Sunday, 21 January 2024

This is Mars

Saturday, 20 January 2024

Beautiful songs: Ceremony

Thanks to my big sister, Jane, I grew up listening to New Order and other great bands in the eighties. My early memories of NO come from the Substance singles compilation LP, in particular the songs "Bizarre Love Triangle" (of course), "True Faith", "Perfect Kiss", and "Blue Monday". But the very first song on this album is the one that today gives me chills from just thinking about it. One might find "Ceremony" unassuming at first. When it comes to NO singles, many will inevitably skip it in favour of the pure electro-pop joy of their other songs. New Order songs are (for the most part) danceable, uplifting, and upbeat, despite their often obscure and occasionally melancholy lyrics. But not this one.

The type of pop music that New Order creates is nostalgic. This is a pretty common trend since the seventies, when bands began to long for the blissful pop songs of the sixties. But that is not NO's nostalgia. Theirs is more the uncanny sort that makes you feel instantly comfortable (or uncomfortable), like you recognize the music, though you may not connect it with anything you've heard before. (Clearly I'm biased on this point, since, as I mentioned, I grew up listening to this music; but bear with me. I have felt this type of instant nostalgia with several bands since, both new and old, and I am certain that it points to a real phenomenon.) I think New Order reached the peak of this form with the song "Regret" from their 1993 album, Republic. In my opinion, that is one of the greatest pop songs of all time. But I digress.

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Beautiful songs: Under Pressure

Like many members of my general age group, I'm sure, my first exposure to "Under Pressure" was not via the original Queen and David Bowie version, but another artist: a white rapper called Vanilla Ice, which (correct me if I'm wrong) basically translates into "Whitey White" or perhaps "Whitey Cool". In his hit single of 1990, "Ice Ice Baby", Vanilla Ice used a modified version of the bass and finger snap line (lacking the piano) from "Under Pressure", after which I'm sure it must have been one of the most recognizable bits of music of the 90s. It was certainly an extremely popular song, being the first rap song to reach number one on the Billboard pop music chart, spending several months on that chart, selling upwards of 15 000 000 copies, and reaching gold or platinum in several countries.

To preteens, without broader knowledge and greater discernment of the quality and depth of music—especially rap music—the song was great: it has a fun tune and beat, it's lyrics are easy to sing along to, the video is cheesy in a way kids can appreciate, and so on. And who at that time could tell that Vanilla Ice was basically a fraud? At 12 I just didn't have a deep background in hip hop music to base my judgments on!

By an interesting coincidence, another hit rap song came out that same year that sampled another 1981 song. The artist was MC Hammer, the current song was "U Can't Touch This", and the sample was from "Superfreak" by Rick James. Only time will tell which, if either, of these artists history will be kind to.

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Beautiful songs: Stoned (Out of My Mind)

It seems that there was a time in the early 1970s when "stoned" was an adjective that meant something like "happy" or "blissful". But then maybe it meant "confused" or "trippy". I think I can say honestly that I don't know.

"Stoned Love" is one of my favourite Supremes songs. It's mature and understated pop soul with a subtle hook and a curious theme. Overall, a lovely song, though more of a groover than a dancer. But that's not the song this is about.

This is about a song called "Stoned (Out of My Mind)", and I would understand if you've dismissed it as simply a weird psychedelic soul song in praise of marijuana. But it's not—as far as I can tell. It's one of the smoothest soul love songs I've ever heard, by one of the smoothest soul groups of the era.

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Sci-fi of the hyperbolic present: Technicolor Ultra Mall, by Ryan Oakley

Technicolor Ultra Mall, by Ryan Oakley (EDGE Books, 2011), looks into the future and finds humanity conducting its daily affairs within the walls of city malls, the outdoors reserved for toxic air and garbage. Populations under a roof. For the lowest on the ladder, a dim and desperate basement. For the middle classes, shopping and distractions on their own bright, green level, and sometimes just distractions on the lower red level. For the highest, an unknown blue tier. Maybe they can see the sky there.

Technicolor is more William Gibson and Philip K. Dick than Isaac Asimov or Neal Stephenson, but it's not quite cyber-fiction, despite the highly connected setting, cy-fi vernacular, and video-game features. It's grim, dystopic, and all too close to reality. It doesn't romanticize a grand narrative. It is disjointed, frequently interrupted by fake advertisements and television and radio segments. It has subplots that collide in unexpected ways. It speculates on what happens when a society considers new ways to distract, amuse, pamper, and embellish oneself to be progress: better shopping, drugs, sex, television, and violence.

More than anything else, Technicolor is about violence—brutal violence—which is something I haven't come across much in my reading. I'm probably reading the wrong books. It shows its bloodied, scarred, disfigured, and senseless face right away. The characters, including the protagonists, are mainly members of a criminal gang. They're grotesque, self-serving, and proud brawlers and killers. They can also be obsequious, loyal, and wary of greed. These inner conflicts result in near constant taunts, threats, grandstanding, and frequent outbursts of intense and bloody brutality, usually by knife. It seems gratuitous, but that's the point. A central event finds a gang member volunteering to die under a guillotine, in the middle of a wake that is also a rave. The gang celebrates violence. It is creative performance; for some the only creative outlet they have.

Read on..!

Friday, 19 January 2024

Beautiful songs: Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)

I don't remember precisely when I first heard Frank Wilson's "Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)", but I can narrow it down to a brief two years, during which I lived at 607 Huron St. in Toronto, with my great friend Derek, to whom I owe much gratitude for invading his apartment and life, and often monopolizing his computer. If memory serves, that was May 2000 to May 2002. I'm not sure if that seems like a long time or not. Certainly a lot has happened in that time, and equally certainly eight years feels longer than six. If I could find the original CD onto which I burned the song, I could narrow down the period even further; but I'm sure that I've since copied and thrown away that scratched disc.

Those were my early Soul years and still the early years of mass illicit downloading. The two are connected since, through Napster and its descendants, I discovered a world of music, thousands of songs—of all genres, but particularly Soul and Funk—that added fuel to my flaming passion for music. I made a series of soul compilations—14 at last count—each containing between 20 and 25 songs; and those were only the ones I deemed worthy of repeat listening or spinning. I was a DJ then, too, and few activities gave me greater pleasure than serving some excellent new discovery in the club and watching the crowd eat it up. Discovering new hidden gems (and playing them for people, in clubs or in private) still gives me immense pleasure.

Ironically, though, "Do I Love You" is a song that I rarely played for the crowds. I'm not sure why exactly. It's almost too specific, too perfect, too sweet for the congregation I ministered to. I feel like it stands apart from other soul music, other music generally, so much that I would have had a hard time fitting it in, mixing it with any other song, as if anything else would seem vulgar in comparison, or bland. Or perhaps I was afraid that other songs would vulgarize "Do I Love You" and make it seem too simple.

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Beautiful songs: Strangers

My good friend Josh Raskin recently sent me this song, after a long discussion of amazing stuff we're enjoying at the moment. I said the Junior Boys' latest album Begone Dull Care, which I find a really beautiful and excellent collection of songs. Josh mentioned the cable television series Peep Show and a couple of songs: a cover of Prince's "1999" by a band called Dump, led by Yo La Tengo's bass player, and "Strangers" by The Kinks (written by Dave Davies, to be precise). I haven't heard yet what Josh thinks of my recommendation, but I have at long last been converted to The Kinks. I am ready to listen!

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The New Dilettantes by Adam Gorley is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.5 Canada License.