Lil Wayne is voice of generation, represents humanity
By DAVID LOW | Apr. 8, 2009Lil Wayne is the voice of our generation.
Lil Wayne is the voice of our generation.
Brody Jenner stared at me from the other side of my TV, spray-tanned and wide-eyed. "What's a bromance?" he asked, incredulously. As if I should innately grasp the homosocial premise for his new series. Uh, you tell me - dude.
Right now, high school seniors all over the country are hearing back from colleges and preparing to take that next big step into college. For nostalgia's sake, let's recall what was running through our minds as we read our own college acceptance letters:
Grab your tie-dye, your peace signs and your anti-war slogans - it's time to let your hair down and let the sun shine.
"Who's Tebow?" asked Michael Murray, lead guitarist of the band The Banner Year.
A flurry of colors and designs ranging from cartoon floral prints to men on fishing boats adorn the kimonos now on display at the Harn Museum. One "little boy kimono" is embellished with images of battle ships and airplanes flying over water, which signifies the mark of World War II. Many of the women's kimonos display vibrant colors and geometric shapes. These were to mimic the idea of "art deco," influenced from Western culture. Fashioning Kimono, the exhibit flaunting numerous types of kimonos, dates from the late 19th century to early 20th century.
I must confess, I have never read "Watchmen." So I can't speak of the movie's faithfulness to "the most celebrated graphic novel of all time." But I can tell you that one of the most anticipated movies of this year delivered on its big blockbuster promise.
And ignorance claims another victim - Matthew Meltzer.
When you throw a festival of some sort, typically it is supposed to be in a location that has something to do with what the festival is about.
Noisy, surging guitars; octopus-arm polyrhythms; Bono hollering on like a hopped-up Pentecostal preacher; spectacularly transparent declarations of purpose whooped in flailing whoa-oh frenzy. These are the first sounds of "No Line On the Horizon," U2's new album, and they combine to say what, with this band, goes without saying: This is a statement.
Oh, glorious day. Spring break is finally here.
What do you get when you mix Fugazi with The Beach Boys?
Emil Svanängen is moving on up, literally. Having recorded his first album on a laptop microphone and CD-Rs in his mother's cellar, the Swedish popsmith now makes a big enough name for himself to afford real studio equipment, a high-end computer, and presumably, his own home. In keeping with the little-guy theme, "Dear John" comes off like techno-fied Belle and Sebastian - Svanängen sings in breathless, hushed tones, as if trying to carry on a conversation in a library after running a marathon. Most of these songs flirt with electronic chamber pop, veering at alternate forks into "Phantom of the Opera"-esque theatrics ("Harm") and somber, Postal Service dance tunes ("Summers," which would fit snuggly on "Give Up"). If there's a turnoff, it's that a lot of these tracks are too prettily twee for their own good, like a good-looking guy who never makes the first move. And winds up living in his parents' basement.
Oh yeah, baby. Harder! Yes, yes, yes!
Random blurs of colors and images. There is static. The screen goes blank. The audience is confused.
Aside from an obvious flair for album titling (makes you want to shout, "'Ray Guns' are now, bitch!" doesn't it?), vocalist Inara George and soundboard extraordinaire Greg Kurstin also have a way with swinging '60s pop music set to fantastically modernized, yet still retro, production. Does this make sense? If not, think of "Ray Guns" as the aural equivalent to Disney's Tomorrowland - both create a future that will never exist by looking to tail-finned Cadillacs and moon landings as points of reference. This record awaits the mythical Year 2000, and in so doing, delivers groovy neo-psychedelia ("Ray Gun"), doo-wop era Motown complete with seductress spoken word bits ("Baby"), and breathy cocktail lounge balladeering ("Meteor"), all in a sleek electronic shell. "Diamond Dave," George's irresistible tribute to the great David Lee Roth, is not only the most catchy song here, but the only appropriate evidence by which to date this offering. It's Van Halen hero worship dressed in spacey beats and a plat-blond 'do, and as such, cooler than Judy Jetson in a discotheque.
If the election of President Barack Obama was a big can't-we-all-just-get-along inquiry to the good people of America, then "Gutter Tactics" is a scathing, unqualified "Hell no!" Or "not yet," anyway. Atop corrosive grooves tangled in haywire electronic beats, this Garden State duo spits tales of torture, war, civil rights abuses and the like, exposing every closeted sin, protesting all the wrongs that still need be righted. "Armed with Krylon" and "Who Medgar Evers Was" make up a suite of continuously devolving ambient rap that taps a well of run-for-your-life paranoia. The latter track works off a big, beefy drumbeat, spiraling feedback and lyrics about assassination. Indeed, this is dark stuff that takes nerve to slog through, and that's speaking nothing of the introductory monologue - a caustic, hell, fire and brimstone throwdown from the Rev. Wright himself. Or as Dalek likes to call it, "feel-good music."
A.C. Newman is a silent killer. Left to his own devices, the New Pornographers' evil genius retreats from hook-a-second power pop to fiddle around with a less potent arsenal - off-kilter rhythms, tuneless guitar riffs, minor-key progressions. They're all here in one form or another, though working only as masking agents, attempting in vain to veil Newman's intoxicating melodies. Preferring slow burn to out-and-out explosion, "There Are Maybe Ten or Twelve" and "Prophets" qualify as growers by Newman standards, but in time each reveals itself as seductively charming as "Mass Romantic" or "Mutiny, I Promise You." "Changeling," on the other hand, is a throwback in this regard. Thriving on a big, obvious, harmony-laced chorus, it's further proof that Newman strikes two ways - in his own words, "Like A Hitman, Like A Dancer."
Most weddings have those inevitable tense moments: the drunken toast from a distant relative, the mother-in-law's last ditch effort to abort the wedding, the clash of personalities that arise when families come together for the first time.
The musical death and rebirth of a rock band rarely happens in the span of one night. But for Averkiou, such an unusual life cycle is the norm for the three-year-old Gainesville band. Convinced that they were playing their farewell show at Pop Mayhem in May last year after the brief departure of their guitarist, Averkiou played an appropriately rollicking final set.