I will be your ambulance

As of 7:59 p.m. on Monday, I am in love with three completely different things.  The first of which is, yes, you guessed it, the lovely girlfriend Karen (“We know!” you all shout in a Frere Jacques round-sort of way).  The second are my 2 fresh pairs of slip-on kicks from Vans (holy fuck! I never thought not having laces could rule this much).  And three, Brooklynites, gone heroes of David Bowie and all-around hilariously talented TV on the Radio.

Seriously.  Could there be anything more Fashionista about Kyp Malone’s afro and neckbeard with emo-kid glasses?  Sarah and Essential Reading could do a whole expose about Tunde Adebimpe’s lyrical content (pre-war rhythms and now, post-war rhythms).  Totally Random! could potentially write about David Andrew Sitek’s mystical instrumentalism and genius-like apprehension of musical theory.  C’mon.

Okay.  Story involving my Vans.  Today on the subway, coming home from work:  F train.  Somewhere around West 4th, a group of young African American high schoolers (two of whom had voices that squealed and cracked as they spouted n-gga this and n-gga that).  I’m rocking out to Braid and reading Rip It Up and Start Again by Simon Reynolds (get it for sure, it’s fucking intellectually stimulating and if you could set a playlist on shuffle just from the chapter headings, you’d be transported to a time long forgotten by prose).

“Yo, mister, you’re Vans is hot.  For real”, one said.  “They dope.”

“Shit, what you mean?” another chimed in.  “You can’t be rockin’ those uptown if you ain’t a girl or some shit”.

“Yeah, aight.  You right.  N-gga get shot up” the first replied.  “But where’d you get ‘em at anyway?”

Knowing that I had to play off the “uptown” line, I said simply “The Village”.

“Oh, it be like that” (meaning he thought that by me saying that that I was gay, which I’m not, but my shoes ARE dope).

Moving on to other things of interest, Wassup Rockers.  Go see it if you have any interest at all in the following sub-categories of life:    youth culture, skateboarding, teenage debauchery, farce, Larry Clark, outsider art, punk rock (and more importantly, obscure punk rock from the early 80s), young actors NOT acting well at all, laughter, plot arcs that go nowhere, indie kids scratching their heads after the end credits, speech problems amongst inner city youths that will go uncured for years to come and Blow Pops.

Godspeed!

On what matters most (sort of)

I felt like making a list and not fucking checking it twice, so here goes:  these are the first things that come to mind when asked about things that make me smile (puke if you want to, Jessica, this shit’s going to come up in your posts one day too):  Karen, bottled water, Matt Lauer’s crew cut bald head action (you’ve seen it right?), Bukowski, people saying things like “It’s the humidity” or “You wouldn’t believe this, but…”,

Prospect Park, getting into shows for free through LIFEbeat, reading/seeing the new “It” band (insert crummy remarks about the Rapture or Clap Your Hands Say Yeah or Oasis (throwback!), The Culture of Me, you (twee!), B&S, Primal Scream, Rose Melberg’s voice, commercials for Honeycomb cereal, the faces people make on the subway when I sit/stand next to them and blasting Merzbow, seeing dogs piss on the street and watching as people walk by it and, not wanting to step in it, they throw a dirty look at the dog’s owner…, hipster kids who’ll admit that they used to call TRL back in the day to request Backstreet Boys or LFO or some shit like that, walks, my two pairs of unrelentlessly kick-ass Vans, planning to put in a new air conditioner but not doing so, telling people that I’m “not a gum chewer” when they ask me for some or offer me a stick of theirs, diners that serve coffee that’s hotter than the face of the sun when that supervillain in Superman IV was all fucked-up like, telling folks I quit smoking, laughing at Sonic Youth appearing on the Gilmore Girls over and over (even though it was AWESOME), seeing people who don’t like sports talk about the World Cup, wanting to quit my job, getting comments on MySpace, walking by Dischord house a few months back and being afraid to take pictures, the name Ian Svenonius, telling everyone that I have no cell phone service in the new place and that I need to get a fucking land-line, this blog, lists in general, wide-ruled paper, my poetry chapbook that I made 4 years ago and still have a copy of at home, the ability to have barbecues in my back patio whenever, did I say hating my job??, cable (not basic), saying “Salt N’ Pepa and Spinderella”, the font Futura, typing sounds, sine waves, not making us late to work (I get in early…STILL), not hearing doors slam, being done with a project finally, ending this list, trying to figure out more things for this list,

Ending this list.

Godspeed!

Punk-as-fuck flashback!

About three weeks ago, my friend Rachel asked me a simple question:

What would you say is your seminal album. The one that changed everything for you and the one that you haven't been able to replace?

I couldn't answer her. I said "That's tough. I mean, there are so many of those that choosing one would be like, impossible." And that was that. Enough said. I went home and didn't think of it again.

That is, until yesterday. Rachel emailed me and asked if I had an answer for her. Thankfully, due to email's reliance on asynchronous communication (for those of you who aren't film/TV majors, that means that the communication lines rely on sending messages in a delayed-response format, unlike the telephone or face-to-face communication where messages are sent without delaying responses), I had some time to think more about the answer. So here goes:

That dude jeff's seminal album is "Recipe for Hate" by Bad Religion.

I bought this tape when I was 13 years old. It was after I had already heard Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Ramones, Sex Pistols, The Clash, John Coltrane, Lou Reed, Bob Marley, Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald, AND everything I can remember being on Motown Records. So, dare I say, I had had a primer already of what music can really be like; and "good" music at that.

"Recipe for Hate" is Bad Religion at their finest. Greg, Brett & company are, well, they're never really in rare form, so I can't say that. The band is in whatever form they've been able to maintain for the almost three decades' worth of influence. But here's the thing: the band has gotten so much flak for "selling out" because of this record. The main reason? It's put out by ATLANTIC Records, a.k.a. "the Man". Most fans immediately started throwing stones at BR for this, but here's the thing: it's by far their most viciously lyrical and adventurous album ever put out. By fucking far. I dare anyone to listen to "American Jesus", "Watch It Die" or "Skyscraper" without getting chills up their spine. It should go without saying.

If you don't have this record, smack your forehead, step on your own toe, whatever. Just go fucking get it. If you can pick up a copy that HAS NOT been re-mastered (they're hard to find for sure), even better. Tape hiss is necessary for the full effect. After all, Bad Religion is still the only (ahem!) relevant Southern California punk band still alive today.

So there you are. My seminal record. What's yours? Oh, and please don't say "Nevermind". Give me something more than that.

Godspeed!

miscellaneous photos