For the 7th day of the 7th month, show us 7 of something - OR - something lucky.
Paper Cranes are notorious good luck charms, but opals are associated with misfortune. That doesn't change the fact that I like opals, however. The charm is black stone with raw opal stuck within it. I even lucked out with some flecks of rare red opal.
I wear this necklace every day, but I can't say that it has changed my luck at all.
Show us something you can't explain.
I don't try to remember all my unborn ideas, photographs, and knitting projects. And what of the unborn bumblebees, brick walls, ceramic jars, and pocketwatches? Why is there a statue to commemorate other conglomerations of atoms that never bounded successfully into molecules that could fend for themselves?
In honor of Independence Day, show us something patriotic.
I do not like wars. Plastering vehicles in propaganda slogans seems hollow. I no longer have faith in anybody in charge. I see the detour my country has taken, and the prospect fills me with sorrow.
But there are things that still make America great, and they will never go away. Text is permanent when scorched into the brains of those who appreciate it.
Show us something cold.
I took this on my birthday, which is toward the end of January and squarely in the Capricorn-Aquarius cusp. I kind of like where the twenty-second of January is situated. It's one of those unforgiving dates that nobody should really be born on. There's something about it that drives its citizens to great heights of madness: Lord Byron, Gregori Rasputin, Francis Bacon, and a bunch of other notably crazy people. I fit right in.
I'm not sure why I used to love this time of night. There was something about pretending that I was the only person awake, that the whole world slumbered under the enchantment of a shadowy sorceress with a face of opal and water which never inhabited the same appearance twice. It is up to me to save humanity, so I would work late into the night. Shortly before dawn I would launch my notebooks, and they would transform the sky into a single blazing piece of Baltic amber. A banshee wail would vibrate itself free from my throat, and they would all wake, unaware that the very unlikely thing that stood between them and certain doom was a timid girl sequestered in the Western Pennsylvanian countryside.
I don't think like that anymore because I lost the ardent belief that magic lurks in every obscured recess of existence. Maybe I just grew out of four-thirty-in-the-morning. Or maybe it left me behind because it got tired of waiting.
I drank a little too much last night.
I'm not feeling the whole Driving Back to New Castle for Brunch thing right now.
It's no secret that I've been feeling altogether restless lately, but I'm not doing a very good job of leaving my apartment unless I have to. What's the point of living in the Big City if I refuse to explore it?
I mused over this to Scruffy, so he decided to evoke a smile from me. It worked!
Then I got invited to a cook-out that was being thrown by friends of mine whom I haven't seen in literally years. I tried to beg myself not to go because there'll be tons of people I don't know and I've been fumbling over my words so much anymore that I'm sure I appear to be socially retarded. But, whatever happened to me being a girl of action? Even if I have to force myself to get back to that point, it's imperative that I return.
Now the trick is finding where the shindig is. At the very least, I am dressed up nice, which is a good boost for anybody. All I need is a Queen of England hat.
{I have no clue what this picture is all about. The automatic timer surprised me.}
Aaaaaaaand…we’re back. That’s right—after two weeks’ hiatus, The Friday Fivehead is back with some phat jams to stuff in ya ears! Sorry I’ve been gone for a bit, folks: I was too busy fixing my other website, Footnotes to the Human Species, to really spend the time necessary to crank out a batch of music reviews. Well, that project’s done now, and it’s time to get back to the task at hand. Okay?
This week’s going to be another “theme week,” of sorts. It’s a bit of a “ripper’s delight," as it were, because recently I spent a few hours ripping a mess of old CDs that I haven’t listened to in quite some time…so in many ways, this Friday Fivehead is going to be somewhat of an all-retro edition—because some of these CDs date back to the early ’80s! I haven’t listened to any of them in quite some time—their jewelcases were all dusty and one of ‘em even had a dead bug in it—so the question is: how have these particular records stood the test of time? Well, let’s see….
To start with, here’s a name you don’t hear much anymore: Bone Thugs-N-Harmony. Oh, they’re still around—in fact, they just released a new album, Strength & Loyalty, last year that’s full of pretty big-name guests like Mariah Carey and Akon—but after Bizzy Bone’s departure, the group’s name just hasn’t been dropped as often as it was in the past. I’d picked up their double-disc Greatest Hits collection prettymuch just for "Tha Crossroads" and "1st Of Tha Month," and haven’t listened to it since I got it…mainly because I lost it in my car and just recently rediscovered it. The two discs are packed with great tracks, though, all of which naturally feature the Cleveland crew’s distinctive, lovely harmonies and rapidfire lyrics over laid-back beats. As a "Greatest Hits" compilation, it’s kind of weird, because some of these tracks a really obscure—but as a collection of superior tracks from all of their previous albums, Greatest Hits is an excellent summary of their career up to 2004. Bone Thugs-N-Harmony have always been a unique voice in the world of gangsta rap and hip-hop in general: though their lyrics deal with the usual thuggin’, druggin’ and whatnot, their delivery of those lyrics is completely unique, combining lightning-fast rhymes and soulful harmonizing straight out of the best of Motown. Even songs glamourizing the rough, razoredged thug life such as "Thug Mentality" and their breakout jam, "Thuggish Ruggish Bone," sound like silky ’70s soul. Weed odes such as "Buddah Lovaz" and "Blaze It" are so plush and smokey (as in Robinson) you’ll literally get a buzz just listening to them. Despite their gangsta orientation, Bone Thugs-N-Harmony make beautiful music that exemplifies all the best that hip-hop and contemporary soul can be. This is a must-have collection for fans and a great start for Bone Thugs virgins. Just be prepared to get a lot of strange looks if you’re a skinny white guy like me singing along in the car to "1st Of Tha Month" when you’re stopped at a light.
Now. U2. Yeah, you know them. The band that produced international spokesjerk Bono and somehow managed to transform from one of the ’80s best rock bands into some kind of overblown megapop group that shits out crappy music that goes platinum even though it can’t hold a candle to their earlier work. And the album War is the best of that earlier work. Best known for its incredible singles "Sunday Bloody Sunday" and "New Years Day," War is an album that it damnear perfect from track one to track ten. Back in the day, U2 was a political post-punk rock band whose memorable lyrics and striking melodies drew warranted international acclaim. Hum the piano line to "New Years Day" and chances are anyone my age or thereabout—mid-30s—will immediately recognize the song. Yes, it’s that iconic. "New Years Day" and "Sunday Bloody Sunday" were bloody ubiquitous on college radio in the mid-’80s, but no matter how many times you heard the songs, you never grew tired of them…because they were just such great damn jams. The Edge’s lead guitar work was not exceptional, but it was masterful, and Bono’s lyrics were sharp and his voice powerful. This was a New Wave album that crossed over to become a no-holds-barred rock n’ roll hit…and it deserved the reputation, not only for calling international attention to the horrors happening in northern Ireland but for being an exemplary example of music that can have a message but still be eminently danceable. "Protest music" usually doesn’t aim to get people stomping and pumping their fists in the air, but "Sunday Bloody Sunday" does just that. "Seconds" is a thoroughly bouncy little number whose prominent bassline never fails to get my booty moving. "Drowning Man" is simply a gorgeous song whose guitars shimmer like golden rain falling on the grave of Cuchulain. Once, U2’s music was powerful and poignant, both lyrically and musically. What the hell happened to them? Success. The success of this album and, later, The Joshua Tree. I’m usually not one to turn my back on a band just because suddenly they become "popular"—hell, I love to see obscure backwater bands break through to the mainstream!—but if the success goes to their heads and destroys their music, well…."I can’t close my eyes and make it go away" prettymuch says it all, sadly.
Now for a band whose success didn’t ruin them: Thompson Twins! Into the Gap was the band’s seventh album. Got that? Seventh. From 1981 through 1991, they released eleven albums, more than one a year! But this particular album is the one that always comes to mind whenever anyone mentions the Thompsons, and for good reason: it’s by far their best, most ambitious, and most creative work. The album not only features the iconic, “Doctor, Doctor” and “Hold Me Now,” two of the most iconic songs of the ‘80s, but is bursting with incredible material that mixes synths with “real” instruments—particularly percussion—to create songs that are catchy, fun, and clever…but, at the same time, dark and brooding. For every light-drenched “Hold Me Now” there’s a "No Peace For The Wicked," which is one of my alltime favorite songs for its ominous themes and its wave-your-hands-in-the-air breakdowns. For every "You Take Me Up" there’s a "Sister of Mercy," a beautiful synthpop ballad dedicated to a woman who kills her abusive husband. The title track, however, is the album’s highpoint—yes, higher even than "Hold Me Now"—with its fierce Eastern melody and industrial electronics. "Into The Gap" sounds like a more pop-friendly Cabaret Voltaire, or a lightweight Front Line Assembly. Its message of borderless globalism is expressed perfectly in its exotic rhythms and scales, but at no point does the song stray from its solid dancefloor ethic. This is the kind of jam that gets people grooving at goth clubs, ’80s nights, and raves alike. There’s only one thing that could make this album better than it is: a good contemporary remastering. Like many albums that were recorded before 1988 or ‘89, the tracks sound thin and quiet on CD—you’ve really gotta crank up your speakers to let ‘em pound with this record as they would with Bone Thugs-N-Harmony. But, hey, it’s only inevitable. A remaster could hit the shelves or the Internet at any time…but don’t wait. If you haven’t heard this album yet, get it, even if you have to do some speaker-tweakage to get the full effect of it. You will be blown away regardless.
OK, now take a moment and look at the cover art to Mister Barry White’s 1973 masterpiece Stone Gon’. What the hell is going on there? I see Barry White sitting at a white piano and there is, of course, a lady sitting on it, along with a rose…but in the background…is that the planet from Enemy Mine? Could Barry White be crooning to a Drac? The world…will never know. But there’s one thing you will know: this album is a dream come true—an explosion of soulful sensuality so intense it’s actually better than sex. Yeah, I said it. Man or woman, if you don’t spontaneously get off while listening to this album, you must be an asexual paramecium. What makes this particular album so grand is that it is at once spontaneous and immediate, yet also meticulous and oh-so-carefully-crafted. The songs are long—"You’re My Baby" clocking in at almost ten minutes—but never boring, because of White’s extended, sensual monologues that preface the lyrics and sound as though White is right there talking to someone he loves. NOBODY is smoother than Barry White, vocally and musically. Though the vocals are obviously the most prominent element on any track, the music behind them is so deftly arranged and orchestrated that it envelopes White’s voice like flowing, rippling satin sheets. And somehow—somehow—Barry White manages to be both soft and loving and stank n’ funkay at the exact same time on the album closer, the explosive "Never Never Gonna Give You Up," a song whose introduction builds…and builds…and builds, the tension growing tighter and hotter and sweatier until—UH!—the jam explodes in your face with the drums and the harpsichord and the slippin’, slidin’ bass. *Whew* Damn. This is ’70s soul at its absolute finest—but it’s also a scorching chunk of that nasty funk, as well: aimed to get your booty moving on the floor and in the boudoir. Whereas contemporary "soul" artists like Akon attempt to make music that can get your body moving in public and in private, Barry White just does it. The man is so stone gon’ in his alternate dimension of pure love and sensuality (and gritty, blasted volcanic rock) that if you let his music into your ears it will transport you to another world, too. Hopefully one with plenty of ladies in it, and not so many volcanic rocks.
And finally, Huang Chung. Wait a sec, don’t you mean Wang Chung? Yeah. Same band. No, honestly—they started out as Huang Chung, but changed their name to Wang Chung after this, their really hard-to-find debut album, because stupid-ass people kept calling ‘em "HUNG Chung." Anyway, this is their debut album, so how does the band primarily known for their soundtrack to To Live and Die in LA and their monumental international hit Mosaic sound fresh out the gate? Honestly…exactly as they do on Mosaic. WangHuang Chung is a remarkably consistent band—which does not, in any sense, mean that everything they do sounds alike. They have a very definite sound…a sort-of cross between post-punk/New Wave and light rock. Their stuff is all very melodic, very high on the hook factor: they build their songs, even on their first album, around the choruses, which is, of course, how most pop-rock bands work. On their debut album, you can already find the compositional seeds of their later Big Hits: "Ti Na Na" (which has the most ridiculous chorus I’ve ever heard in any song other than the Police’s "De Doo Doo Doo, De Da Da Da") sounds like an early version of "Dance Hall Days" and "Hold Back the Tears" sounds a great deal like a draft of "To Live and Die in LA"—but these songs all still have identities of their own. The interesting thing about this album is that it doesn’t sound like a debut album. Wang Chung’s tracks all have a very polished sheen to them, with very little roughness (or, some would say, edginess), even their very first. They sound extremely professional and extremely suave right out the gate, and this album, more than just a historical artifact, is actually a very slick "light New Wave" rock album that will definitely have your head bobbin’ if you’re in a retro kind of mood. But do check out Wang Chung’s MySpace page for some new material, including their rather good cover of Nelly’s "Hot in Herre" (yes, that "I wanna take my clothes off" song) as well as the rather odd "Abducted by the ’80s," which has a very stiff, angular Flying Lizards kind of feel to it. Could the band be getting back to their very unpolished post-punk days? Hell, if they put out a new album, I sure as hell will buy it!
Aaaaand, that’s it. We’re done. Yeah, it’s almost 10pm on Friday, but hey, I was job hunting all day. And by the looks of it, I’ll be unemployed for another week, so I won’t have anything better to do than listen to music and review it. Yay. Catch you next week, anyway!
Dear Vox,
Quite some time has passed since we last spoke. I want you to know that you did nothing wrong; rather, I retreated to someplace that was more familiar and comfortable. It was nothing more than that, honestly.
For whatever reason, this morning I was struck by how much I miss you. Perhaps it's the overpowering heat that is awakening nostalgia from a full year ago, but I'm thinking of updating you regularly again. You know, just for fun.
A lot has happened to me since last summer. I live in the big city now, I'm engaged, and I'm the proud mother of a Nikon D-40. It's like I'm growing up, or something. Weird, huh?
Anyway, I didn't want all of this to be a surprise. I'm sure you're pretty confused at the moment, so I'll end this correspondence for now. Just know that it was nice catching up with you.
Yours,
Brianne
