Music is a lot like pornography. There’s no fine line between what’s good and what’s garbage. You can’t just say, “well, it’s all the same”, because it really isn’t. What’s appalling to one person might be the bread and butter to their significant other; or… even their own parents. Some of you might be ashamed of what you’re into. I can’t even talk about this without donning a sanctimonious shit-eating grin on my face. Frankly, the whole topic is fucked. Instead of leading my audience into some kind of circlejerk, I’m just going to cut to the point- some like Vanilla, some like other flavors, some will eat anything you present them… catching the metaphor yet?
The only reason I’m bringing any of this to light is because of the time put into discovering a musical niche, developing taste, and refining ones musical palette. Yes, there are a few general grand contributing factors, like your upbringing- obviously we’re all products of experience. If your parents were the types that had music on, at all times of the day, then you were either embraced or are tramautized by it… I’ve found that as most people get older, they find a sort of nostalgia in listening to the tunes they were forced to listen to as children; the music they used to hate hearing their parents play. I’m the type to want some 1950’s Doo-Wop playing as I do my Sunday morning clean up. Every time “Wooly Bully” by Sam The Sham and the Pharaohs graces the jukebox, I just wanna throw a load of laundry in. That’s my just subconscious trigger. I’m sure some more unfortunate people hate their parents for reasons I can’t even begin to comprehend, and they probably cringe when they hear anything that brings them back to the days of having to live with a piece of shit; although, God knows, life is cruel- they’re probably turning into their parents as we speak.
As the years pass, I’ve noticed we become more like archaeologists, venturing into different genres, expanding our musical palette. After a few years (in my youth), Vanilla simply wasn’t cutting it for me anymore. Obviously, your catalyst is going to be different from mine. For me, it was waiting patiently for my uncle to leave so I could rummage through his vinyls – complete with ludicrous cover art, mind you – which were stowed away on a top shelf in the ne’erventure depths of his room. All manner of actions that I never saw men and women do in front of me adorned the covers of these records… I can still recall various painted positions and poses that made me giggle out of confusion and angst. Putting on a record and returning it back to its precise origin required surgical focus and precision. I would listen with the speakers dialed to rebellious levels (way past 11, if you get me). Any preemptive sign that somebody was coming home, possibly to catch me, would jolt me to pack up the show and run to my room quicker than a dude jumping out of some chick’s window when he hears the dreaded, “Honey, I’m Home”. My sweaty, culpable smile, hidden behind the thought that they knew what I was doing only two seconds before they walked into my room.
When we finally outgrow the confusion of childhood and adolescence, we get into the pleasure of music appreciation. However, that quickly sours. Trying to stay up on multiple releases (blatant sexual innuendo. BOOM!) becomes an obsession. Thankfully, today we aren’t forced to listen through entire albums to get to the ONE PART we like (if you remember those days, then you feel my pain). At the same time, having to sit around on a computer for hours, forwarding through videos and battling buffer times diminishes the return. This inevitably leaves a lot of room for missing out on the best parts, the little nuances of the set up, or the transition from one stage of the progression to the next. Eventually, through trial and error, sometimes with a guilty conscience and an unclean feeling, you’ll end up with some idea of what your really into. Now all that’s left is for some douchebag to come around and ruin the fringes of your appetites; with their own unrelenting levels of depravity and stupidity… You know who you are, shitheads.
So, this week in music,
Masters At Work – Work (Daniel Healey Remix)
This little diddy won me over with the heavy Electro, Moombaton vibe , but really latched me with the Dancehall drop. I’m not going to lie, since I’ve begun working with the Macro Records Blog, I’ve noticed ultra cross over jams; like such, have been presenting me with bigger challenges in the description department, so I refrained from trying to classify this tune into one genre. Besides, transcendence has always been a big love of mine when it comes to music. Masters At Work have been around for way too long. I honestly don’t know the ranges of their works, except a lot of their bigger productions and remixes, but I’m extremely interested in their stuff. Premier quality, moving music. Please feel free to point me onto some of their new mixes, if you know of any.
^^ Masters At Work – Work (Daniel Healey Remix) ^^
Shiny Toy Guns – Ricochet (Jen Lasher Verbos Remix)
At first, I wanted to talk about the bastardization of Electronica, as we know it, what with it falling under a “flag-all” category in terms of a musical genre, if you know what I’m talking about. Electronica has become another catch-all term for those that don’t know what they’re talking about- kinda like those people who call everything Techno… Anyway, this track simply can’t be classified into just one genre, and it stretches the limits of my lexicon as well. I’ve found Shiny Toy Guns to always teeter back and forth from their Garage and Industrial roots. This tune has starker hits than their typical synthetic vibe. The air of simplicity in the tune adds to its anthemic feel, from the Gary Glitter sample on to what follows shortafter. The Glam Rock aesthetic brings me back to Marilyn Manson’s try at Bowieism, which I also found intriguing. The female vocal and shudder are seductive; yet the male vocal shaves off any sappy cheese. 9/10
Two songs!!!!!! That’s what you’re probably saying. Well, I didn’t want to just give you anything I was on the fence about. The fact is, this blog is all about quality content, and I’d rather be judged for content that I actually like. Basically, if the music hasn’t won me over all weekend- and let me tell you, it was preposterous one- I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t enjoy them either.
It’s almost Halloween, and I’ve been trying to come up with lamest, cheesiest, hipster couple costume. At this point, it’s pretty much down to Annie Hall and that other guy in that movie, or the characters from Moonrise Kingdom (probably better to go with MK, as I actually owned that movie). Meh- guess the irony in that would suffice for my hipster quota. Tune in next week and I’ll tell you what we’ve decided. Calling back to the beginning of the article, if you’re wondering what type of porno I watch; I don’t. I just make them.
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Raul Chacon is a self aware douchebag, who only listens to music you’ve probably never heard of. His years of writing for literary reviews and magazines lead him to a couple of scholarships for his work, which he quickly squandered by moving to Austin, Texas, and going to shows six days a week, instead of class. Eventually, he became touring security with several acts and witnessed hundreds of shows and dozens of festivals firsthand. He would tell you exactly how many shows he’s been to; but there are simply too many holes in his brain at this point.