On occasion, I address something of relative importance.
Photo reblogged from I am watching Justified. with 18 notes
But you give him a girl, it seems, a girl who you know’s gonna look good in a pale pink sundress (which she puts on a little while later, but still, you knew from the beginning) and all Raylan can do is let her talk.
I just have to say up front that I’m wary of that. I’m wary of the strong woman in the pale pink sundress, the one who shoots her husband and kisses the marshal all at once. That woman is a magical woman, altogether vulnerable and in complete control of her side-eyed sexuality. She’s hungry and she’s got wet hair all the time. And you let her talk because she talks but watching Raylan glance at that list of numbers, you think, you let her talk because she’s surely going to say something of value. They always do.
But let’s not kid ourselves. Timothy Olyphant is playing Raylan like the museum of masculinity’s equivalent of the pale pink sundress, his goddamned strong jaw and quick smiles and taking off his hat at the right moment, all the time. When he’s violent he’s so quick with it that you see the damage long before you recall his movements. And he makes jokes, lord help us, he’s got a sense of humor that you just know got forged in the mines of pain and suffering. hum-um. I nearly died when he made a joke, the first time, if anything sets this man apart from the ghost of Seth Bullock it’s the up-turned mouth in place of the clenched jaw. It’s the feeling that while Seth always knew what was the right thing to do, whether or not he was doing it, Raylan might not be sure. For all his he drew first for all his you make me pull, I’ll put you down, I mean, righteousness is best adopted to quell a man’s quiet uncertainties. The Bible is best misinterpreted to rob banks.
This is an incredibly well-written and astute assessment of the characters on Justified. It’s the best thing I’ve read all day and I am looking forward to more from Meghan. She already really understands these characters. Oh, how I miss Raylan Givens and the Crowder clan and Ava and Winona….Source: iamwatchingjustified
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Pinball Music
There’s a certain kind of music that sounds like it should be played in a dark arcade that smells of french fry oil and smuggled liquor, that is redolent of Saturday nights spent in a decade not my own (perhaps the late ’70s?, early ’80s?) indulging in the foibles of youth. It’s the kind of music that would be good to hear while losing yourself in a downward spiral/cocaine haze, but it’s also the kind of music that you could listen to while cruising empty suburban streets with your first love.
A frenetic, propulsive energy accompanies this kind of music that is not unlike the hyper-speed pings and clacks that accompany a game of pinball.The music feels sweaty and confident in its own stamina as if it’s goal is to go quickly and carelessly in search of its own gratification. It’s capricious and insouciant, full of futuristic buzzes and bells that now sound charmingly anachronistic. I have decided to choose four songs that share some qualities of “pinball music” : Sniff ‘n’ the Tears’ “Driver’s Seat”, Sweet’s “Love Is Like Oxygen”, Head East’s “Never Been Any Reason” and Donnie Iris’s “Ah! Leah!” As you will soon discover, the categorization is rather arbitrary but when hearing these songs in succession, one could envision a fleeting era of randy kids in muscle tees and cropped tops rocking into the night and flirting in a dimly lit rec space near the Miss Pacman console. Some are partaking in amphetamines Some are revved up on their own sexed-up fumes. All of them are careening towards some unknown zenith of elation and desire.
Driver’s Seat - Sniff ‘n’ the Tears
This 1979 chart-topper is stupendously awesome apart from any discussion about musical genre. It took me nearly seven years to figure out who sang this damn song and then one mundane afternoon while folding laundry, it came on my Sirius radio and BLAMO! I was able to give credit where credit was due. Just listen to that relentless, adrenalized rhythm section propel and then fade into the taut cacaphony of other instruments pounding onward and upward as the band continues chugging like an engine in danger of going off the rails. But they never do. They are always in control and maintain the restless energy of the song with a deft sleekness. This is the “pinball music” anthem if ever there was one. It’s about getting behind the wheel of one’s life if only for “a little jiving on a Saturday night.” “Driver’s Seat” does not embrace the night’s offerings with a dark abandon, but rather with a youthful bouyancy that seizes whatever may come but holds tight on the reins.
Love Is Like Oxygen - Sweet
The best song that E.L.O. never wrote. These glam rockers take a swing at highly orchestrated rock and knock it into previously unexplored supernal realms of “pinball music” greatness. They’ve crafted a collage of palatable space-age rock sounds: the baroque classic rock intro, the soft power ballad vocals on the verse, the Jeff Lynne-inspired rollicking funkiness of the chorus melded with those helium vocal stylizings that then digress into proggy fathoms to be puncuated by a few false stops and then magically float out on a superbly fun disco-funk outro. “Love Is Like Oxygen” reflects the fickle, mercurial and yet totally fascinating mood swings of the young and restless. For those youthful in spirit, it is neither here nor there. It is nowhere or everywhere. Sweet pay tribute to the overblown urgency of the lovesick heart: every random nuance and note is captured here. It’s also the song that would play before at the night’s decline, the song one hears as dawn approaches and there is one last chance to grab the brass ring, one last moment to make your move before time encroaches and curfew rears its ugly head.
Never Been Any Reason - Head East
Oh my gosh, it’s just perfection. Absolute perfection. It figures that the epitome of classic rock would be a song by a band that no one remembers and never really had any staying power. An exuberant hymn to the powers of a good woman’s love. This is the song you want to play during your first kiss, during your Donkey Kong high score, during that moment when you realize hope is not lost and redemption is just in sight in the guise of that person at the bar, that person whose path you inexplicably crossed again, or that one special person you wronged terribly who has, inexplicably and incredibly, forgiven you. And yet, this doesn’t truly get at what Head East accomplished with this song, let alone does it let it stand apart from countless other rock tunes that are a sonic buoy in a sea of dissonance. I must asservate that “Never Been Any Reason” nails it in an almost spiritual way in which very few have from that amazingly composed synth symphonic opening, the staccato guitar riff, slow and steady, doggedly persistent and yet a wee bit anxious, the plaintive vocals thirsty with longing, pensive and yet strong, giving way to that choral cry of salvation that gives me goosepimples each and every time: “Save my life, I’m goin’ down for the last time/ Woman with the sweet lovin’, better than a white line/ Bring a good feelin’ ain’t had in such a long time/Save my life, I’m goin’ down for the last time.” This is proto-pinball music. The originator. Each time I hear it, I light up in all different places just like the electric mappings of a pinball game board. And you should, too.
Ah! Leah! - Donnie Iris
Donnie Iris is an unheralded pop genius and this is his masterwork. On first listen, 1980’s “Ah! Leah!” seems a parody of a straightforward rock tune a la Foreigner: the stubborn, overly forceful guitars, the horny bravado of the vocals that are borderline threatening juxtaposed with the hushed and lilting chorus that repeats a girl’s name with romantic desperation. Then you listen again and realize it’s incredibly sincere and brilliantly constructed. It’s a rock song, it’s a pop song, it’s of its time, it’s timeless. Then you watch the video and you can’t believe that this super nerdy-looking guy from the band that sang “Play That Funky Music” got away with it while managing to garner himself a Hot 100 hit. And even though you can vouch for its timelessness, you yearn for the days when a pop song like this could be played. It’s jubilant. It’s carefree. It’s fun. It’s ephemeral and yet seems designed to make memories around it. And maybe that’s really what “pinball music” is, the kind of music you made memories around when you were first shaping your musical tastes, your sexual preferences, your life, yourself. When everything was on fire and you’re someone else from one moment to the next, pinging back and forth with bells ringing in your head. When you were young. Of course, this isn’t the music of my adolescence…maybe pinball music is the aural equivalent of John Hughes’ movies for us who were born in the ’80s: it’s what we wanted our teenage years to sound like.
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Further support for the argument that the heavy metal ethos is without pretension and withholds judgment of others while embracing populist views. JUDAS. PRIEST. on AMERICAN. IDOL. I wonder if America was ready for that much leather. Something tells me Howdy Doody Scotty was kissing his cross backstage.
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I recognize there is a lot of Lady Gaga hate on the internet (specifically Tumblr) and for the most part people are either ambivalent about this new album or incredulous about how it fits into Gaga’s dubious enterprise. It’s either too brightly earnest or too dark & sludgy or too trite to reflect the mythic and overripe persona with which she has persistently bombarded us. For the most part, I really enjoy it. And when I play “Judas” or “Heavy Metal Lover”, I’m not really thinking critically or evaluating Gaga’s narrative or career projection or insidious appeal to the masses through her glib and patronizing “We Are All Beautiful and Special Little Rebels” schtick. Even so, the underdog anthem “Bad Kids” had me from that snotty and snarling opening guitar riff. Let’s get one thing straight: the song is a hokey anthem intended to rally misunderstood teens and all of the world’s cast-offs. And yet, it is absolutely irresistible. It’s what John Parr’s ” St. Elmo’s Fire (Man in Motion)” would sound like if Laura Branigan aerobicized her way to a seedy new wave club and made out with Eddie Van Halen’s clone who happened to be a social worker for children. I am not sure that whacked description makes anyone want to listen to it, but I find that it creates a rather indelible image. I also just finished writing a children’s book about resilient youth with flaws/disabilities who learn to embrace who they are by forming bonds with others that share these hardships. I know that in the “Born This Way”-era in which we currently live, it seems like this idea has been overdone but it’s actually pretty important. And if some kid isn’t astute enough to realize that Gaga might be insincere in what she espouses in this song, does that really matter if he/she feels empowered or inspired by the music—or at the very least, enjoys those innocuous synth-y beats? I have listened to this song more times than I care to count. Not because I glean something significant from Gaga’s lyrics that changes my worldview (although I do find them amusing and sweet) but because it’s damn good to dance to in my apartment.
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It feels like summer today. The unrelenting sunshine makes me heady to the point of swooning and I get lost in future plans: bratwursts and cold ones, sunbathing on spare slabs of concrete while eating food from trucks, sweating while guzzling lukewarm smoothies, rollerskating in the park. It’s hard to concentrate on this computer monitor and sit in this office knowing I have at least 6 more hours here. I need a soundtrack that can whisk me off in sultry-summer style to boardwalks and carnivals, street fairs and late night roof parties and makes me forget that I am sequestered in this air-conditioned hellhole for a seeming eternity. I think this might do the trick. “Catch Me (I’m Falling) gets it all right. It’s freestyle at its best but with a few extras: Jade Starling’s outrageously emotive vocal (she emphasizes each and every word with dreamy surrender) and that grinding guitar breakdown just takes it over the top. Some might associate this song with Jon Cryer on skates. But I just think of it is a timeless jam that goes with summer like ocean with sand, sandals with shorts, hot sauce with anything…
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So this morning I was watching a video of Iron & Wine covering George Michael’s “One More Try” on the AV Club site. And one of their employed goons had the gall to ask that bearded dude that I don’t normally care for too much if his love of the song was ironic. I was fuming, irate, brimming with uncontrollable hatred over such an inane question. I am sick of all this “ironic v. non-ironic” enthusiasm for songs from the ’80s or ’90s or whatever. Can’t we just love what we love and not have to rationalize its origins, whether they be nostalgic or perversely trendy or achingly sincere? Same goes for that Bon Iver’s Bonnie Raitt cover. I love that song and it’s a sweet & soulful cover. End of story. This got me to thinking about how much I love Bruce Hornsby. Always have, always will. It has nothing to do with irony. It has to do with how he hits the ivory keys with such fierce poetry and how when I hear this song while driving in a car through anywhere, my soul is awakened to the clear blue sky above me and I take a deep breath and say to myself: “Yes, I am alive. End of story.”
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Possible Video Treatment for Lady Gaga’s “Edge of Glory”
Okay. What about this: a Haus of Gaga loose interpretation of Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” meets American Pastoral Pastiche.
The intro: It’s dark, foggy with thick moving clouds illuminated by a blue moon. The curtains of fog part to reveal Gaga in a basic welder’s uniform. She’s working hard, burning that midnight oil while enjoying the sound of her voice pleading about “tonight yeah baby, tonight yeah baby”. She takes off the welder mask in a choreographed fashion a la Flashdance to reveal a shocking blue halo of curls. Think the video vixen’s hair in Steve Winwood’s “Higher Love”. Her skin is shocking white, cadaverous in a hot Victorian Gothic novel type way, and her lips are navy blue but spangled with teeny silver star sequins. Her eyeshadow is deep red and from her long manicured fingertips white frenzied light emits like sparklers on the Fourth of July.
Cut to: Gaga playing in a neighborhood roadhouse to a crowd of bearded and denim-clad men. But they aren’t just your typical macho working-class heroes. They’re all gay because it’s a gay bar…called “Glory Gays”. Gaga is dressed in pirate scarves from head to toe a la Little Stevie. Instead of one gold hoop earring, she wears one good hoop around her body. A hula hoop that she spins continuously while singing. The Boss does not cameo. Instead, it’s Gaga again dressed in scandalously short denim shorts and the iconic red bandana placed precariously in her open fly. Clarence does cameo and the band launches into the first chorus as the bearded factory workers take off their hardhats and unbutton their denim button downs to reveal that they all have tattoos that say “Edge of Glory” encircled by flames and skulls.
Cut to: A cornfield. Gaga wears a dress made out of corn husks and her hair is in…yep, cornrows. She writhes around in a way that is disarming because it’s obliquely sexy and not overtly so.
Cut to: Quick shots of Gaga in a baseball uniform blowing bubbles and grabbing her crotch suggestively in a way that references everything from Michael Jackson to Roseanne Barr to the hegemony at large.
Cut to: A war field. Gaga is dressed as a haute couture George Washington with powdered wig and wooden teeth. She launches a cannon that is really just an oversized mascara wand. She plasters the redcoats in Diorshow Blackout and the whole army writhes around in the cosmetic sludge, but this time it’s overtly sexy. Very sexy. And subversive.
Cut to: A bigger corn field at dusk. Gaga wears nothing but a barely buttoned denim button-down and her hair/makeup done a la Rosie the Riveter while straddling a massive bulldozer covered in glitter. Cue sax solo. Rob Lowe in a baseball uniform that exposes his midriff emerges from corn field to play the solo, reliving those halcyon days of St. Elmo’s Fire. Once the solo ends, Rob is again enveloped by the corn. Video ends with Gaga driving away atop the bulldozer, flexing her arm muscles and snarling in a way that is somewhat sexy but mostly confusing, pointless and yet remains intriguing.
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Here I Go Again…
It might not be major news to most of you, but tomorrow night Whitesnake plays Irving Plaza. To me, this is monumental. It leaves me breathless and excited and, ultimately, crestfallen because I cannot find one single living soul to attend this night of guitar-driven innuendo and pageantry with me.
After first hearing of this show and sending out my giddy emails to certain people that have since been forgiven for their rather curt and flippant refusals, I stowed my dreams of seeing David Coverdale parade around as though he still was sexually viable somewhere deep inside my vault of hair metal dreams perpetually deferred.
And then…this weekend, that vault came unhinged by an encounter with a bartender at Brooklyn’s Gutter, the bar/bowling alley hybrid with well-seasoned Bloody Marys that allow for the most intense intoxication in the least amount of time. By the time I reached my high score of the day (163), I was on my third and feeling particularly enthused about most anything. Prior to this, the bartender and I started chatting about Judas Priest’s later years and then I informed him that Metallica were “pussies”, especially that “New Age wimp, Kirk Hammett.” I think this was when he decided I was good people. Most metal fans just need to sniff out a sense of loyalty and an intimation of heated passion about one of the Big 4 (Anthrax, Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer) before they decide that you are one of them. There is rarely snobbery in evidence and I’ve never had to participate in a game of dick swingin’ in order for my opinions to be respected, which is somewhat surprising considering heavy metal is über-masculine with its perverse üse of ümlauts, loaded references to both male and female anatomy, and a massive archive of backstage tales that would make Caligula blush.
Anyway, by my fourth Bloody Mary, I had been invited to attend Whitesnake with this super amiable bartender and his wife. We started discussing the ouevre of Whitesnake and he might have mentioned his favorite songs, but I was too preoccupied with whether or not I would allow my inebriated state to actually coerce me into divulging mine. And I did. As I’ve mentioned before, “Is This Love?” is my most beloved of their catalog. Hell, it’s one of my favorite songs of all time. I listen to it at least once a day and have done so for several years. To most “real” metal fans, this is probably considered obscene. But I also had been operating under the assumption that even admitting to liking Whitesnake was somewhat of a faux pas—that is, if metal fans were to abide by any social norms. In this instance, I did not lose any points. This dude smiled and nodded enthusiastically and then we talked a bit about “Slide It In” and “Bad Boys” before I got sidetracked by the many conversations I was having with other friends about several other topics for which I expressed equal zeal.
And then there it was: that wickedly sultry intro that sounds like a wall of electric strings blown through a gigantic fan, tossing everyone’s hair and hearts about in a sexy, brooding fashion. To be honest,it also sounds a bit like the intro to Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.” My heart skipped a beat and I stood there frozen. In this neighborhood bar, in the late afternoon, I was hearing one of my favorite songs in the world. The bartender winked. There was a kinship formed, a moment of understanding shared. And then Coverdale began to sing and I squealed, dropping my umbrella in a clumsy fashion and awkwardly bending down to retrieve it. But still, in that brief moment, I felt as effortlessly awesome as Coverdale himself.
I guess the point of this tale is a) The next best thing to seeing Whitesnake live is hearing one of their hits blasted at full volume as a friendly dedication to your’s truly; b) by rehashing this experience, I hope to not harbor too much resentment towards those fools who refuse to attend the “still of the night” my dreams came true; and c) it’s probably best to not join a couple of married strangers to watch a loud and raunchy performance of songs called “Slide It In” and “Slow n Easy”, right?
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