blurred lines

A review of Robin Thicke’s new album, Blurred Lines. Timely, for once.

I was first introduced to Robin Thicke some five or six years ago by my friend Gabe (who’s producing music under the name FaceLES, interview with him to come soon). We were hanging out on the job, pretending to actually do “work,” but in reality, just sitting around bullshitting about music, kids, our respective marriages, and what have you, and he mentioned Robin Thicke . This was right around the time The Evolution of Robin Thicke was released. Gabe described the album to me, and I immediately ran home and purchased it, after listening to a couple of snippets on iTunes. It got me. I love me some good R&B, and this was…fuckin perfect. (Thanks, man!)

I wore out Evolution. Listened to it on repeat for months. And Thicke quickly became one of the few artists that I will run out (ok, well, turn on my computer) and buy his albums at 6am on the Tuesday that they’re released. 

As you can tell, this review is going to be completely, utterly unbiased.

The first eight tracks on Blurred Lines are basically the soundtrack to the parties that I wish I’d been invited to when I was in college. Except that nobody was really throwing that type of party, so… Anyway, the songs have an awesome mix of funk, disco, and Michael Jackson, with a little EDM thrown in for good measure. 

So yeah, I was the person dancing their ass off to this album in Grand Central Terminal yesterday. Bright orange headphones? Totally unconcerned about what an ass I was making of myself? Yeah, that was me.

I’m a little disappointed that there’s only one Pharrell Williams produced track on the album (Blurred Lines), because I really love their collaborations. And disappointed that there’s no Lil Wayne on this one, as he’s usually excellent with Thicke. The one Timbaland produced track (Take it Easy on Me) is kinda meh on its own. Fine when taken in context with the other songs, but not my favorite. And surprisingly, I liked the will.i.am tracks (Feel Good, and Go Stupid 4 U). I’d previously thought that will.i.am was making himself a little too prevelant/irrelevant, but these are pretty solid.

I respectfully disagree with Entertainment Weekly’s review of the album as “boring.” It might be a little one-note, as compared to Thicke’s other albums, but I don’t think it is boring in the slightest. (Not that I actually read EW for music news, since their music coverage, well, is rather light. (which is a polite way of saying it blows) Maybe now that they have an actual music critic on staff (this Nick Catucci guy who wrote the aforementioned review. I checked out his bona fides, and he worked for Rolling Stone, among other places. nice work if you can get it.) their music coverage will be better. I’m not holding out any hope though.)

This is definitely Thicke’s most commercial album. And there isn’t a goddamn thing wrong with that.  Are people really concerned that Robin Thicke has “sold out” now that he has a huge hit? I don’t think he had any pretensions about not being a sellout, ever, so… maybe the dude just wanted to have some fun on this one. And leave off on the social commentary for once.

All that being said, this album is everything I’d wished Justin Timberlake’s The 20/20 Experience had been. (I wished JT’s album had been good. God, I fuckin hate that one. I’m pissed at myself for buying it. When I first heard it, I thought “shit, this is the worst Robin Thicke knockoff EVER.” heh)

Only one ballad to be found on this album, 4 the Rest of My Life. Which, personally, I find refreshing. I fucking hate ballads. And I’m not particularly a fan of Thicke’s. Too damn sappy. Although Teach U a Lesson on The Evolution of Robin Thicke does have that truly excellent line about hiding WMDs, which cracks me the hell up every time. So ok, maybe I like some of his ballads. Whatever. I can do what I want.

And, to be perfectly honest, Blurred Lines is not as good as Love After War (his last album). Love After War was this beautiful, perfect beast filled with wild creativity, a huge variety of musical styles, excellent social commentary… it’s his best album so far. However, I don’t think Blurred Lines is his worst either. I’d probably give those honors to Sex Therapy, although there are still some truly excellent songs on that album.

The takeaway? I liked it. Blurred Lines was put out by some record company or another, and can be purchased wherever people are selling music and shit. Go buy it. Or not. Whatever. You can do what you want too.

(oh, also, the ukulele on Go Stupid 4 U was inspired. Good job Mr. i.am. or whoever is responsible for that one.)

hallucinating bruno mars

in which I discover Bruno Mars as I’m hallucinating while waiting for a prescription in the shittiest Rite Aid in all of Astoria, NY.

Earlier this year, due to a perfect storm of dumbshit decisions, I got a kidney infection. Yay. So, after being diagnosed with said infection, my doctor submitted a prescription for some Cipro to the only drug store near my home subway stop, which was the aforementioned shitty Rite Aid. I walk in, and they say they never received my prescription, don’t give half a hairy shit about me or my prescription, and are generally the most unhelpful yatches ever to walk the planet.

Ah, New York.

I’m in a lot of pain. A LOT. I am exhausted from walking all over Manhattan and Astoria to get to and from my doctor’s office. I am not thinking clearly. The pharmacist tells me it is going to be more than an hour before they can even bother to call my doctor to ask about the Rx, much less fill my prescription. It is 3/4 of a mile from the pharmacy to my house, and I seriously doubt I’m going to make the walk once, much less three fucking times.

I start to cry. Because really, what is left to do in that particular situation?

A tiny, wizened elderly Greek cashier finally comes behind the counter and asks me what’s wrong. I manage to get it out, and she pats my hand, and sits me down on the waiting benches near the pharmacy, with a bunch of other tiny old Greek ladies who are all waiting for their meds. (or just hanging out. I couldn’t tell. There are Greek choruses hanging out all over Astoria for no discernible reason.)

At this point, I begin to hallucinate. Fun times, man, fun times.

So I’m leaning back against the cold, hard, plastic seat, trying to avoid putting pressure on my kidney, and close my eyes. The radio station that’s playing really shitacular contemporary pop songs songs over the PA system in the store suddenly begins playing what sounds like a Police song I’d never heard before. Which is weird, because I know all the Police songs backwards and forwards, even if I’m effing hallucinating. But it isn’t Sting singing on this track. It’s somebody who sounds kind of like Michael Jackson.

Now I KNOW I’m hallucinating. But I think maybe this whole kidney infection thing isn’t so bad, because, hallucinating MJ singing on a Police track? FUCK YEAH.

(side note: when I was 16, and having a series of brain MRIs done, I started hallucinating symphonies while in the machine. It rocked.)

I drift along with the song, and nearly cry again when it’s over, because it’s so beautiful. The DJ doesn’t announce it, and I have no idea what it is. The kindly Greek cashier apparently berates everyone at the pharmacy into taking care of me, so I leave shortly thereafter.

Forgetting everything about the song except for the guitar riff, I staggered home and collapsed into bed. Over the course of the next few days, I tried searching for it, and was further convinced that I’d been hallucinating, as I couldn’t find it. Of course, trying to search google for a guitar riff is pretty difficult.

Anyway, a while later, still recovering, I pulled up The Voiceon my computer, and watched some back episodes. (it’s a guilty pleasure. don’t judge) Lo and behold, on one of the battle rounds, two people duetted on the song. I immediately started doing mad google searches, and found out it was Bruno Mars’ songLocked out of Heaven.

I was surprised. I’d sort of known about Bruno Mars before, because of the songs Just the Way You Are and The Lazy Song both of which I thought were cute fluff, but didn’t really pay attention. I kind of vaguely clued in when he got arrested in Vegas for drug possession, and said that he wasn’t that type of guy (yeah, riiiight), but again, ignored, for whatever reason.

I immediately bought Unorthodox Jukebox, the album that the song is on, and put it on constant rotation. Love. Love, love love this album. Mars uses a bunch of different styles of music, and manages to blend them fairly seamlessly, with his excellent artistic vision. Almost every track is a standout, however, a few I can’t listen to because they’re so depressing. Like Young Girls and Money Make Her Smile. Mr. Mars, I do believe you is hanging out with the wrong wimmin. (yeah yeah, and you’re having a lot of fun doing so, but Jesus, dude…)

Other than Locked Out of Heaven my favorites are Treasure, a frothy 70s style pop throwback (and yes, baby squirrel is a sexy motherfucker), Gorilla, which is an excellent take on raw sex, and I LOVE his vocals on it (Love singing along with it, but seriously, an octave lower), Show Me, a fun reggae-ish song, and If I Knew, a 50s harmonizing throwback ballad, and just pure awesome.

Here’s the video for Treasure. They look like they’re having so much damn fun… This video was made possible through the purchase of approximately 1 kilo of cocaine: 

So yes, I highly recommend listening to this album, even when you’re not hallucinating. His other album, Doo Wops & Hooligans, (the one with the ultra fluffy songs on it) is pretty good too. Even has some exceedingly non-fluffy songs, like Liquor Store Blues, which makes me so happy to think about hordes of 13 year old girls listening to it after they got suckered in by Just the Way You Are. 

Man, this post would have been so much cooler if I’d been hallucinating for a good reason (like drugs). Or, you know, on purpose. Or something.

is it 1994 again, and somehow I didn’t notice?

Surprised at the lineup of albums for the next five months.

I was looking through a list of upcoming albums that are on the schedule for release, and felt like I’d suddenly been rocketed back to 1994. On the list, are such bands as:

1. Backstreet Boys - July 30
2. Superchunk - August 20
3. Nine Inch Nails - September 3
4. Gloria Estefan - September 10
5. Sheryl Crow - September 10
6. Sebadoh - September 17 (?!?! Seriously? When did this happen? WHY WAS I NOT INFORMED?)
7. Toad the Wet Sprocket - September 17
8. Mazzy Star- September 24
9. Pink Martini - September 24
10. Sting - September 24
11. Moby - October 1
12. Pearl Jam - October 15

Yeah. Hi, senior year of high school. Where have you been?

Also, for pure entertainment’s sake, Yoko Ono is releasing an album on September 17 titled Take Me To the Land of Hell. 

You already have, Yoko. You already have…

it might get loud

An example of how I am usually late to the party. Four years late.

But, you know, I feel like I’m doing pretty well for somebody with a kid and a full time job and numerous other interests, which mostly include listening to music, and not watching movies about it.

One Friday afternoon found me home from work, watching It Might Get Loud with my 7-year-old daughter, and my 10-month-old nephew. And a really loud air conditioner. And I couldn’t wear my headphones because I actually had to pay attention to the kids.

Whatever. Parenting. Feh.

Oh, and also, my daughter wanted to hear it. Go figure. I had to turn on the subtitles because I couldn’t actually hear any of the dialogue, much less understand the mumbling English/Irish accents with an insane amount of white noise/kid chatter going on in the background.

So, a listy review:

1. It held my daughter’s attention for the duration of the movie, and she said that she didn’t want it to end. This surprised me, because the movie doesn’t have much of a narrative, or much action, and is mostly two old guys and one not-so-old one noodling around on guitars, talking about guitars, and visiting places that were important to their guitars.
2. The baby really liked the parts with the punk rock. He’s got good taste. Let’s see if we can overcome his father’s tragic adoration of Rush (among other prog rockers).
3. I found it highly enjoyable, and I went into it with less than zero expectations, given that the last rock documentary I saw was “Shine a Light.” I watched it on a plane. I walked out.
4. Also surprisingly enjoyable, because Jack White is one of those musicians that I honestly could give a flying fuck in hell about. it made me want to listen to the Raconteurs. (Fuck the White Stripes. Never liked them anyway) One of these days when I actually get around to it, I will buy a Raconteurs’ album and listen to it. When I’m in the mood. Maybe.
5. I learned quite a lot, which also surprised me. I also love that Jimmy Page was learning stuff from The Edge, and was totally open about it, and that Jack White was so open to this. Mostly because I really love watching people who love what they do, and when they have that quality, they’re really in a space of beginner’s mind, and full of joy with the entire process. It was a beautiful thing.
6. We’ll need to watch it again. Maybe without a squirmy 10-month-old at my side. So that I can actually concentrate on the movie, and not on keeping said baby from falling off the couch. Because that would make me not so much of a good godparent. Oh, and maybe at a time when it’s not 100 degrees outside and I don’t have to have the AC running on full blast right next to me, and I will actually be able to hear the music in the film. I’m picky that way. 
7. It contains footage of Bono wearing an incredibly tight white satin jumpsuit, or something, from the late 70s. Awesome. Amazing how pretentious he can seem, given that there is footage of him wearing the aforementioned suit, and his glorious mullet. I’m not saying he’s actually pretentious (ok, yes I am), but he comes off that way.
8. My daughter can now pick out one of The Edge’s guitar riffs easily. He’s got such a distinctive style. I’m so proud. She was describing one of his riffs (from Where the Streets Have No Name) as sounding like a waterfall. Pretty accurate, methinks.
9. I think my kid is also now fantasizing about Jimmy Page being her grandpa. She doesn’t have any grandfathers, and older men hold a fascination for her. I should totally introduce her to the wonders of Keith Richards, because I really feel like his fashion sense fits much more closely with her own.
10. It was also awesome to sit there and be able to pause the movie and explain some of the stuff about the music to my kid, and to see her really connecting with it. 

you can find the movie in various places that are awesome. it was put out in 2009, by Sony, or some such company.

just go buy or rent it and watch it.

Hi, I'm a deviant, and I fucking adore pop music. (And pretty much every other genre too)

On buying my first Britney Spears album. In 2013.

Recently I felt a pang of…something…when I found myself clicking “buy now” on “Femme Fatale” on the Amazon MP3 site. I mean I can (sort of) justify  it by saying that it was only $2.99, and that’s practically theft in this day and age, but really, Britney? Really? What is wrong with me? (You might ask, as I have asked myself many a time.)

Would it make you feel better if I told you I immediately cleansed myself by listening to pretentious hipster alt rock? Yes? Then you should probably stop reading.

Not to say that I didn’t do that, because I did, but because if you said yes, you really ain’t gonna like what comes next.

I mean, yeah, I am the person who removed the Showgirls tape from the VCR (yes I’m that old) with tongs to avoid touching it with my bare hands. While I have just a touch of pretension (and, no, I didn’t get the joke, nor did I see the camp), I have a few “guilty” pleasures and I’m not afraid to admit it.

I am a sucker for well produced pop music, whether or not the “artist” has any talent. I like songs with well crafted hooks that are danceable and fun.

And Britney is nothing if not well produced.

Probably my only truly guilty pleasure is Chris Brown’s song “yo,” and that’s mostly due to personal issues. (Don’t hit, Chris. This is shit the rest of us learned before elementary school.)

All that being said, I look kinda like a hipster. I swear, I am not one, mostly because I’m too old. Still, other people have pointed out that I look hipsterish, do hipstery things, live in an up and coming hipster neighborhood (I was here before it was cool, bitches) and listen to hipstery music.

Shit.

I can save myself by saying two things: I hate bicycles, and I listen to Britney Spears in a totally non-ironic manner. Also, I show emotions other than disdain. 

One day, I’m sitting on the subway, thumbing through the music on my phone, glancing at the hipster guy sitting next to me, also on his way home to our hipsterish neighborhood. Meanwhile, he’s looking over my shoulder at my music. He jerks away when I get to a Britney song.

Thankfully I am comfortable enough in my own skin to be able to mostly subvert any embarrassment from being judged by the douchenozzle in the skinny jeans, suspenders, plaid shirt and “heritage” beard sitting next to me. So fuck you and your wanna-be extra in Boardwalk Empire clothes. Go home and weep about my Britney album into your leather apron while you make your artisanal pickles.

God, I can’t wait until my epic post on the Spice Girls, and my non-ironic love for them.