Wesley!

First this, now this. Look, Wes, we care about you, no shit. We're from the same town. Brotherly love, bro. You've run amuck, and we need to get you back on track. So, we contacted an old friend of yours for some assistance in the matter. We received this hand-written reply from him within a week:

Dear Masters T.P.O.,

I cannot express in words my gratitude for how much you care about my Wesley. I fondlingly remember all those nights that Wesley and I would stay up late and talk about the most important of issues, like AIDS and... But yes, being impotent, my darkest secret, I always cared for the Owens children as though they were my own. It was very difficult for me to read your catalogue of my Wesley's recent exploits. I have failed him so very much. The only persuasion toward upstanding life that I can offer to my beloved little one you will find enclosed. Please, masters, make sure it reaches him.

Humbly Yours,
Mr. Lynn Belvedere

Here it is, Wes:

My dearest, lovely, most tender, Wesley:

You know how crude I find the mincing of words, Wes, so straight to the heart of the matter. I strongly object to the company that you're keeping and the music that you're producing. Wes, where did you meet such people,





the heart of darkness?

And making music that encourages such filthy, slutty behavior



(Cheering a young woman for moving her bowels in public? What is this world coming to?) are we? You need to come home to Daddy, Wes. Right this instant, young man!

Do You Hear What I Don't?

October of last year, or somewhere thereabouts, I purchased a pair of Bose Triport earbuds. I noticed a huge difference. I discovered bass. One month later, some cold weather came into town. It was my first chance to break out my new Diesel cargo jacket. The jacket has no side pockets, only front ones, pockets that place an earphone jack at a strenuous angle. Fast forward yet another month. Getting ready to walk from The Last Drop back to Fairmount, I cued up Fizheuer Ziheuer for what I thought was going to be the best walk of my life. I hit the play button. The sound out of one channel crapped out. Amazing how the best can instantly change to the worst. I didn't care how long I had to wait for the 48, I wasn't walking anywhere on that day. Keep in mind that this happened during the time of the year when I was flat broke. There was no way I could afford another set of headphones. Luckily enough, Bose fully stood by the product and gave me a replacement set without any hassle, that or they didn't want to look like schmucks in front of all the holiday shoppers whom I made sure were present when I attempted the return. An amazingly bitter cold gripped Philly from the end of January through the beginning of April-- cargo jacket weather. Fast forward to two weeks ago. With the casing around the jack already worn away, the wires finally succumbed to gravity and severed. I vowed to never spend $100 on a set of earphones again. I thought the product should last much longer. I decided to return to using the earphones that had lasted me for a year, the Apple jobs.

It's funny how you're always going to learn lessons about which things you can and can't skimp on. Earphones, it turns out, are one of the things which you can't cut any corners with. Why? Bass. You can not fuck around when it comes to bass. This incident again reminded me that bass is not only the best instrument ever, but also the key component to an enjoyable listening experience. When it's right, it enriches the experience tenfold. E.g. Beyonce's "Freakum Dress." I can totally understand how people that only hear this song on TV speakers or shitty earphones can think it's not the best song ever. On my Bose buds that bass awakened something in my soul, a 1-2 juggernaut. Any song with sub bass was turned into a automatic winner, except of course blog house songs or B-more house, come to think of it the quality of the earphones actually enhanced that stuff's egregiousness.

Who needs sound that good? I do because I care about this shit, electronic music that is. So much of the music employs and actually depends on the sub bass that you could probably dismiss almost the entire genre as overly cheery and cheesy without it. The instrument is so in your face and it carries the gravitas that makes electronic the genre of both today and tomorrow. Goddamn, I hope I was wrong about these Apple earbuds lasting a year. Maybe I knocked over one of the fourteen unfinished bottles of Deer Park water on my desk, where the earphones are also presently, and they shorted out while I was writing this. Then all I'll have to do is spend $500 on a new Diesel winter coat, one with side pockets for sure, so that my $100 dollar earphones can last longer than five months. And there's nothing wrong with that.

Did You Ever Really Think We'd Make It This Far?

"Fuck yeah, I did." Thanks, bro


100 posts. Wow! Honestly, it's just an excuse to put this Radio Slave remix up.

Download: Discemi - Data Sapiens (Radio Slave Remix)

Only 7 days though. Why leave it out there? Some assholes would find a way to fuck him over the way others did oh, i don't know, DAFT PUNK!




Stop playing this shit, and start playing "Revolution 909", on repeat. You'll seriously be the best DJ that ever lived. But yeah, we going to keep it moving. Can't stop, won't stop. And, of course, we stayin' focus.

Ti Metto Il Cazzo In Culo E Te Lo Faccio Uscire Dalla Bocca

An ambiguous "ending" is a huge sell-out, a way for a writer to appease his entire audience. Let me just go on record to say that no T.P.O. writer or associate has or will ever ambiguously end a piece, unless of course they're heaping on the sarcasm. Which sounds like a kinda good idea, so maybe every post from here on out will end ambiguously, maybe it won't. Ooh. Are you getting as pissed at me as I am at myself for writing this? Isn't this the best way to really convince you that ending was elephant shit?

How much more money do you honestly want to make from this series, Mr. Chase? Everyone's going to buy the DVDs, cause everyone's loves being right. But what upsets me is that it's pretty clear what happens to Tony Soprano, I know it and you know it, Chase, and this isn't me being cute either, I'm going to reveal it, and it's really pretty simple, that is if you've read a book before. But ending it the way that Chase did, not showing it, allows idiots who haven't read any books to formulate so many illogically optimistic outcomes-- cause after all here was a real American badass, who never, ever could go down-- allows these half-wits to do what they do best, defend American immorality and general dooshy behavior.

But yeah, they whack Tony. Probably shoot him at least fifty times in the head. They probably kill A.J. too, because why leave the son alive to later exact vengeance? Look, the shots of the shady dudes being shady, the one shady guy going to the bathroom, the black guys blocking the restaurant's only exit-- what the fuck else is going to happen? Need more? In Tuesday's Inquirer, some lady brilliantly caught some details I hadn't, details which would suggest Paulie had his hand in it, which makes sense. He had motive, recall how he was shitting himself about having to take over the crew whose former bosses had all been whacked. Makes good sense to me.

But fuck this minutiae. In the history of literature all prideful, boastful, immoral, evil, megalomaniacal sociopaths fall. Tragedy, people. Shakespeare, baby. Balance and moderation have to be maintained. It's the way of things. Yin and Yang. Check and mate, America.

Sidewalk To Heaven

So, I live in the Fairmount section of Philadelphia. Having lived here after college for three years now, two in Fairmount, I have learned that nothing ever happens in the city as a whole (except of course the rise of the Broadzilla), and especially in my neighborhood. Not entirely hating here. I like the tranquility of my neighborhood so much. All I have to put up with each year are bicycle and crew deesh. But it's nice when something changes-- it gives you something to blog about. Well, today my life in Fairmount changed in the biggest possible way. The sidewalk of the Art Museum's new building, situated on Pennsylvania Ave., between 26th St and Fairmount Ave., was finally opened to walkers. Fucking huge deal, I don't need to tell you.

I can't tell you the countless hardships that I had to endure before this sidewalk opened. The Museum or construction company or whoever set up a most crude, temporary (ha!) walking lane, an eight foot high chain-link fence on one side, brutal concrete barriers on the other. The lane was definitely no more than three feet wide. In the winter, the lane would fill with inches of slush, and we all know how that shit can fuck up your day. Also, for a period of time, you would have to traverse a sheet of leftover lauan spanning a fathomless hole. Life risking shit.

And the people, the double-edged sword of Fairmount. There are no hipsters in Fairmount. I love that. No competition. There are a few grups, but nothing I can't handle. For the most part Fairmount residents are yuppies, or older intellectual types. Honestly, pretty great people when you think about it, except when they walk. These people are of the ilk that refuse to break formation, like they can't miss any of the conversation, like they have to be in position to one-up their mates. So I can't even tell you how many times I've been body-checked into one of the concrete barriers-- though at this moment I do have six otherwise inexplicable bruises on my thighs-- or worse into the chain-link fence. What happens when you get pushed into a chain-link fence is you completely lose your balance, but the fence is just strong enough that you won't fall backwards, through it. No, it slings you forward, back into the people that pushed you in the first place, knocking them into the barrier, which slings all of you back into the fence. After two more cycles of that, things finally calm down, and you are left awkwardly knotted in the arms of a sixty something who because he's clearly ten times more worldly and intelligent than I am, leaves me the asshole of the ordeal.

Today's the happiest day of my Fairmount existence thus far. If you passed by the intersection at some point today, you probably saw me walking (skipping with ecstatic exultation) back and forth on the new sidewalk, thoroughly enjoying its bright white concrete and newly planted trees, passing other pedestrians quite amicably and safely. The sidewalk on Pennsylvania between 26th and Fairmount: let's get into this, Philly.

Even Heroes Die, Little Billy

LCD's set from last night's Fillmore at the TLA show


HINDSIGHT: A BITCH

I really thought that everyone's championing of LCD's Sound of Silver would place the best possible horseman at the reins of general alternative music, and that this charioteer would be able to lead us straight through the sun, to our much yearned for Eden, a place free of indie bitching, an Eternal Disco. I was wrong.

WHY DIDN'T ANY ONE UPSTANDING CRITIC TRY TO FIND FLAWS IN SILVER?

No good answer. Maybe it was too early to do so. Maybe I am one of the first ones, even just now, able to attempt such a thing. Having now probably listened to each track around 500 times, I can say it is entirely possible to get sick of the sound of silver, to think that "North American Scum" and "Us V. Them" need to be shortened, that maybe the speaker of "Time to Get Away" is too much of an asshole, etc, etc. It's possible. Clearly one of the band's biggest fans, I stalked and then found the leaked Silver files very early, I think it was just before Thanksgiving, IN HINDSIGHT the worst fucking possible time. Everyone stopped releasing music in '06 because "how the fuck am I going to get on critics' year end lists by releasing a record in December?" I had all the time in the world to listen to the new record. And I fucking did, and when I wrote this, I thought I had spent the perfect amount of time with the record, that I had found my own kairos for writing about it. IN HINDSIGHT, what had probably happened is hubris had kicked in, that I had become disgustingly proud of myself for knowing this record inside-out, and that I, like every other critic, had become caught in its spell and gave it just a little more credit than it deserved.

"WELL I'M LOSING MY EDGE / TO ALL THE INTERNET KIDS / THAT LIKE THE LCD SOUNDSYSTEM FOR ITS / 'SONGS'."

What I hadn't thought of was that every other indie, alt, hipster dude/ette out there would soon enough be as enamored as I was with Murphy's transformation into a songwriter. It still took about a month after Silver had been officially released for the oldschool hipster caveat to well up in my mind: if the indie/hipster chic establishment endorses something, there's probably something wrong (not hip enough for uber hip me) with it. I have no problem with this line of thinking. Neither would James Murphy, first and still foremost, creator of "Losing My Edge".

"HOW CAN YOU NOT LIKE 'SONGS'?"

This all came to a head at last night's free (bad idea), myspace sponsored (worse idea), LCD show at the Fillmore at the TLA (worst idea ever). You see, I have been spoiled. In 2005, at what I guess was the fifth anniversary of Making Time, an incipient LCD live act had lots to prove. And IN HINDSIGHT, but remembered like yesterday, on the relatively small main stage of Transit did they ever prove it. They, the accredited members of LCD Soundsystem, not some motley crew, took the stage. Red light on Murphy's mic. He stepped into it, already sweating. He took a swig from a bottle of Jack Daniels. He took two tambourines, one in each hand, looked at them in turn, first the left, then the right, and then slapped himself in the face with them. The band immediately launched into "Beat Connection". It is still the best live performance of any song in the LCD catalogue that I have heard.

Tracks, better, jams, like "Beat Connection" as opposed to songs like "North American Scum" or "Daft Punk Is Playing At My House", work really well live. They are so big that they simply set a crowd on fire. At that early show the set included similar jams "Losing My Edge", "On Repeat", "Yeah" (Crass), and for the denouement a cover of Paperclip People's "Throw." The set and the energy and the environment were perfect, and what happened that night wasn't an LCD Soundsystem show, it was a Rage Against the Machine show, and if, like me you didn't have the balls to go to a Rage show, then you were ecstatic at the realization that another band could set you free in that way.

By comparison an atrocity occurred last night. I need to get this out of the way here, the lighting (I don't know whether LCD or the TLA's to blame) was terrible: way too bright, and white, not nearly enough colors or effects. What was truly upsetting though was how a growing in popularity headliner, now with a more than sufficiently large catalogue, could perform way too short of a set, maybe barely reaching an hour. That set needs to be at least twenty minutes longer. No "Get Innocuous" the best dance jam on the new record. No "Someone Great", Murphy's best song. No "Beat Connection" or "On Repeat" or "Yr City's A Sucker." No "Jump Into The Fire" or "Give It Up." James (maybe this will light a fire under your ass if you, like me, like to Google blog search yourself), The Rapture's live act slaughters yours.

What's worse, made even more unbearable by the fact that it happened here, in Philly, the one place where things like this don't happen, is that general sense I got from the placid and serene, and in no way even 1/2 moshing, crowd was that the show was great. Was nobody else from the Transit show there last night? Why in the fuck weren't we throwing all kinds of weird shit on the stage in protest, throwing shit off the balcony, raising hell, until we got the performance that we didn't pay for, but deserved all the same?

AND THE 64,000 DOLLAR ANSWER...

With songs like "All My Friends" and "Someone Great" LCD stopped being just for kids who didn't want anything to do with the bullshit aesthetics of 21st century punk, and who were maybe just a little bit curious about disco music too, but who still liked to fuck shit up from time to time, and started to also be for pussies. Which isn't entirely a bad thing, but it's definitely not the best thing, especially on stage, and which made me firmly realize this morning, at around 7:02 A.M., that LCD Soundsystem and their new record Sound of Silver have left plenty of room for improvement.

The Phillie Phanatic Is Fucking Huge

Nowadays, it's hard for me to be surprised by our sometimes fair city, but it still happens occasionally. Take Monday for instance. The Phillie Phanatic and I were working the same charity function. At first sight I was taken aback by its enormity. My only Phillies perspectives had been wide-angle TV shots and 200+ level seats at the Vet. So that you're not as stunned as I was, here's a full comparative description.

The PPh is bigger than Giant Gonzalez.



Its shoe size (34P) dwarfs Shaq's. It's green is brighter than TMNT mutagen. The tongue is not quite as long as Gene Simmons'. Most noticeable though, its ass' surface area is at least twenty times that of J Lo's.



There's just no way to explain the Phanatic's skinny legs.

It also particularly struck me how real the Phanatic is-- there is no vestige, physical or spiritual, of a human being under all the green. Some guy and that costume have fully melded. Finally, you realize how fitting its name is. This thing is fucking nonstop nuts. First off, it will, literally, mime your every move. Its high fives hit like wrecking balls. It hops around like a flightless bird. Using its other mode of transportation, an ATV, it does way more crazy shit than those guys from the Ruff Riders videos: backflips, frontflips, death rolls, shit just owning an ATV in Philly is straight bonkers. Also, if you're sitting down, it will plop right down on you, and it will give you the best lap dance of your life.