Repostathon II: This Time, It's Personal.

Last week (on Valentine's Day, in fact), The Eye was kind enough to publish my long-labored-over long-lead article: "A Female Tarantino,"a musing on the plight women in film, both in front of & behind the camera, as examined specifically through gender stereotypes, demographic statistics, the Athena Film Festival, & a few choice podcasts. 

Today, Melissa Silverstein, co-founder of the Athena Film Festival & all-around ladyfilm guru, was kind enough to repost the piece on her supercool blog, Women & Hollywood. Among other things, this excellent development reminded me that, speaking of reposting, I've once again managed to let months of published pieces go by without so much as a blip hereabouts. So, for those curious where my words were going during all that time, here's a smattering:


Girls Getting Gross.
A meditation on the current grodiness of onscreen female comedians.

A few weeks ago, a friend sent me a link to the trailer for Bachelorette—the latest buzzed-about summer comedy. ... Though the film’s plot is fairly predictable—a wedding looms, everything goes wrong until it doesn’t, characters start flawed and end less so, etc.—the particular twists and turns of Bachelorette’s tale did make me think about a noteworthy comedy trend, one I both appreciate and wonder at—one I think can most easily be termed “Girls Getting Gross”...

Rebel, Rebel.
Because Rebel Wilson rocks, but our reaction to her doesn't.

So, Rebel Wilson is awesome. That, I won’t deny. From her hilarious turn as Kristen Wiig’s roommate in Bridesmaids to her cameo as a juggalette on Workaholics, everything I’ve seen of this lady, I like. And I’m not alone—see: Sandy Cohen’s HuffPo post from earlier this month, titled “Rebel Wilson: Is The ‘Bachelorette’ Star Hollywood’s Next Leading Comedienne?” Yes, the Industry seems all in a tizzy over its latest discovery—but not, I would argue, for all the right reasons...

Cum-parative Literature.
Because "Hysterical Literature" is a webseries well worth examining (& because it's always fun to get the word "cum" in print).

...What I saw was a static, black-and-white shot, taken waist-up across a typical school desk, of a woman in cat-eye glasses and a polka dot blouse. “Hi, I’m Stormy Leather,” she stated, perfunctory, audition-like, into the camera, “and I am reading from American Psycho, by Brett Easton Ellis.” And that’s just what she did, beginning with a passage in which the deranged narrator waxes poetic on Whitney Houston. After more than a minute, I’ll admit, I was a bit confused, if not disappointed—left wondering what, exactly, qualified this pseudo-adult storytime as “hysterical.” As Stormy went further, though, her tone began to change, rising and falling at odd intervals, Ellis’s prose getting gradually jauntier, even belabored—until, at last, it became eminently clear: she was cumming...

Edible Deodorant.
In which attempt to turn a ridiculous new product into a metaphor for our obsession with celebrity sex scandals. (Yes. Come with me on this. It totally works.)

In browsing the world for 20/20-worthy pop culture this week, I came across what seemed like a veritable onslaught of potential topics, a decent number of which had something to do with Sex. ... However, if I’m being honest, what I really want to talk to you about today is none of these things, and still somehow all of them—a topic so wonderfully inane, yet still so hateful. It is, ladies and gentlemen, edible deodorant. Yes, you heard me: edible deodorant.

Fighting "The War on Men."
In which I do my best not to have a conniption over Suzanne Venker & her whole pile of crazy.

I tried hard not to let it get to me. Like, really hard, you guys. Because honestly, when you see an article pop up seven times in fewer than 20 minutes on Facebook, you know it must be a rabble-rouser. Then, of course, when you note that it’s from Fox News, you have to ready yourself for the distinct (and, I would say, likely) possibility that it’s nothing more than a series of provocative non-facts, hardly worth fretting over. And by the time you get around to noticing that it’s called “The War on Men”—once your brain actually processes that this is, verbatim, the oldest, dumbest feminist stereotype—that something like this could even get published, let alone taken seriously, in this day and age— (Pause. Deep breaths.)...

Still Trapped in the Closet.
Why the return of R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet is the best thing since—well—the premiere of Trapped in the Closet.

When I saw the news, I almost spat coffee all over my computer screen. I just about literally jumped for joy. I definitely squealed and jittered and damn near wore out Facebook’s “Share” function. Of course, my emphatic reaction may well have been influenced by the fact that I was on the tail end of a cracked-out three-day study binge—but I’d like to think that tidings of R. Kelly’s groundbreaking hip-hopera, Trapped in the Closet, would provoke a comparable response from anyone who’s experienced even one of its initial 22 glorious chapters.

In addition to the above, I also found time to pen a more somber piece on my experience in Israel this past summer & a tongue-in-cheek romantic advice column, as well as conduct an interview with the (fantabulous, unparalleled) Dita von Teese for our Halloween issue.

&—scene. End shameless self-promotion.

Stay tuned, though, for some (currently half-baked) musings on Girls, gluten, & hair-tearing movie tropes... Until then, team.


Today's Headphone Fodder:

Astro Zombies—The Misfits.

Because there are days on which thrashing incoherently to this song is really, really important. Because a daily guitar-drum sucker punch is life-sustaining & The Misfits are ideal. Because, if I'm honest, this is all I wanted to say, all I gotta do.

A Mistake—Fiona Apple.

So, you know when you hear a song for the first time & you're overcome with a feeling of, "Yep, well, that's my entire brain." Enter, "A Mistake." (Fiona Apple, at it again...) Even to excerpt any of its lyrics would be to do the rest injustice; this song quite simply sums up a large fraction of my (&, I would imagine, others') headspace—& with a jazzy jaunt to boot.

Shady Love—Scissor Sisters (feat. Azealia Banks).

This past winter break, a friend of mine came down to visit from Maine, & one night while out, he deftly threw this song on the speakers, making the whole room swell & sway—& making me, I suppose, the bitch [he] met up in Boston, whom [he] didn't see very often. (Because yes, I did vote for Obama, dance frequently to Madonna, & have been known, in my day, to cut an eighth like a Benihana pro.) The next morning, I woke up with it buzzing in my temples & have been unable to let it go since, especially Azealia's in-your-face refrain. A perfect dance anthem for getting out of ruts—leaping out of them, in fact, jiving oblivious down empty suburban streets through the midwinter thaw.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! = My Entire Brain. (Hint: Bowie's Involved.)

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:

Panic in Detroit—David Bowie.

Be My Wife—David Bowie.

Look Back in Anger—David Bowie.

Whatever Finals Want, Finals Get: A Playlist.

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:

12-13-12: Disrapture.
[ ^ All together. On the YouTube. Check it. ^ ]

On the Rise—Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog.

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).


Cockney Thug—Rusko.

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.


11:11—Andrew Bird's Bowl of Fire.

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.


Wild World—Me First & the Gimme Gimmes (Cat Stevens cover).

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. 


All the Time—Diamond Rings.

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.


Alcohol—Gogol Bordello.

Another old favorite—its Romanian strains chugging & asymmetric, Eugene's thickly accented lyrics wrought with hand-wringing (if, at times, ESL-ish) empathy.


Monkey Gone to Heaven—Pixies.

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.


I Knew You Were Trouble—Taylor Swift.

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.


I—Nicola Roberts.

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.


Chum—Earl Sweatshirt.

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.


He Hit Me—Hole (The Crystals cover).

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.


Die Young—Ke$ha.

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:

Lonely Ghosts—O+S.

The End of the World—Skeeter Davis.

Your Ghost—Kristin Hersh (feat. Michael Stipe).


&, 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:

Happy New Year, y'all.

THF: Iggy Pop Covers Edith Piaf, I Implode With Joy.

When it comes to covers, it's hard to deny that novelty sometimes trumps quality—that often, the best part about a re-rendered track is the sheer fact of "Oh man, this one artist I like is covering this other artist I like...!" (See: my full-on conniption upon learning that Bowie covered Bruce Springsteen's "Growin' Up.")

However, there are certain cases in which this giddy disbelief changes tone to a more genuinely incredulous "... No fucking way. Wait. No. Really?" Enter Iggy Pop, with his brand new album, Après, on which he covers the likes of Serge Gainsbourg, Cole Porter, The Beatles, & yes, Ms. Piaf.

Now, Iggy Pop is deeply & profoundly brilliant, this we know—but he isn't exactly, well, a chanteur. He's more of a rake-this-broken-bottle-across-my-chest-&-stagedive-shirtless-at-age-63-eur.

But maybe for that very reason, there's something kind of lovely breaking through the ridiculousness of this endeavor: his crater-deep voice, vibrato through which you could drive a Mack truck, a French accent straight out of Monty Python—& still, the song is all the more endearing for it. It's like when your grandfather has one glass too many & does karaoke at some family function—except infinitely more fabulous, because in this scenario, your grandfather is Iggy fucking Pop.

In short: This is what I will dance to at my wedding, guys. Iggy Pop, godfather of Punk, singing (if we can call it that) "La vie en rose." Or, at least, it's a reminder that, even in times of terrible strife, so much is so good—is rosy, in bits, if we let it be.

(Also, can we talk for a second about that jacket? Just real quick? Just maybe to mention that, when added to the haircut & the turtleneck, it makes him look like he should be sharing a cosmo with Carrie Bradshaw? Just, like, throw that out into the ether?)


UPDATE: OH MY DEAR GIDDY GOD. In tracking down YouTube links for this post, I stumbled upon Iggy, at it again, doing a live rendition of one of my favorite songs of all time (which I've been revisiting especially recently, as posted about here), "Ne me quitte pas" by Jacques Brel. 

Note that he can't quite keep in time with the piano, that the woman who takes up the second verse proceeds to show him up & then some—& still, I think this might be one of my favorite versions. Because when he asks you, haltingly, not to leave him, you can see in his worn leather scrap of a face that he means it. He means every drastically mispronounced word. What an absurd & wonderful world this is.

A Hurricane, a Birthday, & a Plethora of Tunes.

Oh, dearest Reader. Quite a bit has transpired since last we spoke.

First & foremost, as you can't not have heard by now, a hurricane recently smashed into the east coast, knocking out power, flooding subways, & generally making a huge & devastating mess from which many have yet to recover. While my part of New York City went relatively unscathed—only a few felled trees & broken windows, green-gray skies & horizontal rain—my heart & supplies & funds go out to those who fared far, far worse. If you're interested in helping out, check here, & if you or someone you know is interested in being helped, don't hesitate to let me know.

Meanwhile, here's an interesting (&, I think, important) article from The Atlantic, titled "The Hideous Inequality Exposed by Hurricane Sandy"—that inequality being economic. The writer notes that there were large groups of people who were simply, financially unable to "take off work," even in preparation for a natural disaster:

In the Union Square area, New York's privileged - including myself - could have dinner, order a food delivery and pick up supplies an hour or two before Sandy made landfall. The cooks, cashiers and hotel workers who stayed at work instead of rushing home made that possible. They were a diverse group. Some were young people in their twenties. Others were middle-aged Americans who had never landed white-collar jobs. Most were immigrants.

A friend & I spoke about this with the doorman who was still on duty at her building during the worst of the storm (though, to be honest, we spent most of the time talking about old movies & the brilliance of Jimmy Stewart). At least, he told us, the university had arranged to feed & shelter its remaining employees in the event they got stuck on campus—but still, I can't imagine how frightening it must have been to be stuck so far from family amid the doomsday prophecies pouring from every available media source. I can only hope his home was in one of the less-affected neighborhoods.

On a somewhat lighter note, amid the crash & bang of whipping rain—to the strains of Marilyn Monroe's crooning for JFK followed by The Smiths' "Unhappy Birthday," with microwave popcorn made haphazardly on a stovetop & Franzia White Zinfandel in a plastic Lion King cup—I turned 21. So, there's that.

Mostly, though, I've been itching to post about music lately—so much of it tingling in my fingertips for week upon stressful week. So, without much coherency or organization, here's a bunch of excellent songs / artists / noises that fill my head & make me move. Here's hoping you like any of them nearly as much as I do:

Runaway Love—Diamond Rings.

I first heard about Diamond Rings when a friend of mine sent me the single "Something Else" a few years ago. I loved it immediately—everything about it just mellow enough, just poppy enough, 80s-ish & quietly danceable & lovely. "You Oughta Know" was a close second—a little darker, slower, thick with echoes of Ian Curtis—deep-voiced & blithely melancholy over electronica in the best & hauntingest of ways.

Now, with the release of his new album Free Dimensional, I can truly call Diamond Rings a favorite (enough to buy a ticket to his concert in NYC on December 4th). There really isn't a true dud in the bunch, but some highlights include: "Runaway Love," above, which is the only song I want to dance to, ever, for the rest of my life; "All the Time," minor-tinged Platonic electropop; "Everything Speaks," ponderous & charged; "Put Me On," insistent & more Curtis-like than ever.

Not About Love—Fiona Apple.


Every Single Night—Fiona Apple.

I'm really glad I didn't get into Fiona Apple when I was younger—before I had even a modicum of my shit sorted out—because if I had, I honestly wonder if I would have done anything but stare at my wall & let her words soak through my skin. For whatever reason, her voice cuts right to the core of things, her lyrics somehow exactly what you always meant to say before you knew you wanted to say anything at all. Aside from the two songs above—whose videos are both deeply excellent, hence their embedded posting (Zack Galafinakis's cameo at once hilarious & poignant; the squid dangling on her sallow head the only way I feel these days)—I've also fallen for "Paper Bag," which is light & tumbling & so sweetly sad, & "Tymps," to which I'm (mentally) working on choreographing a zombie/necrophiliac-themed burlesque routine. (It's totally going to work, you guys.)

Ex-Girlfriend—The Dolls (No Doubt cover/remix).

On Tuesday, October 16th, I went alone to a MIKA concert. (No shame: MIKA is like a shot of pure sugar to your brainstem, effortlessly happiness-inducing but never insipid—which is an incredibly difficult balance to strike, & I think he does it brilliantly. I stand by my man.) Opening for him was a band I'd never heard of before: The Dolls, who the Internet told me consisted of DJ Mia Moretti & classically trained violinist Caitlin Moe. No albums, only one single, few available live recordings—my hopes weren't necessarily high. But, lo & behold, I found them kind of excellent.

There's something about the sound of string instruments in particular that's just irreplaceable—incredibly beautiful, pulling at you in a way other noise simply can't. It's why I get lost in violin covers of pop songs, why I tend to flock toward bands from What Time Is It Mr. Fox to The Adicts—& why, I think, what The Dolls do works so well. Hearing Moe's violin wheedling along to Moretti's remixed tracks—sometimes playing along to the melody, say, of Fiona Apple's "Criminal," sometimes adding dissonant tones & trills on top of Garbage's "Bad Boyfriend"—her playing became more than mere accompaniment or kitsch, a fusion of electronica & classical noise that just plain fit.

What really got to me, too, was the energy of Moe's performance—her wild swaying, knees knocked, pacing frenzied, sometimes falling to the floor then clambering up again, bow arm slicing all the while. It's the highest compliment you can pay a musician, I think: that sound really moves them on an involuntary, bodily level. 

Though I'm usually staunchly against the practice of taking concert videos (because seriously, you paid for a live experience, so put down your fucking phone & experience it), I couldn't help but record these guys for a bit—especially as I recalled the dearth of their music currently available online. In case you're interested, here's a playlist of the videos I took; more than a little clunky & distant & not the best quality—an improvised breaking of a DJ set's blend & flow into individual tracks—but you should be able to get the idea.

Fatty Boom Boom—Die Antwoord.

Yep, they're at it again. I fucking adore Die Antwoord. Sure, their blatant lampooning of Lady Gaga in this video is a little awkward at times in its length, its pettiness—but, you know, I happen to agree with their implicit message: compared to their out-&-out fantastically grotesque bizarreitude, Gaga's "weirdness" is painfully vanilla. Also, there's plenty of other anti-authoritarian symbolism throughout—referencing their less-than-amicable departure from Gaga's label, Interscope (referred to as "Inter-coke Records" in the equally ideal "Hey Sexy"), not so subtly flipping off the preciousness / Othering / general stale crapfest that is Music Gone Mainstream (see: the mural behind Yo-landi, which features a hydra of Gaga, Kanye, Nicki, & other label signees shitting out the Black Eyed Peas). But honestly, all of that interests me far less than simply watching the excellent combination of words & sounds & images their beautifully twisted brains have chosen to put together. I mean, come on—that body paint is just too much, in the most delightful way.

California Uber Alles—Dead Kennedys.

An oldie but very, very goodie. It was playing in the bar on my First Night of Legal Drinking in Public, & is playing again in my headphones now. It's one of those songs that seems to have special access to the back of your neck, twitching it into an involuntary headbang at the cut-out-two-strum chorus.

Ne Me Quitte Pas (Live, 1959)—Jacques Brel.

There is no one better than Jacques Brel when it feels like the world might be ending. His stumbling cadence, his barely composed face—every twitch of his lips breaks my heart.

Violin Concerto in D, III—Johannes Brahms.

I've posted about this song here before, as part of my motivational playlist from around this time last year. At the time, I was studying it as part of a class on the Masterpieces of Western Music, but then this particular piece got so far under my skin that I sandwiched it between the likes of The Yeah Yeah Yeahs & Azealia Banks & listened to it multiple times a day—sometimes solo, on repeat-repeat-repeat, so many times I can now hum along to all 8 minutes. 

To friends who've asked, I explain that I think it sounds how a panic attack feels—hot & frantic, twitching, bombastic, endorphins & fear exploding across your synapses, radiating out to your limbs, making you shake. I've said before, too, that I think violins sound like longing—& in this case it feels like longing for freedom: from the time signature, from the merry-go-round of its jagged theme, from major chords & orchestral coherence. The lead-in to the last minute—the screech of bow across strings as everything starts to fall apart, overflowing, tumbling avalanche-like toward a haphazard conclusion— I am, quite simply, in love.

Lindy West is a Badass & a Genius.

So, remember a few weeks ago when I was all, "Hey guys, I'm not posting anything ever again, deuces!"?

Well, oops, turns out I'm posting two days in a row now—but only because I feel strongly enough about the following subject to forgo the bazillions of other things I really, honestly should be doing, because you all need to read this article.

Seriously, guys. You NEED to read this article.

"It's Hard Enough to be a Fat Kid Without the Government Telling You You're an Epidemic"
by Lindy West

Reposted from Jezebel.

Once, about a year ago, I tried to tackle a similar subject for the Eye ("Health Over Weight: Reordering America's Dietary Priorities"), but I think I was simply too intimidated by word count & "journalistic import," too focused on making my argument palatable—or, you know, let's be real, just not quite talented enough—to speak the raw fucking truth the way that West does here. 

Below are some of my favorite excerpts, the wit & righteous indignation of which I could only hope to ape on my best of days, the content of which I want beamed into the brainstem of every living being on this planet. Enjoy:

Growing up, I was always fat. Not as fat as I am now, but never, ever skinny. Never small. ... I was the girl the mean kids would target with the old, "See that guy over there? He likes you" gag. Good one, bros! In case you don't get it, the punchline is that I'm fat. So obviously he didn't like me—it would be against all the laws of the universe. At the same time, though, I played three sports, I was active and healthy, I was good at school, I was funny, and I was popular. I was a happy kid. And I was still miserable. Because that's what fat does.

I cannot even imagine being that same fat kid in 2012—having to put up with all the misery and the shame and the tunics (SO MANY TUNICS), along with the added pain of knowing that the government officially considers you an epidemic. You're a "problem" that needs to be "fixed." Newscasters with knitted brows talk about you in the abstract like your butt is a crime wave or a natural disaster; they show bodies that look like yours with their heads chopped off; they tell you that this body you have—the one that grew around you out of nowhere, that you're just getting used to—is bankrupting the nation and mowing down future generations like fucking tuberculosis. Tu-pork-ulosis. Whatever.

Then, later:

Okay.

Here is the thing.

I know no one will ever believe me when I say this, so fine. Whatever. But since, apparently, this isn't evident even among health professionals churning out ad campaigns, I do not fucking eat chocolate cereal and buckets of ice cream. Here is what I actually do: Pretty much every morning before work I walk 1.1 miles uphill to a coffee shop, which is across the street from the organic co-op where I do all my grocery shopping. I eat normal, human amounts of unprocessed, fresh, largely local foods. I have no mobility problems. I have flawless cholesterol and blood pressure. I never get colds, I have never been hospitalized. I have a great job, I make a good living, I'm in an incredibly happy relationship. Sometimes I eat dessert, sometimes I don't. I pay taxes. I take care of my family. I do not commit crimes. I'm nice to strangers. In general, I think you could say that I contribute more to the world than I take out of it.

And I'm a fucking epidemic? I'm a problem?

You have the gall to make generalizations about my life because, in your eyes, I superficially resemble a massive, diverse swath of the population whose lives you've also deigned to generalize? Whose complex, painful, messy, joyous lives you've boiled down to, "Har har too many Cheetos"? Please.

In short: You go, Lindy West. You fucking go.


Today's Headphone Fodder:

Poison—Alice Cooper.

Yep. It's happening. Don't fight it. This song is amazing.

In Which I Prove Myself Both a Curmudgeon & a Cumberbitch.

When I took over Managing Editorship of my beloved Eye, one of my major initiatives was the creation of a new section: 20/20, a clever lil' vision pun that was to headline a page devoted to what I called "pop-culture op-eds"—punchy, funny, incisive nuggets of commentary, no more than 450 words, on a topic of the author's choosing. The idea was to increase the readability of the magazine by adding shorter, lighter pieces directly after our customary 3,000-word lead story. Sounds like a decent plan, right? I thought so, too.

Little did I realize that, as willing writers are few & far between, this would essentially entail turning myself into a raging snarkmonster on at least a bi-weekly basis. At this point, I've wigged out unnecessarily over Justin Bieber's burgeoning sexuality, Daniel Radcliffe's alcoholism, Scarlett Johansson's barfy tattoo, Madonna's whiskey-scented perfume that never was (just to name a few)—& now, it seems, I'm back again (o wretched column inches, will you never just fill yourselves?) with another wee tirade. 

This time, I bring you even more proof of my eternal curmudgeonitude & general fashion cretinhood: "F no, FNO," or, "Why Fashion's Night Out Is Pretty Effing Terrible." (Also, look out for another contribution from yours truly this upcoming Thursday—about what, I have no ungodly idea yet, but I'm sure I'll be inordinately upset about it.)

Meanwhile, I've been trucking away, nose pressed firmly to that infernal & omnipresent grindstone—by which, of course, I mean, "reading about 10 pages, getting up, making a snack, reading another 3 pages, painting my nails, listlessly thumbing through the remaining 100-some pages, sighing, & ultimately succumbing to Netflix." 

These days, that tends to mean Sherlock, Season 2 of which is now finally available thereupon. (Adios, sketchy Russian streaming sites!) If you haven't seen the show, do, not only because it's whip-smart & expertly put together (the way they handle text messaging is honestly, filmically fascinating), or because it's created/written by Doctor Who's Steven Moffat, or even because it stars Benedict Cumberbatch (AKA, Bandersnatch Cummerbund), whose austere, Victorian cheekbones have chiseled out a place in my heart of hearts—& whose devoted fans, I've just discovered, are called "Cumberbitches," so there's that—but mostly because this show can honestly claim to feature the single sexiest scene I've ever seen on television, like, ever. Behold:

Chills, I tell you. Chills. 

Until next time, team. Happy Monday.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Weekend Wars—MGMT.

So, guys, there's this great band I just discovered—they're called MGMT? Like, the abbreviation for "Management"? Yeah, they're pretty sweet. You should probably check them out. (In all seriousness, though: for whatever reason, this particular song has been worming its way onto my playlists as of late, burrowing between my ears & refusing to leave. The heart wants what it wants, I suppose—& it is honestly a better song than I think it's gotten credit for, crowded out by the hyper-success of "Kids," "Time to Pretend," "Electric Feel," etc.)

That, & this:

Momentum—Aimee Mann.

The simple answer: I recently re-watched Magnolia in service of a class-sanctioned review of PTA's newest cinematic stab, The Master, text of which will be posted here post haste (once, you know, I actually write the damn thing). The honest answer: upbeat melancholy is my favoritest of tones, & no one plucks my particular mania's heartstrings quite like Ms. Mann. Jaunt & brass clash against bald-faced despair, raucously condemning the future to death—perfect for scrambling to find a second sock among dirty dishes in yesterday's make-up, already 10 minutes late to a meeting no one would mind if you missed.

& this:

Exit Music (For a Film)—Easy Star All Stars (Radiohead cover).

Radiohead gone reggae-fied, & successfully so. Need I say more?

New Year's Realizations.

There comes a time in every girl's life when she realizes that she is, by definition, older than the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

This is often closely followed by the realization that she will likely never learn to skateboard, that slating "concert tickets" & "gum" as primary expenses is no longer financially feasible—& that, despite her best efforts, she probably won't be developing superpowers anytime soon.

While this last revelation is, of course, most devastating on an "I'll never get to study at the X-Men school"-level, it also brings crashing down to earth, say, her perceived ability to take six college classes, manage a newspaper, have anything resembling a social life, & also continue writing for pleasure.

All of this is to say: Though I know I've been the slouchiest of slouches (read: nonexistent) when it comes to any sort of online writing as of late, it's likely that I'll sink even further into the depths of non-post-itude between now & December. All apologies, as the song goes, & on, & on. (What else could I write? I don't have a right...)

Meanwhile, as I prepare for my leap off this self-constructed plank into nonverbal oblivion, here's a slice to sate you: a piece I wrote for my beloved Eye on the recent resurgence of lady buddy comedies—AKA, "Girls Getting Gross."

Also, take this video, which is kind of beyond fabulous:

Catch you on the flipside, kids.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Here's two for you—three, if you include the sick stylings of PSY, above. I'm all over the place these days.

That Time—Regina Spektor.
(Quick-thrumming, asymmetrical, easy to get lost in.)

Biggest Monkey—Chef'Special.
(Syncopated synth brass, brash braggart cockney.)

A Film Called Fuckhead.

For those fortunate enough to have glimpsed my batshit insane (read: hopelessly sleep-deprived) Facebookery as of late, you are likely all too aware of the endeavor that consumed my past 72 hours. For those who didn't, a sampling:

5:37 AM—Still shackled to the editing bay through hour 15, I realize that, in order to have broken records in the credit sequence of my movie, I have to, you know, break some records. 

5:52 AM—Back at my dorm, so as not to disturb my roommate / floormates, I take records one by one into the elevator & attempt to break them. 

6:14 AM—I spend the next twenty minutes artfully scattering torn covers & jagged pieces across my floor & panning across them with the camera. 

6:38 AM—I seriously question my decision to become a film major—& feel, on many levels, like a broken record. 

8:52 AM—TRIUMPH, GLORIOUS & SWEET. & with just enough time to snag some breakfast before the screening...

All of this is to say: I made a movie, & it exists, because I made it, & thank God. Without further ado—mostly because my brain currently has the consistency of a deep fried Oreo, but extra mostly because, surprise, I still have 4 short essays to write before sunset—I give you my bizarre lil' explosion of an opus, Fuckhead:

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Because every finals season needs a good playlist—some old, some new, some borrowed, more than a few blue (I may or may not have developed a penchant for instrumental covers of Pixies songs—sorry, not sorry).

Highlights include: said instrumental covers, Garbage's new track, two killer songs by San Francisco bands (Full Moon Partisans & The Abi Yo-yo's)—one of which is a link to a download!—& a tune off M. Ward's latest album that is, without a doubt, the most danceably adorable two minutes you'll hear all day.

4-27-12: Your Head'll Collapse.

[    ^   Listen to it all the way through on YouTube!   ^    ]

Mr. Zebra—Tori Amos.
Somebody That I Used to Know (feat. Kimbra)—Gotye.
Tame—Pixies. 
That Old Black Hole—Dr. Dog. 
Blood for Poppies—Garbage. 
Hey Sexy—Die Antwoord. 
Venus in Furs—The Velvet Underground. 
Gouge Away—The Vitamin String Quartet (Pixies cover). 
**Raise the Glass—Full Moon Partisans.** [ MP3 DOWNLOAD!!!! ] 
Playground Mutiny—The Abi Yo-yo's.
Yo-yo—Nicola Roberts.
Who's That? Brooown!—Das Racist. 
Take Off Your Sunglasses—Ezra Furman & the Harpoons. 
Wisdom—Gran Ronde.
Bad Girls—M.I.A.
I Don't Wanna Walk Around With You—The Ramones.
Tears Dry On Their Own—Amy Winehouse.
Killer Queen—Queen.
Good Person Inside—Jill Sobule.
The Man Who Sold the World (Live at the Beeb, 2000)—David Bowie. 
I Get Ideas—M. Ward.
No Conclusion—Of Montreal. 
Sister, Do You Know My Name?—The White Stripes.
California Dreamin'—Bobby Womack (Mamas & the Papas cover). 
Where Is My Mind?—Maxence Cyrin (Pixies cover).

"The Filmic Equivalent of Vajazzling": A Trying Tale of RomCom Trailers.

As you're probably aware, dear Reader, it's Thursday, & we all know what that means: another lovely issue of The Eye came out today—including, as it does with rather disturbing frequency, another contribution from yours truly.

Unfortunately, as I'm so tied up in the business/organizational end of things, when I write for my favorite publication these days, it's almost always because someone else dropped out & we have some space that needs filling. Today's case was no different, but rather than struggling to fill the 450-word limit, I found myself really getting into the topic—such that I ultimately scribed a 900+ word opus, which then had to be hacked & mercilessly hacked again, like the evil stepsisters' toes in the grimmer Grimm tale, in order to fit its proper place.

So, though I encourage you to check out the version currently online & in print, I've also posted my original below for your reading pleasure. Behold, "Modern Love, Hollywood Style"—or, as I secretly wanted to call it, "The Filmic Equivalent of Vajazzling":

It’s not like we didn’t know what we were getting into. But we were in the mood for a movie, & my mother had just read an article about the new release Friends With Kids—how it was the endeavor of writer/director/star (& Jon Hamm's long-term partner) Jennifer Westfeldt, how the film seemed relatively interesting & Westfeldt relatively savvy & down-to-earth. Plus, it seemed like an appropriate choice for this, our annual mother-daughter trip to Montréal (yes, it’s exactly as adorable as it sounds). Most importantly, we reasoned, this would give us an excuse to look at Jon Hamm’s face for at least the better part of an hour. So, at 2 PM on that fateful Thursday, we made the decision so see a Romantic Comedy at a Canadian multiplex.

Still, only after the crowd (of 11) filed in, the lights dimmed, & the first trailer started to roll did the full gravity of our situation kick in. We were seeing a Romantic Comedy. At a Canadian multiplex. We exchanged a determined cringe, clutched our cup-holder armrests, & braced ourselves for fifteen minutes of trailers advertising some of the most hateful cinematic drivel ever to grace the silver screen.

I don’t mean to sound overdramatic. Okay, maybe I do—but believe me when I say I am, at most, only slightly exaggerating the baffling atrocity of these previews. I mean, surely my adverse reaction was compounded by the sheer volume—one after another after another, like a never-ending freight train of Terrible—but to be perfectly frank, my reaction to "RomCom" in general is not unlike my reaction after attending my first (& only) frat party: People actually think this is awesome?!, intoned with an incredulity hovering somewhere between rage & despair.

It seems that modern Romantic Comedies—as this onslaught of trailers so aptly exemplified—are specifically & infuriatingly marketed to a demographic that I think just simply doesn't exist—or if it does, it's only as an unfortunate result of this kind of marketing. To me, these movies represent the filmic equivalent of vajazzling: yeah, sure, it's something you might entertain—especially after reading Jennifer Love Hewitt's memoir—& you may even enjoy it on occasion, but not because you would ever organically desire this ever, ever, ever. (Unless, of course, you're Jennifer Love Hewitt, in which case I'd be willing to believe you came up with that on your own.) I just find it frustrating that, as an avid moviegoer—&, let's be real, a female moviegoer of marriageable age—I'm constantly being pandered to by a marketing philosophy that does little more than shout "it's pink, there's kissing, get into it!"

But let's get into it, lest you think me some hyper-hip cynic. The first trailer was for a Canadian film, the title of which I really don’t remember, but which we’ll call Boring Man Becomes Slightly Less Boring, because that sums up its utter lack of conceit with room to spare. In short: an American businessman meets a mysterious Canadian lass &, both at a crossroads in their lives, they decide to abscond on a whimsical road-trip through the wilderness. Think wide, scenic shots of wide, scenic landscapes, Guy making some cynical remark, Girl replying with stark genuineness, “But it’s beautiful”—etc. Sound relatively familiar? That’s because what the directors barely even try to conceal is that you’ve seen this movie about 800 times before (anyone familiar with the term “Manic Pixie Dream Girl,” employ it here)—except this time, it's Canadian.

My particular favorite moment: at a diner counter, Guy looks skeptically at his plate as Girl explains, “It’s called poutine.” For those blissfully unaware, “poutine” is a famous Québecois dish, consisting of french fries, cheese curds, & sometimes even foie gras or Canadian deli delicacy “smoked meat,” all slathered in gravy. So, Girl forcing Guy to try some is a typically Manic Pixie action—the equivalent of Zooey Deschannel making Joseph Gordon-Levitt yell “penis” in a park—except instead, she’s asking him to experience a uniquely Canadian heart attack.

Next, we open on Jennifer Garner & Anonymous Attractive Husband receiving unpromising news from a fertility doctor—a predictable premise, as romance has been known to lead to babies, & Jennifer Garner has been known to portray infertile mothers. (Thanks again, Diablo Cody.) Garner & Husband then retreat home & begin drinking (also understandable), at which point he looks into her eyes & says, “Let’s make a baby. Tonight”—a sentiment later complicated by a “Walt Disney presents” titlecard. If you’re thinking (as I was) “This gives a whole new meaning to ‘kiddie porn,’” never fear: apparently, what Hubby means by “make a baby” is “write adjectives on notecards, put them in a box, & bury it out front, in hopes that a mud-covered seven-year-old will show up in our living room tomorrow morning.” Because, of course, that’s what happens.

Yes, following a dark & stormy night, like a gremlin clawing his way from the depths, a little boy named Timothy appears in their home—addressing them casually as “mom & dad," as if by wacky coincidence, they buried their son alive instead of tucking him in. Rather than shoot the creature on sight, they decide to adopt their creepily immaculate conception—& from here, we get a montage of wholesome & heartwarming images, including a number of off-puttingly Jesus-y shots circling around the boy, his eyes closed & arms crucifixion-spread in the middle of a soccer field as inspirational orchestration swells. A final card reveals this masterwork is called The Odd Life of Timothy Green. Understatement of the decade, that.

But wait, there’s more. Indeed, by far the worst was What to Expect When You’re Expecting, as it appears to be 1) a movie based on an instructional pregnancy book, because that’s apparently a thing we’ve allowed to happen; 2) one of those “Let’s round up all of the famous people desperate for a paycheck & parade them past the camera!” ensemble feats, à la Valentine’s Day & its unfortunate cousin New Years Day; & 3) so deeply unfunny-looking as to warrant physical revulsion. Example: the tour-de-force joke—the one worthy of featuring in this, its marketable highlights reel—shows a group of BabyBjörn-clad men pushing strollers in slo-mo, set to hardcore hip-hop. But wait—a man in childcare garb, you say? Surely not, no! That would be like a dog walking on its hind legs! Oh, what a chuckle-worthy notion! Knees slapped all around!—& case squarely in point.

Pale-faced & deeply shaken, my mother & I squeezed hands, unsure if we could bear two hours more of what someone who would ever consider watching those movies ever might find pleasant. However, as it turns out, Friends With Kids is actually kind of excellent. First off, it’s populated with nuanced & realistic characters—friends who banter the same way mine do, getting over-invested in running hypothetical games (“Death by alligator or shark?”) & making just-too-vulgar jokes. Moreover, the Rom woven through this ever-present Com is particularly refreshing—in no way star-cross’d or easy, no character capitulating or suddenly changing heart, allowing each sequence to unfold in unexpected turns. Still, the film's not so busy flouting convention that it forgets to be entertaining—a genuinely pleasant mix of easy laughs & subtle surprises.

Especially as framed by this wasteland of recycled premises & empty one-liners, Westfeldt’s film proved that, plainly put, not all Romantic Comedy is inherently a suckfest. Now it’s up to the rest of the film factories to follow her lead.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

In Every Dream Home a Heartache—Roxy Music.

So, full disclosure: normally, for this section, I don't actually post the single song I've been listening to most that day/week, as 1) it would likely be the same song for posts on end (re: 99% Bowie/Iggy), & 2) it would often be really, profoundly embarrassing (re: Evanesence). Plus, I do genuinely want to recommend music that I think others will dig—that's cutting-edge or otherwise somewhat abnormal, but no so much as to be alienating, etc.

However, today, I'm performing a massive "fuck that" & putting up this song, which I woke up with a sincere yen to listen to & have been repeat-repeat-repeating all day long—one which is deeply bizarre & long & alienating, but also, therefore, deeply excellent. Like so much of Roxy/Ferry/Eno, it's electronic without being subsumed by synthesizers, pleasantly sinister until it breaks, wailing, into guitars. Also, essentially, it's a love song to a blow-up doll, AKA, my plain-wrapper baby—one line boasts, I'll love you 'til death-size—an ever-elaborating series of innuendoes, which culminates delightfully at the surge of all surges: I blew up your body—but you blew my mind. So get into it.