Whatever happened to the good old female empowerment anthem?
Listening to recently, I was struck by how powerful the song still is. Sure, it's been demoted from the hit parade to classic hits hell and occasionally pops up in "what were we thinking?"-esque video marathons, but the core of the song still strikes a chord.
The video helps; the massed chorus of working women (not that kind, you idiot) might look daggy today, but at least their arses are covered.
Though perhaps I noticed it more because what passes for empowerment in female pop today is some kind of highly-sexualised post-post-feminist version of what women want: i.e.
the opportunity to turn the spotlight of objectification back upon men, and looking hot while doing it.
Sisters are doing him for themselves, in other words.
Time for another rethink on the "national song" front.
Each week I review singles for Melbourne's Inpress magazine (that's Drum Media's little sister to you Sydneysiders).
Every Thursday or Friday I go to the office and haul out a shopping bag full of singles and EPs and do my best to work through the lot by the time the next delivery arrives.
There's usually a fairly even spread of good and bad (and some just plain shit), but even when I'm jamming HB pencils into my ear drums to the tune of the latest funk-metal/jazz-fusion/semi-acoustic-jam-band release, I still find myself thinking "Well, at least they're getting it down and getting it out there." At least music is being made.
Imagine my dismay, then, when one of the current sackload was a 50th Anniversary reissue of...
A Pub With No Beer!
The most exciting songs that stayed that way after 10,000 repeat listens.
I've mentioned my tendency to overplay songs in a Noise Pollution missive. It's a habit that can suck the life-force out of even the finest piece of pop genius like .
Given that, I'm always captivated by a song that resists drying up, no matter how many times unimaginative Clem pounds them out on the stereo. So, today's mix-tape features the songs that were exciting when I first heard them and that still get my pulse racing. Or, should I say - in a more excitable manner - THAT STILL GET MY PULSE RACING!
!!1!
Revisiting those first musical purchases.
Being that I don't subscribe to the concept of musical guilt and I'm also fairly unconcerned with regret (apart from leaving a highly collectable edition of at the eye-level of a dog with a taste for newsprint), when it comes to music, I don't tend to look back upon my early purchases with too much horror.
However, I certainly don't regard them with as much affection as I once did - so, inspired by a game I was once introduced to that entailed wondering what your 12-year-old self would say in conversation with your current self, I decided to revisit the past and check in with those formative moments of musical consumerism.
are optional.
Music criticism: too much criticism, not enough caring and sharing.
Let me be frank with you for a moment, dear reader: I'm ashamed of myself. This past week, I've felt hatred building up inside me and eating away my innards like a milk-tooth in a glass of Coca Cola.
What was worse, when it could build up no longer, - and hurt the feelings of artists like Radiohead, U2, Arctic Monkeys and Eric Clapton (amongst others).
It was really, really mean. After all, they're just making the music they love. Who am I to rain on their parade?
I'm sorry, !
So, after some intensive self-examination, I thought it time that I have a career rethink, if you will, and attempt to rewrite the rules when it comes to music writing. I want you to hold my hand tightly as we jump headfirst into a new era in rock criticism: a caring, supportive and positive era.
A sampling of overrated singles.
There are certain artists that You Must Like, and likewise, there are some songs that are The Best Ever. Then there are songs that may one day be The Best Ever, but right now are The Next Big Thing or One Of The Singles Of The Year. The Most Exciting Artist Right Now Making The Music Of The Moment, etc.
It's no coincidence that most of them are also as boring as batshit.
Inside the repetitive world of the musical obsessive.
My boyfriend is currently in our bedroom with . He is lying on his back - on our bed - and making moony eyes at her while she serenades him with her beguiling vocal affectations, plinky piano and heart-string tugging string section.
She's so constantly in his ears these days it's like a musical .
is on his computer, in our car and monopolising the house's playlists. If I didn't know better I'd think I was in danger of being replaced.
Fortunately, however, I am in the living room in my underwear, being entertained by Bruce Springsteen, Amy Winehouse, Justin Timberlake, and every single member of The Art Of Noise.
When will the media stop laying into female artists for doing the same things that make heroes of male artists?
"OH, BRITNEY - WHEN WILL THIS ALL END?
"
Sorry to shout at you this early in the day; I'm just quoting NW Magazine, on the topic of - who else?
- Britney Spears. If you've been working on the International Space Station this past week, Britney has , , and . She's Losing ItTM.
And I'm quoting NW, quite frankly, because I've had an absolute gutful of the media's treatment of female artists who dare to go "off the rails".
Kick start your week with some sax, drugs and rock'n'roll.
When I've just spent twelve hours in a Tarago, filled with musicians, speeding down the Hume in the blazing sun, there's nothing that gets me back on track quite as efficiently as a glass of Berocca and a barrage of righteous saxophone solos.
Well, maybe not, but interstate business or not, I made a promise to myself - and fellow sax solo enthusiasts - to shine a spotlight on saxophone, and by Christ I'm going to keep my word!
Celebs who can't keep out of the recording studio - and some I'd like to see.
Fear, of course, that is well founded if those words are coming out of the mouth of a celebrity - because, try as they might, there's something about celebs mixing their media that almost always ends up in disaster.
Think of Bruce Willis singing in Hudson Hawk.
Yeah, I'm sorry for your loss.
Jet's new theory of relativity: life on the road = wartime atrocities. Deep, maaaaan.
In our backyard, we have four tomato plants.
The tall, healthy-looking vine is called Mark, the scraggly one infested with whitefly is called Chris, the nondescript one in the background is called Cameron and the one closest to the back door is called Nic.
What does this have to do with anything? Not a whole lot, really, other than providing a buffer zone to prevent this blog from beginning with a barrage of curse-words, insults, loss of control of various bodily functions, and sudden and unexplained tic-like facial expressions.
All of which can be enjoyed when you watch Our Jet's latest video clip!
In the lead-up to Valentines day, some of the greatest love songs - and a few antidotes.
This week, because I feel like it it's Valentine's Day on Wednesday, the mix-tape is extending its horizons and splintering into a few more suggestions for listening - or, in this case, mix-taping - than usual. Because, really, when you're a record nut, what is more romantic than a carefully constructed mix-tape?
(CD-R or iTunes playlist, for those who don't realise that .)
Feeling generous (or scattered, who knows), I thought we'd try a bunch of tiny-tapes to suit a variety of romancers, whether you're starting out or ending up, or something in between.
Now, romance is a subjective thing (duh) and I would never pretend to know what the ideal gift or flower is, nor what you should or shouldn't say on such an "important" day.
Instead, these are just my thoughts on romantic music (and a few for the single and/or cynical); the mini-mixes can be combined - pick and mix-taped - to create a whole, like fun-sized chocolates or tropical diseases.
There are plenty of sad days of note in my "younger" years; the Valentines' Day when Vickie asked out Geoffrey (knowing I liked him), the year my local milk-bar stopped stocking Mint Choc Wedges, the deaths of countless pets and Barbie dolls.
But some of the most bittersweet moments I can recall are the occasions when I heard the real words to songs I'd been happily singing along to (incorrectly) - and all of a sudden, I could never return to the gobbledegook lyrics I held so dear.
It was as I imagine being told there's no Father Christmas would be.
Television and loving the greatest Greatest Album Of All Time.
Once, at a Silverchair theatre gig, I overheard a bloke in a marginally cheaper seat (i.e., behind us, in the 99th row) exclaim matter-of-factly to his mates that the show was so good he "spoofed his pants three times.
"
I often think of that charming fellow when revisiting the first time I heard Television's Marquee Moon; if you haven't heard, it, please make an effort to. Not because it's one of those 100000001 Records You Must Own Or Else You're Not Coming To My Party, but because it's a thing of beauty that inspired so many of the more recent bands you probably dig.
And, well, because if you've not heard it, the following paragraphs discussing wet pants, racing heartbeats and heaving bosoms probably won't be much more to you than a Mills Boon quickie set in a second-hand record shop - because I'm about to gush like I've never gushed before.
Ten guitar solos so awesome they cancel out the rest of the song.
There are guitar solos, and there are guitar solos. Sure, rock is peppered with acts of magnificent fretwank fury, but some solos are so transcendent that everything else dissolves into irrelevance - yes, even the rest of the song. In truth, I really only began to realise this when I moved a great deal of my music onto my computer.
The cursor's ability to pinpoint the exact second in a song where your favourite part occurs made playing and replaying ripping solos that much easier - and made forgetting the end of the song just as simple. I mean, why endure another rousing chorus or a key-change when you can just skip back and hear the solo again?
But it's not just an MTV generation thing where I can't sit through two minutes without fidgeting; it's more about appreciating the awesome power of these solos.
You know they're coming, and after they hit, everything within a five-mile radius is vaporised.
On my way to where the air is sweet - and the music is sweeter.
Recently, I found myself lamenting having never been a teenager. Well, I was one in age, of course, but more figuratively, I never had a wild period, wasn't really interested in boys, never got inadvisably drunk, thought Kurt Cobain was "stupid and boring", and shot straight from school to uni.
I was a tiny little grown-up in a teenaged beanpole's body.
However, I look back frequently and fondly when it comes to my childhood; it wasn't Kleenex ad perfect (whose was?), but it was pretty damn good.
And some of my most vivid childhood memories are of songs from early Sesame Street episodes. Which remained just that - memories - until very recently, when I rediscovered a bunch of them online.
The memories didn't so much come flooding back as bursting through levee walls, accompanied by waves of tears.
Why MySpace sucks if you're a music critic. Or if you're anyone, really.
Despite now being a card-carrying addict the , I'll admit that I was in no way an early-adopter when it came to MySpace. I stuck with for as long as I could; until I could hear the wind and tumbleweeds whistling through the CPU of Friendster central.
On the day I left, I swear I saw a lonely tear fall from the perma-smiley .
Part of the dorky appeal of Friendster was finding techno-hip music celebs like Kathleen Hanna on there and being their "friend"; there was nothing more early-'00s than casually mentioning how such-and-such an indie star was "friends with me on Friendster."
However, nothing prepared me for the overwhelming onslaught of bands, earnest singer-songwriters and "hip-hop/urban/R B" artists that MySpace would offer.
Nor was I prepared for how much it would suck to be considered (ha!) a music industry professional while within that pit of lies.
It's time to reclaim these songs from their auspicious sampling.
While sampling in its true sense (i.
e. turning bits of other songs into new songs) still amazes me, there are times when I wish the song being sampled would be treated to as much fanfare as its chopped-and-changed cousins.
And so, this week's Monday Mix-Tape presents to you a gaggle of songs I'd like to reclaim from their sample-happy reinventions; some you'll know, some you might not (but all are easily found on iTunes or compilations, or the original albums, if you're into that; weirdo), but at least you can make it into a dinner party playlist and seem incredibly well-informed and hip.
Or just old; it's a chance you'll have to take.
Sorrow kills joy: depression's got my music.
It doesn't seem to matter how many community service announcements tell us to talk about depression, 
or how many billboards say to stick together because one-out-of-five people will suffer from a mental illness, actually being depressed makes you about as popular as at an independent artists showcase.
If Elton John thinks that sorry seems to be the hardest word, he should try saying "HAY GUYS, IM DEPRESSED" to his pals and workmates (although, he probably has at one time or another).
Finding out who your true friends are, for me (a card-carrying hermit at the best of times), wasn't the worst part of sinking into depression. It was the fact that the thing that had always been my life-force - music - started slipping into the blackness, too.
In decrying the Big Day Out's discouragement of flag-bearing, government stiffs prove just how out of touch they are with music festival reality.
I have many fond memories of my various Big Days Out: sooky Goths stomping around in the heat as their make-up melts in the lead up to Nine Inch Nails; disgusting sauce-covered Dagwood Dogs and loads of Hare Krishna nosh falling off pitifully inadequate environmentally-friendly plates; Frenzal Rhomb's gleeful destruction of comedy effigies of politicians; singing The Darkness' I Believe In A Thing Called Love with Andrew G in a brief moment of televisual infamy; and, of course, the music.
You'll note that not one of those happy reminiscences included "Being given a spray by brick-headed tools insisting I 'kiss the flag!' or face the consequences."
Monday is the new Friday.
Yes, as mentioned on Friday, Monday is now mix-tape day, giving you a) suggested listening to combat Monday-itis, b) readymade playlists for the iTunes-illiterate and/or c) a rest from the litany of hatred and bitterness that Noise Pollution is usually.
There'll be YouTube vids where possible (and where their viewing won't be likely to give you ocular herpes) and most of the songs are iTunes-able. Feel free to suggest mix-tapes you'd like to see tackled, too (emails to the usual address; see the end of the blog for deets).
And if you weren't crammed full of pop by the end of last week, get ready to stuff 'til you chuck.
The teen-pop death match comes to a head! And another head, and another head.
..
Those who joined us on will have "thrilled" to the preliminary rounds of the teen pop death match. We "oohed" at Honeyz' deft use of nylon stockings and "aahhed" when Human Nature actually made it through.
However, clearly all that research about classical music being better for your intellect than pop or dance music is correct, as here managed to miscalculate the number of rounds required to get to a final, if you're starting with a field of sixteen competitors.
And so, as a special treat for those of you following this "official" and "definitive" search for the greatest boy band and girl group of the modern era, we present not one, not two, but three rounds of teen pop death match (edited highlights)!
Llllettt's geeettt reeeeaaadyyyy to ruuuuuummmbllle!
...
Everybody fight about pop music!
As with so many of my apparent musical quirks, those who know me will attest to the fact that I am an avid fan (and defender) of Top 40 pop (well, the good stuff); more specifically, boy bands and girl groups.
From to , it populates my CD singles collection, stuffs my iTunes and even colours my shady collection of '90s promotional merch (Spice Girls 'official' orange lip-gloss, anyone?
).
However after heated arguments with my many like-minded colleagues and friends, it became clear that a "definitive" (note: may not actually be definitive) tournament was needed to decide once and for all just who were the greatest of each gender genre. Teen pop death match!
!
In praise of the heir to pop's crown.
We've had our ups ( ) and our downs ( ), but through it all one thing is certain: I love Justin Timberlake.
And, when it's good (as it often is), his music is some of the most compelling stuff I've heard in quite some time.
Love (of music) means never having to say you're sorry for liking The Doobie Brothers.
Lately I've been seriously irked. Okay, I'm irked most days, but if there's one thing that is guaranteed to get to me, it's people who'll only like something if they can slather it in a thick, sticky coating of
rich creamery butter irony.
You know, those types who'll go to hipster indie nightclubs and dance fervently to Sean Paul or Britney Spears or The Style Council, but would sooner melt into a puddle of shame than actually own anything by them.
The latest target of my ire, then, is this hilarious "new" way to make it okay to listen to deeply uncool music without ramifications with regards to your indie cred: .
Why are we so fascinated by rock's buried treasure - and what will the future's be?
Every now and again music's long lost past collides in a major way with the now. Someone will dig up a rare and un-scuffed copy of an elusive EP; bits of mysterious merch will float to the surface of an otherwise unremarkable auction; Axl Rose will be spotted in his natural habitat.
There's something wonderfully mysterious about these old recordings and tour detritus; after all, anyone can a , but most rock collectables should've been transient (ticket stubs, backstage passes, demo recordings and discarded clothing) and so their survival is all the more magical.
People love nothing more than hearing tales of the Holy Grails of musical ephemera and the recent resurfacing of the first acetate of The Velvet Underground's debut record (pictured) is no exception to the rule.
Especially considering it was bought for 75c and finally .
All together now, all those record enthusiasts up the back: D'OH! D'OH! D'OH!
Did the masses dig Sandi Thom's message, or just her percussion?
So the ' highest selling singles and albums of 2006 were announced last week, with Sandi Thom's taking out line honours in front of the by-now standard gaggle of interchangeable R B and dance pop (s)hits.
What with boof-head OneLove dorks in graffittied polo shirts, ineffectual Idol winners and assorted pop slutz bringing up the rear, it's surprising, to say the least, that the earnest Scotswoman - who third-place getter in Duluth's annual Impersonator Pageant - managed to crawl to the top of the pile.
Do I really like classical music, or just the classic hits?
At the time I'd confound them by drawing their love of the Star Wars score to their attention (go figure), but as I've "grown up", I've also started to worry that my strident defence of classical music was backed up by tastes that seem increasingly whitebread.
From Nessun Dorma to Fanfare For The Common Man, I may not know much about classical music's back pages, but I know what I like. Oh god, what have I become?
If music be the food of love, play on - but only after I look through your record collection.
Fortunately for my sanity, amongst other things, I am no longer single, but I have friends who are still on the dating scene.
Indeed, this site's own Sam (female variety) is nest mother to hundreds, if not thousands, of people creeping the boards of dating's great theatre of deception and embarrassment love and commitment; as such, we hear loads about what women and men find a big turn on or a massive turn off. Even in broader terms, we know about things like visible panty lines and dud pick-up lines and how they are, generally speaking, a big mistake.
But what about the stuff that is - for people like us, at least - probably the most important turn on or off of all: music.
A new year, a new Noise Pollution, a new adventure.
Yes, Noise Pollution is and ready to tackle a new year's worth of , and questionable to crystal meth pin-ups.
Admitting what I'm about to admit may lead to what's left of my credibility evaporating like cheap chardonnay in risotto, but I had something of an epiphany today: if I were 15 years old again, I would probably be way into emo.
Well, perhaps I should define that a little more clearly; I'm talking about teenmo, that easy-to-scoff-at melding of emo, pop punk and stadium rock that seems to be currently all the rage with the Young People. And after an exhaustive/exhausting session of teenmo hits, I can see why it is.
So, I thought, what better way to begin this ongoing feature - a weekly road-map to particular genres, themes, artists, producers and/or whatever other ephemeral definition I decide upon the night before - than with a listen-without-prejudice to this thing that's got a hold of our radio/music TV/MySpace/future?
Nothing says 'I love you' like cheesy pop music.
When I finally tired of 5am bedtimes and having my eyeballs marinaded in third-hand cigarette smoke, I gave up the "rock DJing" game (i.
e. turning CD players/turntables on and off with a beer in one hand) for something a little more civilised: DJing at a wedding.
Mercifully for both the guests and myself the Chicken Dance didn't feature in my reception set, and the happy couple had a penchant for Motown.
But as the night wore on, booze flowed and the bride nearly suffered a wardrobe malfunction mid-waltz, I did what (I assumed) any respectable wedding DJ would do.
I cracked out the solid gold cheese.
Just what is it that makes singers who can't sing so different, so appealing?
*
If the Idol franchise has taught us anything, it's that we should value vocal prowess above anything else when it comes to our music stars.
Nothing brings on a 'TOUCHDOWN!' moment more than fifty notes crammed into the space of a bar, hands waving in the air like a talk-show audience and vocalists - as was once memorably said about Michael Bolton - who have a hernia when they sing.
When it comes down to it though, as much as I will always love Mariah and Xtina, nothing moves me more than a singer who can't really sing. With everyone from The Veronicas to Robbie Williams claiming rock'n'roll cred, is rock in danger of becoming just another adjective?
It doesn't take much to be "rock" these days. Once upon a time it took a modicum of edge, perhaps a captivating stage persona, sometimes you even had to play rock'n'roll to be rock!
Now, all you have to do is wear a certain t-shirt, mix some Boss overdrive in with your chintzy pop, and/or pose with a guitar, and bingo! Instant rock.
So should we be worried that rock is less a way of life these days than an adjective - are we devaluing something that should be our lifeblood by spreading it around thinly?
What is rock? ? Or ?
I missed music criticism's opening act, but I'm told it was incendiary...
Why can't rock critics and music writers that keep their paws out of that big ol' barrel of reheated rhetoric?
Music critic Mark Desrosiers wrote a great piece a few years back about the , such as having Good Taste, lauding boring music and forced gonzo (i.e.
worshipping at the temple of - pictured being roughed up by The Clash - and ).
"You can usually spot the good music critics because they're motivated by passion and responsibility, not boredom and ambition," he wrote. "And as record reviews proliferate across the electronic ether like a ropy virus, I get depressed at their shite quality, their echoing monotony, their cowardice and apathy.
"
What, noone's mentioned Alanis yet?? ;).
.. Man you are worse then miranda devine with your topics!
Thursty: you may have noticed that all of your "comments" get j...
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