BILL O'REILLY INTERVIEWS BREANNA FROM LAGUNA BEACH


Breanna; far right

O’REILLY: Welcome to the show. So did you read Woodward’s book?

BREANNA: Um, read what? I just got here.

O’REILLY: Woodward’s a good reporter, right? Good guy, you know who he is right?

BREANNA: Is he in the tenth grade? I don't talk to tenth graders.

O’REILLY: OK, he says in his book George Tenet looked the president in the eye, like how I am looking you in the eye right now and said, “President, weapons of mass destruction are a quote, end quote, ‘slam dunk.’” If you’re the president, you ignore all that?

BREANNA: OK, you're like old. Who are you?

O’REILLY: Tenet was fired.

BREANNA: Oh! I know who you are. My dad watches you and says you don't let other people talk. He says that you're a jackass.

O’REILLY: You’ve got MI-6 and Russian intelligence because they’re all saying the same thing that’s why. You’re not going to apologize to Bush, you are going to continue to call him a liar.

BREANNA: I'm so lost here. Do you have a girlfriend?

O’REILLY: It wasn’t a lie.

BREANNA: So you don't like girls...? Are you gay?

O’REILLY: I call that bad information, acting on bad information; not a lie.

BREANNA: I think you need a girlfriend. You're like, intensely angry and such. Or a boyfriend.

O’REILLY: All right, your turn to ask me a question…

BREANNA: I just asked you something. And you totes ignored it.

O’REILLY: We’re back to the weapons of mass destruction.

BREANNA: Where did they go?

O’REILLY: The weapons of mass destruction…?

BREANNA: So I was talking to Lexie on the phone and she was totally bumming out on Kelan.

O’REILLY: That’s right.

BREANNA: She's over-reacting, right? I mean, Kelan did make out with Camie but...

O’REILLY: It was a mistake.

BREANNA: Totes.

O’REILLY: I don’t think its good enough either for those parents.

BREANNA: Wait, who's parents?

O’REILLY: But that is the historical nature of what happened.

BREANNA: You're getting so weird again. You don't have much of a neck.

O’REILLY: It depends on whether the mistake was unintentional.

BREANNA: Kelan's mistake? I mean, he stuck his thingy in her down-there. That's not a mistake.

O’REILLY: Then if it was an unintentional mistake I cannot hold you morally responsible for that.

BREANNA: Are we almost done?

O’REILLY: The weapons of mass destruction was a mistake.

BREANNA: Dude, that is so five minutes ago. You keep talking about these weapons of mass destruction and whatever they are, it sounds bad. But what can it do for me? Can I get a ride to the mall on a weapon of mass destruction?

O’REILLY: Alright, I’ve got anther question…

BREANNA: Uh huh.

O’REILLY: Would you? That’s my next question. Would you sacrifice yourself to remove the Taliban?

BREANNA: No way. I don't mind Taliban so much. It keeps my underarms dry. Way better than Secret.

O’REILLY: OK, well look you can’t kill everybody. You wouldn’t have invaded Afghanistan — you wouldn’t have invaded Afghanistan, would you?

BREANNA: I'm going to Cancun. You can totally drink there and not have an ID.

O’REILLY: How?

BREANNA: Not sure. I just know that they're serving it up and this mouth here is open. Whoo-hooo! Spring break! Cannot. Wait!

O’REILLY: Why was that?

BREANNA: Huh?

O’REILLY: Because Pakistan didn’t want its territory of sovereignty violated.

BREANNA: Like I said, dude, you are so weird. Cancun. Not Picklestan.

O’REILLY: Any government? Hitler, in Germany, not a threat to us the beginning but over there executing people all day long — you would have let him go?

BREANNA: Whoa. Hitler? Leave him out of this. My dad's partner is Jewish and he does his Jew thing and we respect him. I mean, he's kinda cheap but whatev. Jews can be cheap. Do you have a credit card? I have one.

O’REILLY: I’m not going to say what you say, you’re a, that’s ridiculous…

BREANNA: I have a credit card and I use it all the time. Daddy says that one day it's going to melt. He also says that you're a douchebag.

O’REILLY: Look it’s a worldwide terrorism — I know that escapes you —

BREANNA: So bored.

O’REILLY: Yes. There are terrorist in Iraq.

BREANNA: So what? There are nerds in my class. What are you going to do? Kill them?

O’REILLY: When Reagan was building up the arms, you were against that.

BREANNA: Who's Reagan?

O’REILLY: You’d love to get rid of me.

BREANNA: Dude, I just met you. I don't want to get rid of you. Geez, lighten up.

O’REILLY: I appreciate that, Breanna.

BREANNA: Whatevs. We're done now, right? I'm so getting a mani.

The Bill O'Reilly portion of this interview was taken from interview with Michael Moore. O'Reilly's words were not tampered with.

SONG OF THE DAY
Poppin' fresh dough!



Nearly a year later, Robyn's self-titled record is still in rotation at Club Chez Arye (this is not an actual club but rather a poor attempt at sexifying myself). The Swedish pop star was signed to two American labels (Jive and RCA) but after lagging album sales, she was dropped faster than a Malawian father gives up his baby to a musician that uses an Abba-sample too obviously. Okay, maybe not the best metaphor but you get the point. It sucks to get dropped twice.

Robyn fourth record was never released in America which means it's another import you would have to spend your hard earned money on (ahem, download). But here's the truth, Ruth, this record's sensational and kicks the platinum hair out of the competition.

Robyn - "Who's That Girl?"
Bonus fact: this song was produced by brother and sister act the Knife.

If you were paying attention, New Yorker reader, Sasha Frere Jones wrote about Robyn nearly a year ago which is a decade in blogger years.

CRISIS OF CONFIDENCE



As you may have noticed, I've been a sucky blogger this week. Supplying you with a Song of the Day is a minimal effort on my part for keeping our relationship going. It's like calling you to say "hi" but telling you that I'm having a crazy week and we should totally have lunch soon but this week is just no good and yeah, I looked at my calendar and it's just madness all over the place.

You, dear reader, may not believe this but some of the essays I write on this website take--on average--close to an hour each (well, obviously the short entries lower the average) and in some instances, I sacrifice my own creative writing (the novel I'm working on) for the sake of posting on BBS but this past week, I found myself wondering why.

This isn't my first crisis of confidence. I've had them before. But this time, it feels more urgent. I'm starting to resent the creative process's lack of compensatory love. Especially now when I'm thinking in adult terms, i.e., future, life, and a pimping jacuzzi in my master bathroom. Granted, completely ditching my writing career would be silly and ultimately, I would resent myself for making that decision.

But I also need to be realistic. Practicality and realism are two things that I've been running from for quite some time but when you're paying New York rents, they eventually catch up. It pains me to not be able to afford the luxuries of every day, the things some of my wealthier friends take for granted. I surround myself with business professionals (I live on the Upper West Side) and while their occupations couldn't interest me less, I envy their anxiety-less existence.

Shana is reading a book called Light At the End of the Tunnel about children and adults suffering from terminal diseases. Not exactly a good times compilation (it's reading for graduate school) but she read one portion aloud to me because she's aware of my recent (or permanent) struggles. One of the doctors profiled in the book mentions the importance of living your life the way you want to live it and never sacrificing your aspirations for the sake of the fleeting and monetary.

It's an easy concept to read in a book and an even easier concept to write about, but internalizing the idea of happiness and fulfillment through true and sincere expression is more difficult, especially when you take the time to read what is popular on the internet, the overwhelming noise of emptiness.

Throughout the week, I had many opinions to share and theories I would have loved to elaborate on, but I wasn't sure if there was a point. It's not that I don't value my daily readers (you know I'm thankful) but it's almost four years come this February that I've been writing on this blog and it's almost been that long since I've become a freelance writer. As they say in the street, s***'s gettin' old. I'm not looking for appreciation and I'm certainly not looking for fandom. And I'm well aware of the fact that when one writer goes away, another one comes along.

I guess, at the end of the week, I'm just thinking aloud. And maybe next week will inspire me to continue despite it all. Or maybe this crisis of confidence is eternal.

SONG OF THE DAY
Have it your way



Consider this SOAD a special Before They Were Hipsters edition. Well, before David and Stephen Dewaele were known as 2 Many DJs and even before they were the uber-hot remixers that they are today, they were "alt-rockers."

Sweden's Soulwax put out a record in 1999 titled Much Against Everyone's Advice but the hook-filled rock debut went nowhere (in fact, the record's label Almo even imploded). It's a huge disconnect/leap from their current stuff so if you're familiar with Soulwax's Nite Versions be prepared for a WTF-moment.

Soulwax - "Much Against Everyone's Advice"

SONG OF THE DAY
Simply the best!



Look at the stars, look how they shine for you...what? Wrong song?
Oh, it's My Chemical Romance's "I Don't Love You."

Despite my mocking, I do like the Black Parade album a lot--it's ambitious and I admire ambition--but take a song like the one below; it's essentially a Coldplay composition applied with more mascara and features the only Brian May guitar solo that Brian May did not play. None of this is bad, it's just not wholly innovative.

Then again, this band is from New Jersey. Not a whole lot of innovation coming from there.

Speaking of which (I'm from New Jersey. Yes, poor segway), apologies for interrupting the SOAD for the self-referential note, but this week has been somewhat hectic so apologies for the sporadic and weak-ass posting. Stick with me and we'll bring back substance.

I do love you.

My Chemical Romance - "I Don't Love You"

SONG OF THE DAY
Oh, what a feeling!



You probably noticed yesterday that I neglected to post a Song of the Day for the first time in weeks. And you also probably noted that I gave you some attitude.

Well, I have to apologize for that. You see, I was required to do it. It was a test. It was all a test.

I got word from upper management that some of the BBS readers were just using the BringBack for its delicious, hearty Songs of the Day, and to prevent this ugly and constant leeching from happening, we had to experiment by testing your devotion.

I am happy to say, though, that you all passed. Not only did I not get any angry emails saying things like, Hey Arye, what's the big deal? Or, where the f*** is my Song of the Day? Rather, you all came back, refreshed your browser, saw an adorable sleeping puppy, and read a blog entry full of attitude. And after being cruelly denied of the SOAD, you said nothing. Nothing. I must say, it hurt me more than it hurt you to write those painful words but you understand now that it was important. You comprehend that this was the only way.

In order for us to be together happily, we had to sacrifice October 23rd's Song of the Day. We salute you, 10/23 SOAD. We salute you, fallen song, with a Song of the Day.

Mike and the Mother F***in' Mechanics - "All I Need Is A Mother F***in' Miracle!"

SONG OF THE DAY



BBS don't feel like giving you one.
How do you like that?

SONG OF THE DAY
Now with 30% real fruit juice!



I tell Cameron I'm seeing the Yeah Yeah Yeahs play a private event tonight.
He says, Oh, man. They're so early-2006.

Despite initial lukewarm reviews (including here), I've grown to really like Show Your Bones with repeated listens. The sophomore record is tempered and therefore, a more sophisticated YYY. I'd like to think that I'm also tempered and therefore, more sophisticated, which enables me to relate to their maturation process.

"Turn Into", the final song on Bones, disarmed me with its skeletal warmth and playfulness; it's the anti-Fever To Tell. Props go to Karen, Nick and Brian. Growing up is hard to do but turning the volume down is even harder.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs - "Turn Into"

YOUNG LIARS



[Feature on TV on the Radio, Part II; continued from yesterday]

Cookie Mountain is a small, grass-covered mound situated between Soda Lake and Butter Bridge, right next to Ludwig Von Koopa’s castle. Whether the reference is intentional or not, Cookie Mountain also only exists only in the video game Super Mario World, and there’s a good chance you’ve never been there.

Many have attempted to intellectualize TV on the Radio’s sound, lyrics and album titles, but perhaps the band simply prefers to be weird for weird’s sake. “What could have greater meaning than a mountain of cookies?” Adebimpe explained to Filter magazine. And after ruminating over his brief explanation, I still have no idea what he meant by that, or if he meant anything at all. In my life, I’ve seen many piles of cookies but would never consider their presence as profound. Moreover, the Filter article suggests that Return to Cookie Mountain is an “absurdly straightforward name,” but no explanation is offered as to why that is. From my understanding, there’s never been anything straightforward about the members of the Brooklyn group. Especially their responses.

When I ask the band if Cookie Mountain is politically relevant, Malone responds, “We skipped all relevant lyrical content and just made a singing cookbook about the different kinds of cheeses.” The rest of the band laughs.

Despite Malone’s elusive humor, listening to the album’s ferocious energy makes it apparent that the record has more substance than a concept album about Gouda. But the mistake of attributing too much political context to the record would also prove wrong, even though the album’s opening lyric is “I was a lover / Before this war.”

“Over thinking is a bad idea,” Malone eventually tells me in his slow, meandering demeanor. “You should write about the more human things. When you’re a political prisoner, like under the current administration, you’re thinking about your mother, your lovers, food, music, art—the things you appreciated more when you were free.”

Return to Cookie Mountain’s document of humanity begins with a bouncing drum loop and a disjointed horn sample. Adebimpe’s distinctive croon emerges moments later and sounds neither rehearsed nor flawed; it’s a wounded, soulful voice. The disorienting guitar effects are layered as if the chords were multiple Xerox copies of the originals. And then, a couple minutes in, a piano imitates a steel drum. The production of “I Was a Lover” is masterful and sinister, suggesting Cookie Mountain is not standard major label material. “Wolf Like Me,” the obvious single and fifth song, pummels forth like rolling fists. The fuzzy, bottom-heavy guitars vibrate the teeth and ears like cell phones on silent. It’s a genuine, inspired rocker until exactly two minutes in when it catches its breath and then revs up again a minute later. Overall, the record is consistently confident—the sludgy noise perfectly balances with the intertwined harmonies. But the record is also challenging and expertly executed for patient listeners.

“We don’t write three-minute songs; we write five-minute songs that can’t be edited down into a radio edit,” says Sitek. “We’re not a hit-making band. We will always be the weird cult band.”

“I predict that 20 years from now in Dubai there will be an awesome hip-hop song sung by a Korean kid who uses a sample from our new record,” Adebimpe says. “That’s how we’ll break the mainstream—by being a sample.”

So, how does a self-proclaimed cult band with a propensity for weirdness get signed to a major label run by Jimmy Iovine, the man who mass-marketed Eminem and Limp Bizkit? The answer, it seems, is not simple. Despite the fact that Return to Cookie Mountain was actually finished in September 2005, at the time of writing this article, the band has yet to complete the contractual negotiations between Touch & Go and Interscope. During one of our interviews, the band members also tell me that they don’t actually believe the record will ever come out. Although that’s not a likely scenario, I have heard of three separate release dates, each one a month later than the last. When I ask an anonymous industry insider about the hold-up, he tells me that the label has gone through four different lawyers to broker the deal. Coincidentally, all three initial lawyers have had family emergencies and passed the thick stack of legal documents to another pair of fresh eyes.

To make matters even worse, after sitting around for more than half a year, Cookie Mountain leaked onto the Internet, making it available to anyone with a modem. Fans that wanted to hear TV on the Radio’s sophomore triumph could have done so as far back as mid-March.

“I’m confident in saying that Interscope leaked the record,” Sitek says. “I made four distinctive copies, and the one circulating on the Internet is the one I gave to them. Why they did that, I don’t know. But it definitely wasn’t us.”

“When the record finally comes out, I will go to the store and buy it,” Malone deadpans, “and I will look at it and say, ‘Finally.’”

***********************************************************************

An eager line has already begun to form outside the doors of the Doug Fir Lounge, yet TV on the Radio is not scheduled to go on for another two hours. Drummer Jaleel Bunton sits alone at the bar with a plate of mashed potatoes and roasted chicken in front of him. Bunton is handsome, tall and possesses a nonchalant confidence like that of a class jock. His teased dreadlocks are unkempt and untangling into a natural black thickness, and both his T-shirt and jeans are worn. Just hours previous, while Bunton set up his drum kit, I heard him joke about his lack of success with women while on tour (“Tonight, I’m just gonna come out and ask for it.”), but I find his self-deprecating desperation unlikely.

“You disappeared on me last time,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m mysterious like that,” Bunton says. “Want some roasted chicken?”

Eventually, we all make our way backstage where the opening band, Celebration, is hanging out. For the first time since I’ve been assigned this story, Adebimpe, Sitek, Malone, Bunton, Smith and I are all in the same room. Adebimpe is nursing a sore throat and sits sprawled out on a leather couch. He speaks to me softly, making it difficult to hear him over the laughter. The rest of the band jokes about a popular online series Yacht Rock, the urban comedy Soul Plane and a text message Sitek’s mom once sent him (“who the heck is Art Kelly?”).

The laughter soon fades as we discuss the journey from New York to Portland. TV on the Radio visited New Orleans before starting this tour, so the band members recount their experience of witnessing the destruction firsthand. Sitek, through connections, obtained a FEMA pass, which allowed the band to visit restricted areas, and the daunting conditions left a lasting impression.

“We were told that what we saw was already better,” Malone says. “ I don’t want to even think what it was like before.”

“You can get on the Internet, you can get to the moon, but you can’t f***ing help people when a massive wave crushes them,” says Adebimpe.

“We saw such a grotesque disregard for human life,” adds Smith.

This is the first conversation I have with the entire group and we’re discussing Hurricane Katrina. Admittedly, an important discussion, one the band tackled with its free download protest song, “Dry Drunk Emperor,” but also one that makes it incredibility difficult to transition into minutiae, such as chatting about songwriting or the band’s complex and mysterious chemistry.

“Look,” Sitek begins, “I don’t have medical insurance. I don’t have a college degree. I’m not more important than anyone else. I don’t have the luxury of ignoring situations like New Orleans. If I did ignore the world around me, that would make me a selfish d***. I think the true problem here is that there’s a divisionism mentality in this world. We need to focus as a human species on survival. Not on religions or races.”

Celebration begins its set, and Sitek, who produced the band’s debut album, takes a heavy interest in the Baltimore threesome. The backstage empties out, but as I join the crowd, I lose the rest of the band to the chaos. Nearly an hour later, TV on the Radio humbly takes the stage with a simple introduction (“Hi, we’re TV on the Radio”) and opens with “The Wrong Way.” The sound is deafening and robust, and I’m certain that the sound guy must be partially deaf, but the energy of the band and the intensity of the performance compensates for possible hearing loss. Every so often, Sitek excitedly bounces across the stage toward Smith who shyly hides behind the amps. Adebimpe towers in the center repeatedly thrusting his right hand in front of him to the beat like a darting serpent. Sweating profusely, he lunges backward when singing the high notes as if the catapulting effect gives him the lung capacity. With Malone’s accompanying falsetto, the two vocals intertwine, albeit, on occasion, jarringly. In fact, Malone smiles sheepishly from time to time throughout the set when he realizes he missed a note. But the evening is magical, if imperfect. Even the new material inspires an enthusiastic response from the Portland crowd. “We wish you guys could come to Seattle with us,” Adebimpe tells us. The night ends with a scorching “Staring at the Sun,” and amid a squelching wash of feedback, TV on the Radio leaves the stage.

Minutes later, I’m driving in a rental car back to the hotel and listening to Return To Cookie Mountain, a masterpiece even at low volume. I still can’t identify where exactly this sound comes from. How do five seemingly diverse personalities create a product so inventive and cohesive? I mean, who is this band? Ultimately, are they just five random guys from Brooklyn making impassioned noise? Possibly. But anything more than that, I really don’t know.

SONG OF THE DAY



Loney, Dear is essenitally songwriter Emil Svanangen, an earnest and gentle Swede (is there any other kind?) with a large rotating cast of musical friends. Just recently signed to Sub Pop records, Emil will be playing a few nights in New York this coming November during the highly unnecessary CMJ festival.

I was fortunate enough to have Emil write a short introduction for himself before his domestic record deal a couple years back. And while everyone is anticipating the upcoming third release from the Shins (Emil's labelmates), I'm looking forward to the precious poignancy of Loney, Dear gaining a devoted fanbase.

- Misspelling of lonely: cute or too twee? Discuss.

Loney, Dear - "Take It Back"

WOLF LIKE THEM



Last night, I saw TV on the Radio perform live at Irving Plaza and it was pretty impressive. A full review will appear on the Jane website.

A few backs, though, I spent some time with the band on tour for a cover story of DIW Magazine

I've never posted that piece before so I will do so now (I believe the issue is now sold-out). The TV on the Radio feature is pretty long so I've decided to post it into two parts (second part comes tomorrow). Special thanks to Andrew Parks and Aaron Richter for editing this story.
And of course, thank you for reading.

This Is a Test of TV on the Radio’s emergency broadcast system
By Arye Dworken

“Every reporter inhales skepticism. You interview people and they lie. You face public figures, diligently making notes or taping what is said, and they perform their interviews to fit a calculated script. The truth, alas, is always elusive.”
— Pete Hamill, “A Ringside Seat”
The New York Times Book Review

The tastefully designed, year-old Doug Fir Lounge is empty, but in a few hours, it will be filled with local trend-conscious youth, just as it is on most nights. The Portland, Oregon, lounge is clean, cleaner than any venue I have ever been in before. The orange hue of the lights creates a subdued atmosphere, while the rich mocha walls and wooden log motif add to the earthy feel. It’s almost a shame to ruin the calmness by inviting more people in, but all the tickets for tonight’s show have been sold. I’m sitting in the restaurant/venue at four o’clock in the afternoon, five hours before the opening band even takes the stage. I’ve been flown across the country to conduct a follow-up interview with New York’s TV on the Radio while the band is on tour. What I haven’t been told is that the band members only have an hour for the interview later that evening, so in the meantime, I’m just watching them unload their equipment. I could intrude during their private time, but that would be risky—trying to spontaneously interview a band on tour is like waking a baby from a nap.

TV on the Radio bassist Gerard Smith, a modest presence, sits in the adjacent corner and picks an intricate composition on his acoustic guitar. Dressed in a plain white T and standard issue khakis, Smith seems meditative and undisturbed by the sound technician’s banter. I hesitate to approach the bassist, but I’ve heard Smith is “beyond the nicest guy,” so I sit next to him and try to admire his virtuosity. I begin small talk with a standard interview opener.

“How did you meet the band?” I ask.
“I met Tunde [Adebimpe, singer of the band] on the street,” Smith answers.
“Just on the street?”
“Yeah. On the street.”
“Any street in particular? And under what circumstances?”
“We just ran into one another.”

After flying cross-country, spending eight hours on a plane and being told that I have limited time with the band (moreover, TV on the Radio’s publicist informs me the day of my flight that the band would prefer privacy after the show), I ask Smith what he would write about if he were in my restricted position.

“Write about the room we’re in,” Smith says. “Write about the atmosphere, what’s going on in here. Write about the world, um, what’s going on in the news. You’re from New York, right? Write about this city. This is a completely new place. There seems to be so much to write about.”

“But I’m here to write about a band,” I say, “not a city.”

Some time later, the merch girl, an old acquaintance of mine, informs me that Smith was once a subway musician and performed regularly on the same platform that lead singer Tunde Adebimpe waited on when he took the L train into Manhattan. After a series of conversations, the singer invited Smith to join the band.


***********************************************************************


For our first interview (weeks before Portland), the band’s publicist arranges for us to meet at an old fashioned Brooklyn diner with a filthy décor and picnic table clothes. All five members sit outside while Smith and producer/guitarist David Sitek smoke cigarettes. I ask Smith how long he’s been smoking, and he tells me 15 years. As we are ushered inside, complete with relatively new drummer Jaleel Bunton, I turn to make a comment and notice that Bunton and Smith have both left the interview without saying goodbye. “They’re probably just really tired,” Adebimpe says.

Tunde Adebimpe is tall and unassuming—I can’t imagine him ever losing his temper. The singer intermittently looks downward and speaks intentionally, but he leaves too much room between his words, allowing the more verbally aggressive to dominate the conversation (in this case, it’s his bandmate Sitek). Adebimpe is likable but not in the typical charismatic lead singer way. With his thick black glasses and scraggly facial hair, his uncoolness is disarming, and his sense of humor is both dry and subtle. On the other hand, Sitek, who also sports thick black glasses, has a strong disposition and seems like he could lose his temper instantly. In fact, even when he’s laughing, he sounds slightly perturbed. We all order food except for Sitek who is drinking a murky orange concoction contained in a plastic bottle without a label. “It’s a dietary supplement for cleaning out the toxins from my body,” Sitek says. “I’ve been consuming too much shit recently.” The bottle is a mixture of 1.5 liters of water, three-fourths of a cup of fresh lemon juice and Grade B honey, respectively (Sitek insists that it must be Grade B), and half a teaspoon of cayenne pepper. This fluid, called the Ultimate Cleanser, is the only liquid or food he’ll be consuming for the next couple of weeks. “If I deviate from this regiment, it doesn’t really work,” he says. Sitek is not a moderate personality, but that’s also a part of his undeniable brilliance.

Guitarist Kyp Malone sits to my right and says very little. But when he does occasionally pepper the conversation with a hysterical one-liner, his words are small and soft. If patience were audible, it would sound like Malone. His large head is mostly covered by thick, Brillo black hair (a hairstyle called “natural”), and he too wears a pair of glasses (I can only wonder if a TV on the Radio contract includes optometry coverage). He gives off a calming and alluring glow, so it is understandable how he became a cult hero in Brooklyn, a mayor of the fringe rock crowd.

Throughout our interview, Sitek has a formed opinion about pretty much everything and is quite comfortable in sharing them with me. It takes him only a brief while to abandon small talk and transition into a metaphor about brandishing firearms. “Everyone kept telling us how important [our second] record was going to be before we had even begun working on it,” he says, “and those are the people you need to keep a shotgun blast away from anything creative.”

“Or just a dry wall,” Adebimpe apologetically amends.

But as much as Sitek wants to deny it, TV on the Radio’s sophomore release is important. Since the unexpected success of its Young Liars EP and full-length debut Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes, TV on the Radio has sold close to 100,000 records, joined the ranks of Sigur Ros and N.E.R.D. as the recipients of the coveted Shortlist Prize and garnered the attention of such elders as David Bowie, Trent Reznor and Morrissey. Critics called the band’s debut “one of the most eagerly awaited records of the year,” “a wholly fresh and original sound” and “a record five years ahead of its time.” All this praise was attributed to TV on the Radio’s debut. Multiply that anticipation exponentially for a second effort, and you get the heightened expectancy of the fans, the critics and the record executives, all eager to hear the follow-up to the band’s underdog triumph.

Then there are the elitist naysayers with their unequivocal allegiance to the independent philosophy and their trigger-happy “sellout” protest signs. Nearly a year after expressing dissatisfaction with the incubator Touch & Go Records, which has released all of the band’s material until now, TV on the Radio decided to join the ranks of 50 Cent, Black Eyed Peas and the Pussycat Dolls by entering into talks with Interscope regarding the release of its sophomore album Return to Cookie Mountain. Sitek is fully aware of the cynic’s readiness to dismiss the band as sellouts. And he’s prepared. “I don’t believe in indie-anything anymore,” he says. “As anyone who is mildly close to anyone who makes music knows, the streams of income have been diminished. There is no such thing as sellout. It’s a joke. And besides, in my mind, indie just means “half-assed.””

“[Initially], we got this impression that Touch & Go was doing this thing for fun,” says Adebimpe, who speaks about the band’s turbulent transition from indie to major with noticeable reluctance, almost as if he was talking about an ex-girlfriend. “And after three years of doing this, we realized that the band was our job and there was no other source of income. So we welcomed the discussions with Interscope and Geffen.”

I ask the band members to elaborate on the circumstances that disenchanted them from the independent business model, the one that nurtured them from status of experimental unknowns into a celebrated zeitgeist, but they’re hesitant to discuss it any further. So Sitek has the final word.

“I can’t go into it that much, but I will say that when I was growing up, yes, I really believed in Touch & Go, but I also believed I could be an astronaut or President,” he says. “Things change over time. We saw so much avarice and greed and deception after the release of [Desperate Youth], and we got so tired of it.”

When I contact Touch & Go about the band’s departure, label head Corey Rusk responds, “I really don't care to perpetuate any negativity. Everyone at Touch And Go put their heart and soul into working the TV on the Radio records that we released. We obviously accomplished a lot while we worked together, and we all had a lot of fun during the process. Touch and Go is [also] known for the good relationships we maintain with our bands. I can't control how other people feel. I can only try my best to do a good job for the bands I work with.”

Ultimately, I never resolve the discrepancy between TV on the Radio and Touch & Go, but there is indeed one shared, unarguable opinion. “Return To Cookie Mountain is an amazing record, and TV on the Radio are a great band,” Rusk added in his e-mail. “[And] regardless of what label releases it, I'm sure [the record] will build on that success.”

[To be continued tomorrow]

SONG OF THE DAY



Today's song is curated by Aaron and it's a lovely track by Portland's The Blow.

After yesterday's divergence into hair-metal, I'm sure you'll consider this a welcome return to form. Besides, I'm wlling to bet that Naomi will like it.
Doesn't that make it worthwhile?

The Blow - "Parentheses"

BAD EXAMPLES



On September 25th, 2005, Salon.com ran an article entitled "The Rise and Fall of Kate Moss". After H&M cancelled its new contract with Moss and Chanel refused to renew their campaign with the model, writer Rebecca Traister wrote, "Now it's mostly a question of falling dominoes. Moss, who reportedly makes $9 million a year, will surely lose most, if not all, of her current gigs. Who will want to keep her on, when to do so would signal brazen public support of a woman whose drug use is now being investigated by Scotland Yard?"

That's a great question, Rebecca. The answer is, many.

Almost a year after this Salon article was written, Moss has been crowned by "British experts" (whoever these people are) as the most influential celebrity in the world. Calling Traister's prediction inaccurate would be an understatement. Like the waif's cocaine habit, Moss's career is almost at an all-time high with no sign of letting up. With current campaigns advertising for Rimmel, Agent Provocateur, Virgin Mobile, Belstaff, Beymen, Dior, Louis Vuitton, Roberto Cavalli, Longchamp, Stella McCartney, Bulgari, Chanel, Nikon, David Yurman, Versace, Mia Shvili, Calvin Klein Jeans and Burberry, you could almost say Moss is the busiest she's ever been. For shame.

In September 2005, I would have said Traister was right. I mean, how could she not be? Blatant and public drug abuse? Constant entanglement with a petty criminal posing as a musician? Raising a two-year-old daughter in a completely dysfunctional environment? Surely, an example like Moss needs to be reconsidered by society.

But the other week, I was flipping through a copy of Vanity Fair--incidentally, Moss was on the cover--and realized there's something inherently wrong here.

Fully aware that the fashion world is not the arbiter of morals, I have low expectations but commissioning Kate's impeccable, perfect beauty for nine ads in one magazine is simply irresponsible. If Moss is in fact the most influential celebrity in the world, we are doing nothing to stop this. Yes, she's a perfect human specimen, but weren't we all told that looks aren't everything?

First, what's wrong with a cocaine habit? Interesting question. We're not naive. We know everyone in the fashion industry does coke and also chain smokes. The two are integral to maintaining a model-body. Presumably, thought, Moss's habit is beyond dabbling if she's cutting lines in a wide open environment (in a recording studio where she unapologetically snorted five lines). It would be a disservice to her and her child to condone this habit. Saldy, this is exactly what we're doing.

Traister continues, "What this drama has done is lay bare the ugly skeleton that holds up a fashion industry that for some time has prized hollow cheeks and vacant eyes, stunted, prepubescent frames, and jutting collar bones from which fabric drapes beautifully. In other words, the body that is appealing to designers -- and thus to consumers -- is a body that looks like it has been ravaged by drugs. In order to stay employed, models must maintain this shape; to maintain the shape they must do something besides eat right and exercise regularly. Whether it's cocaine or speed or heroin or caffeine or cigarettes or anorexia or bulimia or some combination of the above, most adult women cannot get bodies that look like Moss' healthily, because hers is not a healthy body."

True. But it's a body that mainstream corporations like Calvin Klein and Nikon are all too eager to show off. In a press release touting the Moss/Nikon merger, the executive creative director of the campaign Bill Oberlander (who I once worked for) said, ""From the moment she started modeling, she's transcended the modeling industry and has been the icon for fashion and sophistication."

Looking beyond the superficial, if possible, Moss is actually the opposite of sophistication. She's a drug addict in a dysfunctional, abusive relationship. By hiring Moss, the fashion industry inadvertently condones this lifestyle. Beautiful people do truly ugly things. Don't you want to be beautiful?

In the recent Forbes article "Moss Appeal", the magazine asks, Are we on the verge of Kate Moss overkill?

For her sake, and for ours, one could only answer, I hope so.

SONG OF THE DAY

I once discovered a record while I was in high school and it blew my yet-undeveloped mind. T-Ride was a promising hair-metal band signed to Hollywood Records (the home of Queen). Their guitarist Geoff Tyson was the student of Joe Satriani and their vocalist Dan Arlie could transition from a Tom Waits-baritone to a glass piercing falsetto effortlessly.

T-Ride's only released record is still one of my favorite records of all time. I love it so much that I had to post two songs. I couldn't just pick one.

Now, it's an acquired taste and I do acknowledge that there's a lot of nostalgia associated with the band but still...one of the most overlooked and talented hair-metal bands of the 90's? For shure, dude. For shure.

1. T-Ride - "Zombies From Hell"
2. T-Ride - "Hit Squad"

Did I just lose all my readers?

SONG OF THE DAY



Is it like rain on your wedding day? Or is it like 10,000 spoons when all you need it a knife?

Actually, Van She is like neither. But are they ironic?
Probably, but irony sounds like fun. So let's ditch the Sincerity (gasp!) for four minutes and fifity-two seconds and dance like we were listening to the Killers in 2003.

Van She - "Kelly"

SONG OF THE DAY



On occasion, I'll be sitting at the computer like I'm doing right now (...how meta. Sitting at a computer writing about sitting at a computer...) and I'll want to phase out the noise completely and focus. Like the Ford car.

When this happens, lyrics often get in the way.
I want to avoid the habit of listening to a song and wondering, wait, is this singer effectively conveying to me his-or-her broken-heartedness? Does that lyrical analogy comparing a welcome mat to a heart really work for me?
Frankly, this practice gets distracting.

Mark tells me he hates techno. I understand his reticence. He is neither clubbing in Barcelona nor raving in Dusseldorf. Right now, he is sitting at a desk located in Los Angeles, California probably checking lame emails. Techno isn't really all that appropriate for checking lame emails at your desk in California or for that matter, anywhere outside of a venue located in the aforementioned European cities. With that in mind, unlike Mark, I have a soft spot for Underworld. The technotronica DJ duo gets my heart pumping, my fingers typing, and my roommates questioning my sexual preference.

Yes, I'm straight.

All I'm asking is listen to this track "Rez" on headphones. Heck, try jogging to it and tell me it wasn't exhilarating.

Yes, straight people use the word "exhilarating." Punk.

Underworld - "Rez"

I TAKE IT BACK: Volume I
Meter Maid Edition



I've been thinking a lot about what I said to you this morning after you gave me that parking ticket and I just want to say, I have no way of proving that your mother was in fact a female dog. Seriously.
And in my mind, I've been picturing you over-and-over again and I see no distinctive proof that you come from any canine ancestry.
None.

Yes, I thought that maybe you had those very distinctive Basset Fauve de Bretagne eyes but I've since reconsidered. Despite the obvious sadness in your right eye, I think the left one had too much life. There was an alertness like that of the Caucasian Ovcharka. Could you be the result of mixed breed dog love?

No, no. I know. That's inappropriate.
You're just doing your job. And me...? Well, I'm just parking like, ten minutes before your street sign allows. But what's ten minutes between people who barely know each other, may even possibly resent one another, or perhaps see each other as the ultimate representation of their arch enemy--the defiant ticket recepient?

Oh, and turns out ten minutes is worth about eighty-four dollars.

And that comment about your backside and a pole. I also have no way of proving that, either. Your practical-yet-drab grey-blue trousers make it impossible for me to effectively see what is in your posterior.

Of course, I've never tried walking with a pole in my rectum and I can imagine it would be awful and therefore make the experience of walking up and down the block writing tickets a painful one. But I was thinking, though, that maybe it could be a small pole. Technically, not even a pole. Like perhaps one of those extended pointers that college professors use when they're too lazy to walk to the chalkboard. They're small enough to not notice when you're swaggering smugly to an unknowing, innocent car. A discreet pole-like object that could still inspire an attitudinal change without onlookers noticing something protruding from the rear.

That's not very likely either. I know.

And do I even need to bring up that time I suggested a creative new activity for you and the ticket you put on my windshield? I mean, if you'd like to go ahead with my suggestion, that's totally okay. If you're into that sort of thing, I am completely respectful of that. This is New York City. Enjoy. Go wild. You don't even need to credit me with the idea. What you do with my ticket in your spare time is no business of mine.

Finally, when you were walking away, I may have said something about self-reproducing. This I know is impossible. Not from personal experience, of course.

We're cool, right?

AN OPEN LETTER TO SERGEY BRIN AND LARRY PAGE



Dear sirs,

I wonder if ex-girlfriends ever google the two of you and then regret having dumped you. I bet you they do.

Yours,
Arye Dworken

SONG OF THE DAY



Without employing any irony whatsoever, it is my sad duty to report that Justin Hawkins lead singer of the Darkness has quit the band.

For those unfamiliar with this awesome rock machine, the British foursome only had one month on their calendar and that was Rocktober. I've written about them before and my appreciation is genuine. Combining Queen, AC/DC, Boston, and Cheap Trick into a leather clad monstrosity, their two records Permission to Land and One Way Ticket To Hell...And Back baffled music critics as they inexplicably argued the intentions of this band: are the Darkness a joke or not? I don't know, man. Back in the day, you didn't have to do anything more than wear a pink-striped unitard to prove your authenticity.

In today's edition of The Sun, Hawkins admits to a very serious drug and alcohol addiction which led him to an early retirement. According to the singer's calculations, he has consumed, i.e., snorted, over 150,000 pounds of cocaine in the last three years. Yes, that's currency, not weight and also approximately $278, 910 of fine China white going up your nose. People who have spent four years in medical school would tell you this is an unhealthy thing to do.

"I'm lucky I still have a septum," Hawkins said, shouting out to his septum. "It was always terribly sore but I would just take more cocaine to kill the pain. I was constantly blowing out blood." If there's one thing we can learn from all of this, it's, while doing interviews, make sure to keep the status of your septum to yourself because sharing is not always caring.

The Darkness has plans to carry on without Hawkins which is almost as lame as Queen carrying on without Freddie Mercury. Almost, but not as lame.

We'll miss you, Justin. Seriously. And we can't wait for the reunion tour.

The Darkness - "Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time"

Instructions for listening to today's Song of the Day:
1. Find lighter
2. Ignite Lighter
3. Sway lighter in the air back-and-forth
4. "Feel" the music.
5. Lifting shirt to expose chest; optional.

BAD DAY COMPETITION



I wonder if hearing the song "Bad Day" actually contributes further to having a bad day. It's unquestionably an annoying song. It's so smug. I feel like it actually does the exact opposite of what's intended.

And what's that?

To reassure me that everyone has a bad day. But its sentiment is so generic that I find it rather offensive. Yes, I'm having a bad day but what makes you think your trite song is going to change that? I would say that's pretty presumptuous.

I think you're being overtly sensitive. It's a pop song.

It's one of the most popular pop songs in recent chart history.

A one-hit wonder.

A very successful one-hit wonder.

What's the point here? There's a reason we're having this discussion.

Well, I'm having a bad day and this guy Daniel Powter has no idea...

That's not fair. Maybe he knew what a bad day was when he wrote the song. Maybe the bad day that inspired the song was so much worse than your bad day.

You're trying to put things in perspective, aren't you? I hate perspective.

Look, things are tough, I know.

They are. I keep thinking that maybe I'm doing something wrong. Why do I feel like I'm the constant recipient of rejection?

It doesn't make sense to me either. Honestly. I've thought about this. But look at it from this angle: struggle makes us interesting.

I would give anything to be boring.

I knew you would say that...you're also that much more prepared in handling disappointment.

Is this a perk?

The other day, I realized that I just recently started believing in karma.

Okay.

So maybe we're doing something wrong here. Maybe, just maybe, we need to be projecting a betterness into the atmosphere.

Ha ha. You don't mind if I laugh, do you?

Laugh all you want. I am aware of the fact that I sound like a hippie. But that being said, why not play it safe?

Want to know the most annoying part of struggling? It always makes me second guess my decisions. Like, is this struggle the kind of resistance that requires a reevaluation, a change of plans, or is it the stuggle that comes with an eventual happy ending?

If only it were more obvious.

Yeah. Because this is exhausting.

You're having a bad day.

Such an annoying song...

Yeah.

SONG OF THE DAY



Ahh, Britpop. I loved you back in the day like a Southerner loves his cousin. Every once in a while, I'll throw down an old Blur track, or a song by Sleeper, but somehow they all pale in comparison to the epicness of the Manic Street Preachers.

The Manics have a pretty incredible backstory but it was the what-does-it-all-mean largeness of Everything Must Go that brought them to a wider audience. If you're willing to shell it out, the classic record has just been deservingly re-released with bonus material. This, along with Pulp's new Different Class are on my wish list.

A lyric line from The Song of the Day--"We don't talk about love we only want to get drunk"--could almost be the mantra of my generation.

Manic Street Preachers - "Design For Life"

MORE HEARTBREAKING, STAGGERING, AND POSSIBLE GENIUS



Thanks to Sara, it's come to my attention that Dave Eggers is coming out with a new novel entitled What Is The What. I already have my copy on pre-order.

The fictional book "based closely on actual experiences" is about, "Valentino Achak Deng becomes a refugee in war-ravaged southern Sudan. His travels bring him in contact with enemy soldiers, with liberation rebels, with hyenas and lions, with disease and starvation, and with deadly murahaleen (militias on horseback)?the same sort who currently terrorize Darfur."

McSweeney's has an interview with Eggers and Deng about the book on their website.

Dave's been a huge influence on my life: in fact, he's one of the reasons I started writing. There was something about his books that seriously connected with me. Sure, I know people that can't get through his books but I also know that an equal amount worships his every written word. I fall into the latter.

A few years back, I met Dave at a bookstore and I fawningly asked him to write down a few words of advice (I posted this a few years back so I apologize if this is already familiar). He wrote:
1. Be Smart
2. Read Nick (Hornby; he was referring to Hornby's music criticism)
3. Know your magazines
4. Be nice.
5. Be confident.
6. Be humble
7. Be positive
8. Be nice. Everyone likes nice people.
9. Keep smiling despite it all.
10. Send me some of your writing.
11. You will do it. This I know.

His suggestions were all attainable. Being nice? Being confident? Humility? These were all things that an idealist could achieve but unfortunately, after all this time, after being embittered, I've forgotten how to internalize some of them. And this saddens me.

While Nick Hornby has stopped writing music criticism and magazines have lost their spine (for the most part), I still have to remember the fundamentals. It meant a tremendous deal for a starstruck reader to get one of his favorite authors to confirm the life standards already thought important.

Seemingly, I have to reconnect with that idealist.

And I probably should send him some of my writing...

SONG OF THE DAY



Missed me on Friday?
Of course you did, shmoopie.

Oh...I thought it was okay to call you "shmoopie?" I guess not.
(Snob)

In any event, it's Monday. It's a good Monday. The weather's great and I'm feeling a bit liberated considering I just returned to my apartment from a three-day stint in New Jersey. Why not start the week with a bang?

The bang that I provide you with today is by a band called Mute Math which, yes, is an awful name, and also brings me to the lesson of the day:

The kids hate math
Math, geometry, algebra, trigonometry...these are all subjects the kids despise. It's best not to use these mathematical subjects in your band name. Why? Well, most people who claim to like these words are probably (and I say "probably") geeks. You don't want geeks coming to your shows because geeks will not rock out.

Although, it should be noted that using a number in your band name is acceptable like Blink 182. But once you start using arithmetic symbols, like +44, this becomes a problem and geekdom ensues.

Mute Math - "Noticed"

SONG OF THE DAY



Since it's launch a few weeks back, I've really been enjoying Gawker's new music website Idolator. But aside from the snarkiness and self-deprecating charm, the 'Lators have pretty wonderful taste. Take this track, for example; "Young Folks" from Peter Bjorn and John's Writer's Block that they linked to the other day. The import CD isn't even available stateside to us Americans. This is the sort of snobbery I could get behind.

Peter Bjorn and John - "Young Folks"

Videos this cute are almost illegal. Like misdemeanor-illegal.

THE UGLY BETTY TRUTH (Part II, continued)



Initially, I was hesitant about being a lowly intern considering my age (26) but I was told that having your foot in the door at Mew Lork magazine would be worth the degradation and humiliation. That being the case, in retrospect, my foot was the only part of me that benefited from the experience.

When I interviewed for the position, I was told that I would have every opportunity to pitch the magazine and then write stories. In risk of being a Jewish boy cliché, the potential of validating my career choice to my mother was exciting to me. For once, my words would appear in a reputable, mainstream magazine as opposed to the less-accessible indie press. Finally, I wouldn't have to hem-and-haw when family friends asked me whom I was writing for ("well, mostly music magazines you've unfortunately never heard of," I had to say).

On my first day, I was introduced to my mentor, an esteemed editor on staff, and she would supervise my progress and assign various projects to me. Mentor seemed cool. Mentor seemed right on. Scratch that--mentor, from that point on, ignored me with the exception of making empty promises about taking me out to lunch one day so she could dispense advice and give insight into what makes people like her tick. By the end of the summer, this impossible lunch became a punch line. Like hell freezing over.

Now years later, my mentor has been promoted as Editor In Chief of a reputable women's magazine. Naively, I wrote her an email congratulating her. This was three weeks ago. I've yet to hear back.

Anyhow, during my four months at Mew Lork, I sought out advise and mentorship (being that my mentor was actually not) but rarely found any nurturing outside of my fellow interns and editorial assistants (who I still have very fond feelings for). This internship was as unglamorous as a pimped-out photocopying machine. I researched stories that never went anywhere, sat at my desk waiting for an errand, and was the recipient of more cold shoulders than a resident of Cold Shoulder County. I showed up to work depressed at the prospect that people in the magazine industry were actually like this. My fellow interns wanted to cry. I, at the very least, compensated my gloom by taking a ton of free books from the galley bookshelves.

On the last day of my servitude, I was asked by a high-maintenance writer to transcribe his interview with Hope Davis. This editor epitomized weasel, so taking on his assignment was not my idea of an appreciative send-off. While listening to his tape, my admiration for Ms. Davis grew exponentially. I couldn't believe she sat there patronizing the dumbest questions I have ever heard ("do you like acting?"). Granted it was unprofessional, but I left some of the more unintelligent questions out because, well, I didn't want to rub it in this guy's face that he was the worst question asker ever. Like, hands down worse that Larry King.

Later, when the writer later realized my creative editing, he ranted and asked me, who I thought I was to edit his interview?

I answered, An intern on his last day here.

I left Mew York that day with a bitter taste in my mouth which, needless to say, was not from anything I had eaten during a lunch with my mentor.

[To be continued]

SONG OF THE DAY



Last night, I saw Secret Machines perform at Irving Plaza for their In The Round tour and it was predictably amazing.

It's astonishing to me why this band is not more popular that it is (which, sadly, is not very popular). Why are the dudes wearing Pink Floyd T-shirts getting it, but you're not? Are you just being spiteful because Bowie likes them? Are you one of those "If Bowie likes it, then I can't"-people?

I so don't like those people.

Secret Machines - "Lightning Blue Eyes"

THE UGLY BETTY TRUTH



By watching ABC's new series Ugly Betty, one would assume that the magazine industry was vapid, cold, heartless, and unethical.

The show, for the most part, is accurate.

This is my fifth year as a freelance journalist and while I've seen television characters come and go, I haven't felt more connected to any of them like I relate with Betty.

I wouldn't qualify myself as ugly (although, I am no hottie) and I do not have large metallic braces but I do understand the tribulations of wanting to work in publishing. It's thankless and demoralizing. I have swallowed more ego in the last half-decade than anything else (and that's including water, Slurpees, and daily coffee). I have questioned my own talent more often than I change my underwear (which is daily, mind you).

I feel bad for Betty because it's so obvious that she's talented and ambitious but also clueless. And as I watched the season premiere last Thursday, I somehow understood exactly what she was going through. Not the laughter and embarrassment but the frustrations that come along with proving oneself. Yes, the show is intentionally silly and ultimately, the ending felt trite and unrealistic but the ladder that Betty climbs, along with the ladder I climb, is wrought with obstacles.

A few years back, I interned at a weekly magazine I will call Mew Lork magazine. Before I started my internship, I could not have been any more excited. I respected Mew Lork immensely--I even had a subscription which I read cover-to-cover. The idea of witnessing their creative environment firsthand thrilled me. But then I started working there.

[To be continued]

SONG OF THE DAY (W/ BONUS REVIEW!*)



Beck
The Information
(Interscope)

Beck Hansen’s impossibly innocent eyes communicate that he is beyond considering record sales, marketing campaigns, or anything that could potentially taint his artistic pureness. The songwriter has proven himself an anomaly in the record industry; He writes a nonsensical slacker anthem that becomes a generation’s hit (“Loser”), constructs a pastiche of randomness and wins a Grammy for it (Odelay), records a follow-up of retro-mutant psychedelica and gets raves reviews (the appropriately entitled Mutations), re-emerges with such screaming irony that surely it has to be sincere (Midnite Vultures), and then shares a document of pain so stark and depressing, it sounded like a suicide note (Sea Change).

But with 2004’s Guero, Beck stopped innovating and combined virtually all the aforementioned album concepts into a compilation of unfinished songs. The replicas of vibes, chords, beats, and sounds from the spider-webbed attic of Hansen's mind proved that the perennial loser's last album wasn't where it's at, it was where it's been.

The Information isn’t wholly unlike its predecessor but it feels infinitely more organic. Maybe current producer Nigel Godrich was able to accomplish what the Dust Brothers couldn’t: realizing complete ideas. The ninth major label release relies less on samples and studio trickery and emphasizes on a live jam atmosphere. Percussion used in songs like the spontaneous “Nausea” and the saloonesque “Strange Apparition” are presumably forks, glasses, vases and other household items. Simply put, it’s a fun record with more impulsive smiling than forced winking. Unfortunately though, at 15 songs, some tracks like “1000 BPM” and “We Dance Alone,” are superfluous and unnecessary. It’s another instance of too much Information.

Beck - "Strange Apparition"

*Review to be published in the upcoming DIW Magazine.

SINCERITY ON BREAK

BBS will return on 10/3/06.

Thank you.

No, really. Thank you.