Apologies in advance for this fire and brimstone tangent that’s about to take place, but as far as tonight goes, this is the fucking anvil that dropped on the already shaky, arthritic camel’s back.
Kanye was interviewed in GQ a couple issues ago, and in said interview he compared the constant lambasting and overall sour, nonchalantly dismissive treatment of celebrity behavior to be very similar to the treatment of blacks in the 60s. I could be paraphrasing, but it was something to that close effect. Naturally I wanted to roll up the issue and molotov cocktail his mouth for that statement alone, but then here’s this bullshit. And honestly, sadly, it’s not even Kanye alone who should be taking all this flack.
We really, really, really fucking need to stop heralding celebrities. I think a plateau will soon be reached where people just can’t take this shit anymore, but until then; these musicians, actors, whoever—the majority of them— are flawed, broken, prone to spouting as much asinine garbage as the rest of us “civilians.” Most of them will never really be participants, just passengers, albeit in first class. And what I mean by that is: from my own standpoint as someone who wants to succeed in the unconventional world of the arts (and as someone who has considered hanging up his hat in this field due to convictions fueled by moments like this), it’s imperative to remember that all art, all of it, is just bread before the meal. That isn’t to say art and its contribution to society isn’t important, but it’s far too subjective of a domain to have spawned this hierarchy in our world between “us” and “them.” It’s far too similar to Medieval Ages for my liking.
To get to this point where we’ve produced and then bred human beings who think—though manufactured or not—they’re so supremely vital, for creating something that’s purely enjoyable or entertaining, but not essential, we have failed as a culture. And that’s seriously terrifying.
I lied to my boss—a pretty chill guy who isn’t much older than myself—in order to be able to leave an hour or so early today so I could listen to this stream in peace. Tomorrow when I come in, I’ll be honest with him and say I went on a pilgrimage to Heaven. And he’ll understand.
Annnnnnd thank you Spoon for justifying, yet again, my spending $75 on the one day you perform at Boston Calling.
Where the Wild Things Are?
Either way, Weezer’s consistency (or lack thereof) confuses me. I can’t tell if I’m just attached to the memories of the Blue and Green Albums in high school, or if they’re genuinely just unchanging for the most part. Or if they’re like living on life support and the cord needs to be snipped.
Hahaha, fuck. I can see Brian Williams now.
Also, the loop in the song is fucking maddening, like gnat that gets in your sweaty ear while you’re running.
It appears as though Mistah Braff is in a competition with himself for having Indiest Soundtrack to A Film Indier Than Garden State. And, admittedly, I did love Garden State’s soundtrack, I don’t know if I can handle another competition between the World Cup, Wimbledon, and MLB, Dr. Dorian.
I really dig this track.
That said, for some reason this unfortunate thing popped into my head as soon as I heard it the first time:
I bet the SNL skit writing dudes are clinking beers in some office right now.
Someone needs to tell me the secret of getting into Future Islands, because I’m tryin’. Just when I start to like a song, something negative happens, or I’m reminded of the lead singer’s likeness to an alternative universe Sheldon from Big Bang Theory, and I just can’t take that seriously.