Currently listening to Seventeen Years by Ratatat.
Do you know the sensation of falling as the world stands steady. Or maybe the world caving in as you stand steady. It starts to pour colors like the spots behind shut eyelids, or a really bad electro music video. There is that distant, constant muffling of reverberating bass that you can't quite make out, I think it sounds like Terry Crew flexing his tits. It smells fishy, like fish sauce. And a little sweet, like the smell of 6 egg custard tarts drifting from the oven. It's pleasant. Then you wake up, and realize you've taken an unwanted 3 hour snooze while writing a very important lab paper. Shiezy!
viernes, 30 de julio de 2010
miércoles, 9 de junio de 2010
Dear friend,
Would you travel the world with me? To the mountains of Peru, to the ruins of the Berlin Wall, to the butterfly gardens of Thailand, to the moon and back? Would you eat anything and everything edible from every country with me and taste all the whiskeys and Tecates of the world? Would you play the guitar for me while I fall asleep? Would you salsa with me at professional salsa parties and on the roofs of elementary schools after midnight? Would you drive with me through the city at night and stop by janky hicktown shops to buy overpriced English chocolate bars? Would you cook exotic and experimental meals and bake delicious mint chocolate raspberry cakes with me? Would you take me to sand dunes overlooking the ocean, the stars overlooking us? Would you escape with me on spastic journeys for absolutely no reason?
Would you?
Could you?
Would you?
Could you?
martes, 8 de junio de 2010
A message not intertwined in an esoteric tale concocted to confuse you
Contrived self-pitying may give you the emotional foundation you necessitate to achieve the stance of "bona fide artist", but it will also grant you the worst of perspectives. It'll consume you when you least expect it. A self-administered drug of sorts.
lunes, 24 de mayo de 2010
Concert Caveats: Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeroes
May 20. 8:00 p.m. Royce Hall.
Meet Jade.
She was convinced that Alex Ebert was a musical messiah sent down to Earth to purge humankind of all that was sinister and blasphemous in the world and remind them of all that was good and beautiful. Prancing barefoot in a wrinkled white suit, a loose red scarf, and a personifiable shaggy mane, Ebert created no hierarchy within the 10-member folk-rock band Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeroes. All was one and one was all with this hippie god. And the sentiment of collectivism was not exclusive to the stage: the audience, the staff, the ushers all fell under the unifying spell of musical madness.
She suspected Edward Sharpe appealed to the average college student because in both music and conduct, he exuded the ambiance of sixties counterculture rebellion, which, living in LA, she all knew too well. But who could blame them? They were all dependent children, on the verge of leaving the cuckoo's nest, and what better way to be individuals than by a means of "revolution"? She found this attempt at revolution ironically cyclic. In trying to break away from conventions of their parents, they ended up being thrown into the world of adulthood all the more quickly while all the more ill-equiped. Demonstrating their unsolicited valiance in raunchy and illegal doings were great fun at the moment, but it was short-lived. In the end, the consequences they faced for their endeavors at being unorthodox would become the catalysts to their adulthood and maturity.
In their safe beds and purely rhetorical classroom debates, they said they wanted revolution and change, yet when the time came, who but a few would rush to the front of the line eager to defend their cause? Who but a few would be strong enough to speak out from the safety of their numerous and nameless mob companions? Who, among the mass of college students, regurgitating what they heard on TV and preaching obsolete ideals from history no longer relevant, would be a martyr for egalitarian principles? Not one. The liberal front had become somewhat of a fad. And those who followed wore faux-vintage dresses and tees from Urban Outfitters and bought every single book about journal-keeping or peace on its shelves.
She was reluctant to say more. She loved Edward Sharpe nonetheless. He was the kind of man that made her jump out of her seat to dance while everyone else sat. He was the kind of man that could make every body in the audience of a 1,833-capacity theatre silent with a single request. She hated the idea behind him, but Ebert himself, she could not stop loving.
Hypocrisy is both a vice and a virtue.
Tactfully,
T.J.
Meet Jade.
She was convinced that Alex Ebert was a musical messiah sent down to Earth to purge humankind of all that was sinister and blasphemous in the world and remind them of all that was good and beautiful. Prancing barefoot in a wrinkled white suit, a loose red scarf, and a personifiable shaggy mane, Ebert created no hierarchy within the 10-member folk-rock band Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeroes. All was one and one was all with this hippie god. And the sentiment of collectivism was not exclusive to the stage: the audience, the staff, the ushers all fell under the unifying spell of musical madness.
She suspected Edward Sharpe appealed to the average college student because in both music and conduct, he exuded the ambiance of sixties counterculture rebellion, which, living in LA, she all knew too well. But who could blame them? They were all dependent children, on the verge of leaving the cuckoo's nest, and what better way to be individuals than by a means of "revolution"? She found this attempt at revolution ironically cyclic. In trying to break away from conventions of their parents, they ended up being thrown into the world of adulthood all the more quickly while all the more ill-equiped. Demonstrating their unsolicited valiance in raunchy and illegal doings were great fun at the moment, but it was short-lived. In the end, the consequences they faced for their endeavors at being unorthodox would become the catalysts to their adulthood and maturity.
In their safe beds and purely rhetorical classroom debates, they said they wanted revolution and change, yet when the time came, who but a few would rush to the front of the line eager to defend their cause? Who but a few would be strong enough to speak out from the safety of their numerous and nameless mob companions? Who, among the mass of college students, regurgitating what they heard on TV and preaching obsolete ideals from history no longer relevant, would be a martyr for egalitarian principles? Not one. The liberal front had become somewhat of a fad. And those who followed wore faux-vintage dresses and tees from Urban Outfitters and bought every single book about journal-keeping or peace on its shelves.
She was reluctant to say more. She loved Edward Sharpe nonetheless. He was the kind of man that made her jump out of her seat to dance while everyone else sat. He was the kind of man that could make every body in the audience of a 1,833-capacity theatre silent with a single request. She hated the idea behind him, but Ebert himself, she could not stop loving.
Hypocrisy is both a vice and a virtue.
Tactfully,
T.J.
jueves, 13 de mayo de 2010
Quail eggs and smelt eggs
Currently listening to Allison Weiss' MGMT cover of Kids. God, I revere the musically talented.
You know when people say, "You just know"? I really hate that. I think it's because I'm deathly afraid that I'll never have that just knowing epiphany. Is it purely emotional? Or is it more holistic than that? ...just knowing is a godforsakenly dangerous concept. It doesn't help that almost knowing or a contrived knowing can be easily mistaken as just knowing, especially since it's so sought-after and romanticized these days. I guess for me, just knowing comes when you aren't looking for it in particular, and when it does happen, it isn't as sensational as you might've imagined...when it's spontaneous, you could say. It's not the moment that matters, it's what happens after that moment that defines it and gives it any significance. The effect, the consequences, the aftermath. Because really, I could give a fuck that Obama was elected president. It's what he accomplishes or screws up after that fateful moment that will give his election any real value.
Tactfully,
T.J.
You know when people say, "You just know"? I really hate that. I think it's because I'm deathly afraid that I'll never have that just knowing epiphany. Is it purely emotional? Or is it more holistic than that? ...just knowing is a godforsakenly dangerous concept. It doesn't help that almost knowing or a contrived knowing can be easily mistaken as just knowing, especially since it's so sought-after and romanticized these days. I guess for me, just knowing comes when you aren't looking for it in particular, and when it does happen, it isn't as sensational as you might've imagined...when it's spontaneous, you could say. It's not the moment that matters, it's what happens after that moment that defines it and gives it any significance. The effect, the consequences, the aftermath. Because really, I could give a fuck that Obama was elected president. It's what he accomplishes or screws up after that fateful moment that will give his election any real value.
Tactfully,
T.J.
domingo, 9 de mayo de 2010
Concert Caveats: Henry Lim and his String Quartet
May 8. 8:00 p.m. Powell Library Rotunda. Henry Lim and his String Quartet's composition and performance last night: contrived irony.
It was good, to say the least. Henry Lim and the Camarade Quartet performed every song, in the right order, on the Beatle's White Album. A dashing "venue", warmly lit, with high, decorative ceilings (suitable for acoustics) made me forget I was in the library usually representative of my academic masochism and instead teleported me into a slightly surreal world of sounds. I call this performance as one of "sounds" rather than "music" because in all honesty, it was just that. The string section was beautifully celestial, but the addition of Henry Lim's vocals brought...helter skelter?
With four muse-like girls all dressed in an ethereal white, I expected a serene night of violin and cello playing. The first section that was played I couldn't recognize as a Beatles song, only to realize Henry Lim had composed a short introductory fanfare for himself: he appeared from behind the dark hallway, a stocky bearded Asian man, sporting, get this, all black and a gaudy cowboy hat. Against the angelic ambiance of the pre-Henry Lim appearance, he was kind of a dirty spot on fresh linen -- for lack of a more profound analogy. Aka, a contrived irony. His raw and raspy voice did not hit many of the intended notes, but needless to say, I enjoyed all of the songs (genius of the Beatles: no one can ruin their songs). The string section, including Mr. Lim's own guitar playing, hands down trumped his vocals, although his spastic yelps and occasional jokes during and between songs were a delightful surprise. The audience was ecclectic, filled with both old and young. One thing I always notice during Beatles-revering concerts is that I fall in love with the people who attend. A spiritual unity exists as we all bob our heads and tap our feet just enough to move to the music but not interrupt the informally formal atmosphere of the performance. What can I say? Good music is an invisible black hole that indiscriminately sucks us all in.
All in all, despite Henry Lim's god-like treatment for himself, I applaud his compositions and the string quartet. He was definitely able to vocally pull off some songs, like Dear Prudence and Julia, and the toned-down version of Revolution 9, which I did not expect to be performed at all, was a sweet cherry on top.
It was good, to say the least. Henry Lim and the Camarade Quartet performed every song, in the right order, on the Beatle's White Album. A dashing "venue", warmly lit, with high, decorative ceilings (suitable for acoustics) made me forget I was in the library usually representative of my academic masochism and instead teleported me into a slightly surreal world of sounds. I call this performance as one of "sounds" rather than "music" because in all honesty, it was just that. The string section was beautifully celestial, but the addition of Henry Lim's vocals brought...helter skelter?
With four muse-like girls all dressed in an ethereal white, I expected a serene night of violin and cello playing. The first section that was played I couldn't recognize as a Beatles song, only to realize Henry Lim had composed a short introductory fanfare for himself: he appeared from behind the dark hallway, a stocky bearded Asian man, sporting, get this, all black and a gaudy cowboy hat. Against the angelic ambiance of the pre-Henry Lim appearance, he was kind of a dirty spot on fresh linen -- for lack of a more profound analogy. Aka, a contrived irony. His raw and raspy voice did not hit many of the intended notes, but needless to say, I enjoyed all of the songs (genius of the Beatles: no one can ruin their songs). The string section, including Mr. Lim's own guitar playing, hands down trumped his vocals, although his spastic yelps and occasional jokes during and between songs were a delightful surprise. The audience was ecclectic, filled with both old and young. One thing I always notice during Beatles-revering concerts is that I fall in love with the people who attend. A spiritual unity exists as we all bob our heads and tap our feet just enough to move to the music but not interrupt the informally formal atmosphere of the performance. What can I say? Good music is an invisible black hole that indiscriminately sucks us all in.
All in all, despite Henry Lim's god-like treatment for himself, I applaud his compositions and the string quartet. He was definitely able to vocally pull off some songs, like Dear Prudence and Julia, and the toned-down version of Revolution 9, which I did not expect to be performed at all, was a sweet cherry on top.
martes, 4 de mayo de 2010
Me asustan cosas buenas
Por qué? 1) Alguien me dijo que todas cosas buenas siempre terminan.
2) Buenas cosas pueden hacerse cosas increíbles. Y yo no merezco cosas increíbles.
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