The dutty wine is one of the world`s most subtly erotic dances.
—oh my god rapgenius go to hell
—oh my god rapgenius go to hell
Tumbling Tumbleweeds, a song by Slim Whitman on Spotify.
Ugh, this day.
The Sopranos (HBO): Closing Credit Songs, a playlist by ulyssestone on Spotify.
Never watched The Sopranos, but here’s a playlist someone made with all the episode-closing songs.
And do an excellent job! Glenn McDonald, who organizes Pazz and Jop stats and just did an amazing genre mapping/visualization project, has been putting together algorithmic genre stations on Rdio for everything from Urban Contemporary to Throat Singing. This is his teen pop channel, and it’s a good ‘un, especially for anyone curious as to how one who wrote a big 2000-2006 retrospective might organize a post-2007 teen pop mix (which I’ve thought about doing).
Shoot, my friend was telling me about the genre map, and I was thinking of something else. Stuck in German pop for the next hour.
Lost Soul was originally a series of albums I put together at CBS Records in the “80s that cobbled together truly inspired CBS label singles that sadly missed their commercial mark. The Lost Soul concept
Oh hey Peter Guralnick has a Tumblr.
Today was Game 6, but a good friend had tickets for Ariel Pink, and he invited me ages ago. I disappeared for long stretches to buy beers from the furthest bar at the venue, because the TVs were there. He got tired, so we split early and I got home in time to watch the last minute and a half with Cat.
A brutal end. San Antonio ran out of gas — Parker in particular — but because the Heat were so hyper-aware on D, the spacing was fucked and Tony had to loft jumper after gassed jumper. Overtime seemed like a foregone conclusion, but both teams were flashing E. Just enough hope to make Bosh’s game-saving blocks even more crushing.
Just 10 minutes before the end, I was anticipating a Spurs win. The plan was to join my friend Chad at a bar down south; we’d clink bottles and celebrate, I’d read the post mortems, I’d put something silly on the jukebox. I called him at that point, but it went to voicemail. He called back after the game; I let it go. I was sapped. No wallowing out of home.
I did call him back to make plans for Thursday. Cat had switched the TV back to Supernatural — she’s catching up furiously — and after we hung up, I took some short draws on my cigarette and stared at the streetlamps across the way. I’d had a few tallboys at the club, and Cat had found me a warm Bud Ice during overtime. I slipped on my headphones and called up Kate Miller-Heidke’s “I’ll Change Your Mind”. It’s kinda ruled my summer. A perfect pop-rock tune about knowing and not knowing and hope and fearful anticipating with some tear-summoning multi-Kate harmonies. (The video is pretty awful, but oh well.)
And I rode this moment of warm-air bliss, staring at the streetlamp against the church down the road until everything lost focus. I felt fine. The Heat could win Thursday. And I could forget it immediately. It doesn’t affect me. Miller-Heidke could be my 2013. Or Sevyn Streeter. Or Brutal Juice (new album!). I can process Kanye, deal with the album, file it away. There’s nothing that says I have to reckon with him, have to act like he’s some cryptographical touchstone to understanding life (or even music, or even pop, or even hip-hop) in 2013. I’m no less of a writer or thinker or anything for kicking Yeezus into some memory hole. The world’s too big for someone to lead it. There’s too much energy for one person to direct it. And the list of people who could consume my thoughts is — ought to be — vanishingly short, and limited to those who can actually talk to me. I had an idea to approach the record — an idea presented by a woman I know who’s working through her own thoughts about Kanye and hip-hop and (ugh) the Illuminati — something that would get me back into the freelance game, but I think I’m going to give everyone a gift and sit on it. Even if it could be something, I’ll try my comeback another way.
I wanna have fun.
Oh my goodness Linda Jones is it.
I love doing comedy in London. English people are very big fans of comedy, and my dark, dry and sardonic brand of jokey jokes seem to do very well over here. I love the audiences. I love the lack of a creeping political correctness that seems to be over-saturating American culture in the past ten…
A London “comedy” night that is basically a financial scam and an opportunity for a wanker to amplify his bigotry with a microphone. I think ihavecake and I have been flyered for this while out near Leicester Square. The lack of act names specified in the pitch and on the flyers made it seem well dodgy. Clearly it was!
Right up my alley. The OP is worth reading in its entirety.