we beat beat (everywhere yer yer yer)
on a majestic and receding beat... elastic torn horn disto-guitar fadeaway club from Lil C, the producer behind Young Dro's Shoulder Lean, whose video got screwed and chopped by a teen named DJ Kaleon, among others. Minutes 4 through 5 are particularly reverse Ikea. The video s&c treatment amplifies the song's intrinsic strangeness. What happens to major label cinematogrammar when it talks with a stutter and drawl? One thing in pop that makes it pop is its take on time, tidy, the stage-managed narrative: the show must go on. The show mustn't slow. The uncanny makes you wait. And. Wait.like this Fensler G.I. Joe public service announcement hack. Or, even odder, this one. Most hilarious Fensler video-remixes use overdubbed audio as primary decomposition tool, but the ones where time gets stretched hold a special, um, charm. Seagulls' cries, stare and murmur.
here's some stuff to help download video from places like YouTube.
Joe Ruckus blogs. Reorienting dubsteppa past towards displaced roots classics, a smart move. Vampires.
Did somebody say roots? Brazilian mp3blog but you hardly notice -- the international patois of rip&download shorthands formal tongues.
Goth Trad's most obvious talent is the way his post drum&bass twists up rave structures. It exudes confidence. When programmers get good enough they can go meta and make it look easy. Even the lazy acolyes know that Dubstep creed upholds patience as a virtue nearly as sacred as restraint, so Goth Trad's respectful take on the genre is just that: "Japanese" dubstep by the books or better than them (orientalist strings and pistol cock samples gone discreet, feathery under reverb). As a result it has less internal playfulness (or speed) than the rest of his Mad Ravers Dance Floor album. I don't know how you buy it. I got it from someone who went there.
I had somehow contrived to get to the west coast before the truck with all my furniture and comfort infrastructure, so my girlfriend and I spent the first few weeks of our new existence living like mildly discomfited squatters, sleeping on a too-small futon, not enough underwear, eating the same take-out over and over. (The grub choices downtown after dark are fairly constrained.) We in no way imagined that our situation bore any relationship to what the displaced survivors of the hurricane were going through, but we did wonder if some new regime had somehow been instituted, some line in history crossed where diminishment and deprivation would increasingly be the norm. What if there is an earthquake we wondered? A dirty bomb in a truck? What if it happens before my books and my telescope and my tools get here? Before I can imagine taping the windows up and putting towels under the door and making a brave face forthe Lady and saying, well. At least we can catch up on our reading. We had the feeling that something like the loss of an entire city must by definition permanently re-order the basic facts of life for everyone, and the feeling felt incontrovertible for a few weeks, inevitable, world historical. And then the truck arrived. The first thing I did was break out my drill so I could build a flight of vaguely cubist stairs to get us up to our loft bed as easily as possible. I moved the good TV so that I could watch it while I was working. When I was done all I could think was that the stairs look nice and that it really is true that there is no meaningful outrage to be had among the comfortable.