the process of wedding out be seeing you jody & andre get married (and ask their friends to write about some songs) wedding reception may 16, 2015, 4 p.m. wang chung to live and die in l.a. jody beth rosen and andre lafosse conrad flynn THANK you for celebrating with us! Jody drew this (never took a lesson). Even in laughter the heart is sorrowful; and the end of that mirth is heaviness. —Proverbs 14:13 "Everybody Have Fun Tonight" —Wang Chung EVERY party has to end sometime, but for those who come to Los Angeles from the normal parts of the world, which is just to say the less insane parts, the abruptness with which the party ends in this town, or reveals itself from the beginning to be a farce, is astonishing. One minute you're on Sunset, singing "Hi-Diddle-Dee" with Katy Perry and Slash, and wondering where you got the top hat that is currently on your head, and the next you're asking for strange favors from mafia men near a North Hollywood laundromat just so you can afford the bus ride to leave town. EVERY party has to end sometime, but for those who come to Los menu Passed Canapés: Mushroom Tart Whipped Ricotta on Toast Chicken Meatballs Angus Beef Sliders On the Side: Charcuterie and Cheese Boards Crudités Cake: Almond Wedding Cake With Toasted Almond Cream Cheese Buttercream Blueberry Walnut Wedding Cake With Sweet Lemon Buttercream Coffee and Tea Service Open Bar events Join us at 5 p.m. for (we hope) a Google Hangout with friends and family across the globe, and at 7:30 for an afterparty in our Palihouse hotel room. Room number to be announced. Now, of course, most people's experience with the highs and lows of L.A. falls somewhere in the middle, and that's probably what Wang Chung is singing about here! With "To Live and Die in L.A." Wang Chung stands next to Evelyn Waugh's "The Loved One" in literature, and George Harrison’s "Blue Jay Way" in “bottom-of-the-catalog Beatles album tracks” in being "British chums who come to our sunny shores, enjoy L.A, think it's great, and then are suddenly alienated by the superficiality, the unwholesomeness, the sense that things aren't quite as they're depicted in the brochures and ‘80s movies. That behind all the glamor (this is Wang Chung: glamour) there is an inner rot being concealed, and that one day the great Earthquake not only will come but should come to this city, come and tear it all down. The British are fascinated by the dynamic L.A. has on offer! The classical British characteristics of understatement and modesty: inverted into showbiz hype and sleaziness. It's the city as The City: the great opportunity and the worst influence. An alternative version of Pilgrim's Progress, where Pilgrim never leaves the City of Destruction. Around 2000, I guess? My company is still in the World Trade Center. Somebody tells me the wallcovering guy died. A few reflections on mortality, and I ooze back into work, unwillingly. Today. I don't remember his name. I don't know anybody who'd remember; some of them have died. Betcha Mottola doesn't even mention him in his biography. Maybe he didn't even sell vinyl wallcoverings. Maybe it was something else. olivia newton-john magic kate izquierdo IF you are familiar with “Magic”—even if glossy roller-disco musicals are not your sweet spot—the song will evoke instant rainbows, and an aura that’s ever-so-slightly seductive. Interviewed for a promotional behind-thescenes documentary, Olivia Newton-John explains that Xanadu is an entertainment picture and adds, “And I think the world could use that now.” The music for this particular brand of fantasy, which she goes on to call "modern nostalgia," is an intentional blending of big-band orchestration with the contemporary keyboard– and guitar-fused rock of the time. Xanadu is typically associated with Electric Light Orchestra: their appropriately modern yet nostalgic neon logo featured prominently in the soundtrack's artwork. It floats majestically, borne aloft by Newton-John the goddess in diaphanous shirt dress and matching leg warmers, courtesy of costume designer Bobbie Mannix. But “Magic” had different origins. Featured on the "ONJ" side of the album, the songwriting and production for “Magic” are credited to John Farrar, Newton-John's longtime collaborator. Farrar, importantly, was someone who understood NewtonJohn extremely well—he’d been writing for her for decades. “Magic” works because it was created for its singer, tailored to a voice initially made famous in folkier settings for its power and warmth. On “Magic,” her innate understanding of pacing allows the song to build into a sultry paean, placing a gentle twang on her enunciation at the right moments, a perfect match for the keyboard-slick country ballad. All of this mood-building wraps around lyrics born of a single fantastic premise: each life, no matter how mundane, has moments when we truly experience joy, when all the drudgery, missed appointments, and broken strings make sense. In moments of love, there is that chance to roll right into the orange sherbet sunset of your choosing. 1970s. Paper Lace and Stavisky and Paper Moon and Bugsy Malone and The Great Gatsby and The Sting. Even Star Wars in bits. rush subdivisions ned raggett I ALWAYS enjoyed “Subdivisions”—hey, it rocks. And I loved it more from the version I actually had, the live one on A Show of Hands, the first Rush album I actually owned. (One starts somewhere, after all.) I remember a couple of people with Signals tour shirts in middle school in upstate New York, and in retrospect that made total sense, “Subdivisions” being a song about isolation in some sense from the main scene, wherever it was. High school halls, shopping malls—we had ‘em but they were smaller than others. So I didn’t really understand “Subdivisions” totally until I finally flew into Rush’s hometown of Toronto, straight to Toronto Pearson International Airport, code YYZ itself (“YY Zed”), on a day hop from New York City a few years ago as part of a larger trip. From the plane, I saw downtown on the water, where it all started, and then this… sprawl. A polite Canadian sprawl, if you like, but it seemed like this flowing grid that just kept going, going, going, fading into haze in the distance on that summer’s day. It was weirdly disorienting; it wasn’t like Los Angeles was any different, but then again, L.A. was bounded by hills and ridges, broken up, where this wasn’t. The idea of a suburbia as a subdivision, something all too cleanly organized, sure it all feeds into the restless dreams of youth, and some end up reading Ayn Rand, but others actually are Rob and Doug Ford. But when you actually see the damn thing like the flat Ontarian version of the Cyclopean city behind the mountains of madness, minus the ice, you trip out at least a little. Of course, then I probably just went back to making “eh?” jokes. vengaboys we like to party scott boxedjoy THERE'S a chiming horn at the start of “We Like to Party” that could just as easily be a cry of "All aboard!" (as easily as it could be —cont.— Around 1977. Even as a child I recognize it: alongside the Mickey Mouse I know and love there's this old-looking Mickey Mouse in some Disney products who’s weird and loose and rubbery, a triangular notch in his pupil. 1982. I build a paper Chrysler Building and realize there's a name to that Mickey Mouse aesthetic: Art Deco. That year is also the last gasp of the craze, right? Taco's "Putting on the Ritz," right? 1980s. Most people with real, adult memories of the time start dying off and the culture moves on. A day ago. @LeavittAlone, in three tweets: "One of my evergreen seasons is how different time periods interpret the recent past, like there was a big and long enough 1900s revival in … the ‘30s that it's hard to parse out what was contemporary and what was throwback, which actually ended up ... bleeding into the ‘70s interpretation of the ‘30s, ‘cause it really emphasized the stuff the ‘30s loved about the 1890s.” Around 2004. Matos and I figure the '30s would've been especially attractive in an age of permanent recession. A recognition that bad times could be laughed at BECAUSE WELL IT'S BETTER THAN KILLING YOURSELF I GUESS, and good times can't exist without bad times permanently haunting the horizon. 1976. "Maybe he'll find her. Maybe he won't." 1994 again. This guy came from New York, maybe the Bronx. He had an accent. I think there’s a circumspectness there: pride at what he had been, an elision to how he went from that to selling vinyl wallcovering. I mean he doesn’t tell me, and I don’t ask. It seems rude. Late 2000s. There is—surprise!—videos of the band! On YouTube! RCA actually put money into this thing! A little bit, anyway! These kids, these kids from the Bronx, with their bowlegged moves and their music lessons, these kids seem so young, they still have dreams, which is ridiculous. They take the past because it is rightfully theirs, they earned it; they finally take my heart because it is rightfully theirs, they earned it. Oh, oh, oh. —cont.— dr. buzzard’s original savannah band whispering / cherchez la femme / se si bon michael daddino PROBABLY 1994. A phone call. How did we start talking about music? Maybe I put some Chopin on my voicemail message—please, go ahead, judge me. Later, my boss tells me to take it off. She thinks the furniture vendors wouldn't find it "professional." I still have to wear a tie every day. "I used to be in the music business, you know," the guy on the other end says. "You know Dr. Buzzard?" 1990 or 1992. An armory in Annapolis on a college weekend. Aisles of vinyl and I think I pick through most boxes, methodically. I have nothing in mind. I want to be surprised. The album has a green dot sticker indicating it’s cheap. I have a budget of $100. Sure, why not? Maybe it'll have more impact than the single alone. It sort of does: Doug E. Fresh sampled "Sunshower"! 1985. I see Robert Christgau gives it an A, with reservations. Funny name. Never heard of 'em. 1988. There's a 12" in Tower Records. I buy it thinking I may never get closer to the album than this. It sounds exactly like I think it would. It doesn't blow me away. 1994 again. Oh yes. "Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band." I give him the full name. As further proof, I sing the opening line: "Tommy Mottola lives on the road." He chuckles in recognition. Mottola just married Mariah Carey. Around 2004. In one of our phone calls, Michaelangelo Matos identifies the stubborn '20s-'30s nostalgia of the '70s and I totally get what he's talking about, immediately. —cont.— "Get out the way!"). Because that's how the Vengabus tours: a bludgeoning steamroller of tinny trance synths and ESL funtimes lyrics that's as allinclusive as the Club 18–30 holidays it was designed to soundtrack. With a bassline built on perpetual motion and the deadpan, vocodered cries of the title, the Vengabus doesn't waste a second on its journey through hedonism. It might not be sophisticated or nuanced but there's a kitsch playfulness that no amount of grace could substitute. "Happiness is just around the corner," it promises, but the secret isn't the destination, it's the getting there, and on this the Vengaboys offer a ticket that's irrefutable. buck owens who's gonna mow your grass kaleb horton FORTY-SIX years after this song went to number one on the country charts, I was sitting with my grandpa in East Bakersfield, where everything you touch is half dirt. I was hoping to get a testimonial on the damn thing: you know, an expert opinion, a primary source. He was twenty-nine when it came out. He knows it like the back of his hand. His opinion is worth more than mine. It was noon. I was talking and he was smoking. Not Camels anymore. The king-size generics from the Indian reservation in Porterville. "Well, grandpa, what about that Buck song? It was number one, right?" Long pause. "Number one for a while." No answer. His mind was drifting. He was still mad that Bob Dylan recently called Buck Owens a better songwriter than Merle Haggard, an opinion known as mathematically impossible to hold when you're on my grandpa's property. He put their greatest hits LPs on the kitchen table and said "look at that—just look," and the discussion was over. So here's my opinion, which is worth one one-hundredth of his. "Who's Gonna Mow Your Grass" came out in January 1969. It's about a putout fella telling his gal all about the things he does for her. It's a Buck song alright. I can imagine bumming around town in a truck without seatbelts during Bakersfield's notorious 115-degree winters and getting in a good ol' mood with that song at moderate volume. For exactly one minute and twenty seven seconds. Then the fuzztone happens. Damn. skinny puppy censor art garfunkel 99 miles from l.a. dan perry mrs. jody beth lafosse SWELLING synth washes buffet the ears and the shoulder blades grow tense. Ambient samples fill in the spaces left in the arrangement. A coarse growl/howl delivers a feverish stream of consciousness while intermittent guitar lines punctuate with isolated points of melodic resolution. BEFORE Jay Z or Nena or Toto got there but after the bottles of beer on the wall, Albert Hammond knew 99 was a great pop number. He knew a lot about crafting hits, despite his chief success as an artist being a song about abject failure—“It Never Rains in Southern California.” Indeed, one feels less pity for that “man, it pours” broken hopeful when one learns Hammond co-wrote “The Air That I Breathe,” “When I Need You,” and “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now.” But in 1975, he reapproached the well of despair with “99 Miles from L.A.,” a Hal David co-write that reached number one on Billboard’s AC singles chart. Johnny Mathis covered it the same year, but the most affecting version from 1975 was Art Garfunkel’s. Any portion of Skinny Puppy's "Censor" could be sequestered and discussed but what ties the song together is the percussion. The drums are battering rams: crisp, scalpel-delineated snare hits surrounded by the pummel of toms floating over a kick drum’s thunder. The bassline is a beast, every staccato note a plucked fury. Unsettling and forceful, the angry energy relays the lyrics’ menace and distaste without us ever having to understand a word. When words do pierce the fog, they confirm the unease. "Censor" isn't interested in a straightforward narrative or message; instead, a litany of disturbance suggests a ranting street preacher, incoherently and trying desperately to communicate the end of the world to passers-by who may share his language but not his syntax or vision. Hints of clarity jump out: "Livid gnaws fasting on tick and flea in vain / Again" may be inscrutable on its face but the sentiment behind "You clown / You asshole" isn't. Still, everything links back to the thuds, thumps, and bangs at the heart of “Censor.” The confluence of syncopation and vitriol buttresses the idea that percussion is a language; here, Skinny Puppy have mastered it thoroughly. Garfunkel was perpetually overshadowed by Paul Simon as a bandmate, a solo act, and as of Simon’s first SNL appearance two weeks after the October 1 release of Garfunkel’s Breakaway album, an onscreen personality. (Garfunkel joined Simon that night in Studio 8H, but it was Simon who would emerge over the decades as Lorne Michaels’s darling.) The biggest U.S. hit on Breakaway was the sole cut that survived the duo’s sessions from their aborted reunion. The Breakaway cover art, with our hero peering past the flurry of aloof Hollywood iniquity with a mug that puppies save for adoption fairs, shows what a lonely place a crowd can be. From its title, “99 Miles From L.A.” evokes getaways: the survivalist alien arthropods on the desert road to Vegas, the seafood-chowder fog along the Ventura coast. But the tug is downward, not outward. The chords fall steeply, like thrill rides where machinery outpaces gravity. The name isn’t all red herring. The “99” stops short of a tidy round number, suspended unfulfilled. The narrator wants to distance himself from “L.A.,” the dismissive diminutive that cuts a complex region to shreds in two haughty syllables. He’s laughing in his new accommodations; he’s loving. He doesn’t sound happy in the slightest. What would the hundredth mile bring? Even in the steady chorus, Garfunkel is ill at ease; the shoe may drop and the terror may overwhelm. As Hammond compositions go, this is not one for the Mannequin soundtrack or the Seoul Olympics. It’s almost admirable that the guy who helped make Starship so generic dug up a Palm Springs swimming pool of latent ache in the soul of Art Garfunkel. ani difranco born a lion adam and the ants cartrouble tim finney mark sinker “BORN A LION” charges (roars?) out the gate with a percussive flamenco strum at once frenetic and iridescent, as if the drug-hazed lassitude of the Meat Puppets’ Up On The Sun was melted and recast into urgent clarity; no drumming, but a hand taps against the soundboard with a boom like distant thunder. “I’m not hurting anyone!’ Ani immediately offers in her own defence, but this opening gambit comes off more like a boast, or maybe a threat; either way, she sounds way too pleased to be on the defensive. TOPPING and tailing a moment, "Cartrouble Parts 1 and 2” opens Dirk Wears White Sox, the orphan alb of post-punk never quite canonised alongside Cut or Metal Box or Unknown Pleasures. Not named as such, “Part 2” was also the single after the LP, the final statement before Adam’s shift towards dandy panto-strut and global breakthrough: indeed you can already hear this future Adam, trademark falsetto voice-wriggles and Londonoid interjectional frame-breaking, agile as ever among the moments of anxious reflective repose. Puddle Dive, her fourth album, is the artist’s most exuberant and, oddly, introspective, a consistently wry celebration of both her ugly duckling status and her restless need to keep moving; “Born a Lion” is the apotheosis of both themes. Ani the lion can’t be pinned down, sociologically or geographically, and the disapproval of others (“What’s the big deal? / Get over it! / Relax!”), or the intense but fleeting relationships formed on the road (“Everything I do / I do for the first time / I got a big crush on you / And it’s crushing my mind”), aren’t just the wages of sin but badges of honour. More than the thrill of there being “lots of stuff to say,” the attraction of Ani’s world is that these choices never feel like choices, just the logical consequences and parameters of the world through which she skitters for an enthralling 109 seconds: rhymes so perfect but unlabored that they become simply the language in which she thinks to herself; musical accelerations and decelerations like limbs stretching out and retracting in a joyful canter. “Don’t bother trying to act tame”, she advises, but here at least she never sounds like she’s trying anything. (parts 1 & 2) Actually “fragment” would serve better than “part,” the two sections yoked together without transition or explanation, the mood sour, clotted, busily over-concise—ambitiously odd in address, with hard-to-parse topics splayed into slippily ambiguous stance, a marriage of parts radiating horrid uncertainty, each cycling through the other, undermining and queasily stranding the listener. Skip to Part 2: jangly production and straighter delivery making appeal to shared experience: “Have you ever had a ride in a light blue car?” The car in pop is badge of hip status, means of escape to thrills and seductionenabler. Still-punky Adam side-eyes all of this. Existing technologies of diversion and leisure-age domesticity are traps; pleasure is the fetishistic locus of perversity. He’s no puritan—it really is pleasure—but he doesn’t let you forget its victims. Part 1 provides the memory-bed for all that follows. A patter of drums and a wiry curlicue of a riff: dry, clipped, harmonically static, the selfdeclaration of someone misshapen and conventionally unfortunate, if strikingly turned out. Maybe you feel pity and want to help. If so, the song instantly calls you out as a hypocrite, your fellow feeling a smug flaunting of self-importance. How is it you see victims again? “Have you ever stopped to think who's the slave and who's the master?” broadcast michael a grammar broadcast michael a grammar (slight return) michael daddino mrs. jody beth lafosse BROADCAST are a counterfactual band: they imagine a Swinging London awash with synthesizers or, alternately but perhaps relatedly, more dread than pop music could've tolerated at the time. A YouTube somebody set this song to clips from Halloween, and while this is one of the band's brighter tunes, it's not even entirely a joke. "My feet are dancing so much," Trish Keenan avers as Michael Myers hooks a victim to a door, feet dangling inches above the floor. "And I hate that." MUSICIANS have ragged on their own insider-outsider culture since Talking Heads deemed Mudd Club and CBGB less immediate than whatever crisis they wrote “Life During Wartime” about, since The Television Personalities’ “Part Time Punks,” since Bob McFadden & Dor’s bongoskewering “The Beat Generation,” since Harry Gibson’s ambivalent boogiewoogie treatises on jive-talking white jazzers (on “Handsome Harry, the Hipster,” he implicates himself). Examples must abound in vaudeville, blues, and early popular song as well. Even at their most Captain Easychord, Broadcast refuse to give you simple pleasure. Pleasure, sure, and a lot of it, but it's never simple. “Michael a Grammar” has an exhortation to "let go" but premises it upon ludicrously unnecessary rhetorical convolutions: not "You wanna let go? Then let go" but "If you're feeling like you're looking for a chance to let go, and if you're feeling like you're looking for that chance, then let go." And as the hook, the main hook, is my name—the receipt of the purchase other people have on my life—it feels less like a hook than a poke at the most reactive part of my brain. "Michael. Michael, Michael." That's my Mom's voice calling up from the stairs to my room, the admonishment of a school teacher, my boss at work, do this not that. And I hate that. Well, not here. A song with nagging doesn't necessarily nag at me, not exactly, just as a song about pain doesn't necessarily cause me pain, or a happy song make me feel happy. But it keeps me on edge. Broadcast’s 2005 “Michael a Grammar” came one year after X1’s “New York is So Cool,” three years after LCD Soundsystem’s “Losing My Edge,” and five years after The Dandy Warhols’ “Bohemian Like You,” situating it in a kind of micro-trend as the smallness of internet worlds made many of the “alternative” kids (thanks, ‘90s) realize they weren’t especially special. When Trish Keenan entreats the titular Michael to “let go,” yes, there’s a bit of dance-music abandon packed into the meaning (with the playful beat as arm candy), but it’s also a purposeful rejection of the anxiety of the ultramodern. Letting go means letting yourself go: not watching the cholesterol as much, dressing for comfort rather than high style, a resignation to dull grind instead of assaultive novelty. Keenan frames this resignation as freeing, though. In their career, Broadcast used the recent past as a palette of art materials. But artists fear surrender to their media; it’s a rabbit hole they either scramble to avoid or are lured into with attractive carrots despite their cooler-headed intentions. It’s within this context that Keenan lures herself, and Michael, to the Brutalist postwar tower blocks of that recent past, away from the sawtooth wave of being a young person in a deep-rooted city, toward the endless static of the vaguely ahistorical but dated new town. “The old high-rise is coming down”; how’s that for the day’s excitement? Well, it’s not the chicly tedious party of “Come on Let’s Go” but it does promise a certain thrill (from a distance); public-policy failures make for gripping research. And it will remain research for these characters, because it’s too hard to stop dancing. What’s the point in wasting time on people that you’ll never know?
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