Category Archives: Music

Call me a rude name

Tonight, ManFriend and I are seeing the fabulously deep-voiced Graveyard Train:

I’m not sure they’d like being called fabulous. It doesn’t sound hairy enough.

And last week we saw Mikelangelo and the Tin Star. This is one of my favourites from Mikelangelo and the Black Sea Gentlemen (especially when you get to 4.39… HOT!):

Which means my birthday has been bookended by two of my favourite live bands.

But now I have a request for you. SuperCat and I went to roller derby last weekend and I want to go to their next fresh meat tryouts. Hopefully I’m not too old to smash tough ladies on skates. But first, I need a crackingly rude name. Suggestions?

Friday frolic

It’s Friday afternoon and I’m trying to read a few more journal articles before I call it quits, so this is what I’ve been listening to this week:

And this:

And going to sleep to this (no clip):

What about you?

NSFW

I have only three words: Fuck shit stack

A panoply of song

You know what? There’s nothing I want to blog about today. I’m not outraged. I’m not thinking about bigger pictures. Well, I am, but nothing I can write about here (see point seven yesterday).

So, here’s something for you. And for ManFriend, even though he’s unlikely to be near a computer for a week. It’s from the Decemberists’ latest album, The King is Dead, which is starting to rival The Hazards of Love in my affections. And that’s a big call, because Hazards is a masterpiece of songwriting that shits all over anything else you’ll ever hear. It’s a prog-rock opera concept album by an indie-folk-rock group. And you just mind your scoffing there, my friend. My mate Braz gave it to one of his metal mates who said it was one of the best albums ever made. So there. Genre-crossing genius.

Anyway, June Hymn is one of those beautiful songs that make you stop. And just listen:

The eye of the beholder

Thanks to Boganette for showing me this. I can’t decide if it’s terrifying or brilliant, but I’m leaning towards brilliant. The weirdness starts at 1.40:

Kashiyuka is in a Japanese pop group called Perfume. I’m sure there’s all sorts of crazy shit on the internet from her fans. But this is surrealist gold. The first version I saw didn’t have the intro bit so there was no context – that was added later – but there were loads of comments calling him a creep. And worse. As though you can pick a sexual predator by the way they look.

It all comes down to who we think the boogey man is. If he was young and hot, we’d say wanky things like, “Oh, how very David Lynch-esque”. If he danced more, we’d say it too:

Thing is, you’re much more likely to be sexually assaulted by a family member or someone you work with, than a stranger who happens to look like a Hollywood baddie. Personally, I think Jude Law and Robert Pattinson look waaay creepier:

Jude Law and Robert Pattinson looking creepy

So, like I said, surrealist gold.

Mollyesque

Don’t you just hate a flattering spammer? (Try saying that after a bottle of wine.) They keep appealing to my vanity to get their spam link published. Yesterday one wished me ‘much extolment’. Today, this:

hello the news with nipples , i review your blog , that a nice blog and perfect. Best for everyone. a lot of Feminism and Music content. i going to often to read and comment your blog.

And since the spammer says I know what is best for everyone, I will declare this: The greatest album EVER is The Hazards of Love, by The Decemberists.

It’s a concept album, and half way through you realise your emotions have been up and down and you’re hanging off their every word. It’s pure gold.

I don’t have a favourite track on the album – it needs to be played loud and from start to finish – but here’s The Rake’s Song, live:

As Molly would say, do yourself a favour.

Judging Courtney

I’ve got a soft spot for Courtney Love. I listened to a lot of grunge in my teens and early twenties, but it’s Courtney as a public figure that I’ve always found fascinating. She seems to not give a shit about the rules controlling what female celebrities are supposed to be like, and for that I love her. But, like all women who don’t follow the rules about looking sexually available yet “not slutty”/not being sexual after 40/not having a relationship with a man who is cheating on his partner/not complaining when you get groped at work/not having more than one sexual partner during your adult life/not being controversial in any way – Lara Bingle, Kristy Fraser-Kirk, Madonna, Camilla Parker Bowles, Germaine Greer, Candice Falzon, Britney Spears, Lindy Chamberlain, Lindsay Lohan, even Julia “can’t be a real woman because she doesn’t carry a handbag around the office and besides, I don’t like her earlobes” Gillard – she’s copped so much shit.

So it won’t surprise you that I’m annoyed by all the judging that goes on in this otherwise interesting article by Eric Wilson in the New York Times: Courtney Love: ‘I’d Like to Be Trusted Again’.

She looked, as she has for several months, remarkably well put together. Her appearance is a startling contrast to the very low standard she set for herself during the years when she relapsed into heavy drug use, went overboard with plastic surgery and behaved in a manner that could hardly be described as rational… But if she was trying to present herself as a more respectable lady, it did not help that she had just posted some naked photographs of herself online.

Talk about being Judgy McJudgypants: low standards + she’s not rational + naked photos = not respectable. Not deserving respect. And what about the idea a woman should be well-dressed at all times, even when she’s addicted to “hard drugs”? I’m in jeans, Cons, and a Goonies t-shirt – Wilson would have a heart attack.

The article is about Courtney Love’s role in the fashion industry, yet a big chunk just rehashes her past. And, annoyingly, when Wilson writes about a dress she wore, he hyperlinks to a NYT page about the designer, not to the picture of Love in the dress. That’s poor practice.

Our conversation stretched on for more than five hours, during which time Ms. Love demonstrated, as is widely acknowledged, a keen intelligence and a remarkable understanding of the fashion industry, both about its history and the way things work today. She came across as calm, funny and well read.

And then, back to judging:

The bed was unmade, and there was an overflowing ashtray on the night stand next to five prescription bottles and some junk food. “These are my wakeup cupcakes, some anti-depressants and a cellphone book,” she said without embarrassment.

Who gives a shit about whether her bed is made or not? Mine isn’t. Besides, it’s a hotel bed which simply means the interview was done before housekeeping arrived. And again with the judging: apparently someone should be embarrassed about taking anti-depressants. It’s 2010 and this is being published in the New York Times?

“I speak to you as someone who doesn’t want to be perceived as a train wreck,” she said.

“Living in L.A. had a really bad effect on me in particular,” she said, describing what sounded like obsessive behaviour regarding the legal cases regarding the rights to Mr. Cobain’s estate and allegations of financial wrongdoing.

Would that be the DSM-IV classification of obsessive behaviour? Is fashion writer Eric Wilson also a psychiatrist? How many rhetorical questions can one ask before one disappears up one’s own arse?

As Jenna Sauers writes in Jezabel in response to Wilson’s article:

Perhaps she realises that women are judged for their personal lives in a way that men in the public eye rarely are — where male rock stars who are neglectful parents with histories of drug abuse are concerned, the press narrative is, shall we say, markedly different… Perhaps she just doesn’t give a fuck.

And:

I love Courtney Love. Because she’s not a role model — and, even more, because she has never aspired to be. Because she’s not passive. Because she’s a woman who takes issue with the view that she ought to be defined by who she used to fuck in the early 90s and who she gave birth to as a result.

The constant sniping about what female public figures look like always reminds me of this fabulous quote from Cher about cosmetic surgery: “If I want to put my tits on my back, it’s nobody’s business but my own.”

Damn straight.

To the mainstream media, all female public figures are the same. A grunge/indie musician is supposed to invest the same amount of time and money in her appearance as a woman who gets paid to ensure her appearance fits within the narrow limits of what is considered “hot”. And when she doesn’t, she gets called a train wreck.