This week, a couple tunes good for indie dance parties, a surprising and hilarious mashup, a Brooklyn duo takes an eventful trip to Times Square, and Kate Bush fans have a new artist to worship.
1. Passion Pit – "The Reeling" (from Manners out May 26 on French Kiss)
This Boston-based band charmed me (and lots of other people based on their Top 30 ranking on iTunes) with their quirky "Sleepyhead," but I was wholly unprepared for the raucous good time that is "The Reeling." Tinkly '80s-style synths are offset by stomping rock drums, and the sing-along chorus is irresistible: "Oh, noooo!"
2. Bon Jovi vs. Nina Simone – "Like a Life on a Prayer" (Mad Mix Mustang mashup, download at his web site)
Usually, the point of a mashup is to be amused at the transformation of both sources, but I'd never heard this Nina Simone track before. However, it's perfect with the Bon Jovi lyrics, and the track ends up sounding like a Mark Ronson souled-up retro-remix, with some Austin Powers silliness thrown in.
One proud stay-at-home mom of three had a rude awakening yesterday when she tried to keep her daughter home with her for Take Your Child To Work Day.
[Sandra] Thompson says she considers hers a professional job and when she planned for bring your child to work day, she thought that as a stay at home mom it would be good for her kids to see what she does all day.
"I approached the teacher and asked her if it would be ok for Adriane to spend a day and see what my job is all about. They came back and said that my job is not considered a professional job."
Sandra took her concerns to the Superintendent of Madison County Schools, Dr. Terry Davis.
"He told me how much he admires my job, how important my job is, that his own wife stays home with their children."
But still he refused to allow it.
It would have counted as an unexcused absence.
Don't you just hate it when the truth slips out?
Looks like the Thompson kids could write their own book: Everything I Know About Misogyny I Learned On Take Your Child To Work Day. Maybe Mrs. Davis would like to contribute an essay.
Via Boing Boing comes this goofy video that answers the question, "What would happen if we took T-Pain's favorite studio toy, the Auto-Tune, and ran the news through it?" Haven't you ever wondered that? Well, I have, but I've always found the robotic warble that the Antares software produces via its forcing of any sound to its nearest pitch in a pre-defined scale to be a legitimate mode of artistic expression, but then again, I'm just generally pro-robot. This video, by Michael and Andrew Gregory, features some politicians and sports figures having their blabbering turned into robotic song, with varying success: who knew Joe Biden was a natural pop music talent? Get that guy on American Idol!! The work is apparently part of an ongoing project to pitch-correct all broadcasts, perhaps ultimately aiming for the pitch-correction of all sound, everywhere, all the time, into some sort of National Key. I vote for Am7!
Depeche Mode is not New Order, although you could be forgiven for mixing them up, I suppose, if you're not paying attention, or just looking at their keyboards, or maybe their career arcs. Actually, Depeche Mode's unlikely, meteoric rise to super-fame and subsequent plateau most resembles The Cure's: minimalist, early '80s experiments give way to mid-'80s "alt-culture" idolatry, then early 90's chart-topping mega-success, and finally a semi-retirement based on recycling (with varying degrees of success) the motifs of their earlier output. But there's a reason New Order gets their own section on my record shelves, while D-Mode languishes on the '80s shelf: they've always been a little, well, obvious for my taste, I guess, with their Peoples are Peoples and Personal Jesuses and I Expect to Find God Laffff-ing. Plus, what may be their artistic peak, 1990's "Enjoy the Silence," was basically a New Order homage, at best. But, weirdly enough, Sounds of the Universe, their 12th and latest album, achieves an intriguing complexity by looking to the lessons of early New Order, i.e., being a little obscure might not be such a bad thing.
Here's one reason I'm digging the newly launched Awl, started by former Gawkerites Choire Sicha and Alex Balk:
Remember how when blogging started to get attention the whole gang of print journalists would snort derisively about how it wasn’t “really writing”? And then, a couple of years later, when their papers were dying off and ownership was so desperate for anything to staunch the flow of red ink that it forced them all to start blogging, and they were like, “Holy shit, blogging is hard!” Well, there was a certain protected class of columnists and reporters who, because they were so established, were not made to sully themselves by coding HTML and searching for pooping dog videos. You don’t make a Maureen Dowd blog, particularly when Jennifer 8. Lee will do it five hundred times a day and happily twitpimp the results.
So don’t worry if Maureen Dowd doesn’t like Twitter; it’s not for her. There are plenty of other journalists who desperately need it (and some who definitely need to be weaned from it—David Carr, you are FILLING UP MY DASHBOARD, YOU HAVE TO CHILL). Let the Dowds bury their Dowds; the rest of us are stuck slapping up the minutiae out of fear that we will otherwise become invisible. Which is, of course, the worst thing of all.
Can't really beat a line like "let the Dowds bury their Dowds." Go Alex Balk. When did Gawker start to feel like established biggish media, anyone know?
If you go by numbers of books, J. G. Ballard takes up more room on my shelves than any other author other than Philip K. Dick, and while I don't know if that makes him my second favorite writer, I have enjoyed his work my whole life. The British writer died on Sunday, and while his fame was assured by his novels that became movies, Empire of the Sun and Crash, it was his dystopian science fiction work (usually short stories) that I always found most compelling. Their shocking ideas were often powerful precisely because they were aspects of our world taken to their logical—if extreme—conclusions. "The Concentration City," for instance, imagines an entirely enclosed conurbation so large its residents believe it to be infinite, while "Billenium" looks forward (almost quaintly now) at an overpopulated Earth so crowded with people the protagonists are stunned to discover a single hidden, empty room.
Whether it was his mind-blowing subject matter or edgy style, Ballard's fiction has always appealed to musicians as well, and his work has served as inspirations for songs, albums and even band names. After the jump, a couple examples and their connections (or lack thereof) to Ballard's work.
Remember Tiki Tiki Tembo, the story of the unfortunately named Tikki Tikki Tembo-No Sa Rembo-Chari Bari Ruchi-Pip Peri Pembo, the Chinese boy with a name so extensive it was hazardous to the boy's health?
Well, China's had it with the unique names. Earlier this month Mother Jones reported on the wacky story of Texas legislator Betty Brown, who recommended that Asians adopt names that are "easier for Americans to deal with." Now China itself thinks it's time to simplify its citizens' names. According to Monday's New York Times, the People's Republic of China is upgrading the country's identity cards; its Public Security Bureau will replace the handwritten one currently used with a new card with color photos and embedded microchips that can be read by a computer. As the article explained:
The serious journotwits, though, are at it all day — 30, 40 tweets between breakfast and bedtime. And as someone who follows a lot of these folks, I can assure you that outside of the occasional interesting link, there's not much added news value.
It's all about fan base maintenance and trying to pump up follower counts. But high follower counts are like Mardi Gras throw beads — worthless out of context.
What amazes me is that these folks have voluntarily elected to add a new hour-a-day habit to what presumably were pretty busy schedules to begin with. Many of them Twitter about their apparently exemplary parenting, so you do wonder why they don't turn off their Berrys and recover that hour for the family — or at least make themselves a little more present for the people they're actually with.
Look, all of us are narcissists to some degree, but most find it embarrassing enough to at least try to hide it. What Twitter and its social media cousins do is disable inhibition. We expect narcissism from our movie stars and politicians and teenagers, but it's a little surprising to encounter so many otherwise personally modest journalists oblivious to how they're presenting.
Look, it's true. Twitter doesn't just make you stupid, it makes your most vain and most preening instincts socially acceptable. I realize that Twitter can be a great way to organize and build interest in a cause or event, and it provides those of us in the media with an additional way to distribute our links, and thus our content. But I preferred a world where people didn't think their breakfasts were automatically interesting to the world at large simply because they ate them.
Looking for a distraction? Here's a quick guide to what we read, watched, and listened to in our March/April 2009 issue:
In this age of Google maps (Street View, Earth, et al), it's easy to think that we live in a transparent world. Not quite: In Blank Spots on the Map: The Dark Geography of the Pentagon's Secret World, geographer Trevor Paglen exposes the secret airstrips, extralegal prisons, and bases that the government claims don't exist. Moving from the world of stuff the government doesn't want you to see to stuff you don't want to see, there's the documentary Food, Inc., an eye-opening tour of all the myriad gross things that could happen to your meat—from farm (chickens with breasts so big their legs can't support them) to slaughterhouse (sick cows being tortured before slaughter) to meatpacking plant (a variety of stomach-churning germs)—before it gets to your plate.
A Lexis-Nexis search turns up 952 articles concerning Britain's Got Talent Superstar, Susan Boyle. Why? She's got a smoking singing voice, but she's not-hot, and that's touched a cultural nerve. We are shallow. We don't want to be shallow. Or at least, we don't want people to know how very shallow we are. But we can't talk about how shallow we are without mentioning how not-hot Susan Boyle is and how we wrote her off because of her not-hottitude. Right?
So. How many colorful euphemisms can the media come up with? Lots—see 20 below.
1. "The plain Jane superstar," in a Daily News article about an offer from a porn company to put Boyle in an adult film. (It plans to fly her to L.A. on Virgin Airlines.)