road trip music

in which I write about torturing my family with music for the duration of our drive.

So we’re on vacation. We drove from NYC to Cape Cod this past Friday, which meant I drove, which meant that I picked all the music for the trip, which meant that my poor family was completely tortured by my musical choices.

I love listening to music in different contexts, because I always end up hearing things that I’ve never noticed before, or getting to experience new emotions in the music. In the car, the music goes along with the scenery, keeps me awake, and gives my brain something to focus on, other than watching that double yellow slide by. I can think differently about the songs, experience them differently, and like them in a completely new way.

Plus, my main context for music listening is on headphones, either on the subway, which has a lot of background noise, or while walking through the streets of NYC, which, again, has background noise issues. So getting the chance to listen to music played through a sound system (however shitty) and with different things to look at is pretty central to my existence. And thought process. And my enjoyment of music itself.

I know it might sound weird, because these are the same songs, but I’m not the same person each time that I listen to them. There are fundamental shifts in my perception of, and interaction with, the music when I’m listening in different locations, times, and mental states.

Here is the playlist for the road trip (and yes, we only have a CD player, not an MP3 player, so we listened to actual albums. OMG. I know you thought nobody does that any more, but I do. Post on that forthcoming.):

1. Atlas Genius - When it Was Now. This album did not sound good in the slightest on my car’s craptacular sound system. Nor did it sound good with the windows open. (we don’t have AC). Terrible choice on my part. But I listened to it to the end. Bruce and I continued the trend of analyzing the band obsessively, although again, I feel bad because he’s only heard them live (with a crappy sound system) and in the car. 
2. Robin Thicke - Blurred Lines. Holds up surprisingly well in the car. I didn’t get too much negative feedback from the family. In fact, all of his albums hold up well with the car’s terrible speakers. Go figure.
3. Bruno Mars - Doo Wops & Hooligans AND Unorthodox Jukebox. I requested it, and the husband said, “Why do you hate me?” and then commented on Mars sounding quite a bit like MJ. He might have actually liked a couple of these songs.
4. LCD Soundsystem -Sound of Silver. I think this was a 55:55 minute endurance experiment for Bruce. Poor, poor man. While I absolutely adore this album, I will concede that it is not good car music, sounded terrible in the car, and I should probably have never played this for Bruce, despite the fact that he likes the song New York I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down. Also, listening to it in the car really made me realize exactly how much LCD Soundsystem stole from the Talking Heads. Which is cool, because the Talking Heads are awesome.
5. Los Amigos Invisibles - Repeat After Me. Bruce chose it, because he likes them (we’ve seen them live twice now). We listened to it until we pulled into the driveway on the Cape. Life was good. 

Bruce is driving us up to Provincetown on Wednesday, so he’ll be choosing the music then. He purchased a HUGE sleeve for CDs and packed music that he likes.

We have fairly divergent musical tastes (although we agree on some things, like Tom Petty’s awesomeness). This should be interesting. 

shuggie!

The kiddo and I just went to see Shuggie Otis at Metrotech Center in Brooklyn:

He was great. Amazing guitar player, and honestly, I hadn’t really thought about it before, but I was a little shocked at how much Prince has borrowed from Shuggie’s music. Dayum.

All of the musicians were amazingly talented, and played well together. The kid enjoyed the music, but said it was too loud (we were right in front of the stacks). And, best of all, there were a trio of elderly black ladies sitting right behind us doing a running commentary/editorial on the music. Loudly. 

"Damn, Shuggie, that was a weak ending! Don’t you think that was a weak ending Gladys? I agree. WEAK ENDING, SHUGGIE"

snort.

atlas genius

In which I write about the next great hope for rock. Or something.

So. Atlas Genius. If you haven’t heard about them yet, you probably will soon, providing they don’t implode in a morass of music industry bullshit within the next few years.

They are…a great band. Their sound, in its nascent form, is pretty clearly influenced by U2 and Coldplay (among various other folks), and is awesomely accessible, but smart, rock. I bought their album, When it Was Now, a few weeks ago, and its been on constant rotation ever since (with a break here and there for Robin Thicke). I’m a little worried about getting sick of them, since I’ve listened to this freakin album about three times a day for the past few. 

What I’m trying to say is, the album is good, y’all. Go buy it. (Amazon &iTunes both have it).

Yesterday, I was telling 7-year-old daughter about going to see Atlas Genius in concert later that evening. She was interested, so I popped on their album. She listened for about 10 minutes, and said “their guitar player sounds like The Edge.”

Sniff. So proud. She really DID watch It Might Get Loud closely. He DOES sound like The Edge on occasion, with those really excellent clear, church bell tones on the guitar.

These crazy bastards apparently built their own recording studio where they recorded this album and produced it themselves. Which is amazing, because its really fucking good for a first album (there isn’t a track on here that I dislike), their song writing is damn good, and I can see that it will only get better. There’s a quality to their songs and sound that, given the right environment to flourish, will go from really fucking good to completely transcendent.

They use a little too much synthesizer for my taste but then again I’m a child of the 80s and got plenty of that shit the first time around. Still, the kids these days seem to go for that sort of thing, so who am I to question their musical choices? (Lack of quals will not stop me from questioning, by the way)

My greatest wish/hope is that they get a really excellent producer on board who will help them refine and direct their artistic vision to the aforementioned transcendent phase. (for instance, what producer Alex Da Kid did for Imagine Dragons.) They’re so young, and to have that much talent, both from a musicianship standpoint, and from a songwriting one… GAWD, I hope they have a solid mental/emotional foundation so that they don’t burn themselves out.

My heterosexual life mate (and he adds “regular provider of cock”. Just keepin it classy), Bruce, (fine, husband. Whatever. don’t label me) and I went to see them in concert at the iheartradio theater in NYC this evening, after scoring free tickets. The theater is small. like, only slightly bigger than our NYC apartment small. Which is pretty fucking small. There were maybe about 100 people there. The sound quality was dubious. On a few occasions, the PA system was completely overwhelmed, which was kind of a bummer, because some of the musicality was lost. And on their final song, Electric, the vocals were completely overwhelmed. 

This was also Bruce’s first time hearing any of their music, and while he liked it, he’s unfortunately going to have a not-so-optimal next listen to their stuff as I will likely play it on our 1994 Jetta’s shitacular sound system, with the windows open, while driving up to Massachusetts next week. Yup. 

Having now seen Atlas Genius live, after having listened to their album (obsessively) for the past few weeks, it was clear to me that they’ve really lived in the songs for a while. They’re all excellent musicians, and it sounds like they’re having fun with the music. At one point in the show, the keyboard player threw in a different synth drum beat than is usually played on one of their songs, and it was cute to see the other band members react to it.

So, a listy review of the live show:

1. They seemed tired. They looked tired. I have nothing but respect for people who are going through the music business mill, because I know that they’re all working ridiculously hard. And… yeah. Tired.
2. They’re so cute and so tiny and young! Sometimes it seemed like the lead singer was a little bit too aware of how attractive he is. But whatever.
3. They had terrible rock star faces. That, in and of itself, was fucking adorable.
4. I was a little bummed that the lead singer/guitarist had equipment issues on the song Centered on You. So was he. Definitely showed in the next song, when he was clearly playing pissed off. Or frustrated. or whatever. But he got his head back in the game. (I was bummed because we missed out on one of the prettiest guitar parts I’ve heard in a while.
5. The lead singer played All These Girls solo. Which was fine. It’s my least favorite song on the album. As I mentioned before, I like them all (and freakin adore most of the songs), but this one… Yeah. So Bruce was saying that it sounded like something that would be used in a TV ad for Verizon. Or in a very intense scene on One Tree Hill. I said maybe for a tampon commercial. Yeah, we’re assholes. But I like that about us.
6. Did I mention that I really enjoyed the live arrangements of the songs? I did. That’s one of the things that I like the most about going to live shows, is listening to how the artists are interpreting their songs in that moment, on that stage, with whatever emotions they happen to be having at any given moment. I like listening to the experiments and the failures and the expressions of their “now” through these pieces of music that belong to so many people other than them. It’s pretty beautiful. And I’m thankful that these boys did that with their music this evening. Looking forward to seeing them do it some more.
7. The show started on time (7pm) and ended before the sun went down. Which rocked. Because I’m old, and want to go to bed on time.
8. I’m a little bummed that I went to see a concert at apparently the only venue in all of NYC that doesn’t serve beer. 
9. It would be awesome if they did move to NYC. I would encourage them to move to Astoria, not to Brooklyn, because Brooklyn is so fucking clichéd. Also, Astoria is cheaper. And has a great music scene.

Side note that has nothing to do with Atlas Genius:

Every time I see live music in the city, something bizarre happens on the subway afterwards. This time was no different.

After the show, while in the middle of analyzing the band to death, poor dears, my man and I got on the subway to go home. While we were talking, this guy in his 20s got on the train, clearly tripping his balls off. He was also wearing clashing plaids on his shorts and shirt. This nearly sent my husband into apoplexy, but that’s another story. Anyway, tripping boy was freaking out because we were making fun of him, but he was too fucked up to figure out whether it was actually happening, or if he was just being paranoid. On top of that, he was tripping about a couple of teenagers dry humping on the seats next to us. Fucking awesome.

Ah, New York. We love you so.

why I don't read music reviews. mostly.

In which I gripe about music criticism.
Back in the day, when I was a teenager and hungry for as much information about music as possible, I read every single music publication that I could get my hands on.

Now, I don’t give a shit.

Why? Mostly because I find that so much of the music journalism today is just shallow posturing by whichever guy wants to show the size of his proverbial dick. Also, why is it that almost all of the people writing reviews of music professionally are men? Caitlin Moran? Where ARE YOU, goddamnit?

Case in point: the recent New York Times review of Robin Thicke’s new album by Jon Caramanica.

He managed to write a review of the album, on the basis of one fucking song. Seriously. Blurred Lines? you can’t write about any of the other songs on the album in depth (yeah, Ooo La La and Ain’t No Hat 4 That both got a quick mention, in one sentence, towards the end.)

Caramanica also writes about the album as if all the songs were the same “retro soul” throwbacks as Blurred Lines. Which makes me question whether or not he actually listened to the entire album, or just listened to the first three or four tracks on the fucking thing and called it a day.

Yes, I have written professionally, (yeah, yeah, let’s not comment on the quality of my writing right now, I want to bitch about other people, goddamnit) for actual publications, and yes, I know that editors, limited space, intense deadlines, being forced to review a genre of music that you hate, and a whole host of other considerations, can cause an article/review to have all the good shit cut out of it.

Whatever.

What’s really bugging me about these music reviews/reviewers is that they tend to put so much of themselves into the review (fine, I do it too, duh, hence my blog), but also attempt to maintain the pretension of being 1. an expert and 2. objective. Which they’re not (at least in these reviews). And whether or not the actually DO have these pretensions, the very act of writing for a publication such as the NYT, Spin, Rolling Stone, or whatever, kind of FORCES them into that particular role, and I feel like they should at least TRY to honor the position that they’re holding in the eyes of the audience. (and all caps denote that I’m REALLY PASSIONATE about this subject, right?)

In the past, while I’ve enjoyed Caramanica’s work, (like his absolutelyGENIUS interview with Kanye West), it is this type of dismissive, know-it-all bullshit that just really gets my goat. (Sorry Mr. Caramanica. You just happen to be the most recent person who has hit this nerve. I read some of your other reviews this weekend. They were fine. Didn’t piss me off at all.)

Reading music criticism these days really reminds me of going into record stores and dealing with snotty ass clerks who, regardless of what you purchased, would look down on you as either not worthy of whatever you were purchasing, or sneer because you were buying the album of a sell-out.

See, kids, back in the day, there used to be actual retail stores that sold only music…

life

In which I read Keith Richards’ autobiography.

So, the Rolling Stones were one of those bands that I just never gave half a hairy flying shit about, pretty much ever. I’ve spent plenty of time sneering at people in their 50s who are still stuck on the Stones as being the greatest thing, since ever, who seemingly have to relive their not-so-rebellious youth by taking off their Wall Street banker suits, throwing on a pair of $1,000 jeans and a vintage Stones concert tour t-shirt that they forced their beleaguered personal assistant to find and purchase for them (probably also for a ridiculously huge amount of money) and then pay more than $500 for a concert ticket. And talking about how they saw the Stones in ‘72 or some such nonsense, when you know damn well they were busy sucking cock for grades at Phillips Andover…

Yeah, because that RAWKS, yo.*

As previously mentioned, I was forced to watch Shine a Light on a plane once, between NYC and Dubai. I figured that Scorsese, plus a band that I didn’t totally hate (just felt ambivalent about), might equal a really awesome flick. 

NOPE.

It was the biggest bit of mutual ego cocksuckery committed to film that I’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

In the 80s, despite the fact that I was getting educated in Rock and Roll by my friend’s dad, we somehow missed the Stones. He was way into Zeppelin, Aerosmith, AC/DC, Simon & Garfunkel (go figure), and not so much the Stones.

I was vaguely aware of them as some sort of huge countercultural deal, given the absolutely horrified way that my mother would mention them in conversation (she was a burgeoning PMRC member, if there ever was one). Her hatred alone should have sparked in my rebellious little heart a major interest in them, but somehow the Stones and I never really connected.

Still haven’t. I mean, sure, I can appreciate their music and everything, and I understand their influences and their influence, but yeah. Nothing. No emotional connections. Which is fine. I can deal with that. Other people can’t, but that’s just the way it goes. Everybody’s got a kink.

I like them a hell of a lot more than the Beatles, I’ll tell you that much. (Seriously, you can crucify my for the Beatles thing later when I write about it. Just let it go for the moment)

And there are songs here and there of theirs that I’ll listen to. For instance, I have a great deal of affection for Sympathy for the Devil. The Stones version. Not any of the covers. I really love that song. There, I threw y’all a fricken bone.

All this being said, I’m reading Keith Richards’ autobiography, Life. Dude is a funny motherfucker. He has always been pretty much the only reason why I’ve paid attention to the Stones. But then again, I’ve always gone for the dark, brooding, disaffected sort, rather than the hyperactive bouncing around frontman. (see: Joe Perry, Richie Sambora, Eddie VanHalen (sorta), Slash, the Edge, Jimmy Page).

I like the countercultural aspect to the Stones’ existence in the 60s and 70s. And the fact that they’ve managed to live this long, despite the insane amount of drugs they took is a testament to…something.

But back to Life. It’s a really gorgeous book. Richards, and I’m assuming, his ghostwriter, did a fantastic job of developing this intelligent, yet coarse, lower class English voice with wonderfully dry wit. It’s definitely the granddaddy of Russell Brand’s voice in his Booky Wooks. Both Richards and Brand have similar aesthetics (and drug problems, and childhoods, and love of tight pants, and crazy hair), and you can definitely see how Brand kind of grew out of what Richards and his lot were setting up in the 60s and 70s.

Richards is funny, and seems to be rather brutally honest about himself and the things he (and his various girlfriends) were doing at the height of the Stones’ fame: drugs, alcohol, sleeping around, stealing women from one another, fighting, and flouting of all social convention. In part, I found that this book is an intensive read about the utter selfishness and self-centeredness of the baby boomer generation taken to its logical extreme. I’ve long had the suspicion that the boomers used the whole peace and love movement of the 60s and 70s as an excuse to be utter assholes. I wasn’t there (Gen X all the way, baby). But boy, it sure seems that way.

I mean, granted, social conventions desperately needed some good flouting, but to use that as a reason to be an asshole is a titch despicable.

Interspersed among the stories of debauchery are some true gems regarding Richards’ creative process, how he approaches music and songwriting, and how he came to be the musician he is today. Which, quite frankly, has caused me to go back and listen closely to the Stones’ music. At one point, he writes “I find myself trying to play horn lines all the time on the guitar.” Which, now that I’ve read this, I can totally hear on the opening riffs of a multitude of Stones’ songs, notably Start Me Up and Brown Sugar. 

It was also exceedingly fascinating to read about Richards’ fascination with playing (and writing) songs on a five string guitar with open tuning. I’ve known so many amateur guitarists who just couldn’t quite get the Stones’ songs right, and learning this made it all clear to me. Yeah, he removes his bottom E. Awesome. 

So, do I like the Rolling Stones more? Meh… not really. While I have a much deeper appreciation for their music (and specifically for their guitarist), listening to their music is still, for me, the sonic equivalent of being brought nearly to orgasm over and over and fucking over again, but never actually GETTING there. 

(But I really enjoyed this book.)

*ok, so while I completely stand by my vitriol regarding Wall Street douchenozzles, I’ll give a pass to the other 99% of the world idolizing/obsessing about the Stones. Richards wrote this really sweet section as to why all these bankers and dentists are obsessed: “They imagined me, they made me, the folks out there created this folk hero. Bless their hearts. And I’ll do the best I can to fulfill their needs. They’re wishing me to do things that they can’t. They’ve got to do this job, they’ve got this life, they’re an insurance salesman…but at the same time, inside of them is a raging Keith Richards.”

Sigh.

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.