In Rotation
The contrasting fates of neo-psychedelia’s heaviest hitters

Author’s note: The Brian Jonestown Massacre and the Dandy Warhols are two of my all-time favorite bands. It’s only fitting that they once worked closely together and began to hate each other. To learn more, download or rent the documentary “DiG!” which also features sweet interviews by the Black Angels, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and more. Of course, like most documentaries, it’s misleading and irrelevant to the music. Anyway, these two groups released new albums relatively close to each other and that’s what we should talk about.

Brian Jonestown Massacre

Aufheben

Rating: 5/5

The cover of the Brian Jonestown Massacre’s 12^th studio album, Aufheben, is taken from the plaque attached to the space probe Pioneer 11. So, if extraterrestrials ever stumble upon the drifting, obsolete NASA probe, they can learn a little something about earth and humans. Why is it an album cover? Maybe BJM’s founder and incoherent rambler Anton Newcombe wants his music launched into space. Or maybe it has something to do with how it was initially released—scattered on the Internet via torrents and YouTube, hoping the right ears find it.

Newcombe wants his music stolen because he can get away with it and because in his opinion, pure peer-to-peer sharing is where the recording industry is headed. Plus, Newcombe is doing well in album sales lately, as he’s said in interviews. He gleefully laughs at how major record companies are struggling, a spite that comes from a DIY mentality and a strong aversion to “The Man.”

Aufheben is a fitting title then. In German it means any of three contradicting terms: “abolish,” “preserve” and “transcend.” Aufheben doesn’t really abolish much, but there’s plenty of preservation of BJM’s “old sound,” that was notably absent on their last two experimentally focused albumsMy Bloody Underground andWho Killed Sgt. Pepper?

The best word to describe BJM is “pastiche,” meaning “open imitations of art, compositions or periods.” That explains why titles such as “I Want to Hold Your Other Hand” and “Stairway to the Best Party in the Universe” will remind you of some of the best music in history. Somehow, Newcombe still seems plugged into the magic from the ’60s and ’70s and every great episode of music since, even if he can’t write lyrics to save his life.

But finally, Aufheben transcends the current trend of BJM with mind-blowing tracks like the Middle Eastern chase music on “Panic in Babylon” or the Icelandic phantasmal sound filled with French lyrics on “Illuminomi.” Everything in between enhances with each listen.

Surely it all means something mystic, because obfuscation is another trait from BJM that makes their listening experience so metaphysical. Unlike many bands with a discography this massive and a career stretched this long, the Brian Jonestown Massacre just seem to get better with time.

The Dandy Warhols

This Machine

Rating: 3/5

The party never stops with the Dandy Warhols and they continue jamming with their eighth album, This Machine, but the heart isn’t there. This is what an obsession with Bauhaus and a so-called “gothic” sound brought them—their slowest, most drawn-out album since …The Dandy Warhols Come Down. There’s no interconnection here either. These tracks were as off-handedly recorded as when the band covered the Beatles’ “Blackbird” because Michael Jackson croaked (a promise from Welcome to the Monkey House.)

Speaking of covers, they do a pretty nice, short version of “16 Tons,” but this is a song about being totally enslaved by your corporate masters, back when that was legal in coalmines. Frontman Courtney Taylor-Taylor just can’t express a breed of hardship that particular—it just doesn’t come as naturally as it did for Johnny Cash or Tennessee Ernie Ford.

At least what does come natural for the Dandy’s is freedom, as overtly expressed on “I Am Free.” It sounds like bragging, like every inspirational tune they’ve done before, from “I Am Sound” to “Mis Amigos,” but more introspective, indicative of the band’s age.

There are more smuggish stabs at humility on “The Autumn Carnival.” The fuzz of ghostly guitars balances between catchy pop and subdued shoegaze, making it a memorable favorite. A rare shot of instrumental madness, “Alternative Power to the People,” only needs more depth, but it’s the only spacey treat given out.

There’s an extra level of satire, typical of the Dandy’s weird humor, on “Enjoy Yourself,” as Courtney Taylor-Taylor yells at you to be more open-minded and relaxed. The sentiment has been reworked a hundred times by the Dandys, but never as weird as this. That’s not good or bad—it’s neutral, like This Machine is as a whole. These above-average tunes are only dragged down by purely awful songs like “Rest Your Head,” or “Slide.” Don’t even start with “SETI vs The Wow! Signal.”

The title itself is a reference to what Woodie Guthrie once scrawled on his guitars: “This Machine Kills Fascists.” But what does the Dandy’s Machine kill? Nothing? Either way, the Dandys can do better than this and this disorientated attempt at refocusing didn’t work too well.

Journey to the center of your mind

visit filthfiller.com
Portland’s Portugal. The Man delve deeper into indie-pop experimentation

By Troy Farah
Published on 05/03/2012 in Flag Live

April has been a rough month for psychedelic rockers Portugal. The Man. So far, the four Portland, Ore.-based professional weirdoes have fired a touring drummer mid-show for unknown reasons and founding member, Ryan Neighbors, quit to pursue a new project titled Hustle and Drone. Granted, Neighbors’ departure was probably done in good spirits and marks a new chapter in the band’s history—something every band seems to say.

Let’s just hope May is better for The Man, when they’ll be stopping in Flagstaff as part of the Jägermeister Music Tour with the Lonely Forest. This is actually kind of odd, given the history of Jägermeister’s tours, which has normally included acts like Slayer, Korn, Hatebreed and other blood-spilling routines. Sometimes the tour even poured over into ear-bleeding post-grunge acts like Hinder or Trapt, but showcasing meek, hipster dreamers? That’s kind of a new one.

But it’s hardly the weirdest thing regarding Portugal. The Man—to say nothing of the annoying period in the middle of their name. Their records are titled things like Waiter: You Vultures!, and all of their record sleeves are coated in stylish, bizarre, trippy water paintings. Their videos venture into Dadaism: “Do You,” has the quartet dancing around in homemade futuristic garments (bringing to mind the Heaven’s Gate cult); in “Sleep Forever” the band’s vocalist is eaten by his own sled dogs; and “People Say” cakes the faces of the band in Vaseline, blinds them with lasers and forces them to work in a call center.

Portugal. The Man keeps the strange close to heart and it comes naturally, as they toldRedefined Magazine: “We’ve always been pop kids. We like melody; we never do anything for the sake of being weird. We like the sounds of delays, we like synthesizers, and we love anything that can creep you out and hold you there at the same time,” frontman John Baldwin Gourley said, describing the band’s fourth release, The Satanic Satanist. If you haven’t already guessed, the title is a reference to the Rolling Stones’ drug-addled, experimental album, Their Satanic Majesties Request. That may have just been a phase for Mick Jagger and crew, but Portugal. The Man have made experimenting a full-time gig.While the sound of the band, a mix of pop rock and synth-lovin’ indie anthems, is a perfect testament to the psychedelic revival, surrealism is something largely overlooked by other acts. What would Pink Floyd be without inflated rubber pigs hovering over factories? What would the Moody Blues be without quasi-spiritual mumblings about dawn being a feeling? What would Jefferson Airplane be without … well, everything they’ve done?

Speaking of releases, Portugal has kept busy as an art-rock factory, issuing a record per year since their 2006 debut. And yes, that means they are recording a new album this summer. The band went through a period of completely independent releases, but signed to Atlantic Records to release their sixth studio recording, In the Mountain in the Cloud. The band explained to the online music magazine You Ain’t No Picasso their decision to sign to a major label saying, “We’re not even really worried about money, we just want more laser lights.”

Perhaps those laser lights aren’t necessary because the band throws a great show regardless of pizzazz. Portugal knows how to deconstruct their songs, unwinding them into fantastic jam sessions that last precisely the right amount of time. They must have a lot of practice, given that they perform around 250 times a year and are known to branch out, occasionally throwing in a decent cover from David Bowie or MGMT.

The workaholic mentality that Portugal. The Man puts forth has gotten them this far—it’s going to be interesting watching how much further they can go, no matter how many hiccups along the way.

See Portugal. The Man Thu, May 3 at the Orpheum Theater, 15 W. Aspen. Doors open at 8 p.m. and the show starts at 9 p.m. Washington State-based indie-rockers the Lonely Forest will open the 18-and-older show. Tickets are $17 in advance and $19 at the door. For more info, see www.portugaltheman.com and www.thelonelyforest.com or call 556-1580.

Lucid Fluids vol. 1

I present, LUCID FLUIDS vol. 1, the first in a series of surrealistic, experimental flash fiction based on the fantastic and disturbing pillow visions of Mene Tekel. These 14 tales (including three poems) spelunk into the deep, incoherent abstractions of the mind -- memory, dreams and fear. Written with an admiration for Franz Kafka, Stanley Donwood, the cartoons of David Firth, with a little bit of Neil Gaiman and David Lynch for good measure, Lucid Fluids will fill you with a restlessness and dread that's all too familiar.

You can buy it HERE.

In Rotation: Wavves and Arcade Fire

In Rotation
Melodic nostalgia and poor decision making
By Troy Farah
Published on 09/30/2010


Artist: Arcade Fire
Album: The Suburbs
Rating: 4.5/5

Continuing their obsession with neighborhoods and citizenship, Arcade Fire’s latest, The Suburbs, winds around familiar streets of escapism and nostalgia. Less gloom and more zest, it’s a departure from their more elegant Funeral and intensified Neon Bible, but retains that classic, quiet desperation that originally hooked fans.

Europe Diary – Antwerp, Kinderdijk, LCD Soundsystem, etc.

Hard to admit, but I am enjoying boredom a lot more lately, because it’s so rare now that I get to sit around and soak in my own lethargy. There’s so many errands to run, places to explore and school, of course. So forgive me if this is rather condensed compared to my last entry.

It’s nice that I can go to another city in an hour on whim and it’ll cost less than a tank of gas. So I went to Antwerp with Jeff. Arrived late in the evening, so not much to do, but had some of the best beer and food in my life. Primavera pizza (baked eggplant and zucchini) is incredible and Belgian waffles are my crack. Also, don’t forget Belgian chocolate – it’s not world famous for nothin’.

Europe Diary Week Uno

TOUCHING DOWN

Flying never feels real to me. For the first time, instead of feeling superior, looking down on all the people, cars and buildings slowly shrinking, I felt small. I felt like a spec in the eye of God. Nothing.

I think it was the sleep deprivation. Sure, we’ll blame that. I had two hours before arriving at the airport at 4 a.m. and I can never sleep on planes. I guess that adds to the surrealism. Without sleep, the world becomes white static, I drift through the day like molasses and I feel mummified. Without some kind of upper, caffeine, nicotine, what have you, I can’t function at all.

In Rotation: Bizarre rants and insecure R&B ballads: M.I.A. and Drake

In Rotation
Bizarre rants and insecure R&B ballads
By T. Farah
Published on 08/12/2010

Artist: M.I.A.
Album: MAYA
Rating: 5/5

Maya Arulpragasam, better known as M.I.A., is the whole package. She’s got enough fashion sense to match Lady Gaga without looking trashy and bends more genres into one song than some can fit into an entire discography. M.I.A.’s latest mishmash album, MAYA, is a step up from 2007’s Kala, with 53 minutes of irritating, catchy samples and hooks that will either infect the mind or aggravate the senses.

Country Leaver

My flight is booked, my room is reserved, in little more than two weeks I'm leaving.

Breda is going to cost me a lot of money. Thankfully, school pays for the bulk of it, but cost isn't going to be easy. So I want to thank all the awesome people I hung out with this summer for sharing drinks and smokes with me and understanding I was completely broke. I won't forget any kindness and I hope I'll be able to return the favor tenfold.

College sucks. The last three years have not been a non-stop party like you were maybe imagining. If college is really supposed to be the best four years of your life, I want a refund. I wish I hadn't left behind Phoenix and lost connections with so many people. Thankfully, I had this summer. It's been one of the best and brightest thus far.

Breda is the only thing making NAU seem worthwhile. And yeah, college did change who I am. So will the next four months in Europe.

When I was in high school, I was jealous of all the people who were taking trips to Europe. Now I finally get one and I'm not gonna be some tourist or whatever. I'm going to make the most of this. And I'm gonna miss everyone. So there.

I'm going to leave off with this song. It's perfect for the occasion.

Uncertainty - Look What the Cat Dragged In

Old, never published before. Now seems good. 

Sunday, September 20, 2009

"I find this uncertainty exciting and embrace the indecisive nature of my work." - I don't care.

My computer, crashed. My cell phone, dead. I couldn't ask for better circumstances.
It came suddenly.

For me, I've never felt the desire to slow down, become one in isolation. But I love being abandoned in the middle of nowhere. I love being inaccessible to humanity, no one has any idea where I could be. I love that. Stranded, helpless, in the wonderful vastness of nothing.

Now, I hope that great expanses of technology collapse. Some say, solar flares are gonna burst up 'round the year 2012 and that will demagnetize everything and destroy computers all over. Makes Y2K look weak.
Or, better yet, the poles are gonna shift (in 2012 again) and demagnetize everything again. No more laptops, iPods, or 3G networks. Fuck it all.

I don't really believe these fantastic theories, but one can dream. I want to be sent back to the stone age. All great things must come to an end.

But until then, I have my moments of isolation, where I have no perceived audience, where my rules are my own, where freedom is it's own weight.

In the desert, I imagined it much differently. Everything hot, with a warm filter on the lens. Sweating heavy, til it dribbles down the bridge of my nose, dabs my lips and I can taste nothing else.
I would extend a stiletto and cut down the forearm because I wanted the swelter to mingle directly with my blood. Would anyone understand that? That I need fire in my veins.

I would have brought a gallon of water and enough bread for three days. And I'd pour the water over my head, til it soaked into my salty flesh. I would have fed the bread to the vultures. I would have screamed and run my fingertips over cactus needles, sewing them into my fingerprints.

But what did I expect? Instead, I walked for less than ten minutes, drank what little was left in a small water bottle and discovered nothing. I found the burned out wreckage of a car, perhaps set aflame in the desert by drug cartels or the Mafia. But nothing else. I returned to air conditioned slavery and schedules and homework and paychecks, directly deposited, every two weeks.

Starving! Thirsty! Delirious!

The End can't come soon enough.

(appendix):

A second visit to the desert proved more fruitful. Where were we, the other end of the planet? It was darker than a basement, the stars like old, white Christmas lights.
We happened upon some bombed out shell of a brick house, inside, nothing but the remains of pests. Nothing even infested this place anymore.
Of course, we burned it all. I flicked cigarette butts into the underbrush, hoping to "accidentally" start a blaze, but it didn't happen, of course. I pulled out a flare and it bloomed like the sun and wielding it like a torch, chased Luke through the wilderness. He swung a wooden bat at me, but even as I stepped back, my voice advanced with eerie strength.
"C'mere, c'mere," I said. Yet, it was not I that spoke.
The flare burst in two directions. Eric sparked up a bonfire and the flame grew luminous and green.
The air is not natural here, I thought.
When the flare started to dwindle, I threw it into the fire and the whole blaze turned red as blood. I darted off, blinded and snagged myself on a rusty barbed wire fence. I was able to snap it back and the wires crumbled in my fists.

In Rotation: Against Me!, Crystal Castles, Magnifico

 
In Rotation
Cliché punk, pleasing incoherence and raunchy Euro fun
Troy Farah
Published on 07/08/2010

Artist: Against Me!
Album: White Crosses
Rating: 2/5

If you’re in a punk band in this day and age, you’re entitled to a lot more scrutiny than other genres. It’s that age-old question: is punk more about the attitudes and lifestyles or about how one plays a powerchord?

Everybody Poops but Not Everybody Eats! - Free Book Download!

So teaching kids things is important and all, so I went out on a limb and drew up a kiddie book called Everybody Poops... But Not Everybody Eats. It's about world hunger.

It seems important to teach kids how to poop, how to recognize colors, how to count, etc. But they're saturated with that, so I wanted to teach them about something no one really talks about - starving slowly to death. That's important, too, right? I wouldn't know. I don't actually have kids.

Maybe you're thinking this will give children a negative worldview. Or will it give them a realistic worldview? Flip a coin. They're gonna grow up to pop Prozac just like mommy and daddy anyway. Why not expedite the inevitable?

You can download the book for FREE and decide for yourself. Don't tell me you're above experimenting with your kids. You're already gonna treat one of them better and see which ones becomes more successful. So take this a step further, B. F. Skinner, and scar your children for life with my cheery colored pencil drawings of hunger ravished people. You'll thank me later.

Download here!

P.S. The book is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 2.5 License. This means you're free to copy and share this book, but you can't sell it. Let's make the world a less hungry place. By thinking about it. That works, right?

Chugging Past Collectivist Consumerism

One of the weirdest pitfalls of consumerism is collectivism. Nearly everyone I know who owns a house has a room for junk filling. In some cases, an extra room just for storage is a huge plus when shopping for a new home. Those that aren't so lucky rent one of those dozens of Armored Storage cells, surrounded by barbed wire and guarded 24-7 by rent-a-cops and surveillance cameras.

Laptops and iPods: MC Chris and Math the Band

I saw Math the Band and mc chris this past weekend at Tempe's Clubhouse. I didn't know who either of them were a half-hour before the show, but I had an extraordinarily good time. I took videos too, which came out sucky, but I decided to upload them anyway because I have a weird hobby of saturating YouToob with crap.

I'm OK With Giving Up

( note: I'm in the process of moving my blog to filthfiller.com I just gotta learn how to use an FTP server. )

What a good way to kill an afternoon. The clown is Bernie. The music is fienix.

Tijuana Diary: Fabricated Poverty

So this was it. We were homeless now, crouched low in the overgrowth behind a university gym. To us, home. Smoking cigarettes, our hands placed over our sleeping bags and blowing twisted smoke rings at the branch canopy above us.

"This is the taste of freedom," Levi was saying. "The best cigarettes are the ones under a night sky."

"Isn't this kind of patronizing, condescending, you know?" I puffed, cringing, paranoid of every sound. "Like, we're homeless, but we're only tourists. We can escape this whole thing tomorrow if we wanted."

"What do you mean?"

"We chose this. We had a bed for the night and we chose this. Urban camping. But is it belittling to those who can't choose it?"

"Even if this experience is fabricated, it still means something," Levi said.

In Rotation: AM Taxi / Paper Tongues

Emo’s death throes and imitation arena rock
By Troy Farah
Published on 05/13/2010 in Flag Live!


AM Taxi
We Don’t Stand A Chance
Rating: 1/5

It’s still early in the decade, so give it a couple more years before those awful, stereotypical emo bands completely die out—bands like AM Taxi. It seems this new act is riding the last wave of this tired teenage fad and that crushing surge can’t come soon enough.

As you know, emo is just punk turned inside-out. When you can’t be angry at your government, teachers or parents, instead you’re just mad at yourself. In other words, emo is punk without anything to say. Bands like this are an easy target, but that doesn’t stop major record companies from pushing this swill onto airwaves.

Dressed like half the garage band garbage on MySpace, complete with jet-black-dyed hair and fake British accents, the Chicago band’s debut, We Don’t Stand A Chance, is a melancholy collection of tunes about razors, pills and suicide. It’s a soap opera that makes “Days of Our Lives” look tame.

The album starts with tales from “Dead Street,” yet another “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” where every kid has hung-up hopes and is hooked on heroin.But really, it’s just a rip-off of the Offspring’s “The Kids Aren’t Alright.”

“The Mistake” is one of those songs for 15-year-old girls who lost their virginity to the wrong guy and are trying to make up for it by sleeping with the entire football team. So they have another cigarette, another drink, instead of actually coping with their issues.

“I am the mistake/worst you ever made” sings vocalist Adam Krier, his voice dripping with self-loathing. What makes it more disgusting is the amount of groupies who will fall for that.

Even when tracks like “Fed Up” encourage angry adolescents to fix their problems, the message is smothered with gimmicks. Krier pushes every stereotype from death to vampires to how much his hometown blows. “We may as well sleep in body bags/Living in the town was a drag.”

“Tanner Boyle Vs the 7th Grade” is just evidence of what age group this band appeals to—AM Taxi is ideal for brats who think angst is equal to individuality and complaining is equal to artistic struggle. But the band is right about one thing: gee whiz, life sure isn’t how we thought it was gonna be! Yet if all you’re doing is drowning in your sorrows, you really don’t stand a chance.

In RotationPaper Tongues
Paper Tongues
Rating: 3/5

Even if they’re not quite there yet, Paper Tongues are a new act trying very hard, almost too hard, to imitate arena acts like Muse, Queen or U2. The package is complete—superficial lyrics with a stress on chanting and an echoing emphasis on “humanity needs to join together.” There’s the hip-hop beats, the occasional rapping, and Aswan North, the vocalist with pipes like Mars Volta’s Cedric Bixler-Zavala. And most of all, their main focus is how loud and famous they can get.

Their eponymous debut is filled with scattered influences, borrowing strongly from Queen, Led Zeppelin (without much guitar) and the people-unite mantras of Rage Against the Machine. Unfortunately, Paper Tongues don’t have much identity themselves and the album doesn’t head in any clear direction.

“Ride to California” details the true story of how the Tongues raised money for a trip out west where they started their careers after a chance encounter with a well-known producer. There, another chance encounter with Randy Jackson made the American Idol judge their manager.

After that, the Tongues’ rise to fame was like taking an elevator and up is the only direction they’ve got left. So far they’ve opened with Muse, Anberlin, 30 Seconds to Mars and AFI, and it won’t be long before they’re selling out at Wembley Stadium.

The seven members definitely have strength as a group, on “Trinity” for example, where the band all seems to be fighting for the cause of the poor orphans and widows. They increasingly spread the cheesiness on thick with “Soul,” an anthem attempting to unite everyone who is “lost and needs to be found.”

They even get sentimental with Styx-style piano on “Strongest Flame” when North reminds us that love is the greatest force on earth. In case, you know, someone forgot.

Paper Tongues have gotten astronomically lucky thus far and it seems like they’re here to stay, so long as they don’t try too hard. Musically they’re talented but have yet to make anything that stands out. However, as their growing popularity shows, that doesn’t really matter.

An (Unfair) Comparison of Fight Club and Up In The Air

Up In The Air was Jason Reitman's latest campy romance, another decent story told the wrong way. And the more I watched, the more I realized Up In The Air was the exact opposite of Fight Club.
It's a bizarre, almost unfair comparison, but stay with me. I think I can use David Fincher's masterpiece to point out the flaws in Air's philosophy. I could do this with a lot of movies by just comparing them to better ones, but I think Fight Club and Up In The Air have a lot in common.
Well, first we have to admit that Fight Club's central themes are accurate. For the sake of argument, we will.

The Mexican Bible

This was written by my father in 2006. It's a true story and it reflects some of the issues Arizona's latest and greatest fascist stupid law, SB 1070.

Someone left a Bible in the back seat of my taxi recently.
I know he was an illegal alien because of the nature of how the book got left there. It was Halloween night, and I received a telephone call from a colleague of mine. There were three Hispanic men standing outside a convenience store. They spoke only Spanish. He spoke only English, and was not going to take the trip. Maybe the trip would be worth something. Would I like to talk to them?
I hate to turn down an opportunity without at least looking at it. And besides, I have learned enough Spanish to get by. I drove up to the convenience store to see what I could do.
Three young Hispanic men stood in the shadows by the pay phone. As I eased my taxi to a stop, one detached himself from the shadows, and approached my car. We greeted each other in Spanish, and he proceeded to tell me that he had to get to Los Angeles to see his fiancé.
I know enough about the law to know when to ask questions and when not to. Plausible deniability is not just the prerogative of presidents. I could surmise why they were not taking a bus or airplane. I named a price; they agreed. The trip was uneventful until we got to the Arizona California border. The three men were nervous about the border check point. I told them to relax, the authorities were only checking for fruit coming across the border. I don’t know if it was true or not, but it sounded good. They relaxed.
We swung into a gas station outside of Twenty-nine Palms to fuel up. There was a police cruiser in the parking lot, and once again, the three men in my cab hunkered down, and tried to stay out of sight. I filled the gas tank, and shook my head. My suspicions of their immigration status had been confirmed by their behavior. I didn’t tell the cop. I’m not that kind of person. Besides, I didn’t want any trouble for myself. It might not be legal to cross state lines in a taxi with a cargo full of undocumented migrants. I was not really in a mood to find out.
A few miles away from the gas station, we witnessed a bad car crash. I dialed emergency services on my cell phone, but did not stick around to see the police show up. Again, the less trouble the better.
The rest of the trip was uneventful. I left them at a house in Los Angeles. It wasn’t a real upscale neighborhood, but it wasn’t a slum either. Sort of a middle class home that everyone in America dreams of owning some day.
I was home before I noticed the Bible.
The bible is a Spanish version, small, with a battered black leather cover. Inside it had a few notes on small pieces of paper. The New Testament was heavily thumbed through, and the pages of Mark and Luke were rather dog-earred. Many verses had been underlined. The Bible has sat on a shelf in my bedroom since the day I found it. I had not even thought about it until I was tidying up today, while a talk radio station played in the back ground from my clock radio. The host was on some rant about W’s new immigration policy.
I wonder if the talk show host realizes that these illegal aliens have lovers? That they have expectant, future father in laws, who are glad to see their new son in laws, yet somehow apprehensive for the future of their daughters? Does the radio talk show host know the fear these men felt waiting in a gas station for a cop to leave? Does he know the joy on the faces of these men as they stepped out of the taxi in Los Angeles? Does this same radio talk show host that almost every day claims to be a good moral conservative Christian know that an illegal alien left his Bible in my cab? A Bible that had been studied, and marked by some one just as devoted to the same faith as he? Or would such thoughts put too human a face on the issue? Would thinking these things mean that we have to deal with real problems involving real people, not just abstractions of law breakers?
And am I the only one who finds it ironic that the very Bible that both the radio show host and the young Mexican man read says to be kind to the strangers in your land?

MGMT and BRMC

Artist: MGMT
Album: Congratulations
Rating: 4/5

What did you love about MGMT? The raving synths? The primal cosplay? The muted vocals? The ironic, clever lyrics?

Whatever it was, it seems the Brooklyn duo took their sarcastic single from Oracular Spectacular, “Time To Pretend,” a little too seriously. Mocking the heroin-addicted, trophy-wife-toting, sports-car-driving rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle just became too real. Now MGMT is taking the exact opposite route on Congratulations by stripping off everything distinct about them. No more weird makeup, no more penitent nostalgia and most noticeably, nothing that sounds like the raver anthem “Kids.”

MGMT doesn’t even plan to release singles off Congratulations, hoping people will download the entire album instead of stealing a few radio-friendly hits. And not surprisingly for a band that proactively analyzes their own popularity, Congratulations is a direct response to MGMT’s overnight success. The band is reluctantly famous and they loathe every ounce of American celebrity culture.

At first Congratulations seems like nothing more than a pop album, but it grows on you.
Starting with “It’s Working,” the album sounds like a party you’re not invited to. But the more you acquaint yourself with the music, the more it grows on you, until you get inside and realize all the guests are moping around wondering where their wonder years went.

Still, the music is crammed with varied influences, particularly ’60s- era psychedelic pop with a dancey heartbeat. Plus, it encourages you to stop being so obsessed about your status (on the internet and elsewhere) or as vocalist Andrew VanWyngarden puts it, “stab your Facebook.” “Flash Delirium” is the nauseated anthem of a self- indulged generation, changing moods like an ADD teen flipping channels. “Siberian Breaks” is a 12-minute, mind-bending trip, like witnessing the end of the world. It’s proof MGMT are not your average musicians.

The lavish dose of hero worship on “Brian Eno” and “Song for Dan Treacy,” along with the line “you’ll never be as good as the Rolling Stones” on “Flash Delirium,” indicate the duo still have someone to look up to. But the bizarre instrumental “Lady Dada’s Nightmare” suggests MGMT wants nothing to do with the amount of stardom the fame monster herself, Lady Gaga, is appointed.

Congratulations asks the question, is fame actually worth anything? The answer from MGMT seems to be “well, it’s something to do.” All the band wants is for that initial praise to mean something in the long run. For now, all that matters is keeping the music fresh and MGMT deserves more than just applause for accomplishing that.

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Artist: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
Album: Beat The Devil’s Tattoo
Rating: 5/5

With a name taken from the 1953 Marlon Brando flick “The Wild One,” the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club conjures up images of switchblades, rumbles and that “my girl” mentality. But musically, BRMC are rock ‘n’ roll zombies, bringing good ol’ fashioned garage rock back to life. For good measure, the band throws in some neo- psychedelia and stompin’ Americana, sounding like a White Stripes album but with more sex, drugs and leather.

Lead singer Peter Hayes once played guitar in the Brian Jonestown Massacre before getting kicked out and the Black Rebels were born.

Beat The Devil’s Tattoo is the L.A. trio’s sixth studio album, carrying much of the badass attitude present in their career, such as the time at Leeds Town Hall when the band rocked so hard the floor broke. You don’t get that kind of reputation on accident.

Maintaining it is a different story, so how does BRMC make it look so easy? The album’s title track answers with “I thread the needle through / You beat the devil’s tattoo.” BRMC draws on the taboos of yesteryear, knowing that nothing is as prickly sweet as those bygone years when “hell” was a dirty word and piercings and tattoos made you a social outcast. For BRMC, this model works perfectly.

But BRMC isn’t a one-trick pony. Their influences and styles are far and scattered. “River Styx” is a tantalizing cruise with a fierce undercurrent where “every soul is a setting sun.” “War Machine” has all the vocal power of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son,” but lacks any direct anti-war message. BRMC’s guitar ranges from pop to classic rock on “Aya,” sounding like a softer version of Zeppelin’s “When The Levee Breaks.”

The 10-minute “Half-State” closes the album with distorted, atmospheric riffs and Hayes’ hazy vocals, proving once and for all, rock ‘n’ roll isn’t dead. At the same time, Devil’s Tattoo makes imitators like Nickelback and Wolfmother look pathetic. For flawless, noisy rock reminiscent of the Jesus and Mary Chain or the Velvet Underground, choose to Beat the Devil’s Tattoo.

Confessions of a Meat-Eater (editorial)

Confessions of a Meat-Eater

There’s long been a war between vegetarians and carnivores, a battle that focuses on everything from animal cruelty to the environment to healthy cuisine. Your typical meat-free character is nice about their choice, realizing it’s a personal decision. On the other hand, you have the agenda-pushing, in-your-face, “Meat is Murder!” type, the ones who strip naked outside of KFC and push pamphlets of decapitated poultry into your hands. Organizations like PETA are on a crusade to end the production of animal flesh, doing so in such a way that aggravates and alienates your average McDonald’s connoisseur and even people who genuinely care about animals.

As an unrepentant meat eater, it wasn’t until recently that I considered the merits of these anti-meat arguments, realizing there actually was some validity. I always assumed those videos of pigs kicked in the groin and cows with their throats slit were part of a propaganda machine and the images came from slaughterhouses in third world countries. None of that happened here, not in America.