Blogging on Meds

This is rich. Apparently, Bjork’s music might cause a revolution:

Foreign entertainers who have taken part in activities that China deems a threat to its sovereignty will not be allowed to perform here, according to new rules posted Thursday on the Web site of the Ministry of Culture.

…

The rules on performers may have come about after an outburst in March by Bjork, the popular Icelandic singer. She used a concert in Shanghai to advocate Tibetan independence. She shouted “Tibet! Tibet!” after performing “Declare Independence,” a song from her 2007 album, “Volta.” The outcry drew sharp criticism from Chinese Internet users and praise from international supporters of an independent Tibet.

AP

Aww how cute Ms. Feist was on Sesame Street to share her death chant with all the earth’s annoying little children. The Pixar loving little shits that ruin my brunch by spazzing around and throwing shit while their passive aggro parents have a defeated look on their faces and just sigh. Said parents might even mumble and inaudible “Don’t do that Belle” or “Sebastian please sit down” but the indie-babies / children don’t give a fuck, from the moment they dawned a Motorhead onesie they knew they had the upperhand.

I don’t like children, specifically your children. The ones that crash into me while I’m on a mission to buy alcohol, records or clothes. The ones wizzing by with a cocky smirk spinning the wheels of their fucking Heelys. The one’s who have parents that just pretend you aren’t there rather than reprimanding their children or apologizing for them.

If you have a child and make me interact with it I’ll be polite. I might even enjoy it in small does but if I am trying to go about my adult or semi-adult life and have to be around throngs of children after I’ve tried so hard to hide from them (I can count the minutes I’ve spent in Park Slope BKLYN) I am going to start taking action. The cute stories and pictures you share with me about your child are actually amusing, I like cute things but they have a shelf life. My cell phone is actually a digital tribute to the wacky hi-jinx my cat Raleigh gets into. He sleeps on top of the oven, he poses for pictures, has a piercing meow which is captured on video and he’s cute. The difference is that since he’s a cat it’s all he’ll ever do. When he does something remotely smart it’s always entertaining because he’s a fucking cat, he’s stupid as shit, he’s not going to grow up, learn how to talk and become a politician. I don’t need to see every shitty thing your sucky kid does because at some point you’ll hate that kid and not want to show me shit about them. You aren’t going to show me a picture of the bong in their dorm or the chick they had Bud Light Sex with but I will never tire of my cat, he’s a perpetual kitten. He’ll be talking to me in Siamese when you’re bailing Britt out of jail for possession.

Your children are cute and funny but they don’t need to be little versions of you. They don’t need to wear Ramones shirts, your babies and little adults don’t even like the fucking Ramones. If they are such Ramones fans can they even name the members, hint they are on the fucking shirt…whoops they can’t read. They are reacting to noise, they would do the fucking baby dance (see video then continue) to Skrewdriver, GG Allin or Raffi and they should be doing it to Raffi.

Children shouldn’t be cool. The only tattooed arms pushing strollers should be owned by Bikers not Graphic Designers. They should be breaking shit in the woods not in a hipster park where dudes have hangovers or just shot Ron. They should be named after Michael Jordan not Conor Oberst, they should be wearing Sponge Bob the Builder gear not Baby BAPE and BABY/DC shirts. If you try to make your children cool you have a big surprise coming. These kids are used to not being scolded, not respecting anything and having semi-business hippie post-hipster green parents. Bingo dipshit, picture American Psycho crossed with Alex P Keaton on the best cocaine money can buy and that is who is going to push you around in a carriage, I mean wheelchair long after your Wilco CDRs have stopped spinning.

Lastly, if you’re going to bring your child to a musical event cover his or her fucking ears. There are ear plugs made specifically for your shitty kid. It sucks watching your kid baby mosh to music but at least ensure they won’t have hearing loss before they can tie their shoes. Maybe these kids don’t listen because your dumb ass made them deaf with a steady diet of Arcade Fire while you changed their shitty diapers and loud free outdoor concerts. If you are somewhere that the baby mosh/dance is happening you have to access the situation quickly and react.

Are you in the wrong place or is the baby in the wrong place?

Example  - Baby spotted dancing at My Morning Jacket show while you and your bud pull out a device used for smoking marijuana.

Verdict : What did you expect you fucking indie hippie? Go somewhere away from the baby get high and shame on you for being at the concert in the first place you deserve to be there. Your second option is to leave the venue and leave that life behind, in this case you are getting your head right and I owe you a beer.

Example - Baby doing the baby mosh in a club to High on Fire with Nigel Hipster Parents.

Verdict : You are legally* allowed to put a cigarette out on the father’s forehead and douse the wound out with PBR. You should get security and have the baby taken into child custody. High on Fire are boring and not good anymore but you did nothing wrong other than liking Sleep and trying to pretend HOF are “pretty damn good!”.

*This is only legal by my rules which the United States doesn’t recognize as actual law.

Breaking the law at Beatrice

Did you know you can only legally dance at 181 places in New York City? Yup, the lamest and most violated law ever (besides pot’s illegal status) may finally end. Mayor Bloomberg’s office is moving to reverse the 1926 Cabaret Law that requires any venue with “more than three people dancing” to have a permit, called a cabaret license, of which there are less than 200.

In a city with 10,000 bars and 8 million insane horn-dogs, dancing’s illegality always made zero sense. Let’s all get drunk at 3am and…stand around staring at each other or talking about nothing. Drunken convos are so overrated. Of course, it was only after Rudy G’s “Quality of Life” campaign that the Cabaret Law started being enforced.

Cheers to Bloomberg! The end of the Cabaret Law would offer many more DJ gigs and cut down your pointless drunk conversations by at least 60%. Soon, I may never have to hear about the company or magazine or “eco-friendly sustainable co-op” you’re (not) starting—I’ll be able to just dance away.

Via NYDN:

“We either want to eliminate the license or establish a different license so that it would be less onerous for people to engage in dancing,” said a source close to the mayor.

The 82-year-old license “as it exists doesn’t offer a reasonable opportunity for New Yorkers to dance at clubs,” the City Hall source said.

As the 1926 law stands, three or more people can’t dance unless a bar or restaurant has a cabaret license - even if music and liquor are allowed.

There are 181 licensed cabarets in New York, according to Consumer Affairs, and most are limited to techno-thumping clubs in Manhattan.

But dancers have long complained the license process squeezes out small venues that might offer swing and salsa and even sued the city last year to reverse its Prohibition-era ban on social dancing.

The text on this 5O record could easily be changed to “Go-Go Boy Gay Party.” Whereas this picture of Mr West at Fashion Week in Paris shows a well dressed guy about to go drink champagne and suck pussy.

There’s a rap war brewing between the “tight clothes”-ers and the baggy set. In short, the baggy crew is saying tight clothes trend is too gay and must be stopped. Here’s some XXL blogger:

Hip-Hop had already been on a creative downswing for more than 10 years now. Certainly, the fact that mofos are walking around wearing purses and tight-ass pants showing off their nuts was a sign that hip-hop had crossed some sort of threshold into complete and utter teh gheyness.

While I love the colorful language above, he’s wrong. Sure, rap’s not in its 94-97 glory days, but “creative downswing” is incorrect. In fact, more rap is being recorded now than ever. The music industry’s shrinking profits have led to more output not less. Producers, hungrier than ever, are taking the sound to new and exciting places—the rise of the South has added so many new soul, funk, and r and b infusions.

Secondly, saying guys who are comfortable enough in their sexuality to where tight clothes are gay forgets just how homo-erotic rappers like, say, 50 Cent are. With their shirts off and glistening muscles, their album covers look like gay club flyers.

Verdict? Clothes don’t make music, people do, and worrying about fashion is a waste of time.

Tipped off to us by designer and internationally known superstar, Delirous Hook and posted on The Music Slut. Download the MP3 from a past post here.

It’s a visibly more complex production and surely more expensive than past Verve/Richard Ashcroft videos (excluding the early DIY ones) which often focused on Richard performing a mundane routine (usually just walking around or sitting in a chair) for 90% of the video, with the band stopping just in time for the endtro. That’s standard British rock star music video swagger - where just being there and looking like you don’t want to be makes your aura of cool authentic. Though it may be effective in England, it doesn’t get you shit in the USA. You’ve gotta play “horrorcore” while jumping around literally wearing clown masks to make a record go platinum here.

So will the release of a new record, a new song, a new video and a new swagger help The Verve make it big this time in a place where lesser bands of a similar genre like Snow Patrol or Coldplay are huge?

An Appreciation of A Rod (No Homo) 

A Rod is the best worst guy ever, and I was always pretty sure he was gay. (What straight 30-yr-old man do you know who likes Madonna, would invite Jeter for sleepovers, sunbathes in just jean short shortz in the Ramble, or has frosted tips?) But ever since US Weekly broke the Madg-Rod story, a parade of strippers, strip clubs, swinger clubs, and one night stands have come to light. A Rod sounds like a world class scode. Now I have my doubts. Is A Rod really hetero?

Meanwhile, dude is hitting 320 with 18 jacks and 50 RBI despite missing like a month of the season. Or, he’s gonna win MVP—again. All while in the middle of the biggest sports-tabloid divorce ever. 

As a Red Sox fan, I’m predisposed to hate A Rod. But since Yankee fans have never really taken to him and he’s never really beat the Sox, I secretly enjoy watching him play. Last year I caught a dozen games during his legendary first half when every other at bat he hit a homer. I hate to say it, but it was f–king awesome. Bad haircut and all, the guy is the best I’ve ever seen besides Bonds*. 

US Weekly just released more reportage:

“He kept smiling, acting as if he was a little kid,” the dinner companion tells Us Weekly in its latest issue, on newsstands now. “He told me it was Madonna,” A-Rod’s friend says. “I was shocked.” The highest-paid player in baseball then “proceeded to say he was in love with her,” the pal tells Us. “I thought he was kidding, but he wasn’t.” By February, the 32-year-old slugger had upped the ante. “He said, ‘She’s my f–king soul mate, dude.’”

Awesome…shot by Uwe Duettmann and designed for cover-readiness by Stephen Kennedy (for Studio Fury) via Ben Verlinde, the fascist design king of 14th St.

this is … the remix

This joint is perfect.  “Dollar Bill Y’all” sample, DOPE bass line, simple hard spittin’.  Straight old time perfection.  This just started getting play in the A, I guess it’s been around New York for a minute.  Once upon a time Maino caught a charge on some weight/kidnapping shit, got locked up for a decade (yes, a decade), missed 2Pac, Biggie, Rodney King, OJ, and Seinfeld, spent a bunch of time in solitary and made himself into a MC.  Then he got out, kicked around for a few years, started running with Lil Kim and got some buzz little by little.

To me he’s a New York Shawty Lo (which is the highest praise I can give — and he’s on the Dey Know NYC remix).  He’s not trippin’ on some complex flow, he just go hard with swag.  And unlike every other rapper up there, he makes music that LADIES can feel.  You remember girls, NY?  They don’t download mixtapes and they don’t care if Saigon or Papoose is better.  They like to dance.  Y’all can talk all you want about how G Rap got a raw deal, but I never heard one beezy trippin’ on him.  Matter of fact, instead of bitching about how only “ringtone artists” make money these days, keep your girl in mind and see what happens.

Go back all through rap history, there ain’t a single big time rapper that didn’t get love from the girls.  The first rap superstar wasn’t “Ladies Love” for nothing.  Pac was the biggest rapper ever, and he still gets more love than all today’s NY rappers combined.  LL and Pac were just pretty boys?  Well Biggie was ugly as shit and he still had girls falling over for him.  Why was Tribe the only big time ”alternative” rap group ever?  Do you have any IDEA how much girls love Q-Tip?  The man has a license to print pussy.  Hi haters.  At some point you can kiss-kiss so much that you lose the fellas, which is like trying to be president without the white vote.  Just ask LL or Ja Rule.

Oh no he didn’t—A-Rod slapping away in the ALCS 04. When she was hot: Madonna before she started looking like an alien.

Gross!!! The two worst people in world history, Madonna and A-Rod, are f–king, says US Weekly:

Us Weekly reports in its new issue, on newsstands tomorrow, that Madonna’s seven-year marriage to Guy Ritchie has stalled out –and the singer has been hosting late-night visits from New York Yankee Alex Rodriguez at her Central Park West apartment in New York City.

I will give Mr Rod some credit for being such a scumbag. Very Dimaggio, only Joltin Joe got Marylin when she was a hottie. I can’t wait to hear the crowd at Fenway dissing A-Rod on this one…

When I visited the area around Peshawar in 2006 there were lots of potheads who loved folk music but no Taliban arguing how to excecute “spies.”

Peshawar, a Pakistani city of a million that sits on the Grand Trunk Road between Islamabad and Kabul, has been in the news recently. In short, the Pakistani Taliban have moved into surrounding areas and seem to be ready to assault the city. The Pakistani Army responded this weekend by shelling the militants.

Peshawar is the capital of North West Frontier Province, areas I visited in 2006. One of the major Nu Taliban hubs is Mardan, a small city that I went to when it was Taliban-free. From Mardan, I traveled 15 miles northwest to spend a few days in a small village called Khatti Garri. There, I found much Taliban sympathy, but no blatant sign that militant Islam would so quickly infiltrate the area.

Below is my journal from the trip. It offers a unique perspective on the people who live in what has become a Taliban hotbed. I found the Pushtu or Pathan (both words can be used, though I like the way the latter sounds better) people of NWFP to be funny, open-minded, and hospitable—and insane potheads, worse than Jamaican Rastas. I even went to a DIY folk concert. 

March 2006, Pakistan.

We’re on the road before sunrise. My childhood friend Zaryan, whose family I was visiting in Pakistan, are heading to North West Frontier Province, Pakistan’s untamed badlands. Driving us is Ijazz, a bulky, bearded 27-year-old who works as a driver for Zaryan’s family’s house. Zaryan convinced him to take us to his village of Katti Garri, two hours north of Peshawar, NWFP’s capital.  

From Islamabad, we drive an hour on an express highway before jumping on the famed Grand Trunk Road, a four-lane road crowded with flashy painted buses. A sign: Welcome to the North West Frontier Province, Peace Be Upon You. The 25-plus million who live in NWFP are of the same Pathan or Pashtun ethnic group that populates Afghanistan’s eastern flank. The province is among earth’s most untamed landscapes—a dangerous place of tribes and terrorists, smuggling and war, where kidnapping, rape, guns, honor killing, Sharia law, and drugs proliferate.

On Peshawar’s dusty, chrome-sky outskirts, we pass a bus station where 60 twisted black charred bus hulks sat, remnants of Danish cartoon violence (some Danish paper had run an illustration of the Prophet with a bomb as turban) looking like the aftermath of a firestorm. I beg Ijazz to stop, but he has a schedule: His wife, who he hadn’t seen in two weeks, expects him home by noon. Just before entering central Peshawar, we turn north.

An hour passes before we hit Mardan, a rough trade hub. Its main drag bustles. People throng around open-air stalls. Bbq grilles are next to bootleg DVDs stands. We sped by the town’s finest building, a white walled, 70-ft green-domed Mosque. I’d read stories in Dawn newspaper about marauding kidnapping gangs taking hostages for ransom and terrorizing Mardan. Unlike in Peshawar, I did not beg Ijazz to stop.

Ijazz soon veers off the main road to a series of one-lane paved and unpaved tracks that wind through rice fields and past stone house conglomerates. Ijazz calls these “mini-villages.” Few cars are on the road. Occasionally, we roar past a beat-up egg shaped bus or an old truck stacked with too much cargo overflowing with people hanging on the sides, back, and roof. I see no women on the streets, but do see a lot of men riding black bikes that looked like beach cruisers with colorful plastic beads attached to the spokes—the wheels whirling rainbows.

“We’re almost there,” Ijazz announces with pride. He drives with caution along the dirt road approach to his hometown.

The village of Katti Garri lies on a riverbank in the middle of an arid plain, though hovering nearby are a few small, chunky brown mountains that looked like rock candy. Some 4,000 people live in the village, all in slate and/or brick houses. Wood is a luxury in resource-starved Pakistan, and trees scarce across the surrounding flatlands.

After parking, Zaryan, Ijazz, and I walk on muddy roads barely wide enough for a car. Red, black, and green flags flutter above buildings, all slate and brick with few windows. “There is no police force here,” Ijazz says. “In Katti Garri Islam is law.”

After jump, hash fiends dominate NWFP youth culture.

(more…)

At Glasto last night: ’chard Ashcroft posing like only a Brit-pop frontman can, Godlike. The Sunday line-up for V Fest in B-more features Lil Wayne, Kanye West, and Bob Dylan.

The video Anthony posted of our New York boy Jigga dissing at Oasis at Glasto by performing “Wonderwall” with a guitar reminded me that the UK still runs the best fests, despite the glut of festivals here in recent years (Coachello, Boner-roo, and Lolla just don’t cut it). Better yet, Jigga at Glasto was front page news across the UK, something no festival could do here. The most emailed stories at every Brit paper (Independent, Guardian, Times etc) were Jigga-praise tales. The Guardian review closed with: “What does it all mean, maan?: Hip hop is RIGHT for Glastonbury. Times have changed Mr Gallagher.”

And the most emailed in all of the UK (pop 60 million): “A Glasto Legend is Born,” claims the Independent:

His name on the bill sparked the type of controversy that rarely surrounds Glastonbury Festival. A hip-hop act isn’t what the traditional field-dwellers have come to expect, and even Noel Gallagher, a god in these parts, decried his inclusion.

But last night Jay-Z took the Oasis star’s criticism and turned it into one of the great Glastonbury moments. Taking to the stage flanked by guitarists and in front of a Union Jack backdrop, the rapper led the sizeable crowd in a sing- along of “Wonderwall”.

It was a moment that will surely go down in festival folklore. But the rest of his set was also impressive, although at times it felt more like a Barack Obama rally than a festival gig.

The Guardian ran a funny, great Verve review, actually addressing (Oasis vs Verve) issues John raised last week:

Where and when: Pyramid stage, Sunday, 10.25pm

Dress code: Manc cool. Richard Ashworth looks slinky in a leather jacket and sunglasses.

In a nutshell: “Shout out to Jay-Z,” says Verve frontman Richard Ashcroft, in bullish good form, “but tonight it’s rock’n'roll.” It’s a promise that the Manchester braggards more than uphold. Moving from the psychedelic swirl of Rolling People to the cathartic, classic pop of Sonnet and Lucky Man, Ashcroft and co delight old fans and surprise some who thought they weren’t up to the challenge of their Pyramid stage headline slot. “We’d like to thank Emily Eavis,” says Ashcroft. “I hope Dad realised why she booked us now. I think he was worried we wouldn’t be as good as Keane.” After this performance, which ends with the fantastic hedonism of Love is Noise, even bessie mates Oasis should be looking over their shoulder.

Who’s watching: Lads looking for an anthemic sing-along and the chance to cuddle their mates without embarrassment.

High point: A dead heat between the acoustic majesty of The Drugs Don’t Work and the celebratory swagger of Bittersweet Symphony.

Low point: Too many protracted wig-outs turn the muscular Verve flabby

Mark out of 10: 8

What does it all mean, maan?: Carlsberg still tastes ok with man-tears in it

How do you beat 80,000 people standing in a field sorted out for E’s and wizz?

There is one American festival this summer that may live up to the hype. On Day 2 of the V Fest in Baltimore—August 10th—Kanye West and Lil Wayne perform alongside Bob Dylan (and BRMC). Weezy and West are the two biggest solo artists in America right now. Dylan is the biggest solo artist in America ever. If late-60s America was all about not having to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows, then the late 00s are all about George Bush not caring about black people. About a Namish quagmire in Iraq. About a Hurricane named Katrina. About a time when people had the audacity to hope in the wake of said hurricane and tragic war that change was possible. About a moment from which Barack Obama rose.

Millions of hippies hate Kanye for performing at 430am (after originally being scheduled of 8pm) at Boner-roo, but his set lead every single review of the festival (NYT, WaPost, AP, Rolling Stone, SPIN). As in, the first sentence was Kanye. So he effectively stole the show—and the headlines. Having seen Kanye perform last May, I can attest that he transcends rap.

For Wayne, the Baltimore show is his biggest of the summer. You know, the same summer where his record sold a million copies in one week, the same week he had the number one single, ringtone, and download. The summer he won the BET viewers choice award. Look for a Dylan at Newport type performance.

I don’t care as much about Dylan, but just to see him on the same stage is going to be fun.

Last night Jigga headlined the biggest greenfield music festival in the world and decided that he’d start by responding to the irrelevant and bloated Noel Gallagher for saying that brothers shouldn’t be rapping at this storied fest.

First video footage of Noel’s remarks dissing Jay lit up the greens and then Hova rolled out with a shit eating Joe Camel grin “playing a guitar” (in the same way Weezy plays a guitar) doing his rendition of the Oasis hit Wonderwall. He was off-key and smirking but it was a nice fuck you and tribute. I ended up at a party above the Spotted Pig about 2.5 years ago that was essentially an empty living room with 5 record executives, 20 white chicks, two sistahs and Jigga. I guess it was to celebrate something, we shouldn’t have been there but myself, Karaoke Ryan and Galle® ended up at this private party where Jigga was putting on a clinic, dancing with chubby white chicks, leading the Electric Slide and playing favorites from his iPod including Coldplay, Phil Collins, and Amy Winehouse , complete with waving his finger that looked like a black tree branch for the “No No No” refrain and also rapping over his own songs to the small crowd. He also dropped his own verse over Mims’ This Is Why I’m Hot, my white brain couldn’t believe that I was seeing Jigga spitting in front of me, literally spitting on white dudes as he rambled and flowed.

I did my best to hide the Michael Mann-esque light my cell phone emits mid-text messaging but I had to fire off the details of this encounter to at least have a breakdown of what I was seeing if vodka and piff clouded my recollection the next day. There was one moment of struggle that night; in my head I’m an honorary member of Dipset since I’ve chosen to side with them over 50’s Vitamin Water empire. I felt slightly guilty for being there since Cam’s diss of Jay and his open toed sandals was still buzzing in my speakers. I scanned the room and noticed that there were no body guards among the small crowd, maybe I should text message Killa, maybe I should call the Goons? Jigga was easy prey for my favorite rap conglomerate. The problem with being an honorary member is that you don’t have anyone’s actual number so I convinced myself I was a DIP-SPY keeping tabs on old head and I’d report any suspicious activities to Jim Jones’ myspace if necessary.

Wonderwall was the closer, it was Papelbon irish jigging his way to the mound that night. Jay queued up the iPod and a familiar jangle came out of the speakers, he parted the crowd and motioned towards the only “rock niggas” there which happened to be the three scruffy honks that shouldn’t be there. The nostrils were flared, lungs pushing out strained notes with a grin and a battle cry of “ROCK N ROLL NIGGAZZZZZZZ” was unleashed as I stood there, arms draped on my comrades trying to detune my vocal chords so I was out of tune in unison with Jigga as a show of unity.

We split after that because honestly unless Giselle came in and gave me a foot-rub while Tom Brady told me I had a stronger chin than him there was nothing left to do.

As I’ve said before, Jay is a performer now, his records only have a few good songs now but if it’s a vehicle for him to put on spectacles like this I will continue to pay retail for them. The guitar, the head bobbing to Coldplay with Ricky Gervais are ridiculous, semi-embarrassing but ultimately cool somehow and much more interesting that some recycled grumbling from a guy named Noel who can’t write a good song anymore, he can’t even guest on a tune and make it cool.

Roc Boys in the building. Peep it here.

Jay-Z Kills Wonderwall

One of Med’s contributors, Anthony Pappalardo, has been working for years on the definitive monograph concerning American hardcore’s aesthetics. Radio Silence: A Selected Visual History of American Hardcore Music (MTV Books) saw its  Amazon listing go live last night. Awesome! So everyone, pass this around and get the pre-orders buzzing. From Amazon:

Book Description
“Each scene was a reflection of its time and place. It was organic to each city.” (Dave Smalley, DYS, Dag Nasty, All, Down By Law) Hardcore music emerged just after the first wave of punk rock in the late 1970s. American punk kids who loved the speed and attitude of punk took hold of its spirit, got rid of the “live fast, die young” mindset, and made a brilliant revision: hardcore. The dividing line between punk and hardcore music was in the delivery: less pretense, less melody, and more aggression. This urgency seeped its way from the music into the look of hardcore. There wasn’t time to mold your liberty spikes or shine your Docs; it was jeans and T-shirts, Chuck Taylors and Vans. The skull and safety-pin punk costume was replaced by high-tops and hooded sweatshirts. The Jamie Reid ransom note record cover aesthetic gave way to black and white photographs of packed shows accompanied by bold and simple typography, declaring The Kids Will Have Their Say or You’re Only Young Once. This new come-as-you-are attitude attracted skateboarders, surfers, BMX’rs, metalheads, and graffiti writers, with each group adding their diverse influences to the scene. This cross-pollination helped to create an eclectic cross section of bands like Bad Brains, Negative Approach, SSD, Big Boys, and 7 Seconds. Radio Silence documents the ignored space between the Ramones and Nirvana through the words and images of the pre-internet era when this community built on do-it-yourself ethics thrived. Without funding, distribution, or exposure, the scene had to be self-sufficient in order to grow. Everyone involved from bands to fans took it upon themselves to book shows, photograph bands, broadcast pirate radio shows, start record labels, design album covers, publish fanzines, or just offer a place for a band to crash. Authors Nathan Nedorostek and Anthony Pappalardo have cataloged private collections of photographs, personal letters, artwork, and various ephemera from the hardcore scene circa 1978-1993. Unseen images accompany to handmade T-shirts and original artwork brought to life by the words of their creators and fans. Radio Silence includes over 500 images of rare records, T-shirts, fanzines, photographs, and illustrations presented in a manner that abandons the aesthetic clichés normally used to depict the genre and lets the subject matter speak for itself.

About the Author
Anthony Pappalardo wrote for Slap Magazine from 1997 to 2002 and has been published in Alternative Press, Mass Appeal, and Magnet. He’s toured and recorded albums for the hardcore bands Ten Yard Fight, In My Eyes, and Get Down, and has produced for other bands including The Explosion.

Many of the monograph’s photos were taken by Erik Lee Snyder, whose work led the Getty Pavilion at the 2008 New York Photography Fair and has appeared in ESPN the Magazine and Surface among others. Below, a Dischord Records collage and portrait of Minor Threat’s Jeff Nelson…

Buddyhead is a great source for the leakage of new songs from our forefathers’ homeland (England). I agree with Travis and trust him almost all of the time, I can attest to his major-rager status but I just can’t keep up with his undying loyalty to Oasis. I wish I could…. I really do but for 2.5 records, they’ve been breaking my heart. As I’ve said before, the magic is gone.

So anyway, both Oasis and The Verve are coming out with new albums soon and while I’m not even moderately interested in the new Oasis record, Travis has better things to say:

…on October 7th, I will be running to the record store (if there are any by then) to pick up my copy of the seventh studio album by the greatest current rock band in the world…. OASIS! They’re sticking with the four word title just like the last record and calling this one “Dig Out Your Soul”. The first single, “The Shock of the Lightning,” will be released one week earlier on September 29, 2008.

If you agree, visit his May 6th post where he leaks 3 new Oasis songs.

The Verve still has a second chance to win me over forever like Oasis has won over Travis, obviously the recent live shows has got me hyped (read our posts here: 1, 2, 3). The new record comes out August 19th in the US and here’s the new song, stolen from Buddyhead:

The Verve-Love Is Noise (MP3)

To me, it seems a bit over produced (its happened in the past and I haven’t bitched about it). The drums/ guitar are a bit Coldplayish and the “woot woot woot woot woo” in the background during verses is a bit distracting - I just want to hear that slick Ricky A voice on it’s own. BUT it’s been on loop for 45 minutes now and I’m feeling it. A good video could actually make this song a hit… in England.

Lil Wayne wins Black Entertainment Television’s Viewers Choice Award—again.

This guy, who sings about blowjobs, sold approx 300k more records in his first week than Coldplay will this week.

AP Headline: T-Pain, Lil Wayne, Barack Obama rule the BET Awards

Last night, live at the BET Awards, the biggest artist in America…(PS: check out Weezy’s hand-in-pocket, Papelbon-ish jig as “Lollipop” fades in):

http://www.bet.com/Specials/BETAwards08/betawards-videos/beta_video_performances.htm?episodeid=1902&videoindex=12&playerid=betawards08

Why are music critics so sucky? Especially rap critics? Remember this is rap music. It’s designed for dancing and fucking. If you’re listening solely for words become a poetry critic. It often seems like critics secretly wish music was more than just music. Someone sent me this Lil Wayne ‘Carter 3″ review by Jess Harvell in Salon:

As hip-hop sales sink along with the rest of the record industry, rappers of deeply questionable gifts, like Miami hacks Flo Rida and Rick Ross, continue to dominate the charts and the magazine covers.

Rick Ross has a unique voice and great producers. I’m not looking for fine prose at 3am at le club. Actually I want to hear “Boss” or “Hustlin’”…

And please don’t diss the Birdman.

Wayne’s a fatherless child who grew into a respected M.C. after being mentored by Cash Money’s Bryan “Baby” Williams (without a doubt one of the worst rappers in the genre’s history).

Really? Because “Poppin Bottles” certainly works as a great song for fucking, dancing, driving, and working. In fact, try this for a date: order Chinese take-out, put on Wayne and Baby’s “Like Father Like Son” LP, open a bottle of something, then have sex. Tell me you hate Baby’s voice after that. (Not that I’ve tried it.)

Hater:

Yet for all his finessing, the available-in-stores “Tha Carter III” is as frustratingly patchy as any overlong, slapdash mainstream hip-hop album from one of Wayne’s far less talented peers. Stretches of the most inventive rapping you’re likely to hear all year are nearly drowned out by generic R&B choruses and soggy pop-chart copouts. At other times Wayne sounds like he’s rapping on autopilot over the best batch of beats he has assembled since the late ’90s. “Tha Carter III” doesn’t fit together or build momentum, and it will disappoint anyone looking for another auteur of album-length hip-hop.

Tha Carter 3 is actually rap’s “Yankee Foxtrot.” Wayne’s “lyrics” were never Phillip Larkin, the guy just has a weird voice and says weird things. C3 succeeds because it goes both minimalist (”Let the Beat Build,” “A Milli) and maximalist (”Lollipop,” the T-Pain song), while still being unique (Banner’s beat was originally for…Shrek 3) and gangster (”Mr Carter,” the Fab/Julez song). It also ends with an 8 minute essay on drug policy. And has a slow jam about exile and government in New Orleans.

(And why no mention of “Like Father Like Son” in your 3000 word masterpiece? It only won both the BET and Vibe Award for peoples’ choice.)

The Pogues “Just Look Them Straight In The Eye and Say… Pogue Mahone!!” Box Set has finally been released. I won’t properly “review” it due partly to personal time constraints, and partly because no amount of my adulation and praise will likely get you to drop the price of a tank of gas (at current prices) on a 5 CD box set unless you’re already obsessed with the band.

That said, if you do happen to be a Pogues fanatic, your year has been made. 111 songs. An absolute goldmine of demos, outtakes, live, rare, unreleased, thought missing, cover songs, and the like that span the entire Pogues career (pre-Red Roses to post-Shane) — I only bought it yesterday, but during a once-through listen of the entire thing my jaw continually dropped; BBC Sessions, “Hell’s Ditch” outtakes, “If I Should Fall From Grace…” outtakes, Joe Strummer-fronted covers of The Clash songs, Peel Sessions, their contributions to the “Sid and Nancy”, “Straight to Hell” , and “Garbo” soundtracks, covers of “Maggie May”, “Do You Believe in Magic?” (a “Poguetry in Motion sessions outtake), “Eve of Destruction” (made famous to some by Barry McGuire, others by Johnny Thunders), a dub version of “Young Ned of the Hill” (!), the original demo versions of later Shane MacGowan solo songs (”Victoria”, “Aisling”, “The Donegal Express”), early demos of “Fairytale of New York” which showcase the musical and lyrical progression of the greatest Christmas song ever written, the list goes on and on and on… Philip Chevron wrote the liner notes, the songs and their provenance are exhaustively cataloged and the proper credit given, and a number of non-Shane-centric pictures are included.

For the uninitiated, it’s easy to overlook the Pogues greatness by concentrating on the stories of drinking and drugs, fights, affairs, and toothless gentleman. This Box Set will remind you of their songwriting greatness, proficiency of execution, and the simple fact that they are one of the best rock bands of the last 30 years. If nothing else, it’s comforting to be reminded that Pete Doherty and Amy Winehouse are utter posers compared to one of the world’s all-time great substance-abusers… this dude:

Everyone please welcome Tommy Esquire aka he can’t use his real name because his law firm will kill him. Tommy is from the dirty South and loves rap and hates Republicans.

These days you can’t turn on the radio without hearing another G get soft on a track with T-Pain or Trey Songz. You can’t knock the hustle, and no doubt cats like Plies turned themselves into walking bankrolls with this strategy. But that ain’t shit for me the rap fan. The whole reason the south took over in the first place was rappers up north surrounded themselves with R&B chicks reenacting Grease.

That’s why you gotta love a dude like Polow Da Don who sets the streets on fire even after making millions off beats for Fergie, Usher and the Pussycat Dolls. Playa somehow went from jheri-fro’d boy model in the video for KP & Envyi’s A-town bass classic “Shorty Swing My Way,” to rapping with local Atl group Jim Crow in the 90s, to bustin’ outta nowhere with beats for every song on pop radio the last couple years. (And no matter what you think about the Pussycat Dolls, his songs are fucking ear candy. “Glamorous” is my jam, alright.)

Luckily, Polow still makes time for actual rappers. After getting Mobile’s Rich Boy out there on his Zone 4 (via Interscope) imprint, he’s now got YV from Louisville, Kentucky up to bat. YV got his start writing hooks for other rappers, and Polow thought enough of him to let him shine on his own. His new joint “I Gotta Dolla,” produced by Willie Will and featuring Polow, is starting to burn up clubs in the south, and it might just be a matter of time before this takes over the radio too. It has sort of an arcade feel, but with these gutta-ass synth horns that would fit in with any classic No Limit joint. People down south like to dance. I like to dance too, only I’m white. I sold my left leg for a diamond ring for my wife, and she sold her left hand to give me the ability to dance. Naw, that was O Henry, I read it in the 9th grade. I can’t dance, and my wife still ain’t got a ring. But the Celtics do. Congrats Beantown!!

“The record start skippin’ e’rytime she walk past
Now look in the sky an’ tell me that ain’t real cash!”

ESPN Page 2 columnist Jemele Hill has everyone heated with her controversial comments that were pulled from her latest article :

Rooting for the Celtics is like saying Hitler was a victim. It’s like hoping Gorbachev would get to the blinking red button before Reagan.

The column got past her editors with this comment which isn’t surprising because they let Bill Simmons submit the same article every fucking day. Just a side note, does he have a “Sports Guy Column Generator” that spits out tired 1980s guy pop culture references in Men’s Mag Slang centered around a Boston team or his latest man-crush? Bad news Bill, Karate Kid sucks, Star Wars sucks, the Godfather is long and fucking boring and you have Bank Teller hair. Now back to Jemele, in keeping with ESPN Page 2’s style, she’s a terrible writer and she used a pretty raw comparison. Hitler and 9/11 comparisons normally result in someone going “Whoaaaa man stop it don’t go there!” as if some imaginary line has been crossed that could only be crossed by a complete asshole. I don’t have a problem with people making such comparisons, when Katie Holmes’ tits are described as the opposite of the holocaust it was cool and what Jemele did is cheap, in poor taste for an ESPN writer but the Celtics fans, especially the ones that call Boston their home are the ones who are offending me right now.

Everyone is upset in Boston, popular fan site Red’s Army is calling for her to be fired and wbztv.com posted some fan responses yesterday :

“We’re not talking about war; we’re talking about basketball,” one fan outside the Garden said. “How can you compare Hitler to a basketball game?”

“I don’t think you can say Hitler is a victim no matter what the circumstance is. That’s over the top,” another fan said.

These responses sicken me, Celtics fans are as fucking soft as the Celtics’ performance in the 4th quarter of Game 5. Boston Massachusetts is a city that was pissed off that a Holocaust Memorial was being constructed downtown too close to whatever the fucking Bank World Dunkin Donut Garden Center was called that week and too close to the Italian district, the North End. How dare they make us remember Holocaust victims while we’re staring at a statue of Paul Revere en route to a Celtics game (who the fuck went to Celtics games in 1995) belly stuffed full of carbs from the North End. This is a city built on racism, where Smitty O’Houlahan can blame anything he wants on a “nigger” and cops will turn the other red alcoholic cheek. Some area Jews didn’t even want the memorial in Boston because they felt it wasn’t an appropriate location. Downtown Boston is so fat and white that Jewish people actually felt bad breaking up that vibration

So now the poor fans are pissed off and are calling for the head of Jemele Hill the latest goat. It probably helps that she’s black as it’s easier for the city to rally against her. There is a bigger task at hand for the Celtics and their fans and that’s winning a Championship not whining about bad journalism and cheap shot comparisons.

Oh yeah, the Celtics fan side of myself would like to get a jab in though because that side of me is petty, Jemele your gummy grin and bulbous features are as shocking and offensive to me on this Tuesday afternoon as your attempts at journalism. Leave the vulgarity and cheap shot comparisons to bloggers, it’s all we have, you get the pay check, the paid appearances and fanfare, we just want to have exclusivity on swearing and Hitler comparisons if that’s cool with your fat ugly ass. Thanks.