S/FJ

NO BONES IN ICE CREAM

After some pauses to water the children and find synonyms for "complicit," we will indeed return to the Merrittocracy*, and we will be loaded. Nightvision, special guests, Althusser—the whole black ops crew. In the meantime, if you're not busy doing The Tabasco to Nina Sky's "Move Ya Body" or collecting information on your neighbors, why not spare a thought for some of the following mechanically reproduced recording artists?

* Courtesy of Glenn Kenny.

Martina Topley-Bird played Monday night at the Tribeca Grand. I am impressed that anybody can play that wack fake-LA bar and not come off like a clown. But what is up with showing an artist's video while she is on stage? When the room is not the size of Madison Square Garden? Cornballz. MT-B’s new material is of that high-suggestion, low-hooks, blues-derived school founded by PJ Harvey. MT-B is more “light candle and recline” than “light fuse and step away”, which means she suffers the lack of hooks pretty acutely.

One thing that should not have worked but did: A skinny white guy dressed up like John Lurie in Stranger Than Paradise was beatboxing and playing harmonica at the same time. Sounds like "avert your eyes" type of shit, right? It just killed. I couldn't get enough of that dude. Four songs was all we needed: think of shows that would be great at 12 minutes, deadly at 40. And so on. Like driving and having children, playing live is an activity you should think through calmly before undertaking.

Aren’t the failures of the left all wrapped up in Northern State, the poster children for good intentions? I can't even finish this new All City disc. Can't do it.

Would people just bug out if the Woodentops came out now? That 18 cups of coffee punkbeat and the hospital corners on the harmonies? They will wrack your soul, girl.

The incredibly watermarked and copy-protected new Corrs CD, Borrowed Heaven, is available for my audition only if I click my heels and hold a piece of paper infused with a watermarked profile of Shania Twain up to the sun at 3:15 PM. When I do all that, things seem as they should.

To declare my solidarity with Puffy's very Whitney biennial sample of a sample on "I Don't Wanna Know," I will sample Michael sampling Douglas and invite you to email me some questions. Considering that I never finished (though I will) the Big Black or Eddie Kendricks entries solicited in the jukebox, this looks like bad odds for you. It does allow you to circumvent my dumb suggestions, though.

Posted by Sasha at May 27, 2004 01:34 PM | TrackBack