Blog

satanic versus

‘Ooohh, “Satanic Versus.”

For a rather intelligent and gifted group this feeble double entendre is appallingly inept and casts its members in a rather maladroit light.

What follows inside attempts to cut the cover’s losses and salvage seemingly lost ground.

The two-pronged meaning of the title may be mundane, but the two aspects of the album are redeeming. This EP contains six riveting tracks of electronic hybrid punk rock. In addition, the CD version of this EP is also enhanced.

The first segment of the enhanced portion contains three videos, which, for the most part, make up the better half of the EP. The videos are shot by amateurs and focus more on the musicians and the band’s stage energy. From this perspective, it is challenging not to notice the keyboardist Roby Newton, whose messy blonde hair completely covers her face at all times. Coupled with the geek-sheik glasses, she comes off as simultaneously elusive and alluring. By the time “New Lexicon,” the third video, began she was wearing only the glasses and two dollar-sized pieces of duct tape. The thought became inescapable that the guys in the band could not pull off this same stunt.

It’s hard to tell, but it also looks like Ozzy Osbourne is rocking out in the first row of fans in front of the stage.

The concept of putting the video for “New Lexicon” was a good idea. As just a song, it is both grueling and ghoulish. The visual piece provides more to be appreciated, on so many levels. It’s not that the song is bad, though. Rather, the band relies on computers and synthesizers too heavily at points, which make songs such as this come off as a bad dream Marilyn Manson might have. After watching the video, a phone call relaying the message “Seven days” seemed inevitable.

In addition to the eye candy, the enhanced portion also provides something for the creative ear. The audio files for “Join Our Party” and “Idle Hands” are available to anyone who feels the need to import them into a music program such as Pro Tools to remix them.

The music stands perfectly fine on its own, though. The guitars jangle in eerie complementation to the keyboards. In spite of all its angular dissonance, the music is very accessible. It’s only the vocals that hold back the band.

It might follow that awkward vocals would complement awkward music. After all, if Nation of Ulysses replaced Tommy Dorsey’s orchestra as Sinatra’s musical ensemble, the result would be catastrophic.

This basic equation does not always work for Milemarker, though.

At times, such as Roby’s interesting approach to an atonal Billie Holiday on the video to “The Installment Plan” works like a charm. The poppy Pavement-esque backup vocals to the otherwise screamo “The Banner to the Sick” are also a huge success. The remainder of the album, both auditory and visual, waxes and wanes in its attempts at brilliance.

lovers need lawyers

‘On Cursive’s “The Ugly Organ,” Tim Kasher screamed “My ego’s like my stomach, it keeps shitting what I feed it.” If Cursive is what Kasher shits out, The Good Life is what he vomits.

Sometimes the product is whole, other times it is choppy; more often than not, it is a confessed regurgitation of alcohol.

In an effort to remain consistent with previous efforts, this part-Cursive side project features Kasher screaming about marriage, infidelities, contradictions from lyric to lyric, alcohol, and the distinction between artist and entertainer – and how both can result in a return in investment.

He is consumed by the music and lyrics he has already recorded, a man in love with the sound of his own voice. It’s equally narcissistic and paralyzing. It appears that his biggest fear is that his words, confessions and mistruths will catch up to them.

The difference is that The Good Life is loose and unpredictable. His shit is controlled, his vomit inconsistent and surprising. There is no strict theme running through the album. One song does not build upon the previous one. The styles change, as do the instruments used to fill up the spaces between pauses. While one song may fall under the category of a ballad, the next has a distinctly West Coast punk flavor to it.

This is arguably the best way for Kasher to clear out any creative impulses that do not fall within the neatly kempt borders of Cursive. Whether that is his intention or not is unclear.

It’s interesting to listen to and analyze how he speaks out of both sides of his mouths. His main musical venture may put him in a demi-god status among many fans, but this certainly shows his human side.

outside the unbearable grows

‘Canadian group Mico is both comfortable and familiar. Drawing on the Midwestern scene’s influence, they are akin vocally to The Casket Lottery. Musically, their influence seems derived, directly at points, from Philadelphia-based rock gurus Breaking Pangaea and a bit from New Jersey’s Saves the Day, circa “Can’t Slow Down.” If a band is going to build upon pre-established sounds, Mico picked two winners.

This is fine import indie rock, taking it out of the well position and onto the top shelf. It is a quadruple-distilled smooth blend that goes down slowly and leaves you willing to have more.

Mico has struck gold with “Outside the Unbearable Grows,” making it one of the star releases of 2003 on G7 Welcoming Committee’s catalogue. It’s an impressive sophomore production that should put the band at a smooth-sailing status for successful touring and, hopefully, a third album.

It’s hard not to look beyond this album and wonder what will come next. The record is tight and shows a lot of promise. Many good things are still to come from this band. Don’t look too far ahead, though, because you may miss the good things that are happening right now with “Outside the Unbearable Grows.”

http://www.illmitch.com

‘Snow’s slick tongue brought them fifteen minutes of fame. Vanilla Ice dug a deep hole for all that followed in his footsteps. Eminem filled the hole and brought them their first signs of hope and respect. Ill Mitch, though, opened up a whole new world for white rappers.

Next to potato vodka and mail-order brides, Ill Mitch is arguably Russia’s best export. Complete with headband, sleeveless life vest, and a penchant for systematically destroying every rule of grammar in the English language, Ill is determined to be happy as a recording artist. Successful? Well, that’s a different story.

Ill Mitch is badass. His debut English CD is entitled “Punch While Rap,” featuring such songs as the homage to skateboarding, “Fast and Danger.” In addition to “rap and ride on my skateboard,” Ill loves to hit his boxing bag, to which the album title, “Punch While Rap” alludes.

As one message board posting fan suggested, “His rhymes flow like the great Mississippi River.” Ill, himself, suggests that his music is for fans of Gangstarr. While both of these statements are debatable, you can count on him for a laugh at least. As a matter of fact, you can go out on a limb and say that he is the greatest parodied Russian immigrant rapper who loves skateboarding and rap.

“On full moon I ride with boner,” sings Ill Mitch on the hit “Fast and Danger.” It’s kind of like Vanilla Ice, except the creative mastermind behind Ill Mitch must be making this as a joke intentionally. It’s sick, dope, def, and so on.

real talk

‘To reword a popular expression, R&B/Hip Hop is like sex. When it’s bad, it’s still pretty good… as long as it’s not some “American Idol” freak with a recording contract and an eating disorder recording the songs.

Admittedly, this particular ray of the musical spectrum is not a forte of mine, but I know what I like – and I like this. If I could dance, I would dance to this. For now, I’ll just keep bopping my head up and down. It’s the only thing I have enough rhythmic capacity to do.

The two most prominent aspects of this album are the beat and the vocals, both essential elements in good R&B/Hip Hop. The two combine into that indescribable flavor that just makes you want to turn the bass all the way up and just bounce. It’s smooth.

The often overbearingly synchronic synthesized bass and bass drum thumps are not present in this album. Rather, “Real Talk” masters the techniques of songwriting that has been used to popularize recent albums by R. Kelly, OutKast and Mary J. Blige. It prides itself on strong yet equally restrained beats, well-written guitar riffs and the entrancing sounds of Hollister’s voice.

There is not a song on “Real Talk” that is even questionable. Each one stands on its own merit and could theoretically be pulled out as a single.rn

s/t

‘Jeremy Enigk could sing over the sounds of fornicating cats and it would be highly praised. Believe it or not, it’s a good thing, because Sunny Day Real Estate fans have been waiting too long in anticipation to admit defeat. No matter what this release ended up sounding like, it would do well. Special spots have been reserved in numerous CD trays for this record, as the band searched endlessly for a label that would put out the first, self-titled release from The Fire Theft.

The band states, and many reviewers agree, that The Fire Theft sounds nothing like Sunny Day Real Estate. In a sense, this is correct. The Fire Theft does not sound like proper, early SDRE. The new band does not have the energy, enthusiasm, or that band’s groundbreaking aura about it. On the other hand, the tunes do sound similar to later Sunny Day songs from albums such as “How It Feels To Be Something On” and “The Rising Tide.” (At the very least, the band’s musical progression becomes a bit more tangible on these albums.)

The Fire Theft has reached the other side of the musical spectrum. Whereas Sunny Day abandoned the traditional sounds of the scene from which they emerged, The Fire Theft has come to embrace the traditions of many rock bands. Where the old band was rough around the edges and thrived on experiment, the new band has been reborn into a tried-and-true formula of honest lyrics, basic rock melodies and non-abrasive progressions.

“The Fire Theft” is a good album but will most likely be a barely suppressed disappointment for long-time SDRE fans. A great deal of reconciliation needs to take place between fan and band in order to appreciate this album. Mainly, fans need to accept that, with the release of this album, The Fire Theft may just become the Chicago of our generation; a band that will last forever, playing safe and harmless tunes to a generation of aging fans unwilling to admit that they and their idols are no longer fighting to be at the cutting edge.

greatest hits

‘In the album jacket guitarist John Frusciante states, “(Red Hot Chili Pepper’s songs) were conceived in a way similar to a bodily function.”

It’s a statement that captures the essence of RHCP. It’s odd and off-kilter. It’s slightly nonsensical. It’s curious and intriguing. It’s raw and disgusting. In its own right, it is a beautiful piece of art, like Marcel Duchamp’s “readymade,” R. Mutt-signed urinal. You’re not quite sure why or how it’s art but, nevertheless, it grabs your attention.

Over the past twenty years, the Chili Peppers have done everything in their power to make themselves a living, touring piece of musical art. They are constantly over the top, whether it be wearing tube socks on their phalli, or endlessly making out with each other. They’re an incestuous family. They are freaks, geeks, man-whores, and geniuses.

Frusciante’s guitar playing is awe-inspiring. Flea is a one-trick pony but, when that trick is talent, it gets you pretty far. Chad Smith is an above-average drummer, which is perfect for this band. If he showed off, the band would sound more like a novelty act, more like Primus. Finally, there’s no denying that Anthony Kiedis has an amazing voice and can write great melodies – but it’s his lyrics that really define him. If they form actual, coherent thoughts, he’s lucky. Any time spent deciphering the logic behind his well-rhymed verses and choruses is time wasted.

Although in a category all his own, he may be writing rap lyrics to rock songs. The lyrics are not nearly as bizarre the Ludacris line “It feels like a midget is hanging from my necklace,” but Kiedis’ lyrical stabs are nearly as inane.

So, for the maximum RHCP experience, turn off any higher-brain functions and enjoy the mesmerizing sounds.

The band’s evolution is highly visible on this best-of album, but the transition is more horizontal than vertical. On a whole, it’s not so much an improvement of sound as it is a maturation.

http://www.rentmychest.com

“Our team of specialized trained monkeys fell short this week.

We requested one thing from them, to find a freakish site that would make us think differently about Mother’s Day. They returned from our high-tech research center with nothing but links to E-cards and a slew of bad poetry. Now, we’ve got them locked up in a room with a drunk, washed up, and pugilistic Dave Matthews. That should be punishment enough for now. One more slip-up, though and it’s monkey knife-fight time.

One of our special little helper monkeys redeemed himself at the last minute, though. This little guy was terrified of being anywhere near Mr. Matthews. He suggested and interesting alternative for people to show just how much they love their mothers: Rentmychest.com.

Needless to say, we were all intrigued by the idea of renting someone else’s chest as a sign of affection. Not to worry, this is not as dirty as it sounds. Basically, Chris Pirillo has been kind enough to donate his flat and hairless chest for the betterment of society, and all for a nominal fee.

For $20 sent in via PayPal anyone can submit a message to be broadcast across Chris’ chest. Happy Mother’s Day, anyone? What else could your mother love more than the site of marker taken to bare skin? Probably a good deal of things, like a trip to France. That’s so passxefxbfxbd, though. People send their parents on trips all the time. Parents always go away. Nobody gives their parents something this unique, though.

Show major corporations like Hallmark that we don’t need their stinking greeting cards. We’re better than that. Don’t give the same old boring card that has the same message as every other card.

Of course you can argue that most cards nowadays come from recycled paper and that is good for the environment. Paper can only be recycled so many times. What waste is there with skin?

Be the first kid on your block to rent someone’s chest for your mom. You’ll make dad so proud.”

http://students.washington.edu/connie/pirate.html

‘Some of you may remember that, long ago, we inaugurated this column by bringing you The Official Ninja Webpage: REAL Ultimate Power!!! In case you didn’t catch it, you may have seen it in another local paper. Our selection was recycled there a few months later.

Anyway, we all know that ninjas totally kick ass and they make you want to headbutt your dog. What you may not know is that pirates (the sworn enemies of the ninja) totally kick ass too. So do Baldwin brothers, liquor store clerks, commies, Huey Lewis, mechanics, Supreme Court justices, bums and even SARS. Yes, they all get you so pumped that you almost kick your mom in the face.

The Official Ninja Webpage has inspired a whole series of knockoff sites that inform you in nearly the same exact manner of how their topic has the REAL ultimate power. Of course, if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. But that doesn’t mean it’s still not fun to look.

So, search around and enjoy the pleasure. Typing the phrase “real ultimate power” into Google will provide some good results. Also, there are some links at the bottom of the Pirate Homepage, although a few of them are broken. AlbinoBlacksheep.com has a good number of links located at: http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/text/ninja.php. The best resource we found, to date, was at http://brianx.com/realultimatepower.html, which has over 100 links to other RUP sites on it.

As the numbers multiply, Real Ultimate Power is becoming less about laughing and more of an Internet staple. First you were nothing without an email address. Then, you were nothing without your own personal Web site. Now, it’s becoming more evident that you are nothing without your own Real Ultimate Power parody page.

http://www.carlspackler.com

‘A wise greenskeeper once said: “This is a hybrid. This is a cross, ah, of bluegrass, Kentucky bluegrass, featherbed bent, and Northern California Sensimillia. The amazing stuff about this is that you can play 36 holes on it in the afternoon, take it home and just get stoned to the bejeezus-belt that night on this stuff.”

If you recognize that quote, you too must be a big fan of Harold Ramis’ immortal classic, “Caddyshack.”

Did you know, though, that a sports editor of New Mexico’s Roswell Daily Record was fired earlier this year for using that quote in a golf article he wrote?

It’s true. He thought Carl Spackler was hilarious, too. Well, Bill Murray’s character, the lovable greenskeeper with a loose screw, was definitely filled with sagacity and witticisms. He caddied for the Dalai Lama; he hunts “Varmint Cong” and makes his own grass. He’s a man licensed to kill gophers.

This is a sufficient homage paid to one of the quirkier characters in the history of comedy but not necessarily a fitting tribute. The site lacks a bit on actual content but compensates for it with an adequate amount of sound and movie clips. There is a lot of filler on this site – but even filler is funny when it comes to “Caddyshack.”

The most effort put into this site was focused on Lacey Underall, Judge Smails’ niece who had everything she wanted, including all things forbidden. There is a three-page interview with Cindy Morgan, the woman behind the braless golf shirt – a picture that reappears with a good deal of frequency.

A visitor to this site will also find memorabilia from the movie, an article on the Murray Brothers’ CaddyShack restaurant, quizzes, basic facts about the movie – such as the cast list and a few errors made during its filming – and downloads galore. That’s the main worth of this site: the pictures, movie files and sound clips.

So it’s got that going for it.