THF: Avril Lavigne Rapping.

[ NOTE: "THF" stands for, you guessed it (or, more likely, you didn't), "Today's Headphone Fodder"—a phrase that accidentally became a standard hereabouts, but that has now stuck, & will continue on to help designate these rapid-fire, "Here's Some Music" posts. ]

It's recently tumbled into my consciousness that Avril Lavigne has a new single/video out—so, more out of morbid curiosity than anything else, I tracked it down: a subtle, soulful ditty, tastefully titled "What the Hell," which certainly doesn't include blatant endorsement of everything I find hateful (including, but not limited to, poser-punkery, product placement, "Emotion is for Losers"-itude, & autotune). In fact, after watching it, I murmured, aloud, in wonderment, "Barftacular." That is how awful it is: I was forced to come up with so barftacular a word as "barftacular" just to begin describing it. In fact, I refuse to post the video in its entirety, because it honestly just saddens me: I used to ROCK. OUT. to Avril in my single digits! Really now, lady! What the Hell happened?! (Zing!)

I mean, I suppose I should have just let sleeping traitors lie: ever since the painfully pathetic "Girlfriend" showcased her Delia's-furnished "punk princess" makeover—the most pernicious application of pink skulls this side of the Resurrection—eons from the girl who hung with sk8er bois at the mall & wore a tie with her t-shirts. (Of course, I recognize that even her tomboyishness was probably the product of corporate styling—but wouldn't you rather have a role model marketed to you in cargo pants than skimpy pink & black plaid?)

In part to eulogize that far cooler incarnation—&, moreover, because literally every time I mention this song, my conversational counterpart gawps like I'm speaking Klingon—here is Avril Lavigne rapping:

The song is called "Nobody's Fool," off her debut—&, clearly, only remotely good—album, Let Go.

[ Full disclosure: I can totally still rap the whole thing. The way my brain chooses to partition its resources is truly fascinating... ]

RIP, White Stripes.

Well, we all knew deep down this day would come. Ever since Icky Thump & embroidered suits—then a hiatus full of Raconteurs & Dead Weather, Jack White spinning ever further into full-sounding pseudoblues, until the simple days of De Stijl seemed almost out of reach—a dream upon waking—& now, it's official. As of Feb 2, 2011, the Stripes have split, so we here at my computer have decided to eulogize this long-fizzing firestorm—to recall the scratchy, scrappy excellence of a duo raised on Motown, with bar chords in their fingers & battery acid for veins.

This break is an especial bummer for me, of course—not only because I'm a big fan of the band, but because I've been one for so long. Still in single-digits, just as I was reaching the crest of my Crap Music Phase (e.g., Britney, N*Sync, Avril)—when I was on the cusp of becoming a real person—my mom & stepdad were in the process of discovering this upstart band from Detroit. Perhaps sensing my readiness to evolve out of corporate pop, they dressed me in a t-shirt with a peppermint on it & played this new music constantly in the car: quick, itchy, like it was bored with itself before it began—& I became hooked. To this day, I credit The White Stripes, White Blood Cells, & especially De Stijl with shaping my music taste—or, at the very least, informing it greatly: teaching me first & firsthand what Platonic perfection there is in the 2-minute song, the wailing guitar, the shouted lyric—simplicity, sincere & so excellent.

In that vein, here are some songs:

When I Hear My Name.

Jimmy the Exploder.

Screwdriver.

Dead Leaves & the Dirty Ground.

I'm Finding it Harder to Be a Gentleman.

Little Room.

Fell in Love With a Girl. [ NOTE: NOT the Joss Stone version. ]

Hotel Yorba.

You're Pretty Good Looking (For a Girl).

Hello Operator.

Little Bird.

Truth Doesn't Make a Noise.

Sister Do You Know My Name. [ This one might be my favorite. ]


Then, of course, comes the break—or, rather, the break-out: "Seven Nation Army"—a great song, undeniably, & therefore rightly famous, but it's still sometimes frustrating to view the band from 3l3phant on, robbed somewhat of their young garage spark. Icky Thump is especially, well, icky—not categorically, mind you: it's fine if experienced in a vacuum, but when you consider that it represents the latter canon of the band that brought you "The Big Three Killed My Baby," then Perspective, she depresses.

This is why, ultimately, as upsetting as the break-up of a band you love inevitably is, I really respect the Stripes' choice: as reiterated in their letter, they "hope that this decision isn’t met with sorrow by their fans but that it is seen as a positive move done out of respect for the art and music that the band has created." They've mustered the sense to quit while they're (more or less) ahead, to leave done what's done & trust their canonizing to our hands:

The White Stripes do not belong to Meg and Jack anymore. The White Stripes belong to you now and you can do with it whatever you want. The beauty of art and music is that it can last forever if people want it to.

Amen, utmost, ever & on. So, let's go to it.


Today's Headphone Fodder:

Apple Blossom—The White Stripes.

[ Recorded with haste, & (pseudo-)intentionally amateurish—as one ought to be, I think, when covering Mr. White. ]

This was, quite literally, the first song I ever learned to play on the guitar. Am, Dm, E (with the optional G). Plain, adorable, plain adorable—sweet but minor—never saccharine.

ALSO: for fun: The White Stripes cover "Moonage Daydream" quite well, proving themselves fantastic beyond measure.

Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot.

[ Well, apparently my resolution not to procrastinate is already done for. However, I can tally some points for my resolution to spend less time mainlining internet—or, rather, traveling & being forcibly kept from it, twitching in my sans-wireless straight jacket. However, I wrote this, so it's going up anyway. I'm being resolute, after all. ]

I'm on a bus right now, actually—New York-bound to flail a bit with old friends—but I realized that I should probably post something internet-ward, 1) because I haven't in a trillion-zillion years (finals like a Sisyphean triathlon, I swear), & 2) it's almost the New Year, & that's a time when people are supposed to publicize feelings of good cheer. So, with that in mind, here are some scattered thoughts:

—For Decorated Evergreen Day this year, I received many wondrous wonders, the most striking of which was ultimately Rat Girl, the recently published memoir by Kristin Hersh (former frontwoman of Throwing Muses, since gone solo). It's one of those books (as in, the best kind) that grabs you by the throat & shakes, made of phrases that burrow inside your brain like termites & yell, loud, until you exorcise them with your own creativity. After devouring most of it in a matter of hours, I wrote 300% more songs than I've written in the past two months combined (that is, three), & even started writing prose again—structured, personally, with intent. So, that's been beyond wonderful—feeling inspired, fingers electrified, full of fizz—& it bodes well when it comes at an ending/beginning, I think.

—Also now mine is a special edition, bound-book publication of the Inception script—which, I'm going to be honest, was one of those gifts that makes your face into a bad-smell grin: "Oh…! Thanks…! …" & even your pauses have a rising inflection. Still, after investigating it a little, I found it was actually pretty fascinating: a transcribed conversation between Nolan & his brother (who wrote the short story on which Memento was based) reveals my once-derided idol to have totally admirable intentions & right-on opinions about cinema. I meant to type up a section of it here as proof, but I just realized I left the book in Bostonia (& I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you meddling stupid-brain!). I may revisit this when I get back, though—it's definitely worth sharing. Anyhow, my point is, Happy Birthday, Jesus: I've officially forgiven one of your brethren.

—Apparently, this is a time of year when people get resolute. Here's my list (published, honestly, for my own later self-guilting more than anything else; I assume you are, at best, neutral):

• Keep up with my own writing—both this online outlet & the ramblings so recently begun.
• Stay healthy, in mind & body.
• Learn to play guitar with a pick.
• Learn to appreciate my brother's pet rat, despite its really, manifestly gross tail.
• Respond to text messages.
• Avoid oatmeal.
• Remind the people I love that I love them, because that doesn't happen nearly enough—at least in proportion to just how much they all (you all) mean.
• Use erasable writing implements until March (at least), so the last two digits of every date won't be messily crossed out. (I can Never. Remember.)

—Last night, as another sort of year-winding-down activity, I had a chance to reconnect with Childhood Friends—the kind who, though you inevitably go months without communication, having grown up & out of your neighborhood proximity, you still can fall immediately back into kinship with at the drop of a dime. One of the many topics broached—as we are Wild & Wooly Women of the World these days—was the baffling & kind of wonderful stupidity that tumbles from most people's mouths when they're trying to hit on you. Of course, I've collected a list of my favorites ("Hey, that shirt's very becoming on you. Of course, if I were on you, I'd be coming, too." B-dum-chhh!), but all of this is really just a set-up for the breathtaking realization I had just now:

That guy Dave from Slime Time Live is blessed with a plethora of the world's most beautifully disgusting pick-up lines. (You're welcome for the pictures in your brain.)

—Tonight, at midnight, I'm blowing a kiss to the sky. Feel free to catch it. [ POST SCRIPT: I'll do it at 11:11 on 1/1/11, too. ]

Happy Fuckin' New Year.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Counting Backwards—Throwing Muses.

An excellent album-opener (The Real Ramona: check it), as well as a literal description what we'll all be doing in a scant few hours (10!… 9!… 8!…). A beginning about an ending—a seething, surreal rock song—Hersh's gift to me meets my gift to you—sound's gift to everybody—like the snows of yesteryear, & Auld Lang Syne.

"But if you listen, you'll learn to hear the difference..."

Why—though no one has ever actually asked me to do so—I will always side with Brian over Amanda.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Half Jack—The Dresden Dolls.

Nostalgia; little pangs for what was. For them & for me: this song means driving in my grandparents' car, eons ago, lying down across the back seat & watching as the telephone wires squiggled & blipped against a bright blue sky.