MC Atzilut

Between a dozen articles due, editing responsibilities, and classwork, I think I may have actually burnt myself out on writing this week. Every word I write, I feel like I've seen and written that word before. Recently. That can't be good. None of it seems fresh. I need some new verbs, some new nouns. I need a new bloody set of pronouns to work with. I'm certain that I've used every word in this paragraph at once before this week. My vocabulary is reaching its limits. Language is dying. I'm beginning to understand Beckett. Or maybe not. Ack.

Luckily, Green doesn't demand a lot from me. His music is seductive on so many different levels. It's sexually seductive, obviously. But it's also emotionally seductive and intellectually seductive. He doesn't require that you fight to listen to him. He's like the womb, you could just float on his silky smooth voice - suspended in the warm liquid of his velvety music. "Womb." Now there's a word I haven't used yet this week. Thank god. Al Green gives me language!

Tomorrows album is Heart of the Congos, and as of yet, I don't know how much of a challenge it'll be. If it's not too bad, I'll do a post tomorrow night. But if it's a bit overwhelming - I may have to beg out early this week. But I promise, loads of music writing next week. So let me do a tid-bits section tonight of various comments, reviews, notes, etc from the last week. Beginning with the greatest performance thus far on American Idol: Jordan Sparks singing "I Who Have Nothing": http://youtube.com/watch?v=OzkNMiKjrGU

Top Ten Singles Thus Far in 2007 (ILX, Teenpop Thread)

1. Avril Lavigne - Girlfriend
2. R Kelly - Flirt
3. Taylor Swift - Tim McGraw
4. Natasha Bedingfield - Babies
5. Fallout Boy - This Ain't a Scene, It's an Arms Race
6. The Klaxons - Atlantis to Interzone
7. Lloyd ft. Lil Wayne - You
8. D.B.’z featuring E-40 – Stewy
9. Bright Eyes - Four Winds
10. The Stooges - Free and Freaky / The Stooges - My Idea of Fun

The normal all-over assortment of singles. No particular order, though some are more heavily weighted than others. I can't imagine Bright Eyes, Bedingfield, Lloyd, or Klaxons making it to the end. Also, if Spring Awakening OST had a single, it would certainly be on the list. Also, I like both Stooge's singles equally, though my preference is for "My Idea of Fun" slightly over "Free and Freaky" but not enough to not list both - also, I don't like either well enough to give them their own slot. Together they earn slot 10. Any other caveats... oh, yeah. Swift is the cheater listing, because it was a single in 2006 - but it didn't hit charts until 2007. So I'm counting it. Na-na-na-boo-boo.

Frank and Adorno, Alternatively DMX and Kafka (Koganbot Livejournal)

Frank, I quoted you last week in my course on Kafka. We were talking about Adorno - and about how he uses Kafka instead of discussing Kafka. He basically takes a Kafka quote and then launches into his own creative expression - which is disguised as criticism. I quoted your answer to the question: Are there more great songs than writing about songs? And you said yes, but not for an essential reason. Then you explained that there aren't more great songs than conversations around songs, or dances to songs, or jokes about songs. And essentially, Adorno is using that with Kafka. He's dancing to Kafka - or joking about Kafka. For my last Kafka essay, I included a couple paragraphs about why I wanted to really write about DMX's use of dogs (instead of Kafka) and how my decision not to use DMX speaks to our prejudices around Kafka. (Ie: That DMX isn't on par with Kafka. Or that Kafka is a genius and DMX is a 'rapper' as though they are mutually exclusive. or that Kafka was writing intentionally using dogs and DMX's use of dogs are accidental. All premises I feel you'd reject.) Anyway, I felt that talking about why I wanted to do DMX on Kafka is a lot like making a joke about a song. It isn't inferior just because it isn't recognized in academia (and I remember your quote in the book about Meltzer - whether rock can save philosophy or not and the question of whether philosophy is worth saving).

Review of "Army @ Love," the New Vertigo Comic (#comic-scans mIRC chatroom)

It's about an attempt to raise morale in the army by hosting explosively sexual retreats and throwing expansive orgies for all the military personal. That's the plot, but it's actually about showing naked soldiers killing people. Throw in anymore hot triggers and the comic might as well be a Mountain Dew commercial (Eugene Mirman reference: "Do the Dew before the Dew does You!")

Excerpt from Short Fiction Piece (Submitted to YU Writing Contest)

We took the 3 train into the city, and for the duration of the trip my brother kicked his legs back and forth and rambled on about wrestling. “The Undertaker, he destroyed Vince. He was gonna - gonna facebuster him - but then, he hit him with the gutwrench superplex.”
While he talked, I read the advertisements on the subway walls. When he went silent, catching his breath or running out of things to say, I asked him another question to keep him going. “So what is your wrestling name going to be?”
“Facebust Feinstein. Or Michal the Murderer. Or the Hopping Hebrew.” He jumped up on the subway seats and hopped around to show himself off. “My signature move is gonna be...” and he threw his fists out and kicked into the aisle. When he kicked, the fringes attached to his undershirt came loose and I grabbed one to pull him back down.
“Don’t stand up.”
“Can we stop in the WWE superstore in Manhattan?”
“Sure. But we can’t get anything.”

Clearly when I wrote last night that I'd be updating later that night, I lied. Not maliciously, but the callousness of fate led me away from this blog and into an early evening slumber. Too much Indian food weighed heavily upon me, and I needed to close my eyes for only a few minutes - just to relax my head. Yet no sooner had my face hit my delicate pillow then my soul suspended over my body - kabbalists say that sleep is 1/80 of death - and thus I slept. Which is to say, in simpler language, I didn't come back to the blog, I didn't write about Miles Davis's evocative Live-Evil.

"Live-Evil." Without the dash, it would be a declarative - a command. "Live, Evil!" he might be demanding, and from the tone of some of the songs ("Little Church," "Selim.") I'm not entirely sure that isn't what is happening. He's rousing something from sleep. I'm not sure it's evil, though. It may just be the surreal, or mystical forces and cosmic vibrations (last week was the tenth anniversary of Allen Ginsberg's death) that Davis is rousing forward. Certainly, he is evoking something, bringing forth something, calling attention to some other-worldly or non-human force. This isn't music that human beings make! It's haunting, snippets of humanity slipping in through breaks in the narrative - touches of flesh in a fog of smoke. This is music best described through imagery, not through description!

Look at that cover alone - the swollen (pregnant?) belly. The lady pyramid in the lower left side - is that a river of a headdress spilling off her head? Or the woman/snake/wave/cloth waving throughout the right-hand side. The bizarre symbols in the background. Is this album witchcraft? Is it meant to confound or lure the listener?

Obviously, the album is not called "Live, Evil." It's called "Live-Evil" and that's because it's a double-album. Yet for all my listening, I can't point out whether that changes the perfect match of the two albums. They seem to compliment each other beautifully. And when they don't, it's not because of the albums, but because the songs themselves are disjointed. Case in point: "Little Church" which starts out with a whistling sound - piercing loudly while what sounds like random piano keys are played dimly behind it. Yet fifteen seconds in, a hideous, horrible, angry screech diverts the listener's attention. It holds your attention for a few seconds and then starts to dim... into the whistling sound you heard in the beginning. Even this is a brilliant feat though. Because you are used to the first sound, when the interruption comes, you're obviously biased against the interrupted. But when the interruption is illuminated to be the one and same sound you first identified with, it completely manipulates your listening. You don't know what to trust anymore, or whether any sound you're hearing deserves prejudice over another. Something similar happens a minute and a half in, but instead of horrifying you, like the first sound, you're already accustomed to this trick. And so a sound that would normally startle you (like if it happened in the first seconds) seems rote and normal.

That's the story of "Live-Evil." It tricks you into accepted the otherworldly and the obscure and the rare and surreal. It doesn't make you think those things are normal - it merely blends them into the normal so that you dare not question them. After all, the interruptions are still audible - you just don't bother to respond. Are those chickens in the beginning of "Medley: Gemini / Double Image" or merely the approximation of chickens? I'd rather not ask. I feel like it'd break the spell.

Last week I placed in the top 10 on the Rolling Stone contest again. Next week is the final week, and then they pick the Grand Prize (a gig writing for RS). I assume I've got a 1 in 10 chance. So I'm crossing my fingers, and whatnot. The upcoming week's contest is writing about a local business and their relationship to the environment. I picked Yeshiva University, and listened to Marvin Gaye's What's Going On, while I did research on my college's spotty relationship to the environment. The only bright point are student activists, which is how I spinned my Rolling Stone piece. I have no idea if I'll place again, but I feel like I really put the effort into this contest in general and I'm hopeful about the final results. Working for Rolling Stone is a dreamjob, and even if they don't pick me for this, I submitted an application for a summer internship. So maybe I'll be there through different means.

I don't know if it's that What's Going On sounds political conscious, specifically environmentally conscious, or just sexually conscious and I've been brainwashed to believe there's a connection between sex and social activism. Anyway, the music put me in the proper groove for outraged social commentator. Here's hoping my University doesn't throw me out after reading the piece (if they end up posting it). It won't be the first time I pissed off Yeshiva University. The lyrics themselves lend themselves to a passionate shifting of the times. But unlike Dylan's "The Times Are A'Changin'," and Sam Cooke's "A Change is Gonna Come," Gaye's words seem far more passive - or at least more like wide-opened excitement. "What's Going On," isn't as blunt, but it's far more seductive. It's like the music itself can convince you to join the movement. "Drink some understanding here today," could be as easily be an invitation to sit down and get drunk (Happy St. Patrick's day!).

And "Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology)" is essentially about our destructive attitudes toward the environment. "Where did all the blue skies go? / Poison is the wind that blows from the north and south and east." "Oil wasted on the Oceans and upon the seas / Fish full of mercury." "Radiation under ground and in the sky / Animals and birds who live nearby are dying."

So it's one of those serendipitous moments in this project - when my real life writing coincides with an album. I remember during the 2004 election, there were websites where liberals would sleep with you if you didn't vote for George W. Bush. Obviously they got their idea from Marvin Gaye. If you can make saving the environment sound sexy, you might be able to affect some positive changes.

Wish me luck in the contest! If I don't place, I'll post the piece here. Also, once the contest is all over, I'll post all the pieces from the contest (or links to them). Since I have actually entered in every single one.

The Sex Pistols walked a tricky road. Acting like a complete lunatic requires some poise and a lack of self-consciousness. If you're wondering how you look, you look like an idiot - with your middle finger and your rolling around on stage and cursing out the British government... you look insane. You need to not care. You need to be free with your feelings and be willing to let it hang out. You need to be ok with random strangers hocking saliva onto you. See, that's what is dangerous about the Sex Pistols. It isn't what they did, but that they were willing to do it at all. That's why you can do something offensive and stupid and no one will care - or you can have all your concerts in England canceled.

The obvious question, though, is whether the Sex Pistols accomplished anything. Not whether they have influence or not - they obvious have influence. And not whether they left behind any good musical artifacts. Never Mind the Bullocks is one of the catchiest, popiest punk albums ever. I bought it once while I was still in Yeshiva. My friend Aryeh and I went into New York City (the Yeshiva was in Staten Island) and while we were there we stopped in Tower Records. My friend bought... Offspring I think? Or maybe Genesis. I can't remember off-hand. (Maybe he didn't buy anything.) But the Sex Pistols were on sale and so I bought a copy. I smuggled it into Yeshiva, removed the cover from the jewel case, and burnt it. The album I kept hidden under my mattress. I'm sure the scrapes and scratches only made it seem more dangerous at the time. But even then, I understood how good it was. It was an album you could jump around the room while it played - you could bang your head to it - you could point your finger at people and shout at them. It was an album that let you burn things, or protest things. I want to destroy passerbys.

Anyway, it still holds up today.

And let me take this moment to bitch. I generally try to stay out of the cultural battle over punk - the "superword" battle as Frank would call it. I don't feel a need to argue about what punk means, I just enjoy it. If Green Day isn't punk, then it's something else. But I still like it. But here I'm going to drop that cold, intellectual facade for a moment. So bare with me.

FUCK YOU LITTLE TEENY-BOPPER KIDS WHO CLAIM THAT THE SEX PISTOLS AREN'T PUNK. >.<

That's right. I know you think you're all that with your The Clash albums and your Buzzcocks albums and your... oh. Buzzcocks aren't punk anymore? Just Rancid and The Clash? Fine. Why don't you like the Sex Pistols? Because they were "constructed" by the owner of the a store? Because they were a boy band? Well the shop was called SEX and what makes a band of boys unpunk? Because Sid Vicious couldn't play bass? Vicious wasn't even on this album. So give it a break. And you know what else? Johnny Rotten had one of the most punk names ever. You know what else? Joe Strummer was inspired by the Sex Pistols. Know what else? Buzzcocks/Clash/Sex Pistols Anarchy shows are some of the most amazing live sets ever. And I wasn't even there - I only heard the bootlegs. And! And! And!

Ok. No more rants. I just felt it was appropriate, in the spirit of the album and all. I doubt Rotten needs me to fight for him though. Someone who can give the middle finger to the music industry (in the guise of refusing to be inducted to the RockNRoll Hall of Fame), then he doesn't care what some punks on the internet are saying about him. Fact is, Never Mind the Bullocks blew my little teenage mind back in highschool. That's punk enough for me.

Is this project self-destructing? I'm not quite sure why that would matter. As long as it self-destructs in public, it will be fulfilling the missive of the project - which is to attempt to document a year of listening to 1970s albums. Since I stripped this project of rules from the beginning, even a week of empty entries would be faithful. I'm not saying that I intend to leave this hanging for weeks at a time - only that even that would be faithful.

Lemmi start with This Year's Model's cover. Here's a good question. Who is the subject of the cover? First glance suggests it is the man with the black sunglasses and the wiry frame - his hands splayed out, his head crooked to the side, his facial expression suggesting consternation. But the action he's engaged in (his aim is true) is photographing you, the listener. In fact, his left hand is splayed towards you, standing outside the album - and it's your picture. You're this year's model. Or maybe not. It's hard to ignore, in the face of the misogynistic content, that the term Model tends to refer to a very specific profession (think Mary Gaitskil's brilliant Veronica, or Plath's Belljar). Then there's the contradiction of the term "model" to the posture and composure of the photographer (who looks like he'd belong better at a prom, or a highschool).

"See her picture in a thousand places 'cause she's this year's girl / You think you all own little pieces of this year's girl," the implication of ownership has certain tones that the later line "'Cause you don't really give a damn about this year's girl" either compliments or absolutely negates. See, maybe you're wrong about Elvis Costello, because like the cover - it appears to be about him, but really turns out to be about you. It's a trick. You're watching him on the cover, and meanwhile he's taking a picture of you. Even songs that seem to be completely about him ("Little Triggers," his simultaneously catchiest song on the album, and most misogynistic) are a trick to switch perspective on your suddenly. It begins with him singing to a woman: "Little sniggers on your lips. / Little triggers in your grip. / Little triggers. My hand on your hip." but then shifts. "Thinkin' all about those censored sequences, / worryin' about the consequences, / waiting until I come to my senses. / Better put it all in present tenses." Of course, this could be a plead on his part to get the girl into bed. But it could easily be a plead to the listener to come to his own senses, and to stop trying to censor him.

This project is a lot like that album cover. It keeps deferring attention on the album, when really the subject is the project, or me, or you, the reader.

Including classical music (whatever such a term may mean) on a list of best albums of the 70s is not merely disingenuous, but feels like a token choice. Squeezing Reich in between CCR and Elvis Costello is a surefire way to outline how many classical albums are missing from the list. That's what happens with all token choices in lists - they make you aware of how token they actually are.

Actually, because of the last paragraph, I was going to completely skip this album. But then I read an email that film composer Jamshied Sharifi is speaking to my film course: American-Jewish Identity in Film. He is responsible for the soundtrack to brilliant films like: Muppets from Space and Harriet the Spy. (He also scored The Thomas Crown Affair.) And thus, in homage, I decided to give the album a listen and do a post tonight. But I can't promise any interesting insights. The most I know about classical music is that Mahler was a genius, Wagner was a Nazi, and that film Amadeus was about Beethoven (who turns out was a bit of a sleaze).

So tonight's post is a bit of a place filler. Also, I entered this week's Rollingstone prompt. There are three more to go after this, and then they pick the Grand Prize winner. The prompt was: find an unreported trend and report on it. I'll tell you all what I picked on Friday. Night, all.

Another album I love. Thank you, Pitchfork, for not drowning me in obscure German techno bands. Question about Ramble Tamble; does Eminem borrow one of the riffs in one of his samples? It sounds awfully familiar...

Esquire Magazines, of which I'm a subscriber (J'Accuse? I confess!) recently ran an article about alcohol consumption and writing. The author of the piece drank a shot ever article. The writer progressively got worse/more chaotic/more interesting. I intend to do something similar with music writing - to settle the famous Lester Bangs question. You may not know the question, so I'll offer it for you: Do drugs, alcohol, etc make for more interesting music writing? The author of the Esquire piece framed the question nicely: Do famous authors succeed because of alcoholism, or in spite of it? I'll paraphrase that question once more:

Are you still dancing to architecture if you can't stand up straight? In case you, my faithful (and adulterous) readers want to suggest an album to do this project with, here are the next bunch of albums I intend to do: Elvis Costello, Sex Pistols, Tim Buckley, Marvin Gaye, and Miles Davis. I'm totally open to suggestions for this project, though.

(Travellin' Band sounds like Jerry Lee Lewis, but with fewer burning balls of fire. What's the guy on the cover doing on that bike?)

Another thing. Ever listened to an album you don't think you've ever heard before -- and then you find out that you've heard all these songs before (Lookin' Out My Back Door)? That happened to me when I was thirteen and heard Fleetwood Mac's Rumours for the first time. It also happened when I finally tore through James Taylor's discography. I hazard that when I reach Jackson Brown - something similar will occur. Well, that's what happened when I first heard Cosmo's Factory. I kept my mouth shut at the time, because I was with music elite - and that kind of admitting would've given them the fuel to light that mocking fire of superiority. But here, with a facade of anonymity, I feel comfortable acknowledging that there are many classic albums that I suddenly recognize when I hear them for the first time. It's not deja vu. It's misplaced context.

I bet there was a time a song like "Run Through the Jungle" was a scary song. Like, I bet there was a time Slayer's Reign in Blood was scary (and not scary-good - just scary). Now even cannibalistic Norwegian death-metal bands seem a bit... light. Ya know? Like, not too horrifying. Maybe we've all just gotten jaded. Or maybe it has just become ridiculous.

Thanks to Kingfox we're back on track. Just in time for me to find yet another album that I hate myself for missing until now. This is a beautiful, incredible, jazzy piece of godliness, and I'm ashamed to admit I never really got into Nick Drake before. (Lucky, I don't think my friend Paul reads this blog, otherwise he would never let me forget this admission.)

He reminds me of a male-Joni Mitchell (circa Court and Spark) but a little softer. Maybe Sam Beam + Joni? (For those just joining the blog, Joni Mitchell is probably my favorite singer-songwriter. Ever.) His voice is slightly rustic, but the piano playing is what makes it perfect. Sometimes there's a hint of a saxophone in the background, or a slight trumpet line, but the piano is what weaves in and out of his voice. They compliment each other perfectly. It's albums like these that make this project worthwhile. "I could've been a whistle. I could've been a flute."

He does other great things too. Like Simon from yesterday, or Mitchell during the mid-70s, he incorporates many different music structures that seem foreign to his personal experience. Like the gospel choir on "Poor Boy" that turns into a sax midway through the song. I promised near the very beginning of this project that I wouldn't make generalizations about 70s music. But embracing numerous outside influences seems to be a trend in 70s music.

That said, the Rollingstone Prompt this week is to describe a trend. I don't expect to place (they seem to have gotten cold on my style of writing - or just want to give other people a shot) but I'll write it anyway. The practice is good for me.

(Anyone else find Drake looks a little like Eliot Smith on the front cover?)

Also, this is album number 55 on the list. We've almost done half the list, and it's only March. Way, way, way ahead of the game.

Apparently Pitchforkmedia's list went down. If it's not back up by tomorrow, I'm going to start going through the ILX list. If someone happens to have the PFM list, though, post it? Or email it to me?

I have been negligent - no updates in four days. That is most sincerely my bad. But I blame it on the appearance of Purim - the holiday when Jews celebrate a Persian genocide attempt upon them, and God (and Queen Esther's) intercession of their behalf. They get completely plastered, eat great food, and dress up in costumes. The most diligent students drink so much alcohol that Hatzolah (the Jewish ambulance service) has to drag them to a Hospital for stomach-pumping. In the past (ie: four-five years ago) I was quite diligent in performing this custom. This year, though, I suddenly don't feel the need to completely black out on the streets of New York. The only thing that has changed from last year was my marriage. I blame Charlotte for my moderation in alcohol consumption.

I did dress in my perennial Purim costume, though. A Dashiki and a dreadlock cap that I tuck my curly black hair into. Yes, I go as a Chabad Rastafarian (this is funnier if you're familiar with Chabad beliefs about their Rebbe and his eternal life). This is fitting, because tonight's album - Paul Simon's Paul Simon - begins with the song "Mother and Child Reunion," with a rasta-kinda-beat. Another Jew adopting the noise of a foreign culture. The next song, "Duncan," is standard Paul Simon song-writing, but this album marks an emergence of Simon's interest in foreign cultures.

I peg his trek as a flirtation with the Other in life. Far more than Leonard Cohen, who mines his own soul for content, or Bob Dylan who looks into the heart of Society like a prophet, Paul Simon is a ambassador to the world. Graceland solidified that depiction, but even here you can hear the roots of his attempts to embrace the Other in his music. Consider this Jewish kid from Cherry Hill, NJ, who writes lyrics like: "A young girl in a parking lot / Was preaching to a crowd / Singin sacred songs and / Reading from the bible / Well I told her I was lost / And she told me all about the pentecost / And I seen that girl as the road to my survival."

What does it mean in response to that stanza when Simon sings, "I know, I know, I know, I know." Who is he reassuring? What does he know? Does he know that he's dancing with an outsider? Does he know that he's mouthing language that isn't naturally his own? Is the "young girl in the parking lot" the Virgil for Simon's journey, or is Simon our own Virgil? Though you can still hear traces of the work he did with Garfunkel on the album, he introduces Dante here. He even looks like an intrepid adventurer on the cover - about to scale Mt. Everest, no doubt.

Who is Julio?

Another reason I've lapsed updating in the last couple days is because I had to get a new Arts & Culture section in the Commentator out. The issue comes out this week, and I've got two music reviews in it (which I'll link to when it launches). Also because I needed to write another piece for the Rollingstone prompt - to promote a new artist. Unfortunately, that was in vain. Rollingstone completely ignored my contribution. So I'll post it here. I really like it, so if someone has an idea of where I can place it, let me know.

by MORDECHAI SHINEFIELD

If the Disney Channel has become Motown Records for the teenpop set, Miley Cyrus makes hits like Diana Ross did - with verve, style and attitude. Save the fact that Cyrus, who performs with the name Hannah Montana on the Disney show of the same name, is only fourteen. Born in Franklin, Tennessee - a town best known for a Civil War battle and retired NASCAR legends - Cyrus has country pedigree. Her father, Billy Ray Cyrus, wrote “Achy Breaky Heart.” On a recent episode of her show, Nashville royalty Dolly Parton guest-starred as her godmother.

The country prodigy pulls her own weight, though. Last year she propelled the Hannah Montana soundtrack to the top of the charts. The album debuted at #1 on the Billboard 200 - beating out My Chemical Romance’s emo-opera for the top spot. On the strength of Cyrus’s syrupy melodies and the 8-15 year old tweens that comprise her fanbase, the soundtrack was the year’s 9th best-selling album. When her solo album is debuted on June 18th this year, label Hollywood Records will let her flirt with the kind of mainstream success Disney predicted when they compared her stage presence to Shania Twain - the number one selling female artist of all time.

Cyrus combines her Nashville twang with young Spears-styled bubblegum pop and her father’s country chops (and his sense of the ridiculous). Her husky voice explodes with joy when she sings in her drawl, “Living two lives is kinda weird!” Sometimes she strips down to an acoustic (she plays a Daisy Rock Guitar) and plays confessional rock more suited to MTV. If she can straddle Nashville, TRL and Disney at the same time, she’ll be living in three worlds - which, she’d probably admit, is pretty weird.

The tribute is to the heavy-weight world champion boxer Jack Johnson, not the college-loved Hawaii-born singer-songwriter Jack Johnson (who was actually born in 1975, more years after the release of this album - so I'm not sure why you'd confuse the two). Anyway, the album is like what I'd imagine being hit by a heavy-weight world champion boxer is like. Pow. And then you're lying on the floor. Obviously I'm not lying on the floor now, though I was earlier. What I mean is that it's exciting jazz - pulsating jazz - jazz with movement and style and grace. Look at the front cover, where Davis leans backward in an agile, but emotionally packed pose - fluid but coiled like a snake ready to spring. That what the jazz sounds like. "Float like a butterfly, Sting like a bee." Since I believe the music is intricately related to the theme, here are some facts about Jack Johnson, who is the far more obscure figure than Miles Davis.

• Called the "Galveston Giant," he was the first black heavyweight champion of the world.
• In 1901, Joe Choynski, a Jewish boxer, went to teach Johnson how to box. They were both arrested for "engaging in an illegal contest."
• Johnson won his first title fight in 1903, beating "Denver" Ed Martin for the "Colored Heavyweight Championship."
• In 1910 a former champion boxer - James J. Jeffries - said, "I am going into this fight for the sole purpose of proving that a white man is better than a Negro." He came out of retirement to prove this.
• Johnson beat Jeffries in 15 rounds.
• Jack Johnson could KNOCK you out.

Rockets to Russia and the Oscars on the same day. Serendipity! It's not that I love watching the film industry pat themselves on the back, but I do like rooting for my favorite films (tonight: Pan's Labyrinth and Children of Men), like the unloved, underdog children that the evening made them out to be. After all, though it's very exciting that Scorcese won his first Oscar ever, it would've been even better if Pan's Labyrinth had been nominated for best film. Couldn't they have knocked Babel off the list?

Listening to the Ramones is a lot like rooting for the underground. First, they've got an underdog sound. 3 chords (or 2 in a pinch), lyrics delivered in a tone that seems bratty, but whose content is darker, and those cute kids in leather jackets and jeans on the front cover! They make you want to root for them just because they seem so horribly sincere - even when they're trying to be sarcastic and ironic. They are trying so damn hard.

In one sense, though, listening to the Ramones is completely unlike watching the Oscars. No matter what film you root for in the Oscars, it's gotta be hard to really identify with it unless you helped produce it. After all, you're never going to get to touch that golden statue, let alone put it on your mantle. But the Ramone's music seems like a personal victory when you're listening to it. Like they might liberate your vocal chords, or inspire you to start a band (a common Ramone's reaction, I've heard. Unsure if this is just an Urban Legend). Letting the Ramones win, especially if you are as untalented musically as I am (I can barely play guitar. Maybe you can tell what song I'm approximating... on a good day), gives you the chance to win. And though you may never win a statue for playing three chords and writing 2 minute brat-song, maybe one day you can look really cool on an album cover. What more can one aspire to?

I've got a nine o'clock class tomorrow morning, I need to read Sartre by then, we spent most of the evening watching Smokin' Aces (starring: Jeremy Piven!) with friends, I've submitted this week's RS prompt, and tonight's album is Lennon's Plastic Ono Band. Let's do this!

What can I add to this album that hasn't been said (written) a bajillion times before? I'd probably add more to describe the poker game I'm watching on television tonight (Poker After Dark ftw!). So for something entirely different, let's play that game where you listen to a song (or a phrase) and then give a one word stream of consciousness response. Starting... NOW.

• "Mother." -- Oedipus (Sorry, John. It had to be said.)
• "Hold On." -- I want to 'Hold Your Hand,' Jack.
• "I Found Out." -- What dirty truckers use rest stop sinks for. Gross! And intriguing.
• "Working Class Hero." -- Springsteen's Nebraska decided on something to be.
• "Isolation." -- Burt Bacharach, Madame Palm, Her Five Daughters, and that last secret track on GD's Dookie.
• "Remember." -- Always, never, whenever, wherever, we're meant to be together. Nevermind.
• "Love." -- All you need is? (Jeff Goldblum's father?)
• "Well Well Well." -- What have we here?
• "Look At Me." -- You're supposed to be Sandra Dee.
• "God." -- Bigger than his son? I believe in the Beatles, man. Don't hate the player, hate the game.
• "My Mummy's Dead." -- Oedipus. Oh, we already did that one?
• "Power to the People." -- HELL YEAH! JUST TURN THIS MOTHERFUCKER UPSIDE DOWN!
• "Do The Oz." -- Cause there ain't no place like home.

See ya all either right before sundown tomorrow, or Saturday night.

(Btw: Smokin' Aces? Lots of fun - long as you ignore the plot.)

ILX is back up, and though the new appearance is ugly as sin (and as a sinner, I speak with authority), I'm thrilled to have it back. Today's album is the Beach Boy's Sunflower - Surf's Up. I think it's only supposed to be the latter, but I got a double-disc. So I'm doing both at once. This means around 2 hours of Beach Boy's goodness. And I for one am thrilled at that prospect. The truth is, I used to not understand the Beach Boy's. Their hidden beauty, gorgeous harmonies, insightful lyrics disguised as superficial teenage rhetoric. Once I learned that, Pet Sounds became one of my 10 most favorite albums ever. But I never really listened to anything else by them. So tonight's listening section is particularly exciting.

(Actually, I think I'll just do Sunflower tonight. Two albums are way too long to start at 1 o'clock in the morning. And Charlotte's sore. Because she tried to pick at me, and I told her not to. And then she tried again and I yelled. So maybe spending two hours on music is a bad idea. But hopefully this beautiful, breezy music will thaw the tensions in the room!)

Third song: Add Some Music To Your Day: "There's blues, folk, and country, and rock like a rollin' stone." If you added all the musical sources that accommodate the expression 'rollin' stone' you might start to wonder if that's the defining phrase of rock music. And this album was a couple years after both Highway 61 and Rolling Stone Magazine. So it's not like they didn't know. (Speaking of the magazine, new prompt this week. I'm writing about the new Reel Big Fish EP.)

Also: Question: "You'll hear it while you're walkin' by a neighbor's home / You'll hear it faintly in the distance when you're on the phone / You're sittin' in a dentist's chair / And they've got music for you there." The good angel to Lily Allen's LDN bad angel? Very possible.

"C'mon, C'mon and do the chicken." Please, no. Don't do the chicken. That'll be completely unneccessery. (Beach Boys go Elvis?) And if you're really trying to get to know this unnamed woman in the song, know this: The Chicken Dance? Probably won't impress her. No, it's true. I've found that most women can't be seduced with the chicken song. I know that's counter-intuitive, Brian, but just go with it.

According to Wikipedia: "Deirdre or Derdriu is the foremost tragic heroine in Irish mythology. Her story is part of the Ulster Cycle." This song, despite its lifting chorus and sweet-sweet angel-touched singing (on par with Garfunkel - almost) is actually about being tragic. Bummer.

Mmmm. "All I Wanna Do" is so lush, thick, as though they are trapped behind a foggy window as they sing. You can almost feel Wilson reach out and trace him name in the window as they sing. The only modern comparison I can think of is that gorgeous Travis album... The Invisible Band. They had a song on that album called: Dear Diary, which actually sounded like Fran Healy was actually disappearing as he sang the song. The last album that evocative (although it didn't create the same feelings of isolation and empathy with the listener) was that Interpol album Antics. I love evocative music.

I do love the Beach Boys. So very much. (You may notice, I only give two reviews: I really like an album, or I really don't like an album. Because honestly, if you are indifferent, why bother saying anything?)

I've decided after extensive listening that the new Arcade Fire isn't half bad. I'm generally far more reserved in my judgments of indie music than pop music. First, it's because pop music is immediate - it is designed to hit you without consideration. Indie music seems to be far more suited to careful consideration. Secondly, though, it's because indie is sometimes so detached (with people like Sam Beam being notable exceptions) that it takes a lot of explication and repetition to understand what's going on. If they stopped trying to lock away their meanings, they would be far easier to enjoy.

Post-punk, if post-punk refers to bands like The Talking Heads, Devo or The Cars - today's album - are a little of both. After all, Talking Heads certainly work on a cerebral level: You can feel bad as you consider that your life has gone on without you. (Why this is different than Pink Floyd, whom I called Sophomoric a couple posts ago: Because the Talking Heads have a sense of humor!) Or you could just enjoy how ridiculous the album sounds, how David Byrne expresses complex emotions using silly conceits. Even the titles of Talking Head's albums are simultaneously complex and absolutely absurd: More Songs About Buildings and Food. Really? More songs?

That's the way I feel about The Cars. It's - if this makes any sense at all - Joe Jackson with a sense of humor. 'My Best Friend's Girl' could easily be on Look Sharp! but you wouldn't feel like the singer was slyly winking to you as he sang it. ("I like the way, I like the way..." he sounds like a doofus. Green Day, and most Ska would later perfect this - and then Billy Joe Armstrong would wear eyeliner and join the Joe Jackson side of songwriting: utterly sincere.)

Also, very oddly - I was fairly sure tonight was the first time I was going to listen to The Cars. And then "Just What I Needed" came on, and it turns out I know all the lyrics to this song. I was singing along, trying to figure out where I knew it from. And then it hit me. They use this for the Burger King commercial, don't they? Shame on you, The Cars. If it were a band with anymore sincerity, I'd be horrified. But I suppose you get away with it by making the entire thing a big joke from the get-go. I'll be honest though; in the spectrum of television commercials (with Common's GAP commercial being the most egregious and horrific example, through to Levi's inspired use of a Madness song) shilling for Burger King is pretty low. Imagine all your heartfelt fans in 1978. They couldn't have ever imagined this day! (This is purely speculation. I'll await an actual 1978 fan to speak up and correct me.)

I've been making a big deal in this post about the "sillyness" of post-punk bands, and I obviously don't mean silly in the same way I'd use the word about a Ska band. Because with Ska, the conceit is generally ridiculous, or the lyrics themselves are silly. With post-punk though, the joke seems to be the fact that the band ignores the humor of their music. The instrumentation tone generally have a jovial feel, but still, a line like: "You're all I got tonight," is delivered completely seriously. A Ska band doing a cover (and I have no doubt that Ska bands have covered The Cars) would break up into laughter at that point, unable to keep the game going. Post-punk is funny like that Nicolas Cage movie where he plays a thug interested in a classy high school girl was funny. Cage looks so sincere, but look at that hair cut. It's ridiculous!

This weekend was a travel weekend (into Philadelphia and back tonight). Those generally make the best entries, because they remove me from the stupor of apartment life and force me to contend with new experience (passing Trenton kind of experience). But I feel like many of my journals have been travel journals, and I didn't want to ruin the novelty of writing from a bus. Plus, I switched between two of the next albums fervently, hoping something would speak to me. And I had absolutely no luck. One was yet ANOTHER German band, Cluster. The other was (kinda-)Pop band CAN. Neither spoke to me particularly, and I ended up switching to the Marshall Mathers LP which continues to rock my socks years after hearing it for the first time.

Actually, the first time I ever heard the MMLP, I didn't really know Eminem yet. I was in Staten Island Yeshiva, and while I was home, I had burnt albums from all the Grammy Album nominees that year. It was like; Beck, Steely Dan, Paul Simon, Someone Else, and Eminem. (I think Steely Dan won?). So I listened to Eminem, upstairs from the synagogue, in the women's section, and started listening to the albums. First I listened to Steely Dan, yawned, and switched out to Paul Simon who made me go "Eh," and then Beck which at the time (Midnite Vultures) was way over my head. And then I heard the Eminem album. To describe my reaction, let me tell another story:

Growing up, my Mother was a health-freak. As such, the only snacks we ever got were these health food store treats called "Frookies." They tasted good, I suppose. But one afternoon at lunch, the fat kid shared his Oreo's with me. My eyes bulged out of my head. "These are cookies?" I asked in shock. "No way." But they were. Frookies were not Cookies. It was like the heavens had opened.

Listening to the Eminem album was like eating Oreos for the first time. And I know how kids say Slayer was scary to listen to when they were growing up. But sitting in my black pants and white shirt, in the women's section of the synagogue, listening to Eminem rap about being in your backseat, with duck tape, ready to fuck you up -- that was the scariest music I had ever listened to. I felt like I was breaking bounds just by being witness to his rage. Never had listening to music sounded like such an active experience before.

Unfortunately, I don't have the same to say about CAN or Cluster. Both very disappointing.

P.S. Zuckerzeit translates to "Sugar Time" in German. Saccharine sweet music generally introduces itself to me as Bubble-gum pop. Not minimalistic (or whatever) space-roc from Germany. Whateva!

P.S.S. Ted Leo's Army Bound from the new album steals its riff from the Kink's Victoria. Ba-Bam. Busted.

Apparently in my excitement I skipped over Big Star and went straight to Neil Young + Iggy Pop. But I really wanted to do Big Star for one simple reason: Every weekday night on FOX (from 12:30-1:30AM), reruns of That Seventies Show plays. Of which the theme song, "In the Street," was sung by Big Star members Alex Chilton and Chris Bell. And I love that theme song! Plus, I heard from lots of people who loved Big Star. So I wanted to see if the fuss was accurate.

Well, the album isn't as fun as "In the Street," but I don't think I expected it to be. It's sensitive indie music. Big Star is to the 70s like Bright Eyes is to the 00s. Soft, sensitive, full of heart and some good songs that get repetitive after awhile. (I know, writing this seems so straight after writing last night's review. But the writing should match the music. And if it doesn't, it should mean something because it doesn't.)

What is up with all the songs "about" the Holocaust that are actually love songs? First the "Holocaust" song on this album, then later the "Alive With the Glory of Love" song. But where the latter was full of bubblegum noise and fury - an appropriate match for a song about love during the Holocaust, this version is slow and melodramatic. I think I like Big Star more when they're more upbeat. Very few people do slow sad well for me. Iron + Wine is one of them.

The album feels very much like an artifact of the time, and an artifact from the story of the band (as opposed to an album that can stand on its own). The song 'Kangaroo,' among some of the other contributions sounds very regressive. As though the band were dissipating over the course of the album. I'm just not sure the sound holds up when emancipated from its context. While many of the songs from #1 Record don't require the context of the album to work.

Like, if you can hear the guitar on Kangaroo, you can hear how it starts and stops haltingly. Interference creeps at the sides of the song, and its almost as though the hesitation of the guitar serves as a metaphor for the band. They try to articulate but find themselves stopped. So they try a different tack, and then a different tack. (One of those tacks involves cow bell. Cruelly.) Each song can be seen as an attempt to hit the same idealized point of despair. Instead they get a non-idealized element of despair. Which is far more despairing than the idealized form. It's more heartbreaking to hear a failure to express oneself than to actually express the hideous face behind the mask. Which is why, IMHO, "I find it hard, it's hard to find, nowhere whatever nevermind," is one of the most heartbreaking lines of music in the last 40 years. Because he doesn't articulate what he finds hard. He articulates his inability to articulate it. It's a condition of post modernity. Too much occurring around us, we can't engage it.

You should all know, after last night, I considered taking a break for a couple days. But I'm going to plug forward. Let's see where this voyage takes us.

As I write this, 'Stroke It Noel' started playing. With its lyrics: "Do you wanna dance / Do ya / Do ya, do ya, do ya wanna dance?" Charlotte said to me, "Let's do it. Let's dance." And so in the middle of our cluttered livingroom floor, we started dancing as the next song came on: "For You." She placed her hands on my shoulders, and I placed my hands on her hips - like back when I went to bar-mitzvahs - and we just swayed to the sound of the music.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Here's the cost of waiting until 3 in the morning to start writing about the album of the day:

• I want to go to sleep.
• Thus, I want to hurry through this process.
• Ergo, you tend to get rushed pieces that sound similar.

But then I get to another Neil Young album, and I cream (like the magazine, not like the Grease Lightning song)! I used to not understand the Neil Young. I'll admit, in this circumstance, my mother was correct. He is one of my favorite songwriters of all time. And that illustrious company includes Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Paul Simon and Mahler. Who's up for a Mahler/Young bootleg collaboration? Whoever can make that happen, get right on it.

Also, special for tonight. I'm going to let you in on a secret. Do you want to know who the Neil Young of my generation is? (If you answered Neil Young, you're a snarky bastard, but unfortunately, you're wrong. Living With War is no On the Beach.) The answer is Geoff Rickley. And it's not just because he evokes "The needle and the damage done" on Understanding in a Car Crash. It's because on (See the Sky) About to Rain, it doesn't just sound/feel like rain is gonna fall. It feels like that rain means so much more. This is the way beach metaphors should be done. "I was down in Dixieland / Played a silver fiddle. / Played it loud and in demand. / Broke it down a little." It's not just about sitting on a beach, it's about the explosion of sound - the appearance of new music - the raining down of feeling onto the sands of Neil Young's album. If that sounds sappy, it's only because I don't have the Neil Young gravitas in my voice to deliver it convincingly. Maybe Jay-Z can take notes for his next album. Ooo! Maybe instead of working with Coldplay this time... he can go right to the source. Jay-Z + Neil Young. I'm shivering in anticipation.

"I need a crowd of people. But I can't face them day to day." I can totally relate, Neil. Some days I feel just like a social butterfly. Like today. Tonight I met with good friend Lilit and future good friend Erez to talk biz. And eat delicious vegetarian kosher Indian food on 28th Street. Other days though, I don't even get dressed. I sit in my apartment and watch Charmed on television. And ignore all my phone calls. This is why I love Neil Young. Cause I bet he does the same thing sometimes. Order Chinese food in. See what that cute Rose McGowen girl is up to.

If there's anything I can complain about On the Beach, it's that it's far more sedate than some of his other albums. I love it when the tempo increases, when his voice barks with sorrow. Still, it's still probably in my top Neil Young albums ever. How many other artists have released more than three albums I can sort in favorite order? (Nirvana: Nevermind, In Utero, Unplugged.) On the Beach follows Gold Rush and Harvest.

Special Bonus: I dug up my comments on Thursday I left on Frank Kogan's livejournal. They are now posted here, for posterity (or whatever). Speaking of Thursday, I'm submitting a proposal to 33 1/3rd to write about War All the Time tomorrow. Things I need to make sure of: That I justify writing an entire book on the album. That I justify why I'd be the perfect person to write it.

• Also, new resolution: Try to start writing these before 3:00 in the morning. YAWN!

Despite the distaste I have for Pink Floyd (which seems to be compounded with every album I listen to by them), I won't let them be responsible for the destruction of this project. So I'm going to burn through Meddle as I've burned through a number of bothersome albums. By completely ignoring it and writing about something else instead. Like the fact that ILX has once again broken down. Making ILX the Pete Doherty of Music Crit websites.

Also the fact that cute Carrie Underwood was just named Best New Artist during the Grammys. About... 3 minutes ago. I was rooting for her.

By the way, is anyone else intending to see the Hugh Grant film coming out on Wednesday: Music and Lyrics? I think Charlotte and I are gonna go for Valentine's Day.

Finally, I picked up a copy of Rob Sheffield's Love is a Mixtape last night. I read it on the train last night, and like another poster on ILX, I couldn't keep from being weepy during the ride. It's an incredibly touching and moving piece of music writing. I'm sure there are things I could find wrong with it -- some of it seems like filler (much like any Mixtape). But criticizing the book feels cheap and ugly. It's a gorgeous book, and every page feels like Rob poured his soul out in ink. How can I be harsh about that? So far I've read four chapters, but it's the best thing I've read yet this year.

Follow this week, as I finally (hopefully) get to some albums I can dig my teeth back into. As opposed to albums whose covers look like upside-down noses.