Austin Powers & Post Irony

24 11 2008

international man of mystery or silverlake resident?

Hipsters: One crushed velvet pair of pants away from Austin D. Powers.

1. He’s a “photographer”– meaning he shags a lot of bitches by telling them he wants to “take pictures” of them.

photographer

2. Loves his ladies in lame or body suits (ie: Vanessa Kensington).

babe in lame

3. Looks like Roman Polanski and acts like a flamboyant post-metro nineteen year old with an ego that demands epic musical introductions.

4. He’s been really working on his personal brand, with plenty of catch-phrases and signature moves.

5. Loves to Video Chat (you may recall Austin logging onto AOL to video chat with Basil Exposition).

basil exposition

The ones who don’t turn into Austin Powers are likely to become:
1. Daft Punk
2. The Gin Blossoms
3. MC Hammer

The only upside:
The end of the ironic-seventies bullshit, with the complete dissolution of anything done “because it’s funny”. Funny to who ? Funny to that heroin addict that also saw that obscure seventies porn you’re doing a homage to by wearing that ridiculous denim vest ? And your mustache is creepy.

And take off that silly ass hat.





Technology.

17 07 2008

Society has long since been a slave to that love we call music. Married in melodies, fans unconditionally followed their spouses around the country. They begged and pleaded at their doors, craving something, anything, to quell their insatiable desire for more. Relationships were based upon loyalty and a heavenly understanding. The chords could convey every feeling they couldn’t find the words for. The progressions penetrated them and moved within them like the most sensual of lovers. And they were committed to that relationship in the utmost of love.

Those days are gone. The fan-band relationship has made a crude turn from affectionate unions of devotion. Now it’s more like a pimp and his hoe. A pretty young thing is spotted on the street, her legs long and her tits ample. A suited man sees her potential and makes her a lucrative offer. He builds her up, showering her with love and affection. After some time, she seems aged and her novelty has worn thin. Before long she is thrown out in the gutter, her dress ripped, missing one shoe and the residue of that last disrespectful cum shot still plastered on her young withered face. The man who built her pedestal and eventually chucked her off it, has moved on to the next hot piece of ass, parading her down the street and filling her heart with a wide array of false hopes and empty promises only to meet the same fate.

Disgusting and depraved, I know. But in this is the world we move in: full of elitist hipster pushers, just dying to get their grubby little hands on the next thing to brag to all their arbitrary-scarf-wearing-friends about. What? You haven’t heard of so-&-so? Oh, well, let me pull out my Iphone and I will show you God and Glory in the highest. And a month later it is forgotten, left to sit in the Itunes library for the next year. Don’t let those angelically obscure smiles behind those lens-less horn-rimmed glasses fool you. Fans create and kill bands.

I sum much of this strange scene up to technology. Technology has done wonders for the music world. The Internet alone has revolutionized the industry simply with the accessibility it provides. Bands can now be exposed to larger audiences quicker, procuring the starts of success at accelerated speeds. What once took years, now takes months. All you really need is a Myspace Music page and your post punk acapella rhythm folk hop listeners are a couple clicks away even at a thousand miles. Before you know it you’re performing in bars in towns you’ve never heard of and kids in Seven jeans cut-offs and deck shoes know all your lyrics.

Then the magic of newfangled machinery rears its ugly head! For as easy as it is to be discovered via the World Wide Web, it’s just as easy to be replaced. A generation raised on commercial breaks, choppy action flick edits and being seconds away from anyone you’ve ever met has been left with attention span of a Pomeranian. We consume music like we consume everything else- aggressively, thoughtlessly and frivolously. For example, I have eighteen gigs of music on my Ipod. That may seem meager to many of you, maybe extravagant to others. How much music I actually have is inconsequential right now so all you little judgmental guttersnipes need to relax. The point here is I don’t listen to nearly as much of those eighteen gigs as I should. The Ipod has substantially changed how we listen to music. Previously, we would listen to entire albums because essentially we had to. Now we can listen to one song here, another there. Maybe I’m the only one out there but I’ll say it right now: for the most part, I don’t know a good amount of what is on my Ipod yet I continue to devour new music at an alarming rate.

And that is what is really frightening is that fans want to replace you. Everyone gets off on knowing what no one knows. Fans don’t care about new because if something is “new” that means they’ve already manhandled Limewire and have been listening to it for the past two months, They want what’s next and they want it now.

While listening to Pandora for six and a half hours blogging about his evening in Silverlake, a kid discovers this great new band. It’s like Radiohead meets Girl Talk meets Tilly and The Wall and they are, like, the most awesome band, like, EVER. Obviously in the order of new aged natural progression, he goes to their Myspace for some reconnaissance work and after a thorough work over, he adds their song to his Myspace. Immediately, the album is owned whether it be legally or not. The kid starts popping out mix Cds like a young Catholic bride. His friends fall in love with it. They sing it all summer out open sunroofs, reverberating through the city streets. They know the band’s touring schedule by heart and have tickets to both their shows at the Echo. It seems like a love meant to stand strong through a lifetime.

After the second show at the Echo, the kid is starting to become contemptuous. Suddenly, his kid sister and her fifteen year old friends are singing the lyrics and wearing high top Nikes with American Apparel deep v-necks…
Where did they hear that song?
103.1?
WHAT?!
My band is on the radio?!
Wait… they have a music video?!

Suddenly the band once revered is now disdainfully regarded with the same repugnance as a cheating-harlot-poor-excuse for a housewife. The kid begins resenting them, pressing the ‘forward’ button on their Ipod when that now-hit-single comes on, forcing a laugh and a “Well, that was a phase!” Then in efforts to recreate that new band warm and fuzzy feeling, the vicious cycle starts all over again. It’s just another contrived-trying-to-be-quirky band name being dropped outside Spaceland, getting pushed through the mill in line at the El Rey, rung out at the Fonda and hung out to dry by the time they can fill the Hollywood Bowl.

And so it would seem at this rate, we’re destined to treat our bands like golden bikini clad strippers in rap videos, just hitting it and quitting it. Bands aren’t even given a chance to procure a career; by the time they generate enough of a following to justify a second release everyone has already shacked up with the cute new kid on the block and I’m not talking about Jordan Knight. Although they are reuniting, which will need to have an entire spread of its own, about how they were already chewed up and spat out once and are coming for seconds. But that’s exactly what you need to be in this industry now a-days: a glutton for punishment.








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