Post-rock.

Today we have for you one song split into two videos…

That song is “Rockets Fall On Rocket Falls” by Godspeed You! Black Emperor from their Yanqui U.X.O. album (“U.X.O” meaning “unexploded ordinance“), and, well, I don’t want to say too much about either of them, at least not more than… the first, above, is basically what it says on the tin and is frightening and beautiful all at the same time. And the second, below, features another aspect of the song as the soundtrack to a bit of speaking done by Jiddu Krishnamurti, an Indian author and philosopher talking about a great many things, including the question of whether or not we truly are individual or just aspects of a collective consciousness and is a life without conflict possible if we truly strove for it, and what happens if we gave up certain rights and decisions, and… Well, I’ll let you watch it. Here’s hoping you’re having a lovely Sunday. Bombs away!

“I died so I could haunt you.”

I’m fascinated by these little glimpses into the making of Stars’ new album, The Five Ghosts, which is officially being released June 22, along with The Seance EP. Musically, the band sounds as brilliant as ever, but watching them work and play and laugh and argue and fight in the studio, it’s the kind of thing that just amazes me.

The new Broken Social Scene album was good, but it’s released seemed to kind of come and go with little fanfare. I think I expected more, possibly from the album, which was fine, but also from it’s listeners. It’s hard to explain. Metric was one of those bands that I loved until every moronic asshole started to proclaim their love for, and then my interest started to recede. And the music started to change a little too, as bands do tend to grow and their sounds begin to progress, and so do their listeners (one would hope). And, of course, there’s a natural feeling of resentment that seems to come when a younger audience comes to appreciate “your” music and you feel they don’t “get it,” but eventually you have to let it go. They get it in their own way and it’ll always be different from your way. Music belongs to everyone and it belongs to them differently.

So, as I grew and changed, what their music meant to me changed. Their last album, again, was fine and good, because they are an excellent band, but it probably didn’t leave me as over the moon as it did others.

And yet, Broken Social Scene, was different for me. The Canadian supergroup, which is something that sounds an awful lot like an oxymoron, was the great unifier. The ultimate indie living room party rock. Ryan Gosling could get some drinks and pick up two chicks at a bar set to “Stars And Sons” in Half Nelson while at the same time you and your friends are arguing about the tea party and Republicans and Obama and the oil spill set to “Handjobs For The Holidays.” The music didn’t let me down, but perhaps the potential for conversation did. Will we all sit at a dining room table someday, tapping our fingers along to “All To All” and chatting away our white whines and then smile as we meet the eyes of a pretty stranger across the room? One can only hope.

But somewhere along the way, as I said, I changed. My love for the music of Emily Haines changed and Amy Millan became my power animal. I could and should probably save talking about my appreciation of her music for another time, until we’re all on the same page. Let’s just say for now that I’m excited to see/hear her roar. I’ll leave you with one of my absolute favorite songs by Stars…

Ordinary people going nowhere.

Last week it was all about fighting invisible chicken monsters from outer space and getting inside the lonely, tragic head of a challenged painter who didn’t realize how important he would be in the eyes of all those who looked upon his works…

…and this week on Doctor Who it’s about the lives of ordinary people, in a pretty simple lo fi episode as we gear up for next week’s two part season finale…

And that’s this weeks’ episode, “The Lodger,” written by Gareth Roberts and featuring James Corden, whom I don’t think many outside of England will know, and I don’t know much about him either, except that he was going to be in this episode and, of course, was recently a dick to Patrick Stewart:

A lot of times after viewing an episode and before I write one of these things, I’ll do a quick scan online to see where my feelings fit in with the rest of the online, er, “community,” and usually, it’s a match. Well, for the most part. This week, I have to say, I was quite shocked to find that most of the viewers loved this episode, and perhaps more than loved it. In the typical fashion of any television show reaching the conclusion of it’s season, there’s the slow down before the great big ramp up and exit, and many online compared to this to “Love And Monsters” and “Fear Her,” and how much better tonight’s episode was compared to those, though I didn’t dislike those episodes or look upon them negatively at all. At least not “Love And Monsters.” Though none of them will compared to “Utopia,” of course.

And don’t get me wrong, I certainly didn’t hate “The Lodger,” not at all. It was quite fine, actually, but I’m starting to notice perhaps the tiniest thread of disconnect between myself and other Doctor Who fans out there. Many, it seems, are quite eager to proclaim this new season the best yet (since the revival started, I imagine, and probably before as well), and I don’t know that I would go that far just yet.

That said, I really did like this episode, maybe not as much as others, but it was very good. The Eleventh Doctor, left behind by a manufacturing TARDIS, and having to spend a few days pretending to be a normal human as he figures out and tries to stop whatever it is that’s interfering with his time machine. Brilliant set up. I tend to like all forms of (good) sci fi, but especially that which pulls it out of space and tentacle rape and girls with three tits and brings it down to Earth in a normal setting, showing humans dealing with the fantastic. And this episode did that, even though it appeared to be more of a showcase for just how weird Matt Smith’s incarnation of the Doctor is.

That and, in case  you didn’t know, that Matt Smith was just this close to becoming a professional footballer (that’s soccer for those of us stateside), until an injury derailed that and set him down the path towards acting.

Even more interesting to me is that the initial story to this episode started off as a comic strip in the Doctor Who magazine, and I always love that this show will mine other sources for it’s stories and adapt them. For example, Moffat’s own “Blink” was initially a short story starring a much younger version of Sally Sparrow, and the lovely two parter “The Family Of Blood” and “Human Nature” were based on a previous Doctor Who novel. Those two episodes, in particular, make you wonder why the Doctor would choose to go by “The Doctor” in this episode rather than his go to nom de plume of “John Smith.”

From what I can surmise though, the initial comic strip featured a then new Tenth Doctor getting separated from Rose and the TARDIS and having to move in with Mickey Smith for a week. Interesting enough, the angle of the comic strip was apparently how normal and more human-like David Tennant’s Tenth Doctor was than his predecessor and how much of an irritant that was to Mickey Smith, how that split him from Rose even more. And I think that’s a more than valid point, especially since Tennant’s Doctor was so likable, and in such a human way, and was more prone to walk into any situation and master it within moments and get everyone on his side.

from here.

And I think it’s interesting how they flipped that with Smith’s Eleventh Doctor, almost making him the exact opposite of his predecessor, all bow ties and weird hair and an alien understanding of the normality of the humanity he seems so obsessed with. Whereas Tennant’s Doctor read the last Harry Potter book and cried or loves chips (french fries), Smith’s Doctor can’t tell how time progresses for normal humans or how to properly greet someone in a particular era. He has blithe, slightly telepathic conversations with cats and, thanks to slightly rushed feeling writing, head butts people in a rather slapstick fashion to pass along quick psychic infodumps.

from here.

And for a quirky, amusing story, I should add that the humor wasn’t unwelcome, but as I believe I said last week, I’m eagerly awaiting next week’s return of Moffat and the deadly seriousness he can bring. In my wildest dreams, Moffat would write like ten out of a given series’ 13 episodes. I know, I know, that’s insane. But just imagine it.

That said, again, liked the episode, but thought parts of it were a bit rushed feeling. The silhouetted villains at the top of the stairs and the flickering lights were brilliant, but let’s face it, kids are fucking terrifying. At least to me. I thought the notion of an alien ship trying to built itself a TARDIS left me more curious and intrigued than the episode probably meant to do and I liked the cameo of Van Gogh again (on the fridge)(and rumor has it that another Van Gogh appearance is slated for next week).

And despite all his quirks and brain being in a million different places other than right here and now, the Doctor seems a bit lazy and pedestrian (again, perhaps that’s merely the writing) in tackling the unseen menace upstairs. And in that infodump of the Doctor’s history, we get yet another roll call of previous Doctors. Makes you wonder if the show is still struggling to cement Matt Smith’s place in the history of these other incarnations or if it’s going somewhere next week, with the Doctor perhaps finding himself erased from history…

And if the episode had one major flaw, it’s something the last few episodes have shared: Not enough Amy Pond. She started off so strong this season and then was a bit wasted. But now’s found the engagement ring hidden there in the Doctor’s coat and perhaps she’s remembered Rory? Or perhaps it’s something else all together, but either way, part of me is glad this season is ending now. It’s been a fun ride and especially after tonight’s brief landing with a group of ordinary people who are fine going nowhere in their lives, I’m happy to follow the Doctor and Amy Pond and River Song as they zoom off into time and space and adventure…

Next time: Time and space and adventure! River Song returns and accompanies the Doctor and Amy to Stonehenge. The return of a whole slew of nasty monsters and villains. Rory the Roman! And perhaps, at last, the Pandorica opens…

Black Wave, Black Mirror.

The Great Wave Off Of Lousiana a la The Great Wave Off Kanagawa, via Reddit and The High Definite.

Also, I guess I’m working up some excitement for the new Arcade Fire album, but here’s “Black Mirror” off their last album:

In the blood.

Mad linkage:

Finally, a manifesto for the internet that makes sense.

Emergency search and rescue effort launched for teen sailing around the world.

In TV, it’s always the same old news.

Kelly Clarkson steals from Arcade Fire?

Makes me nostalgic for this song.

Not long after Al and Tipper Gore separate, so does their daughter and her husband.

There’s six new True Blood promos!

…and maybe perhaps they’re over-marketing it a little?

Thankfully, Eggs is still dead.

A guide to some of the new characters appearing this season and who they were in the book series.

This season the show promises “sexual insanity.” Story of my life.

Last night I watched the pilot for Persons Unknown, one of the new crop of summer event TV in the vein of a Lost-style mystery. It stars Alan Ruck, some annoying guy who’s been in literally every bad TV, and the guy who played Skippy in Kicking And Screaming and was written and created by Christopher McQuarrie. The last part there is the most trembling since I always liked McQuarrie and this show is amateur hour at best.

Extreme Solitude” by Jeffrey Eugenides.

“I love you! No homo.”

Woman charged with public adultery in New York.

Bye bye, Facebook.

Huge seas once existed on Mars.

The German super rick offer to pay “rich tax.”

The Vaselines to release first new album in 20 years.

Nocturnal altertness improves after exposure to milliseconds of bright light flashes.

Sack tapping can be dangerous. Seriously.

The mystery of the sun’s corona.

The formation of Saturn’s ring moons explained.

Do women manipulate men with noises during sex?

Unexploded ordinance.

Cleaning up things at work this morning and I found this magaine:

That’s the January/February 2005 issue of American Scientist, and I thought I’d share the cover with you, which I found very interesting. Here’s what it says inside about that image:

Using an electronic metal detector, a technician attempts to find land mines placed near the thousand-year-old Banteay Srei temple in Cambodia. Ground-penetrating radar and mine-sniffing dogs are also frequently employed for such dangerous work, but some mine-removal experts may benefit from equipment based on nuclear quadrupole resonance - a phenomenon that is similar to nuclear magnetic resonance, which forms the basis of MRI imaging.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment for all my life.”

Today I was minding my own business and this song came on:

That’s Phil Collins’ “In The Air Tonight.” But you’d have to know that, right? The people who don’t know that are probably these same weird people that I keep running into lately that have never seen Back To The Future or have NEVER HEARD (lower case wtf?) of The Empire Strikes Back. Anyway. Hearing this song today reminded me of four things:

1. I think I’m locked into a vicious cycle of having to always pause whatever I’m doing to do the air drums when the drumming enters this song. Is that an unattractive quality? I hope not.

2. The first time I did the air drums at the exact right time that they came into the song when I was a stupid little kid when one of those amazing moments of victories that you experience as a stupid little kid. I felt invincible.

3. I had a friend named Steve, who… well, that’s a long story for another time. But Steve was a drama major once upon a time and I remember him telling me once over a few drinks how it was his dream to do the lyrics to this song as a monologue on stage at some point in his life. I’m sure by now that Steve has awarded himself quite a few Oscars for performances so far only witnessed by the bathroom mirror.

4. I’ve said this many a time before, but I miss this era in Phil Collins’ career. He was just likable and a simple pop star, but he really mined a dark corner of the human psyche and added synthesizer and that’s what the top 40 looked like back then. Just listen to songs like “Mama,” which he did with Genesis, or “I Don’t Care Anymore,” or even the classic “Against All Odds,” they’re just so sad and desperate and dark and… amazing. There’s this grand urban legend built up about the lyrical content of “In The Air Tonight,” which people take quite literally, assuming that Phil Collins perhaps watched a person drown while singling out the guilty party at a concert during the performance of the hit song he wrote about it, which is a little insane, but is fascinating to watch it grow over the years, mostly by what we call “Telephone” here in America, but they call “Chinese Whispers” in England. It just seems so strange and appealing to me, that period of keyboard and lack of… flash. I mean, seriously, back in the day this guy…

…was one of the leading pop stars of the day and age. This guy…

No joke, that. And yet, pre-Disney soundtracks, he was like the Bob Hoskins of pop.

Tuesday, without a cluesday.

Well, first, there’s this:

from here and here.

Wow. That’s just a terrible picture. But it’s an instant classic example of FAIL, right? I’ve really grown tired of FAIL and the people who say FAIL ad nauseam, but this time, it’s justified. FAIL. An equal amount of fail to me, actually, is this picture:

ScarJo and Sandra Bullock sharing a calculated kiss at an MTV something or other? Fuck, could there be anything more boring?

Of course, it’s hard to get too excited about an awards show that’s seemingly calculated and concocted just to test the waters for a spin off movie starring a character that was a silly throwaway cameo in a previous comedy film and was assayed by an actor who had had some problems in recent years. Well, I guess the experiment worked.

I miss the classic train wreck celebs. Otherwise known as the genuine people tossed into the world of the glitz and glamor and stumbling magnificently in front of all of us. Too often celebs are no different from whatever brand of jeans or laundry detergent you’re buying. They’re just another product. Their lives are delicately planned and coordinated PR campaigns, as thoroughly put together as your average storyline in professional wrestling. And who’s the more remembered wrestlers usually?

The villains.

Who gives a shit about the heroes?

I’m tired and it’s hot and it’s 2010 and right now, I just don’t give a shit about all the goodness and sunshine in the world. Maybe I will later when it cools down and the stars come out and I’ve had a cocktail or three or four, but right now all I want to see are the naughty bits.

Or the crazy fun bits, I don’t know, maybe.

Or maybe I’m only happy when it rains?

I don’t want to see the super heroes today. I want to see the super villains, the ones who crawl their way out of their comic book storylines and snort a few lines between the panels of art and story.

from here.

The Sandra Bullock/Jesse James story… I have nothing to add to this. America’s Sweetheart and the motorcycle guy with tattoos and he cheats on her with a girl with neck tattoo and Nazi-esque leanings. It’s fascinating on the surface and the more you dig, it’s sad. And weird. Like a perfect soap opera storyline that’s mutated and crawled it’s way into real life.

And granted, these are people’s names being dragged through the mud and vilified and hearts are being broken and it’s making somebody somewhere money. A lot of money.

Actually, it’s probably making everyone in this situation a lot of money, in different ways. And it’s just one of billions of celebrity headlines that I feel like I’m bombarded with on a weekly basis and it only leaves me hollow. And more and more, I feel like it’s just people playing a role, filling a requirement that’s out there.

In an easy “no duh” statement, are celebrities are doing the work of our pornographers, but we look down on one (aspect of ourselves) and seem to praise and adore another.

This has nothing to do with anything, I just thought it was funny.

I’m not really going to dissect it because I really have nothing to add to it. Complaints, maybe, but it feels pointless to complain about it, like maybe I should be saving my breath for something else, something important. Between Sandy and Jesse and Heidi and Spencer and Tom and Katie (and Suri/L. Ron, Jr.) all the other potential Bennifers and Brangelinas out there, the last one that really made feel anything (and it was laughter) was some headline about how the thing that attracted Brad to Angelina and broke up his marriage to Jennifer was that she (Angelina) gave really great rimjobs and apparently that’s what Brad is into it. I mean, that’s so surreal and absurd and I absolutely hope it’s true because, as ridiculous as it could potentially be, it at least feels human to me. And I miss that, and I really wish that I could turn on the TV and see a bunch of humans doing something…

I mean, look at this: The Queen of England knighting Patrick Stewart. That’s just great. And yet, I look at it and all I see is an old robot being plugged and marching out of her crate to do some ceremonial animatronics on the king of Shakespearean Sci Fi.

The other night I was talking to Maria and I threatened to do a blog post of nothing but pictures of celebrities drunk because I was feeling low and that would give me a temporary laugh.

And Maria, the classic enabler that she wonderfully is, merely said, “DO IT!”

Some day I’m worried that I might. Out of desperation, fatigue, or boredom, I don’t know. Reiterating from yesterday’s post

…but either way: Internet, give me something new. Please, I beg you. Show me something with flash or sparkle, something that’ll make me laugh or widen my eyes, and I’ll potentially follow you anywhere.

Anything you can get away with.

And now for something completely different: Just a few of my favorite quotes by Marshall McLuhan…

Advertising is the greatest art form of the 20th century.

All advertising advertises advertising — no ad has its meaning alone.

from here.

We shape our tools and thereafter our tools shape us.

Everybody experiences far more than he understands. Yet it is experience, rather than understanding, that influences behavior.

The name of a man is a numbing blow from which he never recovers.

from here.

Good taste is the first refuge of the non-creative. It is the last-ditch stand of the artist.

from here.

The nuclear bomb will turn warfare into the juggling of images.

The printing press was at first mistaken for an engine of immortality by everybody except Shakespeare.

Once we have surrendered our senses and nervous systems to the private manipulation of those who would try to benefit from taking a lease on our eyes and ears and nerves, we don’t really have any rights left. Leasing our eyes and ears and nerves to commercial interests is like handing over the common speech to a private corporation, or like giving the earth’s atmosphere to a company as a monopoly.

Anyone who tries to make a distinction between education and entertainment doesn’t know the first thing about either.

from here.

Man becomes, as it were, the sex organs of the machine world, as the bee of the plant world, enabling it to fecundate and to evolve ever new forms. The machine world reciprocates man’s love by expediting his wishes and desires, namely, in providing him with wealth.

Diaper backward spells repaid. Think about it.

We drive into the future using only our rearview mirror.

Art is anything you can get away with.

There are no passengers on spaceship earth. We are all crew.

I don’t explain—I explore.

(and personally, I believe that the above could and perhaps should be the motto of most writers and bloggers, but maybe that’s just me?)


I don’t necessarily agree with everything I say.