Worth The Wait

Okay boys and girls. Today we're going to talk about Nirvana. Specifically the music recorded closest to the demise of the band. 

Obviously there has already been a great deal written about this band and the impact they had on youth culture in the early 90s. Amazingly the farther we get from their cessation the more it could be assumed they never really existed. As I write this it becomes immediately apparent how much the world has changed in the twenty (!) years since they've come and gone. Since the demise of Nirvana we've had: The rise of the internet, September 11th, the proliferation of Napster/filesharing/bittorrents, the resurgence and dominance of Apple and the complete overhaul of the musical landscape. All of this piles on top of the rapid-pace, ADHD-non-stop mass media world we live in and an increasingly jaded and judgmental youth culture. I sound old, don't I? 

Point is, Nirvana just doesn't matter anymore. They probably stopped mattering shortly after Kurt Cobain's death, to be perfectly frank. Regardless, I had a major jones for this band when I was 14 and just like my previously written piece on the Smashing Pumpkins, I still get secret delight from listening to the very dated and increasingly diluted sound they created. The hard part about loving a band that stopped existing as soon as you've heard of them, no matter how massively popular they might have once been, is the dearth of material. Which brings me to the real crux of today's piece. 

I had feverishly and obsessively consumed, analyzed and loved everything the band had recorded during my teens. From the sludge of their debut album Bleach on Sub Pop records, to the super slick Frampton-Comes-Alive ubiquitous Nevermind, to the creative high-water mark capstone that is In Utero. Along with their proper cannon were the miscellanea I hunted down - the underrated Incesticide and the rarer Maxi Singles collection. When compiled together I found I had a pretty complete collection of what they recorded - the albums, b-sides, live material (including the beautiful and chilling Unplugged in New York album) and demos from early sessions. However this was all accomplished before the massive spread of online distribution - napster wasn't up and running and my modem was under the strain of a single jpg, let alone a whole bootleg. Rural Wisconsin is no friendly place for obscure pressings of dubious repute.

Imagine my torment, then, when I read online about even more elusive, whispered about songs that had been recorded in the months leading up to Cobain's death in April of 1994 that hadn't even seen th light of day on any fansite or concert bootleg. Sure, I'd managed to track down the weird and bizarre tracks like "Curmudgeon" or the version of "Been A Son" recorded with Butch Vig at his Wisconsin (!) based Smart Studios, but there were (alleged) songs tracked to completion before Cobain went off the proverbial deep-end that were rumored to have been indicative of a new sound. From what chatter you could find online in the mid to late 90s, these songs weren't just your average b-side crud or scratch take, but full on studio versions of unreleased material. Holding the reins on said material, blocking its release? Your friend and mine, Courtney Love. 

Yeah.

So the years pass, I grow up, my tastes mature and diversify (I would argue) and I go on with my life.

I moved on, just as I had complained the world had.

At some point, things changed.

Then something was leaked that created a buzz. Maybe I was distracted or I didn't keep my ear to the ground.

But headlines on the web started to make noise about a new Nirvana track, recorded in the January of 1994, after In Utero had been released to mixed reception. At this point I was in college and had access to better internet speeds and a program of dubious legal standing. So I found myself in my dorm room with headphones on, anxiously downloading a song called "You Know You're Right" that I'd read about almost a decade earlier. When I clicked 'play', the effect was chilling. It was like hearing a ghost singing to me. Here was a finished product, recorded and mixed and put on a shelf. A brand new song, long after his death. My mind struggled to handle the magnitude. To me this was bigger and better than the Beatles finishing 'Free As A Bird'. 

My story goes farther, though. Towards the end of my college tenure I began dating the love of my life. At the end of our junior year I flew to Boulder to help her move some things back home. My better half, being the loving, kind and all too generous person she is, rewarded my efforts with a gift. Once again I was caught unaware. At some point the estate of Kurt Cobain (this time involving his bandmates, which I assume had a nullifying affect on Courtney Love) deemed fit to release an entire BOX SET of unreleased material. Said treasure trove was my gift.

My mind reeled at the bounty.

While it was a revelatory experience to sift through the awesome and mundane, the masses of unheard bits and pieces, there was one shining bit of treasure in the box. A simple, straight forward pop song by Kurt, recorded at his home on a boom box. It was just him and a shoddy acoustic guitar, strumming and weakly singing another song that had been spoken of in hushed tones a decade earlier. The title, whether he intended it to be or not (Love claims she saw it scribbled on a napkin), was 'Do Re Mi'. From what has been ascertained, the song may have been recorded just ten days before his death. It breaks my heart to hear it now, still, as it serves as a wonderful yet tragic reminder of what could have been. Yes, he was filled with anger and bluster, but Cobain could craft excellent pop songs that made you forget about his anguished howling. This was it - the last gem of his lifetime, clunking out of the jewelry box onto the floor for the listener to hear, instead of being polished for proper appreciation. It makes me more than a little triste to know there are no more hidden wonders, that the vault has been emptied, so to speak. Regardless, I am still thankful to have these rare glimpses into the amazing craft Cobain possessed. Gone, but not forgotten.

Bookworm

In an attempt to get back into the normal routine I thought I would write a favorite book of mine, A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore. Published in 2006, the book was a gift that exposed me to the hilarious and twisted worlds and characters Mr. Moore creates in order to tell his stories. 

Christopher Moore has been plugging away for years, slowly building a devoted fan base that is capable of making his works known on the bestsellers lists, yet I so rarely hear of anyone else enjoying his work, which seems criminal in my mind. He is simply too talented and warped not to have garnered more mainstream acclaim, yet here I am, writing as though he's an undiscovered gem. Perhaps this is due more to the (supposed) decline of book-devouring in my generation and younger, or maybe I just don't go to book clubs or share my reading interests with enough people. I have, however, seen the occasional fellow bus patron apparently enjoying other books of his, so I know he is at least marginally renowned. Alas, here I am, prattling on about an author you must know about and feeling unsure of whether or not I'm peddling a well-known commodity. 

Regardless - A Dirty Job!

The story revolves around Charlie Asher, one of many of Moore's 'Beta-males' who go through life worrying about every minute detail possible. A devoted, if  slightly neurotic, husband, Charlie loses his wife as she gives birth to their first child and is left to deal with his loss as he learns to be a father. Pressing on with his life and burgeoning fatherhood, he throws himself into the routine of running his second-hand store in San Francisco and finds himself, through a twist of fate I won't divulge here, becoming a harbinger of Death. Not in the sense of cloak and scythe, mind you, but as a soul collector whose karmic duty is to harvest a 'soul object' from those who are nearly or recently deceased, so that it might be imparted to the soul's next host or incarnation via his store's customers. It's a fairly novel twist on the idea of protagonists not only doing Death's job, but on the operation of Karma or Wheel of Reincarnation. Interestingly Moore displays a depth of knowledge throughout the book in regards to various cultures take on death and loss, from witty observances of the comforting nature of deli trays at funerals to the universality of themes of reincarnation and learning from past experiences. Clearly Moore is an author who puts a great deal of thought and research into each of his novels. 

Charlie's duty as a soul-collector is not one without bumps in the road, however. There is a looming shadow on the horizon, literally and figuratively, and his uneven success at his new job begins to manifest in the resurgence of some nefarious forces that would love nothing more than to destroy the world. His baby girl also starts to display new and unusual behavior, and Charlie begins to suspect she may be the reincarnation of the Grim Reaper himself, complete with oversized Hell Hounds as guard dogs. Through his own growing sense of confidence and purpose Charlie fights back against the forces of darkness and journeys under the streets of San Francisco to face this evil head on, Hell Hounds in tow. While I won't spoil the ending, I will say that it was both enjoyable and well-written, if only a tad predictable. Lessons are learned, characters are struck down on both sides and a clear victor emerges. An excellent read all around.

Moore stands out in the literary community not only for his unusual ideas but for his sense of humor and ability to create sight gags with the written word. I recall vividly thinking, the first time I read this book, that it was the first time I had actually laughed out loud, not just a smirk or chortle, but genuine, honest to God laughter, sitting alone in my apartment. Everything from sly puns and clever wordplay to absurd physical comedy that rarely if ever comes across as contrived, Moore displays a natural ability to channel his sense of humor onto the page. His characters are genuine and relatable, as well, despite the fantastical nature of the plot. The reader is able to identify with and become attached to the people he's filled his world with. 

A Dirty Job was my first foray into the wonderful and weird world of Christopher Moore. I've absolutely savored his back catalogue and plan on writing up his other novels in the future. The more I read of his work, the more I appreciated his style (mon dieux I promise that pun is, in no way, intentional). You can find his books here, along with his online presence and devoted following. If you read any fiction at all, do yourself a favor and check out A Dirty Job. 

Monsters!

Double post extravaganza!


Like I wrote last night, this second post for the day serves as penance for not getting in any proper writing yesterday. Having already written about the love that is Calvin & Hobbes, I thought I'd put up a short piece about the excellent indie film Monsters. Shot in 2009 in parts of Mexico, South America and southern Texas for just over half of a million dollars, the film was given a limited release and received generally favorable reviews. 


I stumbled across the film last year while perusing the renowned science and tech blog io9. They had a series of articles detailing how Monsters was filmed with as much of a natural feel as possible, with the locations and extras all being whatever happened and where the director would guide the film - everything was basically found and fairly DIY. All of the extras were local people who simply agreed to improvise their scenes. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The premise for the movie is that life is discovered on one of Jupiter's moons and probes sent to analyze it unintentionally bring it back when they return to Earth, crashing in the desert of the Tex/Mex border. The lifeforms grow and spread, despite the intervention of the pertinent governments and the entire area is quarantined as infected and therefor, uninhabitable. The protagonist is tasked with returning a media mogul's daughter to her home in America and, due to extenuating circumstances, have to cross the infected zone. 


What gives the film a breath of fresh air in the sea of mediocrity that is current science fiction is that it relies on the unseen and creating tension through atmosphere rather than bombast and spectacle. It is a quiet and tense, understated film that lets scenes play out in their natural progression rather than rushing the story from one plot point to the next. It is a bit of a road movie, but one that effectively creates tension through the unseen and unknown, which is a refreshingly novel take on a monster movie. The aliens, when glimpsed, are genuinely scary and mesmerizing as a result. The effect is not unlike when Spielberg had to keep Jaws out of the frame for most of the movie, or how Ridley Scott never gave a solid look directly at his alien in one of my favorite movies, Alien. It boils down to quality story telling, the old trick of Show, Don't Tell. 


What I had gotten prematurely started on above was the fact that Monsters was made for a pittance of what a movie of this ilk would normally require. All shots were on location as found, locals provided genuine characters and the special effects, as impressive as they are, were created solely using consumer-level programs and software. No racks of processors and rendering farms with Lucas Arts - just the director and his computer, locked away, editing and slowly going mad. It is indicative of the personal nature of the movie and the passion that went into it. Where many movies would end up just looking lifeless and flat (particularly in this genre), Monsters looks and feels fantastically real and as a result draws in the viewer in a way that is so often lacking these days.

I can't help but be reminded of the recent and highly innovative District 9 when viewing this movie. Both were done on relatively meager budgets (though Monsters was even more restrictive) and both deal with pervasive, human issues through alien allegories. Already out on iTunes, I would highly recommend checking this quiet but innovative movie out. Take a look at the trailer here and see for yourself.


Tomorrow - back on a normal schedule!

The Days Are Just Packed

Good afternoon!

After giving a truncated update yesterday I wanted to take the holiday to post two pieces today. Le premier piece continues from yesterday's segue, namely the genius and sorely missed Calvin and Hobbes.

The creation of the talented and reclusive Bill Watterson, the strip ran in national papers from 1985 - 1995 and featured six year old Calvin (no last name given) and his life with the stuffed but lively tiger Hobbes. It was the rare jewel of the comics section that was at times sweet, goofy, insightful, mischievous and philosophical. For a taste of what no longer is, check out this excellent sample of selected pieces.

My own predilection for (often unintentional) critical thinking no doubt had its roots in my childhood devouring of the strip. Calvin would ruminate on such esoteric ideas as why scientists had dubbed a magnificent and dynamic theory on the creation of existence itself something as dry and clinical like 'The Big Bang', offering his own preferred title - The Horrendous Space Kablooie. It makes me smile to know the Calvin's alternative actually has caught on in some scientific communities. Other times the story would stretch out over days of strips, such as the sprawling tale of snowmen-come-to-life "Attack of the Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goons." To this day I can't see a snowman without picturing Calvin's wonderfully disturbed creations. While the strip ran the seasons along with the rest of the world, Watterson seemed to really take joy in creating the winter comics. Tales of sledding and snowball fights shaped my understanding of what winter can be. I may not be out cross country skiing everyday, but given the chance and proper snow, I'd leap at the chance to construct my own bizarre snowmen.

The strip pictured above stands out as a particular bench mark for what the series had to offer. There's no joke, no humor to be found at all, really. It shows how Watterson's characters can not only make you laugh but be taken seriously as well, without coming across as self-aggrandizing or preachy. The dynamic style of Calvin and Hobbes makes them standout from the scenery, despite the stark setting. Just the first frame is worthy of critique - the bird is drawn as real-to-life, as it he were trying to show the reader that the strip would be more "real" than a story about the duplicator box or tormenting girl-next-door Susie Derkins (one of the few examples of a last name). There's an underlying sadness present, but it isn't hopeless. It's the melancholy of life, that there is joy in sorrow, or a give and take that we assume things make sense when we're older and we wince at a precocious six year old assuming the world will one day make sense. 

Then again, there is always the delightfully absurd sight gag like the strip above, which is so simple and Dada-esqe that it verges on a non sequitur. The blank expression on Calvin's face is absolutely priceless. In sharp contrast to the above comic, this strip illustrates the flip side of the sense of humor.

And here we have a summation of the elements described above - winter, humor, eccentric views. 

This comic was so smart and witty, it was a painful loss when Watterson retired his widely loved pair. If you have the chance, pick up one of his compilations. The collected works could serve as a veritable doorstop, but you can't beat having them all in one place. Smaller volumes make it more digestible and easier to leaf through. I guarantee you'll chuckle to yourself as you flip through the pages. Trust me. 

Mille Pardons

Super late post tonight, mostly due to disparate obligations followed by a night of home-made sushi with friends.


Penance, to be completed tomorrow, will be a corresponding double post.


For now I will leave a small coda, a tribute to the beauty that is Calvin and Hobbes, which was far smarter and more endearing than any strip should ever have the right to be. Bill Watterson's reclusive nature only makes it that much more appealing and alluring.

Such a sweet and loving, if apocryphal, sentiment. Expect more tomorrow, as I owe you.

Curried Favor

It's cold. It's freezing. It's dark.


How does one survive? Why do we persist in this cold?


It's Minnesota and it's not July, basically.


We get by on hot food, that's how!


While I could write passionate volumes about the wonderful curry dinner my better half prepared tonight, the real impetus for today's piece is the origin for the amazing dinner. Over the past several years, the fiancée and I have been slowly but steadily expanding our palates along with our culinary capabilities. Thankfully our efforts have paid off, as we not only have enjoyed some unusual and delicious dishes as a result but her abilities as a cook have also grown beyond what I could ever have hoped. In short, I am amazed on a regular basis by what she can pull off using only our meager kitchen and pedestrian supplies. Her skill and ability is both completely a natural, ingrained trait and a signifier of what can happen when you have passion for a craft. Our meals are exquisite and confoundedly healthy. What I'm saying, in short, is I am a very lucky man and I eat like a king. Tonight's curry exceeded even my expectations and it was only possible because of one of Minneapolis' best kept secrets.


That secret?


United Noodle.

Located across the street from another mind-blowing, yet-to-be-written-about secret, Coastal Seafoods, United Noodle is an Asian Supermarket stacked to the rafters with rare, unusual and imported foodstuffs. It's the kind of place you want to simultaneously keep as a secret and scream from the rooftops. You'll find everything inside, from little imported (and awesomely/endearingly mistranslated) candies and cookies, to anything you would need to make a full on feast - squid, nori, pickled ginger, fish sauce. You see how I can start down a rambling, evangelizing path? I just start thinking about all the weird and crazy things they offer and my mind wanders. My fiancée explained it to me before I went there by saying "You could wander around for hours just looking at all the stuff and not get bored." The crazy thing? She's absolutely right. I can go in with a list of specific things to get and twenty minutes later I'm smirking at strange sodas written in Mandarin and thinking "I bet I could make a hell of a cocktail with this..."


The staff is incredibly friendly and helpful, as well. On more than one occasion we have been wandering around, searching for a specific kind of hot curry paste, and they not only help us find it but then stick with us for the rest of our list, making excellent suggestions and substitutions. Even more amazing is the fact that, despite the rare nature of the store, it is surprisingly inexpensive. For what we'd pay at a certain market for entire, or 'whole' foods, you get two or three times the amount of organic, healthy food (provided you know what you're shopping for).


United Noodle is a wonderful, hidden gem of the Twin Cities and it shouldn't be - it should be a widely recognized institution of Asian cuisine. You name it, it's there. Awesome food, courteous staff and a mind-boggling variety of palate pleasers. do yourself a favor if you're within 100 miles of the Twin Cites - head to 2015 East 24th St, in Minneapolis. Just make sure you pick up some rice balls with strawberry bean jam filling in the frozen section.


Bon appetit!

In The Year 3000

All right, mes amis, today we're going to discuss something that makes my head explode. Strap in, cause it's about to get nerdy in here. 

Ready? 

The Simpsons/Futurama Crossover Crisis. 

Both series are the brainchild of Matt Groening, and being the intellectual property of the same person with vaguely (okay, obviously) similar art styles, a crossover was inevitable. Both Series are/were wildly popular (though Simpsons more so) and had their own lines of excellent comics (see? Told you it would get nerdy). For the Simpsons, it offered an expansion of the universe for rabid fans to devour and catalog. For Futurama it served as a continuing existence after its premature cancellation, before the sublime series was renewed by Comedy Central. Both lines were published by the hysterical Bongo Comics and if you enjoy either series in its TV incarnation I would highly recommend seeing what the transition to print is like. It's often an interesting twist, as it allows for more deviations from the established canons that TV guidelines and censors wouldn't deem acceptable. 

Point of order, here. In my household The Simpsons is gospel. Having been firmly ingrained in mine and my better half's psyche's at the elementary level, it tickled the funny bone in a way that both formed and guided our mutual senses of humor for the rest of our lives. Admittedly the series has waned a bit in recent years but it still is better than almost anything you can throw at it, even on an off day. I recall one of the producers explaining its longevity thusly "How do you stretch a show for over ten seasons? Lower your standards." Sad, but true. It serves as a mental comfort food. I honestly think if some horrible tragedy befell the nation, we would just start a marathon and cook a feast for our friends and family while we burn through the series on a tv in the kitchen. The Halloween themed 'Treehouse of Horror' episodes, which I've written about before, are a tradition for us every October. 

Futurama is more of an oddity. I was sold on the show from the first season, having been raised on a steady diet of Star Wars and Star Trek (and this is the point my future father-in-law forbids the wedding). The in-jokes, the characters and sense of humor, I love it all. It's another one of those things I've written about where it makes me so happy I feel like it was created just to amuse me. Imagine my surprise when my fiancée, who almost never indulges in fictional TV (let alone science fiction, of all things) finds it to be not only interesting but hysterical. The fact that she laughs at anything I do makes my heart skip a beat, and is one of the countless reasons I love her. Funny is funny regardless of medium, and she gets that. So while The Simpsons soldiers on, barely fatigued, Futurama met an untimely end at the hands of Fox, only to be brought back to life by Comedy Central. In the intervening period, though, the most amazing thing happened. 

These two awesome worlds collided. 

How is this even possible, you ask? Conveniently held contracts and friendly lawyers. How it's handled in-universe is a little more tricky, and a whole lot more nerdy (but if you're still reading at this point, you've already accepted that and may actually be interested in how these two distinct intellectual properties collide). It's actually a pretty neat trick. 

The story hinges on the fact that Futurama is, despite its outlandish setting, characters and stories, our universe. In previous episodes of the show it had been established that the Simpsons existed as it did for us (even more crazy, Matt Groening has appeared IN THE SIMPSONS as the creator of Futurama, just to further twist us around). Fry, our lovable everyman, is reading a Simpsons comic, in a wonderful bit of meta-humor. Utilizing a plot device from their phenomenally written 'The Day the Earth Stood Stupid', the Brainspawn, capable of transporting conscious minds into fictional worlds, traps the Futurama crew in the world of the Simpsons comic. After a mind-blowing series of cross-continuity interactions, including Homer and Bender imbibing at Moe's, Lisa and Leela bonding and Fry and Bart causing mischief, the worlds are brought back into balance via the requisite complicated plot devices of meta-awareness and literary boundaries. 

But wait! There's more! 

The wonderful hardcover edition published in 2010 continues the saga in an excellent move. Due to the weakening walls of reality, the cast of the Simpsons is unleashed into Futurama's present day, New New York, 3000 A.D. The two casts must work together to fight off the brainspawn and vanquish various marauding fictional characters back to their respective books, in a display of some of the most absurd, laugh out loud literary jokes I've ever read. I won't spoil the results, but the entire experience is equal parts hysterical, confusing and manic. As such a mash up would be, of course. This volume of comics is an excellent example of what's possible when given free range with ideas, showing how two great flavors go great together. But only in small doses.

I am all too aware of how insanely geeky this whole write up is and yet I do not care one bit. Both of these series are cherished institutions in the annals of pop-culture, and to see them combined in such a fantastic, quality adventure is nothing short of astounding. It's an experience akin to Jetson's Meet the Flintstones, only zanier and with higher standards of production. If you've stuck with me this far, I would highly recommend you seek it out, if only to blow minds at the sight of these two forces combing.

The Bristol Sound

Having remedied my self-inflicted difficulties in posting, here goes the revised take on another musical love affair of mine. I've already expounded on my love of Akira Yamaoka and how it mixes well with the winter nights of Minnesota. What I thought I'd share today is a chicken/egg sort of dilemma. 

As I wrote in the original post on Yamaoka, the music he creates for his soundtracks tends to be down-tempo, ambient, moody trip hop. While I was first exposed to his work in 2000, that particularly excellent genre of music had already burst onto the music scene and established some of the highest-regarded works in the field. In particular, the U.K. based Portishead has made not only what is generally held to be some of the best trip hop music ever, but are one of my (secret) favorite bands. The aforementioned chicken/egg dilemma really only pertains to my own tastes - Portishead existed long before Silent Hill had soundtracks, but I heard the soundtracks first. Like I said, it's only an issue to me, but it gives me a chance to spill my guts over another love. 

Portishead.  

Formed in the early 90's, the band exists as fluke or unintended project. Its members had made a noir film title To Kill a Dead Man and had composed their own soundtrack for the bizarre short film. It was this soundtrack of moody, subdued tunes that got them signed. These people then said "Forget the films, let's do music!" and pushed forward, releasing the lauded album Dummy in 1994. This album, coincidentally the first of theirs I listened to, is quite simply beautiful. It's full of songs that throb and hum, leaving little spaces that modern music crams full of clicks and buzzes and "Yeahs!". It's a clear outgrowth of their work scoring their own film, as it clearly would fit a spy movie. Another album that I love to put on when walking somewhere at night. 

In 1997 they released their second, self titled album. It was just as well received as their first, earning numerous nods for best of the year from respected sources I won't bog you down with. The tone on this album was simultaneously harsher in tone and quieter in the lulls. It's a haunting work of heartbreak and loneliness, one that comes across as sparse despite the rich and deeply crafted soundscape. At times it sounds as though the album were a tired and broken wind-up doll, a pretty little thing that is having a hard time functioning. It can suddenly spring to life and surprise the listener with its vibrancy and unexpected passion. 

The group went on hiatus for nearly a decade after releasing a live album, only to get back together to craft the appropriately titled Third. This album continues the trend in directions both fragile and aggressive. Songs like 'Deep Water' and 'Machine Gun' may seem to show a band at odds with itself, yet they still feel linked in tone and voice. Bridging the gap is the excellent track 'The Rip' which utilizes a bubbling synth that builds to a satisfying crescendo. Recently the band released the single "Chase the Tear", which suggests further refinement of their sound. Displaying an almost New-Wave sound and pace, it shows the band still has plenty of zeal in their hearts. 

The collected body of work by Portishead is astoundingly unique and, for me, privately thrilling. No matter how much critical acclaim or broad of fan base, I still feel like it's my personal treasure, this personal sacred thing that no one else knows about. Even when I find someone else who loves them, this music seems strangely different. I don't feel like I'm sharing the appreciation of music like when a song everyone knows and loves comes on at a bar. This is different. It's private, personal. It's a group whose style is on such a suitable wave-length for me that I can't help feeling like it's unique to me. Selfish and crazy, I just think this band is unbeatable in their field. 

The Fall of Analog

So it turns I had indeed hoisted myself up the flagpole, all on my own. Having rectified my problems, I offer you the glory of my full-on postings.


So here we are.


Pretty nice, eh?


To buck the trend online as of late, today's entry will be only peripherally about Apple, with nary a word about Verizon. Instead, the focus shifts slightly to the application of one of their fine products, namely the game changing Ipad. I could gush for pages about this Star Trek piece of equipment (and probably will when stalled for a good idea dans le futur). It is a marvelous thing, seemingly limited only by your imagination and a lack of flash. All short comings aside, (and potential brand loyalties considered) it marks a shift in the way we live with our technology, making it more approachable and accessible despite the steep entry fee. What to say, though? It's not what it is, really, but how it's used. Further, it's who is using it. In anyone's hands it's fun and novel, playing games and checking email. In an artist's hands, things become more intriguing. Whose hands? Damon Albarn's, that's who.

Known in England for his massively popular brit-pop band Blur (who in 'Merica are known only for 'Song 2' i.e. the one you hear in football stadiums that goes "Woo hoo!"), Albarn created the world's most successful virtual band, Gorillaz. A collaboration with artist Jaime Hewlitt, who created the awesome comic Tank Girl, Gorillaz existed only in the media as a concept. The images and likeness of the members were hewn by Hewlitt with the majority of the music created by Albarn, with collaborations from rappers and other singers. The group had instant success both in the U.K. and across the sea, with the massively popular single "Clint Eastwood" off their self titled debut. Five years later, their sophomore offering, Demon Days, netted a Grammy for the single "Feel Good Inc." 2010's Plastic Beach was as highly anticipated as the last album but has yet to hit the same numbers. So why the truncated history of our modern, satirical Monkees?


Innovation! Boundary pushing! Self imposed limitation, my readers.


While on tour in support of Plastic Beach last fall Albarn let it slip that he would be releasing a free album to the Gorillaz' fan club on Christmas day. All of the music were new compositions created while on tour. The hook?


The entire album being made on Albarn's Ipad.


"Oooh, stop the presses, fan boy! What a shock! A musician makes a song on a computer!"


I know, I know. But here's why my Spidey-sense is tingling:


I downloaded it and it's really good.

It doesn't feel like a one-off, goofy joke. It's a real album. While admittedly a bit pared-down, it's still as slick and solid as anything else they've done. From what I've gathered, there is a slight dearth of guest spots and fewer, if any actual stringed, live instruments, but that is both in and of the point. While there are a few guitars or acoustic things on the occasional track, it serves almost as a method of illustrating the move to more of a colder, new wave sound. It sounds to me like the Gorillaz spent a night drinking with Gary Numan and Ric Ocasek.


Which is awesome.


Using a list of apps found here, which are all available to anyone, the whole album was created from scratch on that little tablet. I find it to not only be a very enjoyable, moody soundtrack to my evening commute, but also an album with a fascinating meta-context. Just that I found it online, put it on my phone (which is another entire dork moment) and listen to it after knowing it was created in such an approachable, commoner manner is mind blowing.


Here's to new sounds in new ways. Progress is strange business.

Veni Vidi Vino

To make up for the sloppy double post yesterday I'll atone by posting one well written piece today. Unfortunately it has to be pretty bare bones due to some "known issues." Curse you, progress of software!


The subject of today's refined write up?


The Vinturi! 


A sophisticated and elegantly designed little device, the Vinturi is a marvel of function and form. Also, it improves the inebriation process! For those that imbibe, please - right this way! Teetotalers and those who care not to participate, I'll see you tomorrow (or possibly tonight for another impromptu WFV).


Alors.


This plastic marvel is a simple solution to a problem I never knew I had. Namely, a bottle of wine becoming more enjoyable with every glass. I know, I know, it sounds like I'm just getting drunk. What actually is happening is the oxidation process occurring to a fuller extent as more of the wine is exposed to the air. Thus the first glass least enjoyable and the last the best. Additionally if one practices single-serving ideaology (not that I'd recommend it) by the time you reach the bottom you probably don't care about flavor. It makes a world of difference, though, if you're just sitting down to dinner and have not had a chance to aerate a bottle before dinner. Simply pour through the egg shaped device and the particularly placed ventilations allow the wine to oxidize as it passes through. Even more amusing is the fact that there is legitimate math involved. Hard sciences and alcohol are always a winning combination. According the the maker's site, Bernoulli's Principle is inherent to the operation. Check their work!

Increase in velocity versus a decrease in pressure. It's almost too easy.


I suppose this is where my wine afficianado readers would object and say "It's an inelegant solution to your impatience! Allow it to happen naturally, you philistine " but I can't hear you because I'm typing somewhere that I can't hear you. I am new to this vino thing, I admit. BUT! The difference between a normal glass and one poured through this device is night-and-day. My fiance and I laughed out loud at the difference. It's simple yet marvelous. No matter how gauche it may be, the simplicity and elegance of the operation of te Vinturi is amazing and I am thrilled to have picked one up at Williams Sonoma.

Amazing that none of this is a paid advertorial, eh? It's just that good.