Monday, September 24, 2007
Classical Review: Dennis AsKew, UNC-Greensboro, 9/16
My review of UNCG tuba/euph prof Dennis AsKew's latest recital is up at CVNC. Take a look, won't you?
Sunday, September 23, 2007
This song won't change your life
I hate lots and lots of things. An average day is peppered with quick, passionate bursts of loathing, disgust, and frustration for myriad aspects of the world around me: 24-hour news, people who don't use their turn signals, a sequence of workplace frustrations baffling in their simultaneous mundanity and magnitude, Michelle Norris' vocal delivery, women's magazines, the Lexus-SUV-driving aging yuppies who have encroached on my tacky but otherwise decent suburban neighborhood. And those are just everyday ire-raisers; my ever-pissy nature gets a lot worse when I chance upon stuff like this or this or this.
There are greater and more pressing problems with the world than the existence of Nancy Grace, Target's continued foisting of smocked garments upon the nation's young female demographic, or the insistence of my area college radio station on playing naught but snooze-inducing electronica after 8 p.m. four nights a week. But the really bad stuff can feel so overwhelming that reacting with more than an exhausted sigh would probably reduce me to tears. This way, I can exorcise my frustration with the immutably shitty state of most of the world by screaming at the grotesquerie of Pat Buchanan when he pops up on MSNBC, or bitch about the schlubby, middlebrow music of Billy Joel.
The flipside of this aspect of my eerily Gemini-esque nature occurs when I encounter a book, news item, previously unheard band, much-lauded but never-seen TV show, or, you know, actual person that's incontrovertibly awesome/genuine/entertaining/life-affirming/giggle-inducing: I fall hard.
I'll curl up on the futon for hours with my cat and three seasons of the new Doctor Who, or fuck up my sleep schedule because I was mainlining The Wire until dawn (I was particularly susceptible to this during the stevedore-tastic second season). I'll spend all of the driving I do for two weeks practically getting high off the mind-blowing sonic and ideological scope of the new M.I.A. album. I'll commence online stalking of objay d'crush and suddenly deem it necessary to be made up to maximum hotness whenever I venture outside on the off-chance of an encounter.
Next comes the proselytizing (a&e-wise, anyway; I tend to keep mum when I'm enamored with a particular person). Since I've clearly just seen or heard the light, I commence assaulting everybody I know with phrases like "Oh. Mah. Gahd. I canNOT stop listening to this album, you HAVE to hear it," or "Okay, so there's this thing called a TARDIS? And also David Tennant is really adorable? And, like, you don't have to give a crap about sci-fi to get into it?" whenever I've had a few beers.
Strong opinions are generally a good thing when you want to make a living as a critic, but even among amateur arbiters of taste, there's a stigma of mild uncoolness associated with getting a little gushy about your latest media crush in conversation. I risk coming off sounding like Comic Book Guy (er, more than I already do) or Natalie Portman's insufferably quirky epileptic from Garden State (thanks for ruining the Shins for anyone with discriminatin' tastes, Zach Braff), but spreading the word a little when you've found something that cheers or finspires of ascinates you just makes sense. Occasionally effusive friends and associates have turned me on to such rays of sunshine as the Pixies (I have lovely slo-mo memories of hearing "Debaser" for the first time the day after I returned home from Governor's School), Lynda Barry's Cruddy, Television Without Pity, early Woody Allen films, the Constantines, the post-glam work of David Bowie, dada, and countless others. If anyone digs a band or book or whatever that I recommend anywhere near as much as I've come to adore some recommended gems, increasing my potential to annoy too-cool types with vocalized enthusiasm has been so freaking worth it.
I'm all for those transcendent and private moments when it's just you and whatever's coming out of your headphones. But it's only natural, in the afterglow of finding a new fave, to try to spread the good vibrations around. This song won't change your life, but if you're like me, it might make you feel a little better about the way things are.
There are greater and more pressing problems with the world than the existence of Nancy Grace, Target's continued foisting of smocked garments upon the nation's young female demographic, or the insistence of my area college radio station on playing naught but snooze-inducing electronica after 8 p.m. four nights a week. But the really bad stuff can feel so overwhelming that reacting with more than an exhausted sigh would probably reduce me to tears. This way, I can exorcise my frustration with the immutably shitty state of most of the world by screaming at the grotesquerie of Pat Buchanan when he pops up on MSNBC, or bitch about the schlubby, middlebrow music of Billy Joel.
The flipside of this aspect of my eerily Gemini-esque nature occurs when I encounter a book, news item, previously unheard band, much-lauded but never-seen TV show, or, you know, actual person that's incontrovertibly awesome/genuine/entertaining/life-affirming/giggle-inducing: I fall hard.
I'll curl up on the futon for hours with my cat and three seasons of the new Doctor Who, or fuck up my sleep schedule because I was mainlining The Wire until dawn (I was particularly susceptible to this during the stevedore-tastic second season). I'll spend all of the driving I do for two weeks practically getting high off the mind-blowing sonic and ideological scope of the new M.I.A. album. I'll commence online stalking of objay d'crush and suddenly deem it necessary to be made up to maximum hotness whenever I venture outside on the off-chance of an encounter.
Next comes the proselytizing (a&e-wise, anyway; I tend to keep mum when I'm enamored with a particular person). Since I've clearly just seen or heard the light, I commence assaulting everybody I know with phrases like "Oh. Mah. Gahd. I canNOT stop listening to this album, you HAVE to hear it," or "Okay, so there's this thing called a TARDIS? And also David Tennant is really adorable? And, like, you don't have to give a crap about sci-fi to get into it?" whenever I've had a few beers.
Strong opinions are generally a good thing when you want to make a living as a critic, but even among amateur arbiters of taste, there's a stigma of mild uncoolness associated with getting a little gushy about your latest media crush in conversation. I risk coming off sounding like Comic Book Guy (er, more than I already do) or Natalie Portman's insufferably quirky epileptic from Garden State (thanks for ruining the Shins for anyone with discriminatin' tastes, Zach Braff), but spreading the word a little when you've found something that cheers or finspires of ascinates you just makes sense. Occasionally effusive friends and associates have turned me on to such rays of sunshine as the Pixies (I have lovely slo-mo memories of hearing "Debaser" for the first time the day after I returned home from Governor's School), Lynda Barry's Cruddy, Television Without Pity, early Woody Allen films, the Constantines, the post-glam work of David Bowie, dada, and countless others. If anyone digs a band or book or whatever that I recommend anywhere near as much as I've come to adore some recommended gems, increasing my potential to annoy too-cool types with vocalized enthusiasm has been so freaking worth it.
I'm all for those transcendent and private moments when it's just you and whatever's coming out of your headphones. But it's only natural, in the afterglow of finding a new fave, to try to spread the good vibrations around. This song won't change your life, but if you're like me, it might make you feel a little better about the way things are.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
The Dude Culture of Music Criticism
Pandagon's Amanda posted a few pointed truths about women in and around the overwhelmingly male-dominated world of music criticism (not to mention music itself) and the Insufferable Music Snobbery that has a lock on music and, increasingly, pop culture in general. Her post was spurred by an intrepid Gawker intern's recent analysis of Pitchfork articles affirmed that fewer women write their douchey reviews than do guys named Mark.
I don't have much to say about this in the short time I've got to post--gotta finish writing a review of a tuba recital I saw this weekend (it's not Austin City Limits, but it'll do). Except: The more I think about this, even though I've known it was true and lived it for years, the more I'm determined to put some of the ideas I've had for this blog (and my fledgling career) into action.
So I'm going to rework this blahg to serve its intended purpose--giving me someplace to write about music while I'm unattached to any pop-review-publishing publications.
I don't have much to say about this in the short time I've got to post--gotta finish writing a review of a tuba recital I saw this weekend (it's not Austin City Limits, but it'll do). Except: The more I think about this, even though I've known it was true and lived it for years, the more I'm determined to put some of the ideas I've had for this blog (and my fledgling career) into action.
So I'm going to rework this blahg to serve its intended purpose--giving me someplace to write about music while I'm unattached to any pop-review-publishing publications.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
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