The Flaming Lips are one of the great psychedelic rock bands of our time (not that it’s a crowded field.) Their music roves all over all of the wavelengths and their heads are filled with soupy ideas. They want you to use your cosmic energy to liberate yourself from whatever is binding you. Free your mind! Many people consider them a drug band, for obvious reasons, but really, you don’t need any chemical edge to enjoy the trip they offer. It may even feel a little redundant. This is music that trips you out and expands your mind all on its own power. So yeah, allow that cosmic pulse to take you out of your narrow little life and feel the greater power, or whatever. I think there’s some crude metaphor for self-liberation in Wayne Coyne’s video, but it may throw you off that it just happens to be a lot of people’s erotic fantasy as well. Minus the monkey, of course.
Hey, remember The Go-Go’s? That girl group from the 80’s who had all those sleepover-friendly wholesome pop hits and then disappeared like a discarded scrunchy? Well, you’ve heard this song but you’ve never heard this song sound so classy. Call it “How to Rescue a Pop Song from Camp Nostalgia 101” by Nouvelle Vague. The concept of Nouvelle Vague is simple; take famous classics from the New Wave and punk era, and redo them in the style of Jane Birkin. They have had some mixed results with this formula; not every song actually benefits from radically retro re-imagining, just like not every person manages to look chic wearing their grandparents’ clothes.But when it works, it works wonders – who knew that The Sex Pistols’ God Save the Queen could be so seductive? In this case, there’s definitely rescuing that needed to be done. The Go-Go’s original is emblematic of the lighter, frothier side of 80’s pop; it was all amped-up bubblegum, and sadly, The Go-Go’s didn’t do much to dispel the idea that an all-female pop rock band could be anything more than a fleetingly amusing novelty. Most people remember the tune but likely have no clue what any of the words are besides the title, because why would they. Nouvelle Vague’s decidedly more understated take doesn’t exactly elevate the material into greatness, but it does strip away the tacky memories of Belinda Carlisle’s crimped hair, and unearths the dark soul the original’s sheer catchiness so effectively disguised.
There isn’t an adequate name for Camera Obscura’s style of music. Indie pop is too broad of an umbrella. As is folk, as is folk pop. Retro and twee are adjectives that imply the presence of kitsch. How about KNDP, for knowing naive dream pop? Or, my own best favorite, teatime music. Whatever you want to call it, Camera Obscura nails a very specific mood. Tracyanne Campbell has an otherwordly voice and a jaded schoolgirl persona; she’s basically the musical embodiment of a heroine from a mid-century coming of age novel. She’s a post-post-modern Franny Glass via Glasgow. She’s a 1960’s folk singer sent forward in time by a vengeful Joan Baez. She’s every cool girl who seems wiser than her years. She has, in short, a voice and image you can pin any number of fantasies upon, if you’re given towards the nostalgic and the cerebral.
With feeling indeed. I was thunderstruck the first time I heard Regina Spektor; I remember thinking I hand’t heard piano pop so perfect since the 70’s. And mind you, piano pop usually doesn’t impress me very much. (You know there’s hardly anything worse than a bad piano ballad.) Spektor’s chosen niche is kind of a crowded one; singer-songwriters with pianos are as common as city pigeons and generally about as exciting. I do, of course, have a soft spot for Spektor because of her background, but it’s not entirely empty solidarity. I think her soulfulness is very Russian, and her romanticism. But then so is her lack of cheap self-aggrandizing. Russians never whine about their feelings; it’s trashy and a sign of weakness. Excessive over-sharing, relentless emotionalism, and corny sentimentality are the worst things singer-songwriter types tend to lean towards, and Spektor doesn’t do any of those things. Confessional songwriting has its place, but very few people do it well, and a smart songwriter knows you don’t need to parade out all of your own intimate details in order to convey feelings that others can understand.
Here’s one for the ladies! It’s the bad sex anthem we can all rally behind. Lily Allen has run into some hot water recently with a few tone deaf statements and a video that tried to be empowering and resoundingly did the opposite. She’s earned the qualifier ‘problematic’, fair enough. Apparently she’s clever but not very smart. But, intersectional feminism failure aside, she’s been consistent in putting out an empowering message, with a cute wink. Allen pointed out, after this song didn’t perform as well as her previous singles, that nobody wants to hear a girl singing about bad sex. But they really need to. More credentialed minds than me have written about the problem. The problem being that the conversation about women’s sexuality is still stuck at what constitutes ‘consent’, while what we really need is to move past being forced to debate the absolute basics and start talking about more subtle and insidious manifestations of sexual inequality and how they undercut our lives. Or, in the simple idiom of pop music, it’s not fair and it’s really not ok that we’re still expected to tolerate male mediocrity and be grateful just to be treated with respect. Respect should be the baseline, the starting point of every relationship, not a reward that’s grudgingly meted out to a select few. Stop internalizing cowboy movies and start reciprocating those cumshots.
If this song makes me feel one thing, it’s the thrill of the hunt. This is a sexy modern classic, doing what sexy songs are meant to do. That is, making things that are dreary sound like an absolute blast. And when I say dreary things, I mean the slogging process of ‘dating’ and ‘putting yourself out there’. Which I’m sure is considerably less of slog when you’re a rock star in a leather jacket, but for us real life people, let’s face it, it’s less cruising and more trawling. But Franz Ferdinand makes everything fresh, sexy and fun! You too can imagine yourself being irresistible to the gender of your preference! You’re gonna get out there and slay ’em! Oh, maybe this one will be nice. Yeah, this makes me all pumped up to get out there and score. Obviously, my hunting life is as dead as Jacob Marley right now, but you know, there’s always the next party to go to.
“I fought the floor, and the floor won”
More Art Brut. Because I just discovered them and sometimes when I just discover something I get carried away (but I’ve gotten better at keeping it under control/to myself as I’ve gotten older.) And also because, in this case, the recognition runs strong. Who among you hasn’t woken up after what was supposed to be a great night of partying looking like a trainwreck and feeling injured but having to recollection of what harm you might have come to? It’s pretty much the story of every drinker’s life. You take it too far and you black out and you come to feeling sore and slightly confused. Then it’s all up to you and your detective skills to piece together if you actually had the great time you set out to have, or if you humiliated yourself in front of all your friends/your crush/your boss/law enforcement. In which case it’s better to never ever regain those memories. (If you’re a ladyperson, you would also be wondering if you need to go file a police report, but for the purposes of this entertaining blog, let’s keep it light and pretend that God really does look out for the very drunk. Stay safe, ladypeople!)