“Your first 10,000 photographs are your worst.”
Working towards that number changes the way you see the world. Living in this crowded-crumbling, sexy-scary, crazy-noisy, feast-of-vision city surely helps a bit. Keep your eyes peeled and trigger-finger ready.
“When I was your age television was called books!” Peter Faulk neatly sums up the written word’s apparent fall from grace. Yes, the telly has of late been dating smarter girls. But there’s more than one way to peel a couch potato. Turn it off and turn the page.
“A film is more like music than like fiction.”
Indeed, they are birds of a feather– a murder of crows pecking away at yoga, politics and walks in the park to carve out a life of blurred vision, tinitus and narrow cultural vocabulary. That’s the way, uh huh, I like it.
Well, after talking about it for 10 years, the deed is done.
NYC At Your Feet’s first galley proof arrived at my doorstep yesterday, and thanks to the fine folks at Blurb.com, I must say it looks great.
For those of you not familiar with the project, the book is a collection of from-the-hip, below the waist photo treats chronicling the chosen footwear of our fellow New Yorkers. From the introduction:
The idea for this book began taking shape in October 1999 upon moving to New York City, a town renowned equally for it’s eclectic style and harshness of character.
A place where, generally, we don’t make eye contact.
Sitting in a subway car, we follow protocol. Hunched against the winter wind, our gaze drops to the ground beneath our feet. Our field of vision is self-limited to that narrow frame between the pockmarked sidewalk and the waistlines of our fellow New Yorkers. Through this lens we gather our first concrete observations, draw initial conclusions about the kind of person passing by us might be. Where they dine. Where they dance. Where they work and play.
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NYC At Your Feet is on sale here:
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The book is a 100 page, perfect-bound hardback printed on premium luster paper.
I make no profit from sales, save the satisfaction of knowing
this labor of love has fallen into someone’s appreciative hands.
You can preview the book below, as well as pass on facebook comments to all your friends :)
OK, so most year-end lists enumerate curators choices for the best musical efforts released in the current year, this being 2011, in case you’d lost track. Maunet’s list is a little different. It does include some records I thought represented the best of this year’s musical offerings. But to be quite honest, one look at my iTunes library revealed that I had not acquired all that many records released in 2011. Not to mention that all the vinyl I bought this year was primarily composed of classic records from the 60′s through the 90′s. Call me behind the times. An old fogey. Or, as I would prefer, discerning.
So with this in mind, my year-end list includes past artists or records that I’ve re-discovered or obsessed over during the course of the year. Some are relatively new artists from this decade, others hearken back to the days of yore. In all cases, their awesomeness goes undiluted by the passing of time. So, ordered by play count, check it:
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M83
Despite the fact that I didn’t get turned on to this band until November of this year, it tops the play count list. That should tell you something. Three of M83′s records have been on repeat for weeks now. It’s driving my girlfriend crazy, but I can’t help it. More here.
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Radiohead
After some repeated listening, I reluctantly got to like this year’s The King Of Limbs. But really, it’s been all about the other three records pictured above. Thy’re so dark and sexy and alive you just can’t put ‘em down. Bottom line, this band is one of the best of the best and warrants repeated listening no matter what year it is.
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Pains of Being Pure At Heart
Teenage Dream Pop delight. Dashes of My Bloody Valentine, sprinkles of 80′s pop, Belong is perfect for driving with the top down. And if you’re wooing a girl, it’s a nice, innocent way to get things started…
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Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
I’d forgotten just how fucking good these guys are. Dark rock a little this side of Jesus and Mary Chain, great for midnight strolls through dark alleys.
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The National
Between the Expanded Edition of High Violet and the release of two singles this year supporting a movie (“Think You Can Wait”, Win Win) and a video game, of all things, (“Exile,Vilify”, Portal 2) this band continues to stay in heavy rotation after years of wearing their records down to the nub.
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Bon Iver
Delicate, gorgeous, sublime. If this list was not ordered by play count, methinks this self-titled effort would top the list for best record of 2011. In fact, I’m disinclined to believe my LastFM scrobble count on this one, cause I spun this constantly since it’s release date. And have you seen this guy live? Jesus H.
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The Rolling Stones
As with The Beatles, I re-discover this band every few years or so. You just can’t argue with it. Hands down one of the best bands of all time. My interest was re-piqued this time by the release of the Deluxe Edition of Exile On Main Street, not to mention recently acquired virgin vinyl copies of the meat of the Stone’s order: Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers and Beggars Banquet. This time around I finally saw the genius of Keith Richards. Such a rock star, a complete and utter madman; yet when it comes to the music, disarmingly earnest and truly delighted by his job. A sweetheart of sorts. He kills without showboating, his riffs deceptively simple and full of soul. Yes, I kinda fell in love with the man this year, crags and all. Watch Gimme Shelter, Let’s Spend the Night Together, Stones In Exile and Ladies and Gentlemen, The Rolling Stones! for affirmation of this guy’s utter charm and musicality.
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S. Carey
As drummer for Bon Iver, S. Carey applies a tasteful percussionist’s hand to a band that is primarily known for it’s acoustic leanings. But on his debut solo outing, he applies a musicologists magic to All We Grow, a gorgeous record teeming with majestic textures and complex rhythmic structures. It’s a soundtrack to a lover’s dream and well worth repeated listenings as it seeps into your subconscious, leaving you melancholy, joyful and fully alive.
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Black Mountain
In its simplest terms, this band ROCKS. Steeped in psychedelic blues-rock of the 60′s and 70′s, this Canadian collective mines the best of Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and Deep Purple, spewing a barrage of rock and rollin bad-assness. Long live rock.
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Black Angels
Seems I’m into bands with Black in their monikers. This particular brand of black is dry and muscular, piquant and dark as a blood orange. The Black Angels are an inarguably contemporary band, yet deeply rooted in late 60′s bombastic blues-rock (Monks, Black Sabbath); minimal basement dinge (Velvet Underground, The Stooges); and post-hippie psychedelic wash (Spacemen 3). While the first record, Passover, looms a little darker, their third effort, Phosphene Dream, has the band fascinated with the poppier side of the 60′s, making noisy nods to The Beatles, The Kinks and the Beach Boys. And that’s never a bad thing.
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The Antlers
The Antler’s second record had a lot to live up to after the mesmerizing, wrenching 2009 debut Hospice. Happily, their sophomore effort doesn’t disappoint. Lyrically, the record sounds like a natural extension of the first–more songs of loss, distrust and heart-break. But while Hospice held us close in the trenches of human loss, Burst Apart employs new electronic textures that make it seem a little less of this world, more so a claustrophobic concoction of dreamy landscapes that bring to life all our most hidden fears and desires.
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Pink Mountaintops
Pink Mountaintops are the sexier, dirtier sister of Black Mountain. Decidedly influenced by the Velvet Underground and the Stooges, the Tops rejoice in noisy DIY ditties of dancing, drugs, sex, and rock and roll. And who the hell don’t love that?
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The Psychedelic Furs
I’ve been listening to these guys since high school–back in my time, “Pretty In Pink” was the pean to the unapproachable pretty girl sitting next to you in classs. But during the period when the Furs were at their most contemporary, I never delved deep into their catalog, satisfied with owning only All of This and Nothing, a collection of their poppier, prettier tracks. But this year I sat down and really dug into the first three records to discover that these guys are the quintessential post-punk band. Raw and growly, the Furs’ early material is so full of energy it’ll sock and spin you ’round like a boxer bent on knocking you down. And much to my surprise, these records still manage to sound contemporary after all these years. So don’t feel bad if you come across these guys late in the game. As they say, ”the first in her line is the last to remember her name…”
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Kurt Vile
Earlier this year the short 30-minute haunt of God Is Saying This To You stayed on repeat morning, noon and night. It’s the perfect record for a crisp autumn night spent alone on the veranda, sipping bourbon, smoking yourself daft, haunted by the specter of lost loves and friends forgotten. Imagine a gathering of Bert Jansch, Neil Young and Bon Iver plucking out ghostly strains haunting dark country woods. Naturally I had to go out and get everything this young troubadour from Pittsburgh has to offer, and none of it disappoints. Vile explores noisier territory on Constant Hitmaker and Childish Prodigy, then settles into a more unified approach on 2011′s Smoke Ring for My Halo. Take the whole ouvre as a whole and you’ve got one hell of a collection songs.
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The War On Drugs
A Kurt Vile side project, The War On Drugs cook up a unique concoction of ambient Americana. Between Vile’s high register and a wash of distorted keyboards you’ll find songs suitable for a country stomp on the surface of the moon.
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Secret Machines
Now Here Is Nowhere was the shit back in 2004. The band made a daringly cool move: basing the entire recording session for this album around the sound of a booming kick drum. Boy did it pack a wallop. But then, like so many other over-hyped bands of the oughts, they lost direction and petered out. But that don’t mean this record doesn’t hold up. Laden with strains of Pink Floyd, Can, Zeppelin and a smattering of shoegazing influences, this record deserves another listen now that the smoke has cleared and the dust has begun to settle.
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Liz Phair
I bought Exile in Guyville the day it came out in June of 1993. As we all know, it changed the way chick-rock could sound, eschewing the politically correct laments of contemporaries like the sickeningly earnest Sarah McLaughlin, instead presenting us with a sexually forward, personally confrontational take on male/female relationships. What a refreshing record it was then, with immaculately clean and simple production and pitch-perfect songs. Well, this year I purchased a 180-gram vinyl edition of this classic and got hooked once again. We may not all be at the age where we can still fuck and run, but it’s nice to reminisce, no?
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Gonzales
Ever wished there was a contemporary equivalent to Chopin’s Nocturnes? A less brainy/new-agey version of Erik Satie? Just short, simple, melodic, often romantic and lonely piano vignettes best for early morning, late evening or rainy days? Basically any time you’re prone to sad-bastard music and the beautiful tinkle of piano keys. Well, if Chopin were to come back to life as a hipster Canadian plunking out perfect piano ditties tinged with Spanish and Hungarian influences, Solo Piano would be the record he’d make next. Friend Kevin Brady puts it in its simplest terms: “This is one of the most beautiful records I’ve ever heard.” I’m pretty sure he’s not overstating.
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Explosions In The Sky
in 2011, EITS released Take Care, Take Care, Take Care. As a huge fan of this band, I was left a little underwhelmed by that particular record. It just doesn’t compare to the masterpiece that is The Earth is Not A Cold Dead Place, a tuneful, joyous, bombastic, majestic record that makes post-rock contemporaries Mogwai sound like they’re tone deaf. And by the way, if you’re a fan of the television series Friday Night Lights, Explosions tracks are featured all over it…
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Alexander “Skip” Spence
One of the great “lost” psychedelic records of the late 60′s, Oar is the creation of Alexander Spence, most famous for co-founding Moby Grape and for drumming with early incarnations of Jefferson Airplane. Between that, drugging and going more than slightly mad, Skip made a kooky, woozy, haunting record reminiscent of Syd Barret and Electric Ladyland-era Hendrix. Lower the lights, spark up, relax and enjoy, man!
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OK Go
Shamelessly, these guys pilfer and plagiarize Prince’s mid-period discography, early Arcade Fire and just about any Brooklyn-born dance-rock band you can think of—to very satisfying success. Their first two efforts were actually insipid little indie rock records, bleh. But I fell prey to this record’s “Baby I’m A Star” collection of falsetto-laced pop-dance hooks soaked in drums-and-bubblegum beauty. Bump and grind, kiddies!
My Best of (what was actually released in) 2011 (according to my phone, of all things):
Apocalypse, Bill Callahan; Biophilia; Bjork; Bloodless Coup, Bell X1; Bon Iver, Bon Iver; Days, Real Estate; Demolished Thoughts, Thurston Moore; Enough Thunder, James Blake; Hardcore Will Never Die, Mogwai; Helplessness Blues, Fleet Foxes; Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming, M83; Last Summer, Eleanor Friedberger; Let England Shake, PJ Harvey; Lifes Rich Pageant (Deluxe Edition), R.E.M.; Mirror Traffic, Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks; New Brigade, Ice Age; Parallax, Atlas Sound; Past Life of Martyred Saints, EMA; The People’s Key, Bright Eyes; Slave Ambient, The War on Drugs; Smoke Ring for My Halo, Kurt Vile; Suck It and See, Arctic Monkeys; The Whole Love, Wilco; Wit’s End, Cass McCombs
Whether or not you are of that generation that grew up with the cheesy synth and ray-gun drums of 80′s pop, it’s an unshakable fact that those very sounds are the perfect dream-pop background for songs of youthful longing. Making out in the back of cars, waiting for dark to descend, with it’s promise of shelter from the prying eyes of parents that be.
Hailing from France and making records since the mid-oughts, M83 has recently released Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming, a double-LP awash in all possible 80′s production cliches, managing to make a perfect record for staring at the stars, pining for a lost love or hoping for your next romance to gel. This and their previous record, Saturday = Youth are rife with John Hughes romanticism (I’m 15 years old/ And I feel it’s already too late to live/ Don’t you?”). Both records owe much to O.M.D., Howard Jones and late-period Simple Minds. Indeed, the cover for S=Y features a phalanx of “stylish” pubescent youth seemingly intent on convening a French session of The Breakfast Club. And yet, the songs’ retro-contemporary stylings make them prime candidates for a place on a Sofia Coppola soundtrack.
Upon first listen you can’t but cringe at all the sonic cliche’s thrown at you. But leave’em on repeat for a day and you’ll come to realize how deftly crafted these records are, succeeding in turning cliches into fresh sounds that lift the spirit above the irony of middle age hispter posing. No matter what age you may be, the band’s dreamy epics are vividly alive with all things young, the perfect records on which to hang all your hopes and dreams.
Have you ever been given a project, understanding full well the needs of the client but gone ahead and mangled the concept into a completely different animal, just ’cause it’s fun? What you end up with is something utterly unusable as far as the client is concered, but are at least left with something to giggle about while you endeavor to properly capture the original concept.
This is one of those cases. While exploring ideas for the cover of Little Silver’s upcoming new EP, entitled Dress-Up, several solid photographic candidates were presented and well received. But late one night, armed with more than a few gin and tonics and a 8fps Nikon, you tipsily decide to explore another direction entirely and come up with this. A concept and feel for an album cover that is clearly not suited for the client’s beautifully understated acoustic recordings of, among other tracks, a lamenting cover of The Cure’s “Picture’s of You,” a somber pick and pluck rendition of Chris Whitley’s “Dirt Floor” and a dust bowl take on Sun Kil Moon’s “Salvador Sanchez.” They’re “dressing up”, see?
The client, the lovely and talented singer-songwriter team Erika Simonian and Steve Curtis, gleefully complimented the concept then gracefully put the kibosh on it for obvious reasons. You don’t need a weather man to know which way the wind blows. It’s simply too retro-perky for the music it’s meant to represent. But we had our fun and are now back on track with something much more suitable. For posterity, we present the errant concept here. Enjoy. And while you’re at it, check out Little Silver’s official site here….
Totally makes me want to start another band and record another cover album and steal the title from Little Silver and use these shots. They’re really so good!
Fall has been poking it’s crispy little nose into our Brooklyn neighborhoods as of late. The sidewalks are littered not with refuse, but with the brightly colored crunch of leaves fallen from the few precious trees that line our city streets.
Autumn’s thinner air breeds nostalgia, evoking both anticipation and regret. Anticipation of the fiery foliage beginning to punctuate our concrete landscape, the cool air clearing our summer-clogged lungs, the annual debut of stylish overcoats and scarves.
Yet regret abounds as we sadly say goodbye to the warm lazy days of summer, when the streets are less crowded, and the breezy evenings make a stroll to the frozen yogurt stand a pleasure like no other. Soon, the long dark days of winter will nip at autumn’s heels, gripping us cruelly in their cold, wet fists.
But yesterday we were given one last warm reprieve as summer decided to pop in for a last hurrah. The high bright sun marched the mercury well above 85 degrees, glistening our brows, dampening the shirts on our backs. It was a glorious day for strolling around Storm King, its natural grounds spotted with sculptural art as majestic as the trees, lawns and streams that inhabit it, the landscape an amalgam of man and nature missed so dearly in the concrete deluge that is our home.
So long summer, thanks for shining down upon us one last time…
“Revolution” | The Beatles | Past Masters Vol. 2 | 1968
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“It’s not the consumer’s job to know what they want.”
“Simple can be harder than complex…”
“The problem with Microsoft is they just have no taste. They have absolutely no taste and I don’t mean that in a small way, I mean that in a big way… I am saddened, not by Microsoft’s success. I have no problem with their success, they’ve earned their success. For the most part. I have a problem with the fact that they just make really third-rate products.”
Saying your model for business is the Beatles sounds cute, but to understand what he means takes reading another quote that I’ve come across often today, that “it’s not the consumers’ job to know what they want.” There was no Beatles before the Beatles, and that’s what made them great. In other words, as the NY Times pointed out, while Jobs tried to understand the problems that technology could solve for his buyer, he wasn’t going to rely on the buyer to demand specific solutions, just so he could avoid ever having to take a risk. This is what’s commonly known as leading. It also seems like common sense of the sort necessary for any kind of innovation, albeit the kind usually reserved for more non-commercial realms.
I have been astounded at how heavy my heart is with this news. As designers, we owe a huge debt to Jobs and not just for how he revolutionized how we work, but how we look at and judge design.
“Song For Jesse” | Nick Cave & Warren Ellis | Official Soundtrack | 2007
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Earlier lamented, it’s been a while since I finished a book. Started half a dozen, each eventually laying fallow on shelves and tables, ponds briefly tested by tentative toes. Steinbeck, Murakami, McInerny, Ellis, Capote – in the previous year, these authors had ruined my interest in other stories, imposed a restlessness with narrative that lasted up till now.
During the heavy rains that plagued Brooklyn’s summer months, my window sill, serving as one of many shelves around the apartment, sprung a leak, soaking through my volume of Jesse James. I proclaimed it a wash, nearly tossing it for trash, then reconsidered. Over a few days I fanned its damp brown pages until its limp leaves once again regained a now warped rigidity. Pre-soak, I’d chipped away at less than a fourth of its weight, but my volume’s early pages were inked with annotations and underlines that convinced me this was the right book, at the right time. Upon finally drying, my copy took on the tactile quality of a weathered keepsake, dilapidated but still very much intact. It was light yet substantial in my hands, it’s spine pliable, it’s curled edges making them easier to turn. I found my place and began again…
Robert Hansen’s book is a keenly imagined, historically accurate account of the assassination of celebrity outlaw Jesse Woodson James, known across the American west and beyond as a man both notorious and revered; ruthless yet genial. A man of almost preternatural energy and cunning that captured the imagination of scores of his contemporaries. It’s unnecessary to recapitulate the story of his legend and downfall here. What’s remarkable about this book is the language – a narrative of tattered, stately, old-fashioned language made musical with solemnity and lyricism. I’ve never looked up so many words in my life. Beguiling words: furbelow, stentorian, bungey, perfidy, bivouac. Words lending anachronistic spice to sentences so finely crafted you actually, really do go back and read them again. And again. This book reminded me of why I read books in the first place.
I was apprised of the novel by the movie of the same name, a faithful adaptation that boasted finely nuanced acting, a superb script and the always stunning cinematography of Roger Deakins, who that year was nominated twice as Best Cinematographer, once for Jesse James and again for No Country For Old Men. (Old Men won). But thankfully, the film is not just an exercise in style and visual beauty – the script wisely inserts verbatim snatches of language into its narrative and invents new scenes and dialogue so true to the tone and language of the book, you’d think the author himself had scripted it.
“His thoughts glanced away from ensnarements like minnows… His nose…not long or preponderant, no proboscis, but upturned a little and puttied, a puckish, low-born nose, the ruin, he thought, of his otherwise gallantly handsome countenance…[He] let his fancies run like red-eyed ferrets, letting the experienced air educate his senses. … He also had a condition that was referred to as “granulated eyelids” and it caused him to blink more than usual as if he found creation slightly more than he could accept.”
Need I say more? Go pick up a copy. It and the hauntingly beautiful soundtrack by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis. The two fit together like a bullet in a chamber.
Yes, mental speed outsrips limited typing skills. Proofing only works 90% of the time when you multi-task. Find a typo? Your proofing services appreciated. Contact me and provide post link URL and text reference. Much obliged, kind sir, lovely madam.
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Tuesday 01.17.2012 | 11:01 EST
Rockpants says:
Awesome!!! Why, pray tell do you make no profit from the sales? Who’m I giving my money to? I suppose the publisher. Okay.