THF: Alors on est épris (AKA, Let's Talk About Stromae).

New year, new "actually write anything ever" resolution, newfound unemployment—&, alongside it all, a new all-consuming musical fixation.

Or, well, not so much "new" as "rediscovered": If you were 20s-adjacent in 2010 & happened to have ears at the time, you likely remember "Alors on danse," the chart-shatteringly infectious rap-electronica single that you might not have entirely understood in its fast-mumble français, but you certainly knew the eponymous chorus—& to jump up & down like a fiend at the siren-like electro-sax riff that followed. Perhaps you also have some memory of the (dear God so good-looking) star of its viral split-screen video—but if you're like me, you didn't know his name, or really care to know, or give much thought at all to whether his career would progress past that sole explosive multi-national hit.

Well, far from supernova-ing his way into oblivion, Belgian artist Stromae (verlan for "maestro") has apparently been steadily producing music since—&, surprise, he's nothing short of fabulous. Each track is both relentlessly clever & eminently danceable, a personal favorite combo of mine. They also tend subtly toward the theatrical, as he sings from the point of view of various characters, a practice I've been known to find fun.

True, some of the appeal (specifically, the omnipresent wordplay) may get lost in translation for those not Frenchly inclined, but I'd like to think that the sonic thralls—& his freaking gorgeous face the visual spectacle of the videos, several of which include English subtitles—can make up for it, at least in part.

Below are my three current "listen on repeat-repeat-repeat" picks—though I do highly recommend all of his most recent album "Racine Carrée" ("Square Root"). & also, y'know, maybe one more play-through of "Alors on danse," just for old times' sake. It really is an excellent young-professional anthem, perfect for the midwinter trudge-to-work blues—& more importantly, for the hazy limb-thrash sessions that inevitably follow.

"Tous les mêmes" ("All the Same").

My Stromae binge began with the above video, which I clocked instantly as "one of the more brilliant uses of the 'half-femme' face I've seen in quite some time," a statement I happily stand by. The song, which is written primarily from the perspective of a woman to her boyfriend, is essentially a run-down of Major Gender Stereotypes: Men are unfaithful, superficial louts who are "always there to make [children] but never to raise them," while women are hormonal head-game-players whose aggression thinly veils a Kate Moss insecurity complex. See: a version with English subtitles (also preceded by several minutes of him being adorable in a gondola):

Sure, on its face, the concept risks a sense of been-there banality—but the fact that Stromae & his bevy of asymmetrically-coiffed dancers play both roles, I think, adds an extra layer: the idea that for all their gendering blame & complaints, these men & women are ultimately tous les mêmes, if only in tediousness. 

Also, perhaps most importantly, are you kidding me with that post-chorus horn riff. I have committed many an embarrassing subway / elevator / down-the-sidewalk dance in the few weeks this song has graced my headphones, physically incapable of not dipping & swaying with each punch of brass. 

"Formidable" ("Wonderful").

Slightly slower but nonetheless sway-worthy, piano-backed "Formidable" takes the form of a recent dumpee's drunken rant—&, delightfully, so does its video. Hidden cameras capture the singer stumbling around a Brussels intersection, umbrellaless on a rainy weekday morning, alternately shouting spurts of lyrics & sitting slumped on the curb. Passersby pop out cell-phone cams, police approach to ask if he's had a "rough night"—it's a masterpiece of method acting-cum-media trolling. Plus, I'd be remiss if I didn't call out the rhyme-y cleverness of the chorus: Tu étais formdiable / j'étais fort minable (You were wonderful / I was so pathetic). I'm such a sucker for turns of phrase.

"Carmen."

"Carmen" is, like it sounds, a riff on Bizet's opera of the same name—specifically, its most famous aria—though in this case, instead of comparing love to any old bird, l'amour est comme l'oiseau de Twitter. Yes, Stromae is calling out the site's winged logo, & with it, the potential slip into social superficiality that accompanies the rise of Social Media—the danger of a genuine "coup de foudre" being replaced by coups de hashtag. Lest the term "fucking genius" seem a bit much, for those not so sprung as I, I'll just point out the alliterative syllables tripping over jaunty cello & tightly wound beats, the savvy hip-hop-ification of high art—AKA, yes, please. 

See also: this recent live version, in which he sports a bowler hat & dances just so right, strolling dandyish with his cane-like partial mic stand, shoulders hunching hard with each speaker-testing bass throb, his movements mimicked by a grid of video projections behind him:

Ladies & gentlemen, I rest my case.

THF: How Paris Hilton's New Single Changed My Life.

You guys, something really important happened.

Like, really, really important.

Paris Hilton came out with a new single called "Drunk Text," & it is AMAZING.

I'm not kidding. I am being in no way sarcastic, ironic, or otherwise insincere. I do, in fact, mean that when I hear these three-plus minutes of Paris Hilton talking—just talking—over that kind of inconsequential, blippy techno that sounds like champagne bubbles popping, I feel nothing but profound & utter amazement. Even awe. It is awesome, in the original sense of the term.

Because what she has created (or—well—it's "Manufactured Superstars feat. Paris Hilton," & we are talking about Paris fucking Hilton here—so, clearly, "what's been created for her & what she has brought to life, &/or its most beautifully blasée semblance")—is pure goddamn crazypants gold.

I'm actually at a loss as to how to give verbal justice to the unadulterated, spastic glee I feel upon hearing the life-summational first lyric—"I went out to the club the other night... To... You know... [ Pregnant pause... ] Dance with my bitches..."—or the line that now dictates the only way I will ever accept a drink, ever—"He hands me another shot of vodka, & I say... [ Pregnant pause... ] Sure."

Especially notable are the lines of batshit Xanga-meets-thesaurus glory—e.g., "In my head, I was writing a fiction of us / Behind my eyes, I was begging for things my lips could never ask / But my mouth kept pouring desperate clauses of random intent"—& that unforgettable lesson in portmanteaus: "You take the word 'sex' & mix it with 'texting' / It's called 'sexting' / When you add 'drunk sexting'? / Words just don't make any sense..."—all tumbled through the deliciously slack emptiness of her voice, that singular perpetual nasal sigh, the original & ultimate "Look at all the fucks I give!"

"...No one is safe in the Twittersphere anymore..."—"...It's a hot mess of misspelled obscenities..."—"...& I'll be damned if I end up in some lame diner after this, last night's lingerie in my purse..."—Every line in this song is a revelation.

Honestly, the closest explanation-slash-metaphor I can come up with is: if one of those 800-person K-Pop bands were to do a cover of a Slipknot song, the video for which was a technicolor re-rendering of Maru the cat clips played backwards. That is how I feel when I listen to "Drunk Text": like I'm on an impressive amount of the world's most beautiful acid. But, like, an acid martini, quaffed while wearing false eyelashes & very high heels & scoffing a lot.

It's fucking transcendent is what it is. I really can't stop playing it—nor do I want to.

You know what? Just watch the video. Experience it for yourself, pretty please—& if for whatever reason you don't glean the absolute & utter soul-bursting joy from it that I do, all I can say is, "Sorry... It was just a Drunk Text."

THF: Kim Deal Meets Eraserhead.

So, I know it seems like I've been slacking somewhat on my "write more" resolution, having gone AWOL over a week at this point—but, in fact, I've been writing a sickening, daunting, patently hateful amount... of e-mail. Indeed, this is the one potential downside of my otherwise lovely & exciting new position as managing editor of Columbia's (brilliant, indubitable) arts & features magazine, The Eye: the necessary parameters of the post are such that, as I've taken to describing it, were GMail rendered real, my life would resemble that scene from the first Harry Potter movie, when all the thousands of letters are pouring in through the Dursleys' fireplace—except, instead of jumping & giggling like a cracked-out Carebear, I'm huddled in the fetal position, quietly weeping, until the swamp of envelopes swallows me whole. (Or, you know, just making the face Aunt Petunia's making.)

My point is, I'm still getting used to this new influx of textual responsibility—still figuring how best to juggle many the balls unceasingly catapulted in my general direction—so, for today, it's going to have to be quick, which means some more music.

Still, I'm confident that this offering is pretty excellent—especially for movie nerds & Pixies fans. (& honestly, if you're neither, I suggest seriously examining your life choices.) In short & in sweet, welcome to Kim Deal, backed by her original band, crooning away to "In Heaven," the song sung by the Lady in the Radiator from David Lynch's Eraserhead.

Her version is softer than another I have, where Frank Black takes up lead vocals—found, if I'm not mistaken, on the band's Complete B Sides collection. Where Black grates & surges, Deal remains subdued—only slightly flubbing the lyrics, just enough to be charming. Meanwhile, the persistent thrum of her bassline entwines effortlessly with the quiet pull of the guitar, tap-tap of the cymbals—soft & lovely & only a little terrifying, much like the best of things.

THF: Kitchen Dancing With "Honey Bunny."

Okay, to be fair, I came across this song on Hypem.com's Music Blog Zeitgeist of 2011, so there is every chance that I am literally the last person in the Western hemisphere to have heard it, let alone to spout some online commentary thereupon.

However, what I will say is, while doing dishes in my pajamas earlier this evening, idly listening to Hypem's most-blogged artist countdown, I was struck by this song—"Honey Bunny" by painfully hip(ster) pop-rock outfit Girls—so much so that I ended up dancing in soap-splattering circles in front of my kitchen's large picture windows, grinning like a loon.

There's just something about the pounding snare-cymbal pickup of the multivoice chorus: They don't like my bony body / they don't like my dirty hair...

Because, though I don't have a particularly bony body & would hope that my hair smells, at least not infrequently, like Garnier's interpretation of flowers—nor, indeed, do I tend to go for men in bellyshirts who try to pick up women from inside their convertibles & hold band practice in the woods—I can't help but jive with a song that takes that brand of omnipresent romantic self-consciousness & turns it into a defiantly upbeat sing-along. Aggravating Hipstamatic sepia tone of its video aside, "Honey Bunny" is the jangly ideal with which to twist & shout away the blues—preferably while wielding a dish sponge.

A Post-Mess Mix.

Like the Count of Monte Cristo emerging triumphant from a bodybag flung out to sea, I am writing to you today from inside the cozy purple walls of Bostonia—having miraculously survived the dreaded Finals Week & thus officially graduated to Upperclassmanship. More importantly, I can now look forward to a summer of reading & sleeping & Photoshopping with young'uns—&, indeed, reviving my long-flagging Blogsmanship.

Though I have a bevy of entries fizzing at the tips of my fingers—from hardcore philosophical musings to gushing over certain actors' preeminent hotness—I feel like it's appropriate, as a smooth transition from this most brutal of sleepless paper-splosions, to post the playlist that buoyed me through this past week—which, in my humble estimation, is pretty clutch. Without further ado:

5-7-11: I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday.
[ ^ Download the whole mix! In order! Click! Oh man! ^ ]

Going Down—Gerome Ragni (Hair, 1968 cast).
Breaking Glass (Live, Montréal, 7/12/83)—David Bowie.
Get It On At Le Disko (T. Rex vs. Shiny Toy Guns)—The Illuminoids.
The Hollows—WHY?.
Your Woman—Cats On Fire (White Town cover).
Buena—Morphine.
Itty Bitty Piggy—Nicki Minaj.
Less Than Zero—Elvis Costello.
Werewolf—Cat Power (Michael Hurley cover).
Soldier Girl—The Polyphonic Spree.
Diamond Crowned Queen—Raja.
Why Do You Love Me—Garbage.
Secretly Jealous—Coyote Shivers.
Melody Day—Caribou.
Hey—The Pixies.
Rolling in the Deep (Jamie XX remix, feat. Childish Gambino)—Adele.
Between the Bars (Live at Largo)—Elliott Smith.
Never Be Lonely—The Feeling.
Baby in Two—The Pernice Brothers.
Reptile—Lisa Germano.
I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday—Morrissey.
There's Not a Step We Can Take That Does Not Bring Us Closer—Jason Webley.

THF: Spoon For a (Pseudo-)Summer's Day.

It was over 70˚ today in Manhattan—in April—which of course was cause for much rejoicing & tank-top wearing & outdoor lounging—but which also, in turn, provoked some silly campus organization to set up a giant pair of speakers & bombard us innocent loungers with minutes upon minutes of Wiz Khalifa's braindeadery, Ke$ha's orgasming sneer-whine, etc. Partially to retroactively counter that assault—headphoneless as I was at the time—& partially just to share a song that deserves passing around, I present Spoon's cover of "Tear Me Down" from Jonathan Cameron Mitchell's rock musical tour de force, Hedwig & the Angry Inch:

Though the original will always remain near & dear to my heart—& though this album of covers, Wig in a Box, is packed to bursting with truly excellent renditions (including the Polyphonic Spree's take on the eponymous track, Frank Black doing "Sugar Daddy," even Stephen Colbert supplying the excised "Tear Me Down" interlude)—this particular track stands above the rest, especially when it comes to Warm Weather Music. Something about its Velvets-reminiscent simplicity, backed by that subtle swinging horn section, turns a once hard-rocking opening anthem into the perfect song for a summer strut—bare arms & sunglasses, laid back confidence, lips kinked sideways with an iced coffee straw & mind miles above, miles above.

THF: A Very Jacques Brel Kind of Day.

A resurgence of snow, an avalanche of work, & suddenly it's never been so appealing to curl up with some bitter coffee & a cosmic fuckton of accordion-backed French cynicism. Though I've recently purchased & am now making my way though his 2 CD collection, I've certainly been favoring my favorites—namely, "Amsterdam," which was later covered in English by David Bowie (via Scott Walker). Still, French-speaker or no, there's really nothing like watching sweat-drenched Brel belt to his last breath, shaking, adamant, through bugged eyes & crooked teeth.

THF: Goldilocks & the Folsom Prison Blues.

I was looking at this picture earlier tonight—which is posted, poster-size, at the head of my bed, below the besunglassed Lou Reed—& I started thinking about just how much I like Johnny Cash, & just how funny that is, because nearly every other artist who falls into his genre (re: Country) gives me the overwhelming desire to take to my eardrums with a hacksaw. Still, Joaquin Phoenix aside, Johnny remains brilliant—not only because he can do a mean NIN / Depeche Mode cover, but also because his songs are simple & lovely but never quite cheerful—melancholy, buoyed always by a twang.

There are plenty I could post—"I Still Miss Someone," "Ring of Fire," "Cocaine Blues," "Flushed From the Bathroom of Your Heart"—but my favorite-favorite-favorite will always be "Folsom Prison Blues"—the must-have version, of course: live at Folsom Prison.

Still, when I clicked over to iTunes & let this song rocket out across my quiet little cubicle of a dorm room, I was surprised—not quite disappointed, per se, but left wanting. For whatever reason, I had always remembered it slower. Maybe because his is the least blues-y "blues" I know—up-tempo & jittering—but probably because it's just such a beautiful song—a sad song—a song about stasis, prisons literal & self-imposed.

So, with that in mind, I went in search of a cover that did justice to the version I craved, & I found these.



Slim Harpo.

Funkier than what I had envisioned, but no less worth sharing. (Also, I love how this YouTuber calls it "The One About the Man From Reno." It's okay, man: that's my favorite line, too.)

Blackie & the Rodeo Kings.

This version is certainly bluesier—& certainly very good—but it still didn't quite fit the bill...


& then, at last, the knock-it-out-of-the-park, how-on-earth-did-I-find-this, thank-you-Blessed-Internet version:



Amy Black.

This is almost exactly how I imagine the song sung in my head (sans, perhaps, a few of those flares)—how I wish, dear Lord of Vocal Chords, I could sing it, ever & on, to the small square insides of these walls.

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... ]

A Decision.

So. Here's a decision I've made: Henceforth, this Blogling will be comprised of its standard verbose rambles, interpolated with more immediate, "Here's This Cool Thing"-type smatter-entries.

Recently, I've been frustrated with my ever-increasing inability to finish one of the 7 posts I've collected, half-written (& already perilously lengthy) in the Drafts section. Moreover, I've been almost exactly repeating the phenomenon I mocked of my wee LiveJournaling self: I'll sit around & think, "Damn, I have to think of something to write about, so I can post this song at the end!"

This exact feeling is why, I think, many of my contemporaries have chosen Tumblr: it's specifically, aesthetically designed with the expectation that you will let your various videos & pictures simply tumble, free-form, without necessitating commentary. Still, it's nice to have a place to ramble—& that is sort of the point of this outlet anyhow, to keep me writing—so those 7 half-posts will surely make it to light in due course. But, in the interest of staying vital, I predict that there will also be a fair few non sequitur blips.

With that in mind: here are four songs. (Consider it retroactive quota-filling.) Apparently, my taste these days is half live late-19s altrock, half upstart LA rap EPs. Who knew?


Add It Up (Live, 1983)—The Violent Femmes.
Quite simply, one of the greatest rock songs of all time. Wild & impatient, like the best of things.



Buena (Live, 1993)—Morphine.
"I started with one string, so... Progress."

(Apparently, when I was younger, I choreographed a dance to this song—something involving jumps in a very distinct pattern—which I would perform, with grave intensity, every time it played. It still sounds smoothed over sometimes—round bass lines blurred, like nostalgia.)


Luper—Earl Sweatshirt.

This is one of those songs that draws you in immediately, like undertow—that you love, instantly, then more & more—until, without warning, it gets really & suddenly objectionable. If there's one thing that I want to strangle about modern rap music, it's the canonizing & normalizing of really heinous violence-against-women imagery—because, really now. Just stop it. Still, the first 1:45 of this song are so deeply likable, so damn skillfully put together—&, before it gets murderous, it's tongue-twisting, bittersweet, lovelorn. (One might even argue that the violent end serves some artful purpose—but still, I protest, don't.)

Oh, right, also: this kid is 16. Six-teen. !!!


Today's Headphone Fodder:

Yonkers—Tyler, the Creator.

Tyler is part of the same group as Earl—Odd Future, or OFWGKTA—& this is the preview single for their newest release, Goblin. It's also one of the best music videos I've seen in quite a while. Really, artfully disturbing, all the more so for its simplicity; palpable nerves when he can't catch up to his own lyrics. Predesigned chaos with a heart-squeezing backbeat. Yes, please.

May-June Round-Up.

Today, I was searching for a good birthday video to send a friend, while also basking in the glow of a Friday paycheck & thinking somewhere in the back of my brain about the beginning of a new month—&, somehow, the elements coalesced: I decided to do a Music Round-Up of this Blogling's recent backing tracks, while also adding a new (transcendent, brilliant, I'm jittering just thinking about it) song. So, here goes:

1. Animal—Miike Snow. (5/18)

2. I've Seen Enough—Cold War Kids. (5/20)

3. The Nomi Song—Klaus Nomi. (5/21)

4. Search & Destroy—Iggy & the Stooges (Live, Atlanta, October '73). (5/22)

5. Epoch—HUMANWINE. (5/27)

6. Wisdom—Gran Ronde. (5/28)

7. World Destruction—Afrika Bambaataa ft. John Lydon. (6/3)

8. Debaser—David Bowie (Pixies cover). (6/7)

9. Half Jack (Live at the Paradise, '05)—The Dresden Dolls. (6/8)

10. Nancy Boy—Placebo. (6/9)

11. EVERY COVER EVER. (But, for our purposes: I Wanna Be Your Dog—Émilie Simon (Iggy & the Stooges cover).) (6/10)

12. Paris—Hans Unstern. (6/14)

13. Wuthering Heights—Kate Bush (specifically, as danced by Zac Efron). (6/16)

14. Icarus—Jason Webley. (6/20)

15. Succexy—Metric. (6/21)

16. Tranny Chaser—RuPaul. (6/22)

17. Enter Telephone (DJs From Mars Remix)—Lady Gaga ft. Beyoncé vs. Metallica. (6/26)

18. Sleepyhead (Wallpaper. Remix)—Passion Pit. (6/27)

19. Rock 'n' Roll Never Looked So Beautiful—Semi Precious Weapons (Live, Bowery Ballroom, 4/26/10). (6/29)

& now, 20. All the Young Dudes (Live, David Bowie's 50th Birthday Party)—David Bowie ft. Billy Corgan.

"I don't know where I'm going from here, but I promise it won't bore you."

Words to live by, indeed. God, I love him so much.

Someday (soon), I'll do a Bowie-gush entry—but until then, I hope you can sate yourself with the May-June 2010 Mix. Enjoy.