Millions, literally millions of blogs have commented on the fact that M.I.A. got a Grammy "Song Of The Year" nod, but it was really the Cesspool that made the diff. We got pull. CLAPPA CLAPPA.
Like Carla Bozulich on 'ludes.
Heartless Bastards, "The Mountain" (mp3)
Somewhere in the world, it's always 1995.
Raekwon Feat. Ghostface Killah, "Crimonology 2" (mp3 via Mediafire)
What was the name of that Clarence Thomas book? My Grandfather's Brother's Son's Cousin?
Tindersticks, "Yesterday's Tomorrow" (mp3)
POP CESSPOOL HEREBY ORDERS YOU TO TEMPORARILY SUSPEND:
2. GOOD TASTE
3. COMMON SENSE
4. YOUR POLITICAL COMMITMENT TO THE BENEFITS OF MASS TRANSIT
... AND EMBRACE THIS JAM, BECAUSE THESE DOODZ PROBABLY HAVE LOTS OF OFFSPRING TO FEED, AND YOU DON'T WANT THE SCREAMS OF MALNOURISHED BABIES ON YOUR CONSCIENCE:
YTN, "Fuck The Subway." I can't get enough of the insanity. Redlugs + Danielsann = crazy delicious.
Is Poppa a total wusscheeks if he liked the column that Ol' BugEyes wrote about That Dead Italian-American Singer Guy? And is Poppa a TOTAL wusscheeks if he actually made a point to read the piece TWO WEEKS after it was published?
Say what you want about the lyricists on the Dischord roster, but they're some of the most Google-ready writers in the history of rock 'n' roll. Especially the '90s-era studs. Their impressionistic, disjointed, cryptic and/or idiosyncratic wordflows yield lots of clean results when you slap 'em in the searchbox. Try it! Take a line from a fave by Jawbox, Circus Lupus, Fugazi, Shudder To Think or Nation Of Ulysses, and see what happens. White hot accuracy, holmes. Yeah, sure, you'll get a clunker now and then, but most of those dudes were kickin' fresh verbiage constantly. My own homage: SHELF LIFE OF BEES/YOU'RE TAKING HINGES AND CURBS NOW. Ain't a single result for that one, is there?
Some Shit I Listened To is going to take over for Wednesday's Review, because it's hard to crank out one review a week when I don't have an editor pushing me.* Yeah, believe it or not, I occasionally respond well to authority. And inertia is a motherfucker, yo.
Anyway, I'm putting an asterisk in "SH*T" in the headline because there's a Twitter feed of every Pop Cesspool post, and as far as I can tell, people don't use "shit" and "fuck" too often on Twitter. (I'm treating it like a foreign country for now.) NOTE: A bunch of last year's reviews are linked from this post, sweetcheeks!
Zomby "Where Were U In '92?" (Werk Discs)
In '92 I probably was hatin' on ravers. They were suspiciously like a new generation of hippies -- or at least an all-too-weak representation of the Manchester gospel, which, to me, was about large beats and livin' hard, but without overloading the room with techniglow bullshit. More simply put: Big tents, hell no; Happy Mondays, hell yes.
Within a few years I'd figured out that the Chemical Brothers were as much about Chuck D as they were about E, and my stance on ravers began to soften. But that was '95, and despite the not-too-ravey crossover charms of "Leave Home" and "Chemical Beats," I still wasn't getting anywhere near one of those alien-stuffed tents or warehouses anytime soon. Or like, ever.
So, metaphorically, in '09 I'm still where I was in '92: a smug, judgmental rocknerd who won't completely write off dance music. And this Zomby record -- which comes Matos-approved well in advance -- has me nostalgic for a time when I didn't go to raves, but somehow knew they were important. (Needing a genre to exist and actually liking it are two different things.) Through that long, mildly bent telescope, every inch of Where Were U In '92? is sparkly and familiar: the honked-out sirens, the choppy keyboard riffs, the high-bpm breakbeats, the disembodied-but-happy vocals, the full-on nods to proper house, and so on. Shit, this was made for me, too!
But the fact that it's all so listenable -- i.e. that I don't need to be high as hell, assaulted by a huge PA and surrounded by sweaty kids to enjoy it -- kinda reaffirms the idea that maybe rave circa-'92 was a lot like disco circa-'77: It's OK if you didn't participate, because you were probably right that lots of assholes were involved. But a decade-and-a-half later, it's all a blur anyway, and there's no use in being so damn unforgiving.
* The money was nice, too. Getting paid to review records is like being paid to receive fellatio.**
** This has never happened to me.
EVERYBODY is a crypto-hippie these days:
Annuals, "Confessor" (mp3)
I'm too lazy to figure out what that vocal sample is:
Blacastan "How Can You Be So Sure?" (mp3 via annoying ass-n-tits zShare link)
Probably is not about feces:
Marissa Nadler, "River Of Dirt" (mp3)
If you think Guy Fieri is a pseudo-biker/tattoo-punk dude (or even just a douchey poseur in those modes), you're flat wrong, sweetcheeks. The bottle-blond chucklehead from the TGI Friday's commercials is merely a tender crypto-hippie with confusing tastes in apparel. DO NOT FEAR HIM:
If I knew anything about English soccer clubs, this post would have wittily accurate analogies between NFL teams and Her Majesty's Thug Factories. Instead, I'll have to speak in broad terms: The Philadelphia Eagles are like one of those Brit teams that never wins the league title or the FA cup or any of that, but they're consistently in the first division nonetheless. Maybe they whup an Arsenal or a Man U sometimes, but they always spit some weak game when True Glory is doing a salacious booty dance in front of them. On Sunday, Jesus in Red claimed True Glory, and he's tappin' that ass right now.*
* If this post sounds like some shitty dialogue from "The Spirit," it's totally unintentional.
Today I was hoping to inhale a whiff of disruption, y'know, like when D.C. is gonna get two inches of snow and everybody buys out the Crystal Geyser shelf at the Giant because they're apeshit-afraid of death. Yeah, maybe there was an uptick of tension and lawlessness here and there -- like the dude who parked in the crosswalk outside my house. THAT SHIT ONLY FLIES ON SUNDAY, AND ONLY FOR GOD'S CHILDREN. Anyway, here's the official audit of how fucking stultifying the day was, relative to its potential: I fully -- but briefly -- entertained the urge of clown-strutting down Pennsylvania Avenue, standing below CNN's set on the Newseum rooftop, and repeatedly hollering, "FUCK YOU, GERGEN," for no other reason than it would make Frozen Wolf jealous. And a jealous Wolf is a thrilling and unpredictable Wolf, obviously.
Reissued O.G. orch-pop:
Doug Randle "Coloured Plastics" (mp3)
Brazil nuts (RIMSHOT!):
The Long Lost, "The Art Of Kissing" (mp3)
Nasir Jones and his penis are quite agitated:
Nas Feat. DJ Green Lantern "Fear Of Mandingo" (mp3 via mediafire)
Man, I'm watching CNN reports about the people who shot out of J.J. Abrams' pineal gland and into the Hudson River today, and this Jillian Michaels viper starts SCREAMING AT ME ABOUT HOW MUCH SHE HATES ME. And she's such a hater that she hates human language skills, too. Every time she says something, she wants to take every last phoneme, word, phrase, clause and sentence and beat the shit out of it. But she can't, because words are just sound. Don't tell her that, though, because every psychopath needs some sweet delusion. Anyway, if you want to feel really panicky and annoyed, watch the commercial.
This is some zen shit, I tell you: Wilford Brimley just riffin' on doctorin' and muskrats and heartbeats that SOUND LIKE GLITCHCORE. And the crowd CHEERS. We're tearing up over here. Goddamn:
SIDE NOTE: If anybody has the full audio file of that Ol' Dirty Bastard news conference that Stern plays once in awhile, please GIVE.
Hey now, excuse me for not noticing until today that Thievery Corporation has booked five straight nights at the 9:30 in late January, but I rarely look at the club's schedule these days, because it's usually anchored by novelty acts and faux trustafarians. If there's an actual reason to rise from the Cess-Dungeon and traipse over to V St., I'll usually hear about it from a tangential source. Thus, 930.com, I gaze upon you about three times a year, if you're lucky. And today I was looking only because the ol' Christmasburn/Newyearsblood always makes me feel like I'm missing something awesome. So when all of that hoopla dies, the Poppa doth rise.
And there they are, the Thievery dudes, with their XPN-approved album and their unflagging good taste -- and they're blazingly recession-proof, at least in D.C., where lots of youn'ins still apparently have lots of disposable income and want to do things that are more "benignly stylish" than "dangerously interesting." Granted, the Garza and/or the Hilton are known to stretch a little (I'm thinking about their still-nascent garage-rock love and their surprisingly easygoing Marvin), so it would be unfair to slap them with an adjective like safe or complacent. But I'd also never-ever call 'em weird, either. (And, for the record, it seems wholly inappropriate to call Radio Retaliation "angry" or even "cranky.") So what happens when you're tasteful and popular and not weird in Washington? You become an institution, and people will show up every day and pay $40 to see you.
ADDENDUM: Cherkis calls this piece "hate." I suppose in a binary "hate/not hate" construct, it's closer to "hate." But in my mind, I classify it as "grudging respect" or perhaps "jealousy" -- at least as far as Thievery is concerned. The 9:30? Hey, well, everybody has bills to pay, and we all grind in our own way. Cheers.
That's why you get an all-songs-in-one-mp3 sneak preview of my 2008 mixtape. When the link expires, I won't re-up the file. I'm annoying like that.
But if you're a delightful person, an old-timey "compact disc" in a "case" with "art" will be on its way in the "U.S. mail" to you. And then you'll be able to efficiently skip the songs that you hate.
I know you. You skip all the hip-hop songs, hater.
And now I have a feeling that I've made this blog a target, too. Note to presumptuous spammers: Poppa had a stomach virus right before Christmas. That's the Cesspool Diet.