140 Characters or More #Five


Neil Young - A Letter Home (Third Man)

I’ve spent hours with this record: not listening to it of course, but thinking about it. Consider: the lone spokesman for the world’s first lossless Toblerone bar cuts a fetishistic covers album from the inside of a telephone booth with Jack White. While no one stands to benefit from the thought of those two sharing a small enclosure, it’s fascinating conceptually. How strange. The misunderstood white godhead teams up with his inexplicably whiter sycophant to deliver goods expressly contra to a widely acknowledged mission statement. How the hell does that happen? It’d be like, uh… hm… Clinton and Obama deregulating Wall St at the irreparable expense of their middle- and lower-class voting base, amirite? The good news is (no, sorry, your retirement isn’t coming back) the tunes sound just fine in spite of it all - even transmitting remote from Spotify iOS to a pair of Beats.

Speaking of which - the sale of Beats Electronics to Apple, Inc. for a cool $3 billion is now evidently official. I reckon this’ll make Dre the world’s tenth black billionaire, and rap’s first such luminary. Shame the milestone likely won’t be commemorated in a rep track until the distinction’s null, and he’s joined by President Jay Z and coattails Chicago mayor Kanye West in 2028. At press time, inexplicably likeable white sycophant Eminem was reportedly inventing every stupid skit about apples, doctors, being locked away, and pills… ever.

Lykke Li - I Never Learn (LL)

Speaking of people confused on matters of race, Lykke Li isn’t pretending Sweden’s located in sub-Saharan Africa anymore. In fact, she appears to have stopped pretending most of the little lies that made Wounded Rhymes so much fucking fun - lies like she’s not a pop star, or that you can sell pussy no strings attached. I can’t decide why she went for the reforms. Maybe she found the Lorde. Or maybe this is just her dark sadsack alter ego: Swedish Batman to foil prog ass Robyn. Whichever, and alas, try as she may - inauthentic tribal pop haunts her like a spirit or dead parents or some shit. So even when she sucks, she’s still shaking her ass. Ever dance in church? At a funeral? Cheer up, gal. Everyone gets laid at a funeral. Except maybe Ian Cohen.

Terrible time to crack jokes about shitty young men not getting laid, I’m aware. But let me say with resolve that making light of utterly preventable human tragedy is infinitely more admirable than staging a play of ideological contingency over seven fresh corpses. If, as reports suggest, the killer in the Isla Vista massacre suffered from severe mental distress - then severe mental distress prefigures whatever nonsense sprang from his mouth in the days and weeks preceding the spree. Manufacturing a gender war out this latest round of cultural horrorshow not only profanes the dead and their hideous loss, but lets Reagan off the hook (again, again, again) for founding a citizen police state without any mental health clinics. The next group of spree victims (give it a month) aren’t going to die because virgins and asshole divorcees get to bitch on /r/TheRedPill, but because the NRA is worth far more than you in our late capitalist oligarchy.

I know I just lost a handful of what few readers I have. But I'm still rocking harder than X is this morning.