September 5, 2009
Good Morning. What’s so special about Saturday morning? Depends on whether the Friday night before it was memorably forgotten… Art is said to imitate life, but it is an amazing moment when the imitation collapses in the presence of life as art. Much like that one strikingly familiar stranger from an otherwise forgettable Friday night, Lily Allen is that one perfectly imperfect artist — person — in an otherwise forgettable genre of overproduced pop stars — personas. Her understated introduction to the world, My First Mixtape, was that Saturday morning wake up from the flashy Friday night of Top 40 puffery. Fear not, all isn’t lost in the MySpace generation; for the ten thousand Tila Tequilas there is Lily Allen: the reason, that just so happens to rhyme with silly. Now be polite and allow me to reintroduce herself…
My First Mixtape is a taste of why Rolling Stone said “Lily Allen is not just a pop star. She’s a genre.” Vis a vis, Allen’s albums don’t call for reviews; they call for dissertations.
Continue reading My-Fi: Lily Allen, “My First Mixtape”
Good music speaks volumes… listen, look, and linger in fantastic rhythmic reality: lyrically speaking
I’m scared of dying and not trying, scared of getting old.
I’m scared of telling lies ’cause karma comes and eats me whole.
I’m scared to think about the devil ’cause he takes my soul.
I’m scared of parties, scared of nightmares, scared I’ll lose control.
I don’t like druggies, don’t like bad men, don’t like bitchy girls.
Don’t think it’s healthy holding grudges that won’t save the world.
I don’t like nasty words, they hurt me like you never know.
But don’t think I won’t put on a smiley face and do the show.
Continue reading re:verse : “i” – Nicola Roberts
British tones. Angeles tempos. That’s the point. That you can come to the light amidst darkness, create an echo in the silence. Basilisk beats, She wanders. Homeward-bound, London found in lost Angeles.
Visceral. The vocals emerge from serpent strings, Valkyries returned on ravens wings, crooning tales to be told of once-lived dreams. Jess sings the blues of a sapient soul found in barren canyons of scarred star-trails. The lyrical lens navigates mood and melody, the narrative unfolds within spliced vignettes – into the Pacific Channel on angels we arrive, through the lostlands and Sunset, emerged from neon aquatic.
Tone and timbre, tears and tempos; bricks and mortar for the rhythms we inhabit as our own. Letting go of what you didn’t know you had, that is what this finds with home.
Continue reading My-Fi: Jess Glynne – “Home”