‘Girlfriend’ by Pebbles
12” found at that one off-the-hook antique store on Saint Laurent above Mont-Royal, run by the one dude, with the handmade dolls and Roman pins and gay porn card decks and Nazi war memorabilia — in a crate with Exposé’s “Tell Me Why” and Miami Sound Machine’s “Conga / Bad Boy” and a whole lotta Mantovani, for $3. I was in there looking for the doohickey you use to adapt a 45-RPM 7” to a 33 1/3” player, because that’s the only store in Montreal you can be sure would carry a thing like that. Dude sold me the doohickey for another $3 and threw in the 7” of Europe’s “Love Chaser” for free.
‘Girlfriend’ by Pebbles
THE JOHNNY PAINTINGS: Robert Longo
1994, Genereux Grunwald Gallery Toronto, Canada
A series of paintings and charcoals studies rendered by artist Robert Longo the director of the film adaptation of William Gibson’s short story “Johnny Mnemonic”.Longo who, though an extremely talented painter, musician and artist unfortunately took most of the rap for Sony’s bad re-cut of the film. His original vision never came to full fruition.
In twitter conversation with William Gibson he shared with me:
"Longo’s original plan was for a $1 million b&w film. That’s one I’d love to have seen."
I’m sure it’s the one we all would’ve liked to have seen. In the meantime enjoy Robert Longo’s art. Some of it rides the waves here on Tumblr and some of it you should see for yourself at his website. http://www.robertlongo.com.
Robert Longo’s most recent collection Phantom Vessels is on view at Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac Mirabellplatz 2, 5020 Salzburg, Austria TUES-SAT by appointment. [http://ropac.net/contact/salzburg-villa-kast]
Just rewatched Johnny Mnemonic for the first time since its initial theatrical release in 1995. Friendly reminder that this movie features Dolph Lundgren, Takeshi Kitano, Ice-T, HENRY ROLLINS, and Keanu Reeves before he learnt to act (comparatively speaking). if you haven’t experienced pre-Matrix Keanu acting for a while, hoooo boy.* There are many screencap sets on Tumblr and undoubtedly as many audio samples worked into DJ mix tapes, the look/feel/sound being fully off the hook and charmingly wrong**. The societal dynamics, stripped of visual frou-frou, are… accurate.
William Gibson scripted this as a mishmash of the original story and his later books (I’d forgotten the dolphin was retained!). 20 years later, Champlain Bridge is on the verge of turning into the liminal postmodern junkheap it plays here. :(
* You get these later iterations of the character as if various ppl were curious how it would work out with a better actor, eg. Arthur in Inception.
** It *is* the second decade of the 21st century, and the Sprawl is ruled by meticulous recreations of Victorian facial hair.
G-SIDE - ATHENA
No, no, not a comeback.
Anthony Easton: A smidgen too polite and the vocals too little quiet, and the percussion could be less settled, but it’s genuinely beautiful.
Alfred Soto: They return after the briefest of hiatuses, its loping beat dedicated to a local goddess with a bubble butt and a weed habit as chronic as the boys’. Amiable and unmemorable.
Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: Few rap lyrics haunted me like ST 2 Lettaz on his group G-Side’s “Getting’ It”: “I’ve been having nightmares of being broke at thirty.” A lot of the Alabama duo’s material is about hometown pride, finding a business niche and making something of yourself. The pressure to make a living is always there in their music and even though the stresses of doing so take their toll on interpersonal relationships (ST and Yung Clova split in 2012 before reuniting last year), there’s an awed devotion to mastering your craft. “Athena” is a musical hard turn from much of the group’s material, offering a future-haze of Dilla loops over their anything-goes tradition. It’s as close as G-Side gets to conservatism, but it’s still weird enough to sound like the right fit for the duo. And even in the glow of skirtchasing and in a relaxed b-boy stance, they keep their ambition (“a picture so vividly painted like we at Coachella”) and perfectionist streaks (“focus on what is, never live in the present”) for all to see. Keep your eyes on the prize, always.
Patrick St. Michel: This sounds way too slight as a comeback number…and, as I discovered while listening to it, this is actually their second song since getting back together. The return track is great, this is just sorta…OK? Would probably be a nice break on an album.
Sabina Tang: I heard this first on the Q train, going over Manhattan Bridge: enclosed warmth on a cold but bright winter afternoon, the bubble of one’s private Coachella for two, or a starship rounding the rings of Saturn for that matter. A hazy, smile-conducive valentine.
Jer Fairall: “Guys like me don’t get girls like you” is groan-worthy, but “girls like them don’t change worlds like you” immediately redeems it, trading self-pity for wonderment. So why does it still sound like they’re trying too hard to impress (her? us?) with references to the Beatles and Coachella?
Brad Shoup: The runtime whispers “mixtape,” but a mixtape dipped in bronze and burnished. This is lush: Tribe vibes with a surprisingly well-deployed tambourine. Plus a sex/weed scenario that ends on a non-rhyme but sounds plausible nonetheless. I wonder how the Doppelgangaz are going to respond.
Jonathan Bradley: “I’m on my Tribe Called Quest shit,” begins Clova, but I’m not sure how badly I need G-Side circa 2013 to be Alabama Native Tongues. An airy beat is tied down by two rappers too concerned with the here and now to ever be breezy, and the funk bass popping up through the hook is decidedly agreeable. I’ll nod to their home state and use a Crimson Tide metaphor: I thought homecoming would be more exciting.
It’s February and I finally wrote something for the Jukebox! (Also, the Tim McGraw single that would make for an awesome Silence of the Lambs fanvid.)
While emailing Cis yesterday I realized what the issue was: avoidance due to decision fatigue. It’s not that I stopped caring about pop music because I’m in my 30s or whatever, it’s that I make so many calls and trade-offs at work now I basically no longer have non-essential opinions on things anymore — like when you do too many reps at the gym and that particular set of muscles just gives up. Which, I don’t know, maybe it can be framed as a strength-building exercise and I’ll come roaring back after a while. Or maybe work will die down (ha).
Anyway, if you want to hear about how Hannibal-the-novel bears an interesting similarity to The Honourable Schoolboy I could probably do that.
1) I slightly sympathize because I can also act passive-aggressively uninterested in learning how to work stuff that I know deep down isn’t hard to work, and it’s usually gendered stuff too… but yeah.
2) Stereotypical lady/kiddie fabrics are harder to wash than stereotypical dude fabrics and require more knowledge and options. :( If you really only wear jeans and t-shirts (either sex) don’t let me tell you how many buttons you need on your washer or how much money you want to pay for Helvetica.
3) My washer has a preset knob with about ten options that say things like “cotton”, “jeans”, and “wool”. There is also a power button and a start cycle button. Without being like “Bosch #1 fan rah rah” or anything, I am confident that any given dude off the street is able to handle this interface. (I will go and fiddle with the spin and temperature settings and such but there is no absolute reason you have to.)
4) I have thought that where washer UX falls down is in not reprising the same symbols as you have on laundry tags on actual clothes (one suspects the Washing Machines For Men dude doesn’t know those exist).
Luke and I were looking at Hieronymus Bosch’s painting The Garden of Earthly Delights and discovered, much to our amusement, music written upon the posterior of one of the many tortured denizens of the rightmost panel of the painting which is intended to represent Hell. I decided to transcribe it into modern notation, assuming the second line of the staff is C, as is common for chants of this era.
so yes this is LITERALLY the 600-years-old butt song from hell