Prosumer + Murat Q&A
The interview w/ Prosumer & Murat is up on Resident Advisor. My tidbits about Prosumer voguing in sex clubs with Danny Wang didn’t make it to the final; ditto for the photo evidence. But you can peep for yourself on Prosumer’s Myspace. I’ve sworn to never publish the rest of the pix or risk being murdered. The artwork for the cover recreating Ike & Tina’s “Outta Season” LP got cut, but today by sheer coincidence I received a stack of promos including the CD with the original. Which makes yours truly, one self-satisfied little music nerd.
If You Have to Ask…
I love it when the dishes pile up. And the recycling, and the laundry. And the deadlines, the bills, the take-out containers and – the pounds. It makes me feel special, secure. Digging around for clean plates, cups, utensils gives me a buzz. The only thing that beats this high is running out of toilet paper in the middle of the night – then calling the deli and having it delivered with a Snickers bar and a Cherry Coke – and a sandwich. Except maybe having them deliver rubbers, a a 40-ouncer, and pack of cigarettes. Explaining to the delivery guy why I haven’t been in the store lately makes me feel mysterious, in demand, like pay-per-view wrestling. What’s he doing, they must be asking themselves. What fabulous, glamorous things? Alone, up there, in that apartment – the one with the clear Christmas lights still dangling off the fire escape like that?
Twitter in action; Heath Ledger at rest
twitter: (TVMediaAG): ALERT heath ledger found dead in nyc
twitter: (alfonsojimenez): Heath Ledger encontrado muerto en NYC
twitter: (RabbiReport): Holy Shit! AP and CNN are reporting Heath Ledger, found dead in a NYC apartment!
: Heath Ledger was found dead Tuesday at a downtown Ma.. http://tinyurl.com/37ztyp
Coachella Gives Good Head
No matter how you like it, East or West, Radio or Portis, 2008’s Coachella Music Fest’s got some super head for you. At least if the online rumor mill is to be believed.
This side of the M-i-crooked letter-humpback buzz, El York & Radiohead, er, headline; while La Gibbons and Portishead throw down steroided new-gazer for the head-loving throngs on that other side.
Fake flyers have been zipping around the net for some time, but the real lineup will be confirmed in a few days at a press conference from…Mexico.
Peep and download new and old Po’head clips and tracks at URB mag.
Milan Menswear Fall 2008
Ok, back to fun!
It’s Fashion Week in Milan. After a quick scan online, the early favorite for best of show is Dolce & Gabbana. Alexander McQueen got me warmed up with his Urban Gaucho shtick; Gucci had me going with its Son-of-Adam-Ant New Romantic Savage vibe; Ferragamo showed the way to blue; and Fendi turned out some smart, sleek and – egad! – timeless coats.
But Dolce & Gabbana made me forget all about them. Their Tin Pan Alley Pimp collection was almost overwhelming – in impression and volume. The jet-set thugs in pageboy caps, awash in grays, browns, suede, fur, and leather man bags went on forever.
I had to look away – or go out and rob a bank. Below, just a few of my favorite, unattainable things for Fall 2008…
HIV Buzz: CCR5
I received a couple of text alerts about breakthroughs on the HIV front this week. First, 273 previously unknown proteins were identified, allowing scientists to focus on denying the virus access to materials it needs to replicate, rather than focusing on trying to deconstruct the virus itself. These proteins are labeled “dependency” factors, and the first drug based on this approach, CCR5, was approved last August. Then came news that as previously thought, an existing medication, “Truvada“, happens to have preventative effects – in mice. The temptation, of course, is for every friend of Dorothy to cry out “Ding dong, the witch is dead.” And in clubs across the country, Truvada is becoming a recreational drug. Not surprisingly, the highest rate of new infections is amongst the younger, urban, mobile set. Armed with text alerts about everyday breakthroughs, they ease on down the yellow brick road, as if the end of the rainbow were right around the corner. Let’s hope they don’t step on any cracks along the way.
(Re)moving Units
It’s been quite a day in online music history. The same day that Apple unleashes a robo-sexy new MacBook Air that you can “pinch”, EMI announces that it is laying off several thousand people (as are Citigroup and possibly Sprint/Nextel). Through it all, the RIAA, rather than foster a creative solution that embraces the changing landscape, digs its heels in and keeps hunting college students. At least a majority of those using Macs are more likely to pay for their downloads (50% versus 16% of PC users). The turnaround and payout of Apple stock was one of 2007’s most pornographic year-end headlines. So, Mac users, you uppity bunch, the future of digital music is in your hands. Musicians, get on the merchandising and touring bandwagon. And Apple – go Green, buyout the Beatles and hire Jay Z already!
Sleazy Listening
Luring disco dollies to a life of vice is not enough. Once there, the budding deviants need a way to find their way around, a guide, a man-on-manifesto, if you will.
Yeah, Bronski Beat published “The Age of Consent” on their inner sleeve as Jimmy Sommerville’s falsetto implored “Why?”; and sure, Boy George cock-teased “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” in his Rasta-Geisha tropicalia. But Soft Cell, in the best Socratic tradition, broke it down for the PYTs (Perverse Young Thangs) in black and blue and white and every other sizzling neon color their s(p)eedy imagination could conjure.
“It’s A Mug’s Game” is not as well-remembered as “Tainted Love” or “Sex Dwarf” but, along with “Down in the Subway” it’s one of my favorite Soft Cell/new wave/pop tunes/torch songs. The throbbing electro epic comes on Big-as-Broadway and builds to a show-stopping, horn-blaring crescendo, exposing all the thrills, pills, and bellyaches of life pranced away among pimps, pushers and prostitutes.
“Oh god its another night/And your head is feeling/Like a lump of lead” – if it wasn’t then, it should be (still) every parent’s worst nightmare. “Mug’s Game” is not the kind of ammo you should hand a hormonal, impatient – and cute – adolescent. KROQ FM served it up “Nonstop” for much of 1982 and 1983; every play on the air and on my turntable and my tape deck drilled the apocalyptic “last-disco” ethos into my impressionable mind.
“It’s a choice between a cab fare home/And a packet of cigarettes/So you choose and the money sticks/In the machine and the manager says/’Tough shit – drink up and leave/Oh god it’s another disease/And you just got rid of the last/You were beginning to feel OK/And the friends you gave it to/Were speaking to you again.”
This, I was certain, was my fate. And it sounded so fabulous, all I could think and sing as I puffed on my clove cigarettes and mirror-danced in my trench coat was, ” I can’t wait until I’m twenty one/And I can tell them all to sod off.” Pa-pa-pa-da-da…
A quarter of a century after the fact, all I can say is, “Je regret rien.” It is a mug’s game, one you can’t win for losing. Even then, winning is a dubious delight, and not for the faint at heart…
Sole Searching
As any New Yorker will tell you, at least one good pair of shoes is de rigueur in this pedestrian oasis. You can usually tell how far along someone is in their New York life cycle by their shoe collection. Newbies tend to have a few old pairs they cling to like safety blankets linking them to their comfort zones. After a season or two, the sharper ones wise up and ditch the ratty nostalgia for more practical, stylish walkabouts. Eventually the adjectives switch place and style trumps sensibility. And so on, until through a confluence of subway riding, job interviewing, party-hopping and Fashion Week exposure, they become fluent in the unspoken language of shoe-reading. Women have been practicing this craft all over the world for millenia, but at the turn of the 21st century, NYC is perhaps the only American city that indulges and encourages Men to follow suit, right down to their soles, until they too are prone to throwing shoe fits in front of god, girl and country.
Last weekend, before Terre went traipsing off to Machu Pichu, we went sole searching. He couldn’t finish packing without a new pair. For Peru? Let’s see, what matches donkey-riding butt rashes? In my village, we call them chanclas, and our moms tend to throw them across the room at us when they’re not smashing cucarachas with them. I tagged along with him to Soho because I haven’t bought any since last season when, like a real New Yorker, I bought two pair – one for work, one for play. By this math, there should be 8 new shoes in your closet every year, the cost of which could pay someone’s rent in any other city. My pad is a shoe-less zen zone, and with every new pair that clutters up my foyer, I feel more at home.
The store we went to was on Broadway, below Houston. It was packed with homeboys, fly girls, and a smattering of Euro tourists and Japanese hipsters. The guys working the store were serving up b-boy style with their angled caps (“lids”), hoodies, chains, trimmed beards. The customers were unruly but civilized, calling dibs with nods and sighs. Boxes and tissue paper flew above our heads, before our faces and yes, underfoot. Groans, often from the size 8-9 set like me, signaled dashed hopes. Self-conscious props, like Wall Street caterwauling, moved stock back and forth in a snap. Terre went through the appropriate stages of shopping – he started with the pair he really wanted, sampled a few other distractions, made a few substitutions and eventually went back and walked out wearing the pair that kick-started our kicks-hunt. I, alas, found nothing. A few things came close, but nothing stuck. Until…
A couple days ago, I found myself at Shoe Mania in Union Square. As Techno videos blared over the monitors giving the space an Ibizan vibe accentuated by the Italian and German accents asking for shoes in Euro sizes, I made my way through the racks. The first pair to stop me was a pair of green leather Vans slip-ons with little dollar sign logos in the lining. Next, I spotted a pair of Puma Moon Jammies in black with red and orange details. After negotiating with the Bronx dykes, I wrangled the clerk to find both of these in my size. He came back empty-handed. Curse my damn averageness, I texted to Twitter on my Crackberry. It was a second-pair half-price sale, so I could not walk out shoe-less again, especially with a new credit card in as many weeks burning a whole in my wallet and soul.
As I went down the line – La Coste, Nike, Puma, Tsubo, Merrell, blah blah, I nearly conceded defeat. Then, there they were, on the Adidas rack – the pair I could daydream of sleeping in. They were slim, snug slip-on booties that stretched at the curved ankles, black with dark blue stripes and little breathing holes on the upper, capped with a wee brass logo on the back – the Adidas Porsche CLM. I approached cautiously, wary of being burned again. With a deep breath and a resigned air, I sent the clerk off to that parallel universe to fetch the cure for all that ails me. Therapy, religion, narcotic diatribes, nothing could reverse my genetic and social flaws – but these shoes, this could be a start. 
While I waited, I couldn’t stop thinking about the discount on the second pair. I went back to the green Vans and noticed the display model was size 8.5, just under the 9 I usually wear. When the clerk came back with a blue box snuggled under his arm, I felt my fortune turning. Emboldened and greedy, I sweet-talked him into letting me try and buy the display pair. I could order them online, or find them in another store, but that’s clearly not the point. During the time that he was gone – again – I tried on the CLMs and had a slow, internal petite morte, leaning back, sighing, steeped in deep tristesse.
I was snapped out of my glaze by Terre buzzing on the crackberry – from Machu Pichu? “Now that you’ve been to the mountaintop, did you see the mothership,” I asked, creeped out by the fact that reception reached way down there. Ignoring his complaints of altitude sickness, I texted him a play by play of my crisis. The clerk had returned and I was desperately, publicly squeezing my Geisha foot into the smaller size to no avail. I was prepared to live with a bit of discomfort in return for the instant gratification, but these were actually cutting off my circulation. Quoting T’s catch phrase du jour, I texted back – “I can’t, I just can’t…” I couldn’t bring myself to handing them back to the clerk, so I set them down next to another box and took the long way to the register. Outside, I sat on the steps of Union Square as the skaters whizzed by and slipped them on. “Nice kicks,” someone muttered. “Yes, they are…” I beamed.
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