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Usually this space is reserved for my silly things; however, the only thing > words is, for me, pop music.
Several record releases in my life have truly excited me. I love almost everything - really. Since I was 15 or so I've obsessed over obtaining every new album deemed worthwhile. And all of the worthwhile albums released before me, my existence. Whatever I enjoyed most typically ran analogous to my emotional state of being, whoever I was dating/trying to fuck, my location, more and more contextual data etc.
One begins to sense patterns after so much listening. Divorcing music from yourself, applying some tonal New-Critical lens and analyzing the sounds for themselves.
"There is nothing new under the sun." -Ecclesiastes 1:9
Accepting this as a personal aesthetic maxim, for music, for art, the only segway to originality is (counter-intuitively) bricolage. And not just mash-up-ed, mixed medium bullshit. Really weaving together existing product to create something completely unresembling its prototype. We are lucky to have computers and technology to lubricate this process. Nothing depresses me more than an unapologetically referential folk song released in 2010. Nothing.
Which is why Cosmogramma excites me. Because I don't know what it is, but I know what it could be. What parts of it could be. I want bitches grinding me to "Do the Astral Plane." I want MF Doom spitting rhymes over "Computer Face." I want "And the World Laughs with You" playing at coffeeshops and "Recoiled" to be Autechre's new single. But the thing isn't all disjointed; the cohesion suggests that, yeah, genre is becoming less indicative of physical content.
I wish instead of backlashing against the increasing reliance on internet/biochips/bleeps/beeps/emoticons people would just admit that efficiency in communication is as much of an artistic merit as anything else. A good expression of this is electronic music. The evolution of it is just astounding - the only audible medium really keeping up with the times.
I mean, Thom Yorke is on board. Come on. Radiohead has always succeeded in tapping the currents of the universal subconscious.
Keep workin it baby.
Album drops May 4th. Like cocaine though headphones.
the infinite springness regenerates for some
doubt, cycles despair and loneliness. A new
start to something old. Winter is an excuse
without sun and skin; spring they will ask
why you are sad again. why are you sad
again. Do the violets not move you nor the
dewdrops defuse the lead-heavy hours? Are
you lonely for someone - I miss the sadness
in everyone. I need to begin a chemical
routine, like a flower soaked in pesticide
on a beautiful spring day in Tennessee.
An urge to "write" a poem entirely of cliches (qualification: a few connectors here and there). Yeah I threw these idiomatic expressions together in service of the slant rhyme, but can I claim authorship when eighty-thousand teenage girls reiterate these phrases daily. Poetry combats cliches but I ask you to consider THIS: "better the devil you know than the devil you don't." Does "start from scratch" mean nothing to you? What about "better safe than sorry."
Music vid that follows competes for most radical manifestation of pop-music clichedom. At least in 1979. Actually I just heard it on a beer commercial a couple hours ago. Marked entrance into the cliche: when Miller incorporates you into their latest advertising campaign.
It Was A Dark And Stormy Night
in The Good Old Days - and Good Things Come To Those Who Wait -
a Damsel In Distress Could Care Less
about Labours of Love.
Life Imitates Art.
It Goes Without Saying that
When Fools Fall In Love,
When Push Comes to Shove,
When The Going Gets Tough,
"These Things Happen..."
i'm Calling Your Bluff.
Art Imitates Life.
My Two Cents? or A Penny For Your Thoughts?
Plenty Of Fish In The Sea is a Poor Excuse For
All's Fair In Love And War. Look Before
You Leap. the Calm Before The Storm.
It Was A Dark And Stormy Night.
(A Moment's Respite)
a Baptism Of Fire.
Blood Is Thicker Than Water.
It Was A Dark And Stormy Night.
a Kiss Of Death -
Spring To Life.
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