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Wednesday, January 5, 2005

Nothing's Going To Happen At All
Stay with us. This might make for a bit of a ride.

Zoilus takes issue with our fawning over Feist's sense of place (see below). Someday he and us will sit down over a beverage and we'll try to convince him of Feist's brilliance and he'll try to convince us of the Junior Boys' brilliance. We'll both fail miserably. Until then, we'll go back to that humdinger of which we spoke. To wit:

The singer-songwriter Elliott Smith died in 2003, but in his posthumously released CD, "From a Basement on a Hill," he created imaginary spaces that are no less vivid for being fluid, hallucinatory and inconsistent. Part of his appeal lies in his stripped, reedy croon pitched to the size of a messy bedroom. To listen to Smith's last album is to duck out of the dazzle of the outside world and into a claustrophobic mind filled with the flotsam of his thoughts and darkly minimalist music.

Zoilus' complaint, we think, is with Feist's lack of audible locale. Is this a Paris album? A Toronto album? City mouse? Country mouse? Or is it just some undefined nowhere?

We're filling his mouth with words, so we'll leave a space.........for him to insert his own. In the meantime we'll say that Let It Die's place looks a lot like Elliott Smith's - namely, the bedroom. Like belly buttons, we've all got one.

(We touched on that in our still-unlinkable year-ender. We'll try and post that soon.)

Anyway. At the top of Zoilus' post - an early candidate for the most link-laden of 2005 - he references Matos' epic gulp of haterade. We have no particulary taste or distaste for the Devendra/Joanna hate, but we took interest in his comments about the not-particularly-long-awaited returns of Fatboy Slim and the Prodigy. To wit:

Big beat went bust ages ago, in terms of ideas (which it never really had, which isn't a complaint), and in terms of the fun generated-to-fun promised ratio, and no two albums demonstrated it better than those of two of its biggest kahunas.

He won't complain about the lack of ideas, but we will. One of those top secret advance copies of the new Chemical Brothers album arrived by mail a short time ago and we've been trying hard to get excited about it. But. Well. Meh. (Note: If nothing else this year, let's find a new pseudo-word for that emotion, or lack thereof.)

We were going to say it's because it doesn't emote. That it, and its kind, are the musical equivalent of Tony Robbins tapes. That it's all rather empty.

But then, we've always had a short attention span for the dance-electronica-big-beat-or-whatever-we're-allowed-to-call-it-now. So maybe it's not them, it's us. Maybe we just prefer the music with the "deep, deep feewings."

Is that so wrong?

(P.S. If Norah Jones is the musical equivalent of aural wallpaper, as someone smart once said, what does that make some of the more mindless stretches of the new Chemical Bros. album?)

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