misshepeshu: (Behold the Kitty!)
I've considered myself a Radiohead fan for quite a time--since The Bends. But I think the only videos of theirs I've ever seen were the ones for "Karma Police" and "Paranoid Android," back when OK Computer hit it big. I guess this is what I get for growing up without MTV? Anyway, while hanging out with [livejournal.com profile] the_drifter last night, I caught a snippet of the video of "Street Spirit," and you guys: I had NO IDEA they actually made a video for that song, which is one of my favorites of theirs. So I looked it up tonight, and I can't get over how mesmerizing and beautiful and eerie and clever this video is. I think I've watched that thing five times in a row now, and it's so good it makes the back of my brain itch. It's almost an unpleasant feeling, but it's not.

misshepeshu: (Test Tube)
Cooking a late dinner while listening to Bach's organ music makes it feel less like cooking, and more like MAD SCIENCE.

Where's my cackling assistant? A beautiful boy, half-naked and tied to the wall, wouldn't go amiss, either. Also a lab coat. And an awesome Helmet of Science with a multitude of eyepieces, weird articulated arms and blinky lights. And beakers filled with solutions that change color while bubbling and foaming.
misshepeshu: (Kitten claws)
This entry could be subtitled: "In Which Candy's Implicit Gender Biases Are Laid Bare."

So [livejournal.com profile] benefitz has worked up a decent lather about Vanessa Mae, who is by turns a brilliant violinist and one of the most appalling defecator-on-things-I-hold-sacred. I'm in a bit of a lather about her, too, and I was trying to figure out why I react to her so strongly and so negatively. There are many components to it, but this bit in the standard biography blurb that appears on all her music pages sums up a good chunk of what bothers me so much about her and what she's done to classical music: "Bringing commercial sensuality to the often sterile world of classical music, Vanessa-Mae moved from a classical recording career into the field of popular music with her 1994 breakout album, The Violin Player."

Commercial sensuality.

Never have two words made me want to shit kittens more. It brings forth images of airbrushed Maxim models, fake tits on Playboy bunnies and simulated orgasmic expressions on cheap beer commercials. Whatever our world lacks, it's not commercial sensuality. And bringing it into the world of classical music doesn't just feel wrong, it feels like a desecration.

First of all, I object to the characterization of classical music as sterile. Listen to Artur Rubinstein playing the Rach 2, or János Starker's heartbreaking interpretation of Bach's Cello Suites, or Murray Perahia making the Goldberg Variations ripple with life and tenderness and vivacity, or Vladimir Horowitz making a Chopin étude his bitch, or Nigel Kennedy turning Vivaldi into cantering horses and cracking ice and spring screaming and fucking and bursting into full bloom, and tell me that stuff is sterile--just try. Classical music is sterile only if you're not making an effort, if you're not listening with an open mind and an open ear. Music is sex. Music is life. No music is sterile (though Autechre and Kraftwerk make efforts to that end sometimes).

What I love so much about classical music is how the sex is underplayed, buried underneath layers of petticoats and corsets and chemises and stockings and endless pieces of structure--just as I love soul and funk for laying that sex bare, for giving us those dirty beats and sexual lyrics with only the thinnest of veneers separating us from the hot hot fizznuckin'. So when some tarted-up girl arrives on the scene and fakes an orgasm for us while playing the violin on a cheap pop video--and I mean it's not even a good fake orgasm, is the thing, it's a BAD fake orgasm, it's the kind of fake orgasm you'd see in videos with titles like "Barely Legal XXIII: This Time, It's Not Barely Legal XXII"--and she's suddenly hailed as some sort of wunderkind who has revitalized the music so it's now better than before? That makes me mad. ("No, Mungo!" "AUUUUUUGH, THE WAR WOUND.")

And I wouldn't be nearly so angry and repulsed if it weren't for two things:

1. Vanessa Mae's fusions are, without exception, mind-bogglingly horrible. She doesn't even have the decency to arrange them in a pleasing, thoughtful manner; she slaps on a crappy, thumpy techno beat with too much midtone and no variation, and then dials up the horror to 11 by adding elements like electric guitar stylings straight from Buttrocksville, 1987. I'd have more respect for it if it showed more thoughtfulness, inventiveness or aesthetic sense, but to my ear, it doesn't.

2. The blatancy of the sexualization bothers me deeply. Classical music certainly isn't immune to hot people in flattering outfits; as Ben pointed out, lots of opera singers wear revealing clothing, and there are all sorts of comely violin players whose good looks probably haven't hurt their career any. But Mae veers sharply into a sort of jiggly T&A I already find deeply irritating in pop music; to see it encroach on classical music, where it's certainly not the norm (I am really, really, REALLY not interested in seeing, say, Arcadi Volodos shiver and moan his way through the Rach 3 while wearing nothing but vinyl hotpants and sequinned pasties), makes me hop up and down like the angry little monkey I am.

I feel like it's a betrayal by Mae in two ways: as a classical musician, and (this is where all sorts of weird implicit bias crap starts swarming out of me, kind of like ants after you poke at an anthill) as a woman.

I'm a good little third-wave feminist, and hey, if she wants to present herself in a way I find kind of tawdry and hilarious, then go for it--it's her choice, her body, her life. At the same time, though, I resent that she's so successful at it, and I hate the fact that her main schtick (hot Thai/Chinese babe plays the violin while skimpily clad!) has made her a household name in many parts of the world, whereas I didn't even know who Jascha Heifetz was until ten months ago.

I really don't like how beauty takes over and eclipses everything else when a female celebrity is involved. A female entertainer's value is inextricably tied to her beauty and youth; we're much less forgiving of women than men. And I think I feel that in some ways, classical music (with the exception of opera) insulated people from it. Not to say that classical music isn't deeply sexist--it is. How many female composers do you know off the top of your head? Or female virtuosi? Nonetheless, I only have the vaguest idea of what many of my favorite performers and composers look like, male or female. I could pass Martha Argerich or Nigel Kennedy on the street and not know it, and I really enjoy that aspect of my love and appreciation of classical music. Classical music is more purely about the music for me, and I resent the way Mae's body has been blatantly used to sell it. That she's happily doing this makes if feel like a betrayal to her gender--she's dragging her body into an arena where, if not necessarily free from the baggage of beauty, at least had more of a level playing field in that one regard. The homely nerd can--and regularly does--become the revered genius.

Or was it all an illusion to begin with? I don't know. It's late, and I'm cranky.
misshepeshu: (Terpsichore)
I have to work so much harder to appreciate Chopin. I don't know why. His music is beautiful, and intellectually, I can appreciate how marvellously constructed the pieces are, how technically difficult, and I've listened to his pieces as interpreted by some of the best pianists out there: Artur Rubinstein, Vladimir Horowitz, Arcadi Volodos. I greatly enjoy these pianists' interpretations of other Romantics, like Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky. Why this block with Chopin? Why does my brain instantly go into analytical mode and insist on dissecting every little bit of phrasing, instead of letting go and experiencing the music more holistically?

Very strange. I'll have to ponder this more when I have more room in my brain for these sorts of musings.

In other news: I'm missing out on Ben's birthday dinner celebration and the Kid Beyond concert he's going to later because I have to swot for my Con Law final. BOOOOOOO.
misshepeshu: (Terpsichore)
PJ Harvey has a new album out. How in the name of fuck did I miss this?

WANT.

...how many days till I get a new financial aid check? Sigh.

In other news: I am quite thoroughly in love with the Archie Bronson Outfit. Oh my God. So much lovely fucked-up post-punkish bluesy love songness to be had. GO LISTEN TO THEM. ([livejournal.com profile] the_drifter, I have a feeling you in particular will enjoy them.) I'm composing a thing for Smart Bitches about them (and fucked-up love songs in general, and emotional intensity) that will hopefully go live soon.

Oh man. Sleep deprivation is awesome. I may update on more personal matters in the near future, but so much writing to do, especially on the book. It's kind of awesome, but I have so much piling up in my brain, it's gumming up the works. Gah. Here's to hoping getting this down--something, anything, to help unplug the ole pipeline in mine grey matter--will really get me going.
misshepeshu: (Terpsichore)
Five announcements of cool shows coming up, and one observation:

1. Bassnectar is playing tomorrow at the Wonder Ballroom. $15. Delicious, delicious thumpy beats and dancey goodness. [livejournal.com profile] benefitz and I are going.

2. Annuals are playing at the Doug Fir on Monday, November 12. $10. I've written about them before here. They are young, intense and fully of the most amazing energy. Even if you're not super-fond of their recorded music, I highly recommend checking them out live.

3. Band of Horses at the Crystal Ballroom on Wednesday, November 21. Tickets are $17. [livejournal.com profile] ccarrico characterized their sound as The Shins getting stoned off their minds and playing Morrissey covers, which is a) hilarious, and b) entirely accurate. Regardless, I love them and their dreamy, floaty, froofy sound.

4. MAGNETIC FIELDS IN SEATTLE OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG. And further: OM FUCKING G. Tickets go on sale tomorrow at 10 a.m.; the show's not until March 6 and 7. I'm going to get a pair of tickets and find somebody in Seattle to go with me on the Friday show. Tickets are $27.50 but after bullshit fees, they'll probably be close to $40 each.

5. DJ Shadow and Cut Chemist, also in Seattle. What a freakin' double bill, y'all. Show is on Sunday, February 10. I have no clue how much tickets are, but I'm going to get a pair--this'll be my birthday present to myself.

Observation: I can be in pain, and cranky, and tired, but listening to Murray Perahia playing Bach will restore, if not everything, at least go a long ways towards improving my mood. He plays with so much warmth, compassion and grace; I'm not sure I've ever felt so much warm, fuzzy pleasure from listening to music. It's in rather stark contrast to when I listen to Glenn Gould play Bach. When listening to Gould, I am struck with awe at the sheer mastery of technique he exhibits. I feel like I'm staring in the face of an angel--not one of those milquetoast Hallmark insipidities with their pretty faces, curly hair and feathered wings; I'm talking about REAL angels, the ones with four heads and six wings and fuckin' cartwheels of fire for eyes. (As [livejournal.com profile] paraleipsis said, there's a reason why the first words out of an angel's mouth every time it manifests itself in the Bible is "Fear not.") Gould terrifies me and paralyzes me in the best way possible. Perahia, however, mostly makes me want curl up in a comfy spot with a soft blanket, or hug people. Gould makes me tense and seize up in pleasure; Perahia relaxes me and makes me euphoric in a rather different way.
misshepeshu: (Terpsichore)
I was coming up with a list of my favorite composers as I trolled the Multnomah County Library for discs to add to my hold list, and they run thusly, in no particular order other than Bach, because Bach is a PIMP and if my Myspace friendlist was composed entirely of dead composers, he'd have my Number One spot, like, forever:

J.S. Bach
Beethoven
Rachmaninoff
Tchaikovsky (as I get older, I find his works a bit more cloying, especially his ballets, but they still have a very special space in my heart)

Looking at that list, I think I can generalize thusly: I seem to go for either restraint and mathematical purity in expression, or huge, messy emotion. HUGE. Though I suppose Beethoven isn't quite as messy as Rachmaninoff or Tchaikovsky. Oh, those wacky Russky Romantics and their pretty, pretty melodies and gorgeous over-statements.

There are other composers whose works I find interesting and need to explore more in order to gain a fuller appreciation--Schubert, Schumann, Ravel, Satie, Debussy, Grieg, Glass, Brahms, Liszt, Stravinksy, etc. My music education, when it comes down to it, was hugely inadequate, despite my ability to geek on and on about certain aspects.

And now for the special bonus snark round: Composers whose works I think are somewhat over-rated!

Mozart: The works he composed when he was suicidally depressed get a pass--but I generally find his pieces more fulfilling to play than to listen to, because the goddamn hummability of all his work eventually comes across as, well, cheap.
Handel: Despite my friend Mark's best efforts, I just can't get too enthusiastic over Handel. Some of his works are beautiful, but most of them are cursed with the same sort of triteness I find so grating in Mozart.
misshepeshu: (Terpsichore)
What is it about a flute riff + funky beat that just slays me dead?

I'm listening to St. Germain's "So Flute" at the moment and I have been rendered utterly non-functional, despite my multitude of chores and responsibilities, and my need to make food oh god food (haven't eaten anything at all today--I'm not even joking).

The Beastie Boys' "Sure Shot" has a similar effect on me. It's weird. I have to drop everything and listen to it. Candy kryptonite.
misshepeshu: (Terpsichore)
Holy shit. I'm listening to Genetic World properly for the first time, and this is some serious, serious pretty. I'm near-asphyxiating from it.

Heh, that turn of phrase brings to mind a rather comical scene-of-death setup:

I'm on the floor of my computer room, sprawled, limbs akimbo, face a bit blue, blissful expression on my face. Hitler's hiding under the bed, Eric's sniffing my face in confusion, and police officers are scratching their heads in puzzlement. My computer is on; Xiu Xiu is playing on my iTunes. The Cop in the Awesome Trenchcoat (there's always one of the those on any murder scene) is shaking his head in puzzlement, and as Jamie Stewart starts screaming incomprehensibly about vampires and the crunchiness begins, he walks over to my computer to turn the music off. As he moves the mouse, he starts scrolling up in curiosity, because he's secretly a hipster geek and wants check out my music collection (hey, it's Portland, and if there were a CSI: Portland, EVERY MALE OFFICER would look like Jonathan Togo--or at least, they should). His eyes flicker up and down the screen restlessly, then pauses. He's noticed the Télépopmusik. An arrested expression comes over his face. He's seen this sort of thing before. He scrolls down the playlist, does some math, and figures out that the amount of time elapsed would jive very, very well with the estimated time of my death.

He turns back to the cops crowded around my smiling corpse, shaking his head sadly. "I've figured it out," he says. "It wasn't poison gas, and it wasn't suicide." He pauses, turns back around and double-clicks the mouse. The first strains of "Breathe" fills the room. A look of irony crosses the cop's face.

"It was another case of asphyxiation from pretty."

(In case you can't tell, I'm really, really enjoying this music. Many thanks to [livejournal.com profile] benefitz for introducing me to them. Pretty new music = win.)
misshepeshu: (Tired kittens)
Hello, Interblag. I'm still around and still alive, but barely. My sleep schedule has been completely fucked. It started a couple weekends ago, with my Epic Formatting Excel Tables in InDesign Adventures, and all of last week was Balls-Out Crazy at work + Extra Balls Out Crazy With Friends, since a bunch of beloved out-of-towners descended on Portland all at once. Last week = no sleep for Candy.

But enough about my sleep schedule, fascinating though it is. A small selection of what's been rattling around my brain pan lately, none of them especially profound:

- I've been listening to a lot of Iggy Pop/Iggy and the Stooges in recent days, and it struck me anew how fucked up the mixes are for some of their songs. OK, just one song. I'm talking about "Search and Destroy." The big, glorious, crunchy guitars are relegated to a muted buzz in the background; the lead guitar sounds screechy, with way too much mid-tone; Iggy's voice is muffled and subdued; and the drums are heard, but not felt. It sounds tinny, which isn't a good sound for most songs, much less a song about anger, alienation, disenchantment and nuclear escalation.

Despite all these problems, the song still rocks out with its cock out. I just feel frustrated and antsy when I listen to it, because I keep wanting it to sound bigger and fuller and louder, but it doesn't, it just stays tinny. Anyone else feel the same way?

I wonder if there exists a better mix for this song (for reference, the version I have comes from Raw Power)--one that explodes from the speakers the way it's meant to. I'm guessing odds are low, but hey, can't hurt to ask.

- I played croquet for the first time today. My neighbors from across the way busted out their set, and as the time passed, more and more people joined until about half the population of the complex (i.e. six people) were whacking little wooden balls around, laughing and cussing good-naturedly because a) none of us are especially good, and b) the lawn is extremely bumpy and shaggy.

- David Hasselhoff has an autobiography out. It's entitled Don't Hassel the Hoff. I just can't make that kind of shit up, good people of Internetlandia.

A choice quote from the book description:

As this fascinating memoir reveals, there’s more to this handsome superstar than great hair, and legs that look good while running down a beach. "The Hoff" is also a smart, caring man with a huge heart.


Pure gold. Sarah and I are fighting to see who gets to review this. She wants me to do it; I want her to have the honors. This could get ugly.

- Almost ten years after buying my copy of Neil Gaiman's Stardust, I got around to reading it, and am now thoroughly in love with it and the universe. For the first time in a long, long time, I wish a fictional universe were real.

- Tomorrow: Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End with a very good friend of mine whom I haven't seen since the beginning of the year, and then semi-secret Awesomeness afoot later in the night. Whee.
misshepeshu: (hitler says wtf)
Attention, Interpeoples!

Steven Seagal has a band.

It is called Thunderbox.

And their album, Mojo Priest, has a song called "Talk to my Ass."

You may now commence going "WHAT THE FUCK."
misshepeshu: (Behold the Kitty!)
1. I've been exhausted lately. Even more than usual, I mean. How exhausted am I? I'm seriously contemplating skipping bellydancing class tonight in favor of sleep, sweet, sweet delicious sleeeeeeeep.

2. My cooking resolution has held up quite well, and I've made several delicious meals. Of particular note was the pork shoulder roast braised in brown ale, apple cider vinegar, carrots and onions that I made last Friday for Schwern, Tristan and Zeo, and the chicken and biscuits with mushrooms in a port and garlic sauce that I made with Tristan last Monday. Also, I've discovered the wonder that is curry lentil tempeh in mussamun curry. I made it last night for Jeff and Beth, and whoa damn, it was tasty. Definitely something to repeat in the future, though next time I'll won't leave the tempeh and peppers in the curry for so long and halve the coconut milk.

3. So much excellent new-to-me music to listen to! Of recent note are The Black Keys, Islands and Andrew Bird. I'll try writing more about them later. I'll just say that my ears are very, very happy nowadays.

4. I'm seriously contemplating going on a massive cross-country drive in late July/early August. I have a new(ish) car that's still under warranty, I have a little bit of disposable income (though once I get into law school that's going to change, har), and I have friends in Texas, Florida, Pittsburgh, Chicago, New York City and New Jersey whom I want to visit. And that's not counting a trip to Alaska that may or may not happen (I hope it does I hope it does oh MAN that'd be so cool). I've been hit with the travellin' bug, and I've been hit HARD.

It's doable. I'm planning to quit my job the last week of July, so I'll have much of August off to be restless and feckless and fuck around the country like I've been wanting to do for years.

Three weeks for a drive across America in August/July. What do you guys think? Am I crazy?

I'm also contemplating who I can cajole/bully/convince into coming with me for part or all of the trip.

Hmmmm.
misshepeshu: (Terpsichore)
I dragged Schwern and Jessica to see Annuals and Pilot Speed at the Doug Fir Lounge last night. Jessica didn't actually mean to attend at first, but she was, as she put it, swept along in a Candy-sized hurricane. Which is a fairly pleasant sort of hurricane to be caught in, as far as it goes, because instead of wrecking your house and tearing up trees, I make big messes in your kitchen and then drag you to see skinny boys with floppy hair whale away at their guitars on-stage.

ANYWAY, the show was excellent. I was highly, highly impressed by Pilot Speed, whom I'd never heard of prior to last night. They combined The Bends-era Radiohead pop sensibilities with Interpol's reverberating intensity, and the sound was big, full and gorgeous. I was so impressed, in fact, that I toddled over to the merchandise counter and bought their new album. More on that later.

And then Annuals came on. The first thing that struck me was how young they look. Nobody in the band is older than 22, according to the band biography page on their website. I wanted to hug all of them and bake 'em cookies.

Then they started playing. HOLY SHIT. I haven't encountered energy and intensity of that magnitude in a long, long time--perhaps since my last Femi Kuti show. It wasn't the most polished show I'd ever seen, and it wasn't the most technically accomplished, but it was one of the most fun, and I grinned like a mad woman through most of it. They bounced, they sang, they shouted, they even occasionally flailed around--in short, they rocked the fuck out, and they did it hard. Annuals seem to subscribe to two music performance philosophies:

1. Rock really, really hard.

2. HOLY SHIT GUYS DRUMS ARE AWESOME, so let's have two different drum sets on-stage and let everyone in the band who wants to smack on drums have a go at assorted points during the show.

I'm not kidding about the second point. During one of the songs last night, four of the six members were whacking away at the two drum sets and two separate free-standing toms. The lead singer has his own tom that he lugs around and bangs away on during several songs--he smacked it so hard on one of the songs that one of the drumsticks flew out of his hand, as a matter of fact. As a fan of big, full percussion sounds, I highly approved of this set-up.

And when the audience didn't leave after their last song, the slightly nonplussed singer and lead guitarist (they weren't expecting an encore and had unplugged most of the equipment) came back on-stage to perform an impromptu song about seagulls.

Overall, the show was an outstanding value for $8. If you have a chance to catch them, you should. If I had to describe what they sound like, I'd say they combine the lush arrangements of Broken Social Scene and the emotional intensity of Arcade Fire, except the lead singer doesn't sound nearly as as annoying as dude from Arcade Fire.

So then I went home and listened to the Pilot Speed CD I'd bought, Into the West. And...if it weren't for the fact that I recognized some of the songs I'd heard live, I wouldn't have been able to tell they were the same band. The CD sounds slick, over-produced and muted; the intensity, the atmospheric reverb and big, full, crunchy guitar I enjoyed so much at the live show were completely missing. That's not to say that I don't like slick and pretty--Sufjan Stevens is a good example of slick and pretty done right--but all the interesting edges to Pilot Speed had been smoothed away, and the CD ended up sounding like a cut-rate version of Keane. They need to find whoever mixed and engineered Interpol's releases and get those guys to work on their albums. The songs are decent, but the way they've been mixed has rendered them completely toothless. It was also an interesting lesson in how important arrangement and engineering are to my ears, not just composition.

In conclusion: I'll see Pilot Speed live again in a heartbeat, but I'm not sure I'm buying another album of theirs.

And Annuals rock all around. They're going places. They deserve to.
misshepeshu: (Stop trying to fuck me)
There are two songs competing for my attention right now in my head.

Song number 1: "O Valencia!" by The Decemberists.

Song number 2: What What (In the Butt)" by Samwell.

The really terrifying aspect of all this? One song segues effortlessly into the other. Just a couple of minutes ago, I found myself singing in a sort of half-mumble "What what in the butt...with your blood still warm on the ground."

And then I looked up to make sure nobody heard me.

I need help.
misshepeshu: (Communist Party)
The Multnomah County Library is home to many things I honestly would never have expected to find at a library. Whenever friends of mine tell me about new music I need to check out, I hit the on-line catalog first to see if they have it. And about 70% of the time, they do. Their collections for Cat Power, The Mountain Goats, Mogwai and John Vanderslice are weirdly comprehensive, for example. They even have a disc from Islands, which is a brand-new Canadian indie band that formed in 2005.

And then when I try to find something by Apostle of Hustle...nothing. But on the other hand, I just placed a shitload of Deerhoof, The Black Keys, TV on the Radio and Andrew Bird on hold.

Ahhh, Portland library, I love you so. Bless the librarian(s) with the strong indie bent who's in charge of the music collection.
misshepeshu: (Terpsichore)
Kronos Quartet, 3 p.m. this Sunday (2/11) at Reed College's Kaul Auditorium. Tickets are kind of spendy ($35), but maybe there are discounts if you're a Reedie? Anyway, I'm going, and I'd love to have more company. Anyone want to come with?
misshepeshu: (Terpsichore)
The first version of Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suites I acquired was Janos Starker's interpretation. It was excellent and accomplished, but didn't inspire the rash of goosebumps that Bach's string music usually does. I attributed it to me being in the wrong mood, or perhaps growing beyond that sort of reaction to music.

And then this morning, I popped in the disc I'd just acquired from the library--this time Pablo Casals' interpretation of the Cello Suites.

I'm having difficulty typing right now because I'm shivering so much.

In other words: it's not me, Janos baby. It's you.

Oh, and in other music news: if you want to listen to some insane virtuoso piano playing, I highly recommend Arcadi Volodos' Piano Transcriptions. Jeff, Beth and I were listening to it last night in my car, and Beth and I kept bursting into incredulous laughter, especially during his transcription of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2. What makes this even more impressive is that he's recreating Vladimir Horowitz's infamous transcription--which was never written down. That's right. Volodos recreated the whole damn thing by ear. You have to listen to it to truly appreciate what a pimp-ass motherfucker Volodos is.
misshepeshu: (Scheming face)
To Wit: The more annoying I find a band's appearance, the more I'll love their music.

To be even more specific: the more annoying their hair, the higher the odds I'll like what they sound like.
misshepeshu: (Terpsichore)
Googling is verboten, and the person who gets the most correct guesses gets...my eternal admiration for being a bigger dork about music than I am.

1. "Yo, either you a part of the problem or you a part of the solution, what's your contribution to life?"

2. "If you've got something to prove, why don't you step in my room?"

3. "Jamie, what you doin' now, what you doin' now, girl?"

4. "I told lies to your family concerning your whereabouts"

5. "Don't fall in love with me yet, we only recently met, true I'm in love with you but you might decide I'm a nut"

6. "Been thinking little thoughts, keep on walking trying to stay up"

7. "Comin' through the barricades, cuttin' the lines, red lights goin round like insanity sirens"

8. "Tongue tied, nerves as big as boulders" ([livejournal.com profile] majormojo, if you're reading this, you should get this one)

9. "All hail the swelling sun, as acid seeps and autumn bleeds and the glowing has just begun"

10. "How could you do it?" "I couldn't say."

11. "I woke up with the power out, not really something to shout about."

12. "L'enfer du Nord Paris-Roubaix" (this one's a cover version, so I'll accept either the original or the cover artists' names)

13. "Brian, tender kisses run run run is my wish for you"

14. "Who is the man I see where I'm supposed to be?"

15. "Surprise, sometimes I'll come 'round"

16. "Cat-calls through the night, and two chicks in the parking lot crack wise on the price of fame"

17. "How could I be so immature to think he could replace the missing elements in me?"

18. "My dearest friend, you can, my dearest friend, you can"

19. "The dust from a four-day affair is now landing all over the floor"

20. "I'm putting this night down to bed, 'cause I was sitting at the bar hoping you'd walk in the door that says 'Killian's Red'"

21. "I woke up Tuesday morning to coming down without a sound"

22. "When you're on your own, spread out the mat, dead"

23. "When the revenant came down, we couldn't imagine what it was"

24. "I don’t know why you bother, nothing's ever good enough for you."

25. "No one can do the things you do, no one 'round here"

Heh. I went through over 35 songs getting to 25 because I kept getting classical pieces and instrumental-only songs. [livejournal.com profile] konomaigo suggested that I should post the first 8 measures instead, but even I'm not that hardcore.

Also, I'm realizing how very mumbly the bands I tend to listen to are. I had to look up an embarrassing number of these.

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