Dudes, is it just me, or do you get the urge to put a timer and a snare trap on your neck when you are walking through Target superstore, then have a sudden need, in the middle of watching Saw VI to go shopping for fuzzy Hello Kitty blankets?
Archive for the ‘Leisure’ Category
TargetSawTargetSawTargetSaw: Subliminal Sessions v. 7 ( update: March 12 )
Friday, March 12th, 2010Happy Birthday my intrepid and adorable Surrealist! (update: feb 22, 2010)
Tuesday, February 23rd, 2010
They are only a handful of famous people whose birthday I want to celebrate. Among them are Glenn Gould, John Coltrane, George Bernard Shaw, John McLaughlin, Bill Evans, Carson McCullers, and of course, my beloved Jorges Luis Borges. But the person who deserves the most celebratory performance has got to be my favorite surrealist: Luis Bunuel.
Strange that I was forcing my friends to see Bunuel clips just this Sunday: A Slice of Bunuel, where friends of the Spanish surrealist filmmaker (of L’Âge d’or, Un Chien Andalou, Belle Du Jour (my all time favorite film), The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie, That Obscure Object of Desire) recount crazy stunts pulled by the filmmaker with the help of his partners in crime, Salvador Dali and Andre Breton.
Among the clips is a home movie showing Don Luis mixing some of his frightening strong drinks, one of which was the Bunueloni. Bunuel and his gang were known for dreaming up potent cocktails, which they dared each other to drink. No surprise that gin is a main ingredient, considering that “mother’s ruin” – a name for the hallucinatory nature of the alcohol – may have been responsible for a large part of surrealist imagery.
Luis Bunuel is known for his attention to preparing drinks. He even had one where his name is attached to one. The Bunueloni. Here is an excerpt from his autobiographical book “The Last Sigh.”
To provoke, or sustain, a reverie in a bar, you have to drink English gin, especially in the form of the dry martini. To be frank, given the primordial role played in my life by the dry martini, I think I really ought to give it at least a page. Like all cocktails, the martini, composed essentially of gin and a few drops of Noilly Prat, seems to have been an American invention. Connoisseurs who like their martinis very dry suggest simply allowing a ray of sunlight to shine through a bottle of Noilly Prat before it hits the bottle of gin. At a certain period in America it was said that the making of a dry martini should resemble the Immaculate Conception, for, as Saint Thomas Aquinas once noted the generative power of the Holy Ghost pierced the Virgin’s hymen “like a ray of sunlight through a window—leaving it unbroken.”
Another crucial recommendation is that the ice be so cold and hard that it won’t melt, since nothing’s worse than a watery martini. For those who are still with me, let me give you my personal recipe, the fruit of long experimentation and guaranteed to produce perfect results. The day before your guests arrive; put all the ingredients—glasses, gm, and shaker in the refrigerator. Use a thermometer to make sure the ice is about twenty degrees below zero (centigrade). Don’t take anything out until your friends arrive; then pour a few drops of Noilly Prat and half a demitasse spoon of Angostura bitters over the ice. Shake it then pour it out, keeping only the ice, which retains a faint taste of both. Then pour straight gin over the ice, shake it again, and serve.
(During the 1940s, the director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York taught me a curious variation. Instead of Angostura, he used a dash of Pernod. Frankly, it seemed heretical to me, but apparently it was only a fad.)
After the dry martini comes one of my own modest inventions, the Bunueloni, best drunk before dinner. It’s really a takeoff on the famous Negroni, but instead of mixing Campari, gin, and sweet Cinzano, I substitute Carpano for the Campari. Here again, the gin in sufficient quantity to ensure its dominance over the other two ingredients has excellent effects on the imagination. I’ve no idea how or why, I only know that it works.
—Luis Bunuel, My last Sigh (1982)
Recipe for the Bunueloni
(as demonstrated in a home movie by the director himself, bartending poolside)
3 parts (3 oz) gin
2 parts (2 oz) carpano (Antica or Punt e Mes) Red Vermouth
1 part (1 oz) (Cinzano Rosso) sweet vermouth
You could halved the recipe, but to really honor the surrealist tradition, you need to tie one on (the gin especially….look at my underlined italics) to touch the stars. I have a personal recommendation to make. If you want a fragrant gin, use regular Bombay. (Sapphire is too strong, and it kills the complex array of botanicals, spices and fruits). If you can’t afford Bombay, definitey go with Gordon’s.
Parthenia and the Rose Consort of Viols is performing this Tuesday Feb 23, 2010
Sunday, February 21st, 2010
My favorite New York City band Parthenia is performing at their residential space Corpus Christi Church this Tuesday night at 8 pm.
You can go to their website and find out more about the show. It will be at the Corpus Christi Church at 529 West 121st Street near Broadway. (by Columbia University)
All seats $25, open seating; student tickets $10 at the door
To Order Tickets
* by phone 212-358-5942
* on line at GEMSNY.ORG
Futanari of the Day Pic (update: Feb 18, 2010)
Thursday, February 18th, 2010
One of my all time favorite futanari “illustrations,” is really nothing more than a digital modification of someone else’s art work. I see this image passed around Flickr often, and it annoys me when people online don’t bother to find out who the original artist is and properly credit their sources. Fabulous Tasha and Kimberly Wilder are two greats that often suffer the same fate. This particular image reminds me of Norm Rockwell’s work, which falls in line with my 1950s fascination.
The above image originated from Art Frahm, who, it seems, is an expert on portraying women who don’t have a clue what proper fit means when it comes to intimate apparel. Logically speaking, trannies are the last women on earth who could have their panties fall down their legs. Not because they aren’t willing, but more so because it’s nearly impossible for that to occur, given the heighten state at hand.
Protected: 10 Things I Will Not Do Now That I Will Do After Marriage (update: Jan 27, 2010)
Wednesday, January 27th, 2010How Did Librarians Get Their Reputation (update: Jan 22, 2010)
Thursday, January 21st, 2010
Me in my cozy little library. Click on the pic for a higher resolution shot
Whenever I go to the public library, I wonder where it is that librarians get their notorious reputation. If you ask the typical guy, he’ll tell you it’s the whole “removing the spectacles and undoing the tight hair bun” fantasy. Somewhere underneath there is a wild child waiting to unleash. It sounds like something you would read in Maxim, FHM, or at the very least, Penthouse Forum.
No, I’ve always thought it was something more insidious. In order to appraise the full arsenal of all the weapons hiding behind the staid book covers – all within invocation with a few taps from her electronic card catalogue – surrounding the written word’s gatekeeper, all you need to look up is de Sade’s 120 Days of Sodom, Michel Houellebecq’s Platform, Bret Easton Ellis, Shannon McKenna, crime fiction, Spillane, not to mention bodice rippers and nonconsensual romance novels, – because hey, if the assailant looks as hot as the guy on the front cover…it must be ok, right? Whatever!
Here’s my all time favorite evidence of just what librarians are really hiding behind that boring facade. Witness, Henry Miller’s classic Tropic of Capricorn. One paragraph here is worth its weight in a dozen truckload of adult magazines.
Valeska was generous, but the cousin was a softy. If she came within a foot of a stiff prick she was like putty. An unbuttoned fly was enough to put her in a trance. It was almost shameful the things Curley made her do. He took pleasure in degrading her. I could scarcely blame him for it, she was such a prim, priggish bitch in her street clothes. You’d almost swear she didn’t own a cunt, the way she carried herself in the street. Naturally, when he got her alone he made her pay for her highfalutin’ ways. He went at it coldbloodedly. “Fish it out!” he’d say, opening his fly a little. “Fish it out with your tongue!” (He had it in for the whole bunch because, as he put it, they were sucking one another off behind his back.) Anyway, once she got the taste of it in her mouth you could do anything with her. Sometimes he’d stand her on her hands and push her around the room that way, like a wheelbarrow. Or else he’d do it dog fashion, and. while she groaned and squirmed he’d nonchalantly light a cigarette and blow the smoke between her legs. Once he played her a dirty trick doing it that way. He had worked her up to such a state that she was beside herself. Anyway, after he had almost polished the ass off her with his back-scuttling he pulled out for a second, as though to cool his cock off, and then very slowly and gently he shoved a big long carrot up her twat. “That, Miss Abercrombie,” he said, “is a sort of Doppelganger to my regular cock,” and with that he unhitches himself and yanks up his pants. Cousin Abercrombie was so bewildered by it all that she let a tremendous fart and out tumbled the carrot. At least, that’s how Curley related it to me. He was an outrageous liar, to be sure, and there may not be a grain of truth in the yarn, but there’s no denying that he had a flair for such tricks. As for Miss Abercrombie and her high-tone Narragansett ways, well, with a cunt like that one can always imagine the worst.
I know the queen of the printed matter has her hand in deciding which title enters her castle. Oftentimes, I can’t help but picture her pronouncements on the donated books for the day: “The Mormon Bloggernacle’s Guide to Sick Skateboard Tricks, Lara Flynn Boyle’s Homecook Recipes Vol. 2, Jean Genet’s Our Lady of the Flowers audiobook read by Sean Hannity all goes back on the For Sale table. Let’s keep at least three copies of Tropic of Capricorn around.”
And you know, she knows, what’s inside.
I’m with Coco…the other one. (update: Jan 15, 2010)
Friday, January 15th, 2010
I know there’s a huge “I’m with Coco” (Conan O’Brien vs Jay Leno drama) movement going on right now. What has not made it to the news and the gossip circuit is the fact that people in the 1st arrondissement section of Paris (where 31 Rue Cambon is) has been firebombing NBC affiliates, demanding that they not use the name “Coco” in this ongoing late night wars. “How dare they use the late Madame Chanel’s name. There can only be one!” Never mind that Coco Chanel hasn’t been around all that long. But you know, it’s just like these hardcore fashionista’s demanding everyone conform to their sense of style, when it hasn’t been all that exemplary of late. And I know, they are mostly peaceful people who just want to dress nice, but I don’t see Givenchy fans acting up, not counting that one time Love Hewitt tried to do Audrey.
Besides, doesn’t anyone even care what Coco Lopez thinks about all this, holding the names to two Late Night shows simultaneously? Just because you can get your Pina Coloada’s on demand doesn’t mean you can monopolize the name “Coco” and forbid everyone else to use it. Next thing you know they’ll be stoning people for wearing Abercrombie & Fitch. Now you know why Switzerland has a strict quota on Chanel houses opening in their country. They change the skyline one day, and before you know it, they’ll be demanding everyone spray themselves with No.5. Five times a day.
Oh what do I think about our Coco drama? Oh sorry: I’m with Coco. But the truth is, it’s all about money, sponsorship, and advertising dollars. It’s not about egos. They gave Conan a try, and NBC is getting nervous because his numbers aren’t as good. Sponsors and the almighty American dollar is the only voice that is paid any attention. So the advertisers are probably threatening to pull out unless they get a proven brand back on. The economy is still bad, and everyone wants immediate results. I have been around long enough to watch Carson, Leno, and even when Conan first took over Letterman. If any of you were around to see it and if you can recall, Conan’s first few months on the Late Show was plastered with endless nervous giggling and missteps. But he recovered. And made it what it is today.
Filling the shoes of the Tonight Show is a greater feat than taking up the Late Night Show. If NBC gives Conan more time, he’ll comfortably find a niche for himself and make it his Tonight Show. The audience will return. I understand someone of Conan’s originality will not want to merely duplicate Carson or Leno. Also remember O’Brien’s years of service to NBC as a writer for SNL. I like Leno too. It’s just unfortunate that the media has to turn it into a polarized story, because there’s nothing more sensational than one group of people being pitted against another.
Personally I think Joel Godard was Conan’s lucky talisman. He didn’t go out to LA with him, and now those superficial LA types have turned Coco’s life topsy turvy. NBC displayed remarkable myopia in their gunshy handling of O’Brien’s ratings. Sure, the more mature viewers out in the midwest may find his humor quirky and frat-like, and of course, low ratings transfer to advertising dollars. But guess what? Ten years from now, when all those frat boys are at the peak of their earning powers, they’ll be following O’Brien in another network station.
The few Leno viewers who are watching today, will have passed away.
What’s worse: She’s a dude, or She’s a Tranny? (update: Jan 12, 2010)
Tuesday, January 12th, 2010
Index finger shorter than ring finger = dude
Index finger longer than ring finger = chick
Ever wondered why that girlfriend of yours shows off her “Taco Bell flamethrower” at the family reunion barbecue and remains dry-eyed throughout “Steel Magnolias?” If porn is any indication of the state of lovemaking these days, guys could very well go for years without having seen the front of their galpal. So here’s a handy test to check and make sure you have the genuine product. After all, you want to make sure the person you decide to hook up with for the rest of your life can and will win all arguments against you using a brand of perverse logic that will make Socrates sit up and go “Dude, WTF?” You want to be rest assured that if anything should go wrong, she’ll get half of everything you own and spare no quarter at getting it. Somebody has to look after the cold pizza in the ‘fridge.
You don’t want to be playing jammies Twister one night and it accidentally slips in. What happens if you discover prostrate massages are cooler than the latest X-box 360? There’s no turning back.
All my friends – with the exception of one dear friend – are straight. Oftentimes, we will be sitting around watching a movie or a tv commercial when the phrase “She’s a dude!” would ejaculate from their mouths. I am usually tempted to raise my hand and say “Hi, excuse me, I’m sitting right here?” But then I look at the people who’ve had these pronouncements blasted at. Stephanie March from Law and Order SVU (whom I confess the first time I saw her thought to myself “uh…did Macaulay Culkin put on a wig and embark on a new career?”), Jennifer Garner, Hilary Swank…(and insert 90% of the supermodels here). I am never sure whether I should be insulted or pleasantly charmed. On one hand I am “thrown” into the category with all the women I consider beautiful regardless of my trans state. On the other, we’re not talking about Steven Tyler here; if THESE girls “look like dudes,” then that would make me Ernest Borgnine in a flower-print mu-mu.
Stephanie March of Law and Order SVU : I prayed to Jesus she was a dude, because nothing would be sexier than carrying an Anaconda underneath that sexy 2 piece lawyer skirt suit
It does make me wonder how much Roscharch has his hand in this. If you are straight, you would see woman even when there is none. I can’t count the times these same guys go to the supermarket with me and I hear one go “oh sh*t!, I think that’s Megan Fox over there….and you know what? She’s looking right at me. I think she wants me!” And I turn to look but become instantly puzzled: “There’s nothing there but a cucumber that’s fallen in between two whole limes.” To look at an actual woman however – not just any actual women – but beautiful women, and the first thing that comes into your mind is “I see dude.” Well, I won’t say anything, but I’ll definitely think twice when my friends start to comment on my drapes not matching.
Other times, I hear the phrase “she’s a tranny” blurted out as well. I’m not sure what’s worse: “She’s a dude” or “she’s a tranny.” Trannies, I believe are read based on their presentation. Dude is purely physical features. They are both equally insulting. One has bad fashion sense, and the other has features she was born with. Bad fashion sense can reasonably be punished through marathon viewings of Madonna’s entire filmography, but how you come into this world is no fault of yours. Of course, the comment that takes the prize is the one that came from my ex-bf, commenting on a woman who got on a New York subway. “She looks like an ugly woman, or a tranny.” We’ve all hurt someone say that.
So, it’s probably best to be gracious and keep quiet. When she’s not looking, have a peek at her hand. I used this test (also mentioned in an episode of Manswers!) and checked my own mom’s hand the other day.
She’s totally a dude.
No way she’s going near that can of beans from now on!
The Quest for Authenticity: Friend of Dorothy Seeks the Real McCoy (update: Jan 9, 2010)
Sunday, January 10th, 2010
Whenever I spend more than ten minutes talking with any of my relatives- including my mother – the subject of modern China’s utter mediocrity and fakeness in almost every aspect of living (except eating Chinese food and loftily declaring China as No.1) comes up. The conversation unfolds in a tone of dismay, dotted with frequent “ugh’s!” I know we are not unique in our sentiments, for any mention of modern China to another Chinese will immediately invoke a “Don’t. Even. Get. Me. Started.”
Yes, it’s true that most of America is run by borrowed money from China today, and it’s safe to assume that if you don’t see another entry here in 24 hours, I’ve probably been assassinated for this post or this website has been hacked, even though I live half way around the world from China.
It’s not self-hatred. It’s…well, a certain level of scrutiny only allowed to any race of people when discussing their own people. Comics have been doing it for years. Where does one even begin with the Chinese? The total lack of respect for intellectual property, the arrogance and anachronistic consumption of all living organisms for “delicacies,” the manufactured consent, manufactured stock numbers, manufactured news, fake ingredients, smelly drywalls, and the “kiasu” (fear of losing to other people) mentality, the overcompensation by way of brand label worship, and the endless supply of all things fake, copied, deceptive, built on a kaleidoscope of lies.
Sure, they can buy a Buick with all that dishonesty….but ask anyone around the world what they think of the Chinese today, and chances are, most will dispatch a dismissive diatribe that puts the poo in poo-pooing. Is it really worth this sort of ignominy for short term gains, especially when you are talking about one of the greatest civilizations in history? How did it go from the inventors of gunpowder, paper, noodles, compass to these modern day Louis Vuitton-carrying, Burberry-scarfed overgrown infant wannabes? You could say that this is all the handiwork of Mao, who set the nation back by some fifty years; but the truth is, the model for learning in Chinese culture is repetition and duplication. From the first day kids go to school, they are drilled to memorize and repeat what the teacher says. Piano lessons chock full of Fur Elise, multiplication tables, caligraphy lessons, language skills, you name it. The better you can reproduce what is put in front of you, the better your grade.
Unfortunately, this model of education encourages a lifetime of superficial imitation, not analysis nor penetration.
I mention all this because I want to set the foundation for what I’m about to talk about. An average trans person has an uphill battle because she is up against the same charges of counterfeiting (counterfeiting femininity) as the modern mainland Chinese are. Now, as a Chinese (possibly some Japanese in there), AND a trans* person, that normal hill, to me, becomes a personal Everest.
Even though I have only been to mainland China once in my life (and will probably be barred for life after this post), when I am identified with the nationality that is synonymous with cheap knockoffs and fakes, it’s a crippling double-whammy. Non-Chinese trans people have some room to play with. People will think “well, she’s not really a girl….but, hey, at least she can prepare babyfood out of real ingredients.” In my case, the consensus is “well, she’s not really a girl…..and she is also capable of ripping off I-Phone’s design, using cracked software, cooking with imitation truffles, making fake roast pork buns out of chopstick shavings, manufacturing toothpaste with antifreeze, stealing software code, selling crap on Ebay, making drywalls that emanate a fragrance in the house as if you had a visitor who just came from the local Taco Bell after a 2-for-1 bean burrito giveaway, and she could be carrying a fake Louis Vuitton, driving a stolen car, dating a wannabe boyfriend, printing money at home…..”
I know I have said we should all not care what people think. But when you’re up against a wall of doubt, you begin to question how many details in your life are indeed, authentic. You can get away with one gloss if your identity is rooted in a fairly respectable reputation. It’s like a slightly plump girl can still get away with wearing fitted jeans. However, when people see me as trans then associate me with the Chinese who are associated with cheap imitation, I’m like Kirstie Alley in a Brazilian low-rider: the muffin top is enough to get Ethiopians screaming for Jenny Craig trial memberships.
Consequently – even before I consider the trans angle – I have always pushed for originality and authenticity. When we were in bands, I always played and wrote my own lyrics and music. I try to create my own style and look, and steer clear from mimicking women per se. I have a strong disdain for lip-syncing (a big drag favorite) seeing it as “stealing” other people’s voices. We try to create an original Christmas tree in our home each year. I have such a phobia of counterfeiting that I didn’t even feel right using just any girl’s name. When I was dating, I instantly dropped any man who lied to me about his wife, marriage situation, or personal details. I constantly remind people of my age, my height, and the dizzying list of my shortcomings.
There’s simply no allowance for a single detail of phoniness in my life.
It’s not anyone’s fault if they happen to chose dating me. I pity the fact that I can’t provide anyone the luxury of daydreaming a little. Because of this complex I have been forced to be associated with, I crave originality, honesty, authenticity, and the genuine. (There’s nothing sexier to me than a decent man who has led an honest life)
Navigating between two groups that are seen as cultures rooted in imitation, I just can’t afford the psychic cost of knockoffs, whether it be a handbag, a scarf, or an imitation of life.
Let’s put it this way: even when I am wearing loose-fitting jeans, I still need to suck my tummy in.
Dorothy, do you have room for one more?
10 favorite Belle and Sebastian Songs (update: January 2, 2010)
Saturday, January 2nd, 2010
Happy New Year to all gentle readers of d332.com !
I was away, out-of-state, out-of-mind for the holidays. Now I’m back home and clearing mp3s, files, and folders of the year past. Turning a new leaf, trying to be a bit more positive (that’s difficult). But I’ve got 10 happy songs from my favorite Scottish pop-rock band to help me through the storm. Here they are, in order of adoration, #1 being my favoritest.
10. Dress Up In You (from The Life Pursuit)
A great introduction to the music and lyrics of Belle & Sebastian. Poppy, happy-go-lucky music underlie angry bitter lyrics. The first time I heard this song during a marathon Belle and Sebastian listening fest en route to Nova Scotia, I pricked up my ears and paid attention! The Stroop Effect of opposing moods in a song always interests me. Whoever said major chords must accompany happy songs and minor chords sad songs? The vocal accompaniment provided by Sarah Martin is absolutely lovely, reminding me of the first time I stumbled upon Belle and Sebastian: after purchasing Isobel Campbell’s Gentle Waves album.
9. Photo Jenny (from Push Barman to Open Old Wounds)
I believe my friend, with his massive collection of all things B&S, started listening to this band because of this song. My theory is that he was into his 23rd hour of non-stop Jennie Garth internet photo download sessions, when he tossed in variations of a google string search “Photos of Jennie” with “Photos of Jenny.” I think Belle and Sebastian sometimes come dangerously close to sounding like an anthology of pop styles from the past 40 years. This is one of the songs where they achieve a perfect balance between originality and nostalgia.
8. Wrapped Up In Books (Books)
Another beautifully constructed pop song that halts in the middle with a horn break, before a secondary, female vocal interweaves – in that understated way – into a rich texture. Just on a technical level, this piece is a clinic on the marriage between studio production quality and songwriting.
7. Women’s Realm (Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like a Peasant)
I just love the contrast between Stuart Murdoch’s voice and the rich, velvety creaminess of Isobel Campbell’s voice. A song like this gives me hope that new, original things of quality can still be made. Women’s Realm is a re-reading of Motown devices that is so original it brings the form to an entirely new level, almost creating a new genre altogether. Playful channel separation with a balance of string accompaniment and pop instruments, this is one of those songs that really brings a good hi-fi set to life.
6. The Act Of The Apostle Part 2 (from The Life Pursuit)
I’ve always loved songs that stop in the middle and become another song. I tend to write my pop songs as prelude + fugue format, so when I hear that “break” in the middle, I’m always enchanted. The second part of The Act of the Apostle Part 2 is a gorgeous piece of work, multiplying vocals over a hook after memorable hook like an ever expanding sea of melodies.
5. Another Sunny Day (from The Life Pursuit)
I’m sure this is one of the iconic happy Belle and Sebastian songs. Tightly produced, masterfully written with intertwining countrified guitars and a humorous backup vocals that sweetly chime “the referee gives us fuck all”
4. I Know Where the Summer Goes – (from Modern Rock Song)
Another beautiful piece that is so incredibly melodic and singable, a listener basically gets enveloped in the lush beauty of the harmony and luxuriant texture.
3. If You Find Yourself Caught In Love (from Dear Catastrophe Waitress)
People in YouTube have appropriated this song by placing their own images to make it interpretation de facto. Needless to say, religious zealots have also grabbed this piece as a fabu song about their Jebus. Me, all I remembered from this sing-along are the lines “Another TV “I Love 1999″ Just one more box of cheapo wine.” Look at the lyrics carefully, and you will see a message that can be read a multitude of ways. Or not at all.
I love songs that you can just jump up and down to while eating a sno-cone, or write a dissertation on. Not necessarily in that order.
2. Sleep The Clock Around (from The Boy with the Arab Strap)
There are certain songs that always bring back a bittersweet 80s flashback whenever I hear them. Daft Punk’s Veridis Quo is one of them. Scenes of Studio 54, Dynasty (which I have yet to see an episode), Izod’s with sweater wrap-arounds, and a preppy culture that is entirely removed from today’s young A&F consumers. The Moog type synth of Sleep the Clock Around gives me a sweet melancholia that is not unlike the effect Jobim and Gilberto’s music invokes.
There are very few songs that actually inspire me to re-think how I live, and to find a better way. I’m referring to just the aural aspect of the music, not specifically to the lyrics. Although it helps in this song when the duet sings:
And the puzzle will last till somebody will say
“There’s a lot to be done while your head is still young”
If you put down your pen, leave your worries behind
Then the moment will come, and the memory will shine
This is one of those songs that make me rethink how I walk, how I move, and how I see, though my life.
1. Marx and Engels (from Push Barman to Open Old Wounds)
This is my all-time favorite Belle and Sebastian composition. Every note, every bell, every tone is in the right place. The backup vocals is so original that you wonder how the band could have relegated it to a B-side. Genres beyond pop’s realm get brought in: choral, ensemble, jazz…all layered under a melodic line that stays in my head for days with only one listen. This is definitely the type of music that – years later – can bring back a flood of memories when the record is dusted off in a spring cleaning session and played in the seclusion of an attic.
