"You should make the playlist a little bit smaller." - PALS

I got the playlist working, but then I received a frightening comment from PALS that I should make the playlist a little bit smaller. I'm going to be honest, I don't know who this PALS is or why I should make the playlist smaller, but I'm going to assume PALS is an acronym for People Against Lots of Songs and his message was a threat against my life if I were not to comply. Therefore, I removed three of the songs.

PALS, I hope this gesture of good faith can ease the tensions between our people and that further negotiations will not be necessary.

Also, this is the most ridiculous band I have seen in a while. All I can think of is the concert scene from "Yes Man."

Working on the whole Imeem thing

Please bear with me while I try to get this whole playlist thing working. If all goes according to plan, I'll add songs as much as possible, and a few songs from anything I review or write about. Then this will blog will actually be worth visiting and I'll be good looking and popular.

In the meantime, I got a couple of the Bon Iver songs up, and some Nilsson for good measure. Enjoy.

Review: Blood Bank EP

OMG did you know he wrote For Emma, Forever Ago in a cabin?

Yes. I own the internets too.

Justin Vernon’s story is as infamous as Robert Ford at this point, so I won’t even breach the topic. Today, I’ll talk about the music; specifically, the much anticipated Blood Bank EP. Those familiar with the LP will feel right at home as the first song (and title track) rolls back the curtains on the four track EP. It comes as no surprise then that this first song was written in the midst of the For Emma sessions. You remember, that whole cabin story. It’s a beautifully moving song; a perfect segue from the somber folk melodies of the LP. Where For Emma carried the weight of loss and coping with it, Blood Bank says get over it, move on, be a man. And Justin Vernon takes heed of his own sentiments. His vocals on the first three songs are beautiful, but there is a palpable feeling of growth in him. Singing that first song, Vernon’s voice sounds older, more direct, more confident. And the lyrics throughout the EP are irreverent, about as inconsequential as a Fleet Foxes song. And I love it for that.

The next two songs aren’t necessarily forgettable, but they do feel more like filler between the two standout tracks in the set. They are, however, Bon Iver, and so they beg comparison only to other Bon Iver. Vernon has achieved a remarkable thing with this band by creating a sound which is immediately identifiable as some brand of folk, but still sounds entirely new. So when someone asks me what Bon Iver sounds like, I have to reply, “I dunno…”

That is until I heard the fourth song, “Woods,” when I had to click over to Windows Media Player (yes, I am the last remaining patron of WMP) to make sure it hadn’t switched over to 808 and Heartbreak. Let me put this straight, I will never say, “that is a fantastic use of auto-tune technology.” Never. The closest I could have gotten to it was on For Emma when subtle moments of that quivering synthetic whisper managed to draw me in. I don’t know what it is about the robot voice that has people so enthused. Vernon said it was a chance for him to experiment, but I can’t see how turning up the auto-tune all the way up is experimenting so much as it is doing exactly what Kanye did a couple of months ago. Consolation: Vernon probably hadn’t heard the new Kanye yet when he wrote it.

All that being said, the song is still great. Would it have been great without the robot voice? Definitely. Would it have been better? I honestly can’t say. I have to give it to Bon Iver though: it is interesting. It catches the ear, and the a capella harmonies with a natural voice doing backing behind the manufactured voice is as compelling as anything he has done to date.

This gives me no faith in auto-tune, mind you, only faith in Bon Iver. My biggest fear is that this gives legitimacy to the machine and we’ll see more great singers pushing their voices through the electronic cheese grater.

Just wait for the day that he does a duet of “Hide and Seek” with Imogen Heap and we’ll be in robot heaven.

Verdict:
Bon Iver's Myspace Page: Full EP is streaming for a limited time.

Review: Merriweather Post Pavilion

My relationship with Pitchfork has always been a marriage of convenience. It was and never will be love, but I think we genuinely like each other. We sort of fell into this thing, but it works for us. It’s an open marriage; she let’s me peruse through other editorials and in return, I let her tend to her flock of electronic-dance-pop enthusiast hipsters. We don’t judge each other. She thinks it’s endearing that I actually still like Ben Folds and as much as I fucking hate the Thermals, I know it’s her job to keep me informed on their upcoming tour and film them playing on top of a building in New York. This is our life. It’s not a perfect relationship, I know, but it works for us. When I come home after a long day, I know she’s there for me, ready with a five course meal of new albums. Sure, sometimes it’s a little dry, but that’s life. I’ll get some take-out down the street if I don’t like what she’s serving.

So when Pitchfork kept trying to force Animal Collective down my throat, I kindly told her I wasn’t interested. It was about two years ago when she first tried, and I wasn’t having anything to do with it. Then shortly after, she completely tricked me by giving me Panda Bear, an Animal Collective offshoot that floored me with thoughts of Brian Wilson totally just hanging in the future. I felt a little embarrassed. I admittedly didn’t give Animal Collective a chance before, but in an effort to save face, I stuck to my stance of, “Yeah, Panda Bear is really good, but I don’t like Animal Collective.” I mean, this is a band that can do a Take Away Show without playing any real music and convince the director that it was an act of musical genius. Here. That kind of power justifiably terrified me.That kind of hero worship in a band is a dangerous thing. No musician, no matter how great, is infallible. So when someone makes shit, we have to be able to call it for what it is: shit. Every Brian Wilson has his Smart Girls.

But Pitchfork didn’t relent; last week they offered me an album that was almost guaranteed to be in their top ten this December long before it ever came out. And having made a vow to myself to pay better attention to more music this year, I was forced to admit defeat and give Merriweather Post Pavilion a spin.

And damn it, it's good.

While eleven songs which never pass the six minute mark may seem a little mainstream for a band with the reputation of Animal Collective, it is a welcome change of pace. And as little right as I have to say it, I don’t think I am alone in that opinion. It appears that making a collection of singles rather than a rambling album has served to rein in those more eccentric tendencies, all the while highlighting the strength of the band’s song-weaving.

This album, I realized, is an eye-opener to those heretics like me, those unconverted souls on the fringes of the empire, although it is unlikely to convert anyone beyond the periphery. It instantly made me wonder what about this band I was missing before. Was it my musical taste that changed, or was it them? So I ventured into the band’s back catalogue, and came to a conclusion. Whereas the Animal Collective of yesteryear tended to surround moments of outstanding music with atmospheric bullshit (given there is a certain brilliance to the successful implementation of a sonic landscape), 2009 sees the band cutting the bullshit out and getting straight into business. I can only assume that when I listened to Strawberry Jam in 2007, I couldn’t get past that thick fog.

Lyrically, these are songs about absolutely nothing and everything all at once. About family and love in the purest sense. No lies, just the way things are. He just wants “four walls and abode slabs for [his] girls.” There is nothing to prove on this album and so there is nothing to decipher. Musically these songs are complex snowballs that pack together more layers as they roll down the sonic landscape, never competing with gravity. They are somehow both feel manufactured and natural, which in this case go well together.

In an attempt to be at least a little creative, I've decided to rate albums by drawing incomplete stars. Basically, how much of the star I draw means how good the album is. Get it?

Animal Collective's MySpace Page

And that’s my first review, sorry I didn’t write about the actual music more, but I think the album speaks for itself. Here’s hoping this year in music is half as good as 2008.

And, Pitchfork, thanks babe. Kisses.

A Beard That Should Have Been: Andrew Jackson

Andrew Jackson is to badass as my opinion is to the truth. Unequivocal.

The evidence:

Exhibit A: At age 13, Jackson became a prisoner of war during the Revolution. When a British officer commanded him to shine his shoes, Jackson said, "Bitch, please!" At the end of the war, every single member of his family had died by some manner of the British war machine. Without a family, Jackson grew up without comfort or support, and the experience instilled in the future president the cold, unfeeling heart which allowed him "to raise his pimp hand high without the hindrance of guilt or conscience" (Zinn 84).

Exhibit B: During the War of 1812, Jackson showed his complete disregard for conventional political diplomacy by finally turning the tides of war with an American victory in New Orleans after peace had already been settled. When asked if he had known the war was over at the time, Jackson replied, "who the hell are you?"

Exhibit C: Andrew Jackson was the first president to be given a baby to kiss. No joke: he handed the baby to the Secretary of War. Classy.

Exhibit D: During his presidency, Jackson sent a Viking raiding party to rape and pillage the National Bank. When that failed, he simply withdrew the funds, like a badass.

Exhibit E: While on a walk around the White House with Davy Crockett, yes, THAT Davy Crockett, a man jumped out of the bushes with two pistols; both failed, and the President of the United States caned the living shit out of his attempted assassin until he was torn away by his own company.

Exhibit F: Andrew Jackson’s favorite past-time was apparently dueling, as he is recorded as possibly participating in over a hundred of them during his life. Let’s do the math here. Andrew Jackson lived to be 78 years old. At more than a hundred duels, that means that, essentially, every six months (assuming he began at age 10), he let someone shoot a bullet at him. Letting someone shoot at you falls into one of two categories: badass or bat-shit loony. Jackson was both. This also means that every six months, he shot someone, which is deduced from the fact that he lived to be 78. In fact, in one duel, he let the other man shoot him first, then proceeded to take his time aiming back. The bullet stayed in his body for 19 years.

Exhibit the last: At his funeral, Jackson’s pet parrot had to be escorted out because it wouldn’t stop cursing. Although the exact words were not recorded, it can be safely assumed it probably said, “Fuck you, Henry Clay!” and "Calhoun's a douchebag!"



Works Cited
Zinn, Howard. A People’s History of the United States. New York: Harper Perennial, 2003.

A Beard That Should Have Been: George Washington

Inspired by my work on Nelson, I have decided to make a new segment dedicated to adding a chin-warmer to the most deserving badasses of history. I will call this segment, "Beards That Should Have Been."

Example 1: As the first President of the United States, George Washington established a precedent of presidential decorum. Until 1944, every president followed Washington's example of unselfish government by nobly leaving office within two terms. Franklin Deleano Roosevelt decided to break this trend by running for a third term. Unfortunately for Japan, the ghost of George Washington, angered by this obvious lack of deference, beat the crippled president to death, placing Harry S Truman in command, and thus causing the destruction of Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

Now, had George Washington worn a beard, not only would every president since him have worn one as well, which would be, in the words of a famous political scientist, "so fucking rad," but Roosevelt would never have dreamed of challenging this face to a game of presidential supremacy:



"I'm the fucking dog's bullocks, gents!"
-George Washington in his Resignation Speech in the Old Senate Chamber, December 23, 1783.

Someone at Thesaurus.com wasn't hugged enough as a kid...