Thursday, August 23, 2007
More Than You Will Never Know
Oh Kevin, this bond we have just keeps getting stronger. Every move you make seems to confirm just how much we have in common. To be honest with you, Kevin, I have been trying to distance myself from you of late. The past few weeks I've been ignoring you, attempting to focus my attention of the new man-crush in my life, Spencer Krug. But now I know our affinity runs a lot deeper. I understand, Kevin. I'm one too. Occasionally we've been able to work through the fear, that night in Las Vegas for you, and my night in Toronto. But the anxiety keeps returning, doesn't it? People don't understand, people think we're weirdos. They don't know how difficult it is. They don't know how we suffer. Kevin, if you ever need someone to talk to, just get in touch. This is something we can work through together.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
And I Know That I Should Let Go, But I Can't
Several weeks ago I became somewhat obsessed with both a song, and by extension, the artist responsible for the song. Now usually I am one of these annoying types that when I find something I am enthusiastic about I need to enthuse loudly to whomever is willing to be subjected to it. However, as the song in question was number 1 in the UK charts at the time I felt then need to restrain my excitement. Not because I was embarrassed, but because you lot are judgmental and disapproving and I just didn't need that sort of thing at the time.
Today I was flicking through a copy The Times Saturday magazine from a couple of weeks ago in the library at La Trobe University. Upon finding myself on page 38 I had the extreme pleasure of laying my approving eyes on a picture of this wonderful artist.
Alright, I'm just going to be blunt about this. Her name is Kate Nash and I am in love. I was seriously considering ripping the pages out of the magazine so I could have pictures of her on my wall, but I unfortunately wasn't brave enough.
Kate's (obvious) appeal not only lies in her glorious reddy-brown hair and charity shop dresses (with yellow stockings!), but her completely brilliant overt Estuary English pronunciation of her half-sung, half-spoken amusingly literal lyrics. How can anyone not appreciate such gems as "You said I must eat so many lemons cos I am so bitter. I said 'I'd rather be with your friends mate, cos they are much fitter"? and "You've gone and got sick on my trainers, I only got these yesterday. Oh my gosh, I cannot be bothered with this"? Just awesome. Enjoy:
Today I was flicking through a copy The Times Saturday magazine from a couple of weeks ago in the library at La Trobe University. Upon finding myself on page 38 I had the extreme pleasure of laying my approving eyes on a picture of this wonderful artist.
Alright, I'm just going to be blunt about this. Her name is Kate Nash and I am in love. I was seriously considering ripping the pages out of the magazine so I could have pictures of her on my wall, but I unfortunately wasn't brave enough.
Kate's (obvious) appeal not only lies in her glorious reddy-brown hair and charity shop dresses (with yellow stockings!), but her completely brilliant overt Estuary English pronunciation of her half-sung, half-spoken amusingly literal lyrics. How can anyone not appreciate such gems as "You said I must eat so many lemons cos I am so bitter. I said 'I'd rather be with your friends mate, cos they are much fitter"? and "You've gone and got sick on my trainers, I only got these yesterday. Oh my gosh, I cannot be bothered with this"? Just awesome. Enjoy:
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Music Sets Us Free
People get it wrong. People get it wrong all the time. I don't how they do it, but they do it with such frequency that sometimes it becomes a little too much to bear.
The lastest person to get it wrong is David Raposa from the Pitchfork Media [dot com]. Being a new kid on the Pitchfork block I was going to cut him some slack, however when you are writing for such a reputable publication there shouldn't really be any tolerance towards ignorance and laziness.
Last week Raposa wrote a review of the new Mary Timony album (or The Mary Timony Band, as the album is released as), The Shapes We Make. Unfortunately for the readers of Pitchfork, his review has some major flaws. It becomes very difficult for me retain composure when an artist I hold very dear is reviewed by someone who has a limited understanding of their back-catalogue. One of the reasons why I no longer read any music press (Pitchfork being the exception) is that the ill-perceived inaccuracies and blatant ineptitude of most music writers frustrates me considerably. My mental health dictates this avoidance.
An appreciation of the first two of Mary T's solo albums is a significant criteria for any potential love interest of mine. Not that I'm considered getting involved with David Raposa (definitely not now anyway), but I'm just trying to illustrate what an impact these two albums have had on me, and basically how completely awesome they are. Sure, they both might be a little too "Rory Gilmore" for some people. Timony might refer to herself in the third person as Ms Charming Melodee and befriend a forest full of furry friends throughout the songs, however, they both are musically inventive albums which not only demonstrated her knack for a good tune, but also construct interesting and challenging arrangements on a variety of instruments. Furthermore, anyone with even a passing knowledge of her work with Helium knows that she's not all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows.
Raposa beings his piece by stating the the collaboration between Timony and her current drummer, Devin Ocampo, "has given her music a beneficial kick in the ass". The implication of this statement is obvious, however it could be justified if one was to view the statement through Timony's third solo album, and first Ocampo collaboration, Ex Hex. This album was a marked shift from her first two solo releases. On Ex Hex Ocampo's brutally awkward rhythms were the initially confronting, but subsequently brilliant companion to Timony's unorthodox and obtuse riffing. However, that has not continued on The Shapes We Make. Ocampo's drum-work is muted and much more conventional. He isn't kicking anybody's arse on this record.
This claiming of an improvement is a standard writing tactic employed by most music writers. It's the old diss previous albums to praise the current one trick. It's such lazy and incompetent journalism, especially as it is not only a cliché move, but is frequently poorly researched. Raposa displays this lack of research by making the implication that what Timony required after her first two solo albums was "an honest-to-goodness drumkit" and making the aside that Christian Files was "the sporadically-used drummer on those two albums". In fact on both Mountains and The Golden Dove Files is not only has a large presence, but her stuttering off-beat rhythms are essential components in what is so great about those albums. Songs like Musik and Charming Melodee and Dr Cat, both from The Golden Dove, are first rate rhythmical adventures. The tracks where Files' presence isn't so great is due to her drum-work not being a necessity in the arrangement of the songs.
Raposa has a major problem with Timony's lyrics on this record. This is fair enough, gone is the post-Riot Grrl feminist poetry of Helium, as well as the amusingly twee medieval imagery of Mountains and The Golden Dove. nowadays Timony lyrics are in obvious decline. However, Raposa contrasts this lyrical vacancy with what he hears as her musical depth, claiming her success will come "as long as she has music this strong doing the talking for her". This is extremely perplexing. I will love Mary Timony until the day I die, however this is obviously her weakest album. It's her least inventive and is definitely also lacking in major hooks. For anyone to praise it in favour of her previous work shows a distinct lack of understanding of the artist.
The reason why Pitchfork is the only music publication I read now is because I trust in the competence of its writers. Obviously, I will occasionally disagree with their opinions, however, I expect this to be on grounds of taste rather than lack of research and lazily constructed pieces.
The lastest person to get it wrong is David Raposa from the Pitchfork Media [dot com]. Being a new kid on the Pitchfork block I was going to cut him some slack, however when you are writing for such a reputable publication there shouldn't really be any tolerance towards ignorance and laziness.
Last week Raposa wrote a review of the new Mary Timony album (or The Mary Timony Band, as the album is released as), The Shapes We Make. Unfortunately for the readers of Pitchfork, his review has some major flaws. It becomes very difficult for me retain composure when an artist I hold very dear is reviewed by someone who has a limited understanding of their back-catalogue. One of the reasons why I no longer read any music press (Pitchfork being the exception) is that the ill-perceived inaccuracies and blatant ineptitude of most music writers frustrates me considerably. My mental health dictates this avoidance.
An appreciation of the first two of Mary T's solo albums is a significant criteria for any potential love interest of mine. Not that I'm considered getting involved with David Raposa (definitely not now anyway), but I'm just trying to illustrate what an impact these two albums have had on me, and basically how completely awesome they are. Sure, they both might be a little too "Rory Gilmore" for some people. Timony might refer to herself in the third person as Ms Charming Melodee and befriend a forest full of furry friends throughout the songs, however, they both are musically inventive albums which not only demonstrated her knack for a good tune, but also construct interesting and challenging arrangements on a variety of instruments. Furthermore, anyone with even a passing knowledge of her work with Helium knows that she's not all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows.
Raposa beings his piece by stating the the collaboration between Timony and her current drummer, Devin Ocampo, "has given her music a beneficial kick in the ass". The implication of this statement is obvious, however it could be justified if one was to view the statement through Timony's third solo album, and first Ocampo collaboration, Ex Hex. This album was a marked shift from her first two solo releases. On Ex Hex Ocampo's brutally awkward rhythms were the initially confronting, but subsequently brilliant companion to Timony's unorthodox and obtuse riffing. However, that has not continued on The Shapes We Make. Ocampo's drum-work is muted and much more conventional. He isn't kicking anybody's arse on this record.
This claiming of an improvement is a standard writing tactic employed by most music writers. It's the old diss previous albums to praise the current one trick. It's such lazy and incompetent journalism, especially as it is not only a cliché move, but is frequently poorly researched. Raposa displays this lack of research by making the implication that what Timony required after her first two solo albums was "an honest-to-goodness drumkit" and making the aside that Christian Files was "the sporadically-used drummer on those two albums". In fact on both Mountains and The Golden Dove Files is not only has a large presence, but her stuttering off-beat rhythms are essential components in what is so great about those albums. Songs like Musik and Charming Melodee and Dr Cat, both from The Golden Dove, are first rate rhythmical adventures. The tracks where Files' presence isn't so great is due to her drum-work not being a necessity in the arrangement of the songs.
Raposa has a major problem with Timony's lyrics on this record. This is fair enough, gone is the post-Riot Grrl feminist poetry of Helium, as well as the amusingly twee medieval imagery of Mountains and The Golden Dove. nowadays Timony lyrics are in obvious decline. However, Raposa contrasts this lyrical vacancy with what he hears as her musical depth, claiming her success will come "as long as she has music this strong doing the talking for her". This is extremely perplexing. I will love Mary Timony until the day I die, however this is obviously her weakest album. It's her least inventive and is definitely also lacking in major hooks. For anyone to praise it in favour of her previous work shows a distinct lack of understanding of the artist.
The reason why Pitchfork is the only music publication I read now is because I trust in the competence of its writers. Obviously, I will occasionally disagree with their opinions, however, I expect this to be on grounds of taste rather than lack of research and lazily constructed pieces.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Deep Cuts
It's my face I have the most problem with. If it wasn't for my face I think I'd be a lot more constructive. Hey, of course we all have our little blemishes, but my problems cut a little deeper.
When I was about 15 I split my lip quite badly. As a result I had to change the way smiled to prevent ripping the wound open further. I had to tuck my top lip underneath itself to the point where only a thin line of lip was visible and the full exposure of the area above my teeth was revealed. It was a very ugly look. Unfortunately the lip was cut for several weeks and as a result this tucking of my top lip when smiling became an instinctive reaction. What is more unfortunate is that this is a reaction that I have maintained to this day. Because of this, for the past 13 years, whenever I am amused or experience something that pleases me I have immediately covered my mouth with my hands. The fear of inflicting my hideous smile on others has been a perpetual weight on my mind. What should be my principle presentation to the world I keep hidden. This is not the look of a confident man, it's the look of someone a little uneasy in the world, someone too self-conscious to exhibit the boldness required to truly be someone. The eyes may be the window to the soul, but the smile is the front door, and so the impression I've given for all these years is of someone peering hesitantly out through the chained latch, a fearfully embarrassed wombat. This mindset has obviously infected the approach I take to my entire life.
Now I'm not going to proclaim that I'm starting to "work through it", because I'm not. Forcing my hands down from in front of my face is not going to make me happy. Scaring little children, freaking out old ladies, that's not what I want to do. I honestly don't have a solution for this. The philosopher Benjamin Gibbard once proclaimed "We are not perfect, but we should try", but that's bullshit. Life isn't just a series of steps towards becoming flawless. Sometimes in order to save face you have to conceal a bit of it.
When I was about 15 I split my lip quite badly. As a result I had to change the way smiled to prevent ripping the wound open further. I had to tuck my top lip underneath itself to the point where only a thin line of lip was visible and the full exposure of the area above my teeth was revealed. It was a very ugly look. Unfortunately the lip was cut for several weeks and as a result this tucking of my top lip when smiling became an instinctive reaction. What is more unfortunate is that this is a reaction that I have maintained to this day. Because of this, for the past 13 years, whenever I am amused or experience something that pleases me I have immediately covered my mouth with my hands. The fear of inflicting my hideous smile on others has been a perpetual weight on my mind. What should be my principle presentation to the world I keep hidden. This is not the look of a confident man, it's the look of someone a little uneasy in the world, someone too self-conscious to exhibit the boldness required to truly be someone. The eyes may be the window to the soul, but the smile is the front door, and so the impression I've given for all these years is of someone peering hesitantly out through the chained latch, a fearfully embarrassed wombat. This mindset has obviously infected the approach I take to my entire life.
Now I'm not going to proclaim that I'm starting to "work through it", because I'm not. Forcing my hands down from in front of my face is not going to make me happy. Scaring little children, freaking out old ladies, that's not what I want to do. I honestly don't have a solution for this. The philosopher Benjamin Gibbard once proclaimed "We are not perfect, but we should try", but that's bullshit. Life isn't just a series of steps towards becoming flawless. Sometimes in order to save face you have to conceal a bit of it.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
We Want Our Film To Be Beautiful Not Realistic
The past week or so I have been seeing quite a few films as part of the Melbourne International Film Festival (MIFF). I guess I've always seen myself as a fairly cultured person, yet I'm someone who has kept a distance from, what I can best describe as, the culture of culture. In the past I've been very careful with my associations, my demeanour is one of inherent suspicion. However, as part of my recent shift in outlook, I decided I should loosen my belt a little and attempt to become more actively immersed. So I purchased a pass for the Film Festival. The hope was that this would not only increase my exposure to film, but also contribute to exposing myself more socially.
My relationship with film is a complex one. I enjoy film immensely, yet I have no idea how to critique (or engage with) it. Film could treat me very poorly and I would have no idea, or if I did, would never say anything. I'm just not assured enough with film, I lack the confidence to be assertive around it. I guess you could say I feel beneath it. This is opposed to (what I see as) the more solitary experience of music, where I am very comfortable. As a result my experience with film is limited. I've watched films, but I've never truly got to know them.
That, however, was hopefully going to change during the Film Festival. I was to become experienced. I wanted to be involved, attached, absorbed, plugged into film. There was certain screenings I had my eye on and I had an inkling that they would be very compatible with me. I was keen to have something new to focus on, something that would enliven and inspire me.
So I've been seeing films. Well, to be more honest, I've been attending films. I've been present at their screenings, but am unsure if I've truly understood what I've experienced. There have been times where I've felt that the relationship was starting to flourish, but others where I have felt perplexed.
I wish I could just express what I think and feel, but the fear of making a mess is too great. The thing is I expect these films to come to me. I don't understand how it could possibly work the other way 'round. This may have a great deal to do with my perspective, although maybe it's just laziness on my part? I want the film to just immediately take me by the hand, I want it to let me snuggle up beside it and to whisper soft things in its ear. I want to experience its love and love it in return, however, apparently, you must decide to risk your heart for love to find you, and I'm just not willing to take the risk. Unless I can change my attitude I don't know whether I'll ever becoming engaged with film. It's an aspect of life I may have to do without.
My relationship with film is a complex one. I enjoy film immensely, yet I have no idea how to critique (or engage with) it. Film could treat me very poorly and I would have no idea, or if I did, would never say anything. I'm just not assured enough with film, I lack the confidence to be assertive around it. I guess you could say I feel beneath it. This is opposed to (what I see as) the more solitary experience of music, where I am very comfortable. As a result my experience with film is limited. I've watched films, but I've never truly got to know them.
That, however, was hopefully going to change during the Film Festival. I was to become experienced. I wanted to be involved, attached, absorbed, plugged into film. There was certain screenings I had my eye on and I had an inkling that they would be very compatible with me. I was keen to have something new to focus on, something that would enliven and inspire me.
So I've been seeing films. Well, to be more honest, I've been attending films. I've been present at their screenings, but am unsure if I've truly understood what I've experienced. There have been times where I've felt that the relationship was starting to flourish, but others where I have felt perplexed.
I wish I could just express what I think and feel, but the fear of making a mess is too great. The thing is I expect these films to come to me. I don't understand how it could possibly work the other way 'round. This may have a great deal to do with my perspective, although maybe it's just laziness on my part? I want the film to just immediately take me by the hand, I want it to let me snuggle up beside it and to whisper soft things in its ear. I want to experience its love and love it in return, however, apparently, you must decide to risk your heart for love to find you, and I'm just not willing to take the risk. Unless I can change my attitude I don't know whether I'll ever becoming engaged with film. It's an aspect of life I may have to do without.
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