Review: Pollux's Rspct

Another one of those pieces I wrote for a site offering downloadable stuff for free.

The album Rspct opens with a track that's proper for its role: Rspct Intro features a thin but layered drone shifting from this direction to that until it renders itself redolent of aircraft sounds, or of spacecraft ones (it depends on your imagination, really) and, consequently, creates the illusion of one taking flight, perhaps toward Pollux– not the artist behind the EP, but the brightest star in the constellation of Gemini, from which the musician presumably took his moniker.

I'm Not into Punk Rock; They Are

Yet another one of those pieces I wrote for a site offering downloadable stuff for free.

Picking up where his former band The Arrogant Sons of Bitches left off, singer-songwriter Jeff Rosenstock continues to wear punk DIY ethics on his sleeve with his current project Bomb the Music Industry. The collective, which tends to vary in permutation from one gig to the next but is perennially helmed by Mr. Rosenstock, released its raunchy debut Album Minus Band in February 2005. Truly punk rock -- and also ska -- in substance and form, the album, as are the succeeding releases, is a lambasting of establishment and things corporate, and was written and recorded over a period of one month in the singer's bedroom.

While Album Minus Band mostly features the signature loudness and disarray of punk rock in theme and aesthetics, it mellows down in some areas -- quite welcome a reprieve. The track Future 86 is a love song in every sense, with only a folksily strummed acoustic guitar accompanying the lovelorn singer for the most part. The song, however, is amusingly built up toward the end by brass instruments, thickly distorted surf guitar and screaming voices of a hundred in the background.

Of Aspirations and Acceptance

This is a solicited blog entry for Vibalfoundation.org.

"Would it be fine if we offer you a position different from what you're applying for?" asked the man who picked me up at the reception as he pressed an elevator button I was too nervous to take note of. "Yes, of course, that'd be fine", I replied without thinking. Normally (meaning, during casual debates with friends), I at once heat up and spoil conversations with my antagonistic take on things; my cynicism runs high even in an otherwise genial talk. In a professional setting, however, I become an altogether different person -- a very accommodating or, sometimes, even servile one -- and very rarely during such formal conversations do I give no for an answer. I'll suffer for this sooner or later, I know.

First Post, on Music, of Course.

Whether it's because my subconscious meant to get to these few select pages or the Internet just happens to be so vast a dimension of lonely thoughts that there is no place within sight for hope, it doesn't matter, but I've lately been coming across a lot of Web literature on music that are inebriated with nostalgia for days gone by, along with the consequent dismay over the ironic tandem of incompetence and insincerity held in high regard by present-day artists.

This shouldn't surprise me, mind you. In fact, I'd be typing away my own frustrations day in, day out over these things were I diligent and wise enough to do so. At any rate, I can't really tackle these at length because my arguments as seen on Facebook have largely been defying objectivity because of my angst over what I perceive is an affront to the arts.

I have one sober thought to share though, albeit a little trite: what is worse than the sorry state of the music industry is the fact that we're passive about it. I'd elaborate on this by providing a semiotic analysis of the mawkishly lovelorn songs of Revillame, or the unfortunately enduring appeal of maladroit and predictable revivals (which by the way include covers of one-week old catchy tunes) but quite a lot of astute readings of these misfortunes passed off as art have already been made in hopes of making sense of their existence.

Things, you can't deny, are as sorry as they can get. If one day we hear of a devil sighting at one of the shows of whoever is the next big celebrity, let's not pretend to be shocked and ask what the odds are, because we all very well know how close the depths to which our musical sense has plummeted is to the abyss.