Category Archives: Music

“My boyfriend is gay” is a song that knows it’s a cliche

Here we have it, then, another song confused about which team it bats for: the open-minded “let’s laugh at things because we’re all one!” community, or the basically regressive and unaware of it group.

This time it’s the obliviously see-through title “My Boyfriend is Gay” and it’s by Hailey Rowe.

Not much to say about it, except: note how the lyrics subtly play off the expectations of the LOL-typing 20-something ideal listener. Like “gay” is something you should just be able to “see through”:

My boyfriend is gay
I know it sounds cliché
That everybody saw right through this guy but me
My boyfriend is gay
Should’ve known by the way
He tivoed every episode of RHOC
My boyfriend is gay
He was really such a great guy, but I saw him with another guy
His favorite color was turquoise and he always drank chocolatinis through a straw
My boyfriend is gay
I didn’t really mean to spy, but I saw him with another guy
You should’ve seen his place and he cried more than me at every chick flick that we saw
(say) la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la

Rely on cliches about gay dudes? Check.

Bring in the whole “cheating” thing so that it kind of sounds like a casual pop breakup song? Check.

Acknowledge the lack of originality of your song in its very lyrics? Check.

I’m a straight guy in his twenties, and I’m very bored with the things that I’d be sure to love.

Call Me Maybe — my new cover, I’m going to hell, see you there

Yeah, I did a cover of Call Me Maybe, last year’s most successful pop song or something.

Sure, I made it dark and creepy and miserable, but it’s still hell-worthy. Enjoy.

New Acoustic EP — JUST A MINUTE PLEASE

I know I said there was a new album in the works, in fact almost ready… but that’s not the case anymore. I’ve decided to rerecord many of the tracks, and go for a rockier sound.

The last full-length Paris and the Hiltons album I did — READING JOURNALS — was ambitious, weird, almost impossible to pin down half the time, and it was so focused on the merging of literature and many musical genres that I got wiped out.

I want this album to be a lot more straightforward, accesible, even catchy. So it’s back to the studio to make it so.

In the meantime, I offer these two acoustic tracks as compensation. I like them. Maybe you will.

Your musical tastes: an impassioned critique of phony authenticity

What an odd place bands with a sense of humor can fall into: if their first single is funny, who will forgive a serious follow-up? Worse, who will forgive any follow-up at all unless its hilarity exceeds what came before?

The very serious demand for authenticity, in particular, seems to deflate any respect for funny bands. We all agree, even if we choose to behave as though we didn’t, that popular music is endless marketing and limited creativity. We’re happy to complain about all the dreary singles the world cruelly imposes on our sensitive senses. The shamelessness of squeezing music like milk from the tits of sexy single ladies who sing about the fun of being sexy and single! The mundanity of love songs only idiots could consider worthy of the love gods! How unconvincing the pining of the rich and beautiful, how unbelievable the rage of bands with Rage in their names! Who is fooled by the charade? We ask this with such relish, and look around to see whether the world is listening to us or to the Rihanna track in the background.

So authenticity is the missing ingredient. And since supply is short, it must be handled with the most theatrical care. The truly hip, of course, are far too hip to think themselves hip, and leave that dubious title for the hipsters they disdain. True authenticity is serious, unknown and forever imperilled by popular adoration: selling out is a dirty thing because it is “selling” but also because it extends “out there” toward the masses. That, perhaps, is the greatest crime. Authenticity is difficult, and though we lament its rarity we fear its reach more than we bemoan its impossibility.

Then a novelty band comes along. One year it’s The Darkness, piping out to baffling aural heights and driving everyone to a very public insanity. The song is annoying! The song is overplayed and not quite as funny as the idiots think it is! And now Electric Six supplant that high-pitched lunacy with a growling request that you join them at the gay bar. Another unforgettable riff, for good or bad; another imbecilic video. While we’re at it, let’s make clear how cloying and phony we find Andrew WK, with his overproduced party metal pop songs about partying and too much partying. What a boring shtick. What a vapid cultural landscape.

Tonight, as we sit very delicately stroking ourselves in our most authentic areas, we’ll let the endless sounds of the Stupid Outside splatter against our double-glazed windows like confused sparrows. We’ll clean ourselves up with unscented toilet paper, the only authentic paper, the only gateway to an overwhelming sense or our bodily mortality: very important and very serious, and a brave denial of the endless love-humping and infuriating repetitiveness of the thump-thump-thump of pop music.

To those who, caught in their ideological bear traps as they always are, casually remind us that The Darkness and Electric Six and Andrew WK are probably having a lot more fun than we are, and that their aesthetic choices imply a good grasp of what’s wrong with popular music, we wave a hand of patient dismissal. To those who say, without the required smirk of disengaged irony, that a novelty band is only called a novelty band by those discerning souls who care to make trite distinctions, we raise an eyebrow of hatred. So what if the all-consuming mass of fucktards out there don’t understand that certain bands are a lot less funny and original than they assume? There’s nothing trite about despising what is truly bad. If you don’t get it, just go back to the clubs or the Strokes fan club you escaped from.

Authenticity, as scientific scrutiny helps us see, is incompatible with everything the radio might play. Tragic, then, to discover it unfit for radio silence too.

——————————

Disclaimer: I fucking love Electric Six, et al.

“Life is Shit”: a moral instruction in song for young children and parents of taste

At last our favorite nursery rhyme for the use of Good Parents of Great Pedigree has been rediscovered in its original form. Phil Jourdan, editor at Perfect Edge Books, has just announced a project to illustrate each verse with amusing illustrations of the sort adored by all traditionally minded parents and their children alike.

While we wait for this exciting new edition of a beautiful poem we all remember from our youth in Shropshire or Alabastershire, let us recall some of the best rhymes from the poem…

Life is naught but silent misery till death:
What’s for breakfast, Auntie Beth?
What’s for breakfast, Auntie Beth?

All our best endeavours are thwarted by God’s hate:
What you cooking, Uncle Nate?
What you cooking, Uncle Nate?

Everyone’s a cancer no discovery could relieve:
Funny sweater, Uncle Steve!
Funny sweater, Uncle Steve!

We are doomed to Satan’s fire; who will save us from the flames?
Peter, check out them fine dames!
Peter, check out them fine dames!

Our chance on Earth is nil and we’re glad for even that:
Where’s the rubbish, Cousin Pat?
Life’s the rubbish, singing twat.

When fathers beat their young they really ought to be shot dead:
Mother, why is Father dead?
Why the blood from Daddy’s head?

The silence of the grave is an illusion we adore:
Death starts at Satan’s door,
And the noise grows evermore.

Violence, disquietude and sadness rule the day:
Why won’t Uncle go away?
Why beat John for being gay?
Why assault me for my cash?
Why does love end in a rash?
Why the bomb dropped on Japan?
Why not everywhere there’s Man?

DEATH IS EVERLASTING TRIUMPH OF MATTER OVER MIND
WE KILL THOSE UNPREPARED TO LIVE AND LEAVE THE REST BEHIND
KILL THE MILLER AND HIS WIFE
KILL THE TAYLOR AND HIS SONS
KILL THE BAKER TO HIS DEATH
THEN EAT ALL THE HOT CROSSED BUNS
FUCKING DELICIOUS

A reliable guide to selling out in the music industry (SCIENTIFICALLY-BACKED)

I propose a simple, practical definition of “selling out” in the music business:

Sell out (verb): To demand, through the medium of song lyrics, that one’s audience raise at least one hand per individual.

Although I concede this is an inflexible definition, I expect further research to demonstrate its utility.

Famous case study, Nicki Minaj

My own research leads me to a conclusion I do not find particularly problematic:

There is a strong correlation between musicians accused of selling out and the inclusion of hand-raising-oriented instructions in the lyrics of songs those musicians perform. Since it seems the idea of selling out is most commonly associated with endorsing a capitalist spirit in one’s music or, worse, simply pandering to populist trends, I submit that although my definition will inevitably require fine-tuning, any act of selling out must necessarily be interpreted within a context of social inclusivity.

The most common variants are:

“Put your hands up!”

“Put your hands up if you feel it!”

“Wave ‘em up, way up there, like you just don’t care!”

“Get up! Get down! Move it all around! Raise your hands to the sky and get your ass on the ground!”

While I cannot be certain that my definition will stand the test of time, I have conducted rigorous experiments with as few variables as possible as an entry point into this complex field. Below are some of my findings. I believe others will agree that there is an unexpectedly convincing case to be made for my definition of selling out.

Evidence:

Nicki Minaj:

Starships were meant to fly

Hands up and touch the sky

 

50 Cent:

Put your hands up, put ‘em where my eyes can see

What’s up, you know you wanna party with me

 

Nerina Pallot:

Put your hands up

Say you wont stop

 

Fedde LeGrand:

Put your hands up

Put your hands up

Put your hands up

For Detroit

 

Matchbox Twenty:

Put your hands up

It’s all right

Singing oh-oh-oh-oh

Until the sun rise

 

Inna:

Put your hands up

Dream until the morning

 

Kylie Minogue:

Put your hands up if you feel love tonight

If you feel love

Now put your hands up if you feel love tonight

If you feel love

 

Ne-Yo:

Put ya hands up, ladies put ya hands up

Get ya hands up, fellas get ya hands up

 

Jadakiss:

Come on, put ya hands up

Nah, fuck that, put ya hands down

Come on, put ya hands up

Nah, fuck that, put ya hands down

 

Chris Brown:

If you’re sexy and you know it put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air, girl, put your hands up

 

Miranda Cosgrove:

Everybody’s dancin’ dancin’ crazy,

And we never stop, never stop,

Everybody’s ragin’, ragin’ crazy,

Put your hands up,

Put your hands up,

 

Benny Benassi:

Oh, yeah put your hands up

Yeah yeah

 

Daft Punk:

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up in the air

 

Bomfunk MC’s:

Put your hands up

Put your hands up

Put your hands up

Put your hands up

 

LL Cool J:

I said put your hands in the motherfuckin air – where?

 

David Guetta:

So, raise your hands

Put your hands up

Put your hands up

Put your hands up

Put your hands up

Put your hands up

Put your hands up

 

Fergie:

Hands Up

Get your hands up

Throw your hands up

Get your hands up

Throw your hands up

Get your hands up

Throw your hands up

Get your hands up

 

DJ Khaled:

If you from the streets like me, put your hands up

If you rep your city like me, put your hands up

If you put in work like me, put your hands up

 

Mizz Nina ft Flo Rida:

I wanna see you put your hands up,

Now let me see you put your hands up, all your hands

I wanna see you put your hands up, all your hands

I wanna see you put your hands up, all your hands

 

Nelly:

If you’re a pretty lady put your hands up

Everybody in the house put your hands up

Ya wanna ride ya own Mercedes put ya hands up

 

Danzel:

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up

in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up

in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up

in the air

Put your hands up in the air

Put your hands up

in the air

 

OPM:

Put your hands up, this is a stash up

Pull the trigger and you’re gonna get mashed up

Put your hands up, this is a stash up

Pull the trigger and you’re gonna get mashed up

Put your hands up, this is a stash up

Pull the trigger and you’re gonna get mashed up

Put your hands up, this is a stash up

Pull the trigger and you’re gonna get mashed up

 

Fatboy Slim:

Put your hands up

Put your hands up

Put your hands up for Fat Boy Slim

 

Nelly (again):

If you ever loved somebody put your hands up.

If you ever loved somebody put your hands up.

And now they’re gone and you wish you could give them everything.

 

Bon Jovi:

Raise your hands

When you want to let it go

Raise your hands

And you want to let a feeling show

Raise your hands

From New York to Chicago

Raise your hands

From New Jersey to Tokyo

Raise your hands

 

Tokio Hotel:

We are here tonight

Leave the world outside

I see you shining bright

Raise your hands together

 

Motley Crue:

Yeah, so raise your hands to rock

Raise your hands to rock

Raise your hands to rock

Raise your hands to rock

 

Vicious Rumors:

Raise your hands, raise your hands

Take a stand, you’ll be free

 

Stonebridge:

And baby I don’t care

Where you’ve been before

Just put ‘em high

Put ‘em high

Make the best of it

Just a little bit

Just put ‘em high

And put ‘em high

 

Mac Miller:

If you in the ride turn the volume real high,

If you tryna feel the vibe throw your hands up in the sky

Motherfucker get em up up up up up up

Get em up up up up up up

 

Ace Hood:

Say I maybe gave a damn but I never gave a fuck

Rep your city like a G then put your middle fingers up

I got that east side rollin’, and that west side smoke

South side rollin wit me and the north side gon

Get em up, ay, get em up,

Get em up, ay, get em up,

Get em up, ay, get em up,

Get em up, ay, get em up,

Get em up, ay, get em up,

Get em up, ay, get em up,

Get em up, ay, get em up

 

Paul Oakenfold:

Gotta get ‘em up

Who wants some?

You better get ‘em up

Come get some

Gotta get ‘em up

Who wants some?

You better get ‘em up

Come get some

 

Cypress Hill:

Get ‘em up

Get ‘em up

Get ‘em up now

Get ‘em up

Get ‘em up

Get ‘em up now

Get ‘em up

Get ‘em up

Get ‘em up now

Get ‘em up

Get ‘em up

Get ‘em up now

 

Ottawan:

Hands up, baby, hands up,

Gimme your heart, gimme, gimme your heart

Gimme gimme

Hands up, baby, hands up,

Gimme your heart, gimme, gimme your heart

Gimme gimme

All your love,

All your love.

 

Lloyd Banks ft 50 Cent:

Put ‘em up, put ‘em up, put ‘em up, put ‘em up

Put ‘em up, put ‘em up, put ‘em up, put ‘em up

Put ‘em up, put ‘em up, put ‘em up, put ‘em up

Put ‘em up, put ‘em up, put ‘em up, put ‘em up

 

Black Eyed Peas:

Hands up

Coming with rhythms to make you head jerk

We makin’ the whole joint short circuit

Hands high touch the sky get ‘em up

Get ‘em

Get ‘em

Get ‘em

Get ‘em

Get ‘em

Get ‘em

Get ‘em

 

T-Bone:

All my rogues gonna ride tonight

Get ya hands way up in the air tonight

 

Timbaland:

We’re standing on chairs

with the hands up in the air

with the hands up in the air

with the hands up in the air

with the hands up in the air

with the hands up in the air

with the hands up in the air

with the hands up in the air

with the hands up in the air

with the hands up in the air

 

Nadine Coyle:

We feel our best

And I’m done with stress

Let’s get together…

Put your hands up

Put your, put your hands up

Put your hands up

Put your, put your hands up

 

Aaliyah:

Where you at, where you at

So if you’re down with the PA let me see your hands up

And if your head is bobbin to the track throw your hands up

And if you got loot in your pocket throw your hands up

And if you not foul let me see your hands up

And if you’re protected and you know it throw your hands up

And if R Kelly’s record is sharp let me see your hands up

And if your body swing to the track throw your hands up

And if you want some more of the flower throw your hands up

 

The Stereos:

Throw ya hands up, put ‘em in the air

Rock it with me like you just don’t care

Throw ya hands up, get ‘em up high

Rock it with me and we’ll go all night

 

Jay-Z:

Throw the hands up (uh, uh, uh)

Throw the hands up (niggaz)

Throw the hands up (bitches)

Throw the hands up (bustas)

Throw the hands up (hustlers)

Throw the hands up (hos)

Throw the hands up (postas)

Throw the hands up (MAC)

 

Missy Elliott:

Throw your hands up if you like to get high

Make a phat beat so we can party all night

If you got beef you gotta take it outside

Throw your wrists up and lemme see your ice shine

Analysis:

While I think the results speak for themselves, the evidence is hardly conclusive. Some of the aforementioned artists may have written their lyrics in an ironic spirit, which would disqualify them from being included in a list of sellouts. Others may have simply ad-libbed their instructions to raise hands — a difficult situation, since the “official” lyrics sheet would omit these instructions, rendering nebulous any identification of “obvious” selling out.

Acknowledgements:

Certainly I cannot claim to have singlehandedly discovered this pattern. I openly and enthusiastically bring to your attention the fine but neglected work of anyone who has ever managed a gym, ever. Without these individuals, nobody would have the time to notice how many songs exist exclusively to get an audience “pumped up” or, alternatively, to get a hapless gym-goer “pumped” full stop.

What It’s Like Living With A Musician.

They say that to live with a musician is a boon for the practising writer, for, to quote St. Kendred: “the life of the music is the soul of the pen… what is in the air must percolate through the ear for it to be of any  use to heart.”

It’s quotes like this that make me glad of St. Kendred’s grisly death (ribboned by wolves for calendar). For he was a liar or an idiot or both. The man stands as one of Europe’s most famous eunuchs – even though he lived during the peak of castration! – and prayed the slow dwindling of his paltry years away in a cold room. He didn’t live with a musician. Did he even hear music? Because I hear music.

Every. Day.

This is what it’s like living with a musician: but first, a preamble, that is related once more to St. Kendred. This canonised fool preys on my sleep and waking life, sometimes at the same time, because of the philosophical riddle he once posed:

The riddle? Robert Meeks, a noted connoisseur on Catholic champs (though he would be the first to describe his interests as strictly amateur), even described St. Kendred as “something of an oddity, a whimsy, for though miracles were ascribed to him and he did contribute significantly to theological debate… But he came at it sideways…” and here Meeks breaks off, those two fragments his only thoughts on the matter, at least of that I’m aware.

Robert Meeks (d. 1995) is now largely forgotten even by the professors of philosophy who once loathed him. Those who do remember him often have only read a small pamphlet in which he dissects Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophus. The pamphlet does hold a few game stabs at an argument, but Meeks makes no secrets of his disgust at writing at length about another man’s work (he referred to this once as “doing someone’s onanism for them”) and quickly moves his gaze elsewhere. There’s almost eight minatory pages about  his utter hatred for the regular bus conductor of the number 12, his bus, from which I shall briefly excerpt:

The man with pockmarks emblazoned like an insignia, and what paltry family would commission it but the kin of the pustule? The man is the kin of the pustule. If we can disavow ideas of family crests and say what we really mean for once, I’d die slightly happy: people’s characters exist in their faces. This bus tyrant squints like a forgotten bassoon, although I suspect, given the option, I’d rather spend my twenty minute ride without thumbs.”

And he goes on like this. For over a hundred pages in my battered edition (incidentally, how I came to know of Robert Meeks is a strange event in itself, reminiscent of a Quiller novel. My co-blogger, Phil Jourdan, had become very taken with the writings of Coccitus, and encouraged me to share in this knowledge seam. So I went to the used book shop nearby, and browsed the Philosophy section. No luck with Coccitus (we still share the same copy – incidentally, if anyone reading has one spare, no matter the condition, I’ll pay a good sum) but my fingertips found the faded green splintering spine of a tome by Robert Meeks: The Atelier Decrepit. This is still my favourite book. It is philosophy, that’s clear, but seems to be about absolutely nothing, at least nothing for any consistent period. Subjects fluctuate, and he’ll occasionally set out to make one point and forget his thesis within a paragraph. One essay talks of the politics of wine-tasting, but ends up critiquing Queen Victoria’s misuse of laudanum. From here, I became a confirmed addict (not of laudanum, of Meeks). The small bookshop had a few other texts by him, which I still possess. The shop has since closed. But now Robert Meeks seems confined to the waste bin of great thinkers whom also were unable to filter their genius for the narrow spouts of today’s undedicated minds) he speculates over whether one day, with the oceans mapped and Atlantis proven Plato’s hoodwink, humanity will create a real and monumentally expensive project, in which many countries will ally themselves, to construct a life-sized Atlantis on land, and seek to make it as close to the fiction as possible, so that, in millennia, future humans (or whatever wins) will study us and see the references to Atlantis and then the existence of Atlantis, time having inflated to the point that important dates seem closer. I’ll say that again. The truth of the myth smudged out, Atlantis will be accepted historical fact.

These are dangerous days.

New album, “Reading Journals” — finished

The new Paris and the Hiltons album, Reading Journals, is finished. It will be released in three parts, because it’s long and nobody will bother with it if I release it all at once.

The first part, Puzzles of Ithaca, comes out in a few days. I’ll make it available for free on the PATH Bandcamp page as soon as I can. It will contain the first seven tracks on the album.

This is the culmination of a year’s worth of musical collaborations with my friend Sam Folkes. We started out making stupid cabaret rock, and I think this album shows a more interesting side to our work.

I appreciate the occasional encouragement we’ve received and I hope this album finds an audience.

Why you should be excited about the new Paris and the Hiltons album

Three reasons why you should be excited about the new Paris and the Hiltons album:

1. A new sound. With Sam fully on board, some compromises had to be made pretty quickly. For the most part, the “old PATH” is pretty much dead (for now, anyway). There are very few straightforward rock songs on this new album. Instead, there’s a lot of dark piano tracks, IDM-style drums, weird harmonies, and slightly more eloquent lyrics. There’s jazz, electronica, and symphonic stuff. It’s nothing people are used to from PATH. There’s even a bit of a cappella.

2. Around twenty tracks. I’ve broken up with the old formula of having eight songs per album. This is a monster of a creation, and I’m happy with that. It means more variety, more room for little experiments, and hopefully a more fulfilling listening experience, etc.

3. It’s like, some kind of concept album. By which I mean many of its songs are based on one of my favorite novels, “Absalom, Absalom!” by William Faulkner. Originally the whole thing was going to be a musical interpretation of the book, but it’s broadened out a little bit. There are several tracks that deal with biblical themes. There’s a very weird version of the traditional Jewish song, “Go Down, Moses,” which also happens to be the name of another Faulkner novel.

 

The New Paris and the Hiltons album now has a name and a cover

So: the second Paris and the Hiltons album, “Fracture and Slice”, is on its way to completion. It will probably feature eight tracks, like the first album. I may add a ninth track, but that’s not certain yet.

Overall this is a more aggressive album, but the mellow bits are far more delicate than anything I’ve released before. It will feature, for the first time, my collaboration with my friend Susanna Russell on “I Fucking Love You,” the first irony-free love song I have worked on.

My friend Sam Folkes is also involved in this project, and in fact he has taken on the challenge of being the main instrumentalist for the third and final Paris and the Hiltons album in this little trilogy. Given his great talent, this is going to be a very fulfilling and different way of making music.

As usual, I will be contacting the very friendly and gifted Christopher Leary at Melograf Mastering when it’s time to master the album. I have nothing but praise for his work, both as a musician and as a master engineer.

Right — it’s time to make the muzix some more. There will be further updates.