Danger is sexy when you're in college. It's a short time in your life when you can get away with making bad decisions. And nothing's more of a turn-on than knowing something can go wrong at any minute.
Brody Jenner stared at me from the other side of my TV, spray-tanned and wide-eyed. "What's a bromance?" he asked, incredulously. As if I should innately grasp the homosocial premise for his new series. Uh, you tell me - dude.
Right now, high school seniors all over the country are hearing back from colleges and preparing to take that next big step into college. For nostalgia's sake, let's recall what was running through our minds as we read our own college acceptance letters:
"Who's Tebow?" asked Michael Murray, lead guitarist of the band The Banner Year.
Grab your tie-dye, your peace signs and your anti-war slogans - it's time to let your hair down and let the sun shine.
A flurry of colors and designs ranging from cartoon floral prints to men on fishing boats adorn the kimonos now on display at the Harn Museum. One "little boy kimono" is embellished with images of battle ships and airplanes flying over water, which signifies the mark of World War II. Many of the women's kimonos display vibrant colors and geometric shapes. These were to mimic the idea of "art deco," influenced from Western culture. Fashioning Kimono, the exhibit flaunting numerous types of kimonos, dates from the late 19th century to early 20th century.
I must confess, I have never read "Watchmen." So I can't speak of the movie's faithfulness to "the most celebrated graphic novel of all time." But I can tell you that one of the most anticipated movies of this year delivered on its big blockbuster promise.
And ignorance claims another victim - Matthew Meltzer.
When you throw a festival of some sort, typically it is supposed to be in a location that has something to do with what the festival is about.
Noisy, surging guitars; octopus-arm polyrhythms; Bono hollering on like a hopped-up Pentecostal preacher; spectacularly transparent declarations of purpose whooped in flailing whoa-oh frenzy. These are the first sounds of "No Line On the Horizon," U2's new album, and they combine to say what, with this band, goes without saying: This is a statement.
Oh, glorious day. Spring break is finally here.
What do you get when you mix Fugazi with The Beach Boys?
Emil Svanängen is moving on up, literally. Having recorded his first album on a laptop microphone and CD-Rs in his mother's cellar, the Swedish popsmith now makes a big enough name for himself to afford real studio equipment, a high-end computer, and presumably, his own home. In keeping with the little-guy theme, "Dear John" comes off like techno-fied Belle and Sebastian - Svanängen sings in breathless, hushed tones, as if trying to carry on a conversation in a library after running a marathon. Most of these songs flirt with electronic chamber pop, veering at alternate forks into "Phantom of the Opera"-esque theatrics ("Harm") and somber, Postal Service dance tunes ("Summers," which would fit snuggly on "Give Up"). If there's a turnoff, it's that a lot of these tracks are too prettily twee for their own good, like a good-looking guy who never makes the first move. And winds up living in his parents' basement.
Random blurs of colors and images. There is static. The screen goes blank. The audience is confused.
Oh yeah, baby. Harder! Yes, yes, yes!
If the election of President Barack Obama was a big can't-we-all-just-get-along inquiry to the good people of America, then "Gutter Tactics" is a scathing, unqualified "Hell no!" Or "not yet," anyway. Atop corrosive grooves tangled in haywire electronic beats, this Garden State duo spits tales of torture, war, civil rights abuses and the like, exposing every closeted sin, protesting all the wrongs that still need be righted. "Armed with Krylon" and "Who Medgar Evers Was" make up a suite of continuously devolving ambient rap that taps a well of run-for-your-life paranoia. The latter track works off a big, beefy drumbeat, spiraling feedback and lyrics about assassination. Indeed, this is dark stuff that takes nerve to slog through, and that's speaking nothing of the introductory monologue - a caustic, hell, fire and brimstone throwdown from the Rev. Wright himself. Or as Dalek likes to call it, "feel-good music."
Aside from an obvious flair for album titling (makes you want to shout, "'Ray Guns' are now, bitch!" doesn't it?), vocalist Inara George and soundboard extraordinaire Greg Kurstin also have a way with swinging '60s pop music set to fantastically modernized, yet still retro, production. Does this make sense? If not, think of "Ray Guns" as the aural equivalent to Disney's Tomorrowland - both create a future that will never exist by looking to tail-finned Cadillacs and moon landings as points of reference. This record awaits the mythical Year 2000, and in so doing, delivers groovy neo-psychedelia ("Ray Gun"), doo-wop era Motown complete with seductress spoken word bits ("Baby"), and breathy cocktail lounge balladeering ("Meteor"), all in a sleek electronic shell. "Diamond Dave," George's irresistible tribute to the great David Lee Roth, is not only the most catchy song here, but the only appropriate evidence by which to date this offering. It's Van Halen hero worship dressed in spacey beats and a plat-blond 'do, and as such, cooler than Judy Jetson in a discotheque.
"Blood Bank"? More like bloodletting - well, the last song anyway. The first three on this four-track hold-me-over from indie-folk songsmith Justin Vernon ebb and flow with all the woodsy beauty of an icy stream or a staggering moose. Mr. Bon Iver plays sparsely arranged acoustic pop that lives and dies on lyrical content and vocal delivery. In the case of the title track and "Beach Baby," an achingly fragile voice spins off melodic narrative flush with images that come alive in the depth of their detail. "Babys," likewise, continues the theme with cappella passages, chopsticks piano, and a warm refrain - "Summer comes to multiply." This is throw-another-log-on music for snow-ins, chamomile tea and photo albums, except for the unholy Dylan-Daft Punk union of "Woods," which takes a leak on your crackling fire and sends you running for a snow shovel and icepick.
The musical death and rebirth of a rock band rarely happens in the span of one night. But for Averkiou, such an unusual life cycle is the norm for the three-year-old Gainesville band. Convinced that they were playing their farewell show at Pop Mayhem in May last year after the brief departure of their guitarist, Averkiou played an appropriately rollicking final set.
Trends always expose themselves on the third album. The Look only buys you so much time. Catchy singles only take you so far. By album three, you're either the White Stripes or you're Jet. Or, you're Franz Ferdinand, stuck in that untenable middle ground - milking the same-song formula for all it's worth, and in turn, fielding diminishing returns. So it goes, Tonight's "Ulysses" takes on "Do You Want To," which was take-two on "Take Me Out." That's a lot of "takes" for one sentence, not so many for three and a half years - the time between albums. And if this seems like a momentum killer, well, it is. So too are these songs - "Turn It On" and "Live Alone." They're all the same, really: slinky little danceable groove rockers that have three things in common. All catchy, all disposable, all written by a band destined to be the answer to a trivia question.
Solutions by The State News
