dormitorygirl:

animalbiterate:

The Wildbunch - Neurocameraman

These fellows would later go on to be called Electric Six, and you know I fell in love with them 9 years ago…time flies, but Electric Six have ANOTHER new album out this year! So go and see them live! Go and buy the musical experience! I love these guys, sincerely the nicest musicians I’ve met post-gig.

^^^

Today I had the fortune to stumble across a tweet making a short but pertinent point in regards to the ongoing war that neither side can ever really win, and yet they continue to fight. That pointless battle that wages in the grey, heavily contested somewhere that sits between the record shops, and the mp3 player. That no man’s land that equally depresses the artist, and frustrates the money-weaving doom-engine that is the record labels.

The timeless question of studio-crafted album versus it’s Frankenstein-like sibling, the mix tape.

Well, okay it’s not really timeless. In some respects we could say the upstart only really roared into life when Phillips lit the fire with the compact cassette in the early 60’s, because whilst the 8-track raised the idea, it failed to deliver…but I’m digressing, and I haven’t even started writing. Geez.

In contrast to my tendency to discuss all facets at once, in a morass of half-thought commentary, the tweet that sparked my thoughts was succinct. Like an opinionated bullet, it struck the mark and left all of us peers nodding in agreement (even the German judge, and he’s harrrrrsh). It was a fine example of the structure of content Twitter demands by virtue of the concept itself. It stated, without the hyperbole or syllable gymnastics I am so enjoying, something like this:

“Albums vs mix-tapes - it’s apples and oranges”

Now I like fruit. Maybe not as much as Carmen Miranda because I’d never wear it, but it’s pretty ace. It’s delicious, most of it is good for you, and without it the Boost Juice people would be forced to find other avenues to channel their ungodly cheerful natures. I am also very much of the opinion that apples are not relatable to oranges, even outside of the oft-stated comparative idiom. One is citrus, the other is not. One is great in pies, the other should steer clear of being baked.

It is a dumb idiom.

However, in this case, I also think it is being used incorrectly, as it misses the key attributes that separate these two forms of musical collection. One is not citrus, but rather it has other exemplary qualities that make it a standalone, don’t-compare-yourself-to-me prospect. In fact, I am strong enough in this opinion, that I have fashioned my own, possibly more considered statement:

“Albums vs mixtapes - it’s Terminator vs Voltron”

No. Hear me out. (My point will make the most sense to people who partook of the various robo-centric film and television outings of the 80’s, but you know what? You can google anything that doesn’t sound like it’s a real word.)

An album is the result of a dedicated project group (artist and technical crew), whose goal is to create a cohesive musical recording that showcases the performers’ work, highlighting their abilities to the best possible level, and entertaining you in an audible fashion. It has a single purpose, and exists solely to achieve this.

The Terminator is the result of a world-wide computer network project, whose goal is to create an infiltration robot to wipe out humans. It can’t be bargained with. It can’t be reasoned with. It doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.

Not an exactly identical concept, but it’s the single-minded purpose that I’m hinging this on. Yeah? Still with me? RIGHTO!

A mix tape lacks the overall production an album has. It is a patch-work creation, assembled from various sources of differing sound, quality and origin. Because of the broad nature it may possess, it can very well result in a finished piece that is far greater than the sum of it’s parts.

Voltron is a giant robot made of smaller robot lions, and he saves the universe. The individual lions do not.

So in summary, my point, (hijacked by my own digressions) is that whilst the initial idea of these two being incomparable, this only works on a format level (one pair is an audio recording, the other is robots). This differentiation based on format is important, as whilst this detail is one that can be related, in terms of content and intent, they are very, very different.

Listen to Jim’s Big Ego as he sums up this gestalt format so nicely!

(if you wish for a copy of my own mix tape, “Eclectique 2: Son Of Voltron”, ask me very nicely!)

Today I was going to write you a delightful entry on how the world of comic-book films just keeps getting better and better, when two things came to pass:

1. I met a group of French people, and

2. I saw two episodes of The Big Bang Theory.

Ordinarily, either one of these phenomena, would have bounced off my pop-culturally toughened skin, like…funny-looking bullets, I guess. Maybe it was the combination of the two? Maybe it was my lack of warning? Maybe it was the supreme level of inebriation? I cannot answer this question.

I cannot answer any of those questions. Answering questions in general, is a little outside of my area of expertise right now. Don’t ask me what is within my area of expertise, that’d get embarrassing for both of us.

After much coaxing and encouragement from “friends”, I bowed and watched The Big Bang Theory. “You’ll love it” they said. Because I’m “into comics, and computers and all that geeky stuff”. There is some truth to that, except computers hate me. So I acquiesced, and watched this clever sitcom that I was bound to love.

I hate it.

It is the single most embarrassing thing I have watched. The writers assume that not only are all geeks like those boys, but that we all think that archtype is hysterical. You know who finds that kind of nerdishness turned up to 11 funny? I don’t. Not me. I adore my comics, I play Xbox like it’s a religion, and I work on websites - this is all true, but I am talk to anyone about most anything. I don’t want to say anymore. The show was upsetting, unfunny and reinforced my belief that sitcoms in general are not for me.

*deep breath.*

*1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9…10*

The French Girl Incident was a lot more tame than such a title might suggest. Such a title suggests a 70’s gangster film with Michael Caine, or a Guns’N’Roses album, or at best an episode of the Goon Show (RIP, Spike Milligan). It’s far more tame than any of these. We were out drinking, Chief started talking to a bunch of girls dancing, and then with the speed of an intercontinental viper, one of them lashed out and dragged me into the arrangement. This action did of course take me completely by surprise, and drag me well and truly out of my comfort zone. I have no problem with confident women named Carolina - I have a problem with dancing.

Dancing is something I have submitted myself to voluntarily for the last decade. I use such phrasing, as for me it’s akin to a more coordinated individual volunteering themselves for shock therapy: it’s not a fun experience, and you often spend the majority of your time during it, wondering what on earth you were thinking. So we danced, like a ship on the ocean, romanced. The remainder of Carolina’s tribe were mute, leaving me to assume a language barrier that would prevent any discussions not based on arrhythmic movement to music.

So the dancing continued, and Chief laughed at my predicament - he had no intention of being involved, and was thoroughly amused at the social situation he had engineered. It had all been a ruse, a honey pot of a trap to get me, the professional recluse, to breach my comfort zone and do something I’d not do on my own volition. Why he laughed like a maniacal evil-life-creating scientist, I don’t know, but he did. Probably because he’s EVIL.

When surrounded by beautiful women time does not stand still, but rather just passes in a far more surreptitious manner. Sooner rather than later (due to sneaky time-dilation, I’m sure), my internal organs were flagging that the battle against scotch was beginning to be lost, and I thought that I should make tracks whilst my legs were still loyal to my cause. Chief did similarly, but not likely out of sympathy to my legs. A member of the French ensemble headed outside to smoke at the same time, and we talked with her a while.

Wait. Go back a step.

Yep. Talked.

It wasn’t until the next day that my scattered thoughts were carefully shuffled back into order like a scribbly-design on a 1000 piece jigsaw, that I realised we had most likely been taken for a ride.
- Yes, Carolina had a French accent.
- No, none of the others talked whilst in the bar. Outside, she spoke fluently, and in fact was a Kiwi. (accent recognition, not a disparaging remark on Kiwi’s and the english language)
- Kiwi girl said she was here visiting friends.
- The time range in question for the “dancing” is questionable, but potentially of a period where silent communication could have sufficed.

My thinking is thus - Carolina was French, but the rest were not. They were taking her out for a night on the town, and she provided a cover story that allowed them to not socialise with the stupid boys. The Kiwi girl almost said as much. Ah well, duped by dancing women.

I awoke refreshed and without French-Girl-phone-numbers the next day, and I had one song run through my head, repeatedly. (hit Play)