- joiezabel in Scarlett Johansson - Anywhere I Lay My Head it really is brilliant, scott. i hate you.
- hotshotrobot in Scarlett Johansson - Anywhere I Lay My Head Goddammit, Borch, now how am i supposed to review this? I can’t top that!
- Borch in The Avett Brothers - House of Blues - May 14th Good Lord, that’s a beautiful song! The Avett Bros. were in Chicago? Why wasn’t I notified?!
If you don’t have a ticket to Lollapalooza this weekend and thus have been crying into your pillow because you will miss seeing the Polyphonic Spree perform in their new military uniforms, don’t despair. They will be performing a special show at midnight at the Hard Rock Hotel on Friday night and 312unes has graciously given us a set of VIP tickets to give away. The show will be part of a kickass after-party that starts at 10:00pm and includes DJ Momjeans (Danny Masterson from That 70’s Show), Perez Hilton the gossip dude, a plethora of free food and drink and, most importantly, a dancing and jubilant Joie.
I have no idea how to give these away, so how about this…he or she who pleads most convincingly wins. convincingly and humorously, i should say. you can either email me at joie@superstarcastic.com or comment here. and expect to have your plea posted on superstarcastic, of course. Now enough aimlessly chatting…get pleadin’!
Dear Mr. Butler,
I am writing concerning your management’s commentary on my review of the Psychedelic Furs’ show at Avalon Ballroom in Boston on July 10, 2007. Let me first state that I am a huge fan of your work. I love the way in which the Furs combined post-punk and pop, and I’d been looking forward to your show for weeks.
I’ve said this before on the site, but as you may not have read back that far in our archives (nor may you wish to at this point), I’ll say it again: “We at Superstarcastic believe that the musical is personal.” If you read, for example, DJ’s review of The Wrens’ The Meadowlands, or anything Amber writes about shoegaze, you’ll find that, though our writers make every effort to explain how and why an artist, album, song, or musical genre has an effect on them, they make no pretense that such effects are objective. Rather, our reviews tend to be littered with narratives about personal experience: what someone went through personally that his/her favorite artist mirrored for them musically, what someone was doing when s/he first fell in love with a certain song (I’m reminded of the time that my then-boyfriend cut work so we could drive down the California coast on a warmer-than-average San Francisco summer day; he made me listen to “Heaven”), and so on.
Because to simply be earnest would make us look, well, emo, many of us compensate by being a little tongue-in-cheek. The resultant reviews contain a bit of empathy here and a lot of sarcasm there, but they lay no claims to fair and balanced coverage. Though our website contains some strict reporting (i.e., tour date announcements and the like–it would be pretty dumb of us to embellish those) the bulk of our articles are devoted to our personal opinions about music. Music reviewing is, in short, a subjective business–one to which we bring our critical faculties (such as they are) but also our own experience. Read more »
Fun Fact: Sketched out old dudes that have a penchant for loud, drunken, incoherent
rambling amuse me. Thus, the infamous Mark E. Smith, who has the practice down to a science, greatly amuses me, indeed. He also simultaneously depresses me because damn, he’s old and crazy now. No one does the whole inebriated-and-amphetamine-addled thing better than Smith, who has spent the better part of the last 3 decades honing this skill with the ever-rotating Fall cast. In fact, the only way this activity could be any more entertaining is if he chattered aimlessly over something with a robot beat, maybe even something I could, dare I say, dance to. But fuck, I never expected this would actually happen. So when I heard that he teamed up with Mouse on Mars (whose 2006 release, Varcharz, was one of my top 5 records of last year) under the name Von Sudenfed and recorded a messed up, incoherent, alcohol-soaked electronic album, my first thought was: best. album idea. ever. File under: Things That Shouldn’t Exist, But Do. See also: Mark E. Smith, Possible Cyborg, Part 1 of 6.
I figured that the record would either be pure genius or a complete flop, but in reality it hovers somewhere in the middle, never really achieving anything record-breaking and never really sucking, either. Smith’s voice, which I’m so accustomed to hearing over loud, crunchy punk riffs, actually sounds surprisingly at home amid the electronics. The opening track, “Fledermaus Can’t Get It,” showcases everything that is absolutely right about this album: dirty electro-noise/robot disco paired with Smith’s legendary jumbled free-associating. The song is fun as hell and needs to be playing in clubs now. DJs take note, please and thanks.
Most of the other tracks fall short of the opener, however, and much of the time I just want Smith to pipe the fuck down so I can hear Mouse on Mars better. Make no mistake, Mouse on Mars is by far the best thing about this record. For the most part, Smith just sounds like he’s interrupting an awesome track with nonsensical bullshit, which, as I mentioned, both entertains me (i.e. I’m amused at the expense of Smith and drunken weirdos everywhere), but also depresses me (i.e. another musical legend embarrasses himself in his old age. *cough*Robert Smith*cough*). Seriously though, the dude makes no sense whatsoever anymore. And not in a good way. An awkward way. His verbal diarrhea is funny at first but, much like real diarrhea, it just ends up causing stomach cramps and a deep feeling of emptiness. Lyrical example, culled from the track “Chicken Yaiamas” : “They said boil the chicken. I said no, I cannot boil the chicken. Yaiama! Yaiama! Yaiama!” Seriously? What? The third track, “Flooded,” starts off well enough with an awesome dance beat, but then goes on to feature Smith yelping “I flooded the club! Flooded! Flooded! Flooded!” which sounds as retarded as it looks in print, I assure you. Essentially, one of Smith’s best characteristics, his classic stream-of-consciousness vocal delivery, is also this particular album’s downfall. Oh, irony, you are a cruel mistress.
It’s a record one shouldn’t think too hard about. View it as a fun experiment and leave it at that. If nothing else, the juxtaposition of these artists is probably one of the more interesting musical ventures of the year. I support experimentation and all that junk. And while it’s definitely not the greatest album ever recorded, it’s an album you should probably hear. Plus Mouse on Mars delivers an absolutely flawless set of noisy dance tracks that shouldn’t be missed. If you try very very hard, you can tune out Smith and find yourself listening to an ace record. But don’t strain yourself; he is, for better or worse, nearly impossible to ignore.
Also, note to Mouse on Mars: release a version without the vocals, please and thanks.
Release date: May 21, 2007
Record label: Domino
Rating: 6/10
I’m the first to admit that I’m the type of guy that reads a bit too much into things sometimes, for basically no reason. I still can’t get over the idea that everyone in Riverdale is yelling, at all times. (Speaking of which, have you seen the character redesign they did over at Archie last year? Holy Anne Hathaway, Ron!) But honestly: “Got Me Under Pressure” is really fucked up. Hear me out.
Let’s talk a little about ZZ Top. Approved by everyone from Jimi Hendrix (who once declared Billy Gibbons his favorite guitar player during an appearance on the Tonight Show) to Steve Albini (”Not because I could have done better, but because I’ve never done anything this good: any early ZZ Top…“) to David Lynch (”ZZ Top = the fast track to cool,”) one of the best things to ever come outta Texas.
Their 1983 album Eliminator was utterly unlike anything that had come before it, pulling off the neat trick of combining stiff, metronomic rhythm sequences with authentically greasy blues guitar, and making it work. Nobody’s managed it since, including the Top themselves. But it (along with some semi-clever videos) made them superstars. This was as mainstream as it gets, folks; your Mom would dance to this if it came on the jukebox.
Now, we all know that the lyrical content of many a ZZ Top song regards sex. With ladies. Their catalog is replete with double entendres like “Pearl Necklace” and “I Got the Six” (completed in the chorus with “gimme your nine,”) single entendres like “Tush,” and “Woke Up With Wood,” a song that bends so far back on itself that it might actually be a negative entendre. “Got Me Under Pressure,” by contrast, is so direct that it’s somewhat disconcerting. Things start out innocuous enough: our protagonist is dating someone with expensive tastes (which isn’t very surprising. Once you class up the nerdy gal from the shoe store in the mini-mall across the street, she’s gonna start asking for the finer things.) However, “she won’t let me use my passion unless it’s in a limousine.” Is the titular pressure that Billy’s referring to merely blue balls? No, the situation’s far more sordid.
The next verse starts off gibberish (…the hell is a “mind museum?”) before getting a little more in-depth about Miss Limousine’s sexual tastes: “She don’t like other women/she likes whips and chains.” Okay, sure. BDSM=very yes, threesomes not so much. “She likes cocaine, and flippin’ out with Great Danes.”
“…with Great Danes.”
She fucks dogs.
“…it’s too much for my brain.” No kidding. Whatever is our protagonist to do? “I’m gonna give her a message, here’s what I’m gonna say: ‘It’s all over.’” That’s the smart thing to do, friend. But he’s scared to, because he knows what’s in store for him: “She might get out a nightstick and hurt me real real bad by the roadside in a ditch.” In a ditch? I guess that’s how they do it in Texas, huh? Or…remember that line about how “she don’t like other women?” Maybe “she’s” a transvestite and that “nightstick” is a penis. It’d be par for the course in this seamy little tale. Worst of all, there’s no denouement, no end in sight. Our protagonist remains forever “under pressure.”
Next time: an in-depth analysis of “Unchained” by Van Halen!
since you are a loyal reader of superstarcastic.com and keep dog-eared copies of our writings underneath your pillows just in case of sudden insomnia, you will definitely recall the review of the psychedelic furs show in boston that our beloved editor christine posted a few weeks back. i thought it was a good show recap of some classic acts and i am sure that you found it amusing and witty, as i did.
well, not everyone found it amusing and witty, my friends. and one of the folks who didn’t was the lead singer of the furs, the very talented and not-drug-taking richard butler himself. my business partner commissar dave and i received a call yesterday from the frostily polite manager of the psychedelic furs (a band who doesn’t do drugs), who informed us that richard butler (completely sober man that he is) read the review and appreciated it not so much. in fact, we were told that our drug allegations were slanderous and defamatory. his manager said that butler was surfing the web with his 9 year old daughter, came upon the superstarcastic review and was embarrassed and angered by what they read.
before i go any further with this sordid tale of hurt feelers, may i briefly interrupt myself to make one thing very, very clear - you should never, under any circumstances, ever allow your 9 year old child near superstarcastic. i repeat, SUPERSTARCASTIC IS NOT FOR CHILDREN. sheesh. the mere thought of little munchkins getting their malleable minds twisted and scarred by our rapier snark and communist sensibilities terrifies me.
but now back to my ridiculously awesome story. i really wish i was saying this about a shitty band like panic!%#$ at the disco (who unlike richard butler probably does drugs) and not the psychedelic furs, a band i like a lot. but what can you do…i hope it’s just their management company being dorks. anyway, i asked for the band manager to send me the request for an apology in writing and i told him that i would post it on the site, so here you go:
Hi Joie,
I recently read Christine’s review of the Psychedelic Furs/Fixx/Alarm show in Boston.
Although, we welcome reviewers giving their opinion about the performance, I was deeply troubled by some outrageous (and slanderous) insinuations that were made concerning Richard Butler. No matter how a reviewer may feel about the show, making false personal accusations, as she did, is completely unacceptable and certainly beneath any standard that readers have become accustomed to.
I feel that Christine owes Mr. Butler an apology, and hope that we can keep the reporting at a higher level of integrity and truthfulness in the future.
Best,
Rob Dillman
Arcadia Group Management
Los Angeles, CA
and there you have it, folks. i am pretty amazed on multiple levels by the whole thing. i really don’t see how sentences like “made me start to suspect that he was coked up beyond belief” and “I started to wonder if he was doing lines onstage” can be taken as personal accusations but hey, i guess some folks are sensitive like that. and i fail to see how OPINIONS can be truthful or not. and he’s obviously not familiar with you, the readers of superstarcastic, if he’s talking about you all having some kind of STANDARDS for the love of pete. and also, it’s called libel when it’s in print, not slander.
but whatevs. on the record here - we have never seen richard butler do coke. we have never done coke with richard butler. we have never met anyone who has done coke with richard butler. we are not accusing richard butler of being a cokehead. we think richard butler is a saintly man who loves puppies and rainbows and long walks on the beach. to show how sorry we are, we are having christine immediately killed for disrupting richard butler’s serenity. and if that’s not an apology, dear mr. butler (who is completely sober, by the way), i don’t know what is.
ps just kidding, christine. kisses.
I think that the problem with Gogol Bordello is that no matter how frenzied or impassioned they get at any given moment, at heart they’re a trick band — it’s hard for me to imagine a world with room for more than one or two gypsy-punk groups. And, like most trick bands, they’ve got less range than either they or you would prefer.
Pretty much each song on Super Taranta!, their most recent full-length, does the same thing. Each one chugs along with a amped-up polka beat (one-TWO! one-TWO!), a violin that sounds like it’s being piped in from your local college theater production of Fiddler on the Roof, and a heaping handful of refugee accordions. The rhythm sometimes changes for the verses, but it almost always moves back into the oompah lockstep during the choruses. Some guitars wander in, of course — again, generally on the verses — but they rarely predominate over the other elements. Lead singer Eugene Hütz’s voice doesn’t help matters — he sounds sort of like how you’d imagine a SNL sketch involving Will Ferrell as a drunk Hungarian would go, especially as he’s invariably backed by a small mob of euro-thugs who punctuate the off-beats with various shouts.
I don’t have a problem with bands that use elements of this kind of neo-traditional instrumentation; I quite liked Khartoum Heroes back in the day, for instance, and I still maintain a great devotion for Zebda. But, at least on Super Taranta!, Gogol Bordello take their chosen formula to such an over-the-top extreme that it’s nearly impossible to take them seriously. One might counter that they aren’t meant to be taken seriously, but the unfortunate fact is that they’re not very funny either. I suppose that the hyperkinetic cartoon frenzy of, say, “Wonderlust King” is something I can easily imagine myself putting on a college mix CD, just so that I could have the pleasure of seeing the recipient’s face take on that classic “What the…?” face when it came on. But I started to get impatient around track two of this album, waiting for something else to happen. In case you were wondering, I wasn’t really rewarded. “Dub The Frequencies Of Love” was kind of fun, I guess — the music reminded me a lot of Zebda circa Essence Ordinaire, actually — and that was probably the high point for me.
I think maybe the issue is that Gogol Bordello are definitely a small-dose band for me — and at 65 minutes, this is definitely not a small-dose album. Yes, there’s lots of energy, and I don’t doubt that their live show is every bit as good as advertised, but all of the frenetic action is devoted to doing the same. freaking. thing. over and over again. The brushstrokes are too broad, the shading too lacking. I guess it’s supposed to be a party album, but it winds up being an album for the party where you get backed into a corner by the loud guy with onions on his breath who won’t stop talking for an hour while your girlfriend leaves with some local lothario.
The album’s getting killer reviews from basically everyone but me, so if you want to consider me an unenlightened killjoy, you’re more than welcome, and you won’t hurt my feelings. But the desperately peppy monotony of this album gave me a worse headache than any Einsturzende Neubauten record I’ve ever heard — not that I want to give Hütz any ideas. I think, as much as I didn’t care for his gypsy punk, I’d like his gypsy industrial less.
Label: Side One Dummy
Release date: July 10, 2007
Rating: 3/10
