The Answer That You Want

This song is downright catchy, but everything about it makes me all wut-wut-wut?

Eons ago, I used to go to the tanning salon every day. If I am ever diagnosed with a fatal illness, I’ll be back there every day until I go tits-up. Anyway, when you’re lying in a tanning bed, you listen to music the salon pipes in and most of it is pure corporate crap, indistinguishable from anything you hear a zillion times in the checkout line at Target. Which you’re currently boycotting because they support anti-gay political candidates. But you know what I mean, so: emotionally frilly and melodically ostentatious nonsense with no artistic core. It’s not music, it’s money. You know it when you hear it and I heard a lot of it while I sizzled contentedly in the tanning bed. I simply couldn’t believe a person would subject him- or herself to that without feeling like he or she had eaten a bag of white sugar. This brings us to Coheed and Cambria’s Blood Red Summer. I found this tucked into a gritty and energetic playlist on Altrok Radio, and I was puzzled to hear what sounded like a tanning salon/beach music-like product. You know what I’m talking about: that song that plays on the radio at the beach you wouldn’t tolerate for a second once you’ve kicked off your flipflops in September, but you’re so goddamn happy in the sunshine you think, Ahhhh, what the hell. Once you’ve let that song into your consciousness it will always mean goddamn beach sunshine happiness to you and now you’re stuck feeling wistful about a shitty song. That sucks. I guard against it by plugging my ears whenever I hear Kelly Carlson’s overproduced warblings, lest I be stuck with that mental image. So imagine my surprise when not only aren’t Coheed and Cambria bikini-clad spokesmodels, but they’re not women and they’re not smiling.

Now that is interesting.

Who Just Crumbles And Burns

Topaz is curled up in my lap. She and Drusy came to live with me a little over four years ago now. It’s been about sixteen months since prickly Topaz threw caution to the wind and climbed into my lap to cuddle. After awhile, it’s time to get over what was, what we did, who we might have been. If Topaz can, I can, too. Today, I looked up the video for Fake Plastic Trees, which I’ve never seen.

For fifteen years, the memory of this and and depression were enough to turn me inside, but not today. I waited for a feeling of familiar devastation that didn’t come. Waited. Waited. Nothing! Then I felt stupid for expecting to feel small and broken.

Well, whaddya know: I might be over it. Whaddoo I do now? If I am free, this is a new life.

Sing It Sing It Sing It

I love this with my whole black heart.

Visually, the business of great awkwardness tipping over into solid cool underscores every great story you’ve ever heard and is put to good use here. Watch the drummers and consider the metronome. Also: what the dancers are doing is wildly unlikely at that tempo. Awesome.

You Come To Me

I love this song. It’s catchy and full of all-purpose angst. The lyrics are unintelligible. It has really good dramatic development. And then there’s this video, which provides proof that your friends shouldn’t edit your videos.

While watching that I remembered a rule about choreography: dance to the music, not the words. As an artist, I have absolutely danced to words. But this…no. This video does not succeed. I would like to see a lot more like this:

Proof that your band exists in real space and that you can play your instruments seems like the least an audience might ask.