentally, it was one of Kurt Cobain's favorites and Nirvana planned to cover "credit in the straight world;" Hole ended up doing so, rather horribly, on Live Through This.

give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld, so i can sigh eternally

72.





in utero
nirvana [dgc, 1993]

this is the sound of mental collapse and caged dog desperation; after the unbridled success of Nevermind, the boomer critical establishment - and millions of adoring fans - foisted the world onto Kurt Cobain's back. he was the Savior, the Voice, the Icon, the counter Jon Bon Jovi and Nirvana was the ferociously "authenic" antidote to the bloated excesses of hair metal, obliterating crass, teased-hair insincerity with righteous punk indignation. In Utero is the intrepid response to all the unwanted adulation, noisily confrontational and as caustic as a beaker of hydrochloric acid funneled down the gullet. the Freudian fury of rumbling opener "serve the servants" scorches the earth for the bulldozing "scentless apprentice" where Cobain massacres his throat over blitzkrieg guitar and Dave Grohl's panzer drums. the "loud-soft" dynamics of "heart-shaped box" and the sly allusion to "smells like teen spirit" on "rape me" acknowledge Nirvana's past before staggering off into more ominous territory, while Cobain self-deprecatingly equates his mental state to that of a deranged film starlet on "frances farmer will have her revenge on seattle." the eye of the hurricane quiet of the precocious "dumb" and the bittersweet "pennyroyal tea" counteract the sonic assault of the ironically titled "radio friendly unit shifter" and the unapologetic squall of "tourette's." "milk it" is the record's highpoint; a maelstrom of grotesque lyrics, schizophrenic guitar, mastodon-sized drums, and a creeping sense of impending doom. in the wake of Cobain's suicide, closer "all apologies" has become an elegy, and indeed the closing lyrical round of "all in all is all we are" [perhaps appropriately misconstrued as "all alone is all we are"] achieves a wistful aura of corporeal finality. this is an idiosyncratic record, off-putting and charming, defiant and droll, and an effective demonstration of why Nirvana is such a universally beloved band, regardless of critical hyperbole and misapplication.

teenage angst has paid off well, now i'm bored and old momenet: hi, yeah, i'm back. due to a computer death, multiple distractions, and my inability to complete any list-based project i start, i know it's been awhile [cue Staind song]. also, i was reluctant to write this entry. it's difficult to approach a group as "universally beloved" as Nirvana, and i didn't want to fall too much into the pitfall of focusing extensively on Cobain's death. it probably shouldn't have taken me three months to get around to it, but, oh well. i AM going to finish this project. even it takes years, damnit.

i'm a thief and i dig it! i'm on a beef, i'm gonna rig it! i'm a thief and i dig it!

73.





the band
the band [capitol, 1969]

in apposite response to the wayward discord and unchecked chaos of the 'Nam era, maple-slurpin' Canadian Robbie Robertson and his Band of merry musicians scour America's past for inspiration, seeking the source of the turbulence; the origin of the discontent; the genesis of a musical heritage that stretches back to the mountains and the fields, parlors and playhouses; the roots. this is a Bande à part backstroking against mainstream currents, a group of self-aware hipsters shucking off flower-power head-trips for headlong excursions into the dark recesses of history; this self-titled record captures them at the pinnacle of their prowess. "across the great divide" is a woozy, boozy morning-after lover's lament fueled by Levon Helm's street-corner stomp, while Rick Danko's hell-raising fiddle on "rag mama rag" threatens to set the hay on fire during a barn dance. Garth Hudson's lantern-in-the-distance Clara Barton organ hovers over the opium-addled narrator on "when you awake," while Richard Manuel's barrelhouse piano gets kicked out of the saloon on "look out cleveland." with Manuel's distraught quiver and downcast, brokenhearted lyrics, "whispering pines" is the record's emotional zenith, branching out from the rollicking, drunken ruckus of "up on cripple creek," on which Hudson's Clavinette filters through a wah-pedal for that funky bayou croak later copped by Stevie Wonder. though the old folks' home creak of "rockin' chair" comes across as patronizing, the Band's obsession with the arcane is justified by the Dust Bowl fury of "king harvest (has surely come)" and the mournful Confederate elegy of "the night they drove old dixie down," which may be the fullest realization of their sepia-toned modus operandi. with shrugged-off, nonchalant virtuosity and expertly-forged, timeless songs that would make Stephen Foster blush, The Band excavates the ghosts of the past to critique the present, setting a precedent for the disillusioned and disaffected to, for better or worse, look backwards instead of treading forwards.

you talkin' to me? moment: The Last Waltz is known as the best concert film ever for many reasons - Martin Scorsese's direction [and by extension, Thelma Schoonmaker's incomparable editing], a groggy, elusive Dylan, Neil Young with blow stuck in his nostrils - but, i was impressed by just how badass the dudes in the Band dressed and acted. they were unflappable musicians, but they knew how to rock a fedora and three-piece.

i've seen your drugs and they don't look so good, suck the jaws like i wish you would

74.





you forgot it in people
broken social scene [arts & crafts / paper bag, 2002]

stylistic synthesis and grab bag eclecticism run rampant through the bushy fields of aughties indie-rock, as does the musical entity known as the "collective," an amorphous, ever-shifting conglomerate of like-minded musicians. Broken Social Scene co-founders and permanent members Kevin Drew and Brenden Canning aren't savants or savages; they're alchemists, turning the unprocessed ore of impromptu jam sessions with whoever happens to be in the studio into glittering pop gold. You Forgot It in People zigzags like an intestinal tract; it's a prodigiously diverse record with unexpected aesthetic detours down unexplored avenues. the spasmodic, herky-jerky pyrotechnics of "almost crimes" crash into the heavy-lidded hash brownie daydream of "looks just like the sun" which melts into the sun-kissed bossa nova of "pacific theme." the album is full of dazzling flourishes - the "tighten up" handclaps on "stars and sons" or Emily Haines' unsettling, broken robot vocals on "anthems for a seventeen year-old girl" - that elevate the songs above the humdrum monotony of guitar-based indie. "cause = time" may be the record's most reductive track, but it's also the most rousing - a shout-along, anti-media, anti-clerical anthem with glass smashing agent provocateur guitar freak-outs. "lover's spit" is a grandstanding, weepy Bryan Adams ballad filtered through poised detachment and winking irony, while the drum brushes and fragile guitar picking on "i'm still your fag" and the aching strings on ambient closer "pitter patter goes my heart" conclude the jamboree on a somber, quiet tone. by allowing contributions from a wide variety of individuals, You Forgot It in People achieves a sort of scattershot, paradoxical transcendence; it's sweepingly grandiose yet serenely tranquil, messily chaotic yet surprisingly cohesive, a celebration of the power of camaraderie and collaboration.

stephen dreams of pavement (another day) moment: Broken Social Scene's set at Lollapalooza in 2006 may just be the best concert i've ever witnessed. the crowd was relatively small, but completely engrossed. the band, then around ten members, was energetic and fun. and, because many of the other bands in the BSS periphery were also playing the festival, most of the guest vocalists - Feist, Emily Haines, etc. - appeared on stage. they played again in 2008, but it just wasn't the same.

do ya feel it when ya touch me? do ya feel it when ya TOUCH me?

75.





fun house
the stooges [elektra, 1970]

lock up your daughters, stash away the drugs, and pour out the booze, Iggy Pop né Stooge né James Osterberg is out of his mind on a Saturday night. he's the unhinged, wild id; a spewing, blood-spurting hot mess; the puck-like prophet of punk; an unruly lunatic throwing punches and pissing his pants in the backseat of a cop car. the Stooges outstripped, outshone, and upstaged every ragged group of no-gooders and long-hairs bangin' on three chords in garages and dimly lit bars across the country; Fun House is evidence of their dominance, a whirling dust devil of sound and fury. the blazing heat from Ron Asheton's ferocious electric storm guitar could melt glaciers, while Dave Alexander and Scott Asheton pulverize the rhythm into a bloody pulp. then, of course, there's Iggy, the preacher from Hell espousing the sins of flesh, wailing above the clangor, fighting to be heard. the clanging stomp of "down in the street" scrounges the gutter for dropped change and revels in the depravity of the puke-stained pavement, while Iggy growls and Ron's guitar howls on the gigolo blues meltdown of "loose." "tv eye" is stalker-dodging, alley-hopping amphetamine paranoia, while the "troglodyte groove" of slow-burning monster "dirt" hypnotizes its prey before pouncing at the jugular. Steve Mackay's bleating, lecherous saxophone bulldozes into the mix during the eviscerating finale of "1970" and refuses to leave the party during the shit-faced stomp of the title track. the revelry concludes with "l.a. blues," a formless cacophony of noise and indignation. primal, urgent, and savage, Fun House eschews the fat, the padding, and the bullshit, targets the viscera and exposes the bleeding, palpitating core of what made rock n' roll so fucking subversive in the first place - threatening, sexual raw power.


street walkin' cheetah with a heart full of napalm moment: not to detract from its glory, but fun house is really the best Stooges record by default. their self-titled debut has a few incendiary tracks, but is littered with throwaways and the plodding dirge of "we will fall." the otherwise incredible raw power is plagued by production quality issues: the original Bowie mix is muddy and dull and Pop own 1997 remaster is just too fucking loud and clipped. if a decent-sounding mix was ever released, it would fight with fun house for the prime spot.

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.

i got my honey on the amtrak with the crack in the crack of her ass

80.





ready to die
the notorious b.i.g. [bad boy, 1994]

the leering specter of Thanatos loomed larged over Christopher Wallace; Glock under the pillow paranoia, disenfranchised cynicism, and self-fulfilling death-drive prophecy dominate his recorded output as the Notorious B.I.G. plagued by inner turmoil, operating against the harsh socioeconomic realities of his upbringing, and driven by a vindictive desire to undermine his naysayers, Biggie squashed the competition with unmatched lyrical dexterity, vivid, semi-autobiographical narratives, and seemingly unrepentant immorality. Ready to Die is an archetypal, self-aggrandizing debut rap record, functioning on dichotomous mythological themes: birth and death, defeat and triumph, love and hatred, sin and punishment. Big epitomizes self-contradiction; he's a gleefully gun-toting sociopath on "gimme the loot" and a recklessly misogynistic Lothario on "big poppa," yet full of lament and remorse on "things done changed" and histrionic self-hatred on "suicidal thoughts," where he describes himself as a "piece of shit." his cleverness is disarming; puns, self-deprecation, and wordplay help elevate the tales of debauchery and debasement, murder and mayhem from violent smut to lucid street poetry. the unobtrusive production, mainly by Puff Daddy and Easy Mo Bee, either revels in decadent soul samples or skitters by with hard-edged percussion, depending on the tenor of the rhymes. "juicy" is the record's definitive moment, a rags-to-riches story full of bravado and wit, detailing Big's ascension from disillusioned petty thug to the unquestioned Don of hip-hop. though gratingly obnoxious and unnecessarily crude skits impede its intensity, Ready to Die is not only a nihilistic piss-take on the American Dream, an unflinchingly harsh depiction of the struggle to achieve power and success in the face of despair, but also a portal into the twisted psyche of a troubled, complex personality.

my double, my brother moment: i always thought that there was a guest rapper on "gimme the loot." apparently, the "guest" is Biggie himself, using a higher-pitched voice. the only "real" guest rapper on the album is Method Man on "the what."

every every EVERY time i try to speak, my tongue gets tied

81.





astral weeks
van morrison [warner brothers, 1968]

ephemerality is bittersweet; the insatiable longing for the past, for the innocence of youth, for before the heartbreaking realization that the world is rotten, erratic, and cruel, is a constant wellspring of inspiration for starry-eyed romantics everywhere. like the wispy seeds of a dandelion floating across the breeze, the fluorescent dance of fireflies, or the comforting cacophony of crickets, Astral Weeks evokes humid summer evenings of years irrevocably lost. Van Morrison reaches deep into his childhood and adolescence, swells up with half-remembered, half-dreamt memories and bursts with yearning. this is impressionistic, aqueous music; it ebbs, flows, cascades, and recedes, enthusiastically building up with anticipatory crescendo then slowing reeling down in hesitant decrescendo. Morrison gave the musicians little direction, telling them only to follow his lead and play how they felt; indeed, the record sounds "organic," stemming from the source like twisting brambles. the strings gently climb and ascend on the title track and then come crashing down in a torrential downpour on "sweet thing," while the horns explode in rapturous ecstasy on "the way young lovers do." if Van isn't moaning, sighing, or belting lyrics about the "viaducts of your dreams," sleepy car rides down suburban lanes, or tragic transvestites, his voice gesticulates with broken syllables and wordless improvisation, like a wounded cherub or an uproarious drunk. Astral Weeks is a sweeping, grandiose record, encompassing forlorn tragedy and earthy sensuality, a spelunking journey down the caverns of memory in search of lost time; few records are as recklessly imaginative or as ruefully spiritual.

slow burner moment: i received Astral Weeks as a Christmas present when i was thirteen or fourteen; at the time i was burning through the established canon like ravenous raccoon. it literally made me fall asleep the first few times i tried to listen to it. however, as i grew older i began to appreciate it more. in fact, when listening to it again for the purposes of this project, i realized that i definitely should have ranked it higher, much higher, actually. like, top thirty. so, first official SHOULD BE HIGHER designation from the listmaker himself.

second verse same as the first

82.





ramones
the ramones [sire, 1976]

armed with four chords and an irreverent attitude, four tough-looking dorks from Queens bludgeon the bloated pretensions and self-important grandeur of mid-70s rock, spark a still-resonating musical revolution, and alter the pop landscape forever! the mythology has become ingrained in the popular consciousness; it's a classic David v. Goliath underdog story. by stripping the sleazy glam of Bolan and the New York Dolls of its libido, speeding it up, and mainlining a healthy dose of girl-group pop sensibility and straight-out-of-the-garage fervor, the Ramones forged the template for punk rock: unlearned, untamed, RAW. their debut album is an exercise in economy and brevity: fourteen songs with unwaveringly similar structures in a half hour. Joey barks lyrics about glue sniffing, child abuse, and not wanting to go down to the basement/walk around with you while Johnny shreds furiously like a screaming wood chipper. the rhythm section - Dee Dee's pulsating bass and Tommy's pounding drums - socks you in the gut, steals your wallet, and leaves you to rot in the gutter. however, for all its unhinged ferocity, Ramones is more dopey and bashful than grumpy; "i wanna be your boyfriend" wallows in saccharine, and "Havana affair" and "today your love, tomorrow the world," flippant, politically incorrect send-ups of the Bay of Pigs invasion and Nazi Germany, revel in camp mockery. "53rd and 3rd," a tribute to the street corner where Dee Dee would whore himself out for drug money, is perhaps the Ramones' darkest, most disheartening track, even if it abides by the restrictions of the formula. with its obsession with trash culture, cheap thrills and cheaper drugs, and unrelenting ennui towards the musical and political establishment, Ramones distills the attitudes of disenfranchised, disillusioned post-hippie youth culture.

D.A. Pennebaker moment: Ramones: Raw is probably the most gratuitous example of a shrill, lazily-edited fly-on-the-wall band documentary. instead of providing compelling insight into the band, it just presents them [mainly replacement drummer Marky] as obnoxious, self-obsessed idiots. it is literally painful to watch.

in south carolina there are many tall pines, i remember the oak tree that we used to climb

83.





sweetheart of the rodeo
the byrds [columbia, 1968]

country music is the antithesis of "hip:" rural and reactionary; inherently suspicious of all things new, urban, and youthful; unapologetically banal, from the trite, mawkish lyrics to the cornball cowboy hat showmanship borrowed from vaudeville. thus, when the Byrds traded in their chiming Rickenbackers for the rickety lilt of a dobro, the pulsating folk-rock throb for a languid clippity-clop, ponderous drug-induced existential dread for cloying, unaffected schmaltz, it marked an audacious and potentially divisive aesthetic shift. thank Gram Parsons, the yearning wunderkind with a death-drive gleam in his eye and megalomaniacal ambition that sensed something magnificent and quintessentially American in a style of music that most in the rock community emphatically dismissed. Sweetheart of the Rodeo is a joyous, spirited record, punch-drunk off the simple pleasures of the simple songs. bookended by two Dylan covers, the raucous, celebratory tribute to mail-order brides "you ain't goin' nowhere" and the bread-line ballad "nothing was delivered," the album runs through a gamut of country styles, from the po' boy Woody Guthrie shuffle of "pretty boy floyd" to the white-boy gospel of the Louvin Brothers' "the Christian life." the record's highlight is the tear-in-the-beer Gram Parsons original, "hickory wind," a wistful, sad-sack ode to lost youth and corrupted innocence. Sweetheart of the Rodeo is unprecedented in its un-ironic embrace of a style of music most of the Byrds' contemporaries avoided like a drunk leper - especially in the midst of a hostile culture war - and still unsurpassed in its rambunctious jocularity and unexpected profundity; it may be a lighthearted record, but it reveals more about the American experience than most of the horribly dated, pretentious hippie drivel released the same year.

dance the chicken reel moment: the Byrds appeared on the Grand Ole' Opry in Nashville to promote this record. those in charge were suspicious of allowing "long-hairs" to perform on the vaunted stage, and when Parsons ripped into "hickory wind" instead of the announced Merle Haggard cover, it firmly "pissed off the Nashville establishment." so much for winning favor with the yokels!

changing, designing, adapting our mentalities, improving our abilities for a better way of life!

84.





dazzle ships
orchestral manoeuvres in the dark [telegraph, 1983]

from the Paleolithic Age to the digital age, from chipped flint to microchips, technology and history have been inextricably linked, bound together in mutual causality. in simplified terms, social, political, and economic developments lead to new technologies lead to social, political, and economic developments; it's the mechanism that fuels the grand historical narrative of "progress." released near the whimpering conclusion of the Cold War, Dazzle Ships explores the utopian promises and the dystopian realities offered by the perpetual love affair between history and technology. it's a remarkably forward-thinking record, peppered with snippets of "found sound" - robotic toys, automated telephone messages, newscasters reporting atrocities in an impassive deadpan - that predict not only the experimental moments of major twenty-first century recording artists but also the inexplicable loneliness of hyper-connected techno-post-modern society. it's a rather dour affair; the tracks alternate between downtrodden, shimmering synth-pop ballads like the sighing "silent running," and more abstracted musique concrète sound collages. the few uptempo songs, like the effervescent, Brave New World-evoking "genetic engineering," are laced with gloom or smirking irony. in the face of a technologically overwhelmed future, a strong half-sentimental, half-mocking nostalgia for the archaic and the arcane permeates through the album, from its title and other World War II allusions to the metaphorical references to dead or dying forms of technology - radio and the telegraph. it may not be as accessible as OMD's other material, but Dazzle Ships is a complex, innovative record illuminating the tension between the past and future, technological progress and social stagnation, man and machine.


techno-kitsch moment: though this album was panned by critics and shunned by the record-buying public when it was first released - it's considered one of the most notorious "flops" in British pop - a recent reissue has led to critical re-evaluation. Pitchfork's Tom Ewing, one of their best writers, wrote that Dazzle Ships is a more pleasurable album now than in 1983 because the then bizarre, "futuristic" use of electronic voices and instruments has become kitsch and comforting, like playing a game on the NES. i don't agree necessarily, but it's an interesting theory.

and baby, baby, BABY, do you liiiiike it?

85.





untitled [led zeppelin iv, zoso, etc.]
led zeppelin [atlantic, 1971]

the most obvious and reductive utility of music is escapism, a means by which to elevate above the mundane triviality of humdrum everyday existence. so why not escape to a world of easy women, Biblical floods, Stonehenge, and fucking Ringwraiths? Led Zeppelin tapped the vein that leads to every adolescent boy's heart; they exemplified the "sex, drugs, and rock n' roll" mythos, but they were total dorks obsessed with blues records and Tolkien. yes, all the aspects that make Zep an easy-to-loathe target of anti-rockist revisionists glare on this record - the asinine, self-consciously "poetic" lyrics, the bloated studio gimmickry, the unambiguous pillaging of the blues - and most of the tracks are victims of the classic rock radio massacre, but, you know what, anyone who doesn't flail around maniacally as soon as John Bonham's massive drums announce the orgasmic final verse of "stairway to heaven" is probably trying too hard. the multi-tracked blues-on-creatine of "black dog" leaves a trail of sleaze, and the fuck-all abandonment of "rock and roll" treads close to redemption. "four sticks" is savage funk with a fuzzed-out Moog solo, while "misty mountain hop" swaggers by with odd syncopation. the record's two mandolin-driven tracks, "the battle of Evermore" - with guest vocalist Sandy Denny - and "going to California" are ruefully unsettling and mournfully uplifting respectively. the finale cover of Memphis Minnie's "when the levee breaks" is a town-destroying tidal wave of studio effects and earthquake drums. IV is the definitive Led Zeppelin album because it encapsulates their over-sized, ridiculous essence: half bombast, half fantasy, all majestic and exhilaratingly romantic.

killa bees sold fifty gold sixty platinum moment: apparently this is third best selling album of all time in the United States, after Thriller and the fucking Eagles. but, obviously, record sales aren't an accurate measure of a record's aesthetic quality because, you know, people are stupid. only two other albums on this list of best-sellers appear on mine. WHAT COULD THEY BE?

i crawl like a viper through these suburban streets, make love to these women, languid and bittersweet

86.





aja
steely dan [mca, 1977]

the silky-smooth jazz arrangements and lush, crisp production are often misconstrued as signs of effete wimpiness, but Steely Dan isn't all cocaine and caviar with Christopher Cross in a yacht off the coast of California; wry, detached cynicism and subversive contrarianism emanate from their records. popular lore paints Donald Fagen and Walter Becker as unrepentant perfectionists, wary of mainstream trends and defiantly operating in the idioms of jazz and classic pop. Aja is a quintessential example of their mastery of sound and studio; the production is intricately textured and luxuriant, a bonsai garden of carefully tended notes and tones. the chordal progressions are unpredictable, sometimes bizarre, and the solos - usually by renowned studio musicians - abound in nonchalant virtuosity. the Hawaiian wind title track is a winding, intricate showstopper concluding with a cascading drum attack, while "peg" coasts in on its easy accessibility and then confounds with its mocking Michael McDonald backing vocals and an earworm trumpet riff. "black cow" is sardonic, crystalline funk, and the Odyssey-inspired "home at last" riddles with mellifluous synthesizers. the album's highlight is "deacon blues," a melancholically derisive ode to youthful, conquer-the-world naïveté. this is the record where all the elements that define Steely Dan consolidate, and the remarkable attention to sonic detail controverts any disparaging, milquetoast label: soft rock, jazz-rock, yacht rock, whatever.

daisy age moment: several tracks from this album have been sampled in rap songs, but the most charming example is still de la soul's "eye know," which takes takes that aforementioned trumpet riff from "peg" and skedaddles with it.