MIND GRAPES

Tensnake, hanging out with Samuel L. Jackson

K, so I had this whole blog post planned here, where I was going to take the names of certain DJs and producers totally literally, like, what if Rub-n-Tug was actually, literally, a massage parlor handjob that was a DJ, and, like, what if Mudd was actually just mud, that, like, made music, or, you know if DJ Harvey was Jimmy Stewart’s invisible best rabbit friend. But it turns out it wasn’t all that funny and got kind of tired after the first couple jokes and besides it might be kind of offensive in the case of Air France, what with the plane that crashed last year, and how some people hate the French.

The real reason for this “joke” was that I was going to post some tracks by Tensnake, and then (you might be able to see where this is going), write about how what if all these tracks were produced by a group of ten snakes, and each one was operating a different element of the production, like one snake was on the faders, and another snake was hitting the drum machine, and this other snake was, like, singing, or something, and wouldn’t that be funny. And to be honest, I still stand by the idea that a singing snake is pretty funny (actually I’m kind of laughing at it right now, in my head. The snake is singing, guys! Singing!) But y’all: I know the drill. I get tired of my dumb jokes too, probably more even than you guys get tired, because I literally live with my own stupid jokes, whereas you guys are mostly just comment spammers and, for some reason, British people.

Plus, if all these tracks were actually produced by ten snakes, they probably wouldn’t name themselves Tensnake, because then their secret would be obvious, and no one would listen to them, because, you know, snakes. They would probably call themselves something like, “DJ Tom” or “Tables and Chairs,” or something more traditionally stupid and boring. Possibly “DJ Frederick Robot.”

Anyway: we already posted some Tensnake for you earlier this year—the delightful title track from the “In the End (I Want to Cry)” twelve-inch—but because I’ve been on a kick with this dude (or, possibly, these snakes), I wanted to post a couple more tracks. “Holding Back (My Love),” a gorgeous, shimmering late-night/early-morning bit of wobbly house, is from the “In the End” 12; “Battlehymn for the Children (Tensnake Dub Remix),” a glorious disco-ball explosion, is a remix of everyone’s second-favorite midwestern goths the Faint (the first-favorite, obviously, is Insane Clown Posse); “Congolal,” which sounds like the score to the best 80s action-comedy never made, is from the internet somewhere. I don’t know anyone besides Aeroplane doing the pop-house-sheen as well as Tensnake right now, so get “on the snake” before you look stupid for being late to the game.

Tensnake – Holding Back (My Love)
The Faint – Battle Hymn for Children (Tensnake Remix)
Tensnake – Congolal

Not sure which one of these people is the actual saint

I have been misled before, you know—Saint Vincent, the “independent music artist” is not actually a saint, despite what this young man (who uses the “n-word” in a transgressive way) on U-Tube.com says—and I don’t want to get into another argument with my priest about this kind of thing, because I would rather not go to jail again, if possible.

But here is my dilemma, guys: If Saint Etienne is not actually a saint, whose special saint-power is to make good music, does that make me a blasphemer every time I listen to him, because I am calling him a saint? Also, if my religion (Christianity) does not think that Saint Etienne is a saint, does this make my religion wrong/for idiots?

I think I am going to start a new religion, called “The Church of St. Etienne.” You can join if you want, unless you have swine flu. We will meet every Wednesday and Sunday at my apartment and read each other testimonials about when we listened to St. Etienne that week, and maybe drink white wine with ice cubes and laugh at each other’s jokes. Sometimes someone will bring a small plate of home-baked cookies, and we can eat them while we talk about our religion, and grow closer to each other as friends.

There is already a controversy in my church that I just made up five minutes ago: what to do about this new version of Foxbase Alpha, which is called Foxbase Beta, and is a “remix” of the original album, Foxbase Alpha, by the famous American civil rights activist and Nation of Islam leader Richard X. Let me put this in a way everyone can understand: what if your holy book, the Koran, or Qu’ran, or whatever, was “remixed”? And instead of the Surah about Mohammed flying to the dome of the rock on a donkey, or whatever happens, instead Mohammed was turned into a 110-bpm slow-burning balearic piano jam. And what if you totally liked it more than the original Koran, like maybe, all the Koran ever wanted to be was this super thick cough-syrup house with jungle sounds. Wouldn’t that be controversial, if that happened with Saint Etienne?

Well guess what: it did.

And it tore my church apart.

Saint Etienne – Only Love Can Break Your Heart (Richard X Remix)

Lindstrøm, circa yesterday

Do you you remember the first time you heard “I Feel Space,” and thought, “Gee, wouldn’t it be great if, instead of just referencing Moroder in a way some terrible critic will eventually describe as ‘cheeky,’ Lindstrøm would just straight-up make a Moroder album, but, like, the twenty-first century version?”

Ha! How young you were: because what you really meant was: “I wish Lindstrøm would make album after album of 10-minute-plus space-prog-disco jams influenced by a variety of Germans from the 1970s, and Vangelis.” And he granted that wish, because he heard you, inside his space igloo orbiting Oslo, where he entertains guests and uses marijuana freely, by making such albums as Lindstrøm and Pris Thomas and Where You Go I Go Too and Lindstrøm and Prins Thomas II, which is the second album he made with Prins Thomas, a frequent guest of the Oslo-orbiting space igloo.

And yet, if you did, in fact, say, “Where, and when, will I be able to hear Lindstrøm do Giorgio, instead of Vangelis, or Jan Hammer, or fucking Cluster?” you can be forgiven, because your question is answered: you can hear it in the comfort of your own home, on January 18, because he is releasing an album called Real Life Is No Cool with Christabelle, who, God knows why, used to be called Solale, and is probably actually Prins Thomas.

(You’ll notice that I’ve made the unbelievably sexist assumption that this is Lindstrøm’s album more than it is Christabelle’s. This is partly because I don’t know anything about Christabelle, and also because I am confused by my feelings for Lindstrøm in an exciting way, and how can I be sexist, if I am gay, or at least bi-curious?)

Now, I can already hear your disco-nerd boners sucking blood from your pot bellies as you get ready to yell at me: “This isn’t Moroder! This doesn’t sound anything like Moroder! Your blog is terrible!” All of which is true. I mean: it does sound like Moroder, in the same way that WYGIGT sounded like Vangelis, which means, sort of, in fits and starts, here and there. But the Moroder comparison is the way in to the record, for me; it’s how to start listening to it and thinking about it. Because, let’s be honest, you don’t put your name on a synth disco album with a female singer without paying tithes to Moroder and Donna Summer. Lindstrøm is doing his own thing here the way he’s always done his own thing, which is to take his favorite records (or what I assume are his favorite records) and reimagine them: what would this sound like if it were released in 2009? And also, if I made it sound like we just drank a lot of cough syrup in the studio?

As you can guess, the whole thing is fucking ridiculous. Every day I have a new favorite track; the missteps are few and far between. “Lovesick” sounds a little bit like that N.E.R.D. song “Lapdance” (LOL, obviously), but is mostly its own stuttering, stomping beast; “High and Low” is a radar-pinging slow jam with a smoking guitar solo; “Baby Can’t Stop” sounds like the funnest night out, ever. Truth is, I might like it more even than all those blunted synth jam sessions, and that’s saying a lot—I mean, the real truth is, there are a couple tracks on here as good as “I Feel Space”—and that says everything.

Lindstrøm & Christabelle – Lovesick

LOL I took a picture of a sunset with an instant camera, someone put me out of my misery

Oh my God y’all it’s been too long.

Blogging just runs in my blood, you feel me, and spending this much time away from the game is like being trampled by a horse who instead of having hooves has swords as feet. I bet most of you thought I was off doing some super-secret government shit, like converting the entire U.S. cabinet to Muslimry or murdering white babies for use in consommés, but the real deal is this: I went to Croatia, and then to Hungary, and then I spent three weeks living with my parents just illing.

Croatia! Have you ever been? Don’t tell anyone but it is awesome. It is sort of a secret, since everyone assumes that it is filled with murderous Slavs of various difficult-to-discern identities, like maybe Russia, but with more guns and unexploded mines. Well: everyone who assumes that is wrong (by the way, British people, I know you know about Croatia, and do you know why I know? Because there are literally thousands of you, pale and drunk, scattered across the coast, making Americans look like models of respect and restraint). Croatia, it turns out, is basically Italy, but without any boring culture that your Lonely Planet guide guilts you into seeing. Actually, it is more beautiful than Italy, because there are slightly fewer of those guys selling the weird dancing paper Mickey Mouse toys, and also because you can basically just give up pretending to speak in Italian because you took Spanish 201 in college. Seriously, guys, this place is like whoa.

I mean, people are all like, “Balearic music! Balearic islands!” or whatever, which is cool, I’m sure, except that this is like: Balearic squared. This is like, when you listen to Smith & Mudd, and you’re like, what does this remind me of, well, it reminds you of Croatia.

Budapest is not really anything like Croatia. Really what it is like is Paris, except not as loud, or large, and everyone speaks Hungarian, which is a hilarious made-up language with—I’m not joking here—three different versions of the letter “O.” I could tell you about the beautiful things I saw, or all the gyros I ate, except really the absolute and unquestionable highlight of my week there–of my whole trip–was the stuffed goose neck I ate at this little Jewish-Hungarian restaurant called Fülemüle. This is what it tasted like: damn.

So then I got home, and I was all, “I’m gonna get back to posting, cause my fans missed me,” and then instead I figured I would sit around and feel sorry for my underemployed self, which has worked out pretty well so far.

Anyway, the takeaway is this:

1) I’m looking for work (LOL, kill me), so if you know anyone who needs some writing done, email me: max@discohorror.com. I will literally write about anything, for money, so, you know. Please.

2) Or, Jesus, even a retail job, admin work, rentboy, whatever, in New York City. Bonus if you know about two jobs–I’m not the only unemployed person in my apartment (know any art world jobs? Design-y type things?).

3) Croatia is bad-ass. Budapest is ridiculous. We have a bunch of photos up here.

5) I have a ton of shit to give you over the next few days–including a track from a CD by an artist whose name rhymes with “Pindstrøm and Pristabelle”–but for now I’m just gonna leave you with a little Croatian ditty called “Vilo Moja” (pronounced “VEE-lo MOY-a”) by a group called Crikvenica (pronounced, um, with noises). This is an example of “Klapa” singing, where a bunch of Croatian dudes get together and get drunk and sing harmonies with each other while they play a mandolin, and I spent three hours one day listening to songs like this at a bar where this was the view:

LOL I took a picture of beer with my iPhone seriously someone kill me

Crikvenica – Vilo Moja

Are these "blackbelts" "cool"?

I am so confused, you guys, about, like, criticism, and what is “good” and what is “bad,” and also, what is “cool,” and “uncool.” When I was in high school, basically anything that my dad listened to, like Peter Gabriel and King Crimson was “uncool,” and “rap music” and “hardcore punk music” was “cool.” Then I started listening to “dance music,” which was “cool” because my “dad” didn’t “listen to it.” But then I discovered “Balearic music” and “Beardo Disco” which is not even a real kind of music, but is “cool” (because people with beards who live in Williamsburg listen to it), but, guys, it is basically composed of music that my dad listens to, like Peter Gabriel and King Crimson.

So basically what I have done up to this point is stop “judging” things or “having opinions,” because it seems like a waste of time, if ultimately I am going to just end up listening to whatever comes out on certain record labels, plus my dad’s CDs. This is easy, now that I live with my parents, and don’t ever go out, or talk to people, except on the internet.

But the thing is: I don’t actually like the Blackbelt Andersen CD very much. No, really. I have listened to it like, eight times now, and it’s kind of… boring. I mean, I don’t think I could hum any of the tracks to you. Or even, like, tell you what it sounds like (I think there are synths? Probably some kind of… drumbeat). And this makes me feel funny inside, like when I see a man naked. The whole point of the music I listen to is that it is totally boring! And inoffensive! I don’t really even like this “ironically.” I mean, I don’t dislike the album. I just… it’s just… what is going on. RIP my taste.

What I do like, though, is this remix that Blackbelt Andersen did of the Skanken track “Mental Overdrive.” I think it might also be “boring,” but it’s “boring” in a way that I can relate to. Or even dance to! I don’t know if I’ll every be able to figure out “what’s cool,” and probably, this is not “cool,” because it is, like, “deep house,” or something. But I still like it! And I think/hope that that’s “cool.”

UPDATE: YALL I ADDED THE JJ CALE VERSION IN ORDER TO BE ‘COMPLETE’–THANKS TO GROOVYPANDA FOR THE HEDZ UP

This is what I would wear if I hung out with A Mountain of One

Guys, when you’re lying awake at night, trying not to think about how your life is a crushing disappointment, do you ever wonder what it would be like to hang out with your favorite bands, like Nickelback, or A Mountain Of One? Sometimes I will write little “fanfics” in my head, about meeting up with famous musicians, and then maybe act out small plays, alone, in my room, where I play all the parts, sometimes in costume.

I bet if you “kicked it” with A Mountain Of One, you would probably start calling them “A Mountain Of Fun,” because they would be fun, to hang out with. First of all, based on the YouTube videos I can find, there seem to be about sixty people in this band, including some women:

This means that hanging out with them is kind of like being in a gang, but less dangerous, probably, and you don’t have to only wear one color. Secondly, as you can see in the video above, the band plays acoustic guitar, which means they definitely smoke pot. Probably, they would even let you smoke some of their pot. Thirdly, if you listen to their songs, they are definitely “deep thinkers,” so you could probably have some really great conversations, about how, like, society is just an illusion, and how we should tear down all prisons, and also, how great does, like, your hair, feel.

So, in summary, A Mountain Of “Fun” is probably the best band to hang out with, besides Amy Winehouse. I am even more convinced of this due to this excellent “Rework” (that’s British slang for “Remix”) of the world-famous Dr. Hook song “Clyde,” called “Bonnie and Clyde.” The song is a “Ballad,” which is a kind of song that tells a story, about a man named Clyde, who plays “electric bass,” which is a four-stringed guitar, and probably does some other things. It has a “stomping riff,” including a bass line that plays at least two different notes, or possibly the same note, at two different octaves (the Dr. Hook version is its self a cover of a JJ Cale song, though note that JJ Cale is not a doctor, and Dr. Hook is.)

It rules.

JJ Cale – Clyde

Dr. Hook – Clyde

A Mountain of One – Bonnie and Clyde

I am puzzled: what is a “Spaghetti Circus”? Is it a “gay thing”? Is it the name of an “underrated” late-70s Italian disco DJ? Is it “drug slang”? Is it a super-exclusive party that James Murphy throws on alternate Wednesdays in Bushwick? Is it just “nonsense”? Guys: how can I listen to this song if I have no clue what it means? For example, what if I put it on a mixtape for one of my best bros and it turns out to mean that I want to do him, in the butt (there is a dude singing on this song, so it is probably about gay “sex”).

The fact is, a lot of nu-disco acts have names that are really difficult to understand. It used to be that DFA would put out a song, and you’d know exactly what it meant: “Daft Punk Is Playing at My House” is a “fanfic” song about James Murphy illing with Daft Punk, in his garage. “Losing My Edge” is about the time James Murphy lost his edge. But then the label went into its “Revolver” period, and now nothing makes sense—what is “The Sounds of Silver”? James Murphy: silver doesn’t have a sound. Now they have a band called “Shit Robot,” which is a curse, and this band, “Shit Robot,” have a song called, “Simple Things (Work It Out),” which is just a bunch of words, like, in a row. More like “Complicated Song Titles (Work Them Out),” am I right??

For this reason, I recommend you never download this song or listen to it. Even if you “get” the title. Sure, it is a dance song with pianos, which is basically the best kind of dance song, and probably babes will ask to dance with you if you play it. But what if they’re only asking you to dance because they think you’ll serve them spaghetti in some kind of, like, circus setting? Socializing is hard.

This is a horse named "Montée"

Well, folks, it looks like our #1 competitor in the music-bloggin’ world, the less-well-known PitchforkMedia.com (more like Shit-Fork-Dot-Gay), is spending the week revealing their exclusive list of the top six hundred MP3s downloaded by Stereogum readers, or something (ha ha, that’s obviously a joke, since this list involves rap, and as we all know, Stereogum racists/commenters hate rap). We weren’t invited to contribute, which in my opinion is a huge oversight, but you can’t really blame them for being intimidated by our writing prowess and influence in the blog-o-sphere, plus, we’re well-known as serious critics, bloggists and writers and I’m pretty sure their list is a joke, since it contains tracks by the Decemberists and a band called “The Pains of Being Pure At Heart,” which is almost definitely made-up, because what kind of person would name a band that, or even utter that as a phrase, ever.

In any event, I was probably not asked to contribute because I would have just voted for the Subway “Five Dollar Footlongs” song ten times. And probably whatever I had been listening to that weekend (which is usually just “Five Dollar Footlongs,” over and over, and over)—in this case, a ridiculous album called “Isle of Now” by a bunch of Scando fucks—the LP was recorded and mastered by half of Mungolian Jet Set and it’s being put out on Lindstrøm and Joakim Hoagland’s new label, Strømland. “Isle of Now” is like a lost 80s AOR masterpiece—there’s a little bit of Phil, a little bit of Peter, maybe even some Dan—and it sounds fucking fantastic, wide-screen and full-bodied, with jazzy pop hooks by the thousand and robotically good playing.

The fact is, I don’t really have any jokes to make about this album, not because the album is a joke (though I can see how people might think that), but because it seems to exist in this weird Norwegian no-irony zone, beyond any concept of “cool” vs. “uncool” or “sincere” vs. “sarcastic.” This isn’t TV-On-The-Radio-style Gabriel re-appropriation or Vampire-Weekend-style DIY-80-Africa; it’s straight-up Toto ripoffs and “world drums.” As far as I can tell, the lens through which these guys are checking out their favorite 80s Fleetwood Mac albums is pure, unvarnished, love. And, you know, I think that’s pretty rad.

Astute readers of this blog, all four of them, have probably noticed that I don’t actually ever write about “music” in this blog, instead writing about “myself” and “how hot it is outside” and “fanfic about Sting” and then “posting an MP3″ and “lying to myself about how many people actually care.” This is partly because I am endlessly fascinated with myself and my experiences, and not so much with “music,” but it’s also because I don’t really bring anything to the table in the whole “music” department.

The truth is: I don’t know shit about shit. I took piano lessons in middle school, and can play nearly every key on the piano, and probably name nine or ten notes, including G-sharp and F-sharp, but I’m not really much of an expert. Sadly, just a few years ago I was going to Decembrists concerts, and (please don’t tell anyone) registering the domain name http://ibombatomically.com so I could write about “conscious” “hip” “hop.” So if you’re looking for in-depth analysis of house music or a complete list of disco references in the new Map of Africa CD, you should probably talk to someone who isn’t just listening to whatever music his parents hate the most.

But: besides the obviously great things about blogs, such as all the free sex, and having everyone recognize me, everywhere I go, there is a great thing about blogs: I don’t really need to have any clue what I am talking about. The even better thing is: no one actually reads these posts. I feel pretty confident that the half-dozen vultures that read this website with any kind of regularity mostly just download the MP3s I link to. Which is pretty sad, at first, until you realize it gives you this tiny amount of unlimited power to just say whatever you want. It’s like being the 3 a.m. DJ, or Glen Beck: whatever comes out of your mouth counts.

So: here’s another MP3–House of House’s remix of A Mountain of One’s “Bones.” I think this is “Deep House?” Or maybe “Dubstep”? Ha! Frankly, I am going to call it “UK Garage!” Because: who cares?!