Archives : all posts by Dan

Yesterday, Sean released his annual list of the 100 best songs of 2012. It's great, check it out. But today I want to add one thing: P.O.S

I posted about the track "Get Down" when it came out, but I've been listening to We Don't Even Live Here more than any other album since its release. More than Killer Mike or Fiona Apple or even Parlovr. It's rough and raw, scary and angry and fraught. It's juvenile, it's unexamined, it's direct and careless and explosive. It's arrogant and brash and a bit preachy, but it speaks to me and lights me up. It's Fight Club without the dumb machismo, it's Adbusters without the dumb self-satisfaction, it's a dumb revolution without any kind of plan. It's exactly what I want to hear. From the heart-racing opener Bumper all the way to the ragged-clothed escape attempt of Piano Hits, We Don't Even Live Here is, in my opinion, the best whole record of the year. In the midst of many great singles, this is a fully-formed assemblage that stands out to me as a great achievement, so I thought I would highlight it for all of you. And to share, the Eminem-esque standoff personal-history track, "Lock-Picks, Knives, Bricks And Bats".

[buy]

Dur-Dur Band - "Garsore Waa Ilaah"

The day we got a gun, I sat in the back of the dusty old pick-up, wondering if I breathed in enough gas fumes, if I could piss in the gas tank to get us farther. "You're going to get a sliver in your ass," said Jama, his eyes smiling, full of trouble. He always looked at me like a dog, waiting for my eyes to give a 'yes' in return. But today I wouldn't give a yes, my stomach was gnarled and knotted, like this tumorous road.

We jumped out at the top of the hill that looked out over the village, and Hassan just half-waved and drove off, and I wondered if he would be back at dusk like he promised, or if he'd be out of gas by then, his tank always Empty, never anything else. "What do you think she's doing right now? Fucking her brother?" I punched Jama hard, without even looking. He was smarter than me, funnier than me, but I was always stronger. And for that reason he would always look at me like a dog. He was talking about Yessina, the beautiful Yessina with the mole under her nose. She liked her brother, but lots of girls liked their brothers. If I had a sister, she would like me too, it doesn't mean I would fuck her. But I would fuck Yessina, I would marry her first, then I would fuck her.

And she lived here, in this village, and I wanted to see her, but we also had to get a gun. There was a meeting later in the week, and we needed to have a gun for the meeting. Not because anyone told us to, but because the older men with the red arm bands and the beards had lovely shiny guns, fresh from the Americans, and we wanted to at least have something.

We went down to see Gravas, who lived with his house half-dug into the ground. There was food out on the table, you could tell he was rich but was trying to hide it. It wasn't good for people to know you were rich. There were flies on his food, and he talked non-stop. He talked about the history of everything. "We used to be rats, stinking rats. Rodents. Can you believe that? You were a rat and now you want to buy a gun how old are you?" I didn't answer and treated him the way I treated Jama, just looked away and didn't flinch. It seemed like people respected you when you did that, maybe I could treat everyone like that and I would become a great man someday. "Here," he shoved it into my hand and I almost fell over it was so heavy, and I hadn't eaten. Jama kept looking at it, trying to touch its round barrel and hashed grip, I tried not to even look at it, I looked up and straight away, and kept thinking about Yessina. "Used to be that all of this was fertile ground, all thick grass like you've never seen, and then mountains rose up and trapped all the clouds, and now it's dry and dusty and hot. This used to be the greatest place on earth and now you have a gun that'll kill someone or probably yourself by accident." I looked Gravas straight in the eye and handed him his money. Jama and I left, the gun in my waistband held against me with the crook of my elbow as we walked. We were silent for some time.

We were getting to the edge of the village, far from Yessina's house, which to me glowed like a star in my mind, I always knew where it was, when suddenly Yessina came out of a white house with broken shutters. When she saw me she looked away, he eyes skimming along the road, no escape, then smiled. She tilted her face back, like she didn't care. And I felt how Jama must feel, how Gravas must feel, like a dog. "Turek," she said, as if we had planned to meet. "Is this Adib's house?" Jama trying to fight a battle for me. "Shut up, Jama," I hissed, "Yessina." I thought about the gun in my waistband. I saw the whole history of this place, I saw us all as rats, I saw Jama as a rat and Yessina as a rat. I thought of a mountain trapping clouds, collecting them like billfolds. I thought about my gun. And Adib came slowly out of his house, his steps like pooling water. He put his hand on Yessina's shoulder, and she closed her eyes, I think because it was now confusing who was the dog and who was the master. Jama looked at me, his eyes no longer smiling, his mouth ready to speak. I stepped closer to the two of them, looked at them both closer, "This is not your brother," I said, and me and Jama went up the hill to wait for Hassan whose tank was always Empty, never anything else.

[Another great release from ATFA, Feb 5] (image of a woman in Somalia in 1987, the year this song was recorded)

Justin Timberlake as played by Romi Graham - "SexyBack"

As the world becomes increasingly uninhabitable, the archival process has become paramount. The world is a hotel room, it is five minutes to checkout, and the archivist is the one checking under the bed, scrambling, stuffing everything possible into the suitcase; including the clothes, the toothbrush, the proper things, but also the bed, the shower, the very concept of dual-insulated windows, and the windows themselves. There is no such thing as merit. Merit was made for a world with an infinite future. Save the good, throw away the rest. This concept is moot. If history is written by the winners, it is the archivist's job to even the score. Saving only good works is like lowering a rope ladder into a lifeboat and saying "You, you, you, not you, or you." Or to be more accurate to the behaviour of inhuman curators, "None of you except for you. The youngest. Most supple. You alone." To save any one work in place of any other is madness, all must be saved, or the whole project should be abandoned. No human creation left behind. Every 6th grade book report on Sharks. Every placemat doodle of a house with smoke coming out the chimney. Every secret handshake that ends in a dirty gesture that looks like genitals. Every tweet @_chloxo: im listening to christmas music, beliebers and directioners are uniting and payzer is back together EVERYTHING IS SO PERFECT RN. And it is my pleasure to add to the Human Record, Romi Graham's version of JT's "SexyBack", part of the Future of History.

[Free, as all things human truly are] (image from consume consume)

Younolovebunny - "Attention"

Ricky is a puddle-jumper, he can't keep anything in his pockets, he speaks like spilled wine. Ricky, old trainers and two-tone pants, runs after the bus, hand on his ass. You'd think it was a strain just to be alive for Ricky, pained breathing with that wincing look on his face, hair like it's embarrassed to be on his head, trying scoot out the back door. Ricky's late for work, but he hides in the dishes and the bustle, gets away with it again. The only time Ricky is ever together, the only time Ricky is ever anything useful at all in this world, is when he's making a plate of penne arrabiata. It's a simple dish, some tube pasta and some sauce, but he makes it all himself and it's a simple thing done perfectly. Scabs on his calves, cell buzzing in his coat, whispered curses like spittle at the corners of his mouth, Ricky looks like hell, but makes one hell of a penne arrabiata. [Free until Jan 1]

Scott Walker - "Pilgrim"

When the guards are crazier than the prisoners. Stalking the halls, muttering, aimless and uncontrolled, with constantly sizzling fuse. [Buy from 4AD]

Girl Band - "You're a Dog"

I do not have the body that it seems that I have. I have a different body, perhaps a much different body. In another place, on probably another planet. My body that it seems that I have, is in fact the remote control. When I move or speak or breathe, those movements and motions correspond to other movements and motions of my actual body. I do not know what shape my body is, it may be an amorphous blob or a rooted thing like a tree, but it may look very much like mine. But maybe the movements do not correspond exactly, maybe a step for this body is a jump for that body, maybe sex for this body is laughing for that body, maybe my actual body is walking constantly against a wall, each breath that this body takes meaning "walk south" to that faraway thing. I realized this truth, this truth about my faraway body, the other day when I was in the shower. Because every day when I push my hair back and let the water hit my face, the way they do in a commercial or a movie after they have had a rough day, it feels like I am doing the first right thing I've ever done. It feels like the best thing I've ever done and can ever do. It feels like true action. And something inside me said "do that again for the first time forever" and I knew that there was something I was doing this for, something I was controlling and that wanted my control and wanted it more. I know my faraway body likes me, for at least 3 seconds a day.

[Buy the vinyl or free digital] (image source)

Helen Forrest - "Changing Partners"

I'll start by saying I have no idea what is right. I mean, in a situation, I don't really know what the right thing to do is. Sure, I'm not going to kill anybody, I'll help a blind man when he falls in the street, but I mean what's right, in any case, at any time, for anyone. All I really know is how I feel and, honestly, sometimes I don't know much about that either. So when he said, "I want to ask Heather to join us," I thought he meant at the beach. We were going to the beach, so naturally I thought he meant the beach. He didn't mean he wanted Heather to join us at the beach.

I put my lotion on slowly, as if it would spell out an answer to his statement, as if the answer were written on my upper arm and the lotion would reveal the invisible ink. I still hadn't said a word. Although, you don't really need to say a word to show how you feel, but I wanted to say something, I couldn't just let it go unanswered, it was too big. I lay down with my wide-brimmed hat and let the sun bake me like a Christmas turkey. I imagined the layers of my skin getting red one after the other, going deeper and deeper into me until it hit my organs and then I started to feel sick. I didn't want to think that I was just made of organs and bones, it just made me think about his question. About how he wanted to add another bag of organs and bones to the way we mashed our organs and bones. Not that we did it much anymore. Maybe that was why.

A boy almost drowned that day. You see those lifeguards up there on their chairs and they're like firemen, always sitting around or getting all worked up about false alarms. But that day the alarm wasn't false. I was about to respond to him, he was carrying two corn dogs. I hadn't asked for one and when I saw it I hated what I thought of and I hated him because I thought this was his sick way of trying to make things up to me, to convince me. I was about to respond to him, I was about to say, "Did you know Heather is a jewess?" and then someone in a pink bikini cried for help and there was thrashing in the water far away. A boy got tired swimming back and started to panic. I looked out at the thrashing and thought not now. I thought die if you're going to die and let the rest of us get on with our lives. My dad always used to say shit or get off the pot. I counted ahead a few hours and thought when I could finally say my answer, probably around dinner or just after. I knew he wouldn't like the idea that she was a jewess.

[Buy The Master soundtrack from Nonesuch] (image of the tokyo subway)

Mumblr - "Holy Ghost"

I buy one large soda, diet. And I bring a book, I've been re-reading the same page of Game of Thrones for 6 months. I choose people deep in conversation. No loners or families or old couples who have nothing left to say and who have sex as a long-healed-over scar that they occasionally rub. Long-lost siblings, groups of friends, a new couple in that tunnel-vision phase. The careless, the pre-occupied, the easily distracted. I sit at the next table, facing away, and the trick of it is you do it right away, you check right away. When you're putting your coat down on the chair, in that brief waltz where you can get real close to a stranger and it's not weird. You reach to your coat pocket, for your phone or the book, and slip your other hand in their coat pocket, and it all has to happen so fast, like a magician combined with a master grocer. With your fingertips, it's leather, is it hard like a glasses case or soft like a wallet? It's paper, can you feel the thin pulp-style of an open notebook, or the hard wrinkle of cash? And you use all your fingers at once, one feel keys the other spreads over to feel a receipt, the next a movie ticket and the last feels loose coins. The list of things that are "take" is pretty long, but the list of things that are "leave" is much longer, almost infinite in fact. At first you learn that lesson, in the first month. I ended up with a school picture and a good-bye note and a pair of reading glasses and an old cherry. I felt bad about that stuff, money I don't feel bad about. But that person, they needed that school picture much more than me. [Free]