Anyhow, my ticket has been punched to hop aboard the Snark Train. It’s time exploit an innocent gesture for condescending, comedic effect. My target: legendary musicians.

Just because they’ve touched the hearts of man woman and child, given joy to the dejected, and promoted positive social values doesn’t mean they should be exempt from unmitigated ridicule. Amirite??

Their place in immortality, aside from instrumental and song writing prowess, is often invoked in the form of aphorism, or truism. Let’s take a look at a few.

“All we’re saying is give peace a chance.”
– John Lennon

“Yeah, look where pacifism got me,” the reanimated corpse of Jesus said, pointing to each pustulous, bloody wound.

“What about me?!” moaned Ghandi.

Fine, you attention whore. If you’d bother looking for negative evidence, you’d see that you’re a lucky exception.

- New Zealand aborigine leader Te Whiti-o-Rongomai led a peaceful resistance to colonization, but the British were all like, “LOL, thanks for the land, wusses.”
- That guy standing in front of the tanks during the Tiananmen Square protests right before shit got real.
- Early 20th century Frenchfolk were revolted by nationalism and its ability to whip up war fervor. Non-violence permeated through the country, which practically amounted to dropping trou’ for the Austro-Hungarian forces in World War I.
- Conscientious objectors that fled to Canada are to blame for Vietnam’s failure. It’s true.
- MLK Jr. and John Lennon, both mouthpieces of this philosophy, silenced by bullets.

Let this sort of ignorance be a memento mori, then. Take heart the words of a non-buffoon: The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.

“One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.”
– Bob Marley

Marley wasn’t alive for Sade’s 2000 R&B classic Lover’s Rock. I’ll give him that. But he never had to leave behind someone he loved in a different city because of a career move, crying, snot dripping, shoulders quaking, arms rigid and burning for fear of letting her go. All the while this emotionally taut album is playing in the background, serving as a catalyst and harbinger of ennui, cynicism, and lovelessness.

Casablanca provides a cinematic analogue. Bogart’s character is livid that the pianist is playing “As Time Goes By,” the melody tattooed to his heart by the person he once loved with all his being.

“Of all da weed joints [redundancy unintended] in da world, she ‘ad to come in’ta dees one!” No, no, Marley clearly never had to utter something like that.

Or for a simpler, more visceral example for this Jamaican fallacy, I implore you to stand in front of the metal trio Boris’ amplifier set during one of their gigs. Suffice to say, your ear canals will be teeming with blood and regret.

“It’s better to burn out than fade away.”
– Neil Young

Ah, this one is almost too sexy and cynical to rebut. But hate don’t discriminate.

Kurt Cobain quoted this same line in his suicide letter. More like… “It’s better to walk away from millions of dollars and the adoration of an entire generation…than fade away.” Then again he was married to Courtney Love. Some people just can’t live with that sort of regret.

Only a true genius burns out.

What about James Dean? Ah yes, he’s so handsome, isn’t he? Wait, what did he do again?

Right. As we propel forward into our linear future, hindsight continually obscures Dean’s credentials. He was a movie star, sure, but these days he’s just known for his moping, puppy dawg cuteness. There’s really no difference between ‘born a graphic’ vs. being ‘pornographic.’ He’s merely an image to be consumed and used up. Only the good (looking) die young.

Rebel Without A Cause? Isn’t that, like, a Kid Rock song?

“A really good picture looks as if it’s happened at once. It’s an immediate image. For my own work, when a picture looks labored and overworked, and you can read in it—well, she did this and then she did that, and then she did that—there is something in it that has not got to do with beautiful art to me. And I usually throw these out, though I think very often it takes ten of those over-labored efforts to produce one really beautiful wrist motion that is synchronized with your head and heart, and you have it, and therefore it looks as if it were born in a minute.”
- Helen Frankenthaler

First I’d like to take a look at the image’s negative space. What part of the canvas is untouched? The majority of it. When contrasted with the lively colors (tangerine, magenta, cyan, mustard, and a green-gray-yellow vertical stroke), it lends more presence to the array of colors and even calls attention to its own void. It reminds me of an oft-quoted Rothko statement,”Silence is so accurate.” It’s nothingness is as much a part of the work as its plumage is. This is a tenet that seems wide spread in other works of abstract expressionism.

The colors exhibit both a unity and a individuality. In the image’s holistic perspective, there is a Natural quality. At the center, the intensity of hue reaches its deepest, making it convenient to personify it as the purple blood heart. The two biggest blots are parallel with one another; the two lateral gestures bridged through the sinuous, blue arabesques that dance across the surface. It’s near spiraling qualities at first struck me as being an unsubtle allusion to Spiral Jetty, but then again that only seems to be a testament to how organic Frakenthaler’s gesturing is. It’s the perfect flick and rotation of her wrist that she describes in the prefacing quote.

The individual parts have a distinct, symphonic richness to their bit-identities contributing toward an overall collective.

Yet I also find myself paying loving attention to the picture’s archpelagic qualities, the little fragments broken off from their parent blots, smudges, and streams. This technique serves as a wonderful opportunity to contrast the part to its whole, considering shape and area of each little island, or the fingers extending from the plum smear in the center. It’s easy to get caught up in using oceanic or cartographic words in describing this piece. It projects itself as some sort of map whose territory is only half familiar in its rhythmic eloquence. What about the other unknown half?

…But, there is always a certain beauty in mystery, the things we can’t comprehend.

Perhaps the painting’s only imperfection (in my opinion, of course) is the multi-colored left pillar. It has a dour, sickly quality to its hue, almost like it’s threadbare with age. Isn’t that an expression of honesty, though? There is too much chaos in nature, in life, to dismiss, and I feel that Frankenthaler is making this commentary on natural imperfection an implicit theme here.

Frankenthaler certainly seems to have achieved a string of movements synchronized with her heart. So much so that there seems to be a musical quality to its sensuous curves, the staccato positioning of each color, like notes on a staff of sheet music.

Perhaps I enjoy Untitled, 1995 so much is because of the perceived ease I have in explicating my adoration for it. Tugging out words, groping to use language as a tool on an utterly abstract representation. Her silences, her statements, are all so accurately in tune with the bliss and passion of art.

Most of the people working in the Congressman’s office were in their mid 20s, so The Washington Youth Scene remark was on target, but I realized it hit the bulls-eye when the entire building was evacuated for a fire-drill.

After scanning over the huge crowd, I turned and remarked to my friend and roommate Finch, “Geez, I feel like I’m in college again.” It was on a Friday, during a Congressional Recess, making the whole scene seem even more relaxed with the dress code entailing a lot of denim, tennis shoes, flats, button downs, Spring pastels. Standing en masse in a nearby park, it was as if we had all gathered to see one of those shitty student government run Spring concerts, where Akon or Ryan Cabrera spend an hour boring you till you hear the one song they were unfortunately famous for in the first place.

After the drill was over, we funneled back into the Longworth House Office Building, and everyone scurried into their office to work on policy, or like me, grudgingly have to deal with being yelled out by the public.

But it made me wonder what the net effect of having such a young staff would have on Congress. I don’t really have any clear-cut opinion on the matter. But one thing is for certain, only these affluent, post-graduate types can afford to work in this sort of environment, due to it’s low pay and educational requirements. It provides a unique way of life where an individual may feel that he or she is immediately making an impact on the country because of the efforts they lend to their Congress(wo)man.

However it only served to make me a smidgen more world-weary, where people’s itemized, fleshed-out opinions on issues were simply reduced to a tally in the Pro or Con columns, to be totalled and handed to the Congressman as just a number.

Pragmatism over humanity, though. I suppose that’s just the way things are.

My house is in order. After January 20th, 2009, you may never see me again.

My mortal fear, of course, refers to the estimated 3.5 to 5 million people that will converge upon a square mile patch in Washington DC to bear witness to Barrack Hussein Obama’s presidential inauguration.

Will I be swallowed up by the spiraling swaths of people swarming about, whipped up in a frenzy to contribute to the history of America, of the world? Must I succumb to the fear of a disaster scenario? Will the nation no longer be modified by  ‘post-9/11,’ and instead a ‘post-inauguration America’ if nefarious groups (may they be terrorists, militant racists, or Jehovah’s Witnesses) decide to inject hysteria into the otherwise patriotic gala?

My first precaution is to find a partner to accompany me. Achieving goals is generally facilitated via the buddy system because of mutual motivation and enouragement, like workout partners in a gym, or virgin lunged teenagers that steal a carton of their grandmother’s Virginia Slims.

We’ve come a long way. The Craigs List ads for rent during the week of inauguration have spiked drastically. In fact, my own household briefly considered the idea of renting our home out for a quick thousand dollar fix. Around 2,000,000 people plan to commute to the city via bus. DC dwellers have certainly noticed the extremely convenient repair and modification of metro escalators during peak hours. Hotels are booked all the way out to Pennsylvania, but you can still grab a $75,000 room at the Hyatt in the District. Hey New Orleans and coastal Mississippi, are you guys still using those FEMA trailers?

I hear they’re banning umbrellas. Which makes sense and all…you know, with all those umbrella-guns and potential for spiral-patterned hypnosis. I guess I can swallow my pride and wear one of those hair condoms that I always see the elderly donning under rainy conditions.

However, rain is the least of my concerns. I think there will be many intangibles that will make the experience chaotic and claustrophobic. I can’t remember the last time I was within walking distance of +1,000,000 bodies. Arlington Cemetery may the closest example. But the difference is beating hearts and multiplication by at least 3. Imagine the paradox of body-brushing intimacy, and utter facelessness of the masses streaming by. Unidentifiable scents and sounds. The constant white noise and electric hum of conversation. The sweeping silence passing like a wave through the crowd as Obama raises his hand to stymie applause and begin his opening lines.

I can’t predict how the day will go, but I presume that it will be exhausting, and there is a peripheral black spot of paranoia. I’m praying for the best, and I hope my entry title isn’t as prophetic as its martyred predecessor, Christopher Wallace.

Inauguration day jam, “Come Together,” by Primal Scream:

My first day was nice, especially since I had the pleasure of trash talking a Manchester United fan that sits across from me in the office. Although I did find it funny that when I asked him,”What football club do you support,” he responded using the word “soccer” instead. He has been in America for over 15 years. It’s possible he just substituted the word to adapt culturally, or maybe much like my attempts to speak Spanish to a native speaker, they get embarrassed and reply in English.

A week ago me and my roommates went to the Adams Morgan area of DC (quickly becoming my favorite spot), and went around to different bars. At each one we tended to approach groups of “single-looking” girls, standard social strategy, and it was interesting to note how lethargic their approach to socializing is. One girl told me that her and her friends usually just “Show up and stand around. We don’t really make it a point to meet anyone new, but if it happens, great!” Okay, fine. But I noticed that although the DJ was putting together a pretty sweet dance mix, no one seemed to be taking advantage of it.

Last night we went to The Guards, a bar with  a similar atmosphere of apathy and immobility. After a good number of alcoholic beverages, inhibition of looking awkward on the dancefloor drunk and dulled, I convinced an acquaintance to dance. I was enjoying myself and we danced for a good 3 or 4 songs. But apparently I enjoyed myself too much. “Are you gay?” What? Did she seriously just ask me that? “You just look like you enjoyed yourself a little too much out there.” Damn, people in DC hate having fun! It’s not like I suggested we go to a Cher concert, or mentioned that I love-love-love chaise lounges–oh wait.

Later she retreated to the nap area of the bar, behind the library, to the left of solitaire playing tables, and just before the stairwell of the “Don’t talk to me, I hate enjoying my nights out” designated smoking area.

We can work better with the last element: atmosphere. Each band on this list achieves a certain tonal dreaminess, one that can be narcotic and hypnotizing, or jarring with its sonic textures.

Now, without further ado, let’s crank up our delay pedals, strum some power chords, and stare at our Chuck Taylors!

10. Cocteau Twins – Heaven Or Las Vegas

If you personified Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam into Shoegaze, The Jesus and Mary Chain would be touching the nimble fingers of the Cocteau Twins to form the genesis of the genre. Elisabeth Fraser and Robin Guthrie provide the prototype for singing through a dream. Their vocal melodies float nonchalant in the ether of chiming guitars, bursting with timbrel color. Although this album slows down in the middle, to me it captures the Cocteau Twins at their peak.

Sample: “Heaven or Las Vegas”

9. Catherine Wheel – Ferment

Catherine Wheel had more a traditional pop structure to their sound. A distinct Verse-Chorus-Verse injected with a big hook. Nonetheless, their guitars sounded so enveloping that it’s impossible not to recognize their shoegaze heritage. On this debut album, they emerged at forefront of the scene, their guitars crashing recklessly in defiance of 80s-face-melting-guitar-solo rock. Most of the lyrics put you in an autumnal mood, and melancholy is essential for shoegazing. “The past is so beautiful…”

Sample: “Black Metallic”

8. Kitchens of Distinction – The Death of Cool

Although Kitchens of Distinction are kindred spirits with British post-punk (e.g. The Chameleons; or the fact that lead singer Patrick Fitzgerald sounds like a latter-day Ian Curtis), musically the band has a sound that melts into one entrancing siren song. Some of the guitar riffs can be a bit angular, too acute to be shoegaze. However, there are numerous moments where the delay pedals kick into overdrive and the audience is left with the bliss of pure sound.

Sample: “When In Heaven”

7. Swervedriver – Mezcal Head

It was a push to decide between this album and their debut release, Raise. This one comes off more focused, and like most sophmore releases, the production value is tighter. Their obsession with rollicking, abrasive guitar punches continues, as if Mezcal Head was the soundtrack for a coke-binged outlaw racing at 110 mph through a sparse desert highway. There isn’t much of a trance-like quality to this album because of its aggressiveness, but the robust low-end of the guitars align it with the swell of shoegaze.

Sample: “Duel”

6. The Boo Radley’s – Giant Steps

The only band on the list referencing a literary figure, but the second to reference a classic jazz album. This party of an album from The Boo Radley’s was the bridge between their shoegaze roots and their later pop sensibilities. A suspicious ear will note frequent reggae guitar chops, but will soon be reaffirmed by the numerous feedback freakouts that the Boo Radley’s love so much. The production is a delight, opening up new secrets each time you listen, whispering guitars on cliffs-edge of the left and right channels, and brief orchestral arrangements.

Sample: “Lazarus”

5. Curve – Pubic Fruit

Er…awkward album title. It’s actually a combination of three EPs, each one as strong as the other. Toni Holliday’s vocals recall the airiness of Cocteau Twins, with arrangements of pulsating guitars and bites of feedback and wah wah. One thing that makes this album remarkable is the opening track, “Ten Little Girls,” which features a (lame?) rap from obscure rapper JCool. Similarly, the album relied on programmed beats, further associating itself with the early hip-hop trends of the 90s.

Sample: “Ten Little Girls”

4. Spiritualized – Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space

Forget genre titles, this is simply one of the best albums of the 90s. The title track is one of the strongest album openers ever, with Elvis’ “I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You” lending a hand to the strength of the suspended, arpeggiating melodies. Each track that follows has a new idea to offer; “Come Together” is a raucous, New Orleans blues jam; “I Think I’m In Love” is a drug inspired trip into Jason Pierce’s ego; “Broken Heart” guts you with the intensity of heartbreak; “Cop Shoot Cop” is 17 minutes of chaos, with Pierce once again borrowing from a country legend (John Prine’s line from “Sam Stone” — “Hey man, there’s a hole in my arm where all the money goes / Jesus christ died for nothin’, I suppose”). You’ll have images of stars and comet tails burned into your vision by the end of this masterpiece.

Sample: “Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space”

3. Lush – Split

The Who, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, U2, Run DMC. These band names give no indication of their sound. Lush is not one of those bands. The rich, sensual texture of their music is enhanced due the fact they are simply great at crafting tight pop gems. Miki Berenyi has one of the most distinct female falsetto’s in alt. rock. The songs pack a punch, but at the same time there is something wisping and weightless to the sound, perhaps due to the way guitarist Emma Anderson can sling off memorable guitar hooks like she’s not even trying. This indifference, combined with the overall resignation of sadness makes this album a heartbreaker, but one certainly worth falling for.

Sample: “Light From A Dead Star”

2. My Bloody Valentine – Loveless

I admit, I used to scorn this album because it took forever to grow on me, and I lacked understanding of why it was supposedly brilliant. I remember during my second year at college, in the aftermath of Hurricane Rita, I stepped out onto the second story balcony of my apartment, slipped in my earbuds and decided to give Loveless another go during sunset. “Loomer,” followed by “Touched,” literally made me queasy, as I meditated on the destruction caused by Katrina and Rita. I was immediately amazed at how much the music moved me, even if the emotion was negative. But following these tracks are beautiful songs, like “When You Sleep” or “Sometimes.” Moments of avant garde and accessibility are made malleable and intertwine like a double helix throughout the album. What was once painful for me was its subtlety, but my environment at the time made the record drop like an anvil through a glass ceiling, onto a neatly set dinner table. I had finally comprehended its importance and unique aural experience. It truly is truly an album unsurpassed by many in the breadth of originality, in it’s ability to master and craft a linear tone out of chaos.

Sample: “Sometimes”

1. Slowdive – Souvlaki

There is possibly no better shoegaze song than the track “Machine Gun.” A flanged-out synth drones with alien beauty as Rachel Goswell’s melody caramelizes in sweetness. The double-edged knife of Souvlaki is Goswell and Neil Halstead both prove to be excellent songwriters and vocalists, contributing several moments of pop brilliance over the ethereal landscape of music. No doubt wunder-producer Brian Eno contributes a certain mystique to tracks like “Souvlaki Space Station” with its dub influences and the haunting “Sing,” which overlaps Goswell’s vocal lines into an echo chamber of sweet, slightly scary music. One critique is that the album tries to stray from having a singular vision, and therefore falls victim to being scatterbrained. “Dagger,” has country leanings to it (probably a nod to Halstead’s later alt-country project, Mojave 3), not to mention the Nancy Sinatra/Lee Hazelwood cover “Some Velvet Morning.” Regardless, its quality is undeniable and neither this choice or the previous should come to a surprise to anyone.

Sample: “Allison”

Just missed the cut:
Ride – Nowhere (“Vapour Trail” is a song you must here)
Asobi Seksu – Citrus
The Telescopes – Taste
My Bloody Valentine – Isn’t Anything
The Verve – Northern Soul

It’s somewhat ironic that I’m going to the nation’s capitol, given my political apathy. The consequences of living in the District will either be: I become passionately aligned with one of the parties, or I become even more nauseous amidst the miasma of red and blue.

Why am I apathetic? The most important fact is that I’ve lived with my parents (or subsisted off of them for 4 university years) my entire life. I have very little to feel responsible for and ‘long-term goals’ is an obscure phrase outside of plans to land a job. I’m sure as I become more independent I’ll worry about mortgages, tax cuts, and vice presidents.

Partisanship lends a distaste for politics. More often than not, the maudlin Olbermann’s and Hannity’s of cable television become extremely tiresome in their finger-pointing. Whereas individuals should be held accountable for mistakes, most media outlets shift blame toward broader party lines. Children, children… *insert clucking tongue noise*

A pet peeve of mine is the narrative fallacy. The fallacy is the “need to fit a story or pattern to a series of connected or disconnected facts.” In McCain or Obama’s speeches (or BO’s two books) each candidate outlined poignant anecdotes on why they should be given responsibility of the country, crafting metaphors and empathetic devices to sway the audience. It’s dangerous to lend too much credibility to speeches and mantras. The oversimplification of actual ideas and predilection for woven narratives over actual truths makes me wary to become affiliated with either party. Metaphors and tales are (sadly) more fulfilling than ideas, and are much easier to remember.

In a broader sense, I think that political involvement has become a lifestyle choice rather than a “duty,” as voting is viewed by many members of the older generations. Generation Y has seen an increase in the individual’s voice, or at least a split into more minority groups. There is an ever-increasing pastiche in our sedentary lifestyle and hobbies. I have this blog, and can give my opinion on whatever I want. Why should I waste time on being a whisper of a vote?

And finally, all politicians have questionable personalities/motives. What sort of ego does it require to believe controlling a world super power is manifest destiny? Trust issues. Bad for any relationship.

Don’t wake me up when September ends. I’m gonna hit the snooze button on through November.

But rather than get caught up in the excitement of where blue-chip athletes end up, I’m more amused at the success of these companies and their ability to promote their own sense of importance. Fan bases of perennial recruiting powerhouses such as USC, Ohio State, LSU, Florida, etc. seem to reach a rhapsodic frenzy as the newest bit of information is released on recruits that their team has offered a scholarship.

Rivals Top 250 tight end Gibril Jacobson has declared a leader in the recruitment process. Click here to find out more! Don’t have an account? No problem, sign up for a free week and then we’ll charge you 25 dollars a month to give you misleading article titles where nothing of substance is given. In this blurb, Gibril tells us why he prefers snacking on celery and peanut butter rather than Funions. The University of Texas is mentioned in passing, so we took that scrap, and sensationalized the hell out of it!

It’s also sad to see the recruits themselves play the game, enamored with their newly imbued celebrity status. Luther Davis, a defensive end from West Monroe, La., loved giving quotes in support of multiple universities, committed to LSU, continued to make campus visits, de-committed, and then committed to the University of Alabama. While I don’t personally hold a grudge against him, there are plenty that do, and it’s due to the mass media and its ability to turn a 17 year old kid into a commodity.

Or take Kevin Hart, an offensive lineman from a small Nevada town. On `National Signing Day` (did this phrase exist in such prevalence ten years ago?), in front of a packed auditorium filled with students, families and friends, Hart had two hats, Cal and Oregon, set in front him. He chose Cal.

“They really won me over,” Hart told the audience. “Coach Tedford and I talked a lot, and the fact that the head coach did most of the recruiting of me kind of gave me the real personal experience.” But the problem? Cal didn’t offer him a scholarship. Neither did Oregon. No one had! Obviously the guy was keenly aware of his ability to create a spectacle over recruiting.

Prospective high school athletes have become a commodity fetish. There now exists a second, mythical national championship, where morale is boosted if a school finishes #1 in recruiting. Fans hunger for as many “5 Star” players as possible, so that they may claim another form of dominance over other teams. Except it doesn’t happen on the field, it happens through a formula that ranks the total quality points a university may accumulate through its commitments. It’s a shallow victory on the grounds of mere potential.

In a latent, Freudian world, there is something uncomfortably pedophilic about grown men researching a junior’s 40 yard dash time, stalking his MySpace for any clue of which school he’s ‘leaning’ toward, or even prying into the status of his academic standing. These kids still have to worry about tucking in their school uniform shirt, knowing why the Election of 1824 was important, mowing their lawn on the weekend, picking a Homecoming date.

I have somewhat of a dystopian view of the world. It’s my fear that in 15-20 years, kids in the peewee football leagues will be names in a recruiting database. Not only that, but fantasy football, another confounding development in the spectacle of sports, will combine with recruiting.

“Dude, did you hear little Jimmy Wilkins had 15 rushes for 164 yards and 3 touchdowns? Picked up 88 points in the fantasy league. He DOMINATED the Huddlefield Tiny Tornadoes! I’m nervous about next weekend, though. They play Dellwood Panther Cubs, and their ‘run D’ is STOUT. I’m just hope his commitment to Oklahoma will stay solid for the next 12 years.”

I don’t think Rivals or Scout will let up. They have turned high school kids into a product, sending out illusory waves of enthusiasm to fan bases. Should I worry about this too much, or just let it go and post pictures of Tiger Stadium on Reuben Randle’s MySpace?

In the midst of driving between different stores I listened to Burial’s Untrue, an album released at the tail-end of 2007. [album cover]

Recently in the world of London’s burgeoning grime and garage musics scenes, dubstep has emerged as the genre du jour. Rhythmically, dubstep relies on 2-step beats, meaning pop music’s ubiquitous 4/4 or 3/4 time stamps are no where to be found. Beats are skipped, bars repeated. But above all, the genre is about tone and moodiness. Stark, lonely soundscapes seem to be a benchmark for its composers.

After Untrue‘s intro, “Archangel” reveals the pattern to be repeated throughout the album: warped and warbled vocal samples, repeating melancholy phrases like `holding you, good at being alone,` the lines echoing like a lonely confession across a vast, empty abyss. The following track (“Near Dark“) stays the course, the mysterious vocal sample repeating `I envied you. I can’t take my eyes off you.`

These fragments of melodic prose yanked from songs in medias res invoke a sort of immediate drama like that of Roy Lichtenstein’s single frame comic strips:

Minor keys permeate the album, and that’s not to say this singular vision of tone and atmosphere become stale or trite at any point. It’s quite the opposite. Burial, at the time of Untrue‘s release, was an anonymous musician, the invisibility a charm, like other heroes of musical obscurity, a la Jandek or Astrobotnia. The album, then, comes off as an artist’s secret, unique vision, a 50 minute vignette of gloomy, overcast London, passing by slums spangled with graffiti and decay, catching glances, hearing intimate, scattershot details along the way, tiny metallic rings and bells chiming softly somewhere in the distance. The sound of rain pattering on a window, or the hollow resonance of an empty tube station. It’s an album afraid of loneliness, asking not for pity or solutions but, like anyone with a problem, for you simply to listen.

Similar to it’s brooding, cerebral ancestor, …Endtroducing, the album is a total experience, not a thin collection of singles. Its confused dance rhythms, waves of dark synths, hazy sense of half-dreams, and reverb-laden vocals make it alluring, like the soundtrack to a dancehall full of shadows and specters.

Driving back home, past the wind-whipped palm trees lining the shopping center, it started drizzling. I turned down county road 31 where the supplanted tropics gave way to native evergreens, tall and foreboding. The poetically titled two minute track “In McDonalds” came on. In its short span it revealed a deep sadness, a sadness akin to to adding M&Ms to a McFlurry or asking some 8-year-old brat named Skylar or Cindi-with-an-”i” what kind of sauce they want with their ‘Nuggets. Hell, it was depressing enough for Burial just to be there, I didn’t want to imagine working there.

Must ..f-…find a…real…job

I got home, and a friend alerted me that Banksy, a London guerilla graffiti artist in the same identity-unknown vein of Burial, had marked some of his work on buildings in New Orleans. Awesome!

Cinematography

Cinematography is probably my favorite component of film. There are many aspects to it, but we can narrow them down to camera movement, light/darkness gradients, and focal length. When a director has a distinct vision, he needs someone manning the camera with a deft understanding of what should encompass the scene. Behind most great movies is a great cinematographer. Take for instance the brilliance of cinematographer Vittorio Storaro in Apocalypse Now. From the opening set piece of napalm exploding in sequence across a strip of shoreline, the viewer is primed for a visual treat. Traveling down Vietnam’s heart of darkness, images of shadows, death, and blackness are creatively recorded in moments of fluid, visual poetry.

Although you don’t always need elaborate, stylized shots to impress. Take for instance a filmmaker like Hitchcock or Antonioni who seem to use the camera’s eye as an organic extension of their vision. Many of their scenes seem relatively simple in technique, but with close attention to camera movement, they embody a rhythmic beauty.

Narrative

Everyone loves a good storyteller, and I think most directors would align themselves with that very epithet. I’ve recently enjoyed the practice of ignoring plot descriptions and movie trailers because I want no expectations or premonitions before I see the movie. If you already have an idea of what the movie is about (and let’s face it, most previews today reveal half of the plot), then you miss out on the magic of immersing yourself blindly into a work of art. Knowing parts of the story subconsciously sets your brain in motion to form a logical path of where the film might go. Trust me, it’s much better to be lost and then found. I’d say my favorite script writers are the Coen Brothers. Their dialogue is sharp and funny, and the motifs of the film usually take days to untangle themselves into conscious extrapolations. The more confusing, the better, I say.

Character

I was tempted to put “Acting,” but I’m interested in character details more than the delivery of lines or the finer points of method acting. I like the abnormalities inherent in the protagonist of each film. Take Holly Hunter in The Piano (pictured opposite Harvey Keitel above). She had no on-screen dialogue, as she played mute piano prodigy. Yet the audience is swayed with great emotion to sympathize with her throughout the movie. I love that we can universally identify with the quirky or bizarre parts of human personality. There seems to be a communal bond in these endearing flaws. When the audience recognizes eccentricities, it’s because we recognize them in ourselves. Just look at how popular Napoleon Dynamite was. It’s nice to know we’re not so normal after all.

Music

One name that immediately comes to mind is Ennio Morricone. The first time I heard “Per Qualche Dollaro in Piu (Sequence 2)” from Sergio Leone’s For A Few Dollars More the hair on my arms stood taut. Sometimes a score composer perfectly encapsulates the tone of a film and translates that raw feeling through the bliss of melody and orchestral arrangement. Morricone was a master of this. Music is a universal language; there is no need for a secondary source to understand its effect. Like film itself, music is a form of transcendence, and when paralleled with the ambiance of the scenes, music can enhance the flux of emotion we experience.

Travel

There is probably no other metaphor used more than Travel. Through the phenomena of art, we go to another place, a figurative journey, in which there is a beginning and end. In a more literal sense, we enjoy the locales that are fleshed out in the films we see. Buñuel’s Belle du Jour (screen cap above) springs to mind because of how well he portrays Paris and its beauty in the fall months. Everything is cold and on the cusp of dying, yet you never lose a sense of fashion, baroque architecture, and even Parisian romance, despite the film being about fetish and prostitution. Film can be a holistic experience, opening you to new cultures. Who needs to go to Rome when you can just watch La Dolce Vita? I seriously doubt anyone ever wants to go to North Dakota. Just watch Fargo instead, it’s much more entertaining that anything the state itself could hope to be.