The smokers' voice synthesizer is my Rosetta Stone for unpacking the aesthetics of Auto-tune. The android voice is the sound of a broken human. Cyborg augmentation signifies weakness, not strength—the Droid 2 commercials are lies. The mechanized human is that whose living body is no longer self-sustaining. Remember "Fitter Happier." Auto-tune signifies the human being unable to break free from the inhuman rectilinearity of quantization. Digitization is mutilation. Auto-tune is the muffled voice of a circle stuffed into a square. It is the cry of the organism that is too damaged to express its pain.
Remember Darth Vader. The significance of the mask is only revealed at the very end, when we discover the secret: the whole time, behind the mask, he had kind eyes. The prequels weren't that bad (except for Attack of the Clones, which was) but as far as I'm concerned they don't count. Ewan McGregor was more than good enough as the young Obi-Wan, but the role of Anakin was fatally miscast: Hayden Christensen just looks like a douche. You can tell from the very beginning that he will go down the dark path, and you don't care. His fall to the dark side has no tragic resonance. And a friend once told me that Star Wars was originally titled The Tragedy of Darth Vader.
Darth Vader is no simple villain. People forget that he never comes off as that evil. Sure, he is ruthless and brutal, but unlike the Emperor he shows no signs of sadism. Even Grand Moff Tarkin takes visible pleasure in the prospect of wiping out the Rebellion. But Darth Vader never laughs. On some level, he must have known that the Rebels were going to win the Battle of Yavin 4. That was why he joined the battle in his fighter: he was escaping. Tarkin, a bureaucrat and politician who has probably never flown a starship in his life, scoffed at the notion of evacuating in his hour of triumph seconds before being vaporized along with the rest of the Death Star. Darth Vader does not have a villain's mad hubris. He is not a villain; he is a tragic hero whom we only meet once he has already fallen.
I ought to rephrase what I just said about Auto-Tune. It implies that I have a problem with Auto-Tune—nothing could be further from the truth. I love Auto-Tune, because it represents for me the redemption of quanization. The circle, although stuffed into a square, may represent its pain via various regular polygons. The human creature is made inhuman, denied even the ability to express its pain, but even as it is denied humanity it is nonetheless granted the transhuman right to music. It is no longer human; it is nothing but pain; but this pain may sing the song of itself in the world of regularity which is the only world available to it now that it has been robbed of its aliveness
MY FAVORITE AUTO-TUNE SONGS:
I will explain why I like them so much sometime later.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Arcade Fire: "Rococo"
My spontaneous theory on Arcade Fire's anti-hipster anthem "Rococo": I wasn't an art history major, but I seem to have an intuitive grasp of what "rococo" means. I know it was a movement in Western art that followed Baroque. Here is the difference, as I provisionally understand it, between Baroque and Rococo: Both are intricate, but Baroque intricacy is structural while Rococo intricacy is merely ornamental. In music, the highest incarnation of the Baroque is Johann Sebastian Bach, particularly his canons and fugues. The complexity of a Bach fugue is so staggering because it emerges organically from the iteration of simple musical premises and stringent laws of thematic development. Aside from the theme itself, very little in the fugue could have been otherwise. It has a fractal orderliness extending to its very core. A complex fugue may be marveled at, but its complexity beckons comprehension. It awaits the mind subtle enough to master it.
Rococo, in contrast, strives only to marvel those naïve enough to fall under its spell. Its melodies are not iterated rationally--they are merely garnished with ornamental curlicues designed to make them sound complex. Under its sheen of complexity, rococo is simple and trite. Rococo is meant to sound sophisticated in order to appeal to people who are trying to appear sophisticated.
Thus also with the modern kids, using great big words they don't understand. The fictionalized version of Lester Bangs portrayed by Philip Seymour Hoffman in Almost Famous says that "the only true currency in this world is what you share with someone else when you're uncool." But that currency loses its value—or, to paraphrase Jesus of Nazareth, this salt of the earth loses its taste—when what was once uncool suddenly slingshots right straight into the heart of cooldom.
The Arcade Fire are not cool. For God's sake, just look at them: they're a bunch of dorks! From Canada! They're also probably the best band on the planet right now. Most really good music, especially nowadays, is made by people who are uncool. To make really good music, you have to spend a lot of time working on making music and not a lot of time out partying with the in-crowd or making friends. People who would choose to spend most of their time making music instead of socializing tend to be awkward and asocial by nature, which is to say uncool.
The same is true of sophistication in general: it is uncool. Sophistication means, in this context, unironic enthusiasm for things that take effort to understand. It's like the kid in third grade who sat on the swing reading The Giver during recess instead of playing four-square. Or at the very least it's like that group of four or five kids who broke out their Magic cards whenever they had a spare moment. In general, sophistication smacks of those kids who liked indoor recess better than outdoor recess.
In this respect, and in this respect only, I am proud to call myself a hipster. That is, I am proud to call myself a hipster inasmuch as by "hipster" I mean "uncool person who spends his time reading sophisticated books and listening to sophisticated music instead of making friends." Uncool sophistication devolves into cool counterfeit sophistication at every generation; don't worry, it'll pass. And until it does, we can all take comfort in knowing that just because you're a bunch of uncool dorks doesn't mean you can't be the best band on the planet.
Rococo, in contrast, strives only to marvel those naïve enough to fall under its spell. Its melodies are not iterated rationally--they are merely garnished with ornamental curlicues designed to make them sound complex. Under its sheen of complexity, rococo is simple and trite. Rococo is meant to sound sophisticated in order to appeal to people who are trying to appear sophisticated.
Thus also with the modern kids, using great big words they don't understand. The fictionalized version of Lester Bangs portrayed by Philip Seymour Hoffman in Almost Famous says that "the only true currency in this world is what you share with someone else when you're uncool." But that currency loses its value—or, to paraphrase Jesus of Nazareth, this salt of the earth loses its taste—when what was once uncool suddenly slingshots right straight into the heart of cooldom.
The Arcade Fire are not cool. For God's sake, just look at them: they're a bunch of dorks! From Canada! They're also probably the best band on the planet right now. Most really good music, especially nowadays, is made by people who are uncool. To make really good music, you have to spend a lot of time working on making music and not a lot of time out partying with the in-crowd or making friends. People who would choose to spend most of their time making music instead of socializing tend to be awkward and asocial by nature, which is to say uncool.
The same is true of sophistication in general: it is uncool. Sophistication means, in this context, unironic enthusiasm for things that take effort to understand. It's like the kid in third grade who sat on the swing reading The Giver during recess instead of playing four-square. Or at the very least it's like that group of four or five kids who broke out their Magic cards whenever they had a spare moment. In general, sophistication smacks of those kids who liked indoor recess better than outdoor recess.
In this respect, and in this respect only, I am proud to call myself a hipster. That is, I am proud to call myself a hipster inasmuch as by "hipster" I mean "uncool person who spends his time reading sophisticated books and listening to sophisticated music instead of making friends." Uncool sophistication devolves into cool counterfeit sophistication at every generation; don't worry, it'll pass. And until it does, we can all take comfort in knowing that just because you're a bunch of uncool dorks doesn't mean you can't be the best band on the planet.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
LCD Soundsystem
I've never been much of an LCD Soundsystem fan, but I thought I was going to die laughing.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
New Weezer Album
I'm two track's into Weezer's new album, Hurley, and so far it's phenomenal. There may be a lot of contenders for Album of the Year this year.
(addendum: Music does not get better than "Ruling Me." Spread the good news: Weezer is back!)
(second addendum: Okay, maybe I spoke too soon--not all the songs are as good as "Ruling Me." Still, one great song is not bad.)
(third addendum: Okay, the new Weezer album actually sucks. That's what I get for making snap judgments.)
(addendum: Music does not get better than "Ruling Me." Spread the good news: Weezer is back!)
(second addendum: Okay, maybe I spoke too soon--not all the songs are as good as "Ruling Me." Still, one great song is not bad.)
(third addendum: Okay, the new Weezer album actually sucks. That's what I get for making snap judgments.)
"How I Got To Be This Way"
I'm surprised to be saying this, but "How I Got To Be This Way" is actually kind of a great song. It's on VEVO's "On The Rise: Country" playlist, but Southern drawl and the rural flavor are pretty much all that make it country. I'd class it, rather, with what is sometimes called power pop. It might not be all that original, but that's not the point: it's tight and catchy and chock full of heart.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
American Apparel Is The New Abercrombie & Fitch
The most important thing to know is that American Apparel is the new Abercrombie & Fitch. Which is to say, all of a sudden even the popular kids are dressing like hipsters. I'm not just saying this because I recently started spending most of my time in the vicinity of 12th and Broadway. I see the change just as much in mass culture, particularly in certain music videos for songs by artists who could not be more mainstream: Katy Perry, Usher, and Taio Cruz. About five years ago hipsterdom started riding a dialectical whiplash headed straight for the dead center of the mainstream. The period of 2004-2005 was the breaking point, the era of "Float On" and the Postal Service and Franz Ferdinand and the soundtrack to Garden State. The last six months or so were the Age of Gaga, which is now on hold until she releases her new album. With Gaga momentarily back-burnered, the air that has rushed in to fill her void is all hipster-inflected. Alternative is truly the new normal.
That poor girl who fell out of a 25th-floor window her first night (or thereabouts) at the Parsons School of Design was, judging from the few pictures I've seen of her, a patron of American Apparel or some analogous brand. The police found a small camera next to her body, and speculated that she may have climbed outside the window to take a picture--presumably, a picture to post on her "online diary." Hipsterdom has spread via the Internet.
The "Teenage Dream" video was shot to look like a Facebook photo album come to life. This shows us beyond a doubt that this abrupt change is because people now spend more time on Facebook than they do looking at professional photography. Mark Zuckerberg had no idea what an all-devouring monster he was unleashing on the world.
That poor girl who fell out of a 25th-floor window her first night (or thereabouts) at the Parsons School of Design was, judging from the few pictures I've seen of her, a patron of American Apparel or some analogous brand. The police found a small camera next to her body, and speculated that she may have climbed outside the window to take a picture--presumably, a picture to post on her "online diary." Hipsterdom has spread via the Internet.
The "Teenage Dream" video was shot to look like a Facebook photo album come to life. This shows us beyond a doubt that this abrupt change is because people now spend more time on Facebook than they do looking at professional photography. Mark Zuckerberg had no idea what an all-devouring monster he was unleashing on the world.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Far East Movement: "Like a G6"
I kind of like this song, or at least the opening chorus.
"Poppin' bottles in the ice...like a blizzard/When we drink, we do it right, gettin' slizzered/sippin' sizzurp in my ride, in my ride, like three-six/Now I'm feelin' so fly, like a G6."
That's not bad, although I doubt anyone in the video is sippin' sizzurp in anyone's ride, unless by "sizzurp" you mean "Malibu" and by "ride" you mean "drunk driving is dangerous." And admittedly the thing goes from decent to horrible as soon as those scrubby dudes show up and start rapping. But these days, 38 seconds of decent music should be enough for anyone.
"Poppin' bottles in the ice...like a blizzard/When we drink, we do it right, gettin' slizzered/sippin' sizzurp in my ride, in my ride, like three-six/Now I'm feelin' so fly, like a G6."
That's not bad, although I doubt anyone in the video is sippin' sizzurp in anyone's ride, unless by "sizzurp" you mean "Malibu" and by "ride" you mean "drunk driving is dangerous." And admittedly the thing goes from decent to horrible as soon as those scrubby dudes show up and start rapping. But these days, 38 seconds of decent music should be enough for anyone.
"Telephone"
I just watched the "Telephone" video again for the first time in a while, and I was struck by how well it schematizes the difference between Gaga and Beyonce. To wit: Beyonce just wants to kill her boyfriend; Gaga wants to kill everyone.
Brendan James
More mainstream hipsterdom: skinny jeans, skinny tie, plaid flannel, stubble, discreet tattoo, army jacket, hat with brim, horizontal stripes, etc.
Why People Like Katy Perry
The people who like Katy Perry like her because she reminds them of them. To wit, she is the poster girl for popular kids who dress like hipsters.
Look at the video for the piece-of-shit song "Teenage Dream," the second single and title track off Perry's new album.
We begin with Katy Perry sitting in the passenger's seat of a beat-up BMW drop-top, with her flowing black bangs falling over her Ray-Bans. She's wearing a bunch of mildly exotic-looking jewelery; her tank top is full of strategically-placed holes; she has something in Sanskrit tattooed on the underside of her arm. The guy driving is wearing a faded white t-shirt, old leather boots and a trucker hat, possibly from Urban Outfitters, with something written on the front. Their jeans are both fashionably ripped. Speeding down the highway, they pass other similarly cool and offbeat-looking "emerging adults," who point and wave excitedly: two guys in a rusty red pickup, one wearing big glasses and black-and-blue plaid; and a whole little quirky posse, yellow shades and Indian headdresses and all, in a white convertible. In the remainder of the video, we see lots of horizontal-striped t-shirts, more ripped pants, shaggy long hair, leather jackets, and so on. The party at the end is full of hot white people pairing off, along with one slightly dark-skinned guy and one quirky-looking fat girl to set the mood.
American Apparel has become the new Abercrombie & Fitch. Which is to say, hipsterdom is living out its pathetic final years--its "Vegas years," if you will--among the kids in high school who throw parties every weekend and don't invite you. All they do is look at each other on Facebook all day, and look at themselves, and you want to be one of them.
Look at the video for the piece-of-shit song "Teenage Dream," the second single and title track off Perry's new album.
We begin with Katy Perry sitting in the passenger's seat of a beat-up BMW drop-top, with her flowing black bangs falling over her Ray-Bans. She's wearing a bunch of mildly exotic-looking jewelery; her tank top is full of strategically-placed holes; she has something in Sanskrit tattooed on the underside of her arm. The guy driving is wearing a faded white t-shirt, old leather boots and a trucker hat, possibly from Urban Outfitters, with something written on the front. Their jeans are both fashionably ripped. Speeding down the highway, they pass other similarly cool and offbeat-looking "emerging adults," who point and wave excitedly: two guys in a rusty red pickup, one wearing big glasses and black-and-blue plaid; and a whole little quirky posse, yellow shades and Indian headdresses and all, in a white convertible. In the remainder of the video, we see lots of horizontal-striped t-shirts, more ripped pants, shaggy long hair, leather jackets, and so on. The party at the end is full of hot white people pairing off, along with one slightly dark-skinned guy and one quirky-looking fat girl to set the mood.
American Apparel has become the new Abercrombie & Fitch. Which is to say, hipsterdom is living out its pathetic final years--its "Vegas years," if you will--among the kids in high school who throw parties every weekend and don't invite you. All they do is look at each other on Facebook all day, and look at themselves, and you want to be one of them.
Jessie James
Sunday, August 29, 2010
The Band Perry
(No relation to Katy Perry.) They sound like Taylor Swift; they look like a cross between Interpol and the Decemberists; they write lyrics like Evanescence; they are shaped like Cripple Creek. They are a girl singing and her two brothers playing guitar or bass or mandolin or accordion.
You do realize, of course, that "If I Die Young" means "If I Die A Virgin." If you disagree, you clearly haven't listened to the lyrics: "I've never felt the love of a man/but it sure felt nice when he was holdin' my hand." And this is right after "I'll be wearin' white/when I come into Your kingdom."
Maybe you should read the previous paragraph again, and spend some time thinking about how fucked-up this song is. The song is about dying a virgin. This is a song for girls who would rather die than have sex, or maybe for parents and brothers who would rather see their little girl dead than in the carnal embrace of a man, as long as she dies quietly and leaves behind a peaceful-looking corpse. No one even seems that upset. They're just relieved that she never had to lose her virginity. "I had just enough time," she says. Maybe you should read that lyric again.
You might read the end as a reenactment of the Resurrection, but this band is Christian in rhetoric only, and the miraculous reversal at the end is just a typical Hollywood ending. The lyrics express nothing more than a desperate reluctance to relinquish childhood innocence. Christian kids these days seem especially slow to put away childish things, maybe because they get their Christianity from C.S. Lewis instead of St. Paul.
Note as well that, when her loyal brothers send her pretend-dead body Boromir-style into the river, instead of a sword she is clasping to her bosom book whose cover reads: "POETRY: TENNYSON." This is the band for quiet, literary, Christian girls. That demographic was previously only tapped indirectly by Taylor Swift, who clearly paid good attention in 9th grade English class; now it has been colonized.
(addendum: At first I said Taylor Swift, but I actually think they sound more like Alison Krauss.)
Mark Zuckerberg
Facebook is about to be mythologized in a big way. Mark Zuckerberg is being groomed as a generational hero. We are entering the age of megalomania, which is better than an age of narcissism. But narcissism often follows in the footsteps of megalomania, destroying in time all we have built. Praise leads to narcissism, the most pernicious of all destroyers of talent. Megalomaniacs ought to cultivate, from an early age, a distaste for praise.
Justin Moore: "How I Got To Be This Way"
My favorite part is when the camera shifts focus between Justin Moore today and pictures of Justin Moore as a kid, as though he hadn't made his point clearly enough in the lyrics.
(addendum: The law of ontogeny-recapitulates-phylogeny is deep-rooted enough in the essential tendencies of mind to let us imagine that this song might possibly convert a few creationists.)
(addendum: The law of ontogeny-recapitulates-phylogeny is deep-rooted enough in the essential tendencies of mind to let us imagine that this song might possibly convert a few creationists.)
New Katy Perry: "Not Like The Movies"
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Katy Perry: Saying My Peace
Katy Perry's new album came out today. To mark the occasion, I would like to say my peace.
"I Kissed A Girl" is a great song, and not just in a theoretical, queer-studies sort of way. It's not ironic or camp; on the contrary, it's a great song precisely because it feels genuinely naughty. Perry was raised in a conservative Christian family, and started out a gospel singer. "I Kissed A Girl" is a great song because of the way it captures the exhilaration of a wholesome Christian girl's tentative first shuffles into the profane world.
But I know a one-hit wonder when I see one. Before "California Gurls" dropped, I hadn't heard her name in months, and I figured she was over.
In May, after listening to "California Gurls" for the first time, I was certain she was over. That song, I thought, was the most lifeless, insipid, uninspired garbage I had ever heard in my entire life. It sounded like a copy, almost note-for-note, of Ke$ha's "TiK ToK," except with everything that made "TiK ToK" such irrepressible fun--the dirty synths, the spunky white-girl rapping, the eye for slice-of-life detail--taken out and replaced with Wonder Bread and styrofoam. The lyrics sound like they were written by someone who hasn't been within a thousand miles of either coast, and Perry sings them like she's doing a homework assignment.
It made sense. Her one great song was fueled by the energy released, as in nuclear fission, when the hard shell of her Christian upbringing broke open and her repressed desires rushed out. But an atom only splits once. One burst of lightly transgressive fun, and she was depleted. The song would come out, no one would care, and that would be the end of Katy Perry.
Imagine my surprise when "California Gurls" became the #1 party jam of the summer. People loved it. It was the most popular song on iTunes for weeks and weeks. I didn't get it. My best theory was that California girls, especially those born in California but living elsewhere, like it because it's about them. I imagined them screaming and throwing up their hands when Perry says "West Coast represent." It was a summer fad, I figured; it would pass. Californians have short attention spans.
But as time passed, and "California Gurls" started playing on the radio constantly even here on the East Coast, I began to see the awful truth: Katy Perry is here to stay. People don't just like her songs; people like her, as a star. She has earned a reputation as a reliable, respectable purveyor of shallow, lighthearted, catchy pop, as a less serious and more normal counteragent to Gaga's quasi-artsy excesses. People like her; people think she's good.
Well, let me say my peace. Katy Perry sucks. Her songs are passionless, unoriginal, and barely enjoyable; what little pleasure they yield is pure Pavlov. Her supposedly "raunchy" image is tepid and utterly craven. And worst of all, she has that desperate look in her eyes, the look of someone who knows she doesn't deserve to be famous and is terrified that someone will figure it out. She shouldn't worry: for now, she has everyone fooled except for me.
Gaga is a fearless artist and a superb songwriter with a heart of infinite generosity and a sharp satirical eye; she's the real deal, no matter what anyone is saying right now. Even Ke$ha, one-hit-wonder though she may have been, still has as much organic spontaneity and rock 'n' roll swagger as anyone in pop music today. Katy Perry is nothing next to either of them, and even so people love her. Right now I need to go to sleep; my theory on why people love her I will save for next time.
"I Kissed A Girl" is a great song, and not just in a theoretical, queer-studies sort of way. It's not ironic or camp; on the contrary, it's a great song precisely because it feels genuinely naughty. Perry was raised in a conservative Christian family, and started out a gospel singer. "I Kissed A Girl" is a great song because of the way it captures the exhilaration of a wholesome Christian girl's tentative first shuffles into the profane world.
But I know a one-hit wonder when I see one. Before "California Gurls" dropped, I hadn't heard her name in months, and I figured she was over.
In May, after listening to "California Gurls" for the first time, I was certain she was over. That song, I thought, was the most lifeless, insipid, uninspired garbage I had ever heard in my entire life. It sounded like a copy, almost note-for-note, of Ke$ha's "TiK ToK," except with everything that made "TiK ToK" such irrepressible fun--the dirty synths, the spunky white-girl rapping, the eye for slice-of-life detail--taken out and replaced with Wonder Bread and styrofoam. The lyrics sound like they were written by someone who hasn't been within a thousand miles of either coast, and Perry sings them like she's doing a homework assignment.
It made sense. Her one great song was fueled by the energy released, as in nuclear fission, when the hard shell of her Christian upbringing broke open and her repressed desires rushed out. But an atom only splits once. One burst of lightly transgressive fun, and she was depleted. The song would come out, no one would care, and that would be the end of Katy Perry.
Imagine my surprise when "California Gurls" became the #1 party jam of the summer. People loved it. It was the most popular song on iTunes for weeks and weeks. I didn't get it. My best theory was that California girls, especially those born in California but living elsewhere, like it because it's about them. I imagined them screaming and throwing up their hands when Perry says "West Coast represent." It was a summer fad, I figured; it would pass. Californians have short attention spans.
But as time passed, and "California Gurls" started playing on the radio constantly even here on the East Coast, I began to see the awful truth: Katy Perry is here to stay. People don't just like her songs; people like her, as a star. She has earned a reputation as a reliable, respectable purveyor of shallow, lighthearted, catchy pop, as a less serious and more normal counteragent to Gaga's quasi-artsy excesses. People like her; people think she's good.
Well, let me say my peace. Katy Perry sucks. Her songs are passionless, unoriginal, and barely enjoyable; what little pleasure they yield is pure Pavlov. Her supposedly "raunchy" image is tepid and utterly craven. And worst of all, she has that desperate look in her eyes, the look of someone who knows she doesn't deserve to be famous and is terrified that someone will figure it out. She shouldn't worry: for now, she has everyone fooled except for me.
Gaga is a fearless artist and a superb songwriter with a heart of infinite generosity and a sharp satirical eye; she's the real deal, no matter what anyone is saying right now. Even Ke$ha, one-hit-wonder though she may have been, still has as much organic spontaneity and rock 'n' roll swagger as anyone in pop music today. Katy Perry is nothing next to either of them, and even so people love her. Right now I need to go to sleep; my theory on why people love her I will save for next time.
Friday, August 20, 2010
First Impressions of Sufjan's New EP
And you pushed yourself to the floor
And the Spirit went where it went
Hovering, discovering and covering your life on the floor
And the walls were wet with your love
For the mother is, the mother is
the glorious, victorious, the mother of the heart of the world
Don't be ashamed, don't hide from me now
For the woman is, the woman is
the glorious, victorious, the mother of the heart of the world
Djohari, Djohariah
-Sufjan Stevens, "Djohariah"
I don't recall hearing that Sufjan Stevens was coming out with a new record. I had hardly even thought about him in the past three years or so. But as of this past morning Pitchfork is streaming the 60-minute "EP" All Delighted People in its entirety. I planned to listen to the beginning of the first track before going to bed. I've now listened to it one and a half times. I could be wrong about this, but on first listen All Delighted People EP is my early pick for album of the year and maybe even one of the best albums of the decade.
He's been working on it this whole time. You could call it "chamber pop," but that would be like calling Moby-Dick a novel: the genre designation it technically fits into it simultaneously shreds into nothing. This album never stops giving. As soon as you're ready for something new to happen, something new happens--but rather than just a new idea, it's a new elaboration on the same idea, surprising but obvious in retrospect. It's always becoming new and at the same time always remaining how it was, and it keeps this up almost flawlessly for sixty minutes. Forget catharsis, forget skeletal lamping; this is musical kenosis. Like Djohariah, the single mom transfigured into "the mother of the heart of the world," like Christ on the cross, Sufjan has emptied himself. He has poured every last drop of himself into this album, and even so it somehow still sounds effortless. I feel like I know now how people must have felt the when they first put on Revolver back in 1966.
Grizzly Bear is over--they could never make something like this in a million years. The Dirty Projectors might aspire to such heights in an album or two, and I wish them success. I have faith in the xx as well, eventually. And in my wildest dreams I can imagine Kanye's new album being this good. The Arcade Fire are playing a different game now, although I still wouldn't put it past them. But for now, All Delighted People EP is the greatest record in the world--and you can download it here for $5.
And the Spirit went where it went
Hovering, discovering and covering your life on the floor
And the walls were wet with your love
For the mother is, the mother is
the glorious, victorious, the mother of the heart of the world
Don't be ashamed, don't hide from me now
For the woman is, the woman is
the glorious, victorious, the mother of the heart of the world
Djohari, Djohariah
-Sufjan Stevens, "Djohariah"
I don't recall hearing that Sufjan Stevens was coming out with a new record. I had hardly even thought about him in the past three years or so. But as of this past morning Pitchfork is streaming the 60-minute "EP" All Delighted People in its entirety. I planned to listen to the beginning of the first track before going to bed. I've now listened to it one and a half times. I could be wrong about this, but on first listen All Delighted People EP is my early pick for album of the year and maybe even one of the best albums of the decade.
He's been working on it this whole time. You could call it "chamber pop," but that would be like calling Moby-Dick a novel: the genre designation it technically fits into it simultaneously shreds into nothing. This album never stops giving. As soon as you're ready for something new to happen, something new happens--but rather than just a new idea, it's a new elaboration on the same idea, surprising but obvious in retrospect. It's always becoming new and at the same time always remaining how it was, and it keeps this up almost flawlessly for sixty minutes. Forget catharsis, forget skeletal lamping; this is musical kenosis. Like Djohariah, the single mom transfigured into "the mother of the heart of the world," like Christ on the cross, Sufjan has emptied himself. He has poured every last drop of himself into this album, and even so it somehow still sounds effortless. I feel like I know now how people must have felt the when they first put on Revolver back in 1966.
Grizzly Bear is over--they could never make something like this in a million years. The Dirty Projectors might aspire to such heights in an album or two, and I wish them success. I have faith in the xx as well, eventually. And in my wildest dreams I can imagine Kanye's new album being this good. The Arcade Fire are playing a different game now, although I still wouldn't put it past them. But for now, All Delighted People EP is the greatest record in the world--and you can download it here for $5.
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