by Tara Diane
I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time trying to come up with a fricking amazing, super simple macaroni and cheese recipe. I thought I had it perfected last year, but recent revisions have proven otherwise. So, I am sharing with you, because I love you so much, my favorite artery hardening formula for cheesy pasta fatty goodness.
by Brett Warner
Few bands manage to perpetually frustrate their fans the way Weezer does. With each new album, singer/songwriter Rivers Cuomo – a semi-secret musical genius, we’ve been instructed to keep in mind – continues to disappoint a very vocal legion of cynical, skeptical, and especially jaded twenty-to-thirty somethings with one word on their tongues: Pinkerton. No other album in rock history (save maybe Sgt. Pepper) gets tossed around as much; you won’t find any Weezer album review after 2001 that fails to mention it. The 1996 proto-emo classic was a commercial flop upon its release, but word of mouth and the band’s 5-year hiatus lifted it to cult classic status. Its supporters tend to hail the album’s intensely personal lyrics: a smorgasbord of frustrations aimed at groupies, lesbians, Asian girls, and Cuomo’s various other insecurities. Weezer’s latest album Hurley (their first on independent label Epitaph Records) has gotten some choice positive reviews, many comparing its rougher, lo-fi sound to Pinkerton’s – but still, many rock fans seem unwilling (or unable) to give the band another chance. To them, the deeply confessional tone of Pinkerton’s songs has been replaced on post-millennial Weezer records with sarcastic, ironic, sophomoric humor – when in actuality, Weezer have never been ironic. They are quite possibly the only completely honest, agenda-less band to come out of the ’90s alternative boom. So why the shift in general cultural opinion of the group? The reason why Weezer continues to frustrate listeners is because they draw attention to the generational shift between X and Y listeners. Throughout this significant transition in social attitudes, Weezer have remained remarkably consistent – we’re the ones who’ve changed.
by Alex Dueben
Dame Darcy is a renaissance woman. The Idaho-born artist has crafted a broad and powerful body of work. She’s an illustrator and fine artist, a musician, dollmaker and designer. Her work has been exhibited in galleries around the world. In 2006, Penguin released a new edition of Jane Eyre heavily illustrated by her. She has an etsy store where she sells not just prints and original art, but dolls and other handcrafted work. She’s collaborated with Alan Moore and contributed to the Tori Amos comics anthology Comic Book Tattoo. Her other books include Gasoline and Frightful Fairytales.
Get to know Sash better over at SuicideGirls.com!
by Suri Suicide
This is the first in a series of ‘Art of SuicideGirls’ posts, which will highlight the creativity of our community members. If you’d like your work to be considered for inclusion, please reach out to Suri Suicide, who is curating the column.
Artist / SG Member Name: Kate Suicide
Mission: “I was born in Chessington – the World of Adventures – a mere stones throw from the Vampire ride, which may explain, but not excuse, my slight leaning towards the dark and the macabre. Being a strange-looking goth at school hindered my popularity, but greatly helped my creativity, as I spent many hours alone in my room, drawing, painting and listening to strange, dark music.
By Edward Kelly
On paper, it seems like a no-brainer. Comedy and rap should, in theory, go together like Shakespeare and the stage – or CBS and derivative police procedurals. Even on a surface level, the similarities between comedy and hip-hop are many. Both are, essentially, spoken word art forms that are performed, at least in the beginning, at open mic nights in front of sometimes-hostile crowds. Both are very much raw and individual acts – an oftentimes undiluted, nerve-wracking display of what happens when a fan stops simply appreciating and starts producing material. As such, they invite a very personal dissection of an artist’s skill and talent.
But in practice comedy and rap rarely combine successfully. Sure, performers like MC Frontalot or MC Chris or Baddd Spellah are rappers and comedians, but part of their success is attributable to the postmodern, wink-wink comedic juxtaposition of gangsta rap clichés mixed with nerd culture quips. And while I love the nerdcore rappers, I can’t help but feel like I’m held at arms length. There’s an artifice there that can’t be bridged because, they’re essentially playing characters.
Rappers (and really all musicians) are at their best when the music feels, for lack of a less overused word, “real.” When Ice Cube told us that it was a good day because he didn’t have to use his AK, there was a certain sense of truth – a frustrated, angry condemnation of a society that allows injustice to continue. Likewise, transcendent comedy occurs when the comedian isn’t afraid to be uncomfortably honest about his life, such as when Louis CK rants about his young daughters’ bratty attitudes. The difference, of course, is that Cube uses testosterone-fueled posturing, while CK opts for exaggerated self-deprecation. Does that mean that CK doesn’t care about the injustice he sees in the world or that Cube isn’t aware of the inherently absurd nature of childrearing?
I don’t know the answer. But I have the feeling that Donald Glover does.
The Pleasure Principle is an album that’s provided its maker, Gary Numan, with both instant and delayed gratification. Three decades ago, when the now classic electro album first came out, it made a massive impact culturally and commercially. The Pleasure Principle, and the iconic single it spawned, “Cars”, hit the number one spot simultaneously on the album and singles charts in the UK in September, 1979. The following year, the records crashed the US Billboard charts, making the painfully shy young vocalist, composer and musician a household name here too.
Numan’s Kraftwerk-inspired tracks, which channeled the voice of the machine, had a raw energy and DIY aesthetic that served as the bridge between ’70s punk and the early dance and hip-hop scenes of the 1980s. Indeed the bare break beats from the opening segment of “Films” (the fourth track on The Pleasure Principle) became the sample of choice for a generation of producers, thanks in part to the song’s inclusion on Street Beat’s tastemaker compilation series Ultimate Breaks and Beats (which served as the primary DJ and studio sample resource pre-CD).
Ironically, as the spotlight faded on Numan, the sounds he created proliferated exponentially through the fabric of pop music culture. As a new generation of producers sampled samples, the origins of these staple breaks escaped many. However those in the know – such as Basement Jaxx, Armand Van Heldon, Afrika Bambaataa and Dr. Dre – openly covered, used, credited and paid homage to Numan’s body of work.
