If There's Nothing Funny to Blog About, You Live in Philly. Alternate Title: The Facileness of Music Blogging

Crazy Dave dancing

Download: Lindstrøm & Prins Thomas - Nummer Fire En

"Julianne wrote a great piece on Lil Wayne today, worth reading because it is most likely about you, the hyperfingered blogskimming danceremixing motherfucker who hasn't listened to any one song the last six months more than six times, except maybe "Young Folks."-- Riff Market

This whole trendfucking trend: grading music, making aesthetic evaluations (um, some suggested reading btw: Kant, Immanuel, Critique of Judgment), according to preconceptions of artist and genre-- until last week I maintained some hope that hipsters really didn't work that way. But the blind acceptance of the new Axis of Evil (indie, new rave, mash-up) in fact proves that "hipster" is a euphemism for scenester. I define a scenester as a Catholic, someone that needs a support group, that can't stand alone, can't ask questions, and never can be wrong. People like me, (I say this with honest conviction) ex-download whores, who were bloodthirsty for the new, the free, back when our iTunes libraries weren't billions of gigs, in large part created this monster. Now we have to suffer it.

I guess it's job and/or old age be praised, my bad habits have been broken. Since last November I have not heard much music. But I have spent some quality time with a few things. Here they are:

LCD SS - 45:33, Sound of Silver
Lil Wayne - The Greatest Rapper Alive, Da Drought 3
Wolf Parade - Apologies to the Queen Mary
Sunset Rubdown - EP, Shut Up I Am Dreaming
Keith Fullerton Whitman - Playthroughs, Multiples
Lawrence - The Night Will Last Forever
The Rolling Stones - Exile on Main Street

To a slightly lesser degree:

The Arcade Fire - Neon Bible
!!! - "Heart of Hearts", "Must be the Moon"
Beyonce - "Freakum Dress"
Faze Action - "In the Trees" (Carl Craig Remix)

Some new stuff sure, but three items are from 2005, and attest to my own whoreishness. I didn't listen to the entirety of the Wolf Parade record until around X-Mas '06. It's one of five cdrs (along with LCD, Weezy, Sunset and Whitman, ok my copy of Peedi Crakk 4 Prez is still in there, but that's a good thing) in my car, the place where I now most often listen to music (SIX RECORDS), whereas in previous years it was my iPod (5,000 songs, divide by average of ten, 500 RECORDS).

I think this Lindstrøm & PT track may be the next big thing for me. I guess that parental inculcation of fucking Coltrane's "Ole" has left me with a soft spot for 15+ minute tracks. Heard it for the first time yesterday, have listened to it four times since, that's right people over an hour of my time on one song. Sprawling and organic sure, its first half surprises with its sinisterness, something Lindy and PT aren't exactly known for, and provides that somehow never cliched foil for the prettier second movement. You can dance to it sure, but it's special to me because of its ubiquity, I can listen to it before work to psych myself up or after work to unwind. If you aren't an asshole, you'll want to listen to this track more than once.

The near future has some promise too, so don't despair. I'm curious about this Get Him Eat Him stuff. New Sunset Rubdown, Wolf Parade, Caribou, Interpol-- hey the first record was great, the second good, there's no reason not to be stoked for the new record, except of course if you believe there's a strict rule that says indie rock bands have five year shelflives. So for those few like me, maybe we'll have a chance to reclaim some ground in the next few months. Let's keep up the good fight.

Rag Sags, Dragged Down by Rap Baggage

Today, I read another really infuriating T.I. review. I think this might be the new worst T.I. blowjob ever, although there have been plenty of others. It got me thinking: what can be done to combat the plague of bad rap love in the independent press?

In case you don't feel like reading it, here's what happened in the article. In the course of reviewing a generic new rap single, a minor rap dork casually proclaimed that T.I. was definitively not a case of style over substance. In this case, the proof lies in "inscrutable" substance that the rap dork is willing to take on faith.

After all, T.I. could never be making generic, forgettable hip-hop. There are, of course an infinite number of reasons. First, he battles the thug inside himself in a pushup war (which the author cites as a potent artistic expression of inner turmoil). In addition, T.I. has a great wardrobe, definitely makes the best Southern rap faces, and shows conviction in his swagger (grabs his di' really hard, perhaps).

Pitchfork published an article that calls that video an inscrutable expression of inner turmoil that is convoluted but extremely exciting. It's a generic commercial hip-hop video. What's it got to do with Pitchfork?

"Okay, we have to really to be on point for this new T.I. Breihan will knock our teeth out if I don't give dap to the King. ha-HAA! No haters in this place! Okay, I need an article that says that T.I. is a totally complex guy. Here's a video of him in a dualistic struggle. Make it work, okay?"

All jokes aside, I'm sure this was written of the author's own free will. No matter what, though someone has to read an article like this one and say "wait, this doesn't even makes sense." It's state school campus paper sports section. It's Long Island prep valedictorian personal diary. Its only clear thesis is "the editor of this section is in way over his or her head."

No one is charmed or convinced by Pitchfork's primarily vapid obsession with mainstream hip-hop. It's obviously forced, and increasingly absurd. This is the most inexplicable review yet.

T.I. is like "Keep my big shit poppin, D, in and out ya mouth."

~~~~~

Here is a playlist of 10 psychedelic songs that are guaranteed to blast all thoughts of shitty hip-hop entirely out of one's mind:

Caetano Veloso - Irene
The Bees - The Ocularist
Panda Bear - Bros
Black Moth Super Rainbow - Melt Me
Os Mutantes - Baby
Deerhunter - Wash Off
Caribou - Bijoux
Pink Floyd - Remember A Day
The Besnard Lakes - And You Lied to Me
Blood, Sweat and Tears - I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know

Black Madonna! Begone once more from this place.

JS came home from the thrift store the other day in good spirits, with a small bag. I asked him what he'd bought.

"Authentic Brazilian jeans," he announced, "a hundred bucks," pulling out a slim, sleek bundle, which he then began to unroll. My head swam in a familiar way. The jeans spoke to me of a deep history, as objects sometimes do, owing to my peculiar disposition. Their deep indigo threw me into daydreams.

The most patrician Tropicalist there ever was, pupils blossoming, scaled a tree that grew from warm, wet ground... in these same impossible jeans! He reached the top, straddled the trunk, and the sweet woodwinds seemed to ring out just as he shouted in triumph: "Quero ver Irene dar sua risada!"

"How remarkable. Those truly are Brazilian jeans. Are they the size 29 that you require?"

"28," he replied, as he ran upstairs to try them on. My consciousness exploded with imagery from the legends with regard to Brazilian jeans. Miraculous control over a soccer ball in a man who'd never laced a cleat. Leonine chocolate manes sprouted from a gray, stubbled head after just two weeks. What blessing might be conferred upon my old friend by the bountiful character of Brazil that bolsters those seams?

Five minutes later, he'd yet to return. My stomach wrenched with guilt as I charged up the stairs. I'd left him alone far too long.

Before I could even ram his door, and my face twisted as though I were the stricken Priam. Through the door, plain as day, came the shriek of that old nightmare, the one I thought I'd heard for the last time. I burst in, ears covered, but still heard it plainly:

"CHARLIE, HOW YOUR ANGELS GET DOWN LIKE THAT!"

That obscurant shade, the queenly succubus, had perched again by the bed of my oldest friend. Her otherworldly shout tripled impossibly into harmony with itself. A shitty R&B beat looped like a camouflaged midnight adder beneath JS's feet, which struck the floor on beat with nightmarish precision. The single pulsed sickly under the needle of his turntable, and on his laptop screen danced the Queen herself, in Yellow, clutching the scolloped scraps of her vestments in a way meant to excite the obsessive feral appetite.

He pumped his fists in empathy as she howled, in three distinct and chilling tones:

"CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW LIKE VERIZON! OHH! AND THAT'S THE WAY IT IS YEAH!"

"JS! I squashed the power switch on the receiver and swatted away the hand that shot out by reflex. He looked up at me with dull eyes, and mumbled "... exciting.... anth...anthemic chorus... and hard druh.. umbeats."

I fled the house in tears of grief. There would be no bringing him back this time. The song was nearly over. It had done its Stygian worst.

What happened on that day? I've always thought that the impetuous courage endowed upon him by the Brazilian jeans was to blame. As indestructible as he felt, it is no wonder he decided that he could stand for just one last look at the visage of the Black Madonna herself, the stupefying siren. And he must have found his fix, maybe some B-side I'd never discovered, never taken any precaution...

No mortal man can stand to be entangled with the mad Queen in her tattered mantle. I had reminded him just three hours before.

Sorry We Haven't Been Blogging. We Forgot To Take Our Freakum Dresses Off

Just playin, B

T.P.O.'s "Freakum Dress" Spectacular

I know, you need some explanation. I have not yet listened to B'day. I figured why bother, there'll be videos for all the "good" songs, I'll get what I need from MTV Jams. Kinda liked "Ring the Alarm", not so much the others. (So far I think "Deja Vu", "Irreplacable" and "Upgrade You".?) "Deja Vu", well, indeed. "Irreplacable" is the most misleading song title of all time. Also, its message is way more devilish than any Lily Allen could birth. "Upgrade You" is too cocky, and way too materialistic. To be expected, (yawn), etc. Then I heard "Freakum Dress".

While everybody still trendfucks Justice and new rave and Diplo and sleaze, I'll make my stand here, and say "Freakum Dress" has become my "Best Song Ever" for this week, and right now, I can't imagine liking anything more this year. The video debuted either early last month or very late in March, which for me means 2007 single. Can I talk about the song now?

Thematically, "FD", amazingly, offends no one, and moreover is universally relatable. We all have that one goto outfit. The one that fits perfectly, for your physique and spirit. Mine? I'll tell. It's a dark gray t-shirt that reads "Creature of the Night" and a bullet-hole riddled pair of Diesel's. It's a song about looking, but more importantly feeling your best, and thankfully Beyonce's vocals are complementary: her most confident and powerful yet, even more so than on "Crazy in Love."

Musically, the Rich Harrison production also outshines former standard "Crazy". On "Freakum Dress" the producer deepens the bass, immediately giving the song a more delightfully sinister feel than its predecessor. The muted, synthetic saxes, and understated Morse code beeps, as opposed to the blaring trumpets of "Crazy", wisely defer to, rather than struggle against, Beyonce's brilliant performance.

"Freakum Dress" exemplifies my ideal pop single. It celebrates and empowers, has universal appeal, and does so tastefully and concisely. Hey, Indiedom, the song hasn't blown up like it should. You won't lose face if you get behind it. What you will do though is show that discriminating crossover knowledge and eclecticism you now spuriously tout.

Exhibit B

Today on Bitchfork (Whose bitch? The dollar's.):

Stream: M.I.A. - Hit That

"Who knew M.I.A. could do subdued (the appropiate tone for a sex jam, keep reading)? Over this skeletal (unfinished), stuttering (unsure) Bangladesh Production beat, her voice actually sounds smooth in places (good enough). Just in case the song's title was unclear, she's driving the point home: This is a sex jam. Of course, it's also about how awesome she is (you're kidding me, right?), and her trademark cockiness (TM) is still omnipresent. Even her come-ons sound like challenges ("Boys let me see you hit that"). Still, it's an interesting change of pace (bad career move) to hear her over a beat that isn't all destruction, terror, and mayhem."

--------------------------------------------------

I had a talk with a few people that know about these things in August 2005, and we agreed M.I.A. would be finished after Arular-- she couldn't possibly have anything left to say. If "Hit That" represents the entirety of Kala, then we were right. This Spank Rock move was all too inevitable, and sounds just as awful if not more so coming from Maya. If, after brutally punishing yourself for four minutes, you think you can still defend this song-- well, you know what, you're right, and I'm wrong, you're under Pitchfork's umbrella.

Local Rumors Clearinghouse: Man Man Edition!

• Man Man have a record deal. Let's just say they're label mates with Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!



• Man Man's members like to clap their hands and say yeah.



• Man Man despises Cherry Coke.



• Ryan Kattner owns CityPaper.



• Joey Sweeney is Man Man band member Cougar. (Let me get serious for a moment. Guys, can't we all just get along? T.P.O. offers its services.)



• Ryan Kattner and partner (Joey Sweeney) now own Philadelphia Weekly.



• Man Man is gay and loves butt sex.



• The band's studio lineup includes ex 76er great, Eric Snow.



(Might not look like Eric Snow, but trust me, it's him)



• Man Man's new record doesn't mention unrequited (gay) love.



• Man Man's new record is going to be available for free download via pitchforkmedia.com, get an 8.4 rating from the site and the coveted "Best New Music" tag. The review will say shit like, "On this record, Man Man refines its sound and grows lyrically and structurally." As a result Man Man has already been booked to play PMF and Lollapalooza '08.



• Man Man hates polar bear cubs.

"The Virginia Polytechnic Institute slaughter forces American society to once again examine itself, its violence, the obsession with guns of part of its population, the troubles of its youth, subjected to the double tyranny of abundance and competition." --France's Le Monde newspaper.

Philly Heroes: Our friendly service

The cautious countermatron from the shop
Stopped slinging seven shades of stringy slop
For several seconds, staring at her screen
With consternation fit for a cruel queen
For, though her store is ratty, crude and mean
It's surveilled by systems such as you'd see
On some sort of top secret submarine:
It's said that in her culture, women must
Never be placed in positions of trust.

A look askance from crook'd italic eyes
As suspicious intentions she descries
Request for rolling papers met with such
I neither goggled, bobbled, grayed nor blushed
Instead I grabbed a can of bakéd beans
Three Trojans, Mach 3 razors, shaving cream
Meanwhile watching her watch me on the screen
Expecting me to stuff these in my jeans
Smoothing my jacket o'er distended seams
Just like the finest feckless Fairmount fiends

The total comes to seventeen odd quid
But this bitch still squints at me like a squid
Just for my wish to twist up a quick spliff
And pay fucking tuition for her kids.

At least I can skip out on CVS
That cluttered, venal, spirit-sucking mess
Though closer by a mile to my address
Presents the most unconscionable distress
Of asking a young lady to cut short
A heated phone call in which she exhorts
Some big playa who think he way too fly
And think he get to hit it on the sly
He don't know bout how I stay focus, B
And she was like you must not know bout me
And where he think he gon get some head at
And find some otha trick ass bitch to tap.

While I tap on the counter, bitter brain
Boiling and burning with impending shame
The old woman behind me is immersed
In some circular from some Catholic church
And meanwhile I'm about to say 'He-aaaaay,'
Stop squatting on that copy of B'day
Ain't hatin, just get out here, I need help
Please open up that sliding condom shelf."

And worst of all, I'm still always the one
Willing to wait until she thinks she's done
While trying not to grit or grind my jaw
Beyonce will be first against the wall.*

*figure of speech, not proof of fascism

Philly Heroes: John Barlow

John Barlow as Brad Pitt as Achilles in Troy

Philadelphia sports history was made this past weekend in the Hill Top Flag Football League. I don't know if that's the right name, but it's the league that plays its games in front of Memorial Hall. I can't believe Inquirer Sports hasn't covered this story. It's a story about... about balls, big balls... really big balls... Balls. Here's my account of it, a first person account, utterly exaggerated and untrue, and as I retell all things, in egregious, fake epic language. But that's beside the point.

Saturday, April 7, 2007. Imagine a morose afternoon, cold enough to unleash the hounds of hell, cold enough to ruin many a sack, that is unless your name is John Barlow. Barlow and I were in the Red Belts With Devices for Attaching Flags That Don't Fit Size 30 Waists or Less reserve core together, preparing for duty. Daily, he was running laps around the country. For my part, I had begun overhearing sports talk shows on ESPN while doing the crossword puzzle. Two soldiers had fallen in a prior engagement, and the Commander in Chief of the "Red Belts", 6 star General H.C. Rogers IV, had to activate us for Saturday's game.

Jesus knows, he didn't want to. John and I were as green as a bad case of the frozen Green Giant spinach shits. This was going to be our first battle. Of course, the enemy that day was to be the most difficult yet, the Norristown Blue Spandex Thingy Clad Boppers. They boasted of a champion, Papa Shango,


(This is truth btw. One of the guys on the opposing team was fucking enormous and had his face painted exactly like former WWF wrestler Papa Shango.)

that could defeat the champion of any other team in single combat. As in olden times, they offered to decide the contest in such a manner. Until that day the strength of us Red Belts had been our intellect. We were known for the labyrinthine stratagems of our Commander Rogers, and thus our ability to outmaneuver as a unit. But now that had changed. Now we had... Balls.

The briefest interval of silence, then from the rear of our camp, a voice bellowed back, "I accept your challenge, you bunch of pansies", John Barlow's voice. The two combatants stepped onto the field. Papa Shango chose offense. Barlow was to stop him, either strip him of the ball, or strip him of a flag. They began at breakneck speed, driven by an unseen motivation, just as two rams vying for an ewe in heat.

They clashed at the center of the field like Olympian thunder. Shango, up to that point, had been the strongest warrior in the league. He certainly could not fathom a scrawny 135lb white kid being as strong as he. But he had no idea of John's Balls. Shango suffered demoralization and confusion. Barlow had seized Shango in his vice-like grip, and was driving Shango back toward his goal-- Barlow was seeking the ultimate victory, one that never occurred to any of us, the safety.

However, Shango regained composure somewhere around the 15 yard line, and realizing how more diesel Barlow was, he resorted to treachery. As a smaller sumo wrestler will draw his larger opponent to the end of the ring in hopes of using the larger opponent's strength and momentum against him, so now did Shango lead Barlow on. John, catching sight of the goal line, drove Shango back with all his strength. This was Shango's chance. He fell backwards.

Barlow, still raging like an untamed lion, immediately tripped over Shango's feet. John prepared to break his fall with his hands. He did not anticipate however, the velocity with which he had been driving Shango back, and his right hand hit the ground a split-second before his left with such force that his right wrist exploded on impact.

Shango unravelled his feet and took off for our end zone. His touchdown dance was a combination Unk's "Two Step" and Crime Mob's "Rock Yo Hips." Only seconds before he realized the superiority of his opponent. Already, he had forgotten it, and was arrogantly stomping in our end zone and calling himself "The Shit."

Oh Justitia, how you so reliably smite such hubris! Running up to Shango, the league official held a blue flag, a blue flag missing from Shango's blue belt, a blue flag that the hand of John Barlow, Red Belt, ripped from that blue belt. John Barlow had defeated Papa Shango. You see, all along, Barlow, the paragon of both cunning and humility, had Shango's flag in hand. When John tripped, Shango's flag came with him.

Shango cried and cried for hours, as did his teammates, and they were so ashamed that they would never play flag football again. Barlow, with the legend of his strength and courage preceding him, is currently being hit on by hot nurses across the Delaware Valley.

Get Well, Dude

Best Fern In Your Cappuccino Foam

Spent the day in my old neighborhood in Williamsburgh yesterday... ended up leaving my favorite winter hat in my favorite old coffee shop, and had to turn back. Before I left the asshole "barrista" and I had words,

"Um, excuse me. Do you have my hat? Um, I left it in here a little while ago."

"Um, excuse me... do you have, like my hat?" Copious eye-rolling.

He pissed me off and my orange hat was lost to the universe, so I grabbed his small brown leather unruled diary. (I had seen him writing in it in a corner while I drank my coffee about 30 minutes previously)

Here's an excerpt from November 17th 2006:

"Had a pretty decent day yesterday. Got up early, did some body cleansing Pilates. Ate soy sausage and tofu scramblers with sage.

Screenplay Idea: A man writing a Dostoyevsky novel using only clowns. Theme/Tagline: Insert comma where you wish...

Sometimes when I'm handing out tourists their coffee I just freak out about the state of America. Why am I serving coffee to some Republican from Illinois when I should be writing lyrics???

Toxins:
The night ended in cocaine and jukeboxes. Then I became depressed and self-concious when a blue-eyed chick across the room yelled out, 'I can just TELL this playlist was made by a loser.' "

------
Actually, I ran back into the shop, got the eyeroll and sass, and then spotted my hat on the floor in a corner.

Masters 2007 Recap: It Is What It Is

If you didn't already know, before being struck by the hand of The Hipster Almighty, some of us at T.P.O. used to be really into golf. There you have it, Philly. I'm out.

I couldn't find the video footage on YouTube of an interview with Tiger Woods in which he uses the phrase "it is what it is", but it's somewhere on The Golf Channel's website. Add another name to the growing list of douchebag athletes using this one. "It is what it is", Tiger. How does it feel to be a loser?


Watch your step, big guy

Some no-name won because he hit the ball straighter than everyone else, and with the course being dry, the distance advantage was nullified. As part of the majority of golfers that isn't 6'6, 250 it's always nice to see the accurate little guy get one. It just sucks that this guy really, totally loves Jesus. Zach, if you are such a good Catholic, you would've checked this thing they do in the Phillipines out




instead of playing in the Masters. Jesus didn't help you win, because Jesus would've been against competition. However, your desire to crush may have had something to do with it.

And let's not forget about T.P.O. affiliate Riff Market's favorite, Vijay Singh, who also played in this year's Masters. You'll want to crank up the volume for this one.

For All His Talk Of BJJ Training, I'd Bet James Murphy Still Couldn't Take The Juan

With Silver taking the world by storm, you might forget about the rest of DFA, which would be a seriously bad idea. Seems like it could be a big year for not only the label's flagship act. The Juan Maclean and Black Dice should release new records some time soon. Tim Goldsworthy's thrown down some amazing remixes. Tim Sweeney keeps improving as a DJ. Shit Robot is probably brewing another single. Hot Chip-- well, whatever. Most importantly, it appears the label is growing. First off, there's the reported debut from Prinzhorn Dance School. Next, there seems to be connections between DFA and a couple chic as fuck acts, Holy Ghost!, whose "Bell & James" is going to be on everybody's year end lists, and Hercules & Love Affair. Finally, not 100% sure, but DFA may have picked up The Shocking Pinks, whose Dance the Dance Electric showed lots of discopunk promise. Xmas 2007: Compilation #3?

Loyola Deesh League: Draft Wrap

Team: Pale Fire
Manager: CJR

Who are you? How long have you played with these guys? How have you done?

I am a young professional and freelance intellectual from the Cradle of Liberty, Philadelphia. I am the most estimable baseball authority that I know of, and my scouting reports are generally considered nonpareil. Last year, Utley and Howard (Rounds 2 and 6) kept me in first for most of the season, but my pitchers shit themselves in the second half and I did not contend for the title.

I am known for my innovative progressive fantasy baseball platform; for example, a moral imperative in the team code of ethics specifically interdicts the signing of athletes from the Yankees and Braves, as well as any players who are Texas dickheads. My teams are always racially integrated; bilingual players are given preferential consideration in all drafting procedure. A proposed amendment to team ethics that would ban Colorado Rockies players on grounds of excessive Christianity was nearly adopted, but was determined to be in violation of the team charter and dropped before the draft.

We've had this league going for six years, and I have heroically battled through stints of Baltimore deesh fatigue and improved my ALUMP, or average lineup updates per monthly period, from 2.3 for 2000-2004 to 40.26 in last year's season. My status swelled to "serious contender" for the first time last year, following a legendary and coup-heavy draft, but even this was spoiled by Matt Holliday's decision to play the first few months of the season with his dick in his right hand at all times, resulting in his swift release, as it were.

I've known Matt Kraemer, Chris Lucas, Rob Selby, Rob Donlan, Tom Croskey, Kevin Ellis and Mike Zuidema since 2000, and I consider them nothing but an indistinguishable swampy pit of reptilian Reagan-dick-slurping protofascists whose spiteful, righteous capitalistic solipsism roars off their interactions with the world around them like hot and sulfurous gas. Each one can be considered a veritable embellished emblem of today's slipshod American college education system, commemorating its unconscionable failure to instill discernment in even its purported brightest talents.

I am something of a personal hero to each of these men, a beacon of idiosyncratic ideological brilliance and taste. In addition, the merest memory of my achievements on our various intramural teams can reduce any one of them to blushing, fist-pumping reminiscence, and they speak of me only in only the most respectful and deferential terms.

Who's your biggest competition this year?

Selby and Donlan, without a doubt... sike. Dead Coyotes are scary. He's got a lot of good players. Ramrod has good hitters but dogshit pitching, same with Doobs. Vasco's always in the hunt, and his team looks okay. Ellis had a good draft and is dangerous. I think top three is me, Croskey, Ellis.

What was your draft strategy?

I picked only players who I consider a lock to produce what I need from them in designated categories, barring injury (and I chose not to count on any players that I consider injury-prone). For hitters and pitchers both, a bad supporting cast made some players all but undraftable in my book. I want to thank Buster Olney for his amazing work this past year, too; now, better than ever, I know who sucks and who doesn't. My only real blind wager, Matsuzaka, broke the heart of everyone in the room. But mainly I just wanted to make sure I represented as many cultures as possible on my team, and drafted accordingly.

Best pick?

10-Verlander/11-Frank Thomas/12-Lugo. I can't decide.

Worst pick?

Hard to say, but I was quite close to having Hamels instead of Myers, so I think jumping on Wells may have cost me slightly, even though he is going to hit.

Any holes you need to fill? Do you prefer to trade to improve your team? Work the waiver wire? Pray?

I need to get an outfielder, and I have excess quality pitching to trade. Brad Hawpe should be rotting on my bench like 2004 David Wright, while some poor schmuck is platooning Corey Koskie and Pedro Feliz. Pray not, for there is no God, and your prayers will not prevent your going under.

Any secrets to your success?

My main advantage over this big box of dim bulbs is my exemplary intrinsic brilliance, which shines through to light my efforts in most everything that I attempt, and such limited and agymnastic individuals as Matt Kraemer cannot even comprehend in theory the astonishing breadth of the spectrum that I perceive. Also, this year I went so far as to ignore one of my team's traditional ethical roster restrictions and draft a motherfucking Marlin with my second pick, just so Vasco wouldn't casually walk off with the SB like some linen-clad Euro cutpurse. That is how serious I am about winning. Also, I have Ryan Howard, the best player you've ever seen.

Die Album Die or Long Live Singles and B-Side Comps

Ed. Note: I was on my last leg. I couldn't take the purity of the indie rock coming from SXSW any longer. Even in the nut house, I kept hearing it. Then, one more head butt against my cell walls away from killing myself, I heard what sounded like LCD SS "Sound Of Silver." The song was getting louder and I immediately started to pull myself together. Next thing I knew a wrecking ball crashed through my cell, and almost instantly, another crane snatched me away. Assman and Crazy Carl, thank you guys. Also, big ups to cranes and disco music.-- JS

It has become hot for artists to include only a few new songs in their "albums". Hey, I call it like I hear it, they're releasing comps.





Be honest with yourself and your audience, fellas. And ponder this: shouldn't you allow the old material to stand as it was originally released, on its own. Give us new music or at least follow the lead of artists from the good old days of 2006: record new versions of the singles for the album.

Ditchfork (Part 1)

Ed. Note -- Jake is still in the insane asylum in Austin. We're currently forming a rescue operation though. Hopefully, we won't be too late. This piece was something he'd been working on for a while. We thought he'd want us to go ahead and run it. -- CJR

I remember the days when Pitchfork would cover new trends. Now it seems they just defend the old ones. They turned me on to artistis such as Deerhoof, The Rapture, Black Dice, and Madlib. Some of this website's staff had realized that young people might and should want to listen to something other than indie rock. But it seems that a new faction has seized the power at Pitchfork. Now that indie has become the new yuppified mainstream, and the powers that are have realized that they have a product from which they can make millions, Pitchfork clearly has set up shop in the sadsack world of mostly shitty indie and has begun persuading its audience to do the same. Forward thinking has been sacrificed for the availability of the dollar.

Now let me just say that I think Pitchfork still does some good. Look no further than Tuesday's LCD review. You'll find the best review of the year so far. And while sometimes days behind a story, and while clearly subversive in tone, in the sense that they're pushing asshole language and opinions as the only cool, the News section is so comprehensive that one must use it. For the most part, my problem is with the new section, Forkcast.

I know that you might think that I'm biased, because for a very brief time early last year, I reviewed a few dance tracks for Pitchfork, but I say this honestly, that before, during, and for a brief time after I wrote for the website, as a regular reader, the old Track Reviews (RIP) section, which Forkcast has replaced, was undoubtedly the highlight of the website for me. I could get an idea, quickly, about diversity in music. The format also allowed for some of the site's more colorful reviews, and yes, I mean the ones that would shit all over their songs. That doesn't happen much anymore in the almost all-positive Forkcast section. What about the material? The new Pitchfork has overlooked so many recent, non-indie tracks. What about Depeche Mode - The Sinner In Me (Villalobos Conclave Remix)? Shit, they have the biggest Ricardo freak on the planet, Phil Sherburne, writing for them, and they didn't have him review Villalobos' best remix? Or take Stephen Marley's "The Traffic Jam." How are the non-MTV Jams-watching indie kids going to find out about this gem? Also, the hip-hop coverage, that allowed the site's best writers to deal with what they know best, has all but vanished. So many Lil Wayne tracks. Why can't I get some Dombal/Fennessey/Breihan/Macia on "Army Gunz"?  Two of these writers jumped ship because Pitchfork was, in their minds, never going to be a friendly place for writing about hip-hop. Believe me I could go on for hours listing tracks. Instead, I get banal indie. 75% of the section is devoted to some form of indie rock, most of which is shit, but, hey, it's all available for download! The half-assed music garnering shameful praise is breeding half-assed reviews. Take this Mary Onettes one from a corporate News guy:

Too many revival acts get the spirit but lose the feeling, and even more fall short the other way around (What?). So raise a glass to Sweden's regrettably named Mary Onettes, who manage to pull all the right strings (har har) (fart noise) on "Lost". It's a soaring throwback epic ready-made for the wallflower protagonist of a film, from an era where (when) pop stars wore frills, mascara, and bleached hair.

The Onettes' first single for indie pop powerhouse Labrador sounds familiar right away and will have you mining your mixtapes and grey matter for the precise 80s act these four are mimicking so lovingly. For starters, those opening notes nail "Age of Consent" (which they don't) hook, line, and sinker (then why would you have to mine your mixtapes?); feel free to fill in the blanks from there.

While it sounds lost in translation at first, titular refrain line "When lost is all you have" reveals these Swedes to have a more nuanced understanding of their second language than one might think (How so?  I dare someone to convince me that 'And I know you feel / the weight that's ***on*** your back / can get you through / when lost is all you have" really means something.). Vocalist Philip Ekström saves the high notes for "If I could dream a way," as concisely wistful (indeed) a pop sentiment as any.

"Lost" doesn't have the vicissitudes that distinguish spiritual forbearers like "If You Leave", "Bizarre Love Triangle", and "Take on Me", but it nonetheless stands tall among these and other romantic pop milestones. Your innovation-craving mind may be skeptical, but your nostalgic (a song's being nostaglic alone is not enough for such high marks) heart will grow fonder with every note.

Of the remaining 25% of the section, Pitchfork gives a good portion of the ink to new, but facile and low-b Girl Talk/Diplo type remixes. Read this (and be sure to check the link, it's to the Pfork review) critique triggered by another Forkcast entry. To take it one step further, I have to think that a lot of the blame for the increase of these shitty remixes belongs to PF for bestowing them with good reviews. It's mutually advantageous: the artists get their 5 minutes, and the site not only gets to appear to keep in touch with The New, but also to lavish it on their audience.

This may seem trivial, but I honestly know Pitchfork has huge influence. I actually learned the number of daily hits sometime in 2004 and was stunned. I can't imagine how many times that number has multiplied by now. And the thought deeply saddens me, that if I'm still alive 30 or so years from now, my kid may only get to listen to new "I'm From Barcelona" records and tell me how they've changed his life, entirely due to the agenda pushed by one of, if not the, main authority on alt music of our generation.

This Is My SXSW Post

The Diarrhea Faces

I've institutionalized myself in the musical utopia of Austin, Texas.



The bands were so good, I knew I needed to be restrained. I don't know when or if I'm getting out, Philly. Things are so awesome here that the doctors only grant one opportunity to blog about it. So, I am insanely pleased to give to you perhaps my final blog post:

T.P.O.'s Top 50 Discoveries from this year's SXSW (So Far)

1. The Prep
2. The Gay (Best New Band '06? Can't wait to hear their debut, Smarties: Yum, Yum, Yum!)
3. John Vanderslice
4. The Wtfs
5. The Erections
6. The Asps
7. Tortoise
8. The Chicagos
9. The Deesh
10. Girl Talk
11. The Sad Sacks
12. The Sadnesses
13. The We Are Sads
14. The Blues
15. The Quaint
16. The Coquettes
17. The Old People
18. The Esoterics
19. The Mary Onettes
20. Beirut
21. The Blenders
22. The Pineapple-Coconut Smoothies
23. The Skateboarders
24. The I Feel Sads
25. The Cougars
26. The Sad Mohawks
27. The Sads
28. The Dads
29. The Chores
30. The S.E.C.s (Sausage, Egg and Cheeses)
31. The Farts (noise music)
32. The Words
33. Block Party
34. The
35. The Bravery
36. The We Shit Ourselves and Now We're Sads
37. The Chia Pets
38. The Lovely Sunsets
39. The Poetic Backdrops
40. The Conifers
41. The Spruces
42. The Beeches (In case you couldn't already tell, the tree is 2007's wolf)
43. The Larks
44. The Polar Bears (Ok, I know these guys should be Top 10, but they were just a little off when I heard them)
45. The Coys
46. The Fawn
47. The English Bulldogs
48. The Vanna Whites
49. The Tears
50. The Rivers of Sadnesses

Mims the Word

My computer is an iBook G4. My homepage for Safari is apple.com/start. For the last two weeks, each time I open the browser, I have to see that Mims' "This Is Why I'm Hot" is topping iTunes downloads.

You can read this, and I could tell you that I gave Young Jeezy's "Go Getta" 3 stars for my iTunes rating, to understand that I have clearly become one of Hipsterism's best apologists for main-stream hip-hop. But there's no way I can pardon Mims' climb to the top. Songs like "This Is Why I'm Hot" are the reason that pretentious stalwarts of bush league indie rock still think they have a point.

First off, the song contains the most egregious use of guap to date. Then there's the whole "I'm hot cause I'm fly, you ain't cause you not" business, or in other words, "You're not hot, I'm not you, here are 500 ways I differ from you, thus I am hot." Well apparently Mims must not know bout us! T.P.O.'s official hotornot.com rating is 9.4. Clearly, there's no way that Mims would do any better than 9.2.

But on a serious note: the rhyme pattern blows, the diction is stale, and according to Mims he is hot for the same exact reasons that every rapper in the history of rap has been hot. Not hot.

And really, if Mims were hot, wouldn't he be doing a little better on Google Image searches?

Youtube Essay: Serious/Serious?/Not Serious

The following Youtube Essay contains some serious content. Not all videos are ideal for at-work viewing.

SERIOUS











SERIOUS?











NOT SERIOUS











BONUS CRO COP HIGHLIGHTS

TPO's Beautiful Philly Roadshow presents The Manayunk Project

The #1 most common complaint about Philadelphia: low fucking culture. No offense to those who do their best to keep us out of the toilet tank. For example, Philadelphia is way less grim than Baltimore. However, Philadelphia is inferior to New York, because there are too many dickheads fucking everything up. Now, how can there be progress without protest?

The municipal zoo for douchey behavior in Philadelphia is Manayunk. There are some joints there where the rock music that people listen to in Iowa and Montana and Iraq plays all night long, and other places where the DJ has just mixed In the Club into a Bow Wow song for the 82nd Friday night in a row. Every live band plays a Sublime cover. Sometime later tonight, the shittiest college kid this side of the Mason-Dixon line will finger a Northeast girl who will drive 45 minutes home while blackout drunk and then smoke weed with her 33-year-old dad. Everybody loves McNabb in every single bar in Manayunk.

One night in the near future, representatives of The Publications Office will be coordinating Project Manayunk. Participants will dress, and prepare to act, like they are going to Medusa Lounge or Fluid, but instead they will convene in Manayunk. T.P.O. wants to take, let's say, everybody who knows Dave P, and try to get something going on the dance floors at Kildare's.

T.P.O. will capture video from several perspectives and edit it into a coherent feature. Designated security will accompany the project, and female participants will be shielded at all times from Manayunk date rapists. Desirable prizes will be awarded in the following categories:

-Best photo of a Manayunk dude who has got his ass up
-Best photo of a dumb slutty bitch
-Best 1 minute of footage
-Best homophobic reaction induced
and/or
-Best dancing

More info to come; in the meantime, please refrain from washing your hoodies.

New Look, But The Same People Can't Stop Staring

How I feel about TPO's new layout, as expressed in terms of Rowdy New York Bitch myspace emblems:







And, I ain't bragging, I'm just the fucking best, you know it, and when you talk about me you show it. This layout and me are two raw ass bitches with a hearts of gold, and we will straight up end you if you fuck with me or say shit behind my back. Me and my chicks are hard as bricks, we drink till we fall down but we puke till we rally! You already know... tHAt's whY MY NamE iS On YOUR LIPS... AND WE'VE NEVER EVEN MET... SO YOU DON't KNOW mE!


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I'd also like to thank our sponsor for the new format, Big Spendas Lifestyle Entertainment, throwing the hottest parties all over the greater New York area, featuring the hottest girls from Westchester to HOBOKEN serving up $6 test tube shots of Jager, featuring DJ Aaron Ruiz spinning the hottest new Billy Joel-Tiesto mashups on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. This is why we're hot!

Help support TPO, buy an official Big Speezy bumper sticker!



Also, we are proud to offer for sale our first TPO Lifestyle Series T-Shirt, in partnership with American Apparel:

FRONT:



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