Michael Abernethy - The Homegrown Snob

Just read this morning that a fantasy of mine, inspired by the very-’80s “Real Genius,” has been proven to be physically impossible.

In the final, euphoric scene of “Real Genius,” college students use a laser from space to ignite a giant, tin-foil covered ball of popcorn inside a villainous professor’s home. The kernels pop and pop and pop and the house slowly explodes from the force.

Yeah — that’s Val Kilmer pre-”Top Gun.”

Movie scenes like this one, while few and far between, probably kept a few Midwest farmers in business.

So I never had a professor I hated this much, but I sure would have liked to  destroy a couple TA’s homes this way. (I hope you’re reading wherever you are, Weh Teng Soh, aka ‘Satan’s Concubine’!)

Well, I just read at EntertainmentWeekly.com that ”Mythbusters” has debunked this myth. It is not possible to destroy a building by filling it with popping corn.

Big frowns.

I agree with the EW Popwatch blogger: Don’t you dare touch the dormitory iceskating scene, Mythbusters!

Can someone explain to me who/what Lady Gaga is and where exactly she came from?

In case you don’t listen to the radio, watch MTV/VH1 or walk by newsstands, Lady Gaga is a dance-pop singer from the U.K. Her song “Poker Face” was, strangely, the surprise radio hit of the spring, going to #1. Her album went to #4 and has spent 32 weeks on the charts.

Normally, I’d hate someone like her.

Except she seems a tad smarter than most of the talentless Britney clones who normally inhabit the Billboard charts. She’s like Madonna on mescaline: She uses her body to get attention. But if she’s wearing a bikini, it’s usually with some kind of cape that David Bowie would have worn in 1972, with a headdress that’d make Bjork proud.

All you have to do is check her bonkers Rolling Stone cover, looking like something Kate Bush would sneeze out in a bubble bath, and you know something’s up. Right?

Go with me on this one.

So, now we get Lady’s fourth single, “Paparazzi.” And it’s crazily pretentious and incomprehensible video.

It’s a total must-watch, like a train-wreck.

I wasn’t going to pay it much attention until I read this commentary on Slate.com. Totally had me at “dance number that makes ingeniously spastic use of a wheelchair, crutches, and crippled limbs.” How could you not want to see this video after something like that?

Flashing by in the siezure-inducing bridge, I see a dog, a lot of black rubber, body licking, feathers, another dog and a mohawk hairpiece.

???

Here it is, all 7:45 seconds of wacko,  mind-fonking MTV clabber:

I’ve been holding off on this post for some time but today is the day!

Blur is back!

If you live in America, there’s a 99-percent chance you have no idea who I’m talking about.

If you live in the U.K., you could be justifiably be stoned to death for not knowing Blur, including –  but not limited to — the madcap lyrics to the decade-defining “Parklife”; Damon Albarn’s blood type and musical vast musical oeuvre outside the band (Gorillaz; The Good, The Bad & The Queen; operas; soundtracks, etc. …); Graham Coxon’s current whereabouts; which band member is “prettiest” (likely Alex James) and which is “the most authentically British-looking (ermm, Dave Rowntree).

Most known on these shores for “Song 2″ (the ‘woo-hoo!’ song) and the much-parodied rivalry with Oasis, it could be argued that Blur was the best band of the 1990s.

Though the band began life as Seymour, a hanger-on of the UK Shoegazer movement, the renamed London-based four-piece heralded the mid-’90s Britpop movement with a series of phenomenally successful albums and tours that hinged largely on portraits and themes based on British life, class structure and culture.

Out of the pack of bands that emerged in the Britpop scene — Oasis, Pulp, Elastica, The Charlatans, etc. — none of them had a songwriter as adept or as stylistically agile as Blur’s Damon Albarn. In the 15 years and seven albums Blur was together, Albarn steered the band through four distinct phases: baggy, Britpop, lo-fi/noise-pop and African. During recording of the band’s final album — 2003’s slight-but-intriguing Think Tank — guitarist Graham Coxon left, citing drinking issues and interpersonal issues with childhood friend Albarn.

Albarn went on to front and produce the hugely successful Gorillaz — the animated electro-funk band — and a super-group outing with Paul Simenon of The Clash called The Good, The Bad & The Queen. Coxon went rudderless for awhile, basking in freedom and aimless, messy guitar concoctions on a series of records before settling into a power-pop groove on 2004’s Happiness in Magazines.

While all of their solo projects had merit, they were vaguely unsatisfying on some level — either too fussy, or too cerebral or half-baked and unfinished-sounding. Albarn seemed to be obscuring his sizable gift for melody and arrangement in world beats and cartoons; Coxon in guitar squall.

By 2005, Albarn had said there wouldn’t be another Blur record unless Coxon returned. Coxon called Albarn some names and said it’d never happen.

And yet it has.

The band played its first reunion gig this weekend, with a handful of U.K. festival appearances slated for this summer, including Glastonbury. There aren’t U.S. dates scheduled yet, but the band has plans to record an eighth album this fall/winter.

Here’s a clip from that gig, an effervescent and enthusiastic version of “Parklife”:

Here’s 10 reasons to get to know Blur better, if you need ‘em

1.  “The Universal,” a swoon-worthy ballad from 1995’s under-rated The Great Escape, complete with “A Clockwork Orange”-styled video.

2. “On Your Own,” a shout-along single from the Pavement-loving 1997 self-titled work:

3. “Parklife,” great song with an even better video that I’ve posted before”

4. “Coffee & TV,” Blur’s last American hit and only single featuring Coxon on lead vocals produced a quirky video that everybody loved back in the day:

5. “For Tomorrow,” also known as “where Blur found direction.” This 1993 lead-single to Modern Life is Rubbish pilfered from Bowie and The Kinks and left plenty of room for Albarn to stretch out later.

 6. “Girls & Boys” was my introduction to Blur, way back in the summer of 1994. It was such a strange song to hear on MTV during the height of grunge-pop that it was hard not to pay attention to.

7. “Charmless Man,” another effortless Brit-pop anthem from Albarn; sounds like music hall on speed.

8. “End of a Century” is probably my favorite song on Parklife. The older I get, the more I relate (the mind really does get dirty as you get closer to 30!) and the more I sympathize.

9. “Beetlebum,” another awesome track from that 1997 record.

10. ”Tender” gave the band a surprising gospel-tinged lead single for 1999’s 13. It also gave us this surprising live-performance video.

Here’s the Frightened Rabbit “Old Old Fashioned” inspired Thursday column, all about needing some peace and quiet away from technology.

And here’s that Frightened Rabbit song:

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http://www.thetimesnews.com/articles/column-25742-gadgets-lives.html

Was there ever a time we existed without being gadgeted and technologied and pestered to death?

This is what I wonder as I watch my social life circle the drain, thanks to my obsession with “Bejeweled Blitz,” a computer game accessible on Facebook.

This pointless game is easy enough for a preschooler, matching colors and shapes, but made competitive by a one-minute timer and shared scores with your Facebook network. Somewhere between regular bouts of insomnia and late-night boredom, I got sucked in.

I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since. I’m up click-click-clicking the mouse until 2 a.m. When I close my eyes, I can still see the shiny colored shapes in tantalizing combinations, like they’re printed on the backs of my eyelids. I hear the “ping ping” of the pieces. I even had a nightmare the other night about having to lift and move giant colored stones.

For my health and sanity - and so I can hold a job - I need to unplug.

These days, we are constantly distracted.

Our phones ring. Computers whirr and beep. Music squeals. When we go to lunch or dinner, restaurants have TVs on playing sports or news. If we shop, people shout for security to “scan and record all sections.” Unless we get way out in the country, we’re likely to hear the constant sound of traffic (and on our way there, a GPS will shout the directions at us).

This cultural noise is the background of our lives - like the anxious buzz of a mosquito hovering around our ears.

Letting go of iPods and laptops and text messaging and Facebook would probably give us all the chance to empty out our brains and relax.

And yet it’s anxiety that causes most of our attachment to technology. There’s a fear that we’re going to miss something if we put our toys away.

Perhaps you’ve heard the slang term used for Blackberries, the cell phone-email-PDA device all the rage with school system officials and businessmen. They’re called “crackberries.” Sit in an hour-long meeting with folks who own them, and they’ll start scratching at their pockets like they’ve got a violent rash under their clothes trying to get to their phones to check their messages.

So what’s the slang term for sleep-deprived 20-somethings addicted to Facebook?

It all makes me long for the way summer used to be: long days at the pool or searching the grass for bugs to trap in old mayonnaise jars, nights working puzzles and reading books and maybe a rented movie if we were good. When everyone else was asleep, the house was cool and completely silent.

As a college student, I spent my summers as a camp counselor. I learned a lot of things there. For instance, getting stung in the nose by a wasp is about the most painful thing the human body can endure. But the best lesson was the value of time and letting it pass unmeasured. Working there forced me to go entire summers without regular access to my cell phone, the Internet, recorded music, news or television.

This amazes me today. But I didn’t go crazy and nothing hugely important passed me by. In fact, I miss that feeling of disconnection.

This is the first day of summer for a lot of kids in Alamance County who are probably excited for nine weeks of carefree existence.

I hope they enjoy their time off. And I hope they find time to get a break from computers, from video games and from television.

They might come to enjoy boredom more than they think.

Michael D. Abernethy can be reached at 336-506-3044 or at michael_abernethy@link.freedom.com.

If you’ve heard Grizzly Bear’s “Two Weeks” once, it’s been floating on the edges of your subconscious since.

Not really a bad thing, when the main ingredients are Brian Wilson-meets-Jeff Buckley harmonies.

Here’s your early summer delight, from the band’s much-lauded and highly respectable Veckatimest.

Hmmm. Maybe I should change that title to “Flamboyant Genius Alert.”

Patrick Wolf is a 26-year-old pop/electro/singer-songwriter/violinist from Ireland. He’s one of the few young artists I truly believe in. Aaaand, he’s coming to the Cat’s Cradle on June 26!

w00t!!!

He’s cranked out records like clockwork since his puzzling 2003 debut Lycanthropy. His fourth album, The Bachelor (Battle One), is out now as an iTunes download or a pricey UK import. If I had to describe his sound — well, that’s tough. He’s uncategorizable: one part Morrissey, one part Antony and the Johnsons, one part Bjork and one part Portishead. That still doesn’t tell you a lot. I’ll try again: Emotive baritone voice over violins, folk instruments, blurpy synthesizers and (more recently) doo-wop song structures.

Wolf takes stands and makes statements — with both his music and flashy drag-queen-esque costumes — which makes it easy to decide pretty quickly whether you love him or hate him. It’s refreshing. He’s precocious but not precious. He’s overtly sexual and overtly effeminate and often criticized for both of those things. He’s not afraid of looking ridiculous if he’s following wherever it is his muse takes him.

And he’s not afraid to switch gears. His debut was scattered and formative, but offered hints where his dirgey, string-led second album, Wind in the Wires, would take him. That crashing homerun shook me to pieces in 2004. 2007’s The Magic Position moved into lighter territory — love and acceptance — along with children’s playground shouts, firecrackers, bells and bassoons. He still hasn’t made a wrong step.

This newest one feels like an encapsulation of everything he’s done, but is more confrontational than he’s ever been. He’s also a totally independent artist now, with his art now available through the fan-supported and financed BandStocks — where fans buy shares in an artist. (There will be another post on this ingenius idea soon. And I’m just about ready to plunk down my $20 to help keep Wolf eating and making music.)

Here’s a crash course in what Wolf has to offer and will hopefully give Cradle patrons later this month.

His new single, “Hard Times,” is an approximation of his poppier side. I’m not sure how I feel about this video but I love this song.

From his last album, here’s “Bluebells” — with a brilliant sample of a bottle rocket to boot:

And though there’s no video for it, my favorite Patrick Wolf song might be the somber “Teignmouth,” from The Wind in the Wires:

There’s a lot more on his YouTube page, including videos that Universal Music won’t let us embed.

Enjoy!

Dear Mr. Flanders,

Like many of my co-workers, I found out yesterday that you are leaving the Times-News’ parent company Freedom Communications to become the CEO of Playboy magazine.

First, I’d like to offer my congratulations. This is obviously a good career move, even once the romanticized vision of life amongst the bunnies is distorted by the grim reality of bottom lines and publishing industry woes. Like Coke and McDonalds, Playboy seems culturally indestructible — an icon of consumerism and a mainstay of the uniquely American experience.

At least, that’s what I hope.

Rivalled only by Esquire, Playboy was the best men’s magazine in the world. It wasn’t just the (admittedly wonderful) pictorials. For decades, its editors filled each issue with intelligent, humorous and insightful commentary on world events and politics; introduced literary works like Ray Bradbury’s “Farenheit 451″ and works by authors as influential as Shel Silverstein and Stephen King; kept a fresh and funny advice column filled to bursting with wit and truth; gave us monthly columns as invaluable as Asa Baber’s “Men” (thanks for the copy, Dad); and interviews as miraculous as John Lennon’s 1980 sit-down.

Publisher Hugh Hefner and his editorial team championed the first amendment, women’s liberation and equality and, more recently, the abandonment of America’s failed war on drugs (at least marijuana).

In terms of price versus worth, Playboy was unbeatable.

Add the bunnies to the mix, and there was no denying  it was one fabulous product.

The women — gorgeous, vaguely attainable all-American beauties — lent a sort of verboten mystique to the publication. But once that mystique (and the adolescent shock of seeing boobies) wore off,  it was the editorial content that put Playboy above the status of a skin rag.

But in recent years, the parent company of the magazine you’re inheriting has taken its eye off the ball. It’s quality has slipped. It’s content slumped. Instead of challenging its readers, since about 2003, Playboy has seemed to cater more toward a new, blithering class of 18 to 24-year-olds’ obsession with low-brow culture.

Instead of interviews with world figures, we get The Rock. Instead of cutting-edge nonfiction or news reports, we get an expose on mixed martial arts fighting. Instead of mind-bending fiction, we get six months of babble by Michael Chabon fairly rote entries that usually rely on tawdry sex over character and plot (though your 2004 publication of Chuck Palahniuk’s vile short story, “Guts,” was daring). The only articles I remember reading in the last four years was one by Marilyn Monroe’s former psychiatrist, detailing her sessions, and a pretty-funny excerpt from Dennis Leary’s new book.

And then, we get back to the ladies. Playboy once featured only undiscovered, amateur models — usually college students. In the 1970s and 1980s, movie stars and celebrities were included. In the 1990s, we got Jenny McCarthy and (pre-insane) Anna Nicole Smith and Cindy Crawford.

And now, in the 2000s? Reality show harlots and WWE models siliconed within an inch of their lives. There is nothing alluring or unattainable about these women: You can find a cheap slut in any corner bar in any American town. And guess what — now Playboy is no different from the Internet.

So, please hear me out. I know you didn’t listen to a good portion of the advice offered by your underlings while you were my company’s CEO. I can’t exactly blame you for that: You didn’t rise through the ranks in the publishing industry. You made your mark first as part of Columbia House and all that.

But if nothing else, listen to me as a former subscriber who would like to one day reclaim your magazine monthly in my mailbox. Please work hard to bring back the best Playboy you can. Please resist the temptation to see only the short term. Please challenge me as a reader and a thinker. And, sure, please bring back the bunnies who made Playboy what it is.

If you do these things, your magazine will survive through to inspire another, better-informed generation of young men. They deserve the myth and legacy of Playboy as much as the last 50 years of American boys.

Respectfully,

Michael Abernethy, The Homegrown Snob

I made my once-a-blue-moon trip to Chapel Hill on Friday for my local-music fix with Chatham County’s finest band, The Never.

I’d also probably rank the folk-prog trio as the best “undiscovered” band in the state. Back in 2005, when they were a foursome, The Never released Antarctica, a concept album with accompanying children’s book, one of the best albums of that year (and, now that it’s 2009, I’m gonna say one of the best of the decade).

The band’s Friday show found them pulling out mostly new stuff as a mostly acoustic three-piece in a sprawling set of three-part harmonies over anxious pop, glam, prog and indie stylings. It was great stuff. I’m eager for their next record.

Here’s my favorite Never song, “Cavity,” live from the Cat’s Cradle in 2007:

A local show wouldn’t be a local show without some surprises. That came in the form of the Charlottesville, Va., opening duo Birdlips.

Their musical mix shouldn’t work: 12-string acoustic guitar, a moog-sounding synthesizer, a tambourine and male-female harmonies beneath a ton of reverb. But they knocked me off my feet.

The duo is Cliff Usher on guitar/vocals and Lindsay Pitts on keyboards/vocals.  Their sound is a little spooky and withdrawn, a little psychedelic and a little folksy. Their set left me wanting more of their unique sound and I really wished that the Merge Records folks would have been in the crowd to sign them on the spot.

I was more than happy that I shelled out a meager $10 for their lovely debut, Cardboard Wings. You can learn more about them, and hear some of their music, at www.birdlipsmusic.com. I recommend “Some Kind of Death.”

I can’t shout it loudly enough: These two are the real deal.

I try to keep politics off this blog page as much as possible.

Only opinions about religion are more divisive (and less welcome).

But I just sat through Elizabeth Edwards’ interview on “The Daily Show” from May 20, done for her new tell-all book regarding her husband’s affair in the run up to his ‘08 presidential bid. Yeah, she says there’s some cancer treatment stuff in there, too.

The book is called “Resilience.”

The nitty gritty of the affair stuff was first to leak to the papers and internet, because — let’s face it — that’s all we really want to hear about from this woman who chose to stand by someone now publicly regarded as a schmuck. From the interviews I’ve read, heard, seen, and from the excerpts pulled from its pages, she still hasn’t quite made it clear why she stayed with him (other than to be able to scour him with shame from a book and its press tour).

She spent most of The Daily Show interview talking about healthcare but when it came to John, she said it was painful and difficult to talk about. She called the book tour a trial of emotional endurance and acted embarassed to have to talk about it.

Well, ma’am: You chose to dredge it back up. You chose to write this book so soon after the events.

And you chose to go on a media tour to promote your book, “Resilience.”

Take a few letters away from that title and you get “Silence.”

Wouldn’t that have been the easier, classier route?

The band with the silliest name in rock is getting shot into space next month.

When NASA astronaut Colonel Timothy L. Korpa gets launched on June 13, he’ll be carrying a copy of Echo & the Bunnymen’s 1984 masterpiece Ocean Rain. He says he’s going to take pictures of the crew with the album in hand.

The Liverpudlian post-punk collective are said to be chuffed over the Yank’s decision to take the greatest album since Sgt. Pepper’s** into the stars.

According to news sources, frontman Ian McCulloch released a characteristically humble statement to the press:

“Now it’s official. We are the coolest band in the universe,” said Ian McCulloch in a released statement. “As a kid I dreamt of being an astronaut, and now in a way it feels like I’m fulfilling that dream. I cannot wait to hear from Tim what it is like to listen to ‘The Killing Moon’ in the actual glow of the moon.”

You can read more at Billboard.com.

For those of you unfamiliar with “The Killing Moon,” it most recently gained a second life as the opening song of the original (and far superior) cut of the film “Donnie Darko.” It’s also one of the best songs of the 1980s.

Here’s a performance from A Crystal Day at St. George’s Hall in Liverpool, way back in ‘84.

**This statement was made by McCulloch shortly before the release of the album and does not necessarily reflect the views or opinion of the Homegrown Snob.