ONLY NOISE explores music fandom with poignant personal essays that examine the ways we’re shaped by our chosen soundtrack. This week, Taylor Ysteboe tries to reconcile platonic versus romantic love through Lou Reed, whose lyrics spoke to her when her own words failed.
Her name was Alexandra, and I thought she was the weirdest person I had ever met. She changed her hair color as often as the seasons changed. She made mix CDs out of discs that looked like miniature 45s. She was obsessed with The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Although we first met in fourth grade, we didn’t really get to know each other until our junior year of high school. She became my best friend, and we were inseparable. We shared everything with each other: our interests, our dreams, our secrets. With Alexandra, I no longer felt different. I felt whole, wanted. Other friends didn’t quite understand me – I didn’t fit into their mold that had been shaped by our conservative and religious town. But Alexandra always understood.
A few months after our friendship was rekindled, I sent her “Pale Blue Eyes” by the Velvet Underground, telling her it was the perfect song – a label I don’t apply lightly. I told her it was the type of song I could imagine myself dancing to with a tall, handsome man, perhaps as it rained outside. (Later on, it was her who I imagined dancing with.) And she just got it. She heard the yearning, the love in Lou Reed’s voice, and she felt it, too. Through that song, we were connected by an infinite, invisible string.
If I could make the world as pure
And strange as what I see
I’d put you in a mirror
I put in front of me
The song itself is about Reed’s first love, the one who got away, and he wrote “Pale Blue Eyes” in response. You can hear the hurt in his voice and in his guitar at the foreground as a faithful tambourine keeps time. But there’s content resignation, too. He accepts that she’ll never love him like he wants her to love him, but he’d rather live with this feeling than live without her.
And I fell in love, too. I didn’t mean to, not really. I didn’t even know that’s what it was at first. I loved her heart. Her hair crinkled by bleach. Her bright laugh that reminded me of sunlight. I loved her with every part of me. How Reed sang about his lost love is how I felt about Alexandra. I couldn’t risk our friendship, though, so I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want her to cut that string that held us together.
Looking back now, there’s something truly special about your relationships in high school. It’s often the first time you fall in love. Sometimes it’s the romantic kind of love. Other times it’s the platonic kind. Both are pure, exhilarating. I’d never experienced anything like that, and I was scared shitless I’d never experience it again. I wanted to hold on to Alexandra, just in case that was true.
Alexandra moved midway through junior year. We tried to keep in touch, but that invisible string grew more and more taut. It worked for awhile, until it didn’t. By the time we both entered college, we were strangers. The string broke.
Thought of you as my mountaintop
Thought of you as my peak
Thought of you as everything
I had but couldn’t keep
I miss sitting with her in the cafeteria before the morning bell rang, watching her carefully and tenderly sketch in art class, getting milkshakes on a Friday night, lying down on the soda-stained carpet of the movie theater after a late showing. I miss it all.
Even now, a few years later, I miss it all. I miss her. We’ve both graduated college and are going down our own paths, but I still think about her and what we had. Some days I think that our friendship was beautiful and could have grown into something more. Other days I think that our friendship was beautiful and just that. I couldn’t keep her. Perhaps I wasn’t meant to. When I think of her, I think of “Pale Blue Eyes” as our song. Lou Reed’s words linger on, but she is just an echo.
It’s been a bit of a slow news week, with what seems like 9/10ths of the music industry in Austin for South by Southwest. If you haven’t been, it’s not structured like a traditional festival, with bands scheduled to play certain stages; rather, the entire city is engulfed by musical chaos and madness, with showcases in bars, restaurants, hotel lobbies, record stores, the middle of the street, literally anywhere you can plug in audio equipment (and a few places you cannot). While some bands only play a few of these parties, there are a good number of bands who try to play as many times in the span of five days as is humanly possible. And we haven’t even gotten to the zany marketing maneuvers pulled by start-ups and tech companies and big name brands alike who act as sponsors, adding a little extra overwhelm to an already overwhelming situation.
This year, the big buzz band appears to be CHAI, the matchy-matchy Japanese quartet that just released their genre-bending debut PUNK to Best New Music accolades. Before the festivities got underway, Father John Misty played a surprise set at Netflix’s Speakeasy. Flying Lotus has been teasing his return via what looks to be sidewalk graffiti. Surviving Beastie Boys Mike D and Ad-Rock discussed their forthcoming memoir Beastie Boys Book in an enlightening keynote where they revealed they’ll be starring in some Spike Jonze-directed shows in Philly and Brooklyn to promote it. Bill Nye (yes, the Science Guy) crashed a Q&A with everyone’s favorite House Rep, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez to ask some questions about climate change. John Boehner came to bloviate about weed legalization now that he’s got money in the game (he was formally against it). A volunteer was caught scalping $1,650 festival badges (who pays this amount? is that even real?). Oh, and some people showed somefilms.
That New New
Vampire Weekend’s Jonah Hill-directed jaunt through several Manhattan delis has finally arrived; it inexplicably features Jerry Seinfeld and Fab 5 Freddy and to be honest makes me extremely dizzy.
Y’all still on board with Grimes? Frustrated that her album is taking too long, she’s decided to start dropping demos on the regular starring avatars she made up, sorta like Gorillaz, according to the text posted on YouTube below this first clip, in which she plays a character called “Dark” performing a track called “Pretty Dark.” This is what happens when you hang out with Elon Musk.
Holly Herndon is definitely on track to usurp Grimes’ weirdo pop throne with her latest single from PROTO, out May 10 on 4AD.
Frankie Cosmos announced the release of a digital only collection of piano-driven songs she recorded without her backing band, called Haunted Items, by shared its first two tracks; she plans to release the others gradually over the next few weeks.
King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard are evidently looking to get in on that “Baby Shark” market with the video for the title track to their upcoming LP Finding Fishies.
Carly Ray Jepsen serenades a very handsome ginger boi in the video for “Now That I Found You.”
Anderson .Paak had shared the first single from his forthcoming Ventura LP (out April 12). Its title is a reference to Lebron James and ref whistles pepper the jazzy track, but the political lyrics go much deeper than sports chatter.
Gold Panda surprise-released a collection of spoofy house tracks under the moniker DJ Jenifa.
End Notes
If you’ve ever wanted to learn about the art of distortion for J. Mascis, now’s your chance – he and the other members of Dinosaur Jr. are hosting three days of workshops known as Camp Fuzz in upstate New York at the end of July.
Most of the Glastonbury lineup has been announced – the legendary British festival will feature headliners the Cure, the Killers, and Stormzy, with Janelle Monáe, Kylie Minogue, Janet Jackson, Tame Impala, Lauryn Hill, Vampire Weekend, Christine and the Queens, the Streets, Rosalía, Hot Chip, Lizzo, Sharon Van Etten, Kamasi Washington, Jorja Smith, the Chemical Brothers, Cat Power, Neneh Cherry, Low, Kurt Vile, Interpol, and more playing further down the bill. More bands will be announced in the lead up to the June 26 opening day.
The Roots have announced the lineup for their annual Philly festival
Smog frontman Bill Callahan will embark on a rare US tour in June and July.
The Lou Reed Archive opens at the New York Public Library today, so they’re issuing 6,000 limited edition library cards featuring Mick Rock’s iconic Transformer portrait.
If you’ve still got a tape deck, you’re in luck – Björk is re-releasing all nine of her albums on candy-colored cassette tape.
It was native New Yorker Lou Reed who sang, “Give me your hungry, your tired, your poor/I’ll piss on ’em/that’s what the Statue of Bigotry says” in “Dirty Blvd.” The wry piece of poetry was one of many city-centric tracks to grace Reed’s New York LP from 1989. While Reed’s lyrics sound hateful towards NYC, you might consider them more love/hate when you realize that the man who wrote them never left New York (well, New York State, at least). Lou Reed remained a New Yorker when he passed in 2013, and his city praises him still. I am no stranger to the Big Apple ambivalence Reed has put to music since the 1960s. Once you’ve put in enough time here, you tend to make love and fight with this city like a spouse. But good times and bad times aside, New York is hands-down the best boyfriend I’ve ever had.
Today is my first day back in town after being away for more than a month. You can imagine my delight the moment I landed, grabbed my luggage, and ran down JFK Airport’s many moving sidewalks after weeks of sitting. That’s a lot of what you do on the West Coast: sit. I sat in cars, on couches, and at bars, my legs nearly atrophied from disuse. So thirsty was I for the unrelenting motion of this city, and the ability to walk anywhere if you have the time. I longed for efficient but banal things like the Air Train and the MTA, and I beamed when finally boarding them, despite it being 5:38 in the morning. My MetroCard even had $10.50 left on it. Damn, I love this place.
It’s surprising to me that I haven’t written an I <3 NY piece until now, but sometimes you have to step away from something to appreciate it, as the old cliché goes. Fortunately, hundreds – likely thousands – of artists have enshrined their love of New York in song, and that makes things a lot easier for me. Why use my own words, when I can defer to the borough-praising rhymes of say, The Beastie Boys? Their 2004 hit “An Open Letter To NYC” is a sprawling poem to the city, with more New York in-jokes than Seinfeld. But the chorus alone says it all:
“Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens and Staten/From the Battery to the top of Manhattan/Asian, Middle-Eastern and Latin/Black, White, New York you make it happen.”
I can’t boast East Coast origins like The Beastie Boys, but creeping up on a decade of living here, I’m that much closer to earning my I <3 NY t-shirt, and I sure as hell feel all the love for this place evident in “An Open Letter To NYC.”
If you’ve been reading my column lately, you may have noticed a less-than-optimistic taint to my voice. I blame the infernal state of the world, of course – but why the sudden burst of joy? It’s because I am back. And dear sweet New York, I am never leaving you again.
I have just come from Huntington Beach, California, where the idea of culture is bottle-blonde, bronzed, fond of CrossFit. Young professionals can be found dancing to “Margaritaville” and the musical cannon of Pitbull, all while shouting “let’s do shots!” sorority style. One such cultured resident harassed me at a bar a few days ago. She was a former hairstylist-turned-Billabong-clothing-designer and breathing stereotype who proceeded to tell me to shut the fuck up, threaten me with her assault history, and hug me while saying, “I love you” in the span of 10 minutes. Then she flashed me.
If people think New Yorkers are cold, I much prefer our brand of chilliness to the Southern Californian “warmth” I often experience. Everyone makes the assumption that New Yorkers are rude, brash people, but I never get offended more than when I go to other parts of the country, particularly Surf City USA. When the fit, well-hydrated inhabitants of Huntington Beach ask me why I’d ever want to live in such a dirty, crowded city, I just respond with the words of Judy Garland: “The more I see New York, the more I think of it/I like the sight and the sound and even the stink of it/I Happen to Like New York.”
No truer words have been sung. I love New York for its music, and films, and fine art, sure, but also for its sludge, and grime, and smog. When I travel to clean cities, my first question is always, “Where is all your trash?” Cleanliness unsettles me. Dirt=history. Do you think London and Paris would possess the same je ne sais quoi if their cobblestones hadn’t been washed in blood and filth for centuries? No. Filth=character, and if the lyrics of The Rolling Stones’ “Shattered” (“You got rats on the West Side/Bed bugs uptown”) or Fear’s “New York’s Alright If You Like Saxophones” (“New York’s alright if you like drunks in your doorway”) doesn’t convince you of that, I don’t know what will.
You can say what you will of New York. Call our city expensive and wretched and unsanitary. Call us snobs, hipsters, careerists, assholes and aesthetes. We’ve probably been called worse. We don’t mind the hassle or hustle so long as we never run out of music, or museums, or midnight movies to enjoy. And in New York, that’d be pretty unlikely.
Perhaps the countless songs by artists like Leonard Cohen, Grandmaster Flash, NAS, Tom Waits, Bob Dylan, and so many others will better encapsulate the sprawling organism of New York City. I certainly can’t do better than them. So here is a playlist of all of my favorite New York songs. If you still don’t like it here after listening to “Chelsea Hotel #2” or “The Message,” get out. No one is asking you to stay, and the subway’s too crowded.
I take the same path to the same coffee shop every week. Down DeKalb Avenue, a right on Franklin Avenue, a left on Greene Avenue, and a final right on Bedford Avenue. My gait is calculated and mechanical. A determined trudge. There is nothing romantic about this habit, and while I’d like to applaud its efficiency, I haven’t actually done the math to prove that this course is the fastest. In truth, I take this route because it is the one I first took to the coffee shop. It is repeated out of reflex and muscle memory and stubbornness. It is firmly rooted in a strong longing for routine.
This path is so engrained that my body dictates every step while my mind is free to think – something I do best while in forward motion. Walking puts me in a trance – alert enough to dodge oncoming vehicles, but rapt in layers of thought. So rapt, that I nearly missed the fat Fela Kuti box set propped up against a wrought iron gate on Greene Ave one Spring day. I stopped abruptly three feet past where the box of vinyl rested, then ambled slowly backward looking left to right to see if anyone was watching me. This I am sure, did not look suspicious at all.
The box was over an inch in depth. It was black and white with a banner of teal across the front reading “FELA” in block letters. I couldn’t help but crouch down and open it immediately, praying that its owner wouldn’t come bolting down the stoop of his brownstone to reclaim it. Perhaps an angry lover had left it on the sidewalk along with other prized vinyl from his collection…like, that Fat Boys LP right next to it…and, that…Kajagoogoo maxi single…
Ok, these records were probably left out on purpose, but I still couldn’t believe it. Lifting the box’s slightly scratched lid I found an alarming amount of Fela Kuti records. I was expecting three, maybe four LPs, perhaps with some booklet taking up a majority of the box’s real estate. Instead I found a seven record pileup, each one opened yet minimally played and well cared for.
There was Zombie, Fela Ransome-Kuti and The Africa ’70 With Ginger Baker Live, Roforofo Fight, He Miss Road, Alagbon Close, Ikoyi Blindness, and Everything Scatter – a glorious heap of his recordings. I was in shock; seven intact, fabulous albums, the collective price of which would have been well over $100. It felt as though I’d stumbled upon a treasure trove, but I couldn’t understand why anyone would ever abandon it.
I grew paranoid again, remembering a time when my dad and I found a handsome sack of toys in the woods behind our house. At seven I was overjoyed at this discovery, but also puerile and hesitant, imagining the sad kid who’d lost their bag of wonders. My dad assured me that finders were keepers, and it was on our property anyway. To ease my concern he assured me that if the toys’ proprietor came looking for them, we could hand them over.
And that’s just what happened. The neighbor girl was ecstatic when reunited with her pink satchel of toys. I felt devastated but virtuous by returning it. To this day I cannot remember what was actually in the sack – just the absolute thrill of stumbling upon it in our mossy forest.
By the time I was halfway down the block my paranoia had dissipated, but I still clutched the Fela Kuti box tightly to my chest just in case. My sense of elation was difficult to unpack – I am by no means a believer of fate or the “universe” gifting me anything…but I surrender to the sensation of it from time to time. I have come across some of my favorite things this way – finding them while looking for nothing.
I first discovered Will Oldham because a neighbor left a stack of CDs in the hallway of my apartment building a few years back. It was in one of many fruitful “free piles,” a name my roommate and I thought we’d coined. The album was an oddball EP recorded with Rian Murphy called All Most Heaven. It had one of the worst album covers I’d ever seen, but something about it shouted “What the hell? Take me home!” It was eccentric, no doubt, but I loved it nonetheless. Its four twangy songs eventually graced a small road trip to upstate New York one summer (our car only had CD capabilities). Opening its jewel case now, the silver disk is nowhere to be found. It may still be in that car, but my only hope is that it has found a way into the music collection of anyone who would bother adopting a stray CD in 2017.
In our age of Spotify Discover Weekly and record subscription services and pre-programmed radios and playlists tailored to every hyper-specific situation we can dream up, coming to music organically and spontaneously is uncommon. It seems rare enough to exchange music between two people in the same room, let alone find one of your favorite records in the street. I wouldn’t suggest the scavenger lifestyle as anyone’s sole source of musical discovery, but I will say there is a taste of destiny in it. I don’t believe in destiny either, so anything that conjures a sense of it feels pretty damn nice, if not fleeting.
The other week I had finished my book and was looking for a new one to read. I had just spoken to a friend about how I’d oddly never read Hunter S. Thompson, which is strange as he fits the profile of my favorite writers (depressed, debauched, wry). Days later I walked through my basement, past a stack of books an old roommate had left three years ago when he moved out. I was drawn to a turquoise spine peeping out from under a couple of Bret Easton Ellis tomes. It was The Rum Diary, Thompson’s first novel. I am enjoying it tremendously, and can’t believe it has been waiting silently under my nose for three whole years.
Come to think of it, it was that same roommate who provided me with another bout of serendipitous discovery. When he moved, I upgraded to his bedroom after five years in the windowless cavern next door. His room had not one, but two windows, and he’d left his superior mattress and an enormous credenza that was far lovelier than anything I’d ever allow myself to buy.
I took my time moving in – I set up my haphazard bookshelf. I stuffed my 500 pairs of underwear into one of the credenza’s many drawers. I arranged my desk with reference books and a quantity of pens that would suggest I was deeply concerned about a imminent global pen shortage. After deciding that all of my portfolios from college would go in one of the credenza’s large cabinets, I opened the door and found around 80 forsaken vinyl records leaning against one another. I believe my mouth truly dropped open. This pile of albums ended up doubling the size of my collection, and included some true gems. There was Kate Bush’s Hounds Of Love, Roxy Music’s Manifesto, Prince’s Controversy, Talking Heads’ 77, Joni Mitchell’s Ladies Of The Canyon, Blondie’s Parallel Lines, Lou Reed’s Transformer, and dozens more. It seemed like luck, or at least something like it, and I took it as a good omen – something I also do not believe in.
I hauled the LPs I didn’t love (Donovan, Heart) to the nearest record store and swapped them for a $25 dollar credit, which I used to pad my collection with bizarre French funk punk records, Peel Sessions, and anything I could find by Prefab Sprout. Puzzled by my fortune, I still couldn’t understand why someone would desert a collection that had clearly been accumulated over a few years…but I was more than happy to give it a new home.
Like 2016’s “Keep Your Name,” “Little Bubble” comes from a reimagined versions of Dirty Projectors as a Dave Longstreth solo project. The former featured samples from old Dirty Projectors songs; the latter references their “Hi, Custodian” film. This newest video also features sad scenes of the songwriter alone, in an oasis of grass, a greenhouse, sitting on a cliff. At one point there’s a shot of a dead bird on the ground, but as the camera pulls back, we realize it’s on an iPad. Watch and listen to “Little Bubble” below:
We Need To Talk About Coachella
There have been calls to boycott the incredibly popular music festival, which spans two weekends in the California desert. Here are the details: The festival is thrown by the production company Goldenvoice, which was bought by AEG in 2001. AEG is owned by Philip Anschutz, who has been known to advocate for conservative causes and has been accused by theWashington Post of using his foundation to fund anti-gay groups, and according to the New York Times, has lobbied against climate change and gave donations to groups against gay marriage. This leaves both artists and concert goers in a predicament, as Goldenvoice/AEG not only put on Coachella, but enough concerts in venues across the world to account for over half of global ticket sales in 2016. That’d be a lot of concerts to miss, but are they worth it?
Musician Murals Featured On New Subway Line
The 2nd Avenue subway line has finally been completed, and includes “the largest permanent public art installations in state history.” The station at 85th Street features huge portraits of Philip Glass, Lou Reed, Zhang Huan, Kara Walker, Alex Katz, Cecily Brown, and Cindy Sherman. There are also two self-portraits by the photorealist artist, Chuck Close.
Other Highlights
Jenny Hval makes a statement about nudity with the very NSFW video for “The Great Undressing;” The fictional Gorillaz character Noodle “released” a playlist of “kick-ass women” artists; Sleater-Kinney paid tribute to Bowie and George Michael on NYE; and Terrence Malick made a film about the Austin music scene which could be cool or insufferable.
As the glad hand of summer tightens to a fist, I feel hungover. These three hot months we wait for all year melt us into believing that we can live this way forever; damp and in torn jeans, drinking beer at 2pm and eating hot dogs at 2am. Perhaps summer to others is less slovenly, but it’s hard to be fresh-faced in the New York sun, which radiates off black pavement and carries the scent of freshly baked garbage up your nostrils. Where else in the country does summer = hot garbage? Better yet: hot garbage juice, which I’m sure we have all stepped in, wearing sandals.
This of course, isn’t everyone’s summer in New York. Portions of the Upper East Side and Park Slope seem to be refuse-free. And while many would find the above description noxious, there is one place in New York that seems to spin all that trash into colored candyfloss every summer: Coney Island.
Coney Island was a place I loved long before I walked its busted boardwalk, jutting upwards like misaligned teeth. It was a place I knew from song, as it has been immortalized in many. It seemed to be a perpetual place of interest for Tom Waits, who recorded a salty version of “Coney Island Baby” for 2002’s Blood Money. The beachside town has achieved an honorable mention in Waits’ “Take It With Me” from the 1999 LP Mule Variations, and it seemed the rakish balladeer perhaps knew the place better than anyone else.
Yet the artistic fascination with Coney Island doesn’t start or stop with Waits. The Ramones bopped about it in “Oh, Oh, I Love Her So” from 1977, singing about going “on the coaster and around again” in the grade C theme park. The only coaster they could mean is the treacherous Cyclone, which has provided thrill-seekers with whiplash since 1927. In the same decade Coney was fetishized by the Ramones, films like Annie Hall and The Warriors tipped their hats as well. While its use in the former merely provides a comical backdrop (Woody Allen’s character grew up in a house beneath the Cyclone, hence his neuroses), the latter catapulted the area into cult status. Where Waits had provided a mood, The Warriors affronted with a forceful visual of dueling gangs in leather vests and headbands.
I knew far more about Coney Island than I should have prior to moving to New York. I knew about the Wonder Wheel, and the Freak Show, and Nathan’s Hot Dogs. I knew that it was most likely filled with large women, and men named Frank. But I didn’t fully understand the allure until I first went for myself in 2009. By then I had discovered another “Coney Island Baby,” the classic Lou Reed track off of his 1976 album of the same name.
Something churned within me as I got off the F train that summer…and I realize now that same feeling can be explained by Reed’s lyric:
“Ah, but remember that the city is a funny place/ Something like a circus or a sewer /And just remember, different people have peculiar tastes”
It was right then that I grasped the elusive beauty of Coney Island: it is an absolute shithole. It appeared that all of the collective enthrallment with the neighborhood was very aware of this fact. What’s more, the contradiction between the dirt and depravity of such a hood and it being a place of magical, family entertainment only seemed to increase the morbid fascination.
“The city is a funny place/Something like a circus or a sewer.” This rotated in my head as I walked past a portly, sun-baked woman, the length of her strangled in a fluorescent pink fishnet bodysuit. To my left, children were running through sprays of water generated by large blow-up palm trees punctuating the beach. Seagulls dove through the mist as old men wetted their balding heads, no one discriminating against the offerings of the plastic foliage. A boom box accompanied a saxophonist blowing away to Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” and pieces of garbage floated past my feet, though none of the famed “Coney Island Whitefish” I’d heard so much about, a.k.a, used condoms.
While I can’t say the same of many places, Coney Island is exactly what I’ve always wanted it to be; and it maintains its appeal almost eight years later. When I went the other day it was waiting for me, running up to say hello with a hot dog in one hand and a beer in the other. I accepted and sat on the cement benches at Nathan’s, listening to “Year Of The Cat” by Al Stewart and innumerable Fleetwood Mac tracks. Neither of these made any sense, and I wish I could say something like Reed or Waits was playing, but I was happy to choke down shameful food to something familiar, something un-Carly Rae Jepsen. And that is what this place is all about: shame, pleasure, and familiarity.
Perhaps the kernel of Coney Island’s appeal possesses the same molecules as comfort food, guilty pleasures, and poorly produced music. It isn’t so much about the overt, qualitative aspects of a thing, but the gut reaction it elicits. Did that hot dog feel good in my gut? No. But did it feel good in my gut’s heart? You betcha.
After waddling out of Nathan’s, where I once watched the world famous Fourth of July hot dog eating contest (to the tune of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”) in another bout of poor taste, I made my way to MCU Park to take in my very first Brooklyn Cyclones game. Blaring out of the shoddy sound system were soundtrack versions of Disney songs: “Bippity Boppity Boo” and “A Whole New World” and the like.
Because Coney Island can only get weirder every time I go, the game is themed: it is princess and pirate night at the stadium, and there are hoards of terrifying children literally screaming for ice cream in sparkly pink dresses, tiaras, and pastel eye shadow. Large men with robust Brooklyn accents address their families with jovial shouting, which is later directed at the baseball team, only less jovially. As it turns out, the Cyclones are a pretty terrible team. A man behind me begins heckles the athletes while wearing a Cyclones shirt: “Come ON! My daughter hits betta than you!” he blurts. A princess-disguised hellion stands behind me, prodding my neck with something. I turn and realize it’s a chicken finger.
If it weren’t for Princess Poultry I may have stayed for the last two innings, but my companion and I were growing heavy from the heat and hot dogs. We laughed at the absurdity of such a place, and that a baseball game could be so comically bad. “You know what though?” my friend asked. I completed the thought before he could, “we would have been disappointed if they were really good.”
When I am asked to defend my bad taste, in the same way I must when my dad inquires about my preference for crappy bars as opposed to slick ones, I never have a ready-made reason at hand. But I think that it is the unrefined things that possess the most endurance. It is the rationale that against all of the information I possess about the health detriments of hot dogs, I still adore them. I know that Bob Dylan does not technically have a beautiful singing voice, but I will continue to love it. So when asked why in the hell I love Coney Island so much, I can’t help but counter:
“Ah, but remember that the city is a funny place/ Something like a circus or a sewer /And just remember, different people have peculiar tastes”
When I sat down to write my first entry for Audiofemme, I knew that I wanted to write about Lou Reed. While there are undoubtedly swarms of articles surfacing in memory of the late Lou Reed, I found that journalists mostly took one of two routes; some discussed Reed’s life and his social impact in popular culture, while others discussed his influence on punk, rock and alternative music. Being a lifelong Velvet Underground and Lou Reed fan, I believe that Reed’s actual musical contributions are what should be commemorated in the wake of his recent passing. I will highlight here one of the Velvet Underground’s more underrated songs, “The Murder Mystery”, off of their 1969 self-titled album.
If you have never heard “The Murder Mystery” before, listen to it immediately. It’s one of the Velvet’s quintessential songs, incorporating rhythmic and melodic dissonance, sound feedback and unconventional composition. “The Murder Mystery” consists of four different songs that have been forced together to create one song . Each member of the group sings/recites their own narrative. These narratives are constantly clashing. All four band members (Reed, Maureen Tucker, Sterling Morrison and Doug Yule) speak over each other, either by overlapping the other’s narrative, reciting lines at half the speed of the other, or by completely clashing.
The song is just shy of nine minutes long, and is divided into two parts, with a brief transitional section. The first five minutes follow the same format, consisting of verses with two narratives directly clashing while Tucker and Yule sing a brief chorus of overlapping melodies. At around six minutes into the song the music starts to climax and the rhythms develop dissonance as the music becomes increasingly discordant. This is elevated when the track is suddenly filled with feedback and Yule haphazardly slams on the keys of a organ.
The final section is the most interesting. Amongst all this disorder, a poppy, upbeat chord pattern is introduced on the organ. The discordance fades as the organ increases and the last verse of the previous section is cut short mid-word. This new section is accompanied by new vocal patterns, where two different narratives are recited in unison. The organ accelerates and the lyrics of the song become increasingly macabre.
“…contempt, contempt, and contempt for the seething for writhing and reeling and two-bit
reportage, for sick with the body and sinister holy, the drown burst blue babies now dead
on the seashore, the valorous horseman, who hang from the ceiling, the pig on the
carpet, the dusty pale jissom…”
The music accelerates as clashing chords and notes appear amongst the original pattern. Someone smashes on the organ once again, as a mountain of noise builds briefly only to fade out. The dichotomy between the cheerful melody and the morose lyrics creates a sinister atmosphere that adds to the unsettling feeling that “The Murder Mystery” leaves you with.
The lyrics of the whole song are extremely esoteric and hard to interpret. Most of the song feels like a flow of consciousness, making it impossible to follow. At times it seems like they are ranting about the superficiality of the popular music scene:
“ …with cheap simian melodies, hillbilly outgush, for illiterate ramblings for cheap
understanding the simple the inverse, the compost, the reverse, the obtuse and stupid,
and business, and business, and cheap, stupid lyrics, and simple mass reverse while
the real thing is dying…”
At other times it just seems like the lyrics are so meaningless that they are mocking the listeners: “No nose is good news” . Sometimes they are self-referential, making subtle nods to “Sister Ray” and “Black Angel’s Death Song.”
To say that I completely understand this track would be a lie. It is, however, one of the Velvet’s most innovative and unconventional songs. The Velvet Underground made a creative shift on this album, most likely as a result of John Cale’s departure from the group. Other members of the group began to feature more prominently, and Reed moved away from his power rock guitar chords to a more lo-fi folk sound. Listen to the “The Murder Mystery” first all together, and then listen to it again with only one ear to your headphones, to decipher each narrative.
At Audiofemme, we don’t exactly try to break music news; we’re more about pontificating on the news after it has broken. In honor of that, here’s our first monthly recap! It’s true that we’re a week into March, but this is a look back at some things that happened in February – and without mincing words, exactly what we think about it all. This installment features MIA, Whitney Houston, why the Grammys are irrelevant, and the best show we’ll (possibly) ever see.
AF: Afterflipping the bird during a Superbowl halftime show performance, thename Maya Arulpragasam was on everyone’s lips once again (or anyway,her initial-based moniker, MIA was). But MIA didn’t need to extendher middle finger to get our attention, since she already had it withthe video for “Bad Girls” released just a few days prior. Thesong is from the Vicki Leekx mixtape, self-released at thebeginning of 2011. Not only is the single far better than prettymuch anything from 2010’s mostly excruciating /\/\/\Y/\, butthe video adds a new level of intensity to an already fierce jam.
MIAreunited with director Romain Garvas, who also had a hand thecontroversial video/short film for “Born Free”. Looking back on“Born Free” it’s hard to say if our distaste stemmed from lukewarmfeelings for the track, or if we just thought the video was dumb. AudioFemme has always appreciated the political content in MIA’s work. Itnever feels like a gimmick, mostly because it extends throughevery expression of her being, from her music to her fashion sense toher live shows and album artwork, not to mention her background andthe causes she supports. “Born Free” was sort of an exception tothat. While we suppose that someone should call attention to thehorrors of genocide, must it be done by depicting a bunch of gingerrefugees shuttled to their torture on a crowded deathbus? Are whitekids really so blissfully unaware of racial and cultural profilingthat they need MIA to clobber them over the head with gory imagery offreckled, pale bodies exploding over land mines? Sadly, the answeris yes, but it felt a bit heavy-handed and obvious.
Thevideo for “Bad Girls” is essentially doing the same thing but ina much more successful manner. It takes a very real topic –oppression of women in the Middle East – and turns their liberationinto a orgiastic free-for-all. While it was filmed in Morocco, thedesert scenes and clay buildings remain just ambiguous enough toencompass areas of the world where MIA would have been arrested forsuch openness. Musically speaking, “Born Free” had a much moreaggressive sound than “Bad Girls” and in turn, the video was hardto watch. “Bad Girls” delivers its heat as a club-readyscorcher, and so there is a party-at-the-end-of-the-world sort oflanguage to the video. At first glance the future appears strangelydystopian, aimless. Then those first beats drop, MIA gyrates ontothe scene wearing iridescent lame, and snarls “Live fast/Dieyoung/Bad girls do it well” and the realization hits: we areactually seeing a utopia where Middle Eastern women are allowed todrive stunt cars, dance provocatively and wear whatever the fuckcrazy clothes they feel like wearing.
Allaspects of MIA’s signature in-your-face attitude are in full effecthere – her pouty expressions, provocative gestures, and creativewardrobe. Her bravado is most apparent when she nonchalantly filesher nails atop a stunt car driving on two wheels, but every second isinfused with the palpable excitement of the most explosive actionsequence in any summer blockbuster. At the exact moment MIA asks“Who’s gonna stop me if I’m coming through?” she’s backed bymotorcade of glow-in-the-dark cars and a horde of flamboyantlyshrouded back-up dancers on the march, a procession placing her inthe position of liberator and leader.
Inno time, the video had amassed 25,000 comments so MIA proceeded torespond to those comments in a follow-up video. Unfortunately, thequestions were no more insightful than YouTube comments ever seem tobe. We learned that see-through cars are expensive to ship, thathopefully MIA’s new album will see release during a season wherepeople will be wearing fewer clothes, and MIA promised to go out fordrinks with some lucky Brooklynite next time she’s in New York. Dudebetter watch out, I heard that babe likes truffle fries.
Lindsey: Speakingof living fast and dying (relatively) young, the world lost one ofits most beloved and talented performers on the 11th with the passing of Whitney Houston.
Iwas at work when news of Whitney’s death was tweeted to my roommate,who was at the time sitting at a corner booth enjoying our deliciouspork tostadas and coconut margaritas, and I’ll probably alwaysremember that setting. Just like I’ll always remember being on theJFK AirTrain when some dude with phone in hand announced to theentire car “HEY EVERYBODY, MICHAEL JACKSON JUST DIED!
A strangething happens when incredibly well-known pop singers die. On the onehand, there’s an element of shock, and then there’s the mentalpreparation one must begin in anticipation of hearing that artist’ssongs in every public place for the next three months, the fanscoming out of the woodwork to testify their love and heartbreak, thetackiness of televised funerals. But in those initial moments, myfirst thought was to tune Spotify to “I Wanna Dance With Somebody(Who Loves Me)” and pump up the volume, which is just what I did. In the next few hours we played most of Whitney’s back-catalogue,wondering how such a talented, wholesome lady could be so completelyderailed by a total asshole and his suitcase full of blow.
Aftersuch a time, I began to tire of the schmaltzy sentiment runningthrough most of Whitney’s oeuvre, but I did tear up to “I WillAlways Love You.” My parents listened exclusively to country musicwhile I was growing up, and when The Bodyguard came out I wasin fourth grade and already well familiar with Dolly Parton’soriginal recording. I remember being furious that Whitney had takenall the credit for it – I even had unschooled friends who insistedit was Whitney-penned material. I might have won the bet, but Istill looked like a bumpkin.
Onthe night of her death I found myself at a dance party and when theDJ played “I Wanna Dance” everyone lost their shit. It was acheap move (albeit one I’d pulled just hours earlier) but that’s thecharm of Whitney – even when you know the purpose of the music is to appeal to yoursappy, overemotional core, it still gets to you, and for that reasonalone the imprint she’s left on American culture will endure.
Lindsey: Following news of Whitney’s death, the 54thGrammy Awards aired on CBS. Admittedly, the Grammys do not interest me in the least, for all the reasons you’ve probably heard before…that they represent the lowest common denominator of fandom… thatthey celebrate mediocrity in pop music while ignoring more innovativeworks easily found just beyond the mainstream… that they haplesslycompare apples to oranges in categories that barely apply to theartists nominated… that they are incredibly boring. What I usuallysay instead of all that is “It’s just not my thing” and it isn’t –which doesn’t make me better or worse than anyone else, even if thosepreceding sentences make me sound like an incorrigible snob.
Infact, the Grammys often serve to shame me for just how littleattention I pay to Top Forty recordings. Someone I was talking to ina bar that Sunday made mention of Kanye West’s “All The Lights”and I had to admit I’d never heard it, not even once. Part of it ismy general annoyance with Kanye West’s personality and poorlyric-writing, though I think he’s a stellar producer, but I wasstill a tad embarrassed.
Sowith my tail between my legs, I watched maybe two minutes of NickiMinaj’s “Roman Holiday” performance, but all I could say was“UGH, why is everyone obsessed with this trainwreck? I feel likeI’m having a nightmare except I’m awake. I’m going to go read in myroom.”
Andmy takeaway was this: at least now the Grammys are recognizingelectronic forms of music, even if it is shitty dubstep. And givingawards to chubby girls based on actual talent rather than looks. Andgiving Dave Grohl a platform to become an internet meme, just likehe’s always wanted. And finally, we’ve all been introduced to thegenius of Justin Vernon, whom the Grammys discovered.
AF: On the 13th Tibet House hosted its annual benefit concert at Carnegie Hall, curated by Philip Glass. By far, this concert was the best thing we’ve attended all month, and (given the majority of shows we catch that take place in venues that frequently smell of vomit) probably the most highbrow outing we’ll go on for a long, long time. The original bill listed Glass, video artist and digital pioneer Laurie Anderson, and minimalist prodigy James Blake, with other performers to be announced. In the following days, Lou Reed was added to the bill. Even then, we knew we were in for a once-in-a-lifetime live music experience.To get a sense of how UN-willing we were to miss it, picture this: Annie hobbling around with a freshly broken toe (her big toe, no less) having not slept in over 24 hours (and yes, the two are interrelated), completely wacked out on painkillers. Plus, our seats were located in the second balcony. Still, hell would have indeed had to have been frozen over for us not to attend this spectacle.
We made our way to the mezzanine and settled into our fancy velvet theater chairs just as the lights dimmed. We began to flip through the program wide-eyed with our hearts racing. Page after page of revealed some of our favorite musicians to be unexpected additions to the benefit, including Antony (sans Johnsons), Stephin Merritt, Das Racist, Rahzel, and Patti Smith’s Band.
While such an talented line-up might sound intimidating or pretentious, the evening was anything but, its short sets peppered with a lively sense of humor. While there were a few contemplative moments – the evening began with throat-singing Tibetan monks in radiant yellow robes, and about halfway through the set Tibetan singer Dechen Shak-Dagsay asked the audience to meditate on freedom for Tibet – by and large the night felt like a celebration, and it was never a somber one.
Laurie Anderson set the mood for the evening, performing right after the monks. Over ethereal synths, she recounted a story about a two-week “silent” canoe trip she took down a tributary of the Colorado River, during which she quickly discovered it was not the “meditation retreat” she had signed up for, but rather an opportunity for narcissists to gather and validate one another’s “life stories”. She garnered more than a few laughs over tales of running into a group for incest survivors who turned the now collective campfire into a platform for oversharing, passing a wooden spoon to take turns speaking into “as if it were a microphone”.
She picked up a violin and was joined on stage by Antony, wearing what can best be described as a muumuu. His otherworldly voice echoed against the ornate vaulted ceilings. The amazing acoustics of Carnegie made this feel both intimate and immense at the same time. While the songs had us in tears by the end, shocked that something so beautiful could come out of the mouth of a human, the droll lyrics of Anderson’s “The Dream Before” were delivered with Antony’s trademark whimsy and sass.
Stephin Merritt longed to have an orchestra behind him while singing “This Little Ukelele” and pretended to be surprised by the string quartet that actually occupied that space. They joined him in a soaring rendition of “The Book of Love”. But the most uproarious portion of the evening were Das Racist’s dual appearances. Heems and Kool A.D. had all the earmarks of dressing it up for Carnegie Hall in their dashing suits, but their lively performance of “Michael Jackson” saw them flirting with the aforementioned string quartet, somersaulting at the stage’s edge, and parading around with the American flag that had been innocently fluttering to stage left. Dap wore a traditional Indian dress that somehow made his pelvic thrusting more pronounced and therefore more comical. While the audience was actually comprised of many young folks who likely knew what to expect from the tongue-in-cheek rappers, one has to wonder what older fans of Glass’s minimal works had to say about their outrageous contribution to the evening.
All of the hilarity was anchored by stellar performances from stalwart musicians. Lenny Kaye lead Patti Smith’s band in a tribute to seminal garage rock comp Nuggets. Rahzel, formerly of The Roots, incorporated robotic dancing and beat-boxing skills into his memorable offering. And Glass’s own arrangement of “Pendulum for Violin & Piano” with violin virtuoso Tim Fain was astounding. Even from from the distant balcony in which we sat, you could see his fingers flying, leaving the audience stunned by his show or skill.
Lou Reed finished out the night (we imagine he probably demanded that he get to go last) seeming beleaguered (as always) and taking himself way too seriously (as always), performing a song bemoaning the fact that he’s exceptionally old and looks like it. It wasn’t all that funny. But despite the few awkward moments it was difficult not to feel as though we were truly seeing something special when he was joined onstage by the other performers for closing number “I’m Beginning to See the Light”. Philip Glass had turned 75 a few weeks prior, so the house was invited to sing “Happy Birthday” to the genius who had put it all together, a small token of appreciation for all the beauty and delight we’d just witnessed.
Even with all the tremendous talent present that night, it was James Blake that had us swooning, holding a collective breath for fear that if our muscles so much as twitched the whole thing might possibly vanish into thin air like a mirage. A drummer and guitarist provided sparse backup while the gangly Blake crammed himself behind a keyboard tiny by comparison to his long frame. He played both parts of “Lidnesfarne” before moving into “The Wilhelm Scream” which built to a gorgeous wave of heartbreaking distortion that all but blotted out James’s wistful moaning of the lines “I don’t know about my dreams / I don’t know about my dreaming anymore / All I know is that I’m falling, falling, falling…” In trying to explain his allure we had to settle on his unfathomable level of maturity for such a young musician as well as his outright innovation; almost no one is doing or can do what it is he does, and the sentiment behind it resonates deeply, on an almost subconscious level. To hear him live was absolutely mesmerizing; his playing electrified the space between himself and the audience. He bashfully offers his being and invites the listener to merge with it, and in so doing we were transformed, our hearts heavier but our heads lighter. You can check out a clip Annie recorded below; we apologize for its brevity, but the Tibet House Benefit was simply too amazing to experience on a viewfinder. It was practically too big to wrap our minds around the fact that we were even present for such a wondrous event, laughing one second and crying the next. Here’s to many more years of Philip Glass curating delightful showcases like this one.
Looking forward to March, AudioFemmewill be at SXSW! It’s Annie’s second year in attendance andLindsey’s first, so we like to argue about who is more excited. The next few weeks are going to be a flurry ofRSVPing and making long itinerariesthat we probably won’t stick to. Check our Twitter feed or like us on Facebook as we’ll be updating there when we’re particularlyexcited about some showcase or other. And if you’ll be in Austin, feel free to track us down and say hello!
