They made pop songs cool for me again during a time when indie was in, and experimental sounds were raging (weird for the sake of weird). They introduced me to computerized (and often broken) drum beats in light, up-beat, guitar driven tracks. And, even though I thought I’d die if I heard another love song, they made it genuine, and my heart grew ten sizes too big like the Grinch’s.

For me, their highlights came from the goof-ball with a straight face Toxic Holiday, their unexpected curses (“Fuck you Hollywood, I’m the glory” – Krush), and the dynamic bursts on Soft Revolution. There was a pale romantic simpleness to it all, like a love note scribbled on a greasy paper bag.

But something changed. I’ve been to a handful of their concerts. Most recently, I was at their U of T frosh concert. They weren’t the Stars I used to love. In between songs, Amy Millan explained to the crowd, “Our new album is available at the back tent… but you’re probably just going to download it anyway.” It was as if they hated us.

They used to be starry-eyed and hopeful. Now they see the worst in people. I’m staying hopeful.

Dear Stars,

We had a good run. I gotta admit, some of my best times were spent dreaming about the soft revolution, and screaming it full blast with the windows down.

But, not anymore.

Fuck you.

Don’t call me.

Love,

K.E. Easterling

Toxic Holiday (I won’t tell Amy Millan if you don’t)

Robyn Hitchcock came to town last year.
I don’t know very much about him and haven’t heard a lot of his music
but just because he’s one of the only obscure-ish musicians from more than two decade ago who I recognize,
I’m very fond of hyping him up.
I mean,
I genuinely like all his songs I’ve heard and have made efforts at tracking down more of it.
But I don’t know his music as a music – where I’ve heard most of it and identify with it a mood or a shape of ‘what’ and where the limits of that ‘what’ extend.

I had an essay due
or an event to help organize
or some other emergency, probably not even last minute,
probably just a mild block of More Important that made the concert a non-priority such that after the first Robyn!!Hitchcock! I didn’t seriously consider attending.

Afterwards, I read an article about it.
The reviewer mentioned something about good show
but also something about aging troubadour
and you can really tell.
(the aging part, we assume, from the before and after on the quality of his voice)

I felt a pang.
He was around with Dylan
and the Stones
and Hendrix
and now he’s still around touring hole in a wall clubs that charges $15 maybe $20 cover.

Maybe he doesn’t want to be Hendrix
or Dylan
and maybe he loves hole in a wall clubs
and how rare is it for people to be continually reinventing themselves creatively and putting out new stuff (which he does!)

But still, a pang.
And I probably wrote him off a lot.
Paul McCartney’s comeback performance (the milennenial edition) was Poor Form.
Oh well.
You know.
They’re people, not creative output machines.

But what a horrible analogy!
Can you imagine a music playing – never mind music creating – machine that doesn’t fall apart or deteriorate at all during 40 years of continuous operation in hazardous environments?
It doesn’t exist!
And it probably won’t exist!
Not ever!

Musicians who persist in putting out new stuff and performing ought to be commended.
I’m so tone deaf I can barely distinguish between mono and stereo;
for all intends and most purposes, the fact of aging troubadours and you can really tell will escape me.
The only reason I know of Robyn Hitchcock is because internet radio played some songs from his 2000 album
and I like it so much I looked up some other ones.

No more pangs.
I only hope I can catch him in concert before he stops touring – and this time I’ll make it a priority.

(When I went to China a few summers ago, there was enough room on the mp3 player for maybe 30 songs. The Wind Cries Mary was one of them. I played it a lot during a 36 hr train ride. And then on repeat during one of the most beautiful sunsets I’d ever seen.)

[Brought to you by the good people at Porter Easterling]

A review of T.I.’s album, T.I. vs T.I.P.

Enjoy

Ok, I lied about the title. This isn’t really an album review. I wish. I don’t have the time to listen to an album 40 thousand times to give it a fair review. What I CAN say though, is that I did listen to it, I did think it was awesome, and I do have it playing as we speak.

Normally, when I like a rap album it’s either because the rappers got some really memorable verses, or the beats are too catchy to forget. T.I. is almost at the point of having the best of both. As for the beats, think electronic drums with harmonizing synth lines and a jazzed out electric guitar for good measure (ex. “Big Sh*t Poppin’”, “Help Is Coming”). As for verses, the guy has a reason to be cocky, but it says something when the most memorable one is a double time verse that’s not even done by T.I., but by Busta Rhymes on “Hurt.” T.I.’s verses just lack the grabbing one liners. The overall concept of the album was a welcome change, even if it was a tad lame. The whole inner struggle scenario would’ve worked if it wasn’t for the LITERAL fight with a mirror.

But it can all be forgivable for the classic gun blasting, blood and dirt tracks. I love that shit.

OK, now for the point of this…

I read a quote by Bob Dylan not too long ago. He said, “You listen to these modern records, they’re atrocious, they have sound all over them. There’s no definition of nothing, no vocal, no nothing, just like … static.”

So basically, Bob Dylan thinks modern music has too much sound. While I agree that over-producing can be a bad thing, let’s remember something, Bob Dylan is SIXTY-FUCKING-SIX. That’s 462 in dog years. Or 24090 days worth of aging. On a scale from 1 to 10, that’s freakin’ old.

When Bob Dylan was at his peak, the most number of tracks you could have on one song was four. So it goes without saying that he’s not going to like today’s 50 track anthems.

Pictured: The only known photograph of Bob Dylan’s first concert. History texts books confirm that he, “Rocked thy house down.”

Pictured: Bob Dylan just before his appearance on TRL in 2007.

Yet, despite numerous warnings from the American Medical Association to, “not trust old people,” there is still the track, “Touchdown” on T.I.’s album. It’s a stain on an overwise clean cd. This track is one midi drum beat with a single midi line over-top. It’s the Legend of Zelda feat. Eminem for NES, but worse.

The only rational explanation I can think of for this ever appearing on the album is that T.I. took Bob Dylan’s advice and cut out all of that sound (throughout the whole song there’s at max, three tracks playing at once).

If he was following Bob Dylan’s advice, then I applaud T.I.. He’s spreading his net and trying to capture that ever elusive over 60, violent rap loving demographic. And I gotta admit, I think he did it. He’s the Nintendo Wii of the hip-hop world.

(True Affection, The Blow)

But suppose their wife just left them OR
their grandpa just died after a long painful battle with multiple sclerosis OR
they’ve just failed an exam that will more or less determine the rest of their life.
And they will just
FALL APART AND SHRIVEL UP INSIDE
if they have to pull themselves together to give another perfunctory answer of
oh you know OR
nothing much OR
it’s been better,
because they can hardly pour out tales of woe during a 45 second hallway conversation with someone they sort of know,
even if the last thing that is ‘up’ is
NOTHING MUCH
because HOLYFUCKINGGODIAMHAVINGTHEWORSTTIMEIMAGINABLE.

But if you try something like
‘what did you have for lunch today’
after the first exchange of greetings -
mindful of how impossible it is to share intimate mental states with an acquiantance you’ve just run into and will interact with for no more than a few minutes -
people’ll think you’re a loon.
Like you’re some
quirky eccentric when all you want
is to make it easier
to indicate you are interested in them and their life
without requiring an emotional investment that they can’t give.

Maybe we should dispense
with meaningfulness we don’t mean
and just stick with the meaningless that we can.

(and maybe this is only a train of glacially fragile i shatter thoughts.)
(and maybe not everything has to be made of glass)
(The Magnetic Fields are supposed to be cold and glassy in their execution but glass doesn’t have to frigid, you know.)
(I mean, remember the blobs of red hot supercooled liquid? remember blowing? remember torches?)

He brushed at his combover. He said:
Do not be troubled if you don’t understand what they are saying at first because it is all conceptual. Connnnnnn – ceptual.
(The professor is very Scottish. Verrrrrr-y Scottish.)

He said:
There are many pictures. These are deceptively simple. DO NOT BE FOOLED. If you don’t keep up, if you don’t read Porter Easterling, you’re dead.

He said:
This is a beautiful book. Completely logical. We will go chapter one chapter two review chapter three chapter four review dnung dnung review! But if you don’t follow along, YOU’RE DEAD. What will you get? DUCK EGGS.

He said:
WE DON’T WANT THAT. You will be paying for my retirement so the LAST THING we need are DUCK EGGS.

Stupid duck eggs and
emphasis on hyperindividualistic cut-throat competition for monetary success aside,
I was very excited.

There is something beautiful about learning from The Definitive Bible of Phase Transformations.
There is something beautiful about learning from The Definitive Bible of anything, even if it is for a shit course.
Take Engineering Economics and Accounting, the most self-evident of shit-hood in course-dom. If the assigned textbook had been
The Definitive Bible of Engineering Economics and Accounting Practices,
I would most definitely be studying for the midterm we have on Monday from it Right Now.
Instead, I’ve been drinking too many cups of watered down tea and compulsively organizing my file folders on the computer.

I Am An Excellent Steel Horse is the definitive bible of crossing the finish line as a steel horse.
I found the song on my computer during the reorganizing and because I don’t have access to internet as I write this, I have no idea what kind of people are involved with Rock Plaza Central. As far as I can tell, there’s one dude singing and I can’t say I’m a huge fan of his voice.
But.
The law of Definitive Bibles holds. So yes. And yes. There it is. I can’t switch recourse and I can see the finish line. Plow on sweet horse. Plow on Porter Easterling.

Postscript: No one calls me J-Hov OR J-Hizzle OR J-Zee OR J hyphen anything. Not even David. The one time he did, it turned into a Jehovah’s Witness joke – not a good one either.
If anyone calls me anything, it’s Jiayi.
& that doesn’t even happen very often because the name is apparently hard to pronounce.
& I also have difficulty responding to semi-acquainted strangers in real life, a destructive deterrence cycle.
Maybe if I wore a Not AntiSocial Just Shy tshirt all the time, it’d be easier for everyone.
Unfortunately I’m allergic to tshirts.
& my shyness probably has an antisocial component of at least 75%.

We were studying Phase Transformations in the common room at 2 am; Jiayi was pretending to read and I was eyeing the ping pong table like a middle aged woman eyeing Fabio. By 3 am, we were both half asleep, and in bad need of caffeine. By 4 am, I lifted my head up from where it was pressed against my textbook and asked Jiayi, “Wanna take over the world?”

“You mean start a music blog?”

“…exactly.”

First off, I have to say that this is a joint project, not a solo one. We are two engineers with the horrible habits of staying up all night and biting off more than we can chew. Our little team consists of Jiayi (aka J-Hov, aka J-Hizzle, aka J-J, aka any other name you can think of with the letter J and a hyphen in it) and me, David. Jiayi is the idealist; I can’t remember where I was last night.

This is something to care about instead of lab reports. A chance to rest the right side of our brains.

It’s a conversation at 2 am.