Past and present collide on a practically hourly basis at the Essential Noise home base. I may have an iPhone, a Twitter handle, and this here blog, but I also share space with LPs, DVDs, over 1,000 CDs and not one but two VCRs. This seems to be the case with my musical consumption as well; I’m just as likely to be listening to an artist I discovered last week as one that I discovered before I was old enough to vote. This was evident one recent Saturday, when I used live music streaming website StageIt – shameless plug: www.stageit.com – to watch a Better Than Ezra concert. Continue reading
I find this post hard to write, and I’m not entirely sure why. I mean, what else could I possibly write about this week but the untimely passing of Whitney Houston? Perhaps it feels too much like everyone else has already had their turn. Surely, you’re tired of seeing her name in your Facebook feed. Perhaps it’s because I was never really a massive fan of hers, though I can certainly appreciate the sheer talent she possessed.
No. Really, I’m having a hard time reporting on the death of Witney Houston because of the way her death has been reported, and mutated, and exploited.
Valentine’s Day is nearly upon us, which depending on your current romantic station, is cause for either celebration or a stiff drink. Or perhaps both. I tend to abide by the hippie-esque plaudit that every day should be about love. That said, I still find myself sucked into the holiday mentality of showing my love via conspicuous consumption: weekend getaways, fancy dinners, fabulous gifts. (In 2010, I was given an engagement ring on Valentine’s Day, proving this holiday isn’t ALL bad.) We all find ourselves scrambling towards a romantic ideal. This day shall be perfect. Like a love song.
Although, when you stop to think about it, most love songs are fucked up.
Because love is such an immensely complicated emotion, ritual, protocol, that no two loves are the same. And no two love songs are the same. While one likely jumps to Etta James or Stevie Wonder when one first thinks “love song”, there’s a lot more to it out there. Continue reading
Yesterday saw the release of arguably the most argued-about album in eons: Lana Del Rey’s Born To Die. I can’t remember the last time music fans worked themselves into such a froth over an unproven artist. The official reviews are decidedly “meh”. Entertainment Weekly gives Born To Die a C+, while Spin gives the album an almost apologetic 6 out of 10. “This record is not godawful. Nor is it great. But it’s better than we deserve. We broke her; we bought her,” Spin critic Rob Harvilla declares. I wish somebody would bother to explain to me why there is so much vitriol directed towards Lana Del Rey. So, I’m going to try to figure it out myself. Continue reading