Orange Juice – Rip It Up

Oh my, yes!

Update 2/25/09 2:25 p.m.:

WTF?!: Just heard this song playing in Barnes ‘n’ Noble, at which store one normally does not hear “Rip it Up” by Orange Juice. I believe that I called this bold new reality into being with my blog post.

]]> http://doomspirals.wordpress.com/2009/09/25/fave-trax-rip-it-up/feed/ 1 doomspirals ripituporangejuice http://doomspirals.wordpress.com/2009/08/30/machiavellihank-williams-sr/ http://doomspirals.wordpress.com/2009/08/30/machiavellihank-williams-sr/#comments Sun, 30 Aug 2009 20:17:41 +0000 doomspirals http://doomspirals.wordpress.com/?p=666 ]]>

Snippet from The Washington Independent:

On Aug. 20, thousands of people — 1,700 have already committed — are being encouraged to donate to the younger Paul’s campaign in a “moneybomb” modeled after the single-day events that raised $5 million and $6 million for his father during the 2008 campaign.

Ladies and gentlemen, Sasha Frere-Jones:

An unadorned style has served Cohen’s albums best, the voice clean and clearly audible. In 1977, for the album “Death of a Ladies’ Man,” Cohen’s uneasy collaboration with the producer Phil Spector—who excluded him from the final mixing sessions—resulted in a dreadful mix of pop, country, and some weird variant of disco. (Cohen later called it “grotesque.”)

I can only assume that “weird variant of disco” refers to this song. A turd for the argument.

Remember when everyone got mad at me for asking why meat-eaters could be so upset about the Michael Vick dog-fighting mess? Well, two professional writers have the same stupid debate in today’s newspaper; not very interesting, except for this value judgment:

At the same time, though, I’m a [sic] unapologetic species-ist: I reject Peter Singer and all his works, I think that the value of animal lives is contingent and the value of human lives absolute, and I would leave a thousand pigs to die in conditions of absolute misery to save a single human infant.

What a bold hypothetical! One thousand pigs? Are you sure? I would say that a single human infant is only worth 100 tortured pigs.

The new waxpoetics is The Brazil Issue, and you are love it. There is a wonderful interview with everyone’s favorite Minister of Culture, Gilberto Gil, whose latest album, btw, is called Banda Larga Cordel (“Cordel Broadband”) and who has posted all of his albums on his website for the benefit of humanity. The interview holds some nice gems, including this smile-maker:

…and then I went to Africa, in ‘77, when we were invited for a big Blackarts festival in Nigeria, FESTAC. I stayed one whole month in Lagos, and I used to go every two or three days to Fela’s Shrine. And I met Stevie Wonder at the Shrine.

Q: Did you jam?

Yes!

Ha, if I had a specific object for every time I was kicking the international bon vivant lifestyle in post-independence Lagos and jammed with Stevie Wonder at Felat Kuti’s compound I would not have any specific objects originating  from the if-then statement I just mentioned.

p.s. Ravachol Brown: Did we know that Gil was arrested in ‘68 by the military government of Brazil for performing “Questau de Ordem” (“Question of Order”), his song about the Paris student uprisings? Caetano Velosa was also arrested for his tune “E Probido Proibir” (“It’s Forbidden to Forbid”). The pair were eventually exiled to London where they were forced to hang out with Charlie Watts, Miles Davis and Jimi Hendrix. LOL, at least I have my windowless desk job!

In the current issue of London Review of Books there is a poem (“Istanbul”) by Friederick Seidel with various ludicrous-amusing rhyme schemes, such as the ABAB of “From Claridge’s and London I have come / To the holy city of Byzantium / To see Ayasofya. / I see the Blue Mosque and I see a / …”. Then, tucked into the issue’s rear pages, is a rather fawning review of Seidel’s oeuvre by some young whippersnapper who likes rather too much to quote all the nasty bits (e.g. “The smell of sperm on the edge of the axe”). Well, whatever, a large swath of Siedel’s egg is nasty bits (e.g. “The smell of sperm on the edge of the axe”), but then the reviewer gives us this ludicrous-unamusing pronouncement:

Seidel, despite all his rage, is just one more rat in a cage.

Melancholy and my infinite sadness indeed!

Now you may say, Hey, cut the author some benefit, maybe his style is on the next level. Then I’d respond to you with a run-on sentence, saying, No, we know badman has poor taste because he also remarks that the new volume of collected works is ugly (“garish”) when in fact it is decidedly solid looking, and when I say decidedly I mean decided on Baby Tristan’s birthday when he awoke to find a siamese dream twin pairing of copies given to hims by his stylish girlfriend and taste-having sister, and he in turn and in kindness gave the redundant copy to his friend I, so are you, badman, looking into my gift’s mouth? Well I beg your pardon.