A few years ago, some kind soul sent me the following video on my birthday—one which I now forward to anyone who may ever have expressed even passing Bowie interest, because I find it deeply excellent:
In case the Internet is malfunctioning—or if, for whatever reason, you find its 16 second length too taxing—the above is a "birthday message" from "Uncle Dave," who tells us to play this tape (mind you, this was recorded in 2002) every day, & if we do, then one of those days, it'll be our birthday. Because that is absolutely the most economical way to make use of this recording.
In short, I think it was this long since established birthday-centric lunacy that allowed me to regard the latest news in Bowiedom with little more than blind excitement: in honor of this, his 66th birthday, rather than, you know, receive gifts, Sir Stardust has decided to bestow upon us a single & corresponding video from his new surprise album, The Next Day, which is apparently coming out in March.
For those not keeping score, I would remind you that this will be Bowie's first studio effort in a decade (following 2003's Reality)—& moreover, that he stopped touring soon thereafter due to a heart attack, ultimately all but announcing his retirement from the biz. Now, though, fans (read: I) can look forward to 17 new tracks, of which the now-YouTubable "Where Are We Now?" is but one.
So of course, upon hearing the news, I exploded. Quite literally. In fact, this post is coming to you courtesy of the small piece of brainstem that managed to stay attached to the nerves responsible for puppeting my few remaining fingers. That much goes without saying. (But just in case you'd like to hear it said again, here's a link to Ye Olde "Why I Heart David Bowie" Entry.)
What's a little harder to parse is the part of me (now flung several feet from the computer, but present nonetheless) that, put bluntly, is really worried this is album is going to be bad. Or, if not categorically "bad," then just, well... Lame.
Because if the above video—which, for the record, features serial-killer-lair-style basement clutter, repeated black & white footage of Urban Ruin, & some of the most bizarre, low-budget greenscreenery this side of The Room—is anything to go by, then we may be in trouble. Indeed, it appears Bowie's aesthetic / artistic / special effects aspirations may have dead-ended in the late '90s. Plus, the song itself is nothing to write home about, per se—a rather rambly smooth jazz number over which he voice-breakingly croons what amounts to little more than a list of German landmarks (e.g., Potzdamer Platz). & moreover, I know this for a fact—that, for instance, he says "Dschungel" & not "jungle"—because every lyric appears onscreen, in time, in eroded typewriter font, like an invitation to some sort of demented, postmodern karaoke.
I mean, sure, the man is 66—the fact that he's making any more music at all is miraculous—fantabulous—a godsend—I remain, at my core, exploded (while crossing those remaining fingers with all my might, hoping that he may actually tour again...). The song really isn't bad, just somewhat low key for my taste, & at his age, I suppose, it's unfair, even unwise to expect him to be anything resembling "hip"—or, honestly, to begrudge him some slow, jazzy reminiscence of Straßes & Platzes past. You ultimately can't blame him for wanting reflect on a life lived—because really, it was a pretty bonkers life, one that probably deserves some quiet contemplation. However, the fact that he's chosen to graft his own head & that of a random mute woman onto a conjoined teddybear creature using by far the lowest quality (& therefore the most disturbing) face-warping CGI—that's something I can blame him for, right? Okay, cool. Now, to count the days until March... (!) (!!!!!!) But, in the meanwhile, Happy Birthday right back atcha, Uncle Dave. You will always & forever be my Main Man.
Today's Headphone Fodder: Every song David Bowie has ever recorded. (See Said Bowie Post for a plethora of links & recommendations.) Or, if you'd prefer things narrowed down somwhat, here are a few I've been re-(re-re-re-)playing as of late that I don't think I've hyped too much before hereabouts:
My finals playlist this past semester was weird, guys. Like, really, unrelatably weird.
I mean, sure, last winter, I managed to bring together Brahms & Demi Lovato—admittedly not the world's most readily accessible duo (though I'm now honestly trying to imagine what their collaborations would sound like). But this year, for whatever reason, things just got fundamentally, pathalogically odd. I'm talking multiple-songs-from-musicals, I-admit-to-digging-a-Ke$ha-song odd. Ah, well—the heart (that is, the caffeine-zapped fizzbrain) wants what it wants, I suppose, & these are the songs that happened to echo right across my weary synapses. (Still do, for the most part, as I hack furiously away at my thesis on these icy Bostonian shores—25 pages to go...)
I mean, I really do recommend giving them all a chance, as many are tried & true favorites (see: Pixies). But, to be fair, if you find yourself simultaneously psyched & comforted (the two essentials of any good finals music) by every single one of the songs herein, call me—I think we might be soulmates. Otherwise, pick & choose as you will from this lumpy smorgasbord of a playlist.
Oh, & as to the name: it comes from a dream I had, feverish & sleepless between bouts of paper-writing, in which I was attending a hologram lecture of some famous modernist thinker (whom I'm almost positive I made up). As he was reaching the peak of his speech, I could feel myself waking up, so I did my absolute best to hold on to what he was saying, & as soon as I opened my eyes, I rolled over & scribbled it on the back of a receipt. What I managed to get down: "a scary, changing disrapture of furor."
Does it make the tiniest bit of sense? No. "Disrapture" isn't even a word, as far as I'm aware. Nonetheless, I think it sums up a lot of my general feeling as of late—about academia, about people, about the fact that the world was supposed to end a few weeks ago but then just, you know, didn't, & another year trickled on by. So, without further ado, I bring you:
Though not a diehard Whedonite, per se, I do have fairly unflinching reverence for several of his creations (see: Firefly, Dollhouse—both of which I watched in their entirety during the week of December 10th), so when I first heard about Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog, I thought it only prudent to explore. I'll admit, I wasn't hooked upon first viewing—it seemed little niche, lopsided, over before it really began. But it's the kind of thing that grows on you, I suppose—if only because I found myself spontaneously humming this song as I trudged back & forth from the library, despite not having seen or thought about it in years (perhaps a subconscious grasping toward the villain anthems that so often sustain me in times of crisis).
I saw Rusko by accident in my freshman year of college, as the first of four openers at Proxy's first ever US show. (This was just after "Raven" had come out, hence my desire to see live electronica in the first place.) All I remember (as I was not, shall we say, in peak frame of mind at the time) is that I found his set rather boring & his hype man—whose incessant chants of "RUSKO, LET'S GO" will forever be burned into my eardrums—fundamentally annoying. So, in the years that followed, I avoided even the tracks of his recommended to me by friends, having already written him off as unremarkable. Then, a few weeks ago, I accidentally unearthed this song from the depths of my iTunes, & I fell in love. It's nice companion piece to "Biggest Monkey," which I posted back in September—somewhat more amped, but equally flush with slurred British rancor & synth-brass, & therefore rather excellent.
An oldie but goodie—that is, in the life of me. This song haunted my high school playlists, & with good reason: its rolling, wheedling orchestration, that blithely ominous chorus. It's perfect to curl up to—savoring the notion, at once comforting & damning, that the end's coming soon.
Everything sounds better sped up & punked out, says I—& Cat Stevens is no exception. I mean, sure, the original is threaded through with lovely chords, but I've always found it bit lagging, energy-wise. However, with help from my beloved MF&GG, it becomes the perfect anthem for thrashing away frustration at how hard it is to get by just upon a smile.
The Quartet—The Secret Garden. [ Note: The actual song starts about 42 seconds in. ] When I was in 7th grade, my school put on "The Secret Garden" as our winter show: I played the composite choral role of a ghost, a moving piece of ivy, & a maid with one line, of which I was impossibly proud ("Beg your pardon, Doctor—it's Ms. Winthrop, sir"—a show-stopper, I assure you). Though I'm not generally a huge fan of traditional musicals—& this one in particular is a bit odd: austere, antiquated, essentially what you might expect from a faithful adaptation of a novel written in 1910—because it entered my consciousness early, every note clangs with pleasant nostalgia. Moreover, I find this song musically delightful—its four voices intertwining, disparate lyrics overlapping, backed by orchestral surges. Also, for reasons yet unknown, I tend to sing along to it repeatedly, for hours, in times of strife. Real talk.
I posted about Diamond Rings recently, I know—but I simply can't get enough of him these days. His songs fall into one of the categories I deem ideal: Smart Dance Music—sounds that genuinely make you want to move paired with lyrics that don't make you feel guilty for knowing all of them. Especially after seeing him live a few weeks ago, I'm more committed than ever—caught up, as I was, in the catharsis of jiving, manic, sweating out academic toxins with every thump of bass.
Another old favorite—its Romanian strains chugging & asymmetric, Eugene's thickly accented lyrics wrought with hand-wringing (if, at times, ESL-ish) empathy.
Simply put, the kind of song that makes you glad music happens—that sound waves turn into songs & guitars have the capacity to wail. Doolittle will always explain my brain best.
Yep. T-Swift. Get into it. But really: this song was a staple during my final days in the Eye offices (yes, it's over—stray tear / monumental-sigh-of-relief-cum-fist-pump), & since then, I haven't been able to get it out of my head—nor have I necessarily wanted to. I honestly dig the change-up from quick-strumming guitar to crooked sways of dubsteppian synth, & as usual, Taylor's tale is woefully relatable. On that note, the music video (linked above) is priceless beyond measure—its de facto lesson: never get involved with a man in a porkpie hat & jean vest who spends most of his time standing on things he shouldn't & posing Jesus-like. That, or never dye your hair in a scrubby pink emo gradient. Works either way.
Roberts's more upbeat pop single, "Yo-Yo," made it on to my finals list from this past spring, but this semester, I've found myself drawn to this more subdued number—its slow, thick groove, its hypnotic battery of "I" statements (as the title would suggest). Though on some days I find her Kate-Bush-ian soprano flights somewhat grating, on most I find this oddly confessional track somewhat of an anthem—or, at the very least, a decent jam.
Tumbling piano riffs, tongue tripping over honest rhymes—everything I loved about "Luper" amplified tenfold. Because sure, there's something sinister to it, but also something kind of lovely.
This is one of those songs that you just hate to love—far guiltier than the traditional guilty pleasure, like when you catch yourself singing along to the at once impossibly sexist & impossibly catchy "Under My Thumb." In my mind, this song is even worse message-wise, with its apparent championing of domestic abuse & toxic jealousy—in the neighborhood of "Love the Way You Lie," but without even a modicum of self-awareness. Still, if any voice could do this conflicted masochism justice, it's Courtney Love's—scratchy & worn, tracing the words of an old factory hit & imbuing it with new, sinister significance.
Say what you will—cast your stones—but it's happening. I genuinely get a kick out of this song. Maybe it's because I find the idea of dancing to death oddly romantic; maybe I lost some small chunk of my mind in this sea of caffeine & verbiage; or maybe it's just that this fucking parasitic chorus has taken root in my brainstem I've since been unable to leech it out. But for whatever reason, I find it compelling—at least enough for a despairing 3 AM lip sync (or five).
—_—_—
Then, towards the end of the chaos, for whatever reason, I started to have a hankering exclusively for women (plus a stray Michael Stipe) singing about death & ghosts. So, though they're not officially part of the list, here's these—a post mortem / Part II, if you will:
&, last but certainly not least, a message from the man who singlehandedly got me through many a sleepless night in the final weeks of 2012—& will surely get me through many more as I barrel toward this fast-approaching January 22nd due date:
