Thirty Days of Music- Part XVIII

Brainiac are the pinnacle of synth-punk. It slightly disgusts me that Ben Gibbard claims they have heavily influenced him, but sometimes musical progeny is far from prodigious (See: Death Cab for Cutie)*. It fails to detract from a sublime entanglement of blunted guitar riffs, Moogs, vocoders and choice samples. Brainiac have the dissonant and jarring traits of harcore, whilst managing to incorporate the melodious nature of pop. Hardcore pop. Hardcore pop anchored by one of the most inventive and versatile vocalists of recent years. Tim Taylor is superlative in his ability to revert seamlessly from choked whispers to inward screams to husky, curdled yells, to Elvis impersonations, to falsetto, to something more tuneful altogether. The band disbanded in 1997 after Taylor was killed in a car accident, but their legacy consists of three delectable albums (in particular “Bonsai Superstar”), a highly influential electronic-based EP “Electro-Shock for President” and a deluge of rarities, from tributes to Pere Ubu to spilt 7”s with Bratmobile.

Day eighteen is a song you wish you heard on the radio.

Brainiac- Juicy (On a Cadillac) by peesmith


I’ve never heard Brainiac on the radio, but I imagine if I ever did, it’d induce a kind of feeling matched by the time they started playing “Gold Soundz” in Whelans, though not accompanied by the crushing despair when they stopped playing “Gold Soundz” after seven seconds.






* this blog is fast becoming one massive shit upon the heads of Death Cab

Thirty Days of Music- Part XII

Zooey Deschanel is entirely overrated, placed on a pedestal and revered by underfed, simpering indie boys as if she was a twenty-first century Helen of Troy. Her inconceivably wide eyes, her twee apparel that comes in an assortment of blush colours and is complemented by knee socks that cut off at the perfect section of her shin, the fact she has the perfect “fringe to face” ratio. In reality, Zooey is just like every other majestically mousey girl who carries a second hand satchel and listens to Sarah Records/C86. Her only advantages are that she’s named after a J.D. Salinger novel and can play the ukulele.

Though commended for her ‘deadpan’ acting style, it’s probably more realistic to claim that she can’t actually act, and that the series of crap films she’s featured in of late are nothing more than yet another vehicle to showcase her feeble vocal stylings*

It’s fitting though, that her aforementioned feeble vocal stylings exist in matrimonial bliss with another set of equally if not more feeble vocal stylings. Oh Ben Gibbard, we barely knew thee, until the release of Transatlanticism and then we knew thee far too well, and such knowledge induced undulating sensations of nausea.

I hate Death Cab for Cutie. The fact that I MAY have listened to “Bixby Canyon Bridge” and felt moved (emotionally, not in a provocation of bile sort of way) does not detract from this statement. I was emotional and had eaten too many scones. They’re a band that is simply the expression of mawkish lamentations that seem hollow, devoid of any discernable sincerity that qualifies repulsive lyrics such as the following

“I do believe it's true
That there are roads left in both of our shoes
But if the silence takes you
Then I hope it takes me too”

Their lyrics remind me of the kind of poetry I wrote when I was fifteen and wanted to exude emotion and heartfeeling. But I was fifteen and hadn’t experienced life, so instead I wrote a series of cloying sentences and used a thesaurus to make me seem more literary-minded and intelligent.**

Day twelve is a song from a band you hate

Death Cab For Cutie- A Lack Of Color by peesmith

I think my major contention with Death Cab is that I don’t for one second believe in what I’m listening to; it’s characterless, and trite, the instrumentation wishy-washy even at its most experimental. Just because a vocalist has a highly distinctive voice, it doesn’t always have to be to the detriment of the music, if it’s enjoyably idiosyncratic. Take note: Stephen Malkmus, Spencer Krug, J. Mascis, Craig Finn. Don’t take note: Matt Bellamy, Ben Gibbard. Every time I hear his irritating little plaintive wail, it makes me want to punch something, ideally his face.

* M. Ward, get out while you still can!

** I actually won a prize for my verse writing. They laminated the poems and put them up on a wall in school. The same wall on which they put up laminated Papa Roach lyrics that a student had submitted and passed off as a poem of his own.