WTF Is The Move

Listen up, Dirty Projectors. You're doing it all wrong.
Music is supposed to make me feel like I'm better than the rest of the populace. I should be able to spin some of your records and instantly feel like the guy listening to Ke$ha in the car next to me (while I'm a la fixed gear, obviously) is an unfit member of the intellectual upper crust. I vinyl it up with the latest Animal Collective and I know, right at that moment, that my tastes are not only rather congratulatory, they're downright bitchin'.

I'm like a PBR in the fridge amongst a whole bunch of Natty Ice.

But while the rest of the world is dude-broing it up, I'm keeping it real via TV on the Radio. Give me broken time signatures, chaotic synth tracks, album covers done in indie scribble.

But you, Dirty Projectors, you make me feel like I'm back in school. You've certainly brought chaos into the fold, but it's about as schizo as Edward Norton and Brad Pitt being the same person at the end of Fight Club (whoa, totally gave it away like the time I ruined Sixth Sense when I was like "Bruce Willis is dead" and … ah, dammit (sorries again)). Truth is, I listen to one of your songs and I haven't got the slightest clue as to where the eff you're going next.
You've got the musical equivalence of an episode of LOST where at the end I'm all "how the hell did we even get here?" Is there a guy that's going to sing or is it a girl? Are they actually one and the same? Will there be banjos or synthesizers? What the shit is a Fluorescent Half Dome and how can I get one? Should I even want one and does it involve another person or is it a solo deal?

At least Ratatat is straight up with the new album. They've got a song called "Drugs". Easy enough. I mean, I get that. Inspiration: check. At least they're honest.

I'll say this, DP (do you mind if I call you that or am I just being a coy douche?) maybe naming songs by the central influencer isn't the best naming scheme. I'm sure every single track would be called "Drugs" but maybe you could break it down by the drug with the highest profile in your systems at the time of song conception (coincidentally, that's also how Amy Winehouse breaks down her evenings). It could be educational, mnemonic, and more importantly a lot better with imagery than, say, something like "Cannibal Resource" or "Remade Horizon".

You're all cool, calm, collected and then all of a sudden you just lose your shit like Cruise on the Oprah sofa. When we gather round the turntable for a listen I'm constantly apologizing for your outbursts as if you're that crazy uncle who believes in UFOs and a Whitesnake reunion show.
Like Thom Yorke at a Miley Cyrus slumber party, you've outstayed your welcome.

Either teach us what you're doing or dumb it down for the rest of us.
How do you ever expect to get on TRL?

A New Axis Of Evil

I'm on to you, Dead Weather. I don't know who it is you think you're dealing with but I want you to know that I came here to draw blood and I'm not leaving until one of us is gnarled like T. Cruise in Vanilla Sky (or maybe Born On The 4th of July?). Sure, you've been setting the Heartland ablaze with your pale-faced, leather-clad charades on par with a hipster Edward Scissorhands, but I'll be the first to stand up and say "I refuse to be intimidated".

You and I both know you've only made the marks because your complexion suggests that you're a legion of undead set to unleash a hellfire of power-chords and demonic hooks. You've got reviewers scared shitless that you're gonna go all "Drag Me To Hell" with their firstborn. While I wouldn't consider myself a religious creature anymore (my thetan levels are redonkulous (sp.?)), it's become quite apparent to me that if there was such thing as a biblical calling, it would most likely be to defend earth from the hordes of your dark asses.
Like Sith Lords of the South, your dastardly rhythms and deep cuts have everyone thinking you're trained like famed rogue Jedi (that word is totally in my spellcheck: WIN), James Earl Jones. But you're one moon short of Hoth and this wookie ain't the forgiving type.

As if I wasn't going to notice that you just released the same exact album!
It's not necessarily that every songs SOUNDS the same, it's just that they ARE the same. The exact same. I mean, you've changed out the occasional word, maybe messed around with how many measures it takes to get to a staccato chorus or two, maybe even decided to break out the bag pipes, (aka, the horn of Satan) but this won't allow me to forgive your insurrections to the world of rock.
I'm guessing you've chosen to have all your songs sound repetitive so that they resemble some pagan chants of ages past. In this way, you're tricking our angsty youth to resurrect some cross between a goat, a dragon and a ham sandwich (surprises you with what I know, doesn't it?).

Jack, I expected better of you. Sure the White Stripes were overrated and the Raconteurs outstayed their welcome like George Bush at a White House house party, but as a big brother of the music scene, you should know better. But I guess we can all make mistakes.

Mosshart, get a job, shampoo, and a better nickname than "horehound" (I can't imagine how awkward that made family dinner parties).

Anyone else I left out in the band? Didn't think so.

Brian Eno, You Missed Out.

If I took every opportunity I had to blogtastically decimate every band that pushes out shite like a hungry lion waiting in the brush for a limping gazelle, I'd be like the Oprah of ass kick. Only not so obsessed with the spotlight. Even more rare are those occasions when an album sneaks through the stereo screens that needs worship and tribute. Like the thirteenth coming of Christ, (I might be off by a few, it's been a while) MGMT's new drop does not disappoint.

I'm warning you now, this post gets deep. In the same spirit of Socrates with a hangover, I'm going to be lambasting your eyes with an intellectual assault brazen enough to make Bazan sound like Seacrest.

I found myself asking myself to myself in my own room by myself the other day, "why does music have to go through all the trouble to make itself so listenable?"
Why must an artist succumb to society's pressure to produce something that is even slightly reminiscent of time signature, tonal structure, and vocal dynamic understanding? Are we all so selfish that we demand music be for our enjoyment?

And then, as if by divine appointment, MGMT bushwhacks the music scene with an album that says "we don't give a damn what you like. Here's a few tracks we crapped out while strung out on shrooms, Fun Dip and absinthe."
I'm initially hesitant, knowing the success of their last album among messenger bag toting hipsters and TOMS-wearing alts alike. Their bubble gum dance anthems swept the club floor like cancer with a bass track in months past.

But now, as if compelled by some gnarly god of indie, MGMT cuts the dance music in favor of something far more magical.

Bat shit.

It's a move so bold that I stand before you a stunned mammalfish. Gone is the attention to detail, the concern with infectious hooks or rhythmic comprehension. It's the musical equivalent of VanWyngarde throwing some tunes in a blender, hitting "ice crush" and throwing it all on a muddy canvas. Made of snakes and unicorns.

It's so good I don't even want to listen to it. I mean, of course I like it. I'm definitely in that cognitive elite that so "gets" it. Yet, for some reason, I can't find a single song I even remotely desire to have playing through the halls of my humble abode. Probably because I don't want to scratch the record or anything. Yeah, that's totally it.
Musically, it's a crotch shot to the fans that gives the middle finger to corporate America, Malaysian sun bears (finally), the oil industry, and the Second Amendment. The album art is so thought-provoking, I've made it the desktop background of my iPad (that I still hate, you corporate pigs).

Congratulations, MGMT (pun certainly intended).
Thank you for taking a dump on my music.
It was most certainly needed.
Now just sit back and collect the checks.
You deserve them.

This Is Why Irony Is Dead

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Something Positive

Jonathan tells me I've been getting too negative lately. And he's probably right. It's just...when I see someone like Zach Galif-whatever-thehell-his-name is get all famous even though he probably has birds living in his beard... well, I lose my shit. That's the easiest way to say it. And betches, I've been getting way too many e-mails going "Who's this Duchamp?" Did you never pick up an art history book? Or try Wikipedia. Or effing Google. Ugh.

Anyway.

I wanted to talk to you about something i love. I know it's not "cool" but I'm not a hipster so I don't give a crap what this surrounding bourgeoisie culture thinks is "cool." it's all so corporate anyway. It's why I stopped shopping at Urban and moved to American App--at least they're honest about how much they want you to have sex with their models (and I do ;) ).

Whenever I've had a long day at H&M i like to kick back with my favorite cocktail: an appletini. they come in so many varities that it's hard to pick my fave. But I lurv the ones they make at the W bar in Times Square. It's got a sugar rim, and they don't use any of that pucker shizz.

Here's a lil' recipe from me to you:

ingredients^†

• 4cl (3 parts) Vodka
• 1.5cl (1 part) Apple schnapps
• 1.5cl (1 part) Cointreau

I hope you love it and you will. If you don't, don't come all the way to Brooklyn to cry to me. Head back to Staten Island and enjoy your Icehouse Light instead. God, I hate people. (sorry jonathan <3).

Not In My Hollywood

Mr. Galifianakis

I see right through your disguise. I don't know who you think you're fooling, but this is one mammal who's not going to dip into your kiddie pool of deception. You parade around like you're immortal; as if you think you're untouchable. Who do you think you are? Tim Curry? Well, believe you me, this is one Dunstin who isn't checking in (get it?).
Don't you understand that you're disrupting the whole balance? We only watch movies because we want to believe in a world where everyone is beautiful. Who doesn't want to see a school where even the ugly, nerdy girl can become the prom queen with some Pantene Pro-V, a push-up, and contacts? Where homeless paupers look like Leonardo DiCaprio and every fast food employee is a Goldie Hawn look-a-like.

Mr. Galifianakis, this is a plea.
Get a job or get a haircut. You're like a prokaryotic cell with a drinking problem. How do you even sleep at night knowing you're defecating on the holy name of Hollywood; perpetuators of eating disorders, Diet Coke, and cigarettes. The truth is, I shiver at the thought of raising my pup/cub in a world where looking within society's average physical bubble is even acceptable.

You may have pulled a wool (no offense, betches) over the eyes of the public but lest we social elites ever succumb to your refusal to shave, moisturize or photoshop you photoshoots (and this is without even trying). You could be so much more.

But I guess you're alright with settling for average. Sure, you've got your soul but what good have you done with that? I haven't heard you on an Alicia Keys track as of late.

You know who else refused to change? The tyrannosaurus rex. Do you remember what happened to him? Of course not. Because now he doesn't exist anymore.

Enjoy extinction, asshole.

You wear Duchamp's vomit so well

Well lucky you for all you betches out there, today gets to be a double header (don't you dare go there with that thought). I've gotten such an enormous response from the first post, I've had to ask my email provider (Gmail) for my own server. Done and done. You might not see any comments on the post because, in truth, I had to remove them because Blogger was all up in my shit for the space they were taking up on their severs.

That's what I call a douche-tatorship. But now for something more serious (and honestly, sinister).

I'd just like to humbly call something to your attention, people. Something that's been under my sharkskin/fur (depends on whether we're talking North or South here).

These shoes.

They're not cute. They're not some patterned optical illusion that will make your feet look bigger and let you feel better about your own personal insecurities (Mr. Tobey Maguire). I'll tell you what they say for those of you who don't speak apparel. They say "the rest of me isn't really that interesting and if I try calling attention to any other part of me, I'm only setting you up for imminent disappointment and a God complex".

Think about it. What ungodly curse must you have to try and make your feet a point of interest. Do you know who looks at feet? Depressed people. Trust me, I know. They walk around all day with their head hung low. They stare at the floor. At shoes. Those are the only people who do.

That and stingrays.

But they can't help it.

Regardless, I'll still stomp their Steve-Irwin-killing asses. Especially if they're wearing these monstrosities.

On an unrelated note, check out this bunny I made (click to see animation):

THIS IS ME!

Introductions are so passé, so let's just be frank here. I'm a self-proclaimed chef/wine connoisseur/author (of several books too indie for the mainstream public's ear)/activist/theologian/acrobat/own best friend (call it elitist; I call it preceptive).

Somewhere between amazing and offensive, between a griffin and dexicorn (ten horned unicorn, obviously (can be a real jackass at dinner parties, by the way)), between Brooklyn and Idaho, and an editor and a designer, there exists a spot in society for Bearsharrrk.

Don't ask me where.

And don't send me emails about what you see me in between.