Oh, Madonna. Two consecutive dud singles in a row is so not you. For time immemorial her second singles have been at least as good as their predecessors. The sugar-free gum of Hard Candy broke the streak. With “Girls Gone Wild” she’s still in the slough. I can’t put it better than Katherine St Asaph:
Even if you discount the fact that the Girls Gone Wild franchise that coined the meme is possibly the worst thing ever, even if you discount the fact that it’s cheap titillation, this is still a conceit that Madonna addressed and demolished decades ago. Madonna has been in the game since 1983. She practically invented the game, as it currently exists for pop artists. There are literally academic programs based on her career and its messages. Madonna has no business singing things like “good girls don’t misbehave, but I’m a bad girl anyway,” not because women shouldn’t sing about sex and definitely not because older women shouldn’t (I can already picture the YouTube comments and snarking squawking heads, and they make me want to yank my brains out through my forehead), but because she’s been past this since she devised her persona. It’s like a groundbreaking female artist deciding to finger-paint Tijuana bibles of herself for no reason except that’s what the market wants, and y’know, it’s not so bad, it’s easy work. The other part of the chorus is hitched to “girls just wanna have some fun,” a sentiment that required Cyndi Lauper’s doctoring to charge its girl power in the first place. Madonna shouldn’t have to borrow from Cyndi Lauper. And she definitely shouldn’t have to borrow from the very cliche construction of sexuality that she’s both teased and stomped to death.
Or, self-cannibalization will nourish you if you don’t munch on your endocrine glands, heart, and brain.
Now that The Artist has joined the pantheon of bores, Glenn Kenny tries to destroy a popular canard:
I understand that everyone’s kind of sick of yammering on about the relative assets and liabilities of The Artist, but I have to admit that one not-unpleasant sidebar of all the yammering is that Singin’ in the Rain tends to get brought up a lot. And if there’s one thing I enjoy thinking about, it’s the 1952 film co-directed by Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen and scripted by Betty Comden and Adolph Green.
However. What is actually kind of weird, if not actually unpleasant, about this sidebar is that, aside from one single solitary thematic point of comparison, I’m largely convinced that the two films have, if you’ll pardon the vulgar turn of phrase, sweet fuckall to do with each other…
After all—I’ve heard the argument go—Singin‘ itself depicts silent-film acting as broad, exaggerated, hammy, and the makers of the films as ego-and-revenue obsessive near-hacks, not artists. This is in fact largely the case, and so what. There’s a big aspect to Singin’ in the Rain that partakes of self-parody, which is somewhat distinct from pastiche. Comden and Green, we may recall, got their start in at least semi-satirical sketch comedy; they, with Judy Holliday and Leonard Bernstein and others, were founders of The Revuers, a troupe that sent up the show biz of their day and before, in a tradition that was followed by outfits as diverse as the SCTVers and the creators of Forbidden Broadway. That is to say, the mockery of tradition/convention was entirely within the bounds of another, not unrelated tradition/convention. While the movie has a great deal of fun not just with silent cinema tropes but also the technical difficulties involved with the transition to sound, it also (unselfconsciously) situates itself within a particular continuum. Most of the comic stylings provided by the almost-literally-born-in-a-trunk former vaudvillean Donald O’Connor in the Kelly/Donen film would not be at all out of place in any non-talking Sennett or Roach short. The joking on silent cinema in Singin’ in the Rain is “inside” in the very best sense of the term, while the condition of The Artist is one of near-complete alienation from silent cinema.
The Artist boasts no lunacy comparable to one of Donald O’Connor’s muggings.
Barry Walters on Bob Mould’s greatest record, which Mould played at a recent gig its entirety:
Although its critical standing is dwarfed by Hüsker classics like Zen Arcade and New Day Rising, Copper Blue is actually the album where everything came together for this guitarist. It’s his own Nevermind; there’s never a moment where the songwriting or musicianship falters, and its vivid production mirrors his authorial voice. Sequenced with the narrative and musical arc of a symphony, Copper Blue builds, peaks, plateaus, and subsides via its creator’s command of ’60s AM radio pop, ’70s classic rock, ’80s hardcore, and early ’90s grunge. Just like Nirvana’s milestone, it’s not a happy record; all the Mould motifs like romantic apprehension and violence and loss are there in full force. But Mould looks back on it fondly because everyone from his bandmates to his record company to the culture at large supported him in a way that he didn’t get during the alcoholic childhood and mutually abusive Hüsker years unsparingly documented in last year’s autobiography, See a Little Light. And because he’s done the right kind of growing up since its inception, he could now present Copper Blue with tough, hard-won love.
When Sugar released Copper Blue in the fall of ’92 the reception at college radio amounted to an outpouring of love. The album, along with Automatic For the People and, er, David Byrne’s Uh Oh, were the soundtrack to my first semester in college. “Helpless,” of course, but also “Changes,” “The Act We Act,” and the gonzo keyboard solo in “Hoover Dam.” What’s remarkable is how Mould uses his newfound craftsmanship in the way an artist is supposed to: as muscle and brains, finding forms in which to redress a lifetime of anger.
If I had my druthers I’d buy every one who wanted Shoot Out the Lights and Blood on the Tracks a copy of Womack and Womack’s Love Wars instead.
Let me risk mixing metaphors: the quiet erosion of Nicki Minaj’s Jukebox support and stopping the bleeding from the latest embarrassments in the Chris Brown-Rihanna farrago. But as the scores indicate, this is by far the the strongest, most erratic Jukebox week of the year (hi, Cassie!).
All scores based on a ten-point scale. Click on link for full review.
Cassie – King of Hearts (7)
St. Vincent – Cheerleader (6)
Melanie Fiona – 4 AM (5)
Andrea Balency Trio – Lover (5)
Charli XCX – Valentine (5)
Chris Brown ft. Rihanna – Turn Up the Music (Remix) (4)
Brianna Perry – Marilyn Monroe (4)
Capsule – Step on the Floor (4)
Brandy & Monica – It All Belongs to Me (3)
Lil Chuckee – Wop (3)
Nicki Minaj – Starships (3)
fun. ft. Janelle Monáe – We Are Young (3)
Rihanna ft. Chris Brown – Birthday Cake (Remix) (2)
No solo album of Morrissey’s infuriates me like Viva Hate. Fab singles, a spectacular B-side that everyone (rightly) assumes was an A-lister (“Hairdresser on Fire”), marvelous slowburn album tracks (“The Ordinary Boys,” “Break Up the Family”), aptly named, endless epic that does for self-pity what George Harrison did for Krishna in 1973 (“Late Night, Maudlin Street”), compressed production that turns the guitars into ice squeezed through a cheese grater (“I Don’t Mind If You Forget Me,” “Alsatian Cousin”). Still, it’s hard to think of an album whose virtues remind me of a solid B-sides collection instead of a Proper Album — a delicious idea since Morrissey’s first proper B-side collection Bona Drag sounds like a proper album.
Co-writer, producer, bassist, and rhythm guitarist Stephen Street’s latest interview is illuminating. I’ll dedicate this post to the long-lost friend in whose room we spent a quarter of an hour with a thimbleful of smuggled brandy listening to “The Ordinary Boys” and “Break Up The Family” before the start of our last year of high school.
Apprehending Mr. M does not take a genius, nor does it take an English degree, nor does it take 180-gram vinyl and an $800 Scandinavian turntable with counterweights made out of rare geodes. What it does take, I think, is patience. I like tarted-up, throat-grabbing music as much as the next frantically inattentive twentysomething. I also find a deep satisfaction in Lambchop’s subtlety, which never makes the mistake of thinking that being high-minded or instructive will get us over to their weird team. Nobody, not even the most depraved among us, needs to be slapped on the wrist in order to see beauty. And still, despite Wagner’s protests that he doesn’t know what the fuck they talk about, Mr. M sounds aware of itself as an argument– an argument for the kind of patience the music on it demands.
Wagner’s voice is the center to Lambchop’s fascinating, ornery riddle. By this point, he has acquired the intelligent stink of a veteran character actor, able to summon an entire worldview in a single squint. His singing voice is wildly variable, and it contains a lot of peculiar notes: throaty and possibly lovely, it emerges in little trembling honks, as it if were passing through a goose’s throat. He sounds a little choked up, a man giving a speech at his daughter’s wedding day. Conversational, a man looking you evenly in the eye and informing you that you are a prick. A man mocking emotion, a man overcome with it: he might be either.
Too often good albums inspire bad writing, lots of it. Not the case this time. this album teaches us how to listen to it as it plays. It’s taken a while for me to embrace these intelligent songs because Wagner’s voice is a stumbling block. A block — not the only one. Most of these tracks drift — I mean this literally — past the five-minute mark (The National studied Lambchop’s tone like Alexander Hamilton did Hobbes). I’ve less reluctant now – I haven’t stopped playing the thing since January.