Metal days revisited.
Soul Coughing had a couple of metal guys as roadies, and I used to sit around and, nostalgic for my junior high love of metal, talk about whether Paul Di’Anno or Bruce Dickinson was the better vocalist for Iron Maiden. Being in this quasi – avant – beat – oriented band, I think they thought I was mocking them, but I wasn’t. Maybe it was the extent of my unhappiness in Soul Coughing that made me long for simpler times and less pretentious music.
Over the past few years, I’ve slowly added classic metal tunes to my iTunes; first AC/DC and Black Sabbath (pretty much undeniable, whether you went through a metal phase or not); now Motley Cr
You Can’t Do That on Television!
I have more thoughts on Idol. I will doubtless continue to have thoughts on Idol as the weeks go by, but I will try to not blog about them, and focus instead on highbrow concerns.
Meatloaf: really shockingly out of key. My girlf wondered if he were trying to sabotage the McPhee. But Meatloaf made the McPhee sound great by comparison. I mean, he was puzzlingly, balls-out atonal, as in, did they pitch shift everything in his in-ear monitors up a quarter tone?
On the positive side: I love that he’s always got the handkerchief in his hand for facial-dabbing. Rather like Oum Kalthoum.
Aiken: Achin’. I do not understand. When he appeared with his screwed-on hair and that one weird eye a-flutter, trying to look all like, It is I, the great Flamenco Hunk Action Star Clay Aiken, I just thought: this person doesn’t exist. How can he?
The convulsive reaction of the Clay imitator with the distressingly yellow teeth, when he discovered the Lando Calrissian of the Closeted striding mannishly beside him; what is he, to make the crazy? For this? I have the shock.
The first singles: there is a sub-industry now of pro songwriting committees (not as hip as the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, but I digress) that come up with these songs, like “Do I Make You Proud,” and “Some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this,” that are love songs disguised as triumphant-moment songs disguised as love songs disguised as, etc, that make no sense outside of Idol finales or high school graduations. Or cruise ship ads.
I want in on this racket. Or, at least, to pitch the Hicks on a cover of “American Car.” He’s a Ray LaMontagne fan, so why not?
Idol: I feel they should drop the “American,” and be just IDOL. More appropriate, and monolithic.
(sob) You do make me proud! You do! (sob)
In triumph, our Taylor emotes, with that trout-like, Nixonian grimace.
A moment of bliss: after Taylor is declared the winner, they cut to a weeping David Hasselhoff.
A moment of anguish: at the end of the broadcast, for a couple of seconds, in tiny type, the disclaimer flashed that the cursing Rhonetta was in fact an actor. It was worded in hearbreaking, side-effects-may-include lawyerese, but I can’t give you the exact wording, as my TiVo cut it off.
Perhaps you’ll let it slide, if I include as a bonus these mugshots of Rhonetta, courtesy of the Mecklenburg County sheriff’s office.
I like the McPhee and the Hicks because they are both friends with singing black people that wear robes.
Because they took the opportunity to d
Gone, unusable on Mike’s machine: b/w S and U, and b/w X and Z. So, blog how?
So due o some weird mishap, I don’ know exacl wha, wo of he kes on m compuer aren’ working. I’d love o ell ou exacl wha he are, bu even o spell hese leers phoneicall I need he leers. I’m reall no ring o be co. Sigh.
I hink ha I should blog like his more ofen; wha difference could wo lile leers make? Har dee har har.
I feel ha I should make his enr longer, jus because i looks weird. So: I wached he 198 movie Hoosiers wih Gene Hackman (eah, I suppose I should menion ha I’m missing a number, oo, he one beween 5 and 7), and i was good, I like spors movies so much more han spors hemselves. Ruined b Jerr Goldsmih’s score, wha’s up wih ha? He’s such a genius. Bu he score sounds as if he sudio execuives were fixaed on “Charios of Fire,” ha snh sound, b wha’s his face? Vivaldi? Vivace? Anwa.
Nominaed for an Oscar ha ear, along wih Ennio Morricone, for hm I don’ recall exacl wha. I wonder if he did somehing uncharacerisicall mediocre as well.
I wish I had seen a movie wih Rae Dawn Chong in i, because I can spell her name wihou he missing kes. Oh, I suppose I can pe “Gene Hackman” and “Ennio Morricone” jus as well. And “Rosie Perez,” oo, hough she wasn’ in Hoosiers. So nevermind.
his weirdness will no be a charming quirk for long. I reall fucking hope ha his echnical difficul is emporar.
“I believe the benefits of success will justify the costs and risks,” he said. The protests grew louder and more frequent as he spoke. Some graduates walked out. Others laughed. When Mr. McCain returned to policy after briefly quoting Yeats, someone shouted, “More poetry!”
The first student speaker, Jean Sara Rohe, 21, said she had discarded her original remarks to talk about Mr. McCain. (link).
Where did he go?
Such a feisty little man, with his head painted silver. I imagine him being sullen and driving an expensive car through the Wendy’s drive-thru.
And Lou Bega–wasn’t Lou Bega German? Perhaps I just don’t see the inner man–perhaps he’s angsty, too–but I envision him at a caf
Everybody loves them some Japanese game show. Clicky linky to this, ganked from WFMU’s Beware of the Blog; perhaps the most devilish and weird Japanese game show of all time: here.
I have this gigantic music room in my new domicile, far out in Brooklyn where hipsters fear to tread.
I think I’m done writing the record. I go to the music room (I’d like to call it The Parlor but I have absolutely no justification for that), where all the keyboards and the amps and the drum machines have been set up and are ready to go at a moment’s notice, just switch the amps on–my old Lower East Side place was so small you couldn’t have all the gear set up at once, you practically had to set up the Moog on the kitchen counter–and yet I go in there, and sit, and pluck around on a guitar, and: nothing’s coming.
It’s not a block–that’s an entirely different feeling, you’re panicking, you’re writing busloads of stuff, it’s all just halfassed–it’s this innate knowledge that everybody’s already shown up to the party.
I have the list of songs which are awesome, and then I have a bunch of tunes that are essentially life support systems for killer lines. I extract the lines and plug them into a new tune, but that tune ends up sounding kind of flat. Sometimes I come up with a tune that’s utterly stuffed, like a Stars on 45 cavalcade of homeless killer lines, and it just sounds bizarre. A drag queen lipsynching the 11 o’clock number of a Broadway standard.
“Is it soup yet?” is something Sekou Sundiata used to say in the poetry classes I took with him at the New School. We’d cut, revise, cut–he was pretty merciless, especially to a bunch of artsy college kids to whom every word was precious. Is it soup yet?
Maybe it’s soup. Let’s go.
Yeah, that’s right, I called it. What’s up now?
Once I was in a truck stop and saw a cap for the Chicago Blackhawks. I asked our sound guy Lars if such a team really did exist. Lars looked at me. “It’s amazing,” he said. “You’re immune to it.”
Yeah, sports meant nothing to me as a kid. As an adult, I watch those Bob Costas HBO shows, about the adversity and the pugnacity and the etc etc of this or that basketball dude, and then I resolve to watch a game and get excited about it. But it doesn’t stick. I can’t get that interested.
Hence, Jesus has shown me the way to American Idol. A televised competition I can get involved in.
There was an interesting piece in the NYPost comparing the Idol process to the Presidential primaries; mediocrity wins out because the fans of one eliminated contestant don’t flip over to the more daring acts, but rather to the most inoffensive–hence, goodbye odds-on fave Chris. So the guy said Elliott would win. Well, har dee har har, NYPost guy.
Taylor by a hair. I no longer hate McPhee–mostly due to her answer, on the Fox Idol site, to a question whether the audition process was fair: “No, they let go of some really good people and kept people who were pretty.”
Although she does that thing where she slides up to a note from a breath, which sounds like a style move but is in fact compensation. Drives me apeshitcrazy. And yeah, I recognize that I’m the dude who ends every lyric in the syllable “uh.”
For which Beavis and Butthead likened me to Jimmy Swaggart. I add, proudly.