I'm insatiable for Robyn.
"Be Mine" isn't new, but I just came across an acoustic version and it's totally *slitz wristz* material:
to offset the sadness, I must say that I LOVE Robyn's snaggletooth. Really. It's far more charming than Madge's gap.
Reminds me of the perfection that is the teeth of Roland Garros' one-slam-wonder(ful), Gaston Gaudio.
I'm not being mean, really! I LOVE it!
I posted the video a while back. I can't shake this one.
I finally found a proper, sparkling mp3 of this dance gem, so download it already.
(via good weather for airstrikes)
Here's the video again:
One of my best friends forever (some people call this "BFF") fronts Man Plus. They're hipper than all fuck, so I thought I would curse them by writing a review of their current release, We Had No Sex that they can use as is their want.
First, though, when googling "Man Plus" for pictures I found this, and am in love:
ok. for serious now.
******************************************************
“We’re not really joking, which is the new irony,” Jared
Mills half-jokes, talking about lyrics from his Man Plus’ debut EP—the
excellent and promising We Had No Sex. He’s
right and he’s right: lyrics like “I cut myself to kill the man/ I am” would
cause a roomful of cringes if not delivered with wide eyes; the wink is the
music, driving guitars and manic proto-punk supporting a stoic punch line. This
is the new black.
Eight tracks and nearly twenty five minutes, We Had No Sex could be a mini-album if not for the track by track genre jumping talent show. Lemonheads-esque “100 Sparrows Chirping ‘You S**k, You S**k!’” is upbeat, bittersweet (barely bitter) radio rock. Immediately following, “Jacob the Skate” opens with cold electronics launches into cut-down-the-road lyrics. That track-to-track juxtaposition is the crux of the album; the wholly self-aware manic/depressive performance is as utterly captivating as it is beguiling and perplexing
Man Plus is a strong unit, from heady songwriting to smart, tight performances from Kyle Smith, Ben Findley, and Amanda Findley*. Any musical restraint on these tracks is merely a vehicle for live performance—where Man Plus is at its jaw-dropping best.
We Had No Sex is exciting because of its flaws: sprawlingly both spastic and self-indulgent. A full-length that manages to harness some immense songwriting talent while also expanding “the new irony” of lyrical performance has the potential to be an absolute masterpiece. I’ll be first in line to hear it.
*No relation, but totally creepy.
[it's mid January and I just need to fucking finish this list. I'll write something soon. xoxo]
[it's mid January and I just need to fucking finish this list. I'll write something soon. xoxo]
[it's mid January and I just need to fucking finish this list. I'll write something soon. xoxo]
[it's mid January and I just need to fucking finish this list. I'll write something soon. xoxo]
[it's mid January and I just need to fucking finish this list. I'll write something soon. xoxo]
[it's mid January and I just need to fucking finish this list. I'll write something soon. xoxo]
Sometimes I try to write things that I actually want people to read.
("but wait! aren't blogs public? isn't everything you write supposed to be read... and widely?" stfu, person quoted.)
Anyhow, new category for when I freelance something worthwhile.
Liquid, Fragile, Perishable (image at right by Curt Doughty)
"Ah fuck it, I love you," Debra Baxter sighs in mock defeat. She is offhandedly impersonating Vocal Cords (I Love You), her sculptural arrangement of three dwindling alabaster columns on a pedestal. They're windpipes, topped by exposed vocal cords in the process of forming those three potentially damning words. Throughout Yielded, SOIL's handsome and smart January show with Robert de Saint Phalle, Baxter rejects past tendencies for playing it safe.
Yes, I'm totally going to be the last one on the entire internet to finish my year end lists. Deal.
I really get and am ok with some people not connecting with Joanna Newsom's vocals. They're undeniably shrill, her lyrics edge on pretension and her confidence in performance borders on hubris.
That said, I love this album and am really happy that I'm not the only one. Newsom gets compared to Bjork a lot. It's not so much sonically as it is the complete headiness in execution; a total demand that the audience learn to love the voice.
There is some serious talent: the songwriting is strong, melodies dense and smart, vocals (strange) but also musical-- the line is always pushing forward, always supporting the surroundings.
I posted about (and hosted) "Sawdust and Diamonds," a track that continues to astound. It's gorgeous.
Pitchfork put "Emily" on their list of best tracks of the year but "Only Skin" is the real album highlight. There's so much happening here, it gets so bombastic, that it's hard to describe. But it has a quiet, brilliant moment. There is no affect in her voice when we get the album's perfect lyric:
"scrape your knee/ it is only skin/ makes the sound/ of violins"
Rich at fourfour, he of astute taste, has done a wonderful thing, making and hosting a 24-track, hour and twenty minute mixtape of the year's best pop singles.
It's a glorious, glorious mp3 and you would be a fool to not go there and download it.
Be sure to mention Rich in your prayers tonight during the "Thank you, Jesus" section.
I was 16 when Courtney sneered "just shut up, you're only 16" on "Awful." And I was oooh so into it.
Smashing Pumpkins and Hole were still huge, though at twilight, and Celebrity Skin a (mostly) critical and commercial success-- a fantastic collaboration between Corgan and Love. I listened to the album earlier today, and it's aged well.
A lot has changed over the past decade. Largely written off, I was surprised how giddy I was when I saw this picture taken a couple of days ago. They look good. Courtney's new album (as a real-life sober person) is supposed to come out later this year. Billy co-wrote some of it. I'm strangely hopeful.
This was fall/winter’s most
used piece in editorial spreads. Nicolas
Ghesquière’s bubble skirt is exactly relevant: modern, ridiculously fun,
gorgeously made. It works almost unexpectedly as being hugely, though almost
counter-intuitively, wearable. There is a toughness in material, confidence in
couture-light/like showiness, and a downright prettiness in color scheme. It’s
nice when fashion editors get it right; this beaded, pumped top and
hyper-puffed skirt deserves nothing but accolades.
Balenciaga is a label almost solely about explorations in architecture and volume. Ghesquière has been credited with restoring the label to creative integrity and importance, largely because he isn’t under financial constraints or demands to make a super marketable RTW line. Thank you, Classic bag.
But accessories have sold well
regardless. From the show:
The equestrian hat juxtaposed with
hoof-esque footwear is wit and smiles galore. The small surprise is the huge
hit of the harness platform ankle boots. They were everywhere, a great piece
cum Trend. Even Princess Coldstare was featured wearing them in Thursday
Styles. Gross, but they’re still great shoes.
It’s so lovely for a young
designer to not just be a namedrop for fashion in the years ahead, but to be a current
master (execution, talent) projecting clothes that are forward thinking without
tacky “futurism.” Sarah Mower would likely call Ghesquière a “Now-ist.” I like
that. There’s not an ounce of nostalgia in these clothes. The romance isn’t in
an idealized past, but in an optimistic future.
When I was on my Boyage t0 New York last month, I
saw a woman in the above double breasted jacket. I peed my pants and gave her
my number. The former stopped her from accepting the latter.
So here’s to you Nicolas
Ghesquière.
You have my vote for making the best collection of fall/winter ‘06/’07. Now you
can die happy.
