Sometimes coming home ain't all it's cracked up to be. While in London, I had visions of returning to graffiti filled subway cars, three-card monte hustlers set up on sidewalks, and spending late summer nights in checkered cabs racing through rain slicked streets. For some reason, the rest of the world views New York City as it was in the 1970's and 80's, home to the bohemian lifestyle that created Hip-Hop and Pop Art. Living in England the past 18 months, I started to romanticize my hometown as the rough and tumble metropolis that nurtured my artistic personality, a concrete womb as opposed to jungle. But being back here, I was greeted by a very different NYC, a place that felt more like Chicago, or Cincinnati, maybe even Indianapolis, some other American collection of highways and byways. Maybe it's a case of the recession blues, or just getting older, but my hometown has changed, and I'm not sure if it's for the better...
My realization started about a week after being back. While standing on the corner of Lafayette and Houston, some shirtless guy with nose paint and tightly wound abs gestured for me to follow him into a darkened room. This wasn't a homeless ne'er-do-well trying to include me on a score, but rather an over eager Hollister employee hoping I'd buy some redesign of Jams (I still have a pair from 1991 somewhere). I'd never heard of Hollister till that moment, but from the people streaming in and out of this black-lit cave, you'd think it was the latest nightlife hotspot, not a clothing store. What this Ambercrombie & Fitch spin-off was doing in the heart of downtown NYC was truly baffling. When I left America, The Gap was everywhere, but it certainly wasn't the place to be
The next shock to the system came when I went to see a movie called The Hangover. Zack Galifianakis, one of the stars of the film, has been a cult comic hero here for sometime. With this role he'd finally broken into the mainstream, a John Belushi for a new generation. I'd seen him on Conan O'Brian recently and he was hilarious. Conan threw out that The Hangover was the most successful R-rated comedy of all time, a factoid making me all the more excited. The next day I settled down in a midtown multiplex with a tub of Popcorn, ready to laugh my ass off. What commenced was one of the most dislikable 100 minutes of my movie watching career, a mindless rehashing of every Owen Wilson/Vince Vaughn/Ben Stiller vehicle without a charismatic lead to pull it off, not to mention a second grade plot revealed entirely in the trailer (why watch a movie when the whole thing is in the preview, right?) By far the most infuriating, soul-sapping part of this movie, was the Alpha male portrayed by Bradley Cooper.
Here we have, Phil Wenneck, your stereotypical party-hearty everyman (who looks surprisingly like the guy outside Hollister) getting trashed on roofies at a bachelor party the night before, stumbling round Vegas the day after, reacting completely unbelievably to the completely unbelievable situations he and his buddies have goten themselves into, flashing a too-white smile and perfect six pack at every possible moment. To quote Jonah Hill in Apatow's new flick, Funny People (good movie, little long though) - There's nothing funny about a guy who's in shape. All the while, Phil keeps his frat boy cool with all the "crazy" shit that's going on. He's the only character in the movie without any human flaws, and the only one who has nothing seriously bad happen to him (outside of a hospital visit we never find out the cause of). And we're supposed to believe this guy is married with two kids and a SCHOOLTEACHER! Worst of all, whenever he tries to convey anything humorous, he screams at the top of his lungs. For the record, yelling does not make something funny.
I'm sure those of you reading this are thinking: calm down JV, it's just a movie... but it's not just a movie. It's the MOST SUCCESSFUL R-RATED COMEDY OF ALL TIME. To give you an idea of how preposterous this is, here's a list of some of the other successful R-rated comedies of all time, all of which in my opinion, are in a different league of originality, and more importantly, funny:
Beverly Hills Cop
Borat
There's Something About Mary
Knocked Up
National Lampoon's Animal House
Wedding Crashers
Pretty Woman
My problem is this movie is a reflection of the values of the modern American male youth, hence it's overwhelming success. It's every American guy's fantasy - get wasted in vegas, win a lot of money, and marry a stripper who looks like Heather Graham. Phil Wenneck is every guy I ever hated growing up at school, at camp, even the playground. And today he's the guy every guy want to be. When I was a kid, the coolest guys were Michael Jackson and Pee-Wee Herman. They were cool because they were different. They were freaks! They didn't look like male models and they could do strange things like moonwalk and talk to animals. Even back in the day, teen idols possessed a rebellious streak (Marlon Brando, James Dean, Elvis, Steve McQueen, John Travolta, even the Dukes of Hazard were running from Boss Hog). There is nothing rebellious in the slightest about Phil Wenneck. He never goes against the grain. He behaves hedonistically without regard to his friends and is rewarded with the time of his life. He's the slapstick comedy version of John Mayer - a smirking, vanilla faced everyman who is famous and we're not quite sure why...
So in short, please don't go see The Hangover. Pixar's Up is a more rewarding alternative. The hero is a 70-year-old hopeless romantic who flies his house to South America with balloons, discovers an extinct bird and fights talking dogs that fly 1920's style fighter planes. In my opinion, that is so much cooler than stealing Mike Tyson's tiger and getting away with it.
THE WORLD WIDE OF JV!
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Sunday, 2 August 2009
Monday, 13 July 2009
8 Great English Things (There are only 8)
I am leaving London for the summer. The past 6 months have been my longest stint here yet, the longest amount of time I've been away from home my entire life. With my flight a mere 72 hours away, I feel a fear creeping up inside me that I have become too "English". My mind is cluttered with conversations where I refer to "Laundry" as "Washing", say "loads" in place of "tons", make dentist appointments for "half six a week Monday" instead of "next Monday at six thiry". As much as I dread the ridicule that will follow the abandonment of my native New Yorker tongue, I have come to the realization over the past half year, that England ain't half bad. Yes there is no sun here and it rains all the time and the people can be cold and closed off and hyper-stylized and they drink too much and then act inappropriate and at times have stereotypically poor hygiene and bad teeth, but there are a few things the UK has over the USA. I counted 8. Here they are:
P.S.: If you think I might have missed a great English thing, please email it to me at jvfanmail@gmail.com
Marmite -
I've already dedicated a entire blog to Marmite, the disturbingly thick yeast extract solvent I spread on my bagels each morn (have to get my NYC fix somehow). Back in September I saw it as a warning sign of my impending Englishness. Guess I was right. Read my Marmite blog at http://julianvelard.blogspot.com/2008/09/marmite.html
Withnail & I
Before I got to London I'd never heard of this 1987 cult classic, a perfect slice of dark comedy which has become mandatory University viewing here in the UK. Consider it a more literate, drug fueled counterpart to Animal House or Up In Smoke, one of those special kind of movies where every single line is instantly and eternally quotable. I remember watching the movie Warlock in 5th grade and being strangely drawn to Richard E. Grant's character, Giles Redferne. Withnail was Grant's first role and he is truly brilliant, spewing one memorable, hysterical line after another. And Richard Griffiths, Uncle Vernon of Harry Potter fame, plays a very different kind of uncle here, the terrifying Monty who nobly exclaims, "I mean to have you boy, even if it must be buglary!'
Pimm's & Lemonade
First produced in 1823 by James Pimm, a farmer's son from Kent, Pimm's is a gin-based drink containing quinine (tonic water) and a "secret" mixture of herbs. There were originally 5 different types of the drink (No.1-5), but after the brand fell on hard times in the 1970's, No.'s 2 & 5 were phased out. Pimm's mixed with lemonade is one of the traditional drinks at Wimbledon and during the Ashes. I tried this delicious, refreshing summer cocktail while playing my first and only game of Cricket. You can watch my experience at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WTL477pVFmc
Marks & Spencer's at rest stops
Pulling off the M1 (The UK's version of I-95) while en route to Latitude Festival, I discovered what I still consider to be the best thing about England. I walked into a gas station and was able to purchase freshly squeezed orange juice, smoked salmon, and a tomato and mozzarella bruschetta. How is this possible? Mark's and Spencer (M&S for short) is one of the UK's major retailers of clothing and food. They are known for their superior quality and taste, servicing an upper end of clientele compared to Sainsbury's or Tesco's. They have food outlets in rest stops throughout the north of England. I can't tell you how many times I've been on tour in the States I've forced myself to eat hydrogenated, freeze-dried, fat boy foods like Beef Jerky, two-week old Donuts, and Sandwiches made from God knows what. Never again.
Nando's
This one may seem ridiculous to English people, but I think Nando's is amazing! We don't have high-quality fast food in America. It's all crap (with the exception of In-and-Out Burger in L.A. which is clearly what they eat atop Mount Olympus, the food of Gods). Nando's is a Portuguese Chicken joint which is fast, nutritious, and delicious. And the price is right! And you can get membership rewards cards! Buy 9 Chickens and the 10th is free. Amazing!
Fancy Cars parked on the street
People park really dope, mint condition vintage cars on the street in England. I dunno why, maybe it's safer here, but somehow I doubt it. Walking around London, I see incredible MGs, Triumphs, Austin Martins, Porsches, even Lamborghinis almost every day. Here's a look at the ones I snapped, pretending they were mine of course:
Film4
Film4 is the UK version of HBO but better in my opinion. We all know HBO's original programming is second to none (Sopranos, The Wire, Curb, Entourage, etc.). But in my mind, HBO stands for Home Box Office, just like MTV stands for Music Television. When I was a kid MTV played music videos, and HBO played movies, and that's all Film4 does. Their programming is impeccable, mixing long lasting classics with the latest releases, curating their schedule with themes like "Great Indie Directors' Week" or "The Films of Ben Stiller". Plus it beats HBO in the cost department: it comes as a part of Freeview which is, you guessed it, free.
BBC iPlayer
We've all heard about the BBC in America courtesy first of Jimi Hendrix's Radio 1 sessions, then Austin Powers' amazing BBC song, and now through BBC America which plays UK comedy staples like Little Britain and The Office. The BBC website has an amazing feature called iPlayer which lets you watch any of their programming on demand without commercials, whether it's coverage of Glastonbury Festival, The Olympics, documentaries on Jazz legends like Jelly Roll Morton, or the latest original Guy Ritchie rip-off, East London gangster mini-series. This is the gold standard of television programming. BBC 1, 2, 3 and 4 is all they need to get the job done. My Pops has over 700 channels at home and there's never anything on.
P.S.: If you think I might have missed a great English thing, please email it to me at jvfanmail@gmail.com
Marmite -
I've already dedicated a entire blog to Marmite, the disturbingly thick yeast extract solvent I spread on my bagels each morn (have to get my NYC fix somehow). Back in September I saw it as a warning sign of my impending Englishness. Guess I was right. Read my Marmite blog at http://julianvelard.blogspot.com/2008/09/marmite.html
Withnail & I
Before I got to London I'd never heard of this 1987 cult classic, a perfect slice of dark comedy which has become mandatory University viewing here in the UK. Consider it a more literate, drug fueled counterpart to Animal House or Up In Smoke, one of those special kind of movies where every single line is instantly and eternally quotable. I remember watching the movie Warlock in 5th grade and being strangely drawn to Richard E. Grant's character, Giles Redferne. Withnail was Grant's first role and he is truly brilliant, spewing one memorable, hysterical line after another. And Richard Griffiths, Uncle Vernon of Harry Potter fame, plays a very different kind of uncle here, the terrifying Monty who nobly exclaims, "I mean to have you boy, even if it must be buglary!'
Pimm's & Lemonade
First produced in 1823 by James Pimm, a farmer's son from Kent, Pimm's is a gin-based drink containing quinine (tonic water) and a "secret" mixture of herbs. There were originally 5 different types of the drink (No.1-5), but after the brand fell on hard times in the 1970's, No.'s 2 & 5 were phased out. Pimm's mixed with lemonade is one of the traditional drinks at Wimbledon and during the Ashes. I tried this delicious, refreshing summer cocktail while playing my first and only game of Cricket. You can watch my experience at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WTL477pVFmc
Marks & Spencer's at rest stops
Pulling off the M1 (The UK's version of I-95) while en route to Latitude Festival, I discovered what I still consider to be the best thing about England. I walked into a gas station and was able to purchase freshly squeezed orange juice, smoked salmon, and a tomato and mozzarella bruschetta. How is this possible? Mark's and Spencer (M&S for short) is one of the UK's major retailers of clothing and food. They are known for their superior quality and taste, servicing an upper end of clientele compared to Sainsbury's or Tesco's. They have food outlets in rest stops throughout the north of England. I can't tell you how many times I've been on tour in the States I've forced myself to eat hydrogenated, freeze-dried, fat boy foods like Beef Jerky, two-week old Donuts, and Sandwiches made from God knows what. Never again.
Nando's
This one may seem ridiculous to English people, but I think Nando's is amazing! We don't have high-quality fast food in America. It's all crap (with the exception of In-and-Out Burger in L.A. which is clearly what they eat atop Mount Olympus, the food of Gods). Nando's is a Portuguese Chicken joint which is fast, nutritious, and delicious. And the price is right! And you can get membership rewards cards! Buy 9 Chickens and the 10th is free. Amazing!
Fancy Cars parked on the street
People park really dope, mint condition vintage cars on the street in England. I dunno why, maybe it's safer here, but somehow I doubt it. Walking around London, I see incredible MGs, Triumphs, Austin Martins, Porsches, even Lamborghinis almost every day. Here's a look at the ones I snapped, pretending they were mine of course:
Film4
Film4 is the UK version of HBO but better in my opinion. We all know HBO's original programming is second to none (Sopranos, The Wire, Curb, Entourage, etc.). But in my mind, HBO stands for Home Box Office, just like MTV stands for Music Television. When I was a kid MTV played music videos, and HBO played movies, and that's all Film4 does. Their programming is impeccable, mixing long lasting classics with the latest releases, curating their schedule with themes like "Great Indie Directors' Week" or "The Films of Ben Stiller". Plus it beats HBO in the cost department: it comes as a part of Freeview which is, you guessed it, free.
BBC iPlayer
We've all heard about the BBC in America courtesy first of Jimi Hendrix's Radio 1 sessions, then Austin Powers' amazing BBC song, and now through BBC America which plays UK comedy staples like Little Britain and The Office. The BBC website has an amazing feature called iPlayer which lets you watch any of their programming on demand without commercials, whether it's coverage of Glastonbury Festival, The Olympics, documentaries on Jazz legends like Jelly Roll Morton, or the latest original Guy Ritchie rip-off, East London gangster mini-series. This is the gold standard of television programming. BBC 1, 2, 3 and 4 is all they need to get the job done. My Pops has over 700 channels at home and there's never anything on.
Sunday, 12 July 2009
Monday, 15 June 2009
It's 9 O'Clock On a Saturday...
There comes a time in a man's life when he has to stop blogging and start living, you know!!!.... I'd like to say my lack of communication stemmed from a deep need for self-reflection, that I had to take some time away from my online audience to ponder and process the past 2 years of ups and downs and in-betweens. But truth is, I've just been really, really busy.
This Spring I've become quite the scribe, occupied not with gigging, but exclusively writing songs for myself and others. The last twelve weeks has seen me produce an obscene amount of material, collaborating on music for the first time in my life. I've had the pleasure of working some great, established talents like Greg Kurstin, Gary Clark, Martin Brammer, Steve Robson, Lol Creme, Grant Black, and Jerry Abbott, as well as exciting new artists Rachel Furner, Ayah Marrar, and Ed Drewitt (all three of them are in my Top friends on Myspace, check em out, they're great!). As for the fruits of my labor, they will be on display during my shows this summer in the UK and US, as well as future recordings... more on my recording career in a few paragraphs... right now I feel a thought brewing (uh oh)....
So how does it happen that a self-made, suffering artiste like myself becomes, dare I say, a hack, in the truest sense of the word, i.e. Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo? While living in New York, making music was my private obsession, dirty auto-erotica done in the confines of my Brooklyn apartment and the occasional recording studio. Playing shows provided me with a much needed release, an exhibitionist kind of thrill. I considered myself a streaker of the highest order.
But when I got to London, something changed. For about a year I sat down on my lonesome to write and I was out of things to say. It was the first time in my life I was sapped of melodies, a rusty, dusty muso pick up truck on the side of the road. I mean let's face it, after 7 or 8 dedicated years of singer/songwriter-ness, how many times can a guy hit a chord on a Piano and feel inspired to pour out the contents of his soul? As I write this, Nicole Scherzinger of the Pussycat Dolls is on MTV pouring out the contents of her soul on a Piano in the middle of the desert, belting a dance remix of "The Hardest Part". If that's not confirmed proof that the singer/songwriter mold has been completely co-opted, I dunno what is. Somewhere between John Mayer, Jason Mraz, Jack Johnson, Gavin Degraw, James Blunt, Paolo Nutini, Howie Day, Joshua Radin, Brett Dennen, and Mat Kearney, I stopped buying into the notion of the earnest guy with his guitar tugging on my heart strings. Ok, maybe these all-american, cheeky chaps are legitimately suffering and there is something strangely beautiful about it but honestly, who cares? Not me.
So where does that leave this nearly 30-year confirmed Piano singer/songwriter, now that he's slagged all the acts he could potentially open for? ;) After awaiting the release of my major label debut, a Pop inflected, singer/songwriter album called The Planeteer for nearly a year, I find myself making a different kind of music. Music that's F-U-N. With the current shit economic situation, multiple international conflicts, global warming and whatnot, I don't wanna hear some guy who's never struggled with anything but a line at Starbucks whine about bourgeois malaise that he mistakes for heartbreak. I want Michael in 1982, I want Prince 1984. I want to party with Zombies and Were-wolfs like it's 1999, or 2009 for that matter. I want a self-aware, self-made, world weary version of Robbie Williams who's able to sing about life and love and sadness with a raised eyebrow. To put it plain and simply, where's my generation's Billy Joel?
Now before I propose a full on, feel good revolution, I owe you guys an explanation. To answer the emails I've received as of late: The Planeteer has not been released. The sad truth is its fate is up in the air, like a piece of my heart lying around outside my chest, without a home in your stereos, ipods and file-sharing sites. The reasons why, while painfully clear to me, would be painfully boring to you. Just know that with each passing week, my album is getting closer to your ears. In the meantime, I've put some new music on Myspace. More than ever, I feel I'm writing the best music of my life, working toward a new album of truly inspired songs that not only make me happy when I listen to them, but make me wanna dance. Don't worry, it's not a disco record (though that would be cool - I would make a great Tony Manero). Just think about that part in Uptown Girl, when Billy blasts into the bridge (Middle 8 for you English people) and goes "woah-oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh". Now imagine 45 minutes of that feeling. I've finally acquiesced to all the after-work businessmen at the hotel bar. I will sing you a song. I am the Piano man.
This Spring I've become quite the scribe, occupied not with gigging, but exclusively writing songs for myself and others. The last twelve weeks has seen me produce an obscene amount of material, collaborating on music for the first time in my life. I've had the pleasure of working some great, established talents like Greg Kurstin, Gary Clark, Martin Brammer, Steve Robson, Lol Creme, Grant Black, and Jerry Abbott, as well as exciting new artists Rachel Furner, Ayah Marrar, and Ed Drewitt (all three of them are in my Top friends on Myspace, check em out, they're great!). As for the fruits of my labor, they will be on display during my shows this summer in the UK and US, as well as future recordings... more on my recording career in a few paragraphs... right now I feel a thought brewing (uh oh)....
So how does it happen that a self-made, suffering artiste like myself becomes, dare I say, a hack, in the truest sense of the word, i.e. Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo? While living in New York, making music was my private obsession, dirty auto-erotica done in the confines of my Brooklyn apartment and the occasional recording studio. Playing shows provided me with a much needed release, an exhibitionist kind of thrill. I considered myself a streaker of the highest order.
But when I got to London, something changed. For about a year I sat down on my lonesome to write and I was out of things to say. It was the first time in my life I was sapped of melodies, a rusty, dusty muso pick up truck on the side of the road. I mean let's face it, after 7 or 8 dedicated years of singer/songwriter-ness, how many times can a guy hit a chord on a Piano and feel inspired to pour out the contents of his soul? As I write this, Nicole Scherzinger of the Pussycat Dolls is on MTV pouring out the contents of her soul on a Piano in the middle of the desert, belting a dance remix of "The Hardest Part". If that's not confirmed proof that the singer/songwriter mold has been completely co-opted, I dunno what is. Somewhere between John Mayer, Jason Mraz, Jack Johnson, Gavin Degraw, James Blunt, Paolo Nutini, Howie Day, Joshua Radin, Brett Dennen, and Mat Kearney, I stopped buying into the notion of the earnest guy with his guitar tugging on my heart strings. Ok, maybe these all-american, cheeky chaps are legitimately suffering and there is something strangely beautiful about it but honestly, who cares? Not me.
So where does that leave this nearly 30-year confirmed Piano singer/songwriter, now that he's slagged all the acts he could potentially open for? ;) After awaiting the release of my major label debut, a Pop inflected, singer/songwriter album called The Planeteer for nearly a year, I find myself making a different kind of music. Music that's F-U-N. With the current shit economic situation, multiple international conflicts, global warming and whatnot, I don't wanna hear some guy who's never struggled with anything but a line at Starbucks whine about bourgeois malaise that he mistakes for heartbreak. I want Michael in 1982, I want Prince 1984. I want to party with Zombies and Were-wolfs like it's 1999, or 2009 for that matter. I want a self-aware, self-made, world weary version of Robbie Williams who's able to sing about life and love and sadness with a raised eyebrow. To put it plain and simply, where's my generation's Billy Joel?
Now before I propose a full on, feel good revolution, I owe you guys an explanation. To answer the emails I've received as of late: The Planeteer has not been released. The sad truth is its fate is up in the air, like a piece of my heart lying around outside my chest, without a home in your stereos, ipods and file-sharing sites. The reasons why, while painfully clear to me, would be painfully boring to you. Just know that with each passing week, my album is getting closer to your ears. In the meantime, I've put some new music on Myspace. More than ever, I feel I'm writing the best music of my life, working toward a new album of truly inspired songs that not only make me happy when I listen to them, but make me wanna dance. Don't worry, it's not a disco record (though that would be cool - I would make a great Tony Manero). Just think about that part in Uptown Girl, when Billy blasts into the bridge (Middle 8 for you English people) and goes "woah-oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh". Now imagine 45 minutes of that feeling. I've finally acquiesced to all the after-work businessmen at the hotel bar. I will sing you a song. I am the Piano man.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Right Of Way
Okay, I realize my last blog may have ended on a down note. When we left our hero, he was a beaten man on a perilous promotional trail, a collision victim of public transport, days spent navigating murky UK weather, cold nights beneath a single-layer Travelodge comforter. It’s amazing what a little sun can do for your spirits. The past week and a half in and around London has been miraculously blue and clear, not a cloud in a sky. It’s equally amazing how quickly my pessimism/cynicism/realism has been replaced by a genuine optimism. Maybe it’s getting a full 8 hours sleep, or a return to boiled eggs, bagels and marmite in the morning, but there’s an extra pep in my step lately. I’ve been hitting the Piano with a renewed vigor, like a boxer coming off a knockout round. Such is the seesaw life of this self-pronounced artiste! But this would not be your typical, pontifical JV blog entry if I didn’t use my considerable writing prowess to whinge about something, specifically a British something.
As a native New Yorker, I consider walking in an urban environment to be an area of expertise, something of a birthright. I have been living in London for close to 15 months and still have no comprehension of pedestrian/car etiquette. This may seem a simple, trivial, even ridiculous matter, but I assure you, Right Of Way is a very complex thing here in England. The nation that made Darts a sport has also made the act of crossing a street a labyrinthine, mystical process. Just like Hercules’ Hydra, I chop off one of the beast’s heads only to find two grow back in its place.
Point in case: last night I was traveling through my Islington neighborhood to next-door Dalston in the pursuit of Vietnamese food. I was headed along Southgate Road, a major two-lane cut-through for drivers trying to avoid the congested Angel center. During the day, this street is pretty busy and with no crosswalks (they call them Zebras here), a force to be reckoned with for the average man-on-foot. During the evening however, the road is clear, allowing motorists to speed with no consideration for people, as I find London drivers tend to do (I have a theory this is because of all the twisting and turning. As soon as drivers see a straightaway, they gun it. I would too. Driving can’t be much fun here with all the sharp angles and speed bumps, or humps as they say. Not like I would know. I can’t drive).
Amidst my quest for Pho and Duck spring rolls, I was walking in the direction of traffic, crossing what I would call a side street, i.e. a small road leading off the main thoroughfare, one without a foot traffic light. Behind me, I felt the hum of a speeding engine, and twisted my head to see a car quickly rounding the side street, headed straight for me. To my knowledge, there are no clearly defined rules in this situation. I would like to think common sense prevails. In my mind, if I’m walking straight, it means I have the Right Of Way. If a driver, while trying to change course, sees a pedestrian halfway across an intersection (in this case the driver was coming at me from behind, making me, the pedestrian, blindsided), Right Of Way dictates the driver wait for the pedestrian to finish crossing before completing the turn. I was reminded again tonight, as I have been so times before, this is not the case in London. As Bill Hicks astutely observed, “In London when a driver sees a person crossing the street, they turn their wipers on.” If you, as a pedestrian, do not relent completely to an automobile, and thereby cause the driver to apply any degree of pressure to their break pedal, he/she will honk and gesticulate violently at you, perhaps shout something along the line of, “ For Fuck’s sake!” Before I came to this country, I didn’t know Fuck was proper noun, let alone something you can act in the interest of.
I hate to be the squeaky wheel. I believe that when you are a stranger in a strange land, you should do as the locales do, assume their customs as your own. To quote Ron Burgundy in Anchorman, “When In Rome.” But riddle me this: what kind of city gives cars the Right Of Way over people but not cyclists? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen cyclists in this town, smack dab in a bus lane in the middle of the morning rush, leisurely pedaling away with a jam-packed bus of commuters right on their tail. Bikers in London truly are the chosen people, self-righteous green priests of the environment who rule the road with an iron fist, delivering a swift and brutal judgment on anyone obstructing their path. The scolding you get for blocking a car is nothing compared to incurring the cyclist’s wrath. The few times I made the mistake of placing so much as my foot in front of a bike, my ears were assaulted by a cascade of slurs that would make even the most hardened sailors blush. These fetid tirades coming from the mouths of some the cutest, hipster women my eyes have ever seen. It’s enough to make this musician cry.
I dunno whether it’s the card carrying liberal, eco-driven mentality of powerful lobbying groups, or just they way they roll in London, but it appears bikes are indeed king, and we walkers are merely flies on the proverbial windshield, playing cards in the proverbial spokes. Last night was a reminder that while I live in this city, no matter how intrinsically bizarre they may seem to me, I must do my best to comprehend and obey the English rules of Right Of Way. But, from time to time, these Brits must forgive an instinct from deep inside my being to call out, in the words of quintessential New Yorker Ratso Rizzo in Midnight Cowboy, “HEY, I’M WAH-KING HERE!”
As a native New Yorker, I consider walking in an urban environment to be an area of expertise, something of a birthright. I have been living in London for close to 15 months and still have no comprehension of pedestrian/car etiquette. This may seem a simple, trivial, even ridiculous matter, but I assure you, Right Of Way is a very complex thing here in England. The nation that made Darts a sport has also made the act of crossing a street a labyrinthine, mystical process. Just like Hercules’ Hydra, I chop off one of the beast’s heads only to find two grow back in its place.
Point in case: last night I was traveling through my Islington neighborhood to next-door Dalston in the pursuit of Vietnamese food. I was headed along Southgate Road, a major two-lane cut-through for drivers trying to avoid the congested Angel center. During the day, this street is pretty busy and with no crosswalks (they call them Zebras here), a force to be reckoned with for the average man-on-foot. During the evening however, the road is clear, allowing motorists to speed with no consideration for people, as I find London drivers tend to do (I have a theory this is because of all the twisting and turning. As soon as drivers see a straightaway, they gun it. I would too. Driving can’t be much fun here with all the sharp angles and speed bumps, or humps as they say. Not like I would know. I can’t drive).
Amidst my quest for Pho and Duck spring rolls, I was walking in the direction of traffic, crossing what I would call a side street, i.e. a small road leading off the main thoroughfare, one without a foot traffic light. Behind me, I felt the hum of a speeding engine, and twisted my head to see a car quickly rounding the side street, headed straight for me. To my knowledge, there are no clearly defined rules in this situation. I would like to think common sense prevails. In my mind, if I’m walking straight, it means I have the Right Of Way. If a driver, while trying to change course, sees a pedestrian halfway across an intersection (in this case the driver was coming at me from behind, making me, the pedestrian, blindsided), Right Of Way dictates the driver wait for the pedestrian to finish crossing before completing the turn. I was reminded again tonight, as I have been so times before, this is not the case in London. As Bill Hicks astutely observed, “In London when a driver sees a person crossing the street, they turn their wipers on.” If you, as a pedestrian, do not relent completely to an automobile, and thereby cause the driver to apply any degree of pressure to their break pedal, he/she will honk and gesticulate violently at you, perhaps shout something along the line of, “ For Fuck’s sake!” Before I came to this country, I didn’t know Fuck was proper noun, let alone something you can act in the interest of.
I hate to be the squeaky wheel. I believe that when you are a stranger in a strange land, you should do as the locales do, assume their customs as your own. To quote Ron Burgundy in Anchorman, “When In Rome.” But riddle me this: what kind of city gives cars the Right Of Way over people but not cyclists? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen cyclists in this town, smack dab in a bus lane in the middle of the morning rush, leisurely pedaling away with a jam-packed bus of commuters right on their tail. Bikers in London truly are the chosen people, self-righteous green priests of the environment who rule the road with an iron fist, delivering a swift and brutal judgment on anyone obstructing their path. The scolding you get for blocking a car is nothing compared to incurring the cyclist’s wrath. The few times I made the mistake of placing so much as my foot in front of a bike, my ears were assaulted by a cascade of slurs that would make even the most hardened sailors blush. These fetid tirades coming from the mouths of some the cutest, hipster women my eyes have ever seen. It’s enough to make this musician cry.
I dunno whether it’s the card carrying liberal, eco-driven mentality of powerful lobbying groups, or just they way they roll in London, but it appears bikes are indeed king, and we walkers are merely flies on the proverbial windshield, playing cards in the proverbial spokes. Last night was a reminder that while I live in this city, no matter how intrinsically bizarre they may seem to me, I must do my best to comprehend and obey the English rules of Right Of Way. But, from time to time, these Brits must forgive an instinct from deep inside my being to call out, in the words of quintessential New Yorker Ratso Rizzo in Midnight Cowboy, “HEY, I’M WAH-KING HERE!”
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Survival
I’m finally relaxing on a Sunday, drinking coffee, and watching Louis Theroux dissect the phenomenon of plastic surgery. For those of you who don’t know, namely Americans as Mr. Theroux’s show is a BBC production, Louis is a TV journalist of the highest caliber who does one hour documentaries on the cultural insanities of the United States, from evangelical cult members to degenerate Vegas gamblers to hardened criminals in San Quentin prison, and everything in-between. What makes Louis so good is his innocence. He identifies with his subjects, asking them simple, direct questions without judgment. He makes people feel safe so they open up and give the camera an insight into their psychology.
My current UK tour over the past couple weeks has been, at times, reminiscent of a Theroux special. Problem is I can’t tell whether I’m Louis or one of the people he interviews. I’ve been doing a promotional work, playing each night at Living Rooms, a bourgeois chain of restaurants fitted with white digital Pianos in the bar area. My 45-minute set is routed through the house speakers, gently backing people’s dinner conversations, a gig reminiscent of my cabaret days in NYC. My mornings are spent visiting music colleges where I play for eager students who throw a barrage of questions at me, desperate for direction in the wild world of the Music Business. So far, I’ve lost my voice twice from singing through inadequate sound systems, and been in a car wreck, our van totaled by a side on collision with a commuter bus in Edinburgh. I keep waiting for my cockney tour manager, Jamie Franklin, to pull off his fake mustache and shout, “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.”
Jamie has been great company, keeping me sane during this sometimes torturous journey. He’s the positive to my negative, the Laurel to my Hardy, the Derek to my Clive. All the madness has been chronicled on my Video Tour Blog, its regular updates the reason this Blog is so long overdue. Throughout conversations with Jamie during the long drives, I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that I’m a glass-half-empty kind of guy. The definition of a Cynic is a person who believes people are motivated purely by self-interest rather than acting for honorable or unselfish reasons, someone who questions whether something will happen or whether it is worthwhile. Reading this now, it sounds more like the description of a realist to me. I dunno if it’s the streets of New York coursing through my veins this sunny London afternoon, or watching Louis interview a Hilton Casino Marketing Executive about keeping gambling addicts at the tables as long as possible, but I find that nobody gives anybody a break. You get a break when you win it.
It’s in the midst of this self-examination and search for generosity I find myself each morning trying to give 18-year olds good reasons to become musicians. This is, perhaps, the deepest irony of all. What I am supposed to tell them? Yes it’s possible to sign a record deal, make a classic album, sell millions based on the merit of your work and live happily ever after with your supermodel wife and beautiful children, be honored at awards ceremonies for your contributions, future generations forever influences by the unflinching honesty of your music. Here I am, a 29-year old boy who can’t cook for himself, traipsing the countryside playing dinner music, lucky to be alive after a disastrous crash, all in the pursuit of some farfetched dream I had when I was their age.
But then I take another look, and I see myself as one of the fortunate ones. In a time where people are losing their jobs left and right, the world facing the darkest economic gloom of the past 80 years, here I am playing my tunes to strange people in a strange land. In the past three years I’ve toured England, Scotland, and Ireland, played shows in Paris, Amsterdam, and all across the continental United States, including Montana. Just recently, my record label put me on a plane to LA to work with some of the best producers in the business. And even though I’m in the middle of an ill-advised promo tour that feels like a massive step backwards, it still beats boarding the A Train on 172nd Street at 7:15am, traveling an hour plus in a packed car to downtown Brooklyn to teach 5-year olds how to Hula-hoop. It’s times like these I must remember that it’s the experience, with all the glorious and shit moments, that is the reward, truly the break that I’ve won.
And this is the message I try to impart to the wide-eyed would-be Rock Stars every morning. There are no guarantees in this world. People will fuck you if you let them. Life as a musician is continual series of somersaults. Your best move is to look down, tuck your chin, and perfect your form. And eventually, though you’ll be dizzy and dazed, you will get somewhere. And who knows where that somewhere is, be it commanding 80,000 people on Glastonbury’s Pyramid Stage, or a Wednesday night in Newcastle playing Piano tucked away behind the hostess stand (yes this happened to me a week ago). Take the highs and the lows in stride, not out of modesty, but necessity. It’s survival.
If Louis Theroux asked me a few simple and direct questions about being a musician, this is what I would tell him. Hopefully I wouldn’t come off as crazy as the desperate, body modification obsessed middle-aged men I’m watching right now. However, there are no guarantees in this world.
My current UK tour over the past couple weeks has been, at times, reminiscent of a Theroux special. Problem is I can’t tell whether I’m Louis or one of the people he interviews. I’ve been doing a promotional work, playing each night at Living Rooms, a bourgeois chain of restaurants fitted with white digital Pianos in the bar area. My 45-minute set is routed through the house speakers, gently backing people’s dinner conversations, a gig reminiscent of my cabaret days in NYC. My mornings are spent visiting music colleges where I play for eager students who throw a barrage of questions at me, desperate for direction in the wild world of the Music Business. So far, I’ve lost my voice twice from singing through inadequate sound systems, and been in a car wreck, our van totaled by a side on collision with a commuter bus in Edinburgh. I keep waiting for my cockney tour manager, Jamie Franklin, to pull off his fake mustache and shout, “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.”
Jamie has been great company, keeping me sane during this sometimes torturous journey. He’s the positive to my negative, the Laurel to my Hardy, the Derek to my Clive. All the madness has been chronicled on my Video Tour Blog, its regular updates the reason this Blog is so long overdue. Throughout conversations with Jamie during the long drives, I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that I’m a glass-half-empty kind of guy. The definition of a Cynic is a person who believes people are motivated purely by self-interest rather than acting for honorable or unselfish reasons, someone who questions whether something will happen or whether it is worthwhile. Reading this now, it sounds more like the description of a realist to me. I dunno if it’s the streets of New York coursing through my veins this sunny London afternoon, or watching Louis interview a Hilton Casino Marketing Executive about keeping gambling addicts at the tables as long as possible, but I find that nobody gives anybody a break. You get a break when you win it.
It’s in the midst of this self-examination and search for generosity I find myself each morning trying to give 18-year olds good reasons to become musicians. This is, perhaps, the deepest irony of all. What I am supposed to tell them? Yes it’s possible to sign a record deal, make a classic album, sell millions based on the merit of your work and live happily ever after with your supermodel wife and beautiful children, be honored at awards ceremonies for your contributions, future generations forever influences by the unflinching honesty of your music. Here I am, a 29-year old boy who can’t cook for himself, traipsing the countryside playing dinner music, lucky to be alive after a disastrous crash, all in the pursuit of some farfetched dream I had when I was their age.
But then I take another look, and I see myself as one of the fortunate ones. In a time where people are losing their jobs left and right, the world facing the darkest economic gloom of the past 80 years, here I am playing my tunes to strange people in a strange land. In the past three years I’ve toured England, Scotland, and Ireland, played shows in Paris, Amsterdam, and all across the continental United States, including Montana. Just recently, my record label put me on a plane to LA to work with some of the best producers in the business. And even though I’m in the middle of an ill-advised promo tour that feels like a massive step backwards, it still beats boarding the A Train on 172nd Street at 7:15am, traveling an hour plus in a packed car to downtown Brooklyn to teach 5-year olds how to Hula-hoop. It’s times like these I must remember that it’s the experience, with all the glorious and shit moments, that is the reward, truly the break that I’ve won.
And this is the message I try to impart to the wide-eyed would-be Rock Stars every morning. There are no guarantees in this world. People will fuck you if you let them. Life as a musician is continual series of somersaults. Your best move is to look down, tuck your chin, and perfect your form. And eventually, though you’ll be dizzy and dazed, you will get somewhere. And who knows where that somewhere is, be it commanding 80,000 people on Glastonbury’s Pyramid Stage, or a Wednesday night in Newcastle playing Piano tucked away behind the hostess stand (yes this happened to me a week ago). Take the highs and the lows in stride, not out of modesty, but necessity. It’s survival.
If Louis Theroux asked me a few simple and direct questions about being a musician, this is what I would tell him. Hopefully I wouldn’t come off as crazy as the desperate, body modification obsessed middle-aged men I’m watching right now. However, there are no guarantees in this world.
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
The Song Remains The Same
This Saturday I’m getting on a plane and flying 11 hours to a place that is the antithesis of everything I believe in. Last time I was in L.A. was nearly two years ago, right after my first ever trip to London. If only I had known that precious week would be my last serious dose of sunshine till now. As I type my mind is racing with images of cruising the 101 in a convertible, top pulled down and that radio on, brown skin shining in the sun. My love for you will still be strong. Thank God for Don Henley.
Why, you ask, would I take time to kick back and relax when my new single, ‘Love Again For The First Time’ is set for release in coming weeks? The sad truth is I’ll be spending very little time outside the soundproofed walls of studios. I’m flying to Los Angeles for 3 big time writing sessions in the hope of churning out another single for my debut record, The Planeteer. I’m insanely excited to be working with top-notch writers and producers Greg Kurstin (Lily Allen, Little Boots, The Bird & The Bee), The Matrix (Avril Lavigne, Liz Phair), and Beau Dozier, son of Motown writing legend Lamont Dozier. Accompanying me to the sessions is the man I wrote my new single with, Martin Brammer (James Morrison, Tina Turner). I consider myself incredibly lucky to spend seven days with these very talented people. I plan to suck them dry.
Some of you may be saying to yourself, “That’s madness. From what I’ve seen (in concert and on YouTube), JV is a certified hit machine. The man eats, sleeps, and breathes Pop. You could wake this guy up any time of night, put a Dictaphone to his lips, and record a number 1 smash in 9 countries. Why would someone who turns a tune effortlessly need to fly 5,000 miles to write a hit? Well my friends, justified as you may be in asking the question, the answer is simple: what makes a hit a hit has changed.
I was a strange child, as you may have guessed by now. While all my friends rocked out to Nirvana and Nine Inch Nails, I was grooving to Annie Lennox and Stevie Wonder. Yet all of these acts were innovators in their own right. Each had their own sound, their own unique sense of melody, harmony, rhythm that made them stand out. I don’t think you’ll find four songs more varied Heart-Shaped Box, Closer, Sweet Dreams, and Isn’t She Lovely. These days I turn on the Radio (I don’t own a Radio, but it’s a metaphor dang it!) and I hear the same songs sung by new people. Pop culture is eating itself. Listeners are no longer being challenged by Music. Instead, programmers cater to the lowest common dominator, conditioning people to hear most simple sounds with simple messages. Music has become subservient to the Brand, and songs have become the advertisements.
I’m not saying Pop music hasn’t always been plagued by the inane and obvious. It’s easy to remember greatness and let mediocrity slip into oblivion. Several acts from my youth instantly spring to mind, once ubiquitous, now a footnote: Hootie and The Blowfish, Candlebox, Blues Traveler, Spin Doctors, Extreme, Color Me Badd, Sugar Ray, Goo Goo Dolls, Third Eye Blind, Jewel, and everyone’s favorite rapper-turned-movie star, Will Smith. But these days, the similarity between current hits and past hits is more and more alarming. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to tell the difference between a band’s singles. It was one thing when hip-hop was sampling tunes and turning them into hits twice over, giving credit where credit’s due, i.e. every one of Sean “Puffy” Combs’ hits. But we’re at a point where I don’t think artists are even aware of what they’re ripping off. Below is a list for your perusa of recent hits that I think sound dangerous close to existing songs. Cubic Zirconium followed by Diamonds.
That’s Not My Name by The Ting Tings – Mickey by Toni Basil
T-Shirt by Shontelle – With You by Chris Brown
Walking On A Dream by Empire Of The Sun – Dreams by Fleetwood Mac
6 of 1 Thing by Craig David – 1 Thing by Amerie
Fascination by Alphabeat – Modern Love by David Bowie
The Boy Does Nothing by Alicia Dixon – Mambo no.5 by Lou Bega
Kanye West’s 808’s & Heartbreak album – Something In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins
Cry For You by September – Clocks by Coldplay
And here are some bands with two songs that sound almost identical:
The Script – The Man Who Can’t Be Moved and Breakeven
The Fray – Cable Car (Over My Head) and You Found Me
Take That – Rule The World and Greatest Day
Coldplay – Clocks and The Speed Of Sound
Basshunter – (I can’t believe I’m admitting to knowing Basshunter’s singles )
Angel In The Night, Now You’re Gone, and All I Ever Wanted
The grand prize goes to Nickelback for How You Remind Me and Someday. Both were proven to be nearly the exact same song by Mikey Smith, a 21-year-old college kid in Alberta. Check it out - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a37hakpZjQA
If I come off sounding slightly angry and embittered, it’s cause I am. Over the past decade, the music industry has made choices that have consistently decreased the value of its product. Between illegal downloading, reality TV-show stars, corporate monopoly of media outlets, and just plain pandering, recorded music is no longer a desired commodity. People don’t feel like they should pay for records, and I don’t blame them. Why buy it if it’s crap? 7 of the Top 10 best selling singles in the UK this century have been spawned by X-Factor, 5 of which are dreadful, forgettable ballads (Bob The Builder’s Can We Fix It is the lone independent stand out). The stars of today are not exceptional people like Kurt and Trent and Annie and Stevie, they’re your average guy, the girl next door. Pop Music no longer sends a message of individuality and originality, but rather conformity (the proof is in the pudding: The lyrics to Shontelle’s T-Shirt read as a list of designer clothing ranges that rhyme). More and more I long for the innocence of my youth, when Paul and Michael would sing side by side in the back of a truck full of hay. Heck, these days I’d be happy with another Thong Song. At least that had a cool melody.
Stepping away from all of this, I hope to come out of next week’s sessions with a some cracking tunes. I’m working with the best in the business, and writing good songs will be my giant musical middle finger in the face of all things mundane. Let me leave you with the immortal words Mark Althavan Andrews, known to us Sisqo: Dumps like a truck, thighs like what. All night long, let me see that thong.
Feel free to email any thoughts or comments to jvfanmail@gmail.com
Why, you ask, would I take time to kick back and relax when my new single, ‘Love Again For The First Time’ is set for release in coming weeks? The sad truth is I’ll be spending very little time outside the soundproofed walls of studios. I’m flying to Los Angeles for 3 big time writing sessions in the hope of churning out another single for my debut record, The Planeteer. I’m insanely excited to be working with top-notch writers and producers Greg Kurstin (Lily Allen, Little Boots, The Bird & The Bee), The Matrix (Avril Lavigne, Liz Phair), and Beau Dozier, son of Motown writing legend Lamont Dozier. Accompanying me to the sessions is the man I wrote my new single with, Martin Brammer (James Morrison, Tina Turner). I consider myself incredibly lucky to spend seven days with these very talented people. I plan to suck them dry.
Some of you may be saying to yourself, “That’s madness. From what I’ve seen (in concert and on YouTube), JV is a certified hit machine. The man eats, sleeps, and breathes Pop. You could wake this guy up any time of night, put a Dictaphone to his lips, and record a number 1 smash in 9 countries. Why would someone who turns a tune effortlessly need to fly 5,000 miles to write a hit? Well my friends, justified as you may be in asking the question, the answer is simple: what makes a hit a hit has changed.
I was a strange child, as you may have guessed by now. While all my friends rocked out to Nirvana and Nine Inch Nails, I was grooving to Annie Lennox and Stevie Wonder. Yet all of these acts were innovators in their own right. Each had their own sound, their own unique sense of melody, harmony, rhythm that made them stand out. I don’t think you’ll find four songs more varied Heart-Shaped Box, Closer, Sweet Dreams, and Isn’t She Lovely. These days I turn on the Radio (I don’t own a Radio, but it’s a metaphor dang it!) and I hear the same songs sung by new people. Pop culture is eating itself. Listeners are no longer being challenged by Music. Instead, programmers cater to the lowest common dominator, conditioning people to hear most simple sounds with simple messages. Music has become subservient to the Brand, and songs have become the advertisements.
I’m not saying Pop music hasn’t always been plagued by the inane and obvious. It’s easy to remember greatness and let mediocrity slip into oblivion. Several acts from my youth instantly spring to mind, once ubiquitous, now a footnote: Hootie and The Blowfish, Candlebox, Blues Traveler, Spin Doctors, Extreme, Color Me Badd, Sugar Ray, Goo Goo Dolls, Third Eye Blind, Jewel, and everyone’s favorite rapper-turned-movie star, Will Smith. But these days, the similarity between current hits and past hits is more and more alarming. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to tell the difference between a band’s singles. It was one thing when hip-hop was sampling tunes and turning them into hits twice over, giving credit where credit’s due, i.e. every one of Sean “Puffy” Combs’ hits. But we’re at a point where I don’t think artists are even aware of what they’re ripping off. Below is a list for your perusa of recent hits that I think sound dangerous close to existing songs. Cubic Zirconium followed by Diamonds.
That’s Not My Name by The Ting Tings – Mickey by Toni Basil
T-Shirt by Shontelle – With You by Chris Brown
Walking On A Dream by Empire Of The Sun – Dreams by Fleetwood Mac
6 of 1 Thing by Craig David – 1 Thing by Amerie
Fascination by Alphabeat – Modern Love by David Bowie
The Boy Does Nothing by Alicia Dixon – Mambo no.5 by Lou Bega
Kanye West’s 808’s & Heartbreak album – Something In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins
Cry For You by September – Clocks by Coldplay
And here are some bands with two songs that sound almost identical:
The Script – The Man Who Can’t Be Moved and Breakeven
The Fray – Cable Car (Over My Head) and You Found Me
Take That – Rule The World and Greatest Day
Coldplay – Clocks and The Speed Of Sound
Basshunter – (I can’t believe I’m admitting to knowing Basshunter’s singles )
Angel In The Night, Now You’re Gone, and All I Ever Wanted
The grand prize goes to Nickelback for How You Remind Me and Someday. Both were proven to be nearly the exact same song by Mikey Smith, a 21-year-old college kid in Alberta. Check it out - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a37hakpZjQA
If I come off sounding slightly angry and embittered, it’s cause I am. Over the past decade, the music industry has made choices that have consistently decreased the value of its product. Between illegal downloading, reality TV-show stars, corporate monopoly of media outlets, and just plain pandering, recorded music is no longer a desired commodity. People don’t feel like they should pay for records, and I don’t blame them. Why buy it if it’s crap? 7 of the Top 10 best selling singles in the UK this century have been spawned by X-Factor, 5 of which are dreadful, forgettable ballads (Bob The Builder’s Can We Fix It is the lone independent stand out). The stars of today are not exceptional people like Kurt and Trent and Annie and Stevie, they’re your average guy, the girl next door. Pop Music no longer sends a message of individuality and originality, but rather conformity (the proof is in the pudding: The lyrics to Shontelle’s T-Shirt read as a list of designer clothing ranges that rhyme). More and more I long for the innocence of my youth, when Paul and Michael would sing side by side in the back of a truck full of hay. Heck, these days I’d be happy with another Thong Song. At least that had a cool melody.
Stepping away from all of this, I hope to come out of next week’s sessions with a some cracking tunes. I’m working with the best in the business, and writing good songs will be my giant musical middle finger in the face of all things mundane. Let me leave you with the immortal words Mark Althavan Andrews, known to us Sisqo: Dumps like a truck, thighs like what. All night long, let me see that thong.
Feel free to email any thoughts or comments to jvfanmail@gmail.com
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