Starting to develop a real appreciation for Isaac Brock’s songwriting skills. If I got nothing else from the last few years of my pointless little life, at least now I’ve expanded my playlist beyond the confines of pre-1990.

Black Cadillacs

And it’s true we named our children
After towns that we’ve never been to.
And it’s true that the clouds just hung around
Like black Cadillacs outside a funeral.

And we were done, done, done
With all the fuck, fuck, fuckin’ around.
You were so true to yourself.
You were true to no one else.
Well I should put you in the ground.

I’ve got the time, I got the hours,
I got the days, I got the weeks.
I could say to myself
I’ve got the words but I can’t speak.
Well I was done, done, done
With all the circ, circ, circlin’ round.

I didn’t die and I ain’t complainin’.
I ain’t blamin’ you.
I didn’t know that the words you said to me
Meant more to me than they ever could you.
I didn’t lie and I ain’t sayin’
I told the whole truth.
I didn’t know that this game we were playin’
Even had a set of rules.

We named our children after towns
That we’ve never been to.
And it’s true that the clouds just hunger around
Like black Cadillacs outside a funeral.
And we were laughing at the stars
While our feet clung tight to the ground.
So pleased with ourselves
For using so many verbs and nouns.

But we were all still just dumb, dumb, dumber
Than the dirt, dirt, dirt on the ground.
Well wings on flames, kings with no names,
Well this place just ain’t got right air right now.
You were so all over town but still so Crayola brown.
Well you should run ’round yourself right now.
And we were done, done, done
With all the fuck, fuck, fuckin’ around.
Circlin’ round.

Need a real song today as well.

I saw Death Cab perform a couple years ago and was not mightily impressed. Perhaps it was because I was naturally prejudiced after I had just seen no less than Robert Plant, but it seemed that the richly layered Death Cab sound is better suited to the confines of the studio rather than the vast expanse of a festival. Perhaps that is unfair because no one at all can possibly look good following Robert Plant. So I do intend to give them another chance should they come along again. After all they did make one of the best albums of 2008, Narrow Stairs. High expectations for the future indeed. On a totally unrelated note, I can’t believe Ben Gibbard married Zooey Deschanel. She’s so cute and he’s so blehhh. Down with homely rock stars, I say.

“Formerly New Zealand’s fourth most popular guitar-based digi-bongo acapella-rap-funk-comedy folk duo”

Flight of the Conchords just finished the second season of their popular NBO series. Word has it there may not be a third one, but let’s hope there is. This comedy gold cannot be sacrificed, even to Jemaine’s nascent film career. Here’s hoping since Gentlemen Broncos tanked pretty hard he may desire the steady paycheck. Flight of the Conchords is a very important addition to the comedy canon, musical parody comedy especially.  

Antony Hegarty has one of the most odd and distinctive voices in music right now. The songs he recorded with his band The Johnsons have been featured in movies like V For Vendetta and I’m Not There, he was one of the performers paying tribute to Leonard Cohen in I’m Your Man, he’s sung on albums by Bjork, Marianne Faithfull and Rufus Wainwright. He dueted with Bryan Ferry. When Lou Reed realized his voice was too cracked and broken to hit the high notes on Perfect Day he took Antony on tour with him and featured his vocals on The Raven. Antony & the Johnsons have also put out two wonderful albums. Like any really unique talent, Antony is divisive. People find his voice either offputting or enchanting. I find his mournful singing haunting and lovely. He sings like a ghost.

Modest  Mouse of Carson Daly, an early (by their standards) tv appearance, right when they began to break big. Brock’s vocals are kind of abrasive on this track. It’s a love it or hate it song. I love it, but it’s an acquired taste. And it’s one of many Mouse tracks that just make you think to yourself “wow, somebody’s been listening to their Tom Waits collection!”

(photo: Alexey Budovsky)

I first encountered this video a few years ago on a compilation of award winning animated shorts and I’d been trying to track down the song ever since. Imagine my delight when my search led me to The Real Tuesday Weld. The music of The Real Tuesday Weld is intoxicating enough on its own, but it’s the animated videos that really mark the map. Although this one doesn’t feature the Clerkenwell Kid, it’s a major highlight. The animation is by Alexey Budovsky. Budovsky has made a series of videos for Stephen Coates, as well as a wealth of promos and commercials.

Jury Award for the Best Animation at Sundance Online Film Festival 2004, Prize “for the perfection of music and fantastic Imaginary” at Ottawa animated film festival 2004, Grand Jury Award for the best animated short at Florida Film Festival 2003,
The Best of Show Award from ASIFA-East 2003, Grand Prize from ASIFA–West, Prize for the best film in “applied animation” category at KROK –2003 (Russia-Ukraine), Diploma from IX Russian Festival of Animated Films, Best Animation at Boston Underground Film Festival, Third Prize at Film Fest New Heaven.

Official selection at Annecy 2003 (France) , Newport International Film Festival 2003, Resfest 2003, Sacramento film and music festival, Woodstock film festival, Hamptons International Film Festival, Northhampton Independent Film festival, New York Expo, Wiesbaden Film Festival (Germany), Cartoombria (Italy) , Black Nights international Film Festival (Estonia, Tallin), Tel-Aviv Festival for comics and animation, Anima Mundy (Brazil), Aspen Shortfest, Zagreb Animafest

Doesn’t Lily Allen look amazing in the video? She’s often talked about her self-image struggles and insecureties. Which is sad, because of how utterly adorable she is. Her little accent is thoroughly charming as well. She recently stated that she’s lost interest in making music and has no plans to continue recording. Which is sad, because she has got a knack for it. Her music is very unabashedly pop, very bubblygum. But pop and even bubblegum can be used for good as well as evil. When it’s being used to express some honest thoughts, like Lily does, then it’s good.

I assume that anyone who agrees to participate in a Jack White project realizes that it’s Jack who’s the big star and the main attraction. It’s part of the deal. Jack tries to be diplomatic and not hog the spotlight. He occasionally let Brendan Benson sing lead in the Raconteurs, and in the Dead Weather Allison Mosshart took the majority of vocal duties. But I’ve been noticing how anyone singing with Jack somehow gets made to sound like Jack. On Horehound I noticed how Allison’s vocals were mixed and altered so her singing resembles Jack’s. If you listen to any of The Kills albums, she really doesn’t sound Jacklike at all. And on this track Brendan Benson is singing in Jack’s style. On the record he sounds almost exactly like Jack. Has anyone noticed this? Surely, it’s no coincidence. I’m not suggesting that Jack is egoistical enought to force people to copy him. Perhaps his collaborators are unconsciously falling victim to the so-called “Woody-Allen-Syndrome”, in which they feel compelled to pay tribute to the master by aping his mannerisms. Curious.

Bright Eyes is a real modern cult, inspiring so much devotion. I remember filthy hippies at the 2005 Rainbow Gathering sitting around a booming fire, crying and singing Bright Eyes songs. That was my introduction to Bright Eyes. That people find such an emotional connection to these songs is touching. It makes me feel all Disney about the magical power of music. But seriously. Sometimes I feel so wrenchingly connected to certain songs, I feel like they’re a part of the inside of my head, and it feels like maybe I’m crazy. It’s nice to see the same thing in other people. I guess I’m not the only one. It’s very intimate and it’s very emotional. I don’t know of anyone besides Bright Eyes who can break people open like that. I’ve seen it again and again. As for me, Bright Eyes makes me depressed.

At the Bottom of Everything, Bright Eyes, I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning, 2005

This is an ode to the late American poet Charles Bukowski. Who I know nada about, because I don’t read poetry. (Like the poet said “I guess that I’m dumb, cause I knows I ain’t smart.”) Poetry reading just takes too much effort. Is that sad or what?

Woke up this morning and it seemed to me,
that every night turns out to be
A little more like Bukowski.
And yeah, I know he’s a pretty good read.
But God who’d wanna be?
God who’d wanna be such an asshole?
God who’d wanna be?
God who’d wanna be such an asshole?

Well we sat on the edge of the river,
the crowd screamed, “Sacrifice the liver!”
If God takes life, he’s an Indian giver.
So tell me now why, you’ll tell me never.
Who would wanna be?
Who would wanna be such a control freak?
Well who would wanna be?
Who would wanna be such a control freak?

Well see what you wanna see. You should see it all.
Well take what you want from me. You deserve it all.
Nine times out of ten our hearts just get dissolved.
Well I want a better place or just a better way to fall.

But one time out of ten, everything is perfect for us all.
Well I want a better place or just a better way to fall.
Here we go!

If God controls the land and disease,
keeps a watchful eye on me,
If he’s really so damn mighty,
my problem is I can’t see,
well who would wanna be?
Who would wanna be such a control freak?
Well who would wanna be?
Who would wanna be such a control freak?

Evil home stereo, what good songs do you know?
Evil me, oh yeah I know, what good curves can you throw?

Well all that icing and all that cake,
I can’t make it to your wedding, but I’m sure I’ll be at your wake.
You were talk, talk, talk, talkin’ in circles that day,
when you get to the point make sure that I’m still awake, OK?

Went to bed and didn’t see
why every day turns out to be
a little bit more like Bukowski.
And yeah, I know he’s a pretty good read.
But God who’d wanna be?
God who’d wanna be such an asshole?

Bukowski, Modest Mouse, Good News For People Who Love Bad News, 2004

One of the big misconceptions about Morrissey (the other one being that he can’t sing) is that he’s depressing and gloomy. I totally thought that myself for the longest time, but it’s simply not true. Morrissey is uproarious. The whole persona is highly comical, and I don’t believe that it’s unintentional. If you’ve ever heard or read an interview, he’s balancing a combination of (veryEnglish) self-deprecation and astounding arrogance so charmingly, and obtusely, that it’s almost to the point of being performance art. The lyrics are always very funny as well. If it’s self-parody, it’s heartfelt.  

At Last I Am Born
Words by Morrissey – Music by Michael Farrell

At last I am born
historians note
I am finally born
I once used to chase
affection withdrawn
but not I just sit back and yawn
because I am born, born, born
“Look at me now
from difficult child
to spectral hand
to Claude Brasseur
blah, blah, blah, blah…”
At last I am born
vulgarians know
I am finally born
I once thought that time
accentuates despair
but now I don’t actually care
because I am born, born, born
“Look at me now
from difficult child
to spectral hand
to Claude Brasseur
blah, blah, blah, blah…”
At last I am born
at last I am born
living the one, true, free life
born
I once thought that I
had numerous reasons to cry
and I did — but I don’t anymore
because I am born, born, born
At last I am born
at last I am born
it took me a long, long time
but now I am born
I once was a mess
of guilt because of the flesh
it’s remarkable what you can learn
once you are born, born, born
born, born, born
born, born, born

I adore The Real Tuesday Weld. Such dreamy and inspiring music. There’s a whole RTW mythology and cosmology and full cast of characters. Very high-concept, all. I adore anything high-concept, with imagination and drama. What to call it? Champagne jazz, cocktail pop, post-lounge, smooth steampunk, neo-Victorian jazz-pop. Pick one.

I have been so fortunate to meet some exquisitely talented people from all over the planet thanks to the magic of the Internet. A couple of years ago, I met Australian Kit Rumble’s acquaintance on YouTube because of some gracious comments he left on video montages I had made for Gary Numan songs. Unfortunately, I was forced to remove those montages because the greedy suits at Eagle Records decided they didn’t want free advertising, even though I had Gary Numan’s permission via Tony Webb, his father and manager.

At any rate, one happy consequence of all that drama was being exposed to Kit Rumble’s music. This genuinely friendly and humble man has been creating music since the late 70’s. He cites his very first influences as Suzi Quattro, Bryan Ferry, David Bowie, and, of course, Gary Numan. Once Kit heard Numan’s “Cars” for the first time, he was smitten with electronica. His tastes going forward ran the gamut of Numan, John Foxx, Kraftwerk, and Bowie, whose chameleon-like evolution and innovation he admired greatly. Iva Davies, Australian-grown like Kit himself, was another iconic musician whose work was highly influential.

Kit purchased his first synthesizer, a Roland System 100, in 1981. That was a defining point in his own music evlolution. The first Roland led to a Roland Jupiter and an Arp Odyssey. Kit reports that since then he has probably bought and sold at least 100 keyboards ranging from early analogues to “amazing machines like the OpenLabs Neko LX76.”

In the early 80’s, Kit moved from Melbourne to Sydney to start his first band called “Subway.” They mostly covered the work of their synthesizer heroes. The band broke up, double-teamed by the repercussions of a bad automobile accident and the arrival of the New Romantic genre. Kit returned to Melbourne to a self-imposed exile, where he shut himself up in a room full of synthesizers, drum machines, and multi-track reel-to-reel decks, and set about writing and recording demos.

Life intervened, Kit found himself caught up heavily in the party life, and creating music ended up taking a backseat as a result. After giving marriage an unsuccessful try, and fathering a child, Kit reordered his priorities and settled back into his first passion of writing and performing music. Unfortunately, given the time that had passed, he felt he didn’t quite fit into the music scene he found himself thrust into.

The early 90’s and the mainstream music that the corporate suits were foisting upon the masses was not Kit’s cup of tea. He couldn’t stomach “the Michael Bolton/Vanessa Williams/Whitney Houston dominated radio” and even found the 90’s Annie Lennox to be unpalatable compared to her brilliance in the 80’s.

Kit withdrew from the public eye and lay low until forming his next band, “The Factory Boys.” The line up was Kit Rumble (vocals/keyboards), Stuart Casey (lead guitar), Brad Hodge (drums), Little Wilks (guitar), and Darren Rosier (bass). Kit, in his own words, describes this period of life as “terrific fun as we played in the back of this large warehouse…..often local people would hear us start up and wander down, and eventually we had this thing going where it was OK to wander in, listen to us play, and leave. We hardly got to speak with any of these ‘fans.’”

Kit recorded his first CD at Soul Studios (Gold Coast Australia) with Anna Maria LaSpina (who later toured the world with Savage Garden), provided backing vocals. Darren Hayes, too, would often pop in and out, prior to his own success. This proved to be a turning point in Kit’s musical career. He writes, “The internet saved my creative life, to be honest. I discovered a website called Dmusic.com and began to upload my music. Suddenly, I found there were people who liked my sound from all around the world, but not so much in Australia. To add another dimension, I became interested in creating music video for my tracks which led to me winning the Dmusic video of the year award with my track ‘Sayonara Baby.’”

Currently, Kit reports that he is content with creating music and video for the Web. When he was young, his dream was to be heard on the radio. He has realized that dream with radio play throughout the world, thanks to the wonders of the Internet. Not only that, Kit’s music has found its way to one British movie soundtrack, Paul Easter’s film called “Stagger,” with another soundtrack soon to be added to his resume. He has recently teamed up with a brilliant artist from the UK, Dave Webber. Together they are producing some powerful dark industrial music with a view to producing a CD collection very soon. I, for one, can’t wait.

Kit has a fan base (of which I am very happy to be a member) who are very loyal to his sound. He offers his music for free download at the following sites:

http://www.ilike.com/artist/Kit+Rumble

http://kitrumble.dmusic.com/

http://www.myspace.com/kitrumble

http://www.icompositions.com/artists/KitRumble

Take advantage of this great opportunity and get acquainted with his music. Kit will welcome you into his circle of friends by treating you as though he has known you his whole life. It is this warm and selfless attitude, along with an undeniable talent, that will go far in bringing Kit the success he has worked hard for his entire life.

“Hostile” via YouTube user kitrumble:
 

“Sayonara Baby” via YouTube user kitrumble:
 

“Shame” (2009 remix with Dave Syn) via YouTube user kitrumble:
 

“Dull Reality” (using images of Gary Numan onstage) via YouTube user kitrumble:
 

“Always” (music by Dave Syn) via YouTube user kitrumble:
 

Kit Rumble Discography

Talk To Me – 1996
Ghost – 1997
Misguidance – 1997
Now I’m Alone – 1998
Say Goodbye -1999
Mayday – 2000
Intermission – 2000
Hymn for a mortal – 2000
I’m Silenced – 2001
You Drown Me – 2001
Sayonara Baby – 2003
Your Time – 2004
Save Me – 2004
Dull Reality – 2005
Shame – 2006
Make Me Bleed – 2007
Die for the Children – 2008
When You Move – 2008
Shame (remix 2009) – 2009
Always – 2009
Hostile – 2009

If you thought psychedelic music was dead, you were wrong. The Flaming Lips have been making some of the most triptastic music since…I don’t know… since before I was alive, surely. If you’re tired of freeing your mind to the same dusty platters you’ve been spinning, you should invest in some Yoshimi.

Are You A Hypnotist? The Flaming Lips, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, 2002

Tori Amos has a lot of daughters, musically speaking. Every year it seems there’s an earnest new girl singer, clinking away at a grand piano. I get all the Tori I need from Tori herself, so the piano pounding virago is not the role I want to see young women adopt. Yet, sometimes someone comes along who takes the girl/piano formula and turns it around and makes it shiny again. I’m speaking of Regina Spektor, who appeals to me vastly for a variety of reasons. Because she has thoughts in her head besides dissecting her breakups (emo for girls), and she has some vim and wit. Also because she occasionally sings in Russian. And largely because she knows how to be earnest, and heartfelt, without seeming self-absorbed. Narcissism is the downfall of the confessionalists. Spektor is not a confessionalist, luckily. Her latest album, Far, was outstanding, with some diamond perfect songs. It’s her most polished one yet, in a good way. This one’s a keeper.

The Real Tuesday Weld is one of  my favorite new discoveries this year. The band is the brainchild of British musician Stephen Coates, who imagines pop music that evolved from jazz without the interruption of rock’n'roll. Their genre-defying music has been labelled ‘antique beat’, ‘baroque pop’, and ‘electric cabaret’. They are also known for their enchanting animated videos. Check out their way cool website, tuesdayweld.com.

Want the definition of Emo? You’re looking at it. This is a man so emo, he performs under a name taken from an Art Garfunkel song. An Art Garfunkel song from an animated movie about rabbits. That’s emo. And unlike most of what falls under that label, Bright Eyes doesn’t suck. Conor Oberst has been called the second coming Dylan. (Why do we need a new Dylan when the old one is still alive and kicking?) That’s grossly unfair to anybody, for obvious reasons, but that’s the comparison that inevitably gets made whenever a songwriter comes along with thoughts in his head that aren’t crude sexual metaphors. Oberst is no Dylan by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s one of the strongest young songwriters we’ve got. That and cuteness levels that should be illegal have made him an icon for millions of the discerning depressed wilting wallflower types who like to wear hoodies, pout, mope and cut themselves. He also rubs a lot of people the wrong way. Non-believers say his songs are self-obsessed, teenage and whiny, and his voice is annoying. Good point. He unfailingly sounds like he’s on the brink of bawling his eyes out. A little bit goes a long way.

Well I’m changing all my strings
I’m gonna write another traveling song
About all the billion highways and the cities at the break of dawn
Well I guess the best that I can do now is pretend that I’ve done nothing wrong
And to dream about a train that’s gonna take me back where I belong

Well now the ocean speaks and spits and I can hear it from the interstate
And I’m screaming at my brother on a cell phone he’s far away
I’m saying nothing in the past or future ever will feel like today
Until we’re parking in an alley
Just hoping that our shit is safe

So I go back and forth forever
All my thoughts they come in pairs
Oh I will, I won’t, I doubt I don’t
I’m not surprised but I never feel quite prepared

Now I’m hunched over a typewriter
I guess you call that painting in a cave
And there’s a word I can’t remember
And a feeling I cannot escape
And now my ashtray’s overflowing
I’m still staring at a clean white page
Oh and morning’s at my window
She is sending me to bed again

Well I dream of dark on the horizon
I dream a desert where the dead lay down
I dream a prostituted child touching an old man in a fast food crowd
Oh yeah, I dreamt a ship was sinking
There was people screaming all around
And I awoke to my alarm clock
It was a pop song, it was playing loud

So I will find my fears and face them
Or I will cower like a dog
I will kick and scream or kneel and plead
I’ll fight like hell to hide that I’ve given up

In the video, The Decemberists are playing our very own Stubb’s here in Austin, in March of this very year. It was a show I badly wanted to go to, but at that time I had too much other shit on my plate. Here’s hoping for another chance next year. The sound seems quite good. I’ve had people tell me the acoustics at Stubb’s aren’t all that. I can’t judge from my own experience; when I saw Gogol Bordello there last month I was directly in front of a bank of speakers and my hearing was gone before even the opening band.

This track is from The Hazards Of Love, which is going to be (SPOILER!) my album of the year when I do my top ten. I work very hard to the best little pretentious elitist I can be, and it warms my heart to find myself in someone’s target audience. There are very few things, musical or otherwise, on the market that aren’t aimed at an audience of the functionally illiterate. If a band with a name like The Decemberists can become successful, it’s a sign that our culture still hasn’t fully disappeared down the crapper. That makes me optimistic.

Why no, I haven’t gone off the deep end…why do you ask? Concerned persons worry that listening to Morrissey every day for a month may be bad for my mental health. Let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. My mental health is better that it has been in years.

Anyhow…The rule still stands that overcompensated mansion-dwelling rock stars need to refrain from chipping in their stupid two-cents worth political opinions. In this case, I will forgive, because I like the line ”you know where you can shove your hamburger”. I don’t share all of Morrissey’s fervent hamburger-related beliefs, but viewing hamburgers as a symbol of American cultural colonialism, I’m completely against them. On the brighter side, at least one of the problems bemoaned on this track has gone away, so that’s a start although now the song is hopelessy outdated, which is why pop songs are poor vehicle for political debate to begin with.

America Is Not The World
Words by Morrissey – Music by Alain Whyte

America / your head’s too big / because
America / your belly’s too big
and I love you / I just wish you’d stay where
you is / in
America / the land of the Free, they said
and of opportunity / in a Just and a Truthful way
but where the President
is never black, female or gay
and until that day
you’ve got nothing to say to me
to help me believe / in
America / it brought you the hamburger / well
America / you know where
you can shove your hamburger
and don’t you wonder
why in Estonia they say
“hey you, big fat pig” / “you fat pig”
“you fat pig” — ?
Steely-blue eyes / with no love in them
scan the world
and a humourless smile with no warmth
within / greets the world
and I / I have got nothing / to offer you
no, no, no, no, no
just this heart deep and true
which you say you don’t need
See with your eyes
touch with your hands — please
hear through your ears
know in your soul — please
for haven’t you me with you now?
and I love you
I love you
I love you
and I love you
I love you
I love you

Outside of occasionally taking The Smiths’ Greatest Hits out for a spin, I never really gave much thought to Morrissey’s continued existence. I was unfamiliar with his solo work, and also a bit vague on what he looks like. Not that I never had an opinion. I was just holding out, saving Morrissey as Exhibit A in some future rant about People Who Have No Business Singing Anything Ever, But Who Somehow Enjoy Great Success In That Very profession. If you remember tuning in to The Smiths first album back in 1984 (I don’t, I wasn’t old enough), well, you probably hadn’t heard anyone quite so ill-suited to fronting a band since Nico. At the time, a Rolling Stone writer lamented that the only thing keeping The Smiths off of American radio was the “annoying drone” of Morrissey’s voice. The comparison to Nico is an apt one. They share the tendency to, yes, drone flatly with total disregard of whatever was going on in the background musically. Nico was flat and off-key on her Velvet Underground recordings because she had a punctured eardrum (which as far as I can tell never healed, because she never got any better). In Morrissey’s case, I suspect the badness of his singing may have been an affectation, because he evolved fairly quickly from this to this. Anyhow, I have to take back the bad things I was planning to write, because I did some research and made the startling discovery that Morrissey is in fact both a good singer and a hot piece. Ha ha, who knew? Now, to compensate for a lifetime of indifference, it’s all Moz all the time for me. (This is not like the time when I listened to all Nick Cave all the time – those were dark days.)

If you haven’t been tuning in since 1987, Morrissey is in the middle of a major comeback and his most recent albums are most excellent. This song is from Years Of Refusal, which came out earlier this year. There’s also Swords, a companion album of rarities and b-sides. (B-sides still exist? Who knew!) Both are very good albums and come recommended highly, although what I really recommend is downloading the full decade spanning discography, but maybe some of you aren’t ready to make that commitment. There’s a world tour, marred by illness,  meltdowns and hissy fits, that I think is just now lurching to an end. I actually contemplated attending the Austin show back in February but at that time my care level was a lot lower and I didn’t go. Although whatever devil Iggy Pop sold his soul to in exchange for a Gollum-like physique hasn’t paid Morrissey any visits, he does appear to be in pretty good shape for a man of fifty, so I’m betting on a few more tours in the forseeable future.

All You Need Is Me
Words by Morrissey, Music by Jesse Tobias

You hiss and groan
and you constantly moan
but you don’t ever go away
and that’s because
all you need is me
You roll your eyes
up to the skies
mock horrified
but you’re still here
all you need is me
There’s so much destruction
all over the world
and all you can do is
complain about me
You bang your head against the wall
and say you’re sick of it all
yet you remain
’cause all you need is me
And then you offer your one and only joke
and you ask me what will I be
when I grow up to be a man
Me? Nothing!
There’s a soft voice singing in your head
Who can this be? 

 I do believe it’s me
There’s a naked man standing, laughing in your dreams
You know who it is
but you don’t like what it means
There’s so much destruction
all over the world
and all you can do is
complain about me
I was a small, fat child in a welfare house
there was only one thing I ever dreamed about
Fate has just handed it to me
whoopee!
You don’t like me, but you love me
either way you’re wrong
you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone
you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone
You don’t like me, but you love me
either way you’re wrong
you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone
you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone

So usually, when I’m playing catch-up with something that didn’t make the list the first time around I’m not going to bother posting unless I can find a good video. All I could find for All We Have Is Now was this and a handheld live clip with terrible audio. But I’m posting it up anyway, because it is such a beautiful song and I love The Flaming Lips and I’ve not even mentioned them before. Flaming Lips are new to me, although they’ve been hard at work for almost as long as I’ve been alive. They’ve been faithfully putting out great albums since 1986, without ever touching the charts. Then in 2002 they suddenly became very popular. I think this is in thanks to the change from mainstream to alternative media. The internet age allowed a band who never got a wink from Jann Wenner et al or got on MTV to finally find well deserved popularity. When users control the channels of mass communication, such inspiring success stories are made possible. Which is why I so love eCulture, and it’s one of the only reasons why now is good time to be  alive, and why I’m proud to be part of the internet generation. I can feel the zeitgeist moving beneath me.

You may have noticed that I have strong worshipful feelings towards Jack White. In a nutshell, I believe Jack is the most earthshatteringly important person in the world of music, the first real god to come along in decades, a brilliant and prolific musician, and basically all kinds of wonderful. There is no one else of his generation who I’d put on a par with people like Bowie, Jagger, et al. So you see, I have a major obsession going on. Perhaps it’ s because most of my favorite stars were already past their prime by the time I was even born, but I feel insanely lucky to have at least one person whose career I can follow in real time. The reason I have to say all this is because Jack White officially owns my soul. He signed for it and everything. I’ve been sitting on this story this whole time, waiting for the appropriate moment and now it’s time the tale were told.

It was the week of 9/11, 2006, coincedentally the second time I’d booked a New York City vacation for that particular time of the year. It was, as should be, a splendiferous vacation, with the money saved by staying in a $20-a-night hostel going towards thrice-daily adventures in world cuisine. A large sum of New York’s appeal is the constant thrilling possibility of catching the scent of fame and encountering historic events. I had once come close to witnessing a historic event, but missed it by days, and my people watching had yielded the weird and beautiful but  never the well known. The day was begun with a fortifyingly educational jaunt to the Natural History Museum, where I was sorely let down by lack of giant squid exhibits. The plan was to then head south through the park while thinking of  what the next item to eat would be. Under an archway, I joined a crowd watching what turned out to be the bizarre performance artist Thoth, who was once the subject of an Oscar-nominated documentary, and if not exactly a qualified star at least someone known to me. I didn’t watch the whole show. Too weird, I thought, but felt satisfied to have had some small brush with fame. Moving along, thinking about what to eat and where to eat it, I heard music. I thought it sounded like a band practise, and I thought it sounded like a lousy band, because the beat was off. The drumming was irregular and slow, but I gravitated towards it. I found a small film crew set up underneath a  patch of trees. The odd nature of the music made sense; the drummer was playing in an approximation of slow motion, accompanied by a strummed guitar. The closer I got, the more intensely familiar the guitar player appeared. He looked, I decided, a lot like Jack White. There was a moment of doubt and second guessing my own senses, and I realized that I was actually standing a few feet away from the living, breathing, actual Jack White.  I hadn’t felt a purer jolt of delight since I was a child. I had forgotten that it was even possible to feel so strongly. It was surreal in the utmost, to say it mildly. So they played and they filmed, and I gawked and I marveled. Then they called break and the crew dispersed somewhat, and I found Jack sitting under the tree with a cup of coffee, and I knew that if I didn’t jump in and approach him I would regret it every minute of every day of the rest of my life.  Jump-off-the-bridge moments like that don’t come along very often, and when they do, it’s best to jump. So I jumped. I have little recollection of anything I said, except I’m pretty sure I told him the gist of what I’ve written above, that is, I told him how great he was, and he seemed to appreciate it, that is, he was extremely, extremely nice. I had him sign my Natural History Museum flyer (yellow), which he thought was a parking ticket, which was funny, and which has not left my wallet from that day forth. I’ll show it to you sometime. I do think I kept it together and didn’t sound like too much of an idiot, and I did back off and leave him to his coffee in a polite manner. It did take several hours afterwards for me to stop shaking and stuttering. For the record, in person, Jack White is tall and has huge muscles, and his hair is shiny and he’s really really nice and gorgeous and muscular and cute and very friendly and nice. And so forth. Since then I’ve seen him in concert a couple of times and he never fails to blow me away, and it really makes it special to know that he’s really real. That was undoubtedly the apex of my life so far. That I once had a whole five minutes of Jack White’s undivided attention can only be the final proof of God’s love. And that is why Jack White owns my soul, and I will continue to write up slavishly flattering blog posts about him for as long as we both continue to exist.

P.S. It later turned out that the video they were filming was Broken Boy Soldier, and that the director was none other than my beloved Floria Sigismondi, who I’m sure was also present that day in the park, but since I had no idea what she looks like, and still don’t, I have no way of knowing.

Oh, I was so bummed when I missed posting this song the first time around. You may have heard Lily Allen on the radio as you did your grocery shopping or ran laps at the gym or turned on the tv. She does make the most insanely hook-happy, airwave friendly little ska-flavored ditties. Anyone so popular on the radio and in the tabloids is deeply suspect to me,  but Lily Allen won me over. First, because she has the adorability of a woodland creature a la Walt Disney combined with a distinctly non-Disneylike guttermouth and a thirst for alcoholic misadventure that almost rivals the great Wino herself. Those things, appealing as they are, I can take or leave. What matters is that Lily Allen happens to be one of the wittiest songwriters I’ve heard in a long, long time. Pretty girls so rarely have a sense of humor, sorry to say, that I’m prepared to fall in love with anyone so lovely and snarky as Lily.

It’s true that even the most eclectic artists like to revisit successful formulas. Some do so more than others, but everyone has a comfort zone. And usually fans are most happy with comfort zone material as well. That’s why I cherish moments when my favorite artists go all off the wall and do something really eccentric. Out-of-left-field cover songs, totally uncharecteristic moves and sometimes misbeggoten attempts to stay ‘edgy’; those may be honorable fails and always exciting. So of course I’m thrilled and tickled when David Bowie decides to sign off his latest album with a seven minute plonky jazz oddity.