Here at The Stairs that Lead Nowhere, we usually leave the musical critique to PT, but I got something I just gotta say. Since I lost my iPod last week, I've been listening to a lot of radio (thus my post on Lady GaGa yesterday). It hasn't been terrible but the control freak in me has been dying to hit the "skip" button every time I hear these clichéd words ring through the speakers of my '97 Nissan Shitbox:
"You would not believe your eyes/if ten million fireflies/lit up the world as I fell asleep"
The above lyrics are taken from Owl City's whimsical single "Fireflies." The song in-and-of-itself is unforgivably unimaginative. Adam Young, the MySpace baby responsible for Owl City, wrote the song in his parent's Minnesota basement last year (cute, right?) and has since found immediate acceptance from other trend-hoppers on the social networking site, ultimately leading to his signing with Universal Republic in 2009.
Since then, "Fireflies" has whirred up the charts, sharing airspace with the likes of Beyoncé, Lil' Wayne and our girl Lady GaGa. However, the digi-pop phenomenon stands out for its unmistakable indie influence - one Adam Young claims draws from Imogen Heap and Boards of Canada, among others.
Here's an example of those oh-so inspired lyrics:
"Cause I'd Get a Thousand Hugs
From Ten Thousand Lightning Bugs
As They Tried To Teach Me How to Dance"
If you're not yet impressed, try:
"To Ten Million Fireflies
I'm Weird Cause I Hate Goodbyes
I Got Misty Eyes As They Said Farewell
But I'll Know Where Several Are
If My Dreams Get Real Bizarre
Cause I Saved a Few and I Keep Them in A Jar"
Alright. A handful of overly-romantic non sequiturs looped over a poppy backbeat do not make you reflective. There's a motif aboutinsomnia and fireflies buried somewhere in there, but the connection gets abstracted by the song's blatant insincerity. Anything meaningful Mr. Young was trying to imitate here is lost in the awkward transition between lines. At many other points in the song, Young seems to be fishing for meaning, reaching to sound poetic and falling short. I won't get into the perils of writing a successful song while juggling verb tense (is this song written in the preterit or the imperfect?!) but suffice it to say there's something afoot here.
Yes, I am calling him a poser.
The only reason you're hearing Owl City on the speakers of your Shitbox is because of good ol' fashioned record label agenda setting (oh jeeze, here he comes with the conspiracy theories). Universal Republic signed and pushed Young to the radio stations because he fits the mold of almost-popular indie acts. Even the name "Owl City" follows the "Animal+Random Noun" model of edgy underground acts (think "Wolf Parade"). Just stir in some major radio syndication and a catchy hook miming something profound and...Viola! You've got a perfect abomination on your hands.
If I was Ben Gibbard I'd be a little pissed off. Not too pissed off, because I'd be marrying Zooey Deschanel, but pissed off enough that my passion project the Postal Service was being ripped off by some MySpace tagalong so he could make his millions with the fat cats standing behind him. Young's voice is a weak pantomime of Gibbard's and his lyrics wouldn't even make the leaf jacket of a bootleg Postal Service album. It's downright embarrassing.
Allow me to make an analogy. You remember when you were a kid and everyone had Adidas shell-toes, complete with the signature 3-stripe pattern on the sides? Every kid had them - they were a successful brand. Then, in an attempt to capitalize on the success of Adidas, countless knockoff brands began producing lookalike shoes with fur stripes. All the kids with four stripes on their shoes were laughed at - rightfully so. Owl City is the Payless brand of the Postal Service.
Inevitably, the song will persist for a few more months. You will probably see it on Now 45 or something, but then it should be just about over. Maybe the reason Ben Gibbard isn't pissed off is because he knows Owl City and "Fireflies" will be off the music scene before his honeymoon is over.
Stay warm,
JF
Showing posts with label loyola college. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loyola college. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
JF: Why I (and Everybody Else) MUST Love Lady GaGa
The talking heads have been telling us that we are a diseased generation ever since the advent of Napster in 2001. They’ve said that we don’t appreciate what we have; that we’re the generation that invented instant gratification without ever being grateful for the instant. Weaned on broadband and HD, we’re the intolerant generation – the ones who perfected impatient foot tapping. These talking heads, the ones who are so prone to backward-looking deification; they’ve named a disorder after us. Attention Deficit.
There are measurable symptoms of this disorder. Neal Postman attempted to enumerate these symptoms in his 1992 bitch-fest Technopoly but fell short due to his inability to equate technological advancement with progress (or maybe it was his inability to separate glory and antiquity, or perhaps a simple lack of articulation throughout). In essence, I disagree with Postman – but I see the merit in what he was attempting to say. So allow me, as someone who both observes and analyzes instead of just one or the other, to explain absent the tired social commentary of an aged zealot.
Level with me, virtual generation. Let’s be real with each other.
We value the instant. Things tend to change frequently in our world so we get used to adaptation. We reach out through social media to one another, spreading across countries by our fingertips. We’re living through screens, adopting avatars, calling texting “interaction” and dancing to the songs made from the fiber optic throats of robots. We bore easily and don’t apologize it. We are visually-oriented. We learn through video, through so-called “rich” media. However, we are bombarded by images, most of which are sexual in nature. Sex becomes ingrained in our everyday lives, accepted – normative. Because of this, we’ve been seen as a demographic lacking in…moral fiber.
This is, of course, a gross generalization. There are elements of accuracy in this but my viewpoint and analysis is by no means all-encompassing. Bear with me. Sure, there are downsides to this way of life but technology is our revolution. We will be remembered (renowned?) for what the microchips we develop are able to simulate. The PlayStation was our Woodstock.
So when the fuck am I gonna talk about Lady GaGa, you ask?
Lady GaGa, since bursting into the mainstream with her 2008 electro-pop hit “Just Dance.” The smash-hit, which coupled a synthed-up back beat and eager lyrics glorifying the party lifestyle of the Y Generation, was well received globally, reaching #1 in six separate countries. GaGa (I believe that’s the proper capitalization), admittedly wrote the song in ten minutes while fighting a hangover. Four months later she released her second single “Poker Face” which achieved similar success.
From there it’s been a string of hits, one after another, including 2009’s “LoveGame” wherein GaGa proclaims her desire to “ride” a young man’s “disco stick (it’s my personal favorite, there’s just something in the way she grunts when she sings ‘with a smile on your mouth and a hand on your HUH!’ that makes my penis tingle with joy). She also made an appearance on Wale's single first single “Chillen” from the album ironically titled “Attention: Deficit.” Lady GaGa’s second album “The Fame Monster” is well on its way to permeating our airwaves with its catchy surges and harping melodies.
GaGa attested to writing “LoveGame” in only four minutes. She’s released two landmark albums and seven successful singles in less than two years. The beats, produced by RedOne, are robotic, a brilliant manipulation of actual sound that drives our hips into spasm. Her lyrics are vivid, brazenly sexual and magnetically simple. You like Lady GaGa. Even if you try to hate her. You know what, try to hate her…I’ll give you a moment…Didn’t work did it? You love the shit out of her and her silly dresses. She is everything you have asked for.
Lady GaGa was built to thrive in this generational atmosphere. She has kept us uninterruptedly entertained, finding her viability in the social/electronic media that defines our generation. Although some may label her as a tactless, uncouth, cock-worshipping troubadour of heathen sex (reference needed), we must stop and recognize her impeccable savvy. She has addressed our needs dually.
It’s that perfect combination of factors, that unmatched foresight for her audience that has us all singing along: “GAGA OOH LA LA.”
I promise I’m not gay.
JF
There are measurable symptoms of this disorder. Neal Postman attempted to enumerate these symptoms in his 1992 bitch-fest Technopoly but fell short due to his inability to equate technological advancement with progress (or maybe it was his inability to separate glory and antiquity, or perhaps a simple lack of articulation throughout). In essence, I disagree with Postman – but I see the merit in what he was attempting to say. So allow me, as someone who both observes and analyzes instead of just one or the other, to explain absent the tired social commentary of an aged zealot.
Level with me, virtual generation. Let’s be real with each other.
We value the instant. Things tend to change frequently in our world so we get used to adaptation. We reach out through social media to one another, spreading across countries by our fingertips. We’re living through screens, adopting avatars, calling texting “interaction” and dancing to the songs made from the fiber optic throats of robots. We bore easily and don’t apologize it. We are visually-oriented. We learn through video, through so-called “rich” media. However, we are bombarded by images, most of which are sexual in nature. Sex becomes ingrained in our everyday lives, accepted – normative. Because of this, we’ve been seen as a demographic lacking in…moral fiber.This is, of course, a gross generalization. There are elements of accuracy in this but my viewpoint and analysis is by no means all-encompassing. Bear with me. Sure, there are downsides to this way of life but technology is our revolution. We will be remembered (renowned?) for what the microchips we develop are able to simulate. The PlayStation was our Woodstock.
So when the fuck am I gonna talk about Lady GaGa, you ask?
Lady GaGa, since bursting into the mainstream with her 2008 electro-pop hit “Just Dance.” The smash-hit, which coupled a synthed-up back beat and eager lyrics glorifying the party lifestyle of the Y Generation, was well received globally, reaching #1 in six separate countries. GaGa (I believe that’s the proper capitalization), admittedly wrote the song in ten minutes while fighting a hangover. Four months later she released her second single “Poker Face” which achieved similar success.
From there it’s been a string of hits, one after another, including 2009’s “LoveGame” wherein GaGa proclaims her desire to “ride” a young man’s “disco stick (it’s my personal favorite, there’s just something in the way she grunts when she sings ‘with a smile on your mouth and a hand on your HUH!’ that makes my penis tingle with joy). She also made an appearance on Wale's single first single “Chillen” from the album ironically titled “Attention: Deficit.” Lady GaGa’s second album “The Fame Monster” is well on its way to permeating our airwaves with its catchy surges and harping melodies.
GaGa attested to writing “LoveGame” in only four minutes. She’s released two landmark albums and seven successful singles in less than two years. The beats, produced by RedOne, are robotic, a brilliant manipulation of actual sound that drives our hips into spasm. Her lyrics are vivid, brazenly sexual and magnetically simple. You like Lady GaGa. Even if you try to hate her. You know what, try to hate her…I’ll give you a moment…Didn’t work did it? You love the shit out of her and her silly dresses. She is everything you have asked for.
Lady GaGa was built to thrive in this generational atmosphere. She has kept us uninterruptedly entertained, finding her viability in the social/electronic media that defines our generation. Although some may label her as a tactless, uncouth, cock-worshipping troubadour of heathen sex (reference needed), we must stop and recognize her impeccable savvy. She has addressed our needs dually.
It’s that perfect combination of factors, that unmatched foresight for her audience that has us all singing along: “GAGA OOH LA LA.”
I promise I’m not gay.
JF
Saturday, December 19, 2009
JF: Hopefully Leading Somewhere - Two Poems
Hey folks,
Welcome to the Stairs that Lead Nowhere. My name is Jerry Fagerberg and it's my distinct pleasure to be posting some poetry here on the blog to share with y'all.
Without further ado, here's a sonnet I wrote:
A Tug on the Line
Soon he’ll be still. He’ll quit slapping and flailing
and lay flat on the deck in tired defeat.
No more sideways dance, no more twisting of tail.
As soon as his gills stop grinning to breathe,
I’ll sloppily open a seam in his side,
disregarding the lipless gasp that escapes
and the sudden perk of his fins as my blade glides
coarsely through muscle and scales. I’ll scrape
and pluck the oily tubes in his belly and try to ignore
the weight of his eye – that marble, all veneration and trust,
that was blind to the hooks in the water before.
Now, blind to my guilt, my rigid disgust,
he’ll curse my hands in wordless speech:
You son-of-a-bitch, you tricked me
And, in the spirit of the recent blizzard I give you:
New England Winters
Every winter, the farmers flooded the bogs.
None of us knew why, but when the early-morning frost
made the water a mirror thick enough to
skate on, the mystery was lost.
Dad told the story of a boy who’d
slid ‘cross the Charles in a Styrofoam cooler back when
he was a kid. There was a a creak – forboding – and the ice opened
like jaws full of black water and swallowed the boy
before he made it to the other bank.
A fisherman found his mittens that spring.
But there was no caution in us. With every press of
a skate, we dared the bogs to open, to pull
us down to where the cranberries lay
dormant and purple, and make fables of us too.
And our challenge was met with no more
than scraped palms and knee bruises.
Hope you enjoyed! I'll be posting lots more.
Stay warm,
Jerry
Welcome to the Stairs that Lead Nowhere. My name is Jerry Fagerberg and it's my distinct pleasure to be posting some poetry here on the blog to share with y'all.
Without further ado, here's a sonnet I wrote:
A Tug on the Line
Soon he’ll be still. He’ll quit slapping and flailing
and lay flat on the deck in tired defeat.
No more sideways dance, no more twisting of tail.
As soon as his gills stop grinning to breathe,
I’ll sloppily open a seam in his side,
disregarding the lipless gasp that escapes
and the sudden perk of his fins as my blade glides
coarsely through muscle and scales. I’ll scrape
and pluck the oily tubes in his belly and try to ignore
the weight of his eye – that marble, all veneration and trust,
that was blind to the hooks in the water before.
Now, blind to my guilt, my rigid disgust,
he’ll curse my hands in wordless speech:
You son-of-a-bitch, you tricked me
And, in the spirit of the recent blizzard I give you:
New England Winters
Every winter, the farmers flooded the bogs.
None of us knew why, but when the early-morning frost
made the water a mirror thick enough to
skate on, the mystery was lost.
Dad told the story of a boy who’d
slid ‘cross the Charles in a Styrofoam cooler back when
he was a kid. There was a a creak – forboding – and the ice opened
like jaws full of black water and swallowed the boy
before he made it to the other bank.
A fisherman found his mittens that spring.
But there was no caution in us. With every press of
a skate, we dared the bogs to open, to pull
us down to where the cranberries lay
dormant and purple, and make fables of us too.
And our challenge was met with no more
than scraped palms and knee bruises.
Hope you enjoyed! I'll be posting lots more.
Stay warm,
Jerry
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