Step 1: Put your music player on shuffle.
Step 2: Post the first line from the 1st 25 songs no matter how embarrassing
Step 3: Strike through once someone guesses both the artist and the track correctly.
Step 4: For those who are guessing, looking up the lyrics is CHEATING.
Step 5: If you like the game post your own.
1. All I can ever be to you is a darkness that we knew
2. The door slammed loud and rose up a cloud of dust
3. The most tender place in my heart is for strangers
4. Climb the highest mountain, sail across the sea
5. When the rain is blowing in your face
6. Let me lay it on the line, I got a little freakiness inside
7. I don't want you to be no slave
8. I remember way back, way back when
9. When you walk in the bar, and you dressed like a star
10. See them on their big bright screen
11. I once met a man with a sense of adventure
12. I've been walking in the same way as I did
13. He looked down into her blue eyes and said "say a prayer for me"
14. Well you've been making your brags around town that you been lovin' my man
15. Shattered dreams, worthless years
16. In a police car I feel so very small
17. They can make things worse for me
18. Well it's been ten years and a thousand tears
19. It's been three weeks since you been lookin' for your friend
20. Down in Mexicali there's a crazy little place that I love
21. I was following the I was following
22. If you're looking for trouble, you came to the right place
23. Que bonitos ojos tienes
24. Well, when I was young I was so full of fear
25. Birds flying high you know how I feel
Good luck!
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
1/23/09
3/17/08
We Are Filled With Shame
So yeah, I've been threatening this post for a while, and now that I have five free seconds to myself, I'm gonna write it, damn you! So be warned. If you had any respect for me, this is the end of that. Of course, if you're a certain redheaded friend of mine who like to flash her unmentionables at my husband, it will be a day like every other.
To look at me, I proably look fairly similar to every other aging hipster chick on the planet: unnatural black hair, unnatural blonde streak, prominent tattoos, black-top-jeans-black-shoes uniform, glasses for street cred/myopia verging on blindness, etc. You would possibly assume I like a lot of good bands (social distortion, danzig-era misfits, clash, johnny cash) and good music (dirty early jazz and blues, rockabilly, moonshinin' country, old skool punk rawk). Most of the time, you'd be right.
Most of the time.
But the thing is, as I age, I become less and less interested in pretending to like crap I hate. Fugazi? Senseless noise. 99% of Bikini Kill? Nails on a chalkboard. Bjork? Let's just say I never got past the swan dress and leave it at that. Every emo song I hear makes me want to punch people, and most indie sacred cows make me feel like I'm watching the emperor prance around with his giblets hanging out. Want me to fall asleep standing up? Force me to sit through a Sonic Youth album. The only song of theirs I ever liked was "Kool Thing", and that's probably due mainly to Chuck D.
Maybe I'm old. Maybe I'm a philistine. Maybe I just don't get it. That's fair, but the thing I'm finding as the years go by is that I no longer want to get it, if it is tuneless meandering navel-gazing precocious shite. Call me imbecilic, but I just wanna dance, fucker.
So as my standards have veered toward things I actually like as opposed to what I should like, I've picked up a few songs along the way that might be considered a little, well, embarrassing. Songs that are the musical equivalent of Twinkies: sweet, barely palatable, with no nutritive value whatsoever. Songs those who don't know me as well as they think they do might be somewhat surprised to find in my playlist. The top ten of which I'll be listing here, for all to see.
(Because that's the paradox of this post: though I'm fully aware that I probably should make some pretense of shame at owning these horrible songs, I feel not one whit.)
So without further ado, in no particular order, this is what I got:
10. Say Say Say, by Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson. The tenth selection is also my most recent iTunes purchase. I heard a snippet of this the other day, and felt overwhelmingly nostalgic for the .45 my stepmother bought me for my 15th birthday. Say what you will about Michael Jackson. He might really like kids, but his song comes on the radio, you gotta dance.
9. Toxic, by Britney Spears. Yeah, so I was in the Complex a looooong time ago, and this song came on, and of course, because it's a dance club, the music plays for a while before the vocals kick in. And the music to this song is pretty banging. So I've had a few, and I'm moving my ass, because dancing is one of the few ways to exercise I don't hate like poison. By the time I figured out I was dancing to Britney Fucking Spears, it was too late. I was hooked. So I downloaded it. Oh well, a hundred sweaty shirtless gay men can't be wrong.
8. Heat of the Moment, by Asia. Yeah, THAT Asia. Over-synthed arena-rock Asia. 80's cautionary tale Asia. If you haven't figured out that I don't care by now, then this post isn't going to be much fun for you.
7. Walking in Memphis, by Marc Cohn. Okay, this one might make me wince a little to admit. I know it's cheesy. I know I'm not supposed to like it. I know it's one step away from being a Michael Bolton impression, and yet I can't bring myself to change the station when I come across it. And, oh yeah, I wail on the ending chorus like nobody's business.
6. Love Will Keep Us Together, by Captain and Teneille(sp?). I was a little kid in the '70's, and this song played every 15 seconds or so. And the thing about music that you were exposed to before you learned that you weren't supposed to like just anything is that it will make a secret place in your heart warm every time. This kind of music reminds me of my childhood, just like Disco Duck, which I'm sure I will also download eventually.
5. 8 Mile, by Eminim. I hate Eminem. Hate hate hate hate hate. Think he's a latent self-loathing homosexual supplement-popping asshat shit-for-brains. I still bounce to this.
4. I'm With You, by Avril Lavigne. Like Eminem, I hate Avril Lavigne. She's a pop dunce tarted up in punk princess clothing. Britney, these days, is more punk--at least she's shaved her head and been to rehab. But there's something about this song that makes me do the slow-motion Axel Rose dance in the car when it comes on. With the windows all the way up so no one can know what I'm listening to, of course.
3. Cars that Go Boom, by Tigre & Bunny. Anyone lucky enough to have a TV in the late eighties that went all the way to channel 57 could catch Video Jukebox, a pay-for-play ghettoized MTV knockoff. If you were broke, like me, you just at around and watched what other people bought and paid for. Which was a lot of 2 Live Crew, Gerardo, and this song. The funny thing about this song, which was sung/rapped by two tiny girls who sounded like they'd been sucking down helium all afternoon, was that it got into your head and. never. got. out.
2. Rock Me, by Great White. When I was about 13, which was long long ago in 1983 or so, I had two paths ahead of me based on my favourite bands at the time: Duran Duran and Def Leppard. In those halcyon junior high school days, the musical battle lines were drawn very clearly indeed, and there was no room for fence-sitters. You picked your pony, and you rode it to the end. I chose the flouncy bouncy pretty Durannies at the time, but never lost my secret hair metal yearnings. Even in the golden age of grrrunge, I held a special place in my heart for mulleted cock rockers who dared to be so uncool as to attempt to actually entertain their audience. This is a great song in the acid-washed marlboro-smoking tradition. Plus, you can't go wrong with a band whose stage show has an actual body count.
1. Makes Me Wonder, by Maroon 5. I know, I know, it's Maroon 5. But the song is so fucking danceable, like the best of Duran Duran married to oily disco popsters ABBA. When this plays, I can feel the plush red shag carpet growing under my dancing feet, and hear the swish of an italian suit jacket being swung cavalierly over one shoulder. Plus, they drop the f-bomb in the chorus; I checked. That's gotta count for something.
So by now you're either a.)horrified by my horrendous taste, or b.)wistfully mulling over your own musical crimes. If it's the latter, I raise my glass to you and toast your lack of self-conscious inhibition. If it's the former, well, sweetie, I don't give a good two shits. Cool people are boring, bad in bed, and have stinky feet. So there.
To look at me, I proably look fairly similar to every other aging hipster chick on the planet: unnatural black hair, unnatural blonde streak, prominent tattoos, black-top-jeans-black-shoes uniform, glasses for street cred/myopia verging on blindness, etc. You would possibly assume I like a lot of good bands (social distortion, danzig-era misfits, clash, johnny cash) and good music (dirty early jazz and blues, rockabilly, moonshinin' country, old skool punk rawk). Most of the time, you'd be right.
Most of the time.
But the thing is, as I age, I become less and less interested in pretending to like crap I hate. Fugazi? Senseless noise. 99% of Bikini Kill? Nails on a chalkboard. Bjork? Let's just say I never got past the swan dress and leave it at that. Every emo song I hear makes me want to punch people, and most indie sacred cows make me feel like I'm watching the emperor prance around with his giblets hanging out. Want me to fall asleep standing up? Force me to sit through a Sonic Youth album. The only song of theirs I ever liked was "Kool Thing", and that's probably due mainly to Chuck D.
Maybe I'm old. Maybe I'm a philistine. Maybe I just don't get it. That's fair, but the thing I'm finding as the years go by is that I no longer want to get it, if it is tuneless meandering navel-gazing precocious shite. Call me imbecilic, but I just wanna dance, fucker.
So as my standards have veered toward things I actually like as opposed to what I should like, I've picked up a few songs along the way that might be considered a little, well, embarrassing. Songs that are the musical equivalent of Twinkies: sweet, barely palatable, with no nutritive value whatsoever. Songs those who don't know me as well as they think they do might be somewhat surprised to find in my playlist. The top ten of which I'll be listing here, for all to see.
(Because that's the paradox of this post: though I'm fully aware that I probably should make some pretense of shame at owning these horrible songs, I feel not one whit.)
So without further ado, in no particular order, this is what I got:
10. Say Say Say, by Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson. The tenth selection is also my most recent iTunes purchase. I heard a snippet of this the other day, and felt overwhelmingly nostalgic for the .45 my stepmother bought me for my 15th birthday. Say what you will about Michael Jackson. He might really like kids, but his song comes on the radio, you gotta dance.
9. Toxic, by Britney Spears. Yeah, so I was in the Complex a looooong time ago, and this song came on, and of course, because it's a dance club, the music plays for a while before the vocals kick in. And the music to this song is pretty banging. So I've had a few, and I'm moving my ass, because dancing is one of the few ways to exercise I don't hate like poison. By the time I figured out I was dancing to Britney Fucking Spears, it was too late. I was hooked. So I downloaded it. Oh well, a hundred sweaty shirtless gay men can't be wrong.
8. Heat of the Moment, by Asia. Yeah, THAT Asia. Over-synthed arena-rock Asia. 80's cautionary tale Asia. If you haven't figured out that I don't care by now, then this post isn't going to be much fun for you.
7. Walking in Memphis, by Marc Cohn. Okay, this one might make me wince a little to admit. I know it's cheesy. I know I'm not supposed to like it. I know it's one step away from being a Michael Bolton impression, and yet I can't bring myself to change the station when I come across it. And, oh yeah, I wail on the ending chorus like nobody's business.
6. Love Will Keep Us Together, by Captain and Teneille(sp?). I was a little kid in the '70's, and this song played every 15 seconds or so. And the thing about music that you were exposed to before you learned that you weren't supposed to like just anything is that it will make a secret place in your heart warm every time. This kind of music reminds me of my childhood, just like Disco Duck, which I'm sure I will also download eventually.
5. 8 Mile, by Eminim. I hate Eminem. Hate hate hate hate hate. Think he's a latent self-loathing homosexual supplement-popping asshat shit-for-brains. I still bounce to this.
4. I'm With You, by Avril Lavigne. Like Eminem, I hate Avril Lavigne. She's a pop dunce tarted up in punk princess clothing. Britney, these days, is more punk--at least she's shaved her head and been to rehab. But there's something about this song that makes me do the slow-motion Axel Rose dance in the car when it comes on. With the windows all the way up so no one can know what I'm listening to, of course.
3. Cars that Go Boom, by Tigre & Bunny. Anyone lucky enough to have a TV in the late eighties that went all the way to channel 57 could catch Video Jukebox, a pay-for-play ghettoized MTV knockoff. If you were broke, like me, you just at around and watched what other people bought and paid for. Which was a lot of 2 Live Crew, Gerardo, and this song. The funny thing about this song, which was sung/rapped by two tiny girls who sounded like they'd been sucking down helium all afternoon, was that it got into your head and. never. got. out.
2. Rock Me, by Great White. When I was about 13, which was long long ago in 1983 or so, I had two paths ahead of me based on my favourite bands at the time: Duran Duran and Def Leppard. In those halcyon junior high school days, the musical battle lines were drawn very clearly indeed, and there was no room for fence-sitters. You picked your pony, and you rode it to the end. I chose the flouncy bouncy pretty Durannies at the time, but never lost my secret hair metal yearnings. Even in the golden age of grrrunge, I held a special place in my heart for mulleted cock rockers who dared to be so uncool as to attempt to actually entertain their audience. This is a great song in the acid-washed marlboro-smoking tradition. Plus, you can't go wrong with a band whose stage show has an actual body count.
1. Makes Me Wonder, by Maroon 5. I know, I know, it's Maroon 5. But the song is so fucking danceable, like the best of Duran Duran married to oily disco popsters ABBA. When this plays, I can feel the plush red shag carpet growing under my dancing feet, and hear the swish of an italian suit jacket being swung cavalierly over one shoulder. Plus, they drop the f-bomb in the chorus; I checked. That's gotta count for something.
So by now you're either a.)horrified by my horrendous taste, or b.)wistfully mulling over your own musical crimes. If it's the latter, I raise my glass to you and toast your lack of self-conscious inhibition. If it's the former, well, sweetie, I don't give a good two shits. Cool people are boring, bad in bed, and have stinky feet. So there.
3/8/08
Never Go on Quizilla when you have other things to do.
A while ago, I was bored and made up a test of my own on Quizilla. It took, like, a squillion hours to finish, but I was pretty happy with it when it was done, particularly since (unlike 99.999999999% of Quizilla) it was spelled correctly. So if you're bored, avoiding work, or just plain can't think of anything to do with the next 5 minutes of your time (which is why you're here, of course) take this test. The Internet Gods Command Thee.
What Subculture do you belong to?
What Subculture do you belong to?
3/6/08
My girl won the motherfucking Grammy.
Current mood: satisfied
That's right, Amy Winehouse. Yeah. Fuck you for snickering.
She won motherfucking Album of the Year, Song of the Year, and Best New Artist. More than that, she made me watch the Grammys for the first time in fifteen years.
I haven't given two shits about popular music in close to two decades because most of it is pure unadulerated shite spat out of ProTools-addicted throwaway hit machine onto a dopey undiscriminating Wal-mart addled public. Gone are the Clash, Eddie Cochran, the Ramones, Johnny Cash, Ray Charles, Billie Holliday, Janis, Jimi, and Elvis. Gone too, is the new rawness of the medium, the flawed nude beauty, the fury, the rock, the roll. It's been processed until everything that made it transcendent is pressed out, and all that's left is a tasteless concoction bland as Miracle Whip.
So I don't give a shit that Amy Winehouse smokes crack. I don't care if she has knockdown dragout brawls with her junkie husband in the streets of London, is frequently photographed looking like shit, and takes a page from the Johnny Thunders book of Rock and Roll Self-Destruction. I can't stop her, and it isn't my place to try. What I can do, however, is listen to her album. Over and over, and get excited about an artist in a way that I haven't since the Sex Pistols.
Before the tabloids, the fame, the cameras, and all the crap that comes with it, Amy Winehouse made the best album to surface in years. She did it without being a thought-free jailbait Barbie Doll, all gloss and plastic tits, and no gritty filling. She did what Joss Stone only wishes she was capable of doing; she made a fucking soul album in a world that's forgotten what soul is. And she did it the old-fashioned way without being a paler copy of her better forbears. For one thing, the bitch wrote the songs herself. As a response to trauma in her young life, she sat down and made songs that mean something more than a way to sell Nikes. Beyonce can't, Rihanna doesn't, Britney probably doesn't even know how to write, much less write lyrically. The girl has a right to sing the blues, and no snarky paparazzo can take that away from her. If Billie, Bessie, and Etta had been in the spotlight in the throes of their own addictions, it would have looked like this. No more, no less.
Should Amy take better care of herself? Sure. Is she on a path that leads to grief and heartache? Absolutely. But there are hundreds, no, thousands of pop stars on the charts today who lead--if not scrubbed clean, then at least reasonably shiny--lives who then turn around and make horrible, unlistenable forgettable crapfest albums. Self-important emo, melted down fluffy punk alloys, regrettable pop tart farts, wonder bread country shite, and soulless rap that's nearly a minstrel show in its ghetto fetishism. So I ask you, what's a worse crime? As a listener, what's more important, role models or balls-out musical fury?
I remember the first time I heard 'Rehab' through my friend Robin's earbuds. I went out and bought the album that day. I couldn't--couldn't get that wonderful music out of my head. It was more of a compulsion than a mere want; upon buying it, I put it in my car stereo and listened to it nonstop for a month straight. I actually wore it out from use, a fate reserved for only my cherished favourites. There are 5 albums I'll own as long as I'm on this earth, in whatever form musical paraphenalia takes. In this decade, only two new albums have been added to this list: Mike Ness's Cheating at Solitaire, and this one.
So Amy can continue on her path, whichever way it turns. If she's (and we're) lucky, she'll climb out of this mess she's gotten herself into and go on to make a dozen more wonderful fucking albums. She's certainly got the chops in a way that 99.999999% of modern artists just don't. If she's unlucky, we can add her name to the long list of talented artists who broke under the weight of their own battles. It won't make her music one iota less the mother. fucking. shit.
So g'wan, Amy. Tell the world to go fuck itself.
That's right, Amy Winehouse. Yeah. Fuck you for snickering.
She won motherfucking Album of the Year, Song of the Year, and Best New Artist. More than that, she made me watch the Grammys for the first time in fifteen years.
I haven't given two shits about popular music in close to two decades because most of it is pure unadulerated shite spat out of ProTools-addicted throwaway hit machine onto a dopey undiscriminating Wal-mart addled public. Gone are the Clash, Eddie Cochran, the Ramones, Johnny Cash, Ray Charles, Billie Holliday, Janis, Jimi, and Elvis. Gone too, is the new rawness of the medium, the flawed nude beauty, the fury, the rock, the roll. It's been processed until everything that made it transcendent is pressed out, and all that's left is a tasteless concoction bland as Miracle Whip.
So I don't give a shit that Amy Winehouse smokes crack. I don't care if she has knockdown dragout brawls with her junkie husband in the streets of London, is frequently photographed looking like shit, and takes a page from the Johnny Thunders book of Rock and Roll Self-Destruction. I can't stop her, and it isn't my place to try. What I can do, however, is listen to her album. Over and over, and get excited about an artist in a way that I haven't since the Sex Pistols.
Before the tabloids, the fame, the cameras, and all the crap that comes with it, Amy Winehouse made the best album to surface in years. She did it without being a thought-free jailbait Barbie Doll, all gloss and plastic tits, and no gritty filling. She did what Joss Stone only wishes she was capable of doing; she made a fucking soul album in a world that's forgotten what soul is. And she did it the old-fashioned way without being a paler copy of her better forbears. For one thing, the bitch wrote the songs herself. As a response to trauma in her young life, she sat down and made songs that mean something more than a way to sell Nikes. Beyonce can't, Rihanna doesn't, Britney probably doesn't even know how to write, much less write lyrically. The girl has a right to sing the blues, and no snarky paparazzo can take that away from her. If Billie, Bessie, and Etta had been in the spotlight in the throes of their own addictions, it would have looked like this. No more, no less.
Should Amy take better care of herself? Sure. Is she on a path that leads to grief and heartache? Absolutely. But there are hundreds, no, thousands of pop stars on the charts today who lead--if not scrubbed clean, then at least reasonably shiny--lives who then turn around and make horrible, unlistenable forgettable crapfest albums. Self-important emo, melted down fluffy punk alloys, regrettable pop tart farts, wonder bread country shite, and soulless rap that's nearly a minstrel show in its ghetto fetishism. So I ask you, what's a worse crime? As a listener, what's more important, role models or balls-out musical fury?
I remember the first time I heard 'Rehab' through my friend Robin's earbuds. I went out and bought the album that day. I couldn't--couldn't get that wonderful music out of my head. It was more of a compulsion than a mere want; upon buying it, I put it in my car stereo and listened to it nonstop for a month straight. I actually wore it out from use, a fate reserved for only my cherished favourites. There are 5 albums I'll own as long as I'm on this earth, in whatever form musical paraphenalia takes. In this decade, only two new albums have been added to this list: Mike Ness's Cheating at Solitaire, and this one.
So Amy can continue on her path, whichever way it turns. If she's (and we're) lucky, she'll climb out of this mess she's gotten herself into and go on to make a dozen more wonderful fucking albums. She's certainly got the chops in a way that 99.999999% of modern artists just don't. If she's unlucky, we can add her name to the long list of talented artists who broke under the weight of their own battles. It won't make her music one iota less the mother. fucking. shit.
So g'wan, Amy. Tell the world to go fuck itself.
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