The Go Find – Miami 4.2

                The Go Find has the kind of sound you could expect in a mid-range clothing store as you purchase Khakis for yourself or your loved ones. At no point do you get exposed to anything verging on genuine emotion. For those who though the “Postal Service” was too edgy, here’s something even more bland and un-engaging for your eardrums.

                Dieter Sermeus (some Belgian guy) is responsible for this inoffensive snooze-fest. Most of the effects are boring, the sounds are generic, and his voice is completely unexceptional. Alone, none of these things would be a particularly big problem, together though; they create a cocktail of lame.

                “Bleeding Heart” contains this bass-like sound which I think immediately caused me to shudder. It is like the sound you hear on your sampler and you can’t edit into anything good. You leave it alone, convinced it is terrible. I wish Dieter had realized this.

                In fact, the only two songs which approach anything worth your interest are the pleasant “Modern Times” and the closer “Blisters on my Thumb”, the latter even possessing an enjoyable buildup and breakdown.

                So bland is this offering that I’d suggest checking out the Postal Service, who does a similar trick with far more style.

Nerve City – Sleepwalker EP 8.0

Whoa, I never enjoy EPs this much. Music releases in general usually involved some sort of fat to be trimmed, or the expectation that at some point the musician will skimp out on that indefinable quality known as “good”. Here we have one of those few releases.

Right from the get-go, it sounds Lo-Fi. I know that term gets thrown around, like a gimmick for bands to hide behind. Like “Oh, we’re lo-fi, it doesn’t have to be catchy.” Nerve City didn’t get that memo, it sounds like pure infectious pop. As I listen to it, it delivers on the promise bands like The Black Lips guaranteed us, only to give it to us periodically.

“Sleepwalker” is such a sweet, sweet track. It is a great beginning, so great that I wondered whether or not the rest of the EP lived up to that expectation. Would the lyrics be as interesting, or the melodies as infectious? Actually yes would be the answer.  

“Armory” removes some of the dreamy quality for a big stomp with a serious Western twang. Think of an acid cowboy movie soundtrack and you are there (looking at you Jim Jarmusch’s “Dead Man”). And “Runaway” sounds beyond lo-fi, like some re-discovered blues track from the early 30s.

I’m shocked they come from Miami. First Iron & Wine, then Jacuzzi Boys, if I didn’t know better I’d say there’s an undercurrent in music which works against its environment. Rather than take the easy approach and just accept how tacky Florida can be, they look for the authentic. Nerve City do this to a tee. Below is a delightful link to some of their youtube videos. Enjoy!

Nerve City 

Did “The Thong Song” embody the ethos of the Clinton era?

The Hipster Grifter, a shot of class.

Ah, the Clinton Era. What a great time it was to be alive under one of the most laissez-faire politicians known to man. He interfered in so little, let business do its thing, and generally a great time was had by all. Especially during his period with an unnamed intern who changed the world forever. 

Communism had been defeated. The internet came about and increased productivity. Even the economy grew so fast that a group of people known as the “middle class” still existed. Obviously this happened before the economy tanked hard after Bush’s tenure and real incomes (for the vast majority of America) stopped experiencing any actual growth.

Life could not have been better. Sure, the Republicans tried clamping down on this happy atmosphere by accusing Clinton of improper relations with an intern. But having parental advisories for the news backfired. Watching the news for more improper conduct became a national pastime, and gave Saturday Night Live a new lease on life. Children learned more about what college would be like through NBC news with Tom Brokaw (via explaining sexual techniques and stained dresses). 

That’s where “The Thong Song” came from. Sisqo decided to write a tasteful, respectful song about women’s undergarments and his love for them. Keeping up with the delicate sensibilities he demanded, he decided to make the music video an understated affair, only showing about 800 different women in the video in stages of undress. Originally his benefactors wanted 3,000, but Sisqo convinced them of the importance of letting him do “his art”. His art consisted of different close-ups of women’s asses of various sizes and plumpness. 

Class reeked from the song itself, complete with a beautiful orchestra made of people who needed to pay rent by the end of the week. Together, they embodied the positive spirit that was about to leave the great country of the US of A. Clinton would be leaving this plain of existence, moving to a level so high that he could talk to Kim Jong Il whenever he felt like it and unlimited use of various pornographers’ private jets.

What happened after that golden era of the thong song was brutal. No longer could songs be written with the deliberate intent of being “ironic”. Instead, everybody started taking themselves seriously, since we were at war. Vice Presidents became more interesting than the Presidents they served under (Bush was boring, Cheney was entertaining). 

Many rued the day that the “Thong Song” lost its popularity. How could any other artist hope to do the thong justice the way Sisqo did? Who else could create an entire song based purely on a suggestive undergarment?  Sisqo couldn’t even bring his art back up, after dedicating an entire album to advertising IPODs, cell phones, and whatever else held the imagination of little children. Later he ended up being a lawyer in Miami specializing in sexual harassment cases.

Really it is disappointing how technology has replaced our desire with “thongs” for “3G networks”. Perhaps one day a new sun will shine on America and remind it of wholesome tongue-in-cheek lewdness. We can only hope.