Author Archives: Jorge Farah

About Jorge Farah

I am the opposite of Prince.
February 8, 2012

Angst! Neuroses! Guitar!: Six Songs to Pine Over Unobtainable Girls to

By Jorge Farah

“But don’t forget the songs that made you cry
and the songs that saved your life;
Yes, you’re older now, and you’re a clever swine
but they were the only ones who ever stood by you”

Each year I look forward to my trip back to my hometown for a number of reasons. Obviously, I love reconnecting with my family and hanging out with old friends, as well as that nice little respite from the madcat bustling of Buenos Aires… but also, I love that oddly intoxicating feeling of walking around old haunts and reminiscing. It’s a sensation that blends familiarity with total foreignness, that always leaves me feeling like I’ve been racking my brain, trying to conjure up details from some half-remembered movie I watched a decade ago.

Songs help me remember. As an angsty teenager living in a city that never quite felt like my home, I’d usually find comfort in my old trusty discman and my stack of CDs. Couple that with my teenage propensity to develop massive crushes on the girls I was friendly with at school, and what you get is a whole lot of emo. And just the other day as I was walking past the streets where as a young man I discovered the wonderfully destructive effects of alcohol as an uninhibiter, where I embarrassed myself with drunken sincerity blasts that would be contritely taken back in the morning, and peeking into the room in which I’d lock myself with nothing but my music to accompany me, I came to the sudden realization that I used to be a fucking wuss.

Even though these songs occupy a place in my heart and iTunes library, they don’t quite resonate the way they used to while I was scribbling attempts at poetry in my chemistry notebooks. To be young is to be sad, and these maudlin laments lost some of their powers after I grew out of teenage histrionics (but wait, have I?), melodramatic thumbsucking took a back seat to actually living life (but wait, has it?) and sex became a regular thing that I could get with minimal effort (but wait, did it?). Still, they help me remember, and remember I do.

Weezer- “El Scorcho”

Before Weezer morphed into the most confounding and out-of-touch-but-are-they-really act this side of post-reunion Smashing Pumpkins, they made a gloriously strange album called “Pinkerton”, containing songs exploring the topics of unrequited love, crippling insecurity and Asian schoolgirl fetish. It was a brilliant record, building on the promise of their self-titled debut and showcasing the sound of a band playing around with their own compositional limits; much like what you hear when you listen to Pavement’s “Wowee Zowee”, it’s a sound that, while tentative, is really exciting and fresh. This particular track is a rousing, fist-pumping and brilliantly off-kilter pop song that is also the musical equivalent to a schoolyard note reading “DO U LIKE ME? YES/NO”. I know the lyrics very well.

The Buzzcocks- “Why Can’t I Touch It?”

Perhaps the more obvious choice would’ve been the incredibly catchy and melodically genius “Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t've)”, but this song always shook me to the core. Perhaps it’s because the stopstutter rhythm and sugary-sweet melody goes especially well with lyrics that are really about frustration and despondency. That horrible feeling of knowing exactly how things should be, but being completely powerless, under the crushing weight of your own self-doubt, to make it happen. Thus, “it” remains a pipe dream, the unobtainable, only because of a paralyzing fear of rejection. I am also pretty sure this song is about getting laid.

Frank Sinatra- “This Love of Mine”

This really is the ultimate torch song. The closer for “In The Wee Small Hours”, Frank Sinatra’s dimly-lit smokey-ballad concept record masterpiece, this is a glorious love song that manages to be morose as well as quixotically stouthearted. I discovered “In The Wee Small Hours” through my grandfather’s Sinatra fanaticism, and this was always one of my favorite songs– the melody is gorgeous, the arrangement dreamy. I’ve gone through several spurts of listening to this obsessively since I found it. One time in high school, a girl I was hopelessly crushing on asked me to make her a mix-CD of “upbeat rock songs”. I stacked it full of punk, indie rock and some ska, then left this song in as the closing track. I was trying to send a message. All she wanted to talk about was how much she liked the Save Ferris track preceding it.

Archers of Loaf- “Web in Front”

I first heard this song in the Mallrats soundtrack, of all places. I really don’t think there’s anything that captures the very essence of teen angst through the prism of unrequited love better than the lines “and there’s a chance that things will get weird, yeah that’s a possibility… though I didn’t do anything, I didn’t do anything” sung against power chords and reverb-laden guitar arpeggios. It really is a little nugget of pop-rock genius– even to this day, I can’t listen to the song just once.

Elliott Smith- “Alameda”

It starts with 15 year old Jorge Farah, angry at a world who just doesn’t understand him and a girl who is too goddamn dense to realize that he is the one, staying home on Friday night instead of going out and actively pursuing her. He’ll talk himself into believing it’s everybody else that’s the problem, not him. He’ll scoff at the notion that there’s any sort of responsibility on his end to actually take control of the direction things are going, and he’ll insist that if she’s just too stupid to realize what is so obvious to everyone else, she doesn’t even deserve to have him around in any capacity, platonic or otherwise. He’ll build himself up as a misunderstood loner who is so far past the carefree banality that come with adolescence… and then he’ll find this song, with its bitter and unrelentingly truthful chorus, and his little world is completely shattered by it.

The Smiths- “I Don’t Owe You Anything”

Of course, you can’t have a list of this kind without including at least one song from The Smiths– and there are so many songs to choose from. “I Know It’s Over”, “Last Night I Dreamt that Somebody Loved Me”, “There is a Light That Never Goes Out”, all these songs served as beacons of self-pity to this despondent teenager. But “I Don’t Owe You Anything” is a special kind of woeful– a melodically understated song that sounds more resigned than over-the-top histrionic. ”Did I really walk all this way just to hear you say ‘oh, I don’t want to go out tonight’?”

It’s fun to sit here and think about all these songs and judge my teenage self for being such a whiny goddamn loser. But, social and outgoing as I’ve grown, that is still me, buried beneath layers of gregariousness. There is no cutoff line between the person I was back then and the person I am now. There’s no definite moment of transformation. There’s no point from which I’m standing away. It all adds up. It’s all exponential. Every single experience from when I was fifteen and sixteen is still with me. Every moment of regret, every sudden feeling of inadequacy. And it’s like a chasm, or a well that can be tapped into, with the right combination of places, faces and music. There’s an unlimited potential for heartbreak and deception in that backwater reservoir inside all of us. In the angles and the sideways glances, in the little corners we know better than to peek into.

Well, some of us, anyway.

17 comments | posted in Music

January 26, 2012

A Downer and a Half: 5 Music Documentaries About Failure & Disappointment

By Jorge Farah

Music documentaries are often flat-lined, ordinary hagiographies that follow a fairly straightforward formula: humble beginnings, rise to prominence, personal/artistic decline, settling into stable elder-statesmanship. This progression is usually punctuated by lurid tales of scandal and drama, and manufactured (or, more often than not, Hollywood-heightened) inner turmoil that inevitably leads to the temporary implosion of the project, only to be followed by the rise back to the top (or, more accurately, the comfortable plateau they’ve convinced themselves is the top).

A big reason for this, and what most musicians refuse to believe, is that their lives are generally not that interesting. The generic template results in a story that has been told thousands of times before, in hundreds of different permutations. Generally, the artists being made films about are the same artists who are doing well enough to have secured the proper attention, funding and general interest to justify a feature film; chances are they’ve gone through the same process as those that came before them, resulting in yet another rise-fall-rise story. To be clear: not all of these “standard” stories make for boring films. A good filmmaker will draw attention away from the pedestrian story to provide insights on the music itself, create a visual representation of the musician’s general aesthetic, or simply show the musician in their environment, doing what they do best. These approaches are generally preferable to the Vh1 Behind the Music band biography format, and will generally result in more satisfying viewing.

For the last couple of months I’ve been thinking about failure quite a lot. I realize that’s a bit unusual, but it makes sense; I’m kicking several projects into gear and my mind veers into the turgid waters of “what if it doesn’t work out?”. I’ve been fascinated with documentaries that deal with disappointment. Stories of struggling to make a mark in the music world and either succeeding temporarily and then disastrously falling from grace, or never succeeding at all. Stories without the victorious third-act rise from the ashes. Stories about people falling out of love with music, and the crushing sadness that such a small thing can entail. Stories that leave you a bit uneasy. The humble retreat away from the limelight. Here are a few examples of those types of films.

“Let’s Get Lost” (1988)

Chet Baker has long been one of my favorite jazz singers and trumpet players, and I can’t think of another example of someone’s singing voice sounding so remarkably similar to their instrument; they both convey an understated, quiet sadness in their registers and melodic turns. It’s the same sadness that runs through the whole of  Bruce Weber’s brilliant “Let’s Get Lost”, a beautiful and desolate study of the most iconic and troubled figure in the West Coast jazz scene of the 1950s.

The movie shows us two Chet Bakers– the early Baker, charming, impossibly handsome and the living embodiment of the word “smooth”– in sharp contrast with latter-day Baker, a detached, embittered, crumbling statue of a man. Baker’s story is told in subdued black and white, interviews with friends, family members and lovers interspersed with live footage from his later years, with gorgeous music serving as the glue that holds the narrative together. What really gets to me the most about this film is the crushing honesty and unadorned detachment with which some of it is presented, then quickly turning its protagonist human again for just the right amount of time. Much like Chet Baker himself, his unpredictable temperament made all the more intense by the drugs. 

There are no excuses made here for Chet. No cognitive reframing. The downfall is not a consequence of the capricious shifts in a fickle industry. The blame is put entirely on our protagonist, who remains oddly unperturbed by it. Going from working with legends like Charlie Parker and Gerry Mulligan to struggling to find work in the span of a few years, it becomes apparent that his genius took a backseat to his crippling addiction. We see a man whose world gradually whittles down to one thing: the high that “scares everyone else to death”. A devastating portrait of a tragic figure.

“Do it Again” (2010)

The Kinks have the peculiar distinction of being simultaneously legendary and tragically underrated. As far as I’m concerned, Ray Davies and company should be mentioned in the same breath as The Beatles, The Who and other British luminaries of the 1960s– as it stands, this happens almost exclusively in the internet, where legions of obnoxious bloggers bray indignantly about how underrated they are. I am glad to join their ranks with this post.

This wonderfully odd film is not so much about The Kinks themselves as it is about a man coming to grips with the end of his youth. Geoff Edgers, reporter for the Boston Globe and avid Kinks fanatic, in a wide-eyed quest to remind the world of how amazing the band was, decides to try to get them back together. He initiates a campaign that involves everything from busking in Hyde Park to coercing his interview subjects into joining him on impromptu singalongs of their favorite Kinks tunes (which provides plenty of comedic awkwardness to the whole ordeal– Paul Weller outright refuses, Sting embarrasses himself by forgetting the words to “You Really Got Me”, and Zooey Deschanel, surprisingly, turns out to be the most knowledgeable and enthusiastic of all interviewees).

The film itself hinges on the likability of Edgers and his contagious enthusiasm for the project– with his stuttering rants on the power of music and his endearingly awkward demeanor, we pull for him as an audience, even knowing that his quest is doomed from the start. When faced with Dave Davies, one of the few people who could revive The Kinks, he meets a rude awakening: the project is dead– the time has passed, the wounds are too deep and everyone involved just wants to move on with their lives, leaving Edgers out in the cold. In the end, it’s a lesson in humility, managing expectations and letting go. The scene playing as the credits roll is a rousing acoustic rendition of Weird Al’s parody of Kinks classic “Lola”– “Yoda”– delivered in a classroom full of preschoolers. After 90 minutes of following Edgers around the world and trying hard to get his favorite back together, it’s a bittersweet moment that manages to weave humor and disappointment into something sublime.

“Dig!” (2004)

“Dig!” is a film that is so outrageous and ludicrous at times, you get the distinct feeling you’re watching a mockumentary. A study of the overlapping histories of two bands I’d thought of as entirely independent and insulated– The Dandy Warhols and The Brian Jonestown Massacre– and their contrasting career trajectories, this film places you smack-dab in the middle of what I guess is called a “scene”. These bands are determined to work together to start a new indie revolution, their relationship slowly souring when one of them is picked up by a major label and the other starts to slowly fall apart at the seams. It’s an indie-rock reality show… set to great music.

Though represented least favorably here (in terms of mental stability and general human decency), the film’s most fascinating player is Anton Newcombe, frontman for The Brian Jonestown Massacre.  The volatile temper and brash arrogance displayed in this film can steal attention away from the man’s immense musical genius. A prolific and innovative songwriter, it kind of hurts to see his work overlooked in favor of The Dandy’s (still interesting, yet decidedly blander) work, and you genuinely take his side for a bit– before you remember he’s kind of an unreasonable jerk.

As the film winds down, however, we learn that neither band really took off, and the “revolution” amounted to little more than a few drunken punchups and a mountain of debt. But with tunes this sick, does it even really matter?

“The Devil and Daniel Johnston” (2005)

I watched this film online just the other night, for the first time since I first saw it in the 2006 Buenos Aires Independent Film Festival, and it got me thinking about Daniel’s music again. In some ways, I kind of wish it didn’t exist. Not because it’s bad– in fact, it’s an incredible film, not just because of its genuinely moving story but it’s also a great piece of documentary filmmaking in its own right. But it does seem, at times, like an unnecessary explanation. For years and years, Daniel’s haunting and fragile songs confounded the world– just what is this guy babbling about? Is he for real? Can he sing? Is he putting on a voice? Is he a mad genius?– and this film provides actual answers. Makes Daniel less of a tormented cartoon character. Makes him real. At times, terrifyingly so.

But no, I’m glad it does exist, because Daniel’s story is wonderful in the same measure as it is tragic and a little scary. This is the story of a man wrestling against his own demons– for him, quite literally, as he became convinced he was possessed by the devil– and using his musical instruments to purge his soul, resulting in low-fi recordings that would prove to be reasonable facsimiles of majestic pop songs. His struggles with bipolar disorder and self destructive behavior, his crushingly sad love story and fixation on death occupy the same place in his lyrics as they do in his everyday life; these are real specters hanging over his head, waiting.

Today, Daniel lives with his elderly parents. He’s gotten better, and has been recording and performing live more often. He’s drawing more, his crude illustrations selling for numbers that would make most artists incredibly jealous. And, thanks in part to this film, his status as a cult hero is more firmly cemented in music history. But in his eyes and in his words, there’s an inexorable sadness, an emptiness; it’s like he’s not even with us anymore.

“End of the Century: The Story of the Ramones” (2003) 

Nothing about the Ramones screams “rock stars”, so they weren’t. As much as they perfected the art of the four-chord pop song, incorporating heavy rock riffs into melodic teenage love songs, a group of denim-clad dorky-looking weirdos singing about sniffing glue and pinheads was never going to be topping the charts. I’ve already told my own Ramones story; they’ve always been one of the most significant and influential bands in my life, yet for the longest time I knew absolutely nothing about them. I kind of liked it that way, keeping a certain mythical air to them; in certain ways, they’re like costumed superheros, or a fictional street gang, or a pack of fucking wolves with guitars. Much like with the Daniel Johnston documentary, this was my first exposure to them as actual people. And it was… something.

This film starts off by putting you in the cultural context that led to the existence of the Ramones: mid-70s NYC, the grown-ups have abandoned the city in favor of the suburbs, music was boring and muted except for a few bands like the Stooges and New York Dolls. And so The Ramones came together, combining the aggression of those bands with the melodic sensibilities of Phil Spector, The Beatles and the Beach Boys, and played together for over 20 years in a career rife with drama, mental disorder, a string of disappointments, without so much as a hit to show for it. The anger surrounding their inability to break through to the mainstream even when everything seemed to accommodate it (the mid-90s punk boom), is reflected in interviews with the band members, friends and peers in the industry.

The personality conflicts present in the band are also explored in the documentary. Notably, Johnny (guitar) and Joey (vocals) were complete opposites; Johnny being a right-wing disciplinarian, Joey being a left-wing hypochondriac. Not only that, but Johnny actually took Joey’s girl from him (a betrayal which completely killed their relationship, and they went without talking to each other for 15 years– even while being in the same band and playing shows together every night). Dee Dee was a heroin-addicted nut, the drummers (Tommy, Marky, Richie and then Marky again) were all flakes or alcoholics. Radio wasn’t playing their songs. 20 years into their career, they were still playing tiny clubs. And yet, they kept on. Because there was nothing else for a group of people this dysfunctional to do.

The movie ends with a small vindication of sorts– after Joey’s death from Lymphoma, the band is finally recognized for all their hard work and influence, and are inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Dee Dee, finally clean and sober, steals the show with his humor. It’s all smiles. All pats in the back. But then backstage, as we see Dee Dee turn down a hall, we are told that a couple of months later he dies of a heroin overdose. And it hits like a ton of bricks.

And you kind of wish they had stayed fictional, in your mind, forever.

1 comment | posted in Movies, Music

January 22, 2012

An Open Mea-Culpa to Daniel Johnston

By Jorge Farah

Dear Daniel,

I’m sorry. I’ve been neglecting you. I’ve been taking your music for granted. I’ve been a bad fan. I’ve forgotten. And because of my capricious and haphazard listening habits, this has happened and will happen time and time again. I’ll be idly hooked up to my iPod on shuffle when it’ll shift from some John Coltrane live performance, all majestic pomp and pout, to one of your fragile, beautiful and desolate songs. And I’ll be knocked over backwards, guaranteed, every single time. And I’ll be crushed. And I’ll angrily ask myself “why am I not listening to the songs of this mad genius every single day?”. And I will have no answer.

The fact of the matter is that there’s nothing out there that affects me in the same way as your songs do. There are many musicians who get to me on a number of different levels, but none elicit the kind of visceral reaction your music does. And there are musical approximations, sure– your songs run the gamut from psychedelic rock to Tin Pan Alley influenced numbers, through hushed folk ballads and experimental outbursts of abstraction. But even at your most polished, that voice will always demolish me. Quivery and childlike and heartbreaking and honest.

And yes, you were (are) unwell, in some ways, but more importantly, you were (are) in love. Doesn’t it sometimes feel like the same thing? To take solace in the mere thought of another, from a distance. How many songs did you write about her? When did you first realize she would never return the affections you poured her way? Did this make you angry and fuel your creativity? And at what cost? An entire life of pining for this woman after not seeing her for years, a statue that you created in your mind to kiss? And the crushing blow from learning she had married someone else. Did this seal your fate? Or did it not even matter anymore? Was your love for her yours, regardless of what she may say or do?
The world was not ready for your songs. It still isn’t, and who knows if it ever will be. They’re too pure, too unpolished, too unabashed. When your body joins you where your spirit has gone, how will you be remembered– as a legend or as an asterisk? As an artist or a novelty? As a musician or documentary subject? When clips of your songs are played on the radio during stories announcing your passing, how many listeners will lift their eyebrows in bemusement? Some of us, we understand. We listen to your recordings and your tentative strumming and the uncertainty of your voice and the simple and true words in your songs and we’ll see it– we’ll see what Cobain saw in you, what Elliott Smith saw in you.

They’re gone. And even though your body is still here, your spirit is gone as well. There’s a reason why you introduce yourself as “the ghost of Daniel Johnston”. We took you for granted, and you deserved so much better.

3 comments | posted in Music

January 18, 2012

Five Legendary Memes That Wouldn’t Exist Under SOPA

By Jorge Farah

Earlier today, as I was swapping pictures of dogs in funny outfits with a friend, I thought quietly to myself, “the internet is a truly wonderful place”. And it really is. It has filled my everyday existence with insurmountable joy and burned through countless hours of my life with the ability of its denizens to populate it with such wonderful absurdity. And this all stems from the way information is transmitted freely across communities, gaining momentum and becoming what is known in the internet parlance as “memes”.

But these memes are mostly variations on a source, and this source is usually taken from a piece of work that is copyrighted. By this point, you have probably heard of SOPA (“Stop Online Pirating Act”) and PIPA (“Protect Intellectual Property Act”), two bills in the House of Representatives and Senate of the United States that, although noble in their intentions, could potentially be a horribly dangerous block on the free internet and signal a terrifyingly real step towards internet censorship. You can read the specifics here and here. Sites that are accused of being in breach of too-broad copyright laws are in danger of being shut down without a trial or court hearing. Small sites, communities and non-profits will lack the resources to defend themselves. These bills are sloppily drafted and potentially very dangerous to the free distribution of information (read “free” as in an 11 year old kid reading the Wikipedia page on MLK, not just a grubby nerd downloading all 4 seasons of Breaking Bad off a torrent).

Today, Wikipedia took a public stance: they blacked out the English version of their site to spread awareness of these bills and the potential harm they represent to the free internet. And the public has overwhelmingly opposed SOPA. My friend Dan pointed out that, if SOPA were to take effect, a lot of the memes we know and love would likely not exist, which got me thinking. These are admittedly silly examples, but they’re meant to illustrate ways in which our daily internet life would be different if this bill passed, which only hints at the more serious consequences this could have. Here are 5 awesome memes that would not exist if SOPA had its way.

Dramatic Prairie Dog

This little guy has delighted millions of viewers for years, the original youtube video having over 30 million views, with its hundreds of duplicate videos doubling that number.

What a lot of people don’t realize is that this adorable/horrifying clip has its origins in a Japanese TV show by the name of “Hello! Morning”, set to a music sample taken from John Morris’s score to the 1974 film “Young Frankenstein”. Both the video clip and the music are under copyright. According to SOPA, this copyright infringement could result in shutting down any site that hosted this video, forever depriving us of his furry histrionics.

Xzibit “Yo Dawg”

Xzibit’s career as a rapper has pretty much taken a backseat to his career as an actor and TV personality, which in ITSELF has taken a backseat to his career as an internet meme. As the host of MTV’s “Pimp My Ride”, Mr. X-to-the-Z became notorious for putting unnecessary and over-the-top gadgets and electronics into cars, based off the car owner’s interests. Sometime in 2007, some clever internetter took a picture of a smiling Xzibit and coupled it with the caption above, which gave way to thousands of variations (of varying degrees of quality, as with every meme) and even an angry reaction from the man himself.

Unfortunately for the internet, the image used for this meme comes from a promo photoshoot for the movie “Gridiron Gang”, and it is copyrighted; thus, if you are a webmaster and you posted a variation of this meme, it is fair play for your site to be shut down under SOPA.

All Your Base Are Belong to Us

The grandaddy of internet memes. What can be said about this that hasn’t been said already? This wonderful piece of lunacy is an example of what is known in the internet parlance as “Engrish”, which refers to the less-than-stellar and often hilarious use of the English language as translated from East-Asian languages. The dialogue from the introductory sequence of video game “Zero Wing” is absolutely hysterical, and I challenge anyone to read through the animation above and not crack a smile.

Unfortunately, you know the drill… all your copyright belong to Toaplan and Taito, and you have no chance to survive SOPA make your time. (awful. I know.)

The Rickroll

For a period of a few months in early 2008 I couldn’t click on any link– ANY link– without the slight suspicion that it might be a rickroll. Think about this one for a minute… the fact that we’re so used to the concept at this point may make it hard to comprehend just how strange and patently absurd the rickroll is. You send somebody a link, ostensibly directing them to a website of interest, a picture, a video of an awesome song, or porn– but instead, they get the music video to Rick Astley’s insufferable 1987 hit, “Never Gonna Give You Up”.

It’s baffling in the same measure as it is absolutely delightful… or it was, for a while, until Astley himself joined in on the joke. Then it got lame, and I went back to sending masked links to Goatse and Lemonparty instead.

Sad Keanu

On May of 2010, actor Keanu Reeves sat down on a park bench and ate a sandwich. A Slash News photographer by the name of Ron Asadorian snapped a picture of the very morose-looking actor and it found its way online. Then, magic happened; the picture captured the imaginations of thousands of clever photoshoppers, who proceeded to insert Sad Keanu in all sorts of hysterical situations, resulting in one of the least likely memes in internet history. We don’t know if Keanu as feeling particularly gloomy that day. All we know is that his sadness inspired us.

But, as you’ve probably guessed, the picture is copyrighted, and Splash News has issued DMCA takedown notices on blogs for posting it. Under SOPA, there would be no questions asked, no fair trial or hearing, and any site hosting this picture could potentially be taken down. And that would make Keanu sad*.

*disclaimer: I don’t know if it would actually make Keanu sad. probably not. whatever.

Again, I realize these are all silly and frivolous examples, but the bottom line is: the internet as we know it, in all its absurd and nonsensical beauty, is in danger. Many artist communities, small non-profits and databases may be shut down for technicalities. These bills are well-meaning, but need to be seriously looked at and improved. I agree that the existence of the internet has done terrible things to artists’ ability to earn off their work, and it needs to be reevaluated and controlled, but this is not the way. These badly drafted bills are myopic at best and… I’ll use an euphemism here, lest I come off as a paranoid conspiracy theorist… a step in the “wrong direction” at worst.

Sign Google’s petition to oppose a censored internet here.

3 comments | posted in Internet

January 12, 2012

Bedhead Melodies #3: The Magnetic Fields- “You’re My Only Home”

By Jorge Farah

I caught “Strange Powers: Stephin Merritt and the Magnetic Fields” at the tail end of the BAFICI festival a couple years ago. Somehow I’ve developed this bizarre habit of bookending my BAFICI itinerary every year with films about music. Last year it was “Look at What the Light Did Now” and “Upside Down”. The year before that, it had been “Strange Powers” that served as the sullen denouement to a week and a half of not sleeping enough. It was a fitting end to the festival, the walk back home at 2 AM being more or less the equivalent to that dirgy post-carnival scene; rides and stands boarding up, leaving behind only the torn-up tickets in the wet grass. And the wonderfully sad songs of Stephin Merritt playing in my headphones, lulling me back into routine.

As a film– as a documentary– “Strange Powers” is simply okay. Culled together from 10 years’ worth of footage and stories, it still manages to feel stretched out too thin, its analysis superficial and lightweight. Putting too much stock on the wry likability of its subject, it ends up coming across as a fluff piece and borderline hagiography. But for someone who’s already well attuned to the Magnetic Fields sound and aesthetic, it is nothing less than a treat, especially for the brief peeks and glimpses it allows into the creative process of Stephin Merritt and his band.

I will admit to not having an encyclopedic knowledge on The Magnetic Fields. And it breaks my heart, because I really love their music; their elegant wordplay, their almost compulsive eclecticism, the boldness and width of their sonic palette. There’s a sense of adventure in their records, one that challenges that silly notion that “genre exercise” is somehow a dirty concept, something to stay away from lest one be perceived as a musical tourist. And while it could be argued that Merritt– a songwriter who is very much in the vein of the Gershwins and Porters of old– takes an approach that values craftsmanship over inspiration, it only takes a listen to his magnum opus 69 Love Songs to obliterate the notion that this approach can’t result in gorgeous and thrilling pop songs.


69 Love Songs is the crowning achievement in a career that’s been all about attempting to separate the “love” from the love song. As the title implies, it is a record made up of 69 songs, spread over 3 LPs, covering a wide range of genres (most falling within the amplest definitions of “pop”), with the one unifying thread being the topic of love in all its forms. While that sounds like it’d make for a mildly interesting yet ultimately desultory collection, Merritt creates an album rich in melody and charm that more than holds up throughout its 172-minute playing time. Each song a gem in its own way– some silly, some sad, some over-the-top saccharine and some breathtakingly stark.

“You’re My Only Home” is one of the quieter tracks, a beauty buried in track 9 of volume 2. The music is made up entirely of thick globs of synthesizer; an impossibly deep and serene synth line being pulled up by the harmonies surrounding it, settling into a circular melody line. It’s a song of complete surrender and total devotion, underscored by a deep sadness and fear; fear of rejection, of being left alone. It’s a different kind of torch song; Merritt’s crooning voice is not impassioned or perfervid, like the rousing moments in Sinatra’s “One for My Baby”; there’s no fire simmering underneath his words. Instead, his voice sounds tired, listless, resigned. This song isn’t a grandiose statement of devotion. It is a languid plea.

A big chunk of “Strange Powers” is spent discussing Merritt’s ability to write these impersonal, yet beautiful, love songs. To remove himself and that dreaded confessional quality from his music and to create three-minute fictions. And throughout most of 69 Love Songs, this rings true– surely “Papa Was a Rodeo” isn’t autobiographical, and “Zebra” sounds like a musical number from a forgotten 1950s movie– but somehow “You’re My Only Home” feels genuine, honest. It feels like the only song in the album in which Merritt isn’t wearing a mask. And maybe that’s why it resonates so much with me. Or maybe it’s that sweet-ass synth line. Who knows.


Listen to the lovely “You’re My Only Home” here:

“Bedhead Melodies” is a really ridiculous term I am using to refer to a very specific kind of song– usually quiet, sad and romantic– that will pop up on my iPod’s shuffle mode late late at night and put me in a special kind of mood. A weepy, mushy, waffley, write-long-emails-to-ex-girlfriends mood. Yes. The next morning I’m embarrassed, they’re embarrassed, nobody’s happy. Basically, what I’m saying is, I should really go to bed.

Leave a comment   |  tags: | posted in bedhead melodies, Movies, Music

January 4, 2012

375 Hours: A Resolution

By Jorge Farah

I thought about naming it something dramatic, like Project250 (meant to be read as “two-fifty”, for extra awesomeness) or Film Challenge 2012 or even just FC2012 (the shortened name making it sound more like a summer blockbuster or sporting event), but in the end, it is what it is: a resolution.

Liz demonstrates what I intend to do in the next 12 months. I mean, sorta.

The idea had its genesis in an online message board (internet message boards being the springboard for pretty much every good idea in the history of the world) when someone, on one of those end-of-year retrospective posts about the movies of 2011, started off with the disclaimer “I watched very few movies this year, about 160 instead of the usual 200ish”. I stopped reading right there. 160 movies in a year qualifies as “very few”? And 200 movies is some sort of agreed-upon movie-buff normative? And… holy shit… if so, just how far behind am I?

Of course, being the ruthless internet tough-guy that I am, this post triggered the usual impulse to go “NEERRDDD!”. I held back, though, partly because the poster was a genuinely nice guy and probably made that post without a tinge of snideness or condescension, and partly because I recognized the opportunity to put one of my New Year’s resolutions into practice: to be kinder to strangers on the internet (a resolution that was broken shortly afterwards, however, on a thread about “How I Met Your Mother”). But my dismay was genuine.

I feel like I should clarify, lest I come off as a poseur dilettante, that I’m a fanatic of the Seventh Art. A would-be filmmaker, I fancy myself a true movie buff; no film is too obscure, too mainstream, too indie or too foreign, I devour them with the enthusiastic dilligence of a homeless man digging into a piece of rotisserie chicken (please note: I am having a bad metaphor day). I review movies for other sites. I take residence in film festivals. And yet, 200 in a year seemed like such a ridiculous amount. How does one remain social and productive while routinely watching 200 movies, on average, over the course of one year? How can one maintain some semblance of a life?

And then that got me thinking about the amount of movies I actually watch. One thing my father instilled in me from childhood was the habit of going to the movie theater by myself when I need to clear my head. It’s something I still do to this day from time to time. The movie theater is still one of my favorite things to do with friends and on dates since it provides great conversational fodder. All in all, I’d say I go to the movies about once a week, on average. Then there’s the movies I watch at home, either by renting or through other, less conventional methods. I’d say, being realistic, that’s about two a week (again, on average; there are weeks I’ll be too consumed by work to watch anything at all, and then there are weeks where I’ll go on binges and burn through entire filmographies). Then I’m left with film festivals, of which I’m a huge fan, but only go to about three of them a year.

Some bespectacled jackass at the Buenos Aires International Film Festival: an off-center indie-film pig-out of epic proportions. New resolution: stop saying "of epic proportions".

I was shocked at the results of my calculations. According to my– fairly conservative– estimates of how many movies I watch every week at home, in the movie theater and at film festivals, I’m actually at 206 movies a year. That’s 309 hours of fictions. That’s 1854 minutes of sitting on my ass and taking in the diegeses that someone else has put together. And all of a sudden, the number doesn’t seem that daunting at all. It actually seems pretty reasonable, for a young film enthusiast. In fact, it actually sort of feels… a bit slight.

Someone else pointed out, in that very discussion, that taking in inordinate amounts of cinema is helpful in shaping someone’s creative vision. And considering 2012 is a year in which I’m going to try to get my film made, I’m going to step it up a notch, keeping it realistic considering the restraints of my schedule. For 2012, I am watching 250 movies, or 375 hours, and writing about each one. Whatever it may be: a Dreamworks animated film about a spaniard cat, a dense-as-fuck Greek shock film about a transvestite murdering prostitute, massive-budget superhero flicks or tiny Canadian mumblecore melodramas. I’ll sit down here and write my impressions– scant as they may be– about every movie I watch this year. I’ll take in what worked. I’ll deconstruct what didn’t, and why.

The updates may not come immediately. I might do it in chunks at a time. And they may not be pretty– I reserve the right to be as brief, acerbic, messy and disjointed as the mood strikes. But it’ll all be here. There will be entries categorized under the “375 hours” tag that will go into detail on every movie I’d seen since the last one. Now, I’ve always been terrible at keeping New Year’s resolutions, but something tells me this one will be a good time.

And now, to pick the inaugural title.

4 comments | posted in 375 hours, Movies

December 28, 2011

Peter Clarke is a Jerk (A Year-End Rumination)

By Jorge Farah

It’s funny. “White Christmas” was always one of my favorite Christmas songs, despite never actually having had a white Christmas myself. Growing up in South America, all I had was my favorite movies and cartoons– most of them originating from the States– to serve as a point of reference for what Christmas should be. White snowy landscapes, gloves and scarves and joyful caroling on every street corner. Alas, this particular Christmas was spent in a short-sleeve shirt, in warm weather and warmer company. And it was fantastic.

I’ve always been a big fan of Christmas, ever since I was a kid. It always seemed like such a magical, joyous time, and I’m very glad that feeling has stayed with me throughout my teens and into my adulthood. Christmas music plays a big part in that. This year, apart from the mainstays like Frank Sinatra’s many Christmas collections, the Moscow Symphony Orchestra’s Christmas Fantastique and the Punk Rock Christmas compilation (featuring the very best rendition of “Silent Night”, by the mighty Dickies) I also picked up a fantastic collection by the London Chamber Orchestra and, for a lark, Scott Weiland’s Christmas album (surprisingly not terrible).

I’m currently back home, in Barranquilla, Colombia. I visit once a year to recharge, rest up, see my family and friends. It’s refreshing to get away from the hectic life I have in Buenos Aires and settle into the laid-back feel of Barranquilla. It keeps me grounded. This year has been especially awesome since I got to see my sister after a couple years’ absence, as well as meeting her new husband for the first time and catching up with a few members of my extended family with whom I had completely lost touch.

Late December– meaning everything after Christmas, starting with the feast of Stephen’s– always finds me in a somber and contemplative mood. 2011 was a fun year. An incredibly difficult one, but fun nonetheless, with its share of ups and downs. The downs were really fucking down. But the ups were incredible. I’ve done a lot and learned a lot and met a bunch of really great people. I have my share of regrets, but you always have to regret something. The truth is for all its flaws and warts and momentary lapses in good judgement, I wouldn’t have traded this year in for anything.

2012 promises great things. A lot of new and exciting projects in the horizon, but you know what? Nevermind that. Sometimes I get so bogged down with my own expectations and ideas and projects that I don’t even enjoy the awesomeness that is the here-and-now. And it just so happens that the here-and-now is really good. Things are generally going great. And you know what? I’m happy.

It’s an unexpected outburst of emotion that comes from time to time, with no real traceable origin and no distinguishable end. It’s a flash of light cutting through my otherwise well-padded ennui-laced outlook on life. Why would I concern myself with anything other than this exact moment?

Why would I ever even want to?

2 comments | posted in Misc.

December 18, 2011

Bedhead Melodies #2: Elvis Costello- “Suffering Face”

By Jorge Farah

“You came in gentle as a lamb
And turned into a terror
And you left your love and other threats
In the steam fading on my bathroom mirror”

It’s 5:30 am on Sunday in Buenos Aires. I’m still awake after having spent the evening singing ridiculous kitschy karaoke with friends at a bizarre Korean bar. My head’s abuzz from the bottle of wine I just foolishly went through all by myself. I very rarely drink alone at home– it always smacked of romantic boho-alcoholic Bukowski shtick to me– but I figured, I’ve been social enough this week, I can allow myself a relaxing nightcap (as if “being social” gave me a free pass for boneheaded & self-destructive behavior). That nightcap is now effectively a morning cap, as I can now see the sun coming out through my blinds.

What better time to babble on incoherently about one of my all-time favorite songs, the lovely (and criminally unknown) “Suffering Face”?

It seems almost sociopathic at this point to once again remind everybody that Elvis Costello is my all-time favorite musician, but oh, I just went ahead and did it anyway. And out of this man’s incredibly eclectic, 30+ album catalogue, there are two albums in particular that will immediately stop me in my tracks whenever I should stumble upon one of their songs in my iPod’s shuffle mode– “North” and “King of America”. It is, of course, testament to Elvis’s wildly (an adjective I use too much and am starting to feel self-conscious about, but really the best way to describe the turbulent ride of musical zigzags that is the career of one Declan Macmanus) chameleonic (it is a word, I promise; and if it’s not, language is fluid! Let’s make it one) oeuvre (a word I only last year learned how to properly pronounce) that these two albums are so different one from the other: one is a guitar-based country/western/folk pop throwback, the other is a song cycle of somber piano-based jazz ballads, arranged by decreasing morosity. They’re both absolutely gorgeous, emotional albums.

The extra disc on the deluxe reissue of “King of America”, in particular, is a treat. Not only does it feature a genuinely rocking live performance by Elvis accompanied by The Confederates (an all-star crew of musicians including the illustrious likes of James Burton, Mitchell Froom, T Bone Wolk, Jim Keltner among many others), but it also includes what amounts to an EP’s worth of home demos. These demos are simple, unadorned guitar-and-vocal renditions of songs, some of which would end up in the album, some of which would be revisited later, and all of which were apparently recorded late at night after a round of drinking.

By virtue of this, these tracks are marked both by a slightly slurred delivery as well as that raw emotional honesty that seems to come out in a state of inebriation; those sudden blasts of sincerity that surprise even you, and that you would dismiss (or apologize for) the next morning while knowing full well that you meant every word. One of these songs, “Suffering Face”, is exactly that: a slurred confession on a telephone line at 3 in the morning, but expressed with such vulnerability and tenderness and ingenuity that, unlike my own drunken confessions, it would never elicit the harshness of a verbal cuss-out or restraining order as a response.

Unlike the other home demos in the “King of America” bonus disc, “Suffering Face” was never properly recorded for an album. Parts of it were re-used for later songs (the lyrics “even the words of love seem cruel and crass when you’re tough and transparent as armored glass” were later used in “Crimes of Paris” off the “Blood & Chocolate” album; a bouncy, catchy tune, but one that feels slight when compared to the fragile beauty of the song it cannibalized), but the tune was otherwise put in a shelf and left alone for years until it was time to reissue the album. I am continually amazed by how deep and rich Costello’s catalogue is, and how it’s littered with so many amazing lost gems that any other artists would proudly flaunt about.

Listen to the lovely “Suffering Face” here:

“Bedhead melodies” is my very obnoxious and pretentious term for certain songs that capture my imagination way late at night, when I’m in a very specific headspace; that terrifyingly vulnerable stretch of time right before drifting off to sleep, where I find myself pondering the day’s small failures. Thanks for listening along with me, and I hope you will forgive the unnecessary verbosity. Insert “drunken boat” metaphor here.

Leave a comment | posted in bedhead melodies, Music

December 16, 2011

Country & Jazz: Why This Marriage Works

By Jorge Farah

Something I’ve found myself drawn to lately is the phenomenon of jazz musicians making records in a country/western template. It’s strange, but it started while ago when I saw the Charlie Haden movie “Rambling Boy” at the Buenos Aires International Independent Film Festival.

The movie talked about Charlie’s past as a sideman, bandleader and composer in the jazz avant garde, particularly his work with the dissonant craziness of Ornette Coleman. Charlie actually came from a rural upbringing and used to perform old folk and country songs with his family. In 2009 him and his family invited some famous friends over and recorded a beautiful collection of country and bluegrass songs, with the breezy feel of an afternoon BBQ. The result is a genuinely thrilling listen.

Something I’ve heard a lot is that jazz is a type of music that’s more about intellect than it is about heart. This general misconception I’m assuming stems from the perceived academic and cerebral nature of a lot of instrumental jazz. Such lazy and superficial assessment completely ignores the fact that the word “jazz” itself covers an incredibly wide array of styles. In fact, as a “genre” it’s probably the widest-covering catch-all term there is– if Diana Krall and Naked City are both considered “jazz”, that says a lot about the supposed boundaries of the term. And while a lot of it is overindulgent and somewhat “unemotional”, it all stems from an emotional place, and I think when a jazz musician brings their dexterity and thorough knowledge of musical theory to a genre as explicitly emotional as old-time country, what you get is a deeply affecting bunch of songs.


Bill Frisell’s “Nashville” falls into this category also. Bill Frisell has been perhaps my favorite jazz guitarist for a long time because his accompaniment is extremely creative and expressive; his melodies are unpredictable and off-the-wall. You never know just where he’s gonna go. And when he applies his level of sophistication to a basic country/western music template and instrumentation, the result is a greatly rewarding piece of music.

Harmonic inventiveness, gorgeous playing, beautiful melodies over very simple chord changes and that instrumentation– the mandolins, the fiddles, the dobros, the double bass, the banjos. And listening to it on a good pair of headphones is just… tasty. Yes. Tasty is the word. That’s not creepy at all.

Leave a comment | posted in Music

December 6, 2011

Say YES to Summer: If You Can’t Beat the Weather…

By Jorge Farah

Because, as it turns out, being pale and drawn isn’t really that fun all of the time. Because the summer is more than uncomfortable sweating on strangers in the subway. Because sitting outside with friends and an icy cold beer actually feels really fucking good. Because music is a language wider than I sometimes remember; where there’s space for more than just blotchy winter synth lines and hushed, echoey vocals. Because girls in short skirts are fun to look at. That’s all it comes down to, really.

The Smiths- “Ask”

Because few things in music say joyful summery pop glimmer like Johnny Marr’s guitar arpeggios over Morrissey’s maudlin crooning. And about Morrissey: as much of an angsty shoegazer (as in, somebody who stares down at their own shoes, not Loveless-shoegaze– man, I should include a song from Loveless here) as he’s purported to be, and as drab and joyless as the streets of Manchester would appear from his lyrics, this song is pure jangly summer bliss, and its very premise– “ask me, I won’t say no, how could I?”– is a resounding “YES” in the sun’s general direction.

Life Without Buildings- “Let’s Get Out”

Because this is playful, bubbly post-punk with the most deliciously off-center Mike Millsy bass line this side of “Radio Free Europe” and Sue Thompkins’s shouted vocals. This song is an instant mood changer for me, and one that I’ve been giddily addicted to since I picked up this band’s first and only LP “Any Other City”. It’s really a shame they broke up after only one album; for as much as they rely on formula, their music really is a treat; snappy and infectious enough to pry me out of the recliner and out into the streets.

Bombshell Rocks- “180 Down”

Because ever since I picked up the Punk O Rama 5 compilation at the tender age of 13, I’ve been convinced this is one of the best punk songs ever written; it’s energetic, joyful, melodic and anthemic (seriously, how huge is that chorus?) while feeling simultaneously tight and aggressive and like it’s at the verge of coming apart at the seams. It’s a victorious and stouthearted rallying cry, and I have absolutely no idea what it’s about. Seriously, though… that chorus. Wow.

Dave Hillyard & the Rocksteady Seven- “Playtime”

Because I spit on the alarmingly pervasive notion that the saxophone is an “inferior” instrument. This wonderfully off kilter live performance of a tasty summer jam is electrifying in the same measure that it is mournful. Dave Hillyard settles into a groove and flow that plays to all the instrument’s strengths, with a sense of melody that oozes in and out of jazzy. This is the title track to one of the best albums to light a spliff to. And that’s what summer’s all about.

The Undertones- “Teenage Kicks”

Because this is 50s summer-night teenage rock and roll reimagined in the age of the power chord, with lyrics as simple as “I wanna hold her, wanna hold her tight” somehow feeling incredibly sincere.  That guitar sound and that chorus are absolutely irresistible, as are the syncopated handclaps punctuating the instrumental breaks.

Dum Dum Girls- “Jail La La”

Because reverb is the musical equivalent to solar glare. This angular, ridiculously catchy indie rock is made by hot chicks in high heels and short skirts, their style is all perfumed neon summer nights. Their deadpan delivery betrays a genuine youthful energy evident in the chorus and pre-chorus, which burst with all the exuberance of early-80s New Wave. And also, the second verse to this song is made up entirely of “la la la la la”s.  I mean, if that’s not summer in song, then what is?

The Temptations- “The Way You Do The Things You Do”

Because Motown got it right. It’s really amazing how one record label was able to cull together so many incredible performers and songwriters, paying so close attention to detail. This song is a carefully assembled breezy summer afternoon, with its stopstutter drumming and shimmery acoustic guitar, discretely panned to the right and left, leaving the vocal melodies up front and center. It’s all sugarshot , rhythmic, incredibly catchy and soulful and, haters be damned, features a saxophone solo. A really fucking great saxophone solo, too.

These songs are fucking amazing and make strutting down the otherwise offensively bright and sunny streets a complete pleasure. As much as I love to bitch about the weather, I sometimes find myself nodding in agreement with Pete Townsend’s words in the chorus to “Blue, Red & Grey”– I love every minute of the day. (and, uh, consequently, all the weather fluctuations that come with it. Also I really should’ve included something from Loveless here. Damn.)

2 comments | posted in Music

November 27, 2011

Say NO to Summer: Five Songs to Keep Cool With

By Jorge Farah

Living in the southern hemisphere means the advent of December doesn’t signal chilly winter evenings but icky, oppressive heat. And so while my friends up north are whining in their Facebook statuses about how cold it is, how many inches of snow they have and how much they wish it were the summer, I’m sweating like a pervert in the other side of the world, hating myself and everything around me.

I really don’t get along well with the Buenos Aires summer at all. I hate it. It’s hot, humid and gross. I’ll avoid it at all costs. And to combat it, here’s a few tracks that are part of my anti-summer playlist, designed to keep me cool, air-conditioned and depressed.

Lali Puna- “Faking the Books”

Synthy, sterile, clinical and so very Deutsch. Lali Puna’s album “Faking the Books”, with its hospital vesper beats and backtracked vocal lines, speaks of the quiet despair and almost overwhelming ennui of every day life; a sort of paean to the cyclically mediocre nature of our ever-recycled, monotonous, drab and excruciatingly nonsensical existence. Happy summer, everybody!

The Cure- “Plainsong”

The Cure’s 1989 opus “Disintegration” starts with a few seconds of mysterious windchimes, when all of a sudden a dreamy, hazy, snowy landscape reveals itself in front of us, with the iciest of synth lines, six-string bass, drums crashing like glaciers colliding in the arctic. Robert Smith’s echoey,  hushed voice sings about it being “so cold, it’s like the cold if you were dead”, and how “sometimes you make me feel like I’m living at the edge of the world”. If there was ever a love song that managed to make frostbite and the apocalypse sound romantic, of course it’d be Robert Smith who wrote it.

This Will Destroy You- “Happiness: We’re All In It Together”

Eight and a half minutes of glorious winter soundscape, punctuated by delay-laden arpeggios and a seismic sense of musical drama; this song builds, shakes and releases with all the pathos of a three-act screenplay, one that feels more like it was written somewhere in the arctic circle rather than Austin, Texas.

Zola Jesus- “Run Me Out”

This is the exact opposite of a jangly summer song. Blotchy, heavy chunks of synthesizer melody reminiscent of the bleakest songs in The Cure’s “Pornography” (seriously; compare), helpless lyrics about the apocalypse, pungent imagery of darkness and desolation. Zola Jesus is a talented young artist with a bright future ahead of her if she can figure out how to widen the emotional range in her music a bit. She has three full albums and three EPs and as thrilling as her work is, it’s bound to get old fast if she doesn’t manage to bust out her own version of “Japanese Whispers”. A full listen to her album “Stridulum II” will leave you curled up in fetal position next to your speakers. Maybe even speaking in tongues.

Damien Rice & Lisa Hannigan- “Cold Water”

Yes, I am giving equal billing to Lisa Hannigan here because honestly fuck you Damien. This absolutely stunning track from Damien’s debut album “O” shows a lot of promise that would ultimately go unfulfilled; as the years went on and Damien’s career continued, he settled into a cozy, MOR-with-an-edge(kinda) musical rut. This track, though, is lovely, quiet, desolate and sad in all the right ways; coupled with the right drink, it can leave you shuddering for days.

Leave a comment | posted in Music

November 25, 2011

I Contain Multitudes!: A Childhood in Costume

By Jorge Farah

Barranquilla, Colombia is the most boring place in the world when you’re a small child (it’s also pretty boring as an adult, for entirely different reasons). I’ve always felt a strong sense of empathy whenever I read about the plight of the disenfranchised suburban American youth, because, though I myself never experienced the white picket fences and prosthetic sunny dispositions found in the eternally-stuck-in-the-1950s cultural cesspools known as “the suburbs”, I could very much relate to that despondency; that overwhelmingly grey feeling of complete boredom.

I suppose because of this, I always perceive my childhood as this unbearably drab, lifeless wasteland of nothingness. I expect every single picture I find from my early years to paint a picture of this extremely joyless existence, staring out the window, wanting nothing but to find escape from the clutches of the excruciating lassitude of Barranquillan life.

Turns out that’s not quite the case. Instead, I am shocked to find that the childhood described in my pictures is completely different from how I remember it. The onset of the adolescent angst of my teen years caused me to cognitively reframe my childhood but man, I was a happy kid. I had lots of fun. I played with neighborhood friends and, as evinced by these pictures, I dressed up in costume. A lot.

I don’t know why there are so many pictures of me in costume, and why some of them are so absurd. It might mean my parents were as bored as I claim to have been. It may mean I was just fascinated with dressing up and playing strange characters. It may mean I lived like every day was Halloween (which would explain a couple of things). Regardless, here are a few of the pictures that illustrate the master of disguise that I was in my formative years.

Now, ostensibly, this is a Ninja Turtles costume. You can tell from the bandana and those sais strapped to the… belt…   right over the…   turtle-stomach part of the costume. Except those aren’t actually sais (or even a child-friendly approximation of them), they’re drawn into the same piece of plastic that represents the…  turtle-stomach.

This cheap-ass, unspeakably lame costume is offensive for a number of reasons (what are those stars on the turtle-chest area? The TMNT didn’t have any red stars on their costume, did they?), the most egregious of which is… the lack of a turtle shell. Dude. If you’re gonna wear a turtle costume, of the “teenage mutant variety” or otherwise, you need some sort of shell on your back. Otherwise you just look like a freak with a bandana and a piece of plastic over your stomach, sporting useless drawn-on sais and those ridiculous red stars. Goddammit.

(also note how my expression on this picture is the exact same grimace as the picture that decorates the top right corner of this blog.)

I’ve been thinking for the last few minutes about how I could refer to this ridiculous costume and the best I could come up with is Intergalactic Muffin Man. I really do look like an extraterrestrial visitor from Planet Muffin, on an expedition to Earth to teach humans about the Way of the Muffin.

I honestly don’t know what I (or my parents– or more specifically, my mother) was going for here. I look like an extra in the most flamboyant Lazy Town episode of all time.

Don’t I look super stoked to be playing Joseph in the school nativity play?
All these years later, I still haven’t been able to grow proper facial hair.

This picture is all sorts of bad-ass. Look at this suave motherfucker, wearing the same outfit he wore to the country club comparsa, pipe firmly placed in the side of the mouth, hitting on this chick decked out in full carnaval regalia. Smiling smugly at the camera, with the full knowledge that I’m the fucking boss.  Ah yes. I was a player from a very young age. It’s too bad little Susy dumped my ass after she figured out the massive forearms weren’t real.

This costume is another confusing one. I just look like some sort of Colombian jugle terrorist. I guess my parents were going for a Baby Rambo sort of deal but really I just look like a neglected, possibly homeless child. The dirty face was an especially nice touch. I know this costume came with a fake machete (I have a very distinct memory of running around a party all decked out in cammo gear and wielding a plastic machete in my hand), but I can’t find any pictures of it. Shame.

This picture makes me laugh, though, every time. It’s probably a combination of the stance, the disoriented look on my face and those hilarious cankles.

Check me out. I’m the Flash. Look at my pose in case the costume isn’t enough of a tip-off for you. This is a pretty good costume and I think it’s by virtue of the fact that it was actually store-bought, not put together Mad Scientist style by my mom.  Of course the drawn-on muscles were completely the wrong message to send to a pudgy child with dreams of one day being a superhero.

I get a huge kick out of my pose in this. I’m going so very, very fast. And somehow this crappy early-90s disposable camera captured me as I ran through the doorway. That Kodak Ultra always had a great shutter speed.

I have absolutely no idea what this is supposed to be. I am some sort of ape/wolf monster, wearing a sparkly blue outfit and a chains on my wrist. I suppose the story goes that I am this monstrous creature– an ape with the body of a chubby 6 year old boy– who was locked and chained, broke free, killed one of Janet Jackson’s early-90s backup dancers and stole their outfit ’cause it was so damn fly. I now prowl the streets of Barranquilla, vigilante-style, engaging in dance-offs with some of the city’s toughest gangbangers, all the while keeping my sparkling blue outfit spotless and shiny. Makes sense.

4 comments | posted in Misc.

November 18, 2011

BedHead Melodies #1: The Swell Season- “In These Arms”

By Jorge Farah

Listen:

Glen Hansard is the frontman, singer and songwriter for the legendary Irish rock band The Frames. Equipped with a remarkable ear for melody and a powerful, soulful voice, Hansard has led The Frames through over 20 years of music that oscillates between chest-thumping guitar anthems to quiet, intimate, heartbreaking folk songs.

The Swell Season is Hansard’s collaboration with Czech pianist and singer Markéta Irglová. Together, they had a smash hit with “Falling Slowly”, the theme for the indie Irish film “Once”, and won an Academy Award for their work. Their songs trend towards the folkier side of Hansard’s musical spectrum, with most being acoustic-based, rootsy and often very quiet. They should be in your radar. They probably already are, albeit peripherally.

“In These Arms” is the third track off their third album, “Strict Joy”. A hushed, delicate and desperately sad plea of a song, this gorgeous slice of music is sung almost as quietly as it is strummed, punctuated by Irglová’s piano arpeggios atop a bed of the quietest string arrangement this side of John Cage’s “4’33″. The melodically austere verses unfurl into an absolutely stunning chorus, sliding in and out of F#m, all solemn grandiosity and genuine sentiment. It builds into a layered and melodically rich chorus, before winding down in an elegant minor chord. The song is brief, as brief as it should be, as brief as those little sincerity blasts are supposed to be; before you compose yourself, shrug it off and go back to feigning stoicism.

This is the first in a series of entries I’m calling “Bedhead Melodies”, about songs I happen to stumble upon and find myself captured by in the late hours of the night. Most of them will be very quiet. Most of them will feature strings and/or reverb. Most of them will have me weeping drunkenly within the first two minutes. You have been warned.

1 comment | posted in bedhead melodies, Music

November 5, 2011

Six Songs I Wouldn’t Mind Dying To

By Jorge Farah

It was 5:30 in the morning and it was pitch black in the neighborhood of Palermo. I was trudging lethargically on my way to the office to attend a video conference with a client in Australia. I was barely conscious from only getting three hours of sleep the night before, choosing instead to stay up late browsing TV Tropes. I had my headphones on and my iPod on shuffle mode as I labored zombie-like down Fitz Roy street.

It was about a block and a half from my office when a shadowy figure appeared beside me. When I turned, I saw he was talking. I pulled my headphones down and produced a “wha–” cut short by the realization that this person was holding a gun and it was pointed at my face.

The rest was quick. I gave him my phone and all the money I had. He ran off. It was swift and painless, like a quick transaction. After a few seconds I realized my music was still on (I don’t think he noticed I had an iPod). I put my headphones back on and realized, with some amusement, that the song I was listening to when I had a gun pointed at my face, was Stars’ “Romantic Comedy”.

Now, I should clarify that I actually really love Stars. It’s just that their particular brand of sideways sugary indie-pop goodness seems wholly inappropriate for the occasion. Imagine if something had gone horribly wrong during the mugging and I ended up with a faceful of lead. The last song I’d ever hear in this earth, before I shuffle loose the mortal coil, would be…  ”Romantic Comedy”? No. It’s a good song, but it’s not end-credits-of-biopic good. There’s no gravitas to it. No solemnity. No cathartic release. I feel like, if I were to take a bullet to the face, the song that sees me off into nothingness should be something else entirely. Something like…

Yo La Tengo- “Last Days of Disco”

A bed of stuttering, airy drums, hazy slide guitar, plucked bass chords and hushed vocals. Simplistic, almost child-like lyrics of wonder at the mundane treasures in life: songs, sunshine, dancing.  When you see past the bullshit anxieties, drama and ridiculousness of everyday life, it all boils down to the little things. The faint sound of a vibraphone.

ceo- “Den Blomstertid Nu Kommer”

Eric Berglund’s mind is filled with church songs and beats, and here is the union of the two. A Swedish hymn from the 1600s usually sung by school children at the end of the school year, as a celebration of the turning of the season, of the freedom of summer. Its lovely melody is augmented here by Berglund’s vintage electro arrangement, all icy synth and swirling cello.

Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros- “X-Ray Style”

One of Joe’s all-time best songs. I first heard this in a beach house overlooking the ocean in Cartagena, as a confused 15 year old dealing with my first case of unrequited love. I was consumed by my own plight, as a teenager would be, and this song came on and drove me to an epiphany. I remember the moment clearly; standing up and looking out the window, up at the night sky, down to the rumbling ocean. And by the time the song reached its crest, and rolled back down like a wave, I knew I had to get myself out of that hole of self-pity and histrionics, the last few lingering arpeggios cementing my resolve.

M83- “We Own the Sky”

Another song that hit me at just the right time. Here are some words to describe this track: enormous, majestic, regal. Emotional, pulsating, expansive. Romantic, optimistic, foreboding. And just the right amount of French shoegazy cheese.

Chet Baker- “But Not For Me”

This is a young Chet Baker, his voice still more West Coast suave than insurmountably sad. ”But Not For Me” is a jazz standard from the pen of George & Ira Gershwin. As with the rest of their oeuvre, this is a delightful number brimming with wit and joie de vivre, even when the very topic of it is of the woe-is-me variety. Regrets, longing, loneliness and yet, such a happening tune, such a toe-tapper. Kind of like life? Something like that.

Hot Water Music- “Jack of All Trades”

If I am to leave this world violently, perhaps it’d be appropriate to go off with a violent song. The typical ferociousness of Hot Water Music is subservient to the melody here, and it is a brief, acerbic send-off. “You could be no one, an inconsiderate bastard son. Kiss your smile goodbye. Kiss it all goodbye.” Maybe we all need a good yelling-to.

6 comments | posted in Misc., Music

October 27, 2011

How Facebook “Unfriend Alert” Made Me a Paranoid Misanthrope

By Jorge Farah

You know, I like Facebook.

I realize it’s probably not cool to admit, but I don’t care. I really do like Facebook a lot. You get to keep up with what your friends and family are doing, which comes in especially handy if you’re scattered across several countries. You get exposed to cool music, links and articles that you probably wouldn’t have found otherwise. You get to push your own music, links and articles down the throats of all those fortunate enough to have you on their Friends list. You get to look at pictures and judge people. You get to play stupid games. You get to creepily stalk strangers. It’s fucking fun.

And it goes a little beyond that. I can honestly say that Facebook has made my life better. It’s been the tool I’ve used to keep in touch with some wonderful people who live pretty far from me. It’s helped me reconnect with old friends I haven’t seen in forever. It’s gotten me work. It’s gotten me laid. The disgustingly narcissistic and exhibitionist nature of the tool notwithstanding, it’s really been a good thing for me. I say that without a hint of irony. I am thankful for my Facebook friends, because they are a wildly eclectic assortment of names and faces I’ve collected over the years, and bridges that I’d like to keep open for future use.

Being the avid internetter that I am (meaning the internet is an integral part of what I do for a living and thus I am online a fair amount), I understand I can get obnoxious. I try to be the best Facebook friend I can be: I’ll comment on your shit, I’ll make silly jokes on my status updates, I’ll post things on your Wall that you might find interesting. I understand this can be annoying to someone I’m only marginally connected with, or somebody I met at a Hostel once, six years ago.  So every once in a while, I will be unfriended. It happens. Everybody gets unfriended sometime. I shouldn’t really be bothered by it because hey, I too would probably want to cut off the overwhelming stream of information from some weirdo I only met a couple times.

But it does get to me, and probably because of how much of myself I put out there. I would say that my online persona is pretty close to what I’m like in real life. I try to keep things as real as possible, with most facets of my personality shining through across the extremely limited, two-dimensional world of the internet. I think I do a pretty good job at being silly or serious when the situation calls for it. This makes communication feel more genuine and honest. A downside to this, though, is that because my cyber-persona is so similar to my real-life self, when I get cyber-dissed I tend to take it a little– not a lot, but a teensy weensy bit– personal.

The Unfriending is the worst of the disses. It’s basically saying “I want nothing to do with you, forever”. It vexes me. If I happen to be on my profile and happen to notice my number of Friends is lower than I remembered, I’ll wonder what caused it. I’ll look over my recent updates, looking for something objectionable. Have I posted something a little too harsh? Did I offend somebody with that joke about the Red Hot Chili Peppers? Is my Sims Social usage clogging up somebody’s News Feed? And because there’s no sure way to know exactly who unfriended you, all that’s left is to sit there and wonder for a bit. And then quietly move on.

That is, there used to be no sure way to know who unfriended you.

Enter Unfriend Alert. The bane of my fucking existence.

This godforsaken App was created to prey on the insecurities of the modern-day neurotic internetter. Unfriend Alert fulfills the promise that many other Apps offered and failed to deliver: an actual report on who unfriends you. Name and all. I know. It’s horrible. I hate it. But I can’t stop checking it.

The way Unfriend Alert works is ridiculously simple. It scans and saves your Friends list, so it knows whenever there are any changes to it. The real kicker here is that Unfriend Alert doesn’t quite live up to its name in that it’s not a real “Alert”. You don’t get a nifty little popup telling you “psst! Peter just unfriended you”. No, Unfriend Alert is a little more involved than that. You actually have to check it. And unless you check it, you won’t know exactly who has unfriended you, if anyone. You see? And this is when it becomes a sick obsession. You develop a habit. You check it often. Perhaps every day. And every time you do, as the screen loads, you wonder if it’s going to be good news…

"You truly are a great friend", it says. It also gives you a hug and buys you ice cream.

… or bad.

DISS!

That’s right. Unfriend Alert will compare the old version of your Friends List with the latest one and tell you who has made the conscious decision to remove you from their list, complete with a live link to their profile, should you choose to berate and harass them over PM.

Notice the excessively dramatic wording. Someone unfriending you is tantamount to a betrayal, man. And this is the fundamental problem with Unfriend Alert. It doesn’t just prey upon your internet insecurities, but it feeds them as well. It takes a personal decision, like saying “you know, I don’t really know this guy that well, and he’s really taking up a lot of space in my newsfeed, so…” and it makes it into a personal affront of some sort. As a consequence, you think twice about every link you’re going to post. Every status update. Every picture comment. Behind every single move, there’s that nagging thought that, somewhere in your Friends list, there’s someone with their mouse pointer hovering right over the “Unfriend” button, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And that, my friends, is no way to internet.

EDIT (1/13/2012): Well, the party’s over. Looks like Facebook has effectively pulled the plug on Unfriend Alert, which should come as no surprise considering how discrete the social network purports to be when it comes to de-friending. What’s more surprising is just how long it took for FB to take notice of this little app, and what’s really surprising (and somewhat alarming) is just how naked and vulnerable I am left feeling in its absence.

7 comments | posted in Internet

October 22, 2011

The Problem with Racist Pastries in Buenos Aires

By Jorge Farah

There aren’t a whole lot of black people in Buenos Aires. In fact, if you see a black person walking the porteño streets, chances are they’re from Brazil and they arrived only recently. Debunking my shockingly uninformed theories as to why this is, Cristian offers:

“We killed them all indiscriminately! First on our Independence War as cannon fodder, then again in the civil wars (same role too) and latter in the bloody genocides called the Guerra del Paraguay and Conquista del Desierto. The average rank and file of our ‘glorious and conquering’ armies were, in fact, mainly of african stock. By the dawn of the 20th century, hardly 1% of our population was afroargentine, most of them having died either in the wars of of epidemics.”

Regardless, racial sensitivity just isn’t nearly as ingrained in Argentine culture as it is in other countries, particularly the US. Blackface, to them, is lighthearted and cartoonish fare; absent of the hatred, pain and struggle associated with the concept elsewhere.

The result of this is that the presentation of the following delicious cream-filled pastry is completely acceptable in bakeries all over the city:

And my friends– my intelligent, cultured, worldly young Argentine friends, couldn’t figure out what I was laughing so hard about, or why I was snapping pictures of the absolutely delectable, completely racist treats before me.

I ended up actually buying an africano (no, not off an auction block). And you know what? It was pretty damn good.

19 comments | posted in Misc.

October 14, 2011

Our Hero’s Brush with Childhood Infamy

By Jorge Farah

It’s taken me many years to come to the realization that Popeye is a really strange hero figure. A tattooed, one-eyed tobacco-addicted sailor who routinely gets into bar fights over women? Who came up with that winning formula?

Back when I was a small child– and I’m talking ages three and four, real old-school Jorge, and before I had even heard of Batman– Popeye was the unlikely object of my wide-eyed idolatry. I can’t say I know where the obsession stemmed from, but he was my hero and I idolized him. I literally wanted to be him, so much so that spinach became a fixture in my diet (surely the entire point behind the character, to boost ailing sales of spinach to the younger demographic). Nevermind the fact that I completely hated the taste of it– I would eat some spinach and then try to beat up anybody who would cross my path. I would walk around the block calling myself Popeye. I kept one eye firmly closed at all times and would do a pretty good impression of the Popeye laugh. It got to such a point that my friends from school, and their mothers, knew me as Popeye. This was a real kick for me because I was immediately associated with my hero; not so much for my mom, who had to chase me down the street as I attempted to lift a moving car over my head after eating spinach like I had seen Popeye do.

At the height of my fixation, some committee of soccer moms at the local social club were organizing the yearly “comparsa” (think of it as a community show made up of several sketches of varying quality where kids dress up and do skits and chorogreaphed dances) and were putting a little dance together with all these different cartoon characters. And when it came time to pick a Popeye, it was a no brainer; “that weirdo Farah kid!”. Never since has destiny laid its cards out for me so clearly.

As fate would have it, Popeye became the lead character after the acting chops of our Aladdin were called into question. Of course, being a ham and a half, I was all over it; went to rehearsals every day for several weeks with a huge smile on my face. Got fitted for the costumes. Worked incessantly on my Popeye face. Ate lots of spinach.

The night of the show finally came and any lingering nerves were completely overtaken by the intense feeling of duty; a strange desire to do Popeye proud. So I did it– went out, did my little dance, had my little moment in the spotlight. I was on cue. I beat up the bad guys. The audience ate it because I was so ridiculously into it. And at the end, I was so thrilled by the cheer from that faceless mass before me that, when it was time to leave the stage so the next act could come up, I wouldn’t leave. I actually had to be dragged off by one of the stagehands, which of course generated big laughs in that theater (and also marked a trait that would stay with me to this day: the complete inability to not overstay my welcome).

I finally budged, though, and joined my group backstage momentarily. But I wasn’t done. I had tasted the applause and I wanted more, so I went back for seconds (another trait that has stayed with me over the years). Out comes the next act, some lame Smurfs-themed thing, and I waited in the corner behind the curtain for an opening… and then ran back into the stage, still decked out as Popeye, and I start beating on the kid dressed as Gargamel. The entire crowd exploded into rapturous applause (well, I’m assuming the parents of the kid dressed as Gargamel didn’t) when they saw Popeye suddenly pop back into the scene. I posed. I danced. I showed everybody my (padded) muscles. I was the man of the hour… until I was once again dragged offstage and severely scolded. But it didn’t matter. I did what I had to do. Popeye had saved the day.

Nobody could take that away from me.

1 comment | posted in Misc.

September 29, 2011

Tom Waits- “Back in the Crowd”

By Jorge Farah

The versatility of Tom Waits’s voice is one of his most overlooked strengths. You hear a lot of (misguided) Louis Armstrong and (perhaps more accurate) Cookie Monster comparisons, but it’s less often you hear anything about what a majestically malleable, chameleonic and shapeshifting instrument it is. Within the span of “Alice” alone, Waits goes from mad carnival barker to soulful jazz crooner to demented leader of a mutated gang of sewer-people.

That range is clearly showcased in the two tracks that have been released from his upcoming ANTI album, “Bad As Me”– the eponymous first single is a theatrical freak-jam of epic proportions, equal parts “Hang On St. Christopher” and “Goin’ Out West”, with a genuinely badass Waits once again channeling Captain Beefheart as he screams, wheezes and growls through a thoroughly thrilling number.

“Back in the Crowd”, however, is a gentler beast; a lovely country song that wouldn’t feel out of place in Willy Deville’s catalogue, with beautifully understated backing by the genius of Marc Ribot and David Hidalgo from Los Lobos. A tender ballad and an elegiac barcarole, I’ve listened to “Back in the Crowd” on repeat around 15 times now, and can honestly say I’m looking forward to this album more than anything else this year.

Listen to Tom Waits’s gorgeous “Back in the Crowd” below.

1 comment | posted in Music

September 25, 2011

Five Albums of Aural Bliss (Through My New Sweet-Ass Sennheisers)

By Jorge Farah

About a week ago, I made a purchase that will probably change the way I listen to and understand music for the rest of my life: a pair of Sennheiser HD 598 audiophile headphones.

Apprehension. Mistrust. I've been burned before, you see. By other headphones.

“Audiophile headphones”. It sounds a little precious but it’s on the box. Now, I’m not an audiophile– at least not in the strict, soundwave-analyzing, compulsive-top-end-gear-purchasing meaning of the word. I’ve always found comfort in sounds, and find the sound of music through a decent pair of headphones enrapturing. I can’t tell the difference between a 320kbps mp3 and a lossless FLAC file, but I know richness and detail when I hear it.

The search for a good pair of headphones has long been a cause of frustration in my life. Living in Buenos Aires makes it especially difficult, since technology is ridiculously expensive and ordering online is a hassle. I’ve long been bound to the shackles of decent-but-not-good Panasonic HDs and good-but-not-spectacular Sony cans. Only recently, thanks to the combined efforts of my friends Alexandria (who purchased the item online) and Rease (who happened to be in the States and coming back to Buenos Aires) was I able to obtain the first truly high-end pair of headphones I’ve ever owned: the Sennheiser HD 598s.

Truly, you can't possibly understand the expression "sick-ass jam" until you've heard Nels Cline through these babies.

I can’t imagine I’ll ever go back to anything less than this. Holy shitballs. Listening to music is a completely new experience with these things; a thrilling process of re-discovery. I find myself listening back to old favorites and picking out subtle nuances that had flown by unnoticed the first five hundred times I had listened to that song. Small touches in arrangements, little cymbal flourishes, the sound of sliding up and down a fretboard, the sound of the room. It’s like I had been listening to these songs through a plastic container my entire life.

This discovery has also completely heightened my enjoyment of several albums that I already knew and loved, by virtue of how fucking awesome they now sound. Here’s a list of five albums I have been listening to obsessively in the last five days, delighting at the sheer deliciousness of the sound.

Marc Ribot’s Ceramic Dog- “Party Intellectuals”

The thrashiest, noodliest, most unabashedly rocking album in the diverse career of avant garde jazz guitarist Marc Ribot, “Party Intellectuals” is an off-the-wall hard rock/jazz fusion smattering of frenzied glory. The fuzzy sound of Ribot wailing like a demented Sonny Sharrock over blasting rock and roll beats is a truly inspiring listen; that is, “inspiring” until you realize you couldn’t ever possibly play like this, and you look down at your own hand on the fretboard in disgust.

Tom Waits- “Blood Money”

One of two Tom Waits albums released in 2002, the other being the feverish nightmare of obsession that is “Alice” (an album I wrote about a while ago). “Blood Money” is a wonderfully off-kilter album of huffing, puffing, steam-powered junkyard orchestra clangings and sweet, tender lullabies seemingly pulled right out of the 1930s. It is also a reminder of everything that makes Tom Waits great. The guy has always been a wiz in the studio, with an incredible ear for microphone placement and production, capturing a crisp, clear performance from his band of very talented musicians as they weave these deranged, barren song landscapes.

Micachu & The Shapes- “Jewellery”

Texture is the word. Micachu creates an album of pop songs by patchwork, that bubble, sizzle, scribble and scratch their way out of the confines of pop music and become mini-standards, authoring their own genre. An intriguing and difficult listen at first, “Jewellery” is sonic bubblegum that’s wildly entertaining and profoundly interesting to listen to; a true challenge to the claim that “avant garde” is a synonym for “boring”.

Pearl Jam- “No Code”

The album that redefined Pearl Jam; the transition from fist-pumping, flannel-clad, ultra-earnest mega rock stars to a more modest, understated and self-consciously quirky garage rock band also happens to be one of the warmest-sounding records I’ve ever heard.  The idiosyncratic polyrhythms of Jack Irons lead the band through a series of songs that challenge everything you thought PJ was about. ”No Code” is the sound of the biggest band in the world rediscovering itself, and by virtue of the production, you feel like you’re in the room with them, scratching your head and wondering “is this actually Pearl Jam?” (a question that was probably on their own minds, as well).

Charlie Haden & Pat Metheny- “Beyond the Missouri Sky”

The care and dedication put into this amazing album by the two performers– two of the most important names in modern jazz– really shines through when listening through good headphones. The austere production on this odd little piece of work is also warm, vibrant and deep; Pat Metheny’s guitar arpeggios ring out beautifully over the rich, fluid rumble of Charlie Haden’s contrabass. A gorgeous album and great late-night listen. Just the thought of listening to these songs with my old shitty headphones again makes me depressed.

3 comments | posted in Music

September 22, 2011

“What you need is a finishing touch, I’ll turn in your draft artwork”

By Jorge Farah

A song like sleepy pillow-talk. An elegant and intensely strange performance of a wistful little love song. Dani Umpi & Adrian Soiza perform “Como Eu Quero” live at No Avestruz last week.

Leave a comment | posted in Music

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.