05
Jun
12

Bloomberg is a Lame Babysitter

Have you ever done something stupid, and right before doing it, said to yourself, “Gee, this is really stupid” but then did it anyway? Of course you have, this is America, a country that’s not supposed to slap the cigarette out of your mouth, the fedora off your head, or the KFC Double-Down out of your big, sweaty mitts—a country that, like a mother bird (a mother BALD EAGLE bird), urges her chirping progeny to venture out of the safety of their nest, even at the risk of an early demise. What would we be without the freedom to tattoo stupid shit on ourselves, major in theater tech, or watch Dancing With Rabid Animals, or whatever’s coming next? I contend that we would be worse off for it, which is why I dedicate this post to Michael “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH SUGAR IS IN ONE PACKET OF SUGAR” Bloomberg, for trying to take away NYC’s big gulps.

Let’s address the counter-argument right off the bat. “This isn’t government overreach! Soda intake can be translated into real healthcare dollars, taken from you, the taxpayer, and given to fatso over there with his 64oz cola and a wicked case of die-a-beet-us! We’re saving you money!” Hey thanks! But no thanks. Do you mean to tell me that you’re 100% sure it was the soda that made this guy dependent on government healthcare programs, and not the six Baconators™ he had for lunch? Because if you don’t know, you should either be outlawing nothing, or outlawing everything. That’s the problem. “Well, it may not be the only thing, but it’s one of the things!” So is lack of exercise, I’m sure, but you can’t force the poor slob into a gym membership. Slippery slope. “Maybe it’ll encourage people to drink less of it!” You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. Or: You can lead a guy to a smaller soda, but you can’t stop him from buying three of them.

Honestly, I don’t have a dog in this fight. I have a 12oz can of Diet Coke every 3 days or so. But the point is that on some sweltering Thursday in August, I might want a huge fountain Fresca with my football-sized barbacoa Chipotle burrito, and that oughta be my damn prerogative.

Let’s do some comparative analysis. Above, I have listed some fairly innocuous activities that people in our society choose to participate in on a daily basis. Applying the Bloombergian nanny thought process, we’ll examine why some of them should be outlawed.

  • Smoking – EASY!
  • Tattoos – You’ve got a tattoo on your neck, or below your shirt-line on your arm? No respectable company will ever hire you; you’ll be a social pariah and a burden on society as you add to the unemployment rolls.
  • Unmarketable College Major – What, are you kidding me? You’re gonna major in photography, in this job market? I think not, young man. My tax dollars are not funding your weed habit.
    • [SIDEBAR: True story. I went to Spain in high school, and we asked our tour guide how she became a tour guide, and she said she was going to med school but the government told that year’s med school class that the state didn’t need any more surgeons, but that she should totes major in history instead. So she became a tour guide. I almost threw up in the Prado.]
  • Shitty Reality TV – Dumbed-down programming that promotes a sedentary lifestyle filled with corn chips, TV dinners, and statements like, “Momma, when I grow up, I wanna be just like Bristol Palin,” shouted over the prattling of Tom Bergeron.

I suppose even I would be OK with getting rid of the last one, but the fact remains, that’s the wrong way to handle it. My guess is that roughly 30% of this country is fundamentally stupid. Make them smarter, and a lot of this stuff just goes away. Stop treating the symptoms, start treating the disease, and you’ve got yourself a great start. Or, continue treating the entire city like an overfed bedwetter, and watch it start acting that way. It is not the government’s responsibility to make sure Baby Huey gets his eight glasses of water, it’s his. This is what being an adult human is all about.

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01
Jun
12

I’ve Watched Basically Every Episode of Law and Order: SVU

Well, all the ones available on Netflix, anyway. Still, that’s just a season shy of 300 episodes, and watching that much of anything is bound to leave its mark on you. You’re saying to yourself now, “Wow, what an impressive feat. Truly, this is a shining example of the kind of human achievement our generation ought to aspire to emulate.” And you’re righter than you know. It is so easy to watch this show passively; it’s visual elevator music. But pay attention, and you’ll find yourself wading nips deep in a pool of constitutionally questionable police work, and unrealistically deft lawyering.

It is revealed in one episode that partners Olivia Benson and Eliot Stabler have a clearance rate of something like 93%, and a conviction rate somewhere in the neighborhood of 86%. PRETTY TIDY. It’s probably got something to do with the countless times El and Liv give each other the glib did-you-hear-someone-call-for-help-in-there? excuse for busting into an apartment sans warrant. Classic. Admittedly, this is not as frequently used as the showy, yet effective, Eliot-throwing-a-guy-into-the-wall-of-the-interrogation-room move, which usually results in the suspect conceding, “Alright, alright! I was there that night, but I didn’t kill her!” or something.

These tactics usually at least get the intrepid detectives a talking-to from Capt. Cragen (“Detectives, my office!”), and sometimes leads to confessions getting thrown out via the defense’s ever present MOTION TO SUPPRESS. God, it never fails. Just when they think they’ve got the perv who diddled and stabbed whomever he diddled and stabbed this week, some slimeball attorney waltzes in with that little blue slip of paper and a smug grin. Oh, you thought you had this one all wrapped up, did you, A.D.A. Casey Novak? Well guess what: the knife with the suspect’s fingerprint, signature, and 4 types of government issued ID super glued to it is OUT! Time to rebuild the case in 12 hours by going back to the crime scene and discovering some mislabeled home movie containing a full video-diary style confession.

Do certain episodes stick out in my mind? Sure. Like the one where John Stamos is a “reproductive abuser,” and something like 25 women from two continents show up with all kids he made them have. Episodes like this are especially great because the actors have to do their best to pretend what’s happening isn’t wholly absurd. The writers have to work statistics into the dialogue without seeming clumsy and forced, but statistics are, by nature, clumsy and forced, so the result is predictably hilarious.

 “Wait, this guy did what? Seems pretty far-fetched.”

“Detective, did you know that well over 3% of all American women have been forced into childbirth by a member of the cast of Full House?”

“Sounds about right.”

Stuff like that. Then you’ve got that whole arc with Olivia’s long-lost brother, who, turns out, does share the illicit proclivities of their estranged father. This one is pretty great too, because it lets Benson be the loose cannon for a change. Driving to Jersey, going on unauthorized stakeouts, ignoring her caseload in favor of personal vendettas. Horning in on Eliot’s turf for a few episodes.

I will say this: nobody seethes like Eliot Stabler. I’ll describe his go-to angry face for you. He’s visibly upset about the situation at hand, but he’s a good guy at heart so he decides he’s over it and turns away. The guy he’s turning away from gets in one last parting shot, like, I don’t know, something about his wife. Stabler wheels around and gets way up in this dude’s personal hula-hoop. He speaks quickly and softly and you’re not sure if he’s angry or hoarse, but then you see it—there is a vein in his forehead that looks like someone glued a goddamn twizzler to his face. It is startling, to say the least.

Would I recommend watching every episode of Law and Order: SVU. No. I’m happy to do this kind of grunt work in the name of pop culture, but you should be doing something else. Watching every episode of Criminal Intent, probably. Or watching your microwave as you test which things are cool to microwave. Productive things.

22
May
12

Announcement!

Greetings Readers!

It has been quite some time since the last post on this hallowed blog, and I’m sure you’ve all just been too broken up about it to go outside, or eat, or…whatever the kids are doing these days—work? (LOLNOPE). Anyway, in order to make things easier on myself (which, if I’m being honest, is my prime directive 100% of the time), I am switching up the format a bit. By “switching up,” I mean “fundamentally blowing apart.” This is a music blog, no more! I mean, it hasn’t been for like a year, but it won’t be in the future, either. Everything is fair game this time, and if I had to prognosticate, I’d say I’m mostly going to be yelling about things. Sorry?

Why am I doing this all of a sudden? The long story involves a whole lotta BS about springtime and renewal and emerging from a long, dark winter riddled with existential crises and bad poetry.

None of that happened, though.

The short answer is that WordPress is letting me use WordAds now, so I don’t necessarily need to be writing this nonsense for free. Click the ads. Click them.

Expect the rolling out of new content next week. In the meantime, here’s a gif because blogs with gifs are really in right now and I’m learning about gifs. What do you do, click it? Either way. Enjoy.

28
Apr
11

“No Future Part Three: Escape From No Future” — Video Premier

The fine gentlemen from Titus Andronicus and XL Records have decided to premier the video for ”No Future Part Three: Escape From No Future” across the NJ blogosphere. BDTD is glad to be included. Behold!

22
Feb
11

The King of Limbs — Radiohead

8.8/10

It took the better part of the weekend. It took roughly five full listens, a spirited, beer-fueled discussion with fellow enthusiasts, and some catalogue backtracking. But it finally happened: I love this album. The first listen is pure consumption. You knew they’d release something eventually, but they spring it on you five days in advance and you find yourself in oncoming traffic, with three years of desire rushing at you like an Academy bus. So you get through it once, retaining almost nothing, then dive right back in. This time you notice the ephemeral beauty of “Give up the Ghost,” and the undeniable funkiness of “Lotus Flower.” Once more through and you’ll probably find that “Bloom” starts to grow on you (PUN!!). Its not until you’ve fully digested each track that the implications of your actions start to creep up on you: you just spent nearly five hours of your weekend listening absorbedly to one album. Why would you do something like this? Because Radiohead can’t make an album without further entrenching themselves, safely and definitively, as the best in the world.

There has been a sort of trust germinating between Radiohead and their fans for years. It is this kind of trust that leads these stalwart fans to approach one impenetrable album after another with the same unflinching confidence. Miraculously, these often-dense masterworks come off free of pretention, allowing the band to avoid the label of Great Condescender, given to so many other post-modern artists across mediums. The King of Limbs is no different. It asks that you be present, but never really grabs you out of your seat. There are moments where you’ll be begging for a song to open up, but it never does—in fact, the album as a whole never really does. It is easily the most subdued work they have produced, surpassing even Amnesiac at times for its muted, understated beauty. In this way, it is also an exercise in restraint. In Rainbows, an album at once accessible and true to form, seemed to be taking the band in a direction of popular acceptance. It was guitar-heavy, upbeat and—dare I say—catchy. The King of Limbs resists all temptation to recreate that tableau, and makes good on Thom Yorke’s promise that the band wouldn’t dive back into the “creative hoo-ha of a long-play record.”

So what do we have here? The album is a good example of that old paradoxical relationship between the natural and the mechanical, but we are not surprised when it is able to find a balance between its living theme and its electronic execution. While I’ve long since given up on trying to decipher Thom Yorke’s cryptic pen, Limbs is addressing something undeniably organic. The best example of this is on “Morning Mr. Magpie.” The guitar is hushed and fluttering, as a bird’s wings, and the speaker calls out the avian creature by name. “Feral” has an almost sylvan feel to it, placing you in an echoing wood, surrounding you with whispering, disembodied voices, and deep, creeping tones. By the end of the (very short) record, you have the impression that it is nothing less than one living, breathing whole.

The length is something to mention as well. While the depth and density keep it from being what I would call accessible, the length keeps it at least approachable. It also seems to suggest that there may be a host of excess material left over from recording, which is exciting. At the Atoms for Peace show in NYC a while back, Thom played “The Daily Mail” (which, given the nature of this whole “newspaper album” business, seems only appropriate), and an untitled track, which he mentioned would be on this album. It is not. I sense quite a few B-sides at the very least.

In the spirit of the album, I’m keeping this review short and sweet. I’ve also found I’m much better at tearing down artists than I am at propping them up, so even this much is quite an effort. But I will say this: Radiohead is the only band capable of making this type of record. They are by no means beyond reproach, but they have earned enough respect and trust to be given the benefit of five or six listens before judgment. I’ve gone one-and-done with a few albums in the past, but when Radiohead says something, you listen.

14
Feb
11

Grammy Awards Recap

The Grammy Awards were Sunday night and a couple things happened. Lady Gaga flouted all conceivable fashion conventions and showed up encased in an egg. Sweet(?). Bob Dylan growled at the microphone and breathed into a harmonica until he got his obligatory applause. Legendary(?). Eminem gave an impassioned performance of a lackluster song, then Dr. Dre came out and they didn’t perform “Guilty Conscience,” “Forgot About Dre,” or any of their many other stellar collabs. Weak(!). I’m not going to talk about those things, though, because something else happened. A band that (sort-of) deserved to win the night’s major award actually won the night’s major award. I’m going to talk about that, and what it means for the Grammys.

I’m not going to pretend that this has never happened, but it has certainly not happened for many years. The nominees for Album of the Year have, for at least the past ten years, included one or two artists that deserved a nomination, and four others. One of those four others usually wins. Indulge me while I provide some Wikipedia-found evidence:

2010: Taylor Swift, Beyonce, The Black Eyed Peas, Lady Gaga, and Dave Matthews Band are nominated. Taylor Swift wins.

2009: Robert Plant & Alison Krauss, Coldplay, Ne-Yo, Radiohead, and Lil Wayne are nominated. Robert Plant & Alison Krauss win. (Not an epic tragedy, but still not right.)

2008: Herbie Hancock, Foo Fighters, Vince Gill, Kanye West, and Amy Winehouse are nominated. Herbie Hancock wins.

The list goes on in this same fashion for a stretch. With the exception of Radiohead, I’m not certain that these artists definitely did have the best album of their Grammy year, but I can tell you with certainty that Taylor Swift and Herbie Hancock definitely did not. So while the Academy might not have been able to hit the nail squarely on the head with the nominations they had given, they had the opportunity to at least strike the board, instead of throwing the hammer through the window.

Let me give you a comparison. The Grammys are—supposed to be—to music what the Oscars are to movies, right? Well, if the Oscars were more like the Grammys, this year’s Best Picture nominees would look something like this: Country Strong, Just Go With It, Season of the Witch, Black Swan, and Piranha-3D. Black Swan probably shouldn’t win in a fair fight, but this isn’t a fair fight. It’s a frame-up. When you say the words “Album of the Year” or “Best Picture,” there is no post script; it doesn’t read, “Ablum of the Year…When given a choice of these five albums, as if no others were made in 2010,” because it leaves out any real competition. A list like that one is downright disrespectful, and it undermines the medium as a whole.

I’m really not trying to take anything away from Arcade Fire. The Canadian septet made an impressive album this past year. When I made a top-ten list in my head I think it ranked 5th, because you wouldn’t know it from watching the Grammys, but this was an impressive year for music. The group of nominees this year should have made this a clear victory, but the way the night was going I was sure those neo-country frauds Lady Antebellum were going to sneak away with another trophy. So again, really not trying to take anything away from Arcade Fire, but they should know that they weren’t given a whole lot either.

Therein lies the quandary. When the contestant pool has become so diluted with fluff, does a win really mean anything? Like I said before, I had Arcade Fire ranked 5th on my list, meaning that in my fantasy Grammys they would have been nominated, but would ultimately have lost. In that parallel universe they would have been underdogs, but the phrase, “Its an honor just to be nominated” would have meant something.

There has been some talk about how the Grammys may have become relevant once again, overnight, because this one award was given to a band that matters. If you are one of the few optimistic musicophiles touting this theory, think about something else. If Arcade Fire had lost, like so many of their predecessors, how meaningful would this award have been? I’m wagering a guess at, not at all.

But wait! Doesn’t the sheer fact of AF’s victory make the Grammy worth something? Not really. The Suburbs was a great album, but it came out the same year as a lot of other great albums. The Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences picked it, and none of those other albums. It is as if this happened by chance. It would have been essentially the same scenario if the Academy had nominated four pieces of rotten fruit, and Arcade Fire, and Arcade Fire won. Congratulations indeed.

I was going to write a conclusion paragraph here, summing up my argument and bringing everything full circle, but I came up with a better idea. Here’s a quick list of some classic missteps by the Academy, which illustrates its tradition of incompetence better than I ever could:

1967: Frank Sinatra’s A Man and His Music beats The Beatles’ Revolver

1969: Glen Campbell’s By the Time I Get to Phoenix beats both The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour and Simon & Garfunkel’s Bookends

1970: Blood, Sweat, & Tears’ Blood, Sweat, & Tears beats The Beatles’ Abbey Road

1981: Christopher Cross’ Christopher Cross beats Pink Floyd’s The Wall

2001: Steely Dan’s Two Against Nature beats Eminem’s Marshall Mathers LP and Radiohead’s Kid A

And, for the record, here is what my Album of the Year category would have looked like:

Arcade Fire – The Suburbs

LCD Soundsystem – This is Happening

Big Boi – Sir Lucious Left-Foot: The Son of Chico Dusty

Titus Andronicus – The Monitor

Kanye West – My Beautiful Dark Twisted FantasyWINNER

07
Feb
11

Super Bowl Recap

The Super Bowl was last night in Texas, and three things happened. The Packers played an almost flawless game and took home the Lombardi Trophy. Congrats to them. Christina Aguilera engineered a distracting display of vocal gymnastics and botched the National Anthem. Boo Christina. Finally, the Black Eyed Peas—complete with the two nobody knows—yelled the lyrics to their most popular earworms at the audience for ten minutes. I’m going to talk about those last two things.

As soon as the camera panned over to Christina—or, as one of my Twitter pals referred to her, “the Chubstina Aguilera robot”—America should have known it was in for a bumpy ride. I understand the girl has had a rough time of the past few months. She’s gotten divorced, Burlesque tanked, and she’s been all but removed from the limelight entirely. But the Super Bowl is about as national as the proverbial “national stage” gets; you think she could’ve run a comb through her hair? As for the singing of the anthem itself, X-tina wasn’t doing herself any favors. Even if I buy the excuse that she was “caught up in the moment,” she’s gotta know that putting her voice through the 500m Hurdles isn’t the key to keeping focus.

This performance is just one of many such performances that turn the Anthem into a display of lung capacity rather than one of patriotism. Online betting parlors offered an over/under bet on the length of the song’s final crescendo-ed, “brave.” (Smart money bet the over on eight seconds and won. I clocked a ten-second “brave” myself). We have come to expect this, for better or worse, but its been annoying me for some time now. I’m not knocking the entire vocal style necessarily; I don’t very much care for it, but I don’t listen to it, so problem solved. However, unless you are America herself, this particular song isn’t really about you. So when these artists rear back and howl the (wrong) lyrics, it strikes me not as a tribute to the nation, but as an attention-starved diva gasping for breath.

Just as a matter of comparison, if you want to hear someone get a patriotic song right, you don’t have to look too far back. Tony Bennett did a pretty great job with “God Bless America” during the World Series. No frills, no skipped verses, just a class act doing his thing. Not to mention, the guy is 84, and he can still fill a stadium with that honey he calls a voice.

Now, onto the other debacle. The Black Eyes Peas are a disgrace. I could stop there; that’s the gist of my argument. But allow me to self-indulge. The Black Eyed Peas do one thing really well: they pump out singles, all of which are power-hour soundtrack fodder. These singles don’t require much of the listener’s attention, which is good. If they did, somebody might have realized what Grade-A manure they are. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking; any given Z-100 listener is more likely to hear one and say, “OMG, they’re soooo right! Tonight is gonna be a good night!”

As if being miserable weren’t enough, these clowns have six goddamn Grammys. SIX. Some of the award-worthy gems include the single, “Don’t Phunk With My Heart” and that perennial classic, “My Humps,” not to mention an Album of the Year nomination for The E.N.D. I literally cannot imagine a single human being who firmly believes that The E.N.D. was actually the best album made in 2010. I try to conjure an image of what that sort of person might look like if it existed, and my mind cannot render its form; this must be what its like to see God.

Last night’s performance—or really any live performance of theirs—ought to have been a revelation for most. The problem is, the Super Bowl’s core audience already knows how worthless the Black Eyed Peas are. Either that, or they don’t know them at all, which is just as good. Last night, they amounted to little more than the latest in a long line of terrible halftime shows (Bruce and Tom Petty excluded). There’s a classic Lewis Black bit about watching the halftime show during Super Bowl XXXV, in which he refers to N’Sync, Aerosmith and Britney Spears as the “Trifecta from Hell.” He’s not wrong, but I get the feeling he’d admit that The Black Eyed Peas, Usher and Slash came pretty close.




May 2013
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