When I read that he had planned to release Relapse 2, I figured it might be time to end my fanship with him.  It seemed like the most sensible thing to do for both of us.  I still checked in from time to time to make sure he was holding up.  I read that Relapse 2 was not coming out the way he had anticipated, musically.  Poor guy.

But maybe not.

Relapse 2 was so different from the initial intent, that it ceased to be Relapse 2.  Rather it mutated in Recovery. I had to listen.  I just had to sample a few tracks at least.  Okay.  I just decided to start at the beginning and let it roll.  As the music pressed on, we become acquainted with  a new Marshall Mathers – one who has had a massive weight lifted from his shoulders.  With the inclusion of strong beats, experimental departures and lyrics that are as positive as they are cutting, I felt that a massive weight had been lifted from me as well.  His lyrical denouncing of Relapse also helped.  In any case, Eminem has now returned to his rightful place in my heart.

The growth between Relapse and Recovery is immense and multifaceted.  He acknowledges a rock bottom he has known well and I mostly believe him when he reminds us of his Phoenix-like escape from that pit.  He has regained his ability to be direct, lucid and cognizant.  I think we all like him so much better when he is on top of his game.

The music, too, is far more expansive than that on Relapse or its predecessor, Encore.  There seems to be a greater focus on detail.  The occasional melodic lifts and song-singy vocal cadences give the impression that this album was designed with music in mind – not just beats.  Indeed, these songs do sometimes channel some eclectic musical greats.  “You’re Never Over” sounds fresh, triumphant and synthed out, similar to the style of B.o.B. “25 to Life,” at least musically, sounds like an outtake from Andre 3000’s The Love Below.  “Cinderella Man” smacks of something we may have heard from Kool Keith – or is that Gil Scott-Heron?  Oh…and listen to “Space Bound.” Isn’t that a fucking Flaming Lips song?

Don’t get me wrong.  They are not all winners.  It’s irritating, too, because it could have been a perfect offering, but for it’s girth.  Rappers just don’t trim the fat these days.  Instead they would rather fill up an entire 70+ minute CD with every single thing they possibly can, quality and consistency be damned.  I know a lot of teenyboppers and sports bar morons will disagree with me, but Eminem really really really really really really really should have cut “No Love,” a track featuring Lil Wayne.  (Yes. I am aware the inclusion of Lil Wayne guarantees this track will not only not be cut, but will likely be the next single. Groan.) If Wayne’s boring, monotone, machismo “rapping” is not enough to put you off, consider that the whole track relies on a sample of “What Is Love” by Haddaway.  That’s barely excusable in the name of irony, let alone “serious” music production.  This is easily the worst “song” of the album and perhaps 2010.

I’ll let it go, though, because most everything surrounding that turd island is purposeful, if not brilliant.  Quite possibly as good as Idlewild, the last one from our beloved Outkast (though Outkast did utilize a better array of guest appearances, with Lil Wayne in common.) There are no skits on this disc, either.  While Eminem’s skits have generally always been concise and amusing, he was correct to keep them away.  He’s a bit more serious this time, and it suits him well.

Recovery makes me cheer for Marshall Mathers yet again.  I am genuinely happy that he is doing better and I hope it only lifts up from here.  Evolved, he can now affect an audience in new ways – far beyond shock, entering into additional realms of unabashed enlightenment.

Previously, I used to be pretty mean to her. “Lady Caca,” I would call her. “Pure pop garbage” was my basic stance. I blogged about a website that was critical of the Illuminati symbolism she incorporates into her shtick (you have to admit…it’s totally there).

To the Illuminati blog, my [now ex] girlfriend mentioned something just as I had thought of it, too. The secret society stuff is a good gimmick. Indeed it is. Secret Chiefs 3, one of the most truly gifted bands of our day, uses the same gimmick. The difference is this, though: Secret Chiefs 3 own their gimmick…Lady Gaga seems to be a victim of hers. Granted, the mere thought of her as a tool for wealthy and powerful forces of old makes for an incredibly dark aura around America’s [generally] blond heroin. (Yes…like the drug.)

But hey. That can be a morbidly enjoyable thing, as well. I should be entertained, not sympathetic to a zombie pop star. Shit. I don’t even know her. Furthermore, most straight people that like her aren’t even worth knowing.

But then there are the gays. Gay people really seem to enjoy Lady Gaga. Not just gay people, but gay people with respectable taste. Sure, Lady Gaga leaves no second guessing of her affinity for gay culture. There is something deeper here, though. Homosexuals see something there that apparently strikes at the core of gay culture. In a nutshell, I presume it’s basically flamboyance. That weird, large stepping, up looking, blue light basking sex via feeling via driving electronic music (and maybe a little bit of cocaine or ecstasy back in the day…or bathroom).

As a mostly straight male, I have never really understood that whole thing and I probably never will. And being outside of that perspective, I have a really hard time discerning that which is a cultural imperative and that which is a stereotype. Pandering to homosexuals is great…especially if the artist truly respects their current civil rights struggle. However, keeping an air of 1990 doesn’t seem progressive enough, rendering Gaga to potentially be nothing more than a fleeting gag.

The costumes are fun. Great even. She can actually play a piano and sing, too. Awesome. But we have to ask ourselves…how is all this good stuff being utilized?

Answer: Poorly.

The music is the thing, so let’s just take it there for now.  It has a beat.  It has very basic keyboard programming.  It has some gottdamned autotuning.  Lyrically, it’s not saying anything that would make anyone think outside of themselves.  Thankfully, it’s not the ego worshiping call to superficiality that her debut, The Fame, was.  Instead, we have eight suffocating tracks about all those crazy feelings you get when you’re in love!  Whoopity doo.

So this girl has a large platform now and this is how she uses it.  Dressing up the typical and mundane as something greater than it is.  I must give her credit, for it is so well dressed that it is difficult to turn away from.  Until, of course, it opens its mouth.  Then it becomes further evidence of who really controls pop music.  Say it with me!  Coked out rich guys and their demographic analysis!

And so, despite some crazy design work, we end up revisiting sounds reminiscent of unfortunately unforgettable acts such as Ace of Base, La Bouche and – I don’t know – Haddaway?  Is this a sound that defines a generation…or a movement?  I hope not.  Yet, Gaga does show promise in a single song.  Of course, I am talking about the album’s sole organic track, “Speechless.”  Another stupid relationship song – one I’m sure will be the “last skate of the night” at roller rinks everywhere – but considering the music alone, it’s a talented stretch compared to all else she has released.  Too bad it’s the token slow song in a wading pool of crack.

Frat boys can go to clubs, hear this music and like it because the girls will dance to it.  Maybe a few of them will actually realize Gaga’s nod to homosexuality.  Then they can secretly get really into it, fuck a few dudes, then get married to a woman and resent their lives.  Sad and funny at the same time!

The true societal mess of all this exists in the viewpoint of those frat boys’ dads and all their political clout.  Equal rights for homosexuals?  Of course.  America is incredibly late to the game on that.  But these older, wealthier forces are going to need a hell of a lot of arm twisting to believe that.  All Lady Gaga does is spook them deep into the safe, dark corners of their own belief systems.  Their stereotypes become reinforced as it appears to them that perhaps gay has never changed.  It continues to be read by them as something stagnant and specific.  A shallow light show with cooties.  (Re: Adam Lambert.)

Those kinds of people are simply not hip to the idea of an intellectual homosexual.  All they have is MTV and the news.  That’s as far as homosexuality reaches into their homes or psyches.  Seeing as how inescapable Gaga the Symbol is in these things, I have to wonder if maybe she is that aforementioned zombie pop star – controlled by her handlers as an attempt at reverse psychology to reinforce the gay stereotype and prevent their civil rights struggle from being taken seriously enough to gain any real traction.

Yes.  This is a delicate thing.  Who the fuck am I to tell Lady Gaga to change her “message” and sound to appease some rich asshole I don’t even care about?  So if I may, I would like to address Lady Gaga directly, as a friend.  And to her, I say this…

Take this influence you have and transcend all that you have built in flaccid pop music.  If you wish to be a political force, then use your message as political leverage.   I believe in you, Lady Gaga.

Oh…and quit making music that sounds so fucking dated.

Love 2

You probably have heard of Waronker before. Aside from being a major contribution to Beck’s studio sessions and live shows, he’s also put in time with Smashing Pumpkins, Elliot Smith and R.E.M. among others. He’s recently been part of Air’s touring band so it seems natural that he would be the new, specialized, pseudo-secret weapon built on to their new album. And natural it does, indeed, feel as Waronker aids in lifting the band to organic new heights…at least on disc.

Of course, Nicolas Godin and Jean-Benoît Dunckel, the founding backbone of Air, are also doing their part in this regards. There are some nice touches of vibraphone and brass that do well to emphasize the electronics, without feeling like electronics themselves. More importantly, though, is an abundance of rather fluid piano that seems to meander more than its rigid equivalent on their past releases. Throw in some dirty guitar and it becomes well clear that Air has matured beyond mere programming.

Of course, anyone who knows anything about their live show could argue that this evolution occurred with the band a long time ago. Considering the scope of these live performances, I wouldn’t argue with that. Now, however, we are finally privy to witnessing them exercise a few more detailed caveats in the studio. Whereas on prior Air records, things generally felt compartmentalized and distinct, here we have something that seems to extend out in a multitude of curvy, uneven directions. It almost feels like an album of improvisation.  Almost, I say.

They play well beyond the typical Air fare that we’ve come to love over the years. They still have they’re classic cheese (“Tropical Disease”) and it would be a shame if ever they lost that completely. (But they won’t because they are French.) Their creepy, lost-in-space kind of stuff is also here (“Do the Joy”) but it feels more expansive, particularly because of Waronker and that aforementioned dirty guitar. New to Air on this go around is the way they seem to touch on some very soulful combinations of sound that seem to resonate similarly to African-American music of the 60s, 70s and 80s. They channel Prince on “Missing the Light of Day,” The Sugarhill Gang on “Night Hunter” and the Delfonics on “Sing Sang Sung.” Pretty impressive for guys as white as France.

All of this comprehensive writing and arranging, floating effortlessly across the top of Waronker’s mellifluous pulse, makes for what may very well be the best offering from Air yet. Of course, that’s always going to be a relatively difficult thing to determine with this band. It’s like trying to pick a favorite Beatles record. You think Abbey Road is probably the best, but how can you really know? The fact of the matter is that their entire catalog is so colorful and unique that making definite choices of preference within it is pretty much moot.

Still though…

Joey Waronker on drums. That’s gotta count for a few gold stars at least.

It gets the rare categorization of both good music and bad music. Good for Lavoisier…bad for radio rap. Enjoy!

I open up this London band’s CD and holy shit. This album art is terrible. It appears to be the equivalent of those over-the-hill American singer/songwriter guys who play in shit ass cover bands full time while pushing out the occasional disc of basement recordings that might have been good fifteen years ago before their ideas were so outdated. You know, cynical bastards that have nowhere to go but the sports bar? The OTT Band’s CD cover has a group of people, who I presume to be said band, in a cheap, candid, pulled back snapsot. The whole thing is soaked in the color orange, and stamped with fonts that apparently were included in Microsoft Publisher 98. How the fuck was I going to review this? If this band truly is comprised of those sports bar frequenting, cover band playing, old wankers, I can’t point all this out to them. I have sympathy for those guys, after all. Is the destruction of their rock star dreams not enough? Now they’ve got to take a verbal ass kicking from some punk ass snot shit American sitting comfortably behind his computer?

I’m happy to report that no…they do not. Hence it is confirmed that one truly cannot tell a book by it’s cover.

The vocals on the opening track, “Don’t Know,” are the last difficult hurdle to get over, but once you make it past, this is a very rewarding listen. It’s not any kind of style that is considered new. However, it is a style that is so difficult to properly execute, there are only a small handful of bands out there that have ever been able to pull it off…and nowadays no one even tries. I’m talking about the music of the 80’s. But not the 80’s you’re familiar with. Not that kitschy, coked out radio discomfort that you know in such forms as Dead or Alive, Thompson Twins or fucking Madonna. The Ott Band is tapped into something far more creative, pure and interesting. It’s that part of the 80’s that the cool kids were into. The early part that bled with the end of the 70’s and was more focused on an innovative, worldly and artistic sound. Music for music and change…not music for money and drugs. The OTT Band resonates loudly with the sounds of The Specials, The English Beat or Sandinista! era Clash.

Those are all UK bands. Maybe this is just a difference in form between the United Kingdom and America, where I was stuck. Maybe they take for granted this kind of sound over there. I just don’t hear anyone doing it anymore. Fortunately, The OTT Band relishes in it. They touch on that blessed sound that is not quite reggae, not quite rock, a little bit closer to dancehall, and strangely uplifting. There is a good use of what sounds like full choirs of people here. There are watery electronics, very notably applied on “Six Million Miles,” that serves as a testament to the detail put into these songs. The range of what they do with the music is also nicely expansive. On one end we have the head bobbing, ska-before-ska-was-ska, “Sending in the Lions,” mixed with odd modern notions of “getting bling.” It’s a playful antithesis to “Special,” a dubby, introspective gem of night music. Everything in between is a carefully laid landscape of pianos, guitars, horns and whatever else was needed to make these songs complete.

The only other complaint I can voice about this band is their website where they have a section called, “Who the **** are The OTT Band?” To this, guys, I gotta recommend that you just type out the “fuck” word. I mean, it’s 2009. Everyone knows what four asterisks mean and most people really enjoy the word “fuck” anyway.

As for the album cover, just ask me next time. I’ll work you up something more fitting…free of charge.

The song is called “Heaven Can Wait” and it’s the first single from Gainsbourg’s upcoming release, IRM, which was written and produced by Beck. Judging from this track, there are some very good things around the bend. January 26th, specifically…in the states, that is. December 8th everywhere else, damn it.

Also in Beck news, later today Beck will also release a new track entitled, “Harry Partch,” a tribute to the late composer of the same name. The song will apparently employ Partch’s 43 tone scale. That, too, will be delivered on Beck.com.

Lastly, in Beck news, and again on Beck.com, they are releasing videos and goodies to commemorate the ten year anniversary of his Midnite Vultures.

And you thought the Record Club was it? Pshaw. (Though it’s about time he started releasing the Skip Spence stuff he did with Wilco!)

So okay. Here is the new video for “Video Phone” by Beyonce and Lady Caca. Brace yourself…

This makes the Black Eyed Peas almost forgivable.

We have two ongoing wars. We have our first black president and subsequent racial tensions. We have an economic mess. We have health care debates. We have American soldiers shooting each other in Texas. All this crazy change is in the air and the best these two idiots can offer our country is a song about taking pictures with a cell phone? Where is your fucking sense of purpose?

Oh I know. Say it again. “We don’t care about society. We just want to have FUN!” Just dance, right? And this is the exact thing that leads to apathetic, disillusioned and isolated zombies. Focus on the jiggly girls and make sure you have your own camera phone so you can film your awesome friends getting coked up and drunk while they dance to this song, themselves.

So much can be done with the power of music. Prolific messages, set to creative music, can permeate minds enough to instill truly evolutionary and revolutionary thought. This, however, is neither prolific nor creative. It is not evolutionary nor revolutionary. This is business as usual for record executives that snort cocaine through hundred dollar bills. It’s status quo, bred from a fear of change, and a desire for excess.

Are these girls even people at all? Beyonce has apparently adopted the same empty, soulless appearance of Rihanna. Lady Gaga, it appears, is actually Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Funny how the more they pretty her up, the uglier she really is.

People, we have to fight this crap. It’s not just the point that this “music” doesn’t contribute to positive change. It’s not even the point that this “music” doesn’t say anything at all. The problem is that this music is turning people into stupid assholes. Open your eyes and realize that pop music has sounded about the same for the last twenty years. This is but a tool used by corporate interests to keep you sexually frustrated, mentally dull, ignorant of reality and, most importantly, returning to their product.

Do the world a favor and listen to real music. There’s a lot of it out there…and it’s not on the radio or MTV.

So today I got my hands on the yet to be released album by Lady Gaga, The Fame Monster. I intend to review it once I can bring myself to actually poison my ears with it. At the moment, I feel much more in tune with the immaculate Echo and the Bunnymen album, Ocean Rain, after getting into a little dialog about it with Kenny from Destroyed by Magnets. I didn’t want Echo or those Bunnymen to get in the way of my dirty task of doing my homework on Lady Gaga. And so I took to the internet and happened upon a conspiracy that actually seems to hold a lot of water for me.

It’s from The Vigilant Citizen and it’s an article entitled, “Lady Gaga, The Illuminati Puppet.” Of course it asserts the obvious: Lady Gaga sedates the masses by promoting mental emptiness and physical objectification. I don’t think a person on this planet could argue with that…except maybe Chris Crocker and the other idiots that used to request this crap back when I used to DJ at a coked out sports bar.

Okay. I don’t think a tactful, intelligent person on this planet could argue with that.

This article digs pretty damn deep as to how and why the whole facade works. The author points out a good lot of blatant Illuminati symbolism constructed around Lady Gaga, while picking apart the messages behind her videos and persona. He (or she) brings up Project MK-ULTRA, certain that Lady Gaga is both a product and tool of that strange but true government experiment. The whole thing makes me feel even more disturbed by Lady Gaga’s influence than I did before. I’ll save my rants for the review, but come on. The girl doesn’t actually sing about anything at all, you know.

So why do people keep giving her their money? Oh that’s right. Because “people” are actually robots who’s television dictated life experience all adds up to this sad, sad sedative.

Don’t take my word for it. Check out the article here: Lady Gaga, The Illuminati Puppet.

It’s a good read.

Enjoy your sleep, zombies!

UPDATE: There are now two additional Lady Gaga articles on The Vigilant Citizen! Collect them all…

Lady Gaga, The Illuminati Puppet Part 2

Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance – The Occult Meaning

Back in college, I used to get together with my friend, Conan, for no other reason than sharing hip hop and rap music. To be honest, he would do the majority of the sharing, and as we smoked and talked in front of a computer, I learned a lot. Most of what he shared with me has since risen to higher heights. Perhaps none as much as the Black Eyed Peas.

I bought their 1998 release, Behind the Front, within days of my introduction to them. I was drawn to them for the same reasons as Conan. They were conscious, positive and completely against materialism and hype. They were real. They were part of the good side in the balance on which rap and hip hop teetered at that time. Would it end up there, embracing something earthy, unifying and mentally evolved? Or would the whole thing collapse into a racially degenerative, socially destructive, new age Amos and Andy dressed up as a fashion show?

I think we all know what the outcome of that was. In case you are fortunate enough not to keep up with such things, I present to you exhibit A: The Black Eyed Peas on last week’s Saturday Night Live.

Okay. Maybe I’m being too much of a hater. The Black Eyed Peas are fun, right? Sure! And so is Hannah Montana. So is Britney Spears. I’m not hating on the fun. I’m pointing out the absurdity. I mean, what the fuck is this? It looks like a bunch of kids singing karaoke.

Of course, it’s not just karaoke…it’s backwards karaoke! Where in karaoke, the vocals are real and the musical accompaniment is canned, with the Black Eyed Peas, the opposite is true! There are musicians actually playing their instruments (presumably), but the vocals, if not lipsynched, are certainly autotuned. Either way, it’s completely brainless.

Why is this cool to anyone? Shouldn’t the band be in the spotlight since they are the only ones actually doing anything creative? Who are these four jackasses jumping around and blocking them from the cameras? Is this really what entertainment has devolved to? Better ask a 12 year old, I guess. I’m sure that’s what a Black Eyed Peas focus group would tell you to do.

And look at those stunning and pricey fashions. So much for being real. I guess they are the kind of “rappers” that are only against luxury, so long as they are unable to afford it. Obviously, these worries have gone away from them now…and taken with them all sense of purpose, depth and imagination. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s call a spade a spade. This is pure pop…brought to you by Dr. Pepper. Just try to find a casual snapshot of the Black Eyed Peas anywhere online. You can’t. All that exists out there is glossy, air brushed and tightly controlled PrOPaganda.

Don’t get me wrong. Music and money can be a beautiful thing together. Look at all that this combination has allowed acts like The Flaming Lips, Beck and of Montreal to throw down over the years. A part of me even wants to believe that the Black Eyed Peas really do want to be tuned into that ultracreative wavelength. But you know, it’s pretty fucking difficult to have an interest in their confetti without some kind of parade or circus to back it up.

Here is their third and final song from SNL:

Deep shit, huh?! Not at all. Not even interesting shit.

There was another song they did between these two, but I can’t find it online anywhere. This is most likely because, as hard as this may be to believe, it was even more embarrassing than the other two. “Frontman,” will.i.am, even picked up a keytar (yes a fucking keytar) and pretended to play it. Thank God he had on his big, douchebag sunglasses so we didn’t have to look him in the eyes. Now that would be awkward.

Come Away with Me

Get Away from Me

Pretty Little Head,

Obligatory Villagers

Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?

Release the Stars

Well, now is the release of her fourth studio venture, Normal as Blueberry Pie: A Tribute to Doris Day. As the title implies, the disc is comprised primarily of songs once sang by Doris Day (with one original). As to be expected for something like this, McKay’s volcano has cooled since Obligatory Villagers. Everything is nice and minimal, laid back and soft. While this may be off putting for the Nellie fans among us who were hoping she would grow her balls bigger and bigger, rather than chopping them off completely, it’s still an intricately touched, beautiful collection of songs.

Let’s be clear. This is technically a jazz album. From the album art to the actual content of the disc, it smacks of Susannah McCorkle or…well…Doris Day. At its heart, however, McKay makes these songs her own and wears them well. She is, after all, not just a vocalist, but a musician as well. This gives her an additional connectivity to the music that a vocalist alone might not always have at her disposal. The result is a collection of pointed arrangements that accomplish a lot within a small amount of space. Yes, this is technically a jazz album…but it sounds like something just slightly beyond the genre.

The two more upbeat tracks, “Crazy Rhythm” and “Dig It,” are infectiously swingin’. She visits Sioux musical interpretations on “Black Hills of Dakota.” She seems to border on surrealistic dreamscapes of sound on “Meditation” and the quaint “Send Me No Flowers” while tapping into something darker, but more awake on “Close Your Eyes.” The sole original, “If I Ever Had a Dream,” fits seamlessly among these classics. The whole meal is peppered with ukulele, brass, violin, mostly light percussion and some masterfully dizzying guitar by Jay Berliner.

From here, I’m hard pressed to wonder if McKay will continue in this vein, or move back toward more irreverent and monumental musings. While I have always hoped for the latter in the past, I can now delight in the knowledge that, really, either direction would be just fine. It seems that young McKay’s golden touch gets a bit stronger with each passing year, anyway. Of course, it’s doubtful that she would follow an album of covers with another album of covers next time around. (But wasn’t it doubtful that she would follow a double disc with another double disc, too?) So while her take on more classic notions of music is so very welcome and so wonderfully executed, no matter where she ventures next with music, I definitely look forward to hearing her rattle off a few swear words.

Here is some video of her being all cute and talking about the new album…