BKLYN

I went to Brooklyn.

A photo does not do Mediterranean Crispy Bread justice

Graffiti in-progress

Jenny bit me.

On break.

Guard-cat on duty.

Monster indeed. Look at those soulless eyes. Chilling.

Jenny has a blinking problem.

Could not be denied.

PUPPY X 5!!

I blame Bieber as well. Go clean up that oil spill a-hole.

I CAN SEE RUSSIA THROUGH THIS FENCE!

SO GOOD.

On Repeat: Donnis- Underdog

Famed DJ A-Trak released Dirty South Dance 2 this week his electro-rap sequel to his 2007 mixtape of the same name. It's great for running/biking/etc, and you can download it here. While most of the tracks are remixes of successful hip-hop tracks (Lil Wayne, Gucci Mane, Drake), one of the brightest cuts is "Gone" from unknown (at least to me) Atlanta native Donnis. So bright in fact that I downloaded his mixtape Diary of an ATL Brave (available here) which compared favorably to fellow 10.Deep compatriot Wale. While not nearly as strong as Wale's 2008 "Mixtape About Nothing", I can't get "Underdog" out of my head. While it may be a knock off of Wale's "The Freestyle", complete with infectious horn hook and breakneck verse, it surpasses it with the inspired Sly and the Family Stone sample that loops under Donnis' clever rhymes. It'll hold me over until Gucci/Weezy get back into the studio.

FFFFOUND!

I love reading FFFFOUND! If you follow me on Buzz, you probably are already aware of this. Apart from the nifty fonts and logos, I especially like all of the old-timey photographs they have. While many are examples of masterful technique, most are affecting because they capture a fleeting moment whose subjects have long since passed. Everyone looks happy, dignified and more wholesome in these photographs than we are today. Maybe someday people will look at pictures of us the same way?

Review: LCD Soundsystem - This Is Happening

We put our dog down yesterday. Well, technically my parents did and my sister relayed pertinent information to me. Abby was a Newfoundland/Lab mix and an a great dog. Recently however, her 13 year-old frame started to defy her, and like most large dogs, problems with her hip made it impossible for her to climb stairs. Her mobility took a bad turn early this week, and my parents were faced with an unenviable decision with barely enough information to make an informed one. Like any decision in life, the ripples from this choice were unclear and unsatisfying. We want to cling to what we have and hope things improve and come to us, rather than acknowledge the unsavory reality. These proverbial forks in the road become more and more frequent as we grow, but they don't get any easier. The key, I think, is conceding that you don't know, and doing what feels right.

This is probably the most awkward segue in the history of music reviews, but if any artist today can understand the crippling nature of choice and the paralysis of indecision it is LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. We all want to make something profound and meaningful, but feel wholly unworthy and embarrassed to set out on such a pretentious path. Much of Murphy's catalogue parries definition, and he revels in this imbalance. To some it comes across as cold and uninviting, but in reality it is him grappling with the same insecurities we all share, but not quite ready to face them. His eponymous debut was a glowing example of this, bursting with wall-to-wall dance tracks to shake you out of your glossy-eyed daze. Effective but slight. 2007's Sound Of Silver, while maintaining the same energy, had a tender pair of songs at its core that finally displayed some heart and sincerity. His earlier material was so tongue-in-cheek that you felt like a moron if you took any party of it seriously. On the epic, gripping "All My Friends" however, the lyrics drip with such arresting candor that there is no doubt his heart is on his sleeve.

On This Is Happening, he struggles with the same identity crisis, wanting to make you dance and cry at the same time, and hating himself for it. The result is an even more polar product, that somehow works beautifully. The opening track "Dance Yrself Clean" is a microcosm of this tug-of-war, lulling you into the promise of quiet introspection for over three minutes before erupting with a deafening synth purr and Murphy's muffled yell. You feel duped and foolish. And if the proceeding 5 minutes didn't validate preceding 3, you would have every right to turn the record off and label Murphy an asshole. He would probably agree.

If you listened on however, you would find a thoroughly rewarding experience that strikes a perfect balance. First single "Drunk Girls" rivals "Daft Punk Is Playing At My House" as Murphy's most raucous number to date, while "All I Want" and its Bowie "inspired" riff casts off all sarcasm and lays his bruised ego front and center, come what may. "I Can Change" is a jaded, hopeful number that features more personal pronouns than his first two albums combined. Of course, it wouldn't be an LCD Soundsystem record without some petulant commentary and baiting, the kind found on the industry-damning "You Wanted A Hit" and the defiant "Pow Pow". All this maturity would be for not if the album didn't close with the brilliant "Home" which serves to crystallize that the preceding honesty wasn't an aberration. Here he admits that "love and rock are fickle things" and that "it won't get any better", but this time, his voice is of affirmation rather than resignation.

Ahhh

It's 6:23pm. I am gingerly sipping a coffee in Starbucks not 50 feet from Massage Therapy Works in Davis Square where I spent the last 45 minutes having every god-fearing knot, kink and crick stricken from my back and shoulder area. That's not to say I'm not still absurdly sore from playing Swedish most of Sunday afternoon, but my-oh-my do I feel sprightly.

I've never had a massage, and until recently, had resoundingly scoffed at the notion. It's not that I didn't think it had merit, it's I didn't think my life merited its benefits. I'm pretty tightly wound (despite my best efforts), but stressed? Pshaw. Well, if I was calm before, now I am sloth-tortoise-Ghandi-Darth Vader-Gumby calm. But to answer the burning question you are all wondering, I'm not sure how this will effect my blog. Will I be able to channel the same snark? Has my sarcasm-carriage pumpkined out? Let's find out.

I chose Massage Therapy Works because of their peerless Yelp reviews and their proximity to Arlington. When it comes to doing things in the Boston area, these are my primary criteria. Actually, those and price. Actually, mostly price. Well, MTW fit this bill perfectly. Their website conveniently allows you to schedule appointments online, and they have a wide range of therapists and specials at all times. Apart from being a bit  over-matched with the selections (Is it weird to have a girl? Is it WEIRDER to have a guy?? How long are massages?? Do I need a safe-word?), I was sincerely excited at the prospect of being relieved of my snarled shoulders.

My masseuse (Natalia) was a deceptive little pixie. Not deceptive in a bad way. Deceptive in a "How is this tiny girl going t-OWOWOWOWOWWW" way. She had full eyes like an intrigued kitten and nice toes. That's what I was able to gander from meeting her at the front desk and viewing the rest of the process through the massage table face-hole. She politely had me sign a waiver and led me to dim room with some Chinese proverbs on the wall and what sounded like underwater Mandolin trickling out of a CD player. She said to get undressed as much as I would like, lay on my stomach under the covers and she would be back momentarily. Yes, I got naked. Yes, I felt sheepish whenever she approached my lower back/bum area, but what can I say, Dangor is my middle name. To answer the rest of your questions before I go on:

1. I don't think so, but I didn't ask. I think it's illegal.

2. No, it was professional and I am not 13. Not even a little bit.

3. She asked me before we went in, but I didn't have to go.

It was about this time that Natalia showed her true colors. What opened with some gentle kneading that a well-trained housecat could probably muster quickly turned into a dizzying display of torque and leverage. She smushed and pushed muscles that had never before been subject to such sadism and they responded appropriately. She played my spinal cord like an upright bass. She told me to relax, and I earnestly tried to relax. I looked at her toes, I listened to the music. But I kept forgetting to breathe. Perhaps it's just me, but holding my breath is my response to moderate to severe pain. Not a great twist on fight or flight, I agree. It was unconscious, but obvious. It took nearly 15 minutes for me to come to terms with a stranger treating me like a misbehaved Kobe cow, but after she turned me over and went to work on my neck, I was the proverbial putty in her hands. I tried to figure out exactly what she was doing and with what but it was useless.  Here is my best approximation. A blowtorch traced the length of my neck while three (or four) gerbils gnawed at the base of my skull. A liberally-lotioned boa constrictor contorted around my neck and extended it to a dangerous degree. Where she found such amenable wildlife I do not know, but when I came to she told me to take as much time as I needed to get dressed. I put the $59 on my debit card and gave her a tip. She asked if I wanted to schedule another appointment, which I awkwardly dodged and scampered across Elm Street to get my bearing and to make sure there weren't any muscles flapping/rattling around back there. Everything seems to be accounted for, but I may be bleeding internally, in which case I will amend this post. If I do survive the next 48 hours, it has my highest recommendation.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Democracy

Sometime between the passage of the Health Care Bill and the Tea Party outcry that followed, it became fashionable for folks to focus their collective death glare on illegal immigrants. It's no coincidence that this is happening in an election year, but the vitriol on display in recent weeks has really been something else. From Arizona's unconsitutional new law that gives police perpetual probable cause to detain "immigrants", to Tim James absurd "English Only" campaign video parodied above and Dan Fanelli's too-crazy-to-be-real-but-it-is ad, Americans are being baited into an Us vs Them mentality that will serve to even further stratify an already divided populace. Just as politicians have been willing to sell their soul to tea-baggers for cheap political points, they are just as unscrupulous in trying to tap into other pools of unfocused anger.

It's true, many honest people are out of work in this country, but no one truly believes that illegal immigrants are the ones snatching great jobs from the jaws of hardworking folks. Illegal immigrants work long hours at terrible wages to provide us with fresh produce or to make sure that hotel accommodations are agreeable. They scrape and save and do tasks that 99% of Americans could not fathom doing at any price, all for the prospect of a meagerly better life for their family. In the immortal words of Mike Rowe, they make "civilized life possible for the rest of us".

So why aren't people riled up when a corporation outsources five thousand jobs overseas and leave ordinary Americans holding their hats? Because companies are engineered to be faceless, shapeless, sterile entities. They may receive a sound drubbing for a few news cycles, but they know people have a short memory. It's much easier for people to hate the stick instead of the person holding the stick. When we feel put upon we see complex issues in black and white and look for the first scapegoat that fits the bill. Sometimes this is a product of fear, but more often than not, it is anger at its core.

The central question that the American people need to ask themselves with hot-button issues like this is, "Which came first, the issue or the politician?" If these folks could table their fury for 5 minutes, they will see that these politicians aren't opening our eyes to an issue, they are orchestrating it. They stir the communal pot into a boiling fervor and ride its wave as far as it will take them. It is cheap, it is easy, but it works only with our consent.

On Repeat: Wolf Parade - What Did My Lover Say? (It Always Had To Go This Way)/Ghost Pressure

Say what you will about 2008's At Mount Zoomer*, but few bands released better albums last decade than Wolf Parade's 2005 debut Apologies to the Queen Mary. The playful synths, Krug/Boeckner's barked verses, the foot stomping choruses were charming and exciting and critically acclaimed. With a band of Wolf Parade's pedigree (Krug is in 3 other bands, Boeckner half of husband-wife duo Handsome Furs), you worry that the magic of their debut was simply a perfect storm, never to be assembled again. Upon releasing two new tracks last week off their forthcoming Expo '86, a sigh of relief was audible from hipster strongholds up and down the eastern seaboard.

Most apparent in these new tracks is the return of the synth lines that were so integral to the success of their debut. Between the dual guitar riffs and Krug yelping forlornly about "being sorry for things I do in my dreams", the synths add an extra melodic blanket and a new-wave edge to what is otherwise pretty straightforward garage rock. As a result, the new songs sound like an amalgam of the best parts of the first two records, taut and focused, yet still teeming with ideas.

What Did My Lover Say?


Ghost Pressure


*it's sprawling and unfocused.

EDU: How To Make A Running Mix

As SS's most recent blog post has alluded, a good running/biking/pilates mix can transform a crappy workout into an enjoyable experience, and can push a good workout into another gear you didn't know you had. Most people (including yours truly) usually throw a bunch of songs they like onto their iPod and press shuffle. Making an honest-to-goodness running mix however, is an art. Even Nike themselves have commissioned several notable artists to make an original running mix for them. Artists from A-Trak to LCD Soundsystem have tried their hand at stitching together a series of tracks to mirror a typical workout arc. A steady, deliberate build, a pulsing, relentless peak, and a harmonious cool-down climax to let you catch your breath. Simple concept, but difficult to pull off. Mostly because everyone runs differently at different paces and with different needs. What pushes one person to run a 5-minute mile, may leave another dry-heaving in the bushes. Thankfully, the aforementioned musicians are professionals and the mixes they have created do exactly what they are designed to do, namely, make you forget how much you hate whatever you are doing.  

I spent a couple minutes thinking about the tone of SS's bike-to-work mix, before quickly concluding that anything short of gangster rap would probably result in his untimely expiration. When you are biking at 6AM, you need everyone of your wits about you, and a thunderous bass should go a long way in keeping you awake. That's not to say I didn't add a certain hipster 'je ne sais quoi', but I tried to keep it in check. 15 minutes and a few sequencing adjustments later, a 10-track, 38 minute opus was born. I opened with a shimmery, synth-laden track from N.A.S.A, peppered in a few hip-hop staples, a remix or two, and ended matters on a breezy, refreshing note. If you're interested in hearing what I came up with, "holler at me" on Gchat and I'll share a link with you.

Facebook Is Not Your Friend

With a slew of articles last week deriding Facebook security lapses that allowed your friends to view your real-time chats, a privacy policy which increasingly shifts the balance of power away from users, and stories like this about CEO Mark Zuckerberg, Gizmodo and Wired have joined the growing drumbeat of people calling for users to disable their Facebook accounts and pioneer a new open-source alternative. They both make great points, but I'll be one of the first to tell you that Facebook jumped the shark long before the most recent accusations were brought to light. What catalyzed the death spiral of a brilliant idea was, say it with me, APPS.

Applications, while starting innocently, opened the data floodgates that is now impossible to close. It's as though Facebook realized, "You know, 95% of people go on Facebook because they are bored. If we can somehow get them to spend more than 45 seconds on the site, we can make a killing." From this realization, applications were born. What was once a quaint central location to share photographs and updates with friends, was now an advertising behemoth, using your very profile against you to "tailor" the experience to you, which is a fluffy way of saying, "sell you crap". The entire experience became littered with Horoscopes and Farmville accolades and other assorted buffoonery. Not long after, parents started to show up. Coincidence? I think not. And now, people are up in arms when it turns out that Facebook is a business, and that every single thing you do or "like" is funneled into a database in some underground advertising bunker, where executives are desperately trying to determine the next Dorito flavor. Applications laid the groundwork for the erosion of privacy, but forgive me for not having a lot of sympathy for people who sincerely want to know "WHAT FAIRY TALE DO I BELONG IN?". The anti-Facebook in this regard is Google Buzz.

Buzz does what Facebook should do (and once did), but in a slimmer, cleaner form. You can share and comment on interesting articles. You can post photographs and share thoughts. It is completely by and for those who use it, and is exceedingly easy to engage in or remove (just try to figure out how to delete your Facebook account). It fosters intelligent discourse and is seamlessly integrated with other Google features. Most importantly, Buzz is run by a company with the chops to have a static privacy policy and a team of engineers committed to improving the experience and making sure that what is private will remain that way. I'm sure I am preaching to the choir here (except you SS), but Buzz is not the dark horse underdog people have been dismissing it as. It may be niche product for information addicts for now, but the day will come when the SS Zuckerberg will start taking on water and people will run into the ever-loving arms of Google Buzz.

Engrish 101

With so many depressing news stories these days, sometimes a hearty chuckle is a nice distraction from the massive oil slicks approaching New Orleans or people trying to blow up Times Square. J-Fo and I had quite a chuckle at a few of these today, and J-La and I had a few more this afternoon in preparation for this blog post. If you don't know what Engrish (or as the NYTimes lamely calls it, Chinglish), you're behind the New York Times when it comes to pop culture and should probably quit the internet.

Here best evil translation. Try no smile, I promise.

Old Song Review: John Cale - Paris 1919

For today's post, kindly allow me to rewind to December 2009. I was "seeing" a nice young woman on the other side of town (THE GREEN LINE). She was a friend of a friend (twice removed) and was all kinds of hipster. I out-hipstered her on the film front, but her bibliography crushed me and musically it was neck-and-neck. NECK-AND-NECK I TELL YOU. This is a tall order. She had playlist after playlist on her computer that she would queue up on her computer while I made pizza or fiddled with her fancy camera. I knew most of the songs, but quite frequently I didn't. And I don't mean I simply hadn't heard that version, I mean I had never heard of the artist period. Needless to say, this floored me. So we would watch The Twilight Zone, eat tempeh and talk about David Foster Wallace. You know, standard hipster fare. I insisted that Rushmore was better than The Royal Tenenbaums, she told me I was full of it. So we watched both and neither mind was changed, and I wouldn't have had it any other way.

But one day, one sweet day, this beautiful song came on from the other room and I was enraptured. I stopped in my tracks. This was not The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. This was serious. The arrangements sounded so noble and sophisticated, but altogether playful. Rather than sounding ominous, the tuba sounded like a procession for royalty. Birds chirp amongst violins in an interlude between verses. How it hadn't been used in a Wes Anderson film already did not compute. It was MADE for a slow-motion montage. The lyrics bounce between the Paris peace talks that ended World War I and a casual relationship, but are inconsequential. After we parted ways that evening, I went straight home and downloaded the song and repeated it a shameful amount. It has established permanent residence on my Zune and nearly every playlist I make that doesn't feature Lil Wayne.

Of course, the relationship central to this narrative soon turned sour. Mercifully, this song remained.

My Life on the Range

Have you ever wondered how you would react in a crisis but could do without all the drama aboard a sinking ship* or the possibility of soiling yourself on a transatlantic flight? Well if you happen to reside in a 30 town radius of Boston (see: everyone and anyone who matters), you got a little taste the past few days, and it wasn't pretty. If you are not privy to this story (you have internet way out there??!), here's a short rundown. Saturday morning, a clamp around a massive pipe in Weston failed, and every town East of this juncture was cut off from the 412 BILLION gallon water source. Scrambling to maintain running water, other smaller reservoirs were routed for these communities, but the water was coming through these taps was virtually unfiltered. This led to a dizzying amount of confusion for city folk**.

Saturday afternoon, the gravity of the situation began to take hold. Strangers were asking if you had heard about the water. Otherwise sane people entered the slow spiral of insanity. I started interrogating people about how old the ice cubes were. The half-empty cup of water on my desk looked like an oasis. The swig that remained in my bike's water bottle needed to be hidden lest it get into the wrong hands. Have you ever tried brushing your teeth without water? It is nearly impossible. So naturally, I used mouthwash to prime the brush. As it was approaching ninety degrees, I tried to avoid boiling water at all costs but it was unavoidable.

After spending 10 minutes convincing myself that a Corona Light was acceptable after-run refreshment***, I realized I needed to "HARDEN THE FUCK UP"**** and get out the cooking pot. I filled said pot, cranked up the range, and waited. Water boils slowly, and if you watch it, it boils even slowlier*****. I know I'm a scientist and all, but recognizing when water is "boiling" is a tricky skill. The chemist in me says that boiling is when vapor pressure of the liquid is equal to atmospheric pressure******, but the lazy 25 year old inside me is telling me that those little bubbles on the side of the pot means it is boiling and I can stop. Do I REALLY have to wait for a rolling boil and count down from 60? That sounds exhausting, but I did it. It took every ounce of my being not to just say "fuck it" and throw in some pasta and make dinner instead, but I did it.

Now you have 3 gallons of scalding water rife with deceased bacterium (hopefully), that you get to siphon into  water bottles and cups and Brita filters and smaller pots a la Signs. Of course I could have waited, but in my opinion I had waited long enough and as long as Cholera was no longer a threat, I could risk second degree burns. I ended up spilling most of this water down the sink and likely melting the inside of the Brita filter, but roughly 90 minutes after embarking upon this adventure, I had 2 Nalgenes, a Brita filter, and a Canteen full of water. As it was still 85 degrees in the kitchen, I celebrated with another beer.

With "drinking water" out of the way, my attention turned to more important matters. Namely, bathing. I am a shower master. 5 minutes flat. Lather, shampoo, condition, done. No shower-bath, no bath period. I'm all business. But even a wham-bam shower man like myself has to second guess his technique and consider the merits of a sponge bath in light of a crisis like this. After my roommates bathed without incident/blood-curdling scream, I figured the coast was clear.

Botulism infected laundry? E.coli coated dishes? I didn't need an extra reason not to do those. So those piled up in their respective areas until further notice. It was like OREGON TRAIL but REAL. I hoped for an Indian******* I could pay $5 to help me ford the Mystic River for more water. I wanted to barter my car axle or my first born. The only thing missing was a loved one succumbing to dysentery and the clock was ticking on that one.

And then, as quickly as it began, Deval said shit was cool and Starbucks could make coffee again and I could do dishes again and I was miffed. Why? Because I was just getting used to roughing it and I could feel my character building. That and I had just spent the better part of my evening slaving over a hot stove and receiving no nutritional value. I was transcribing a tall tale for my grandchildren about the drought of 2010 and how their granddad carried 40 gallons of water on his bike up******** Mass Ave to dehydrated school children. Now it just sounds like an inconvenience. At least I'm not this idiot.

*women and children first?! C'MON!

**"Does that mean I should put it through my Brita twice?"

***Does it have electrolytes? How about if I add a lime?

****R'OB's words, not mine.

*****I'm playing that in Bananagrams CMM

******No I did not look it up.

*******Native American

******** both ways, of course

On Repeat: These Guys

Joining "Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell" and that Crazy Frog song in the so-stupid-it's-awesome pantheon are these two dudes. I don't know if this was a drug-induced stroke of genius or if this is something they do on a regular basis, but I cannot get it out of my head. Not the best song to sing to yourself in the checkout line, as I discovered this afternoon. Whatever stiff said you need verses and chord changes to make a good song surely overlooked the hypnotic effects of repeating "big booty bitches" ad nauseum. Thanks to these pioneers, now we know.
 

Review: Kate Nash - My Best Friend Is You

Kate Nash is the kind of girl your mother warned you about: sly, two-faced, vindictive, jealous. You wouldn't have known it from her adorably saccharine 2007 debut Made of Bricks, with the exception of hit single Foundations which briefly flirted with the angst that she has decided to roll around in now that she's 22. Society tells us that we will march towards maturity and slowly hone in on who we are and what we want in this life. So what do you do when you're 22 and you feel no more self-assured than you did as a teenager? Well, if you're a pop-star on the verge of working on your sophomore album, you throw everything at the wall and see what sticks.

Nash makes no attempt to hide her varied influences here, but to her credit these often take the form of homages than rip-offs. From her Karen-O squeal on the brooding "I Just Love You More" to the spoken word verses and frantic string parts that sound uncannily like Los Campesinos!, Nash is experimenting with anything and everything to tap into something true. The one constant on this rollercoaster is her blunt and disarming choice of words. It doesn't take long to realize her bark towers above her bite, with her verses alternating between the self-deprecating and the furious. Of all of the ground she covers here, she is still at her best when she channels the 60's style production, as found on the albums strongest track, Kiss That Grrrl (below). The opening measures sound like they were torn from a Motown B-side, complete with requisite brass bursts, springy bassline, and a rolling drumbeat. Even the guitar plucks during the chorus feel like a sample from an early "Stand By Me" demo. You can nearly picture Nash on stage, turning from side to side in a bouncy bouffant. Even the lyrics reflect this change in tone, finding Nash at her most tactful and tender.  

Of Course, having a gift for candid observations can be a double-edged sword on songs like "Mansion Song" and "Don't You Want to Share the Guilt?" which seem like stream-of-consciousness cliches before she decides reel them in with a melody, if she does at all. But I'll give her credit for shaking up the tired pop formula and distancing herself from the Lily Allen's and La Roux's (both of whom still rule).

All told, her album is as unfocused and fractured as she is, and while that may sound like condemnation, it is refreshing to hear someone matter-of-factly sing about crying their stupid eyes out after making out with someone else just to make you jealous. A harsher critic would point out that she spent the previous song interrogating a boyfriend for doing the exact same thing, but they would be missing the point. Life doesn't follow linear, logical arcs. Stubborn, slippery things called emotions make sure of that.



Bonus: Doo Wah Doo