ASSEMBLY RADIO
Check out this awesome Soundcloud radio show featuring Ravish Moman and an interview in a letterpress studio plus other stuff. It is edition 01 of Assembly Radio, which I am excited about the future of. (Admission: part of why I am excited is because I will read a poem on an upcoming edition.)
Dave Bernabo is one of my old Pittsburgh homeslices who has been keeping it stone cold solid for like as long as I have ever known him and then some. Back when we were housemates during college times, Dave was always sneaking into Kresge Recital Hall at night to record some gong or something. What I mean to indicate is that his grind is supreme and he is prolific in a way that nearly disgusts! But doesn’t disgust because Dave-o is awesome. One time he sprayed himself in the face with cleaning solution and it was really funny.
The above is a stop motion animation Dave made. It doesn’t have anything particular to do with the radio show, but I am aware that we are a visual culture and y’all like that kind of thing.
SURPRISINGLY HYPNOTIC
Today I made a joke about Winkers to Lauren Hamertime and she had never heard of their joy, so I thought I would share. I know what you’re thinking: PATENT PENDING?? Who at the U.S. Patent Office is too blind to recognize the genius of painting a winking trompe l’oeil snow owl on your monster butt? If you can keep yourself from watching the whole entire four minute long video, call me and I will pay you five dollars.
TRACY MORGAN, REAL GENIUS?
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What I See
The world according to Nietzsche in 3 sentences: humanity is hindered by the fact that the weak and cowardly will always fear and hate the strong and the great. The weak, who always outnumber the strong, will try to find ways to overpower the strong through connivance, making their strength appear as wrong or evil. This is called ressentiment. He wrote most of this in the late 1800s and by 1889 he was hugging a horse in the streets of Turin and dreaming of being Jesus
At least musically, Nietzsche’s assessment of the state of things could apply very well to our present day. Walking through the venues of SXSW last March, I could not help but feel that ressentiment had won the day. One word (two words): Vivian Girls. The Vivian Girls are the posterpeoples for the current indie rock lay of the land. For those of you who are not Pitchfork or Fader readers, let me quote their FUCKING WIKIPEDIA PAGE , “an all-girl American indie rock band from Brooklyn, New York.” You can go ahead and click on one of those links to figure what in the world this indie rock music is. One fun fact that the Wikipedia fails to mention is that these chicks cannot play their instruments. Like at all. I saw them 4 of the 9000 times they played in Austin and I swear to jesus every time the guitarist chick tried to crap her way through a guitar solo I was worried the poor dear was going to drop the guitar or break out into tears. It is sort of like an entire band of Meg Whites. Sound great? It isn’t. “But they have spirit,” you say. “They are punk rock,” you say. “They allow me to both be an emo post-dude and cultivate a vague misogyny because they affirm my prejudice that girls can’t play guitar,” you say. The point is, this is what the culture of ressentiment loves: bands that are essentially indistinguishable from the audience. Pick any beardo from the audience of a Vivian Girls concert and I would lay money that he can play as well if not better than the band. And this is exactly the fantasy that these beardos nurse: “Man, I could be in a blog-famous band if I wanted to. As soon as I get my shifts covered at Subway and get my screen printing business off the ground and finish my associates degree in Critical Film Studies, then…” We have lost the desire to witness greatness. We no longer want to go to a show and be blown away by the fact that another human being can do these things, make this noise, that we can’t even imagine. No. The Vivian Girls, besides making the same faux-faux samey sounding pap that has been commissioned by Urban Outfitters for half a decade, doesn’t even personally threaten us. Their ineptitude comforts us, because we know that we don’t have to fear being called out for our shittiness anymore, because we have abolished the criteria by which we would be found wanting. The weak exalting their weakness as a virtue.
It is no mistake that the interior cover art of the Dirty Projectors album features a very moustachioed Nietzsche staring into the eyes of a very bemused Dave Longstreth. The Dirty Projectors are a great band. They are not concerned with trying to pass shittiness off as authenticity or dumb it down for the masses.
The press’ approach to the greatness of the Dirty Projectors has been typical. Rob Harvilla’s article in the Village Voice bemoans the fact that the lyrics to “Stillness is the Move” were written using a compositional technique involving an Excel spreadsheet and a random sampling of pop-clichés, rather than in an “honest, authentic way”: “Ah, cripes. For such a fantastic song to have been crafted in such a contrived, arms-length, almost satirical way is a real drag. Let’s not get to feeling all superior to those pop clichés, everybody. The song’s strength lies in its directness, its unfettered joy—an Excel spreadsheet? Really?” Harvilla, assumes, I suppose, that the correct way to compose lyrics is to go into the woods and convene with one’s soul? Somehow, the idea that the band is not “just like us” takes away from the greatness of the song? This line of thought just goes to show that what we want out of music is not great music, but the reassurance that their lives and thoughts somehow are comparable to ours.
The New York Times article is entitled “The Experimental, Led by the Obsessive” and portrays Dave as a pretentious dick, as Ben Sisario plaints: “All that cleverness, though, can veer toward pretension. The artwork of “Bitte Orca” features Mr. Longstreth gazing into the eyes of Friedrich Nietzsche, and in a few minutes of conversation he drops calculated references to Monteverdi and James Joyce.” OMG. Who the fuck is James Joyce? What a weird loser this Dave Longstreth character is. The article also includes what appears to be an attempt to get Dave arrested for white slavery: “’I remember being in the basement of this house in Bed-Stuy with Dave and a metronome for hours and hours,’ [Amber Coffman] groaned of one session. But when asked if Mr. Longstreth was ever too demanding, her tone quickly picked up.” “When asked if Mr. Longstreth was ever too demanding”? What the crap is this? Ace investigative reporter Sisario is attempting to find some way in which we can impugn Longstreth’s character, either by being pretentious (a powerful charge coming from the New York Times, voice of the proletariat) or being “obsessive” (hard working, imprisoning women in basements).
Basically we have here the response to intellectual greatness in this day and age–we attempt to belittle them for being different (better). Here’s a crazy thought: Dave Longstreth is nothing like us. Nothing. We have nothing in common. I have it on good authority that dude used to get up and play the same 5 second loop of R. Kelly for 3 hours until he could sing it exactly like Kells. Here is another though. In order to be great, you have to be willing to do crazy shit. You have to work hard and you have to be different, you have to either be born better or make yourself better. Have you heard “Remade Horizon”? It is very difficult. You must be willing to spend some time in the basement if you want to be great. It is not just about growing a beard and going to a lot of shows. You know who knew that? Nietzsche. Who know who else knew that? Black Flag. The opening to “Rise Above” was written about the LAPD, but sung by Dave Longstreth in his trademark warble, it could be interpreted a little differently: “Jealous cowards try to control/They distort what we say/Try to stop what we do/When they can’t do it themselves.“
I LOVE TEHN
Here is the thing about computer music: it is very easy to get caught up in doing weirdo, off the wall crap–making a MIDI controller out of paper, food, etc.–and forget that making good-sounding music still takes time+energy. That is part of why I am so partial to the monome. It seems to strike the perfect balance of simplicity and infinite possibilities. Witness the jams of one of the creators of monome, tehn. Totally listenable, which is too often a shock these days. This set is taken from the Monomeet, a get-together of monome enthusiasts from around the country and the world.
01 tehn live @ monomeet by monomeet
NEWEST JAMB EVAR
ILL BE THE WOLFMAN AND YOU BE THE MOB BOSS
We here at Gay Science have been on our grind so en serio regarding new jam development that I thought you all could use a little breather before we unleashed our newest torrent of skiddily-whoah up on you. Gross. But true.
And so I present to you “There’s So Many Types of People.” ATTN Sesame Street producers: this would be a great monster puppet dance party, and a good lesson for the children.
JUST SAYING,
Thuggie
KID 606 AND THE INTERNET THAT WAS
Musically, we were, let’s be honest, confused. All of my friends had been into hardcore to some degree, but when we got to college we decided that we needed to “grow up” or something. For my friend Nick and I that just meant buying tighter jeans and getting more expensive glasses. The problem was, though, that we are from Southern California and that means that, instead of being sensitive emo-guys (which is what you are supposed to do after being in a HxC band) we felt the need to get obliterated wasted constantly. There were lots of conversations debating the virtues of Slint and plunking out Get Up Kids songs for drunk chicks and broken gucci reading glasses. All of that changed when I met Nick’s roommate, Hamid, who as far as I could tell was the coolest person I had met in my life. Dude was a comp sci major and would stay up all night writing code on some crazy computer that had all of its guts hanging out and drinking energy drinks while blasting jungle. He also seemed to be able to party balls. He was the first person I ever heard brag about the size of his hard drive. He introduced me to the internet ghetto–the part of the internet where you don’t want to linger too long, where everything is text, where you might be trolling for cracked version of Photoshop and get a porn pop-up that includes graphic, and I mean graphic, semi-consensual sex between an anime chick and a giant squid. Basically, the real internet. Hamid, several times, sent me things that would make my computer screen whirl around or vibrate so slightly that I thought that I had finally broke my brain through the consumption of Popov and Juicy Juice. Only the next day when Hamid asked me how my eyes felt would I realize that the bastard had played some sort of complicated, completely uncool practical internet joke on me. Hamid’s version of the internet really spoke to me. A vast, mostly gross glob of information that was mostly totally gratuitous and awful. It is funny because I think that I was such a late internet-bloomer that I managed to get exposed to the ghetto of the internet before I got into the gentrified, ninny part of the internet where I now dwell. I know I risk sounding like some sort of aging cyberpunk (I am not) but it seemed at that time that you really could use that information for pure destruction, or pure creation, depending on how you look at it.
Enter Kid 606. Kid 606’s music was the first thing that I heard that summed up all of these vague feelings I had about the internet as lawless minefield and hilarious joke. “The Action Packed Mentalist Brings You the Fucking Jams” was something different than the nonstop jungle and DnB that Hamid and I blasted through crappy Logitech speakers at 4 in the morning. While that music was definitely tough, it wasn’t hilarious. It wasn’t manic. It was just sort of the kind of music that white guys with dreads listened to. It was also really formulaic–amen break, sizzla sample, bassline that makes no sense, repeat. With Kid 606 and the Violent Turd and Shockout guys, you really had no clue what was happening. None. This kind of stuff makes me wish that the internet was still dangerous (or at least appeared to be), and it also makes me wish that, instead of waifs listening to Chromeo and driving Scions, there were more sweaty basement dance parties filled with computer science nerds wearing cargo shorts.
TRUE TALES OF MUSCLE MILK
As you probably know, GAy Science’s most recent jamb is a character study of the wages of heavy muscle development on a masculine psyche entitled, for obvious reasons, “Muscle Milk.” Ever since I first saw the name “Muscle Milk” on a carton of said substance, I was deeply grossed by visual thoughts but also felt secure in my knowledge that the distance between Muscle Milk and I would remain great, as it has no real claim on my lifestyle or goals. Tonight that all changed.
As you probably don’t know, I have enrolled at a gym called 24 Hour Fitness Lance Armstrong (no really that’s what it says on the building’s exterior) because I am no longer a student at the University of Texas and they kicked me out of the Kingdom of Heaven AKA Gregory Gym. Along with my enrollment, I get a gratis personal training session and fitness evaluation, yay. So when I showed up tonight and met my assigned personal trainer at the desk, I should have immediately known something wasn’t right when Cody or Todd or whatever began our conversation with the salutation, “FOOTBALL!” I was like, “Um, what? Hello?” and, as if to clarify, he said again, “FOOTBALL!”
Once my actual evaluation got underway (after I verified myself as a very serious football watcher, which you know I am, FUCK THE BENGAAAAALLLLSS), Cody/Brad asked me what kind of exercise I usually do, and how much, and what I eat. He admitted that I was mad on point (that’s right). Let me quote directly: “I am SO HAPPY about your cardio.” Maybe it’s because I kind of knew all of his spiels about protein and afterburn and using balance-intense activities to engage your core that he treaded into the territory of nutritional supplements. Maybe it’s because they get some kind of commission there (guess which one I think it is!). We started off all tame with multi-vitamins (which he admitted he takes because he eats “no vegetables, man, just meat and carbs”) but then got into all kinds of exciting things with names like Myorex RIPP and Activex and yes, yes, yes, MUSCLE MILK. When he asked me, “Have you ever thought about protein shakes?” it reminded me SO MUCH of the moment in fifth grade when some fast girls called me over in front of the public library in Cameron, West Virginia and asked me if I smoked cigarettes. SO ILLICIT! Even though it’s just a question! It seems like a question with the power to DO HARM TO MY FUTURE. Just like back then, I laughed nervously and changed the subject (in this case, to good hip flexor stretches).
I am chilled by the fact that Muscle Milk and I nearly crossed orbits, even if only in the mind of BradTodd. I am all the more chilled that BradToddCody seemed so shocked at my pointed disinterest in Muscle Milk products. Do I look like that much of a beef girl? Certainly my form on lunges is excellent (duly noted by JasonBrad) but maybe I hope I don’t look like I’m chowing on compounds? CONFUSE. Maybe Brobrocop is correct and all I need to be crazy fly is some Muscle Milk. Maybe a trial run is due?
Please advise,
Thuggie
WHY I AM SO WISE: SIDE TO SIDE EDITION
“Why I Am So Wise” is an ongoing series (not that you’d know it from how seldom we share our wisdoms) here at the Gay Webs in which Sexface and I parse out the various influences that made us this way. By “this way,” I mean wise. And also WGS-unfriendly.
Health professionals are always telling us that the American obesity epidemic is mostly the result of a glut of processed foods (props, U.S. corn commission), wide-spread sedentary tendencies, and the fact that we are all lazy overeating sacks of shit. I mean, they don’t really say the last one but it’s pretty clear from the other assertions. And by “health professionals” I mean Michael Pollan, but seriously you can buy his books in any airport so he’s the one I’m listening to. But to hear him tell it, health is easy if you eat less crap and do more physical shit. Many people spend a lot of time nerding out about how locally organically magically balanced and tiny and insane they can make their meals while sluicing their nasal passages with green tea and sleeping 8.45 hours every night and doing Pilates Tectonics at a gym where you can buy peanut butter accai smoothies on your way out the door to combat your post-workout lactic acid situation. WHATEVE. On Planet Thuggie, we have no time for these things. Don’t get me wrong, green tea, sleep, organic and/or locally grown foods, and exercise are good things. But in the great American tradition of keeping up with the Joneses, the inherent value of these ideas has been trumped by a desire for bragging rights as the most grass-fed-beef-eating kid on the block. Or maybe that’s kind of an Austin-specific problem, and believe me, I can see how it might be.
Which brings me to the topic of why I am wise. I believe in doing the best with what you’ve got, and what I’ve got often includes cheeseburgers from Whataburger and some bourbon and a not ideal amount of sleep. When I am contending with all of these factors, sweating it out at the gym isn’t always an option. For this reason, I walk to campus every day. It takes about 45-55 minutes to do so. But it’s worth it because I’m completely awake when I arrive, and can continue to be kind of drinky and foodie and basically not a lump.
Sure, you’re saying, that’s fine if you have a lot of discipline. But what I have isn’t discipline. It’s a very detailed fantasy life in which Miss J from America’s Next Top Model pulls over in a yellow Dodge Daytona and tells me that my walk is so FEEEEEYUUSSSS that I simply must compete on the upcoming cycle of that amazing reality-based show. You think this shit is funny? No, kid. I get honked at maybe three or four times on my daily constitutional. Part of it is that I know how to swing the booty from side to side, but a huge part of it is the music I listen to. Which I will now share with you. You’re welcome.
Slippin’ and a Slidin’ Little Richard
Words, Names, Faces Jeannie C. Riley
100% Dundee, The Roots
I Wanna Holler (But the Town’s Too Small), Gary U.S. Bonds
Black and White, Serge Gainsbourg
Temporarily Yours, Cristina
Me Plus One, Annie
Stone Fox, James Brown
I’m a Wonderful Thing Baby, Kid Creole and the Coconuts
I Wanna Be Your Lover, Prince
Tell Me When To Go, E-40
Dog, Sly and the Family Stone
Natural Born Lover, Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings
Stand Back, Stevie Nicks
Talkin’ ‘Bout, Amerie (remix)
Zig Zag Stitch, Nikey Fungus
Ride Around Shinin’, Clipse
I’m Ready, Dipset
If you are confused regarding the cardio benefits of stomping it out, don’t be. That shit engages your core. Engaging your core = looking fly. But more importantly, stomping it out = FEELING fly, and we all know that how you feel is the same as how sessy you are. Take it from me.
X
Thuggie