charliehatesyourmusic

[charliehatesyourmusic]

WHAT THE FUCK IS LORDE THINKING?

The real perfect place is far far away from her new awful club bullshit single.

[charliehatesyourmusic]

I've never cared about something less.

[charliehatesyourmusic]

Live review: San Fermin aren’t here to sell laundry detergent

I think I’ve come quite a long way in terms of my musical open-mindedness. I’ve certainly learned to keep my mouth shut until I’ve had an adequate amount of time to think through the music I’m listening to. My going to see The 1975 live with my fiancé is a testament to my progress. I walked out of the show with their newest LP in tow. You really can’t understand a band until you’ve seen them live. Even if you don’t like them, you can’t “get it” until you’ve seen how they interact with their audience and deliver their lyrics. I didn’t appreciate the boy-band bullshit of The 1975 until I saw the lithe, curly-headed Matt Healy stagger around an incredibly lit stage, touting his message of equality (Loving Someone) and questioning his spiritual identity (If I Believe You). I felt that he believed what he was singing, a quality that a band as well-travelled as them often loses. Anyway, my point is whether I spin their record at the house all the time or not, I left the show appreciating what they were capable of doing.

This sort of thing happened to me again a few days ago. Since we’ve been dating, my fiancé has raved about a band she saw called San Fermin. I think I listened to them once after she mentioned them and wrote them off as another baroque pop ensemble in the same vein as Of Monsters And Men *shudders.* I didn’t think ill of them per say, I just read the book by its cover and didn’t revisit it. In my defense, the music industry has been saturated by these phony baroque pop bands since, and some might argue earlier, around 2010. Baroque pop has been around much longer, but the phony ones I’m referring to are the ones with those silly and blatant love metaphors, the breathy female vocals with the tender I-Wear-Suspenders male lead backing them, and the ��we don’t wear shoes on stage, but we wear rather large hats and jump a lot” fuckery that brainwashed Coachella-going basic bitches for years. Put plainly, the shit they play in laundry detergent commercials. I could not care less about some shitty little grasshopper who fell in love with a lion or whatever-the-hell, so enough with the lousy metaphors, Aesop.

Of course the successful acts in the baroque pop sub-genre were successful because they didn’t feel like a gimmick. Their music is like a picture: they don’t need an Instagram filter, they actually took a great photo. I’m thinking of bands like Vampire Weekend, or even early Arcade Fire. There weren’t pandering, they were just making honest music. I didn’t think this type of honesty was still around in this sub-genre until recently.

I got the chance to take my fiancé to see San Fermin in Austin. From what I had heard and researched in the days leading up to the show, I surmised that the music would be better live and hoped the show would have the same effect The 1975 show had. To add some context, the man behind the lyrics and sweeping arrangements San Fermin is known for is Ellis Ludwig-Leone, a classically-trained Yale graduate who has worked with orchestras, ballets and lastly indie rock bands. You can do your own research on the band’s full history, but after learning of Leone’s educational upbringing, I was excited to see how he maintained the band. I was very pleasantly surprised.

We got to the show one or two songs into San Fermin’s set, and by then they already had the diverse audience bopping. We were welcomed by the sound of a trumpet and a saxophone, playing harmoniously over a pulsing beat. Onstage, I saw the mini brass section finish their part, dip their instruments down and fade into the background, letting the lead singers, the talented Charlene Kaye and Alan Tate, continue the song. This seamless exchange of power continued all night. Leone was on keyboard on the far left of the stage and introduced a song here and there, but otherwise the band was airtight. Despite having a very small stage for seven people (almost all with instruments) to share, the give-and-take between the members was remarkable. There was no ego onstage whatsoever. When the bridge of a song began, the two lead singers would kindly step back, allowing the trumpeter/saxophonist/violinist to take center stage. This improved the sound as well since the venue was so small. Because the arrangements were so tight and every member of the band was on point, I kept watching Leone to see if he was giving any physical cues to the rest of the band, like Jack to Meg. I saw none. This was not their first rodeo. Leone expected and was confident that every member would be on their game.

The music itself sounded incredible. The venue was perfect for San Fermin’s brand of music. The lyrics aren’t particularly complicated or worth writing home about, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t sound pretty. Tate’s baritone rumble and Kaye’s operatic flourishes are like a more classical XX. Between songs the band had total control of the audience. Every break was followed by applause, then silent anticipation for the next piece. Kaye’s charm and Tate’s broodiness played well off each other. Every member of the band was having the time of their lives without looking like that’s what they wanted you to think. The emotion I picked up on were genuine, not manufactured like a mega-church worship ceremony. This fact was confirmed after the show. The band hung around the venue and allowed fans to talk to them. I awkwardly bopped around, trying to talk to everyone. I met the trumpeter first, telling him it was the first time I had seen them and that I enjoyed it very much. I met Kaye next, who gave me a hug immediately and introduced herself. She told me that three of her band-members were playing in a punk band later that night and I should check them out. Between that fact and seeing Kaye go from singing to playing guitar to playing drums, I knew this band had many talents beyond their chosen genre. She was perfectly kind and very real. Nothing changed between her controlling the audience and her being among the audience. She was sweet to the doe-eyed little girls (I say little, I mean high-schoolers) who came to admire her, hugging each one and thanking them.

I finally made it to Leone, who was overrun with girls in cutoff t-shirts and underwhelming personalities. Once I ran them off, I got to tell him how much I enjoyed the show. I told him, trying my best to not seem like a creep, that I had researched his background and had been excited to see his arrangements live. He humbly replied, “Yeah I write it, but I kind of just let them,” he gestured to Kaye and Tate, “do their thing.” I was dumbfounded by how grounded he was. He seemed to understand the dynamic a band like San Fermin needs to be successful. Like a Gordon Ramsay kitchen, ego cannot stand in the way of success. I fully expected Leone to be a pretentious little dude from New York, but like the rest of his outfit, he was very kind and thankful that I had been “converted.”

At the end of the night, I had their new record in my hands and an autographed poster if, for nothing else, a reminder that kindness and selflessness exist in the music industry. While their music may not be 100% up my alley, I can support any band that makes music that doesn’t try to be something it isn’t. I can support any band whose members are just happy to play music and genuinely enjoy hanging out with their fans. I’m sure a lot of bands are like this, but going to see a band with no expectations added to my feeling of happy surprise.

I could rant and bitch about flowery, gimmicky bands that crank out fake emotions and manipulate their fans for hours, but this post is about the opposite. Even if you hear San Fermin and don’t really feel the music, they’re still very good at what they do. And above all, they haven’t let it get to their heads.

[charliehatesyourmusic]

I'm not even gonna touch the Chainsmokers.

Too easy.

[charliehatesyourmusic]

The Dangers of The New Retro

Has anyone else seen some of the ridiculous playlist titles on Spotify? Let me give some examples: “Teenage Dirtbag,” “Cool Hunting” (worst hunt ever, no cool was found), “License to Chill,” and the ever-so-douchey “undercurrents,” which sounds like a shitty band that would open for HAIM. Among these gems I found one awhile back entitled “The New Retro.” If you know words and shit, you’ll know that retro means something along the lines of imitative of a style, fashion, or design from the recent past (that’s from Google, I’m not a human dictionary). So. First of all Spotify is claiming that on this playlist there is music that mimics music that mimics old music. Artists like Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats, Kaleo, and Leon Bridges reside on this playlist.

If you’re a fan of any of these people, just stop reading.

Here’s my beef with this new retro bullshit. I love the music that these artists are trying so hard to emulate. What they end up doing, however, is blatantly ripping off the music of yesteryear. It’s one thing to be influenced by a band, it’s a whole other thing to copy exactly what they do. For example: Alabama Shakes (primarily their second album) draws inspiration from classic rhythm and blues music, but what sets them apart is not only the exceptional vocals of Brittany Howard, but the strange arrangements they create (Sound & Color) and the interesting sounds their producers mix in the studio. Don’t Wanna Fight lyrically sounds like it could be a hit in the 60s, but the sound is much more updated and rough. It sets itself apart.

Most bands are incapable of making a sound their own, that’s why the alternative radio stations are saturated with music that could very well be on the oldies station. Every time I hear the horeshit faux-Negro spiritual opening of S.O.B. by Rateliff, I pull my hair out. It’s not only appropriating that culture, but it’s entirely unoriginal. By the time the chorus hits, which in his defense isn’t awful, you still find yourself pissed at the stomp-clap garbage that preceded it.

I’m sick and tired of hearing about these self-proclaimed folk singers singing about riding the rails and talking like their constantly method acting for a role in Grapes of Wrath. It’s 2017 boys, there are much more pressing things to sing about besides what Dylan covered in his first album. There’s enough folk-music fuel around today to make ol’ Bobby think he was born in the wrong era. Honestly, I’m all for reviving older styles of recording music: real instruments, real heartbreak, real issues. I also understand that nothing in art is entirely original. But if you have so little talent that you can’t create your own sound from something else, quit or take some time to develop. Creating music that belongs on the “New Retro” playlist is the musical equivalent of adding an Instagram filter to an already boring song. People keep losing their minds about these new bands that may as well be cover bands of the bands their ripping off. Critical darling Leon Bridges baffled me the most when he appeared on the music scene. His fashion, his musical style, even his album art is entirely derivative. I didn’t know if this kid was new or old. I heard teens talking about his music as if it was something revolutionary, when in fact countless others did exactly what he did but better.

The sad thing is a lot of these bands have talent. They just don’t know what to do with it. I’m glad that kids today are trying to get in touch with the physical aspect of music again via the record pressing industry, for example. In an attempt to explain why this type of industry is bouncing back, Jack White said, “It’s reverential. People are just tired of the invisibility of [the music], tired of the disposable nature of music for the last 10, 15 years. We’re seeing it blowing up in a way where you’re seeing [records] for sale at malls…I mean it shows you this is really happening (VICE News).” While it’s nice that these kids are tired of feeling removed from music, deluding themselves into thinking they’re cooler by living in the past (mainly the 60s) will perpetuate the lack of original music. And it isn’t just 60s music that’s being ripped off. Sounds from the 70s-90s are all coming back. There are good examples of this (Foxygen’s 21st Century Ambassadors of Peace and Magic, BRONCHO’s Double Vanity), and there are bad examples (Cut Copy’s Zonoscope, The 1975’s Love Me, which hand to God is a cover of Bowie’s fame). Again, it’s okay to draw influence from these past decades; they were iconic for a reason. But what’s the 2017 sound? Just an amalgamation of indecisive style choices? The music this period will be most known for, if this doesn’t stop, will be EDM. EDM people.  AND WHO IN THE F*CK WANTS THAT?

This trend stretches beyond music and into fashion, movies, video games, etc. And again, if conducted properly (Guardians of the Galaxy, It Follows, new twists of Nike or Adidas 90s-style shoes for starters, updated and artistic side-scrolling video games like Limbo), taking inspiration from the past is incredibly effective. Take your inspirations, put it through your own filter, and hope something original comes out the other end.

[charliehatesyourmusic]

Hands off, Antonoff: How Lorde betrayed herself on Green Light

             In 2012, a little album began to float around online that had tweens and beyond hopeful for an intellectual expression of their general state of being: the confusion of growing up too fast and without your consent, the impossible standard people set for themselves and others, and the fear of not fitting in (a familiar concept). The album touched on being introverted, poked fun at fame, added a dash of a party anthem, contemplated a prison of belief, and finally summarized a bout of anxiety. It was called The Love Club EP by Lorde, and it was a welcome respite from the marble-gargling rap and mindless Maroon 5 and Taylor Swift songs. The EP evolved into a full LP after the massive success of the single Royals, a song that makes fun of what makes fame fame and the strange normalization of glamorous lifestyles.

               The LP, Pure Heroine, showed Lorde maturing even more, delving into themes well beyond her age (which, by the way, was 17). For a lot of girls around that same age, the album helped contextualize the issues they were facing. While Lorde sang about her rising fame, she kept herself accessible to her listeners. She remained grounded and wise. Lorde croons about pivotal coming-of-age moments as if she were floating outside herself and taking notes on what the hell was happening with this boy/this plane ride/aging/WAR FOR GOD’S SAKE. This is when she really got my attention. She was sassy, self-aware, sarcastic and made fun of all the girls other girls, and me (a guy) despised (see White Teeth Teens).

               Let’s not forget the actual sound of the album. It’s minimal and building, reflecting the very themes Lorde is discussing; simple things can often snowball and become overwhelming. Lorde’s voice is velvety and melts over the tracks, weaving her teenage narrative over the 11 tracks. The mellow drum pads and the layered harmonies make it an easy listen. She never complains, only reflects. Every track seems so vulnerable and you can’t help but to relate. Even now I can think back to that age, as a man even, and find these songs to be timeless.

               With those accolades, let’s look at Lorde’s abysmal latest single Green Light. The song would be tolerable at best if I knew it wasn’t from Lorde, the once-prophetic voice of millions of teens. Somehow over her four year hiatus she surrounded herself with the likes of Len Dunham, a silly caricature of feminism and what a woman should pride herself on, Taylor Swift, the exact type of person Lorde mocked in her first album, and lastly Jack Antonoff, former member of fun. and Bleachers (do not get me started on the stadium bullshit they managed to squeeze out of some sucker studio). Over these four years Lorde kept poor company forced upon her in the throes of fame. I understand circles get formed when you become famous, but I thought that Lorde, who isn’t even from America and seemed to stand strongly with her opinions on the famous, would draw the line somewhere in there.

Perhaps her music taste devolved. Perhaps she feared her relevance slipping. So as a result, we got a Swiftian breakup song about dissing her ex. Now if someone pitched this to me (“a Lorde song about a bad breakup”), I would’ve been thrilled to see her sage outlook on this life event. But what we got was a shitty Coldplay piano riff, a silly, repetitive chorus of many an upset teenage girl shrieking about traffic lights (I know it’s a metaphor f*ck off). Keep in mind, I was a huge Lorde fan, so my biases are few here, BUT WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED? Somehow it doesn’t feel well-produced. The once minimal and contemplative beats evolved into some radio-friendly empowering anthem. I’m all for empowerment, believe me. That’s not the shit I’m trying to stir up. I just expected more from Lorde; a wiser, less moany expression of contempt for an ex. But all she talks about is her bitterness, her (new) ability to drink, and all the things she’s wanting to do when she’s free of this chump.

The biggest problem is that anyone around today could have sung this song. It could’ve been Swift, Perry, Rihanna, that Banks chick for chrissakes. Green Light did not have that signature Lorde sound that we know and love. Instead it felt like another song to be played at the wave pool at Six Flags. Another song girls can claim, convincing themselves they don’t need anyone but themselves, then turn around and listen to shit like Lana Del Rey, the down-trodden plastic doll whose lyrics are contradictive enough to make girls think otherwise.

I understand the desired effect of the pop song, but it shouldn’t have come from her. It’s not a sign of growing up. In fact it’s the opposite. Lorde seemed to have lost her power to float outside of herself and examine the situation. Whether the song was intended to give a giant middle finger to shitty exes everywhere or not, it’s not the way the old (younger) Lorde would handle it.

Lorde’s following single, Liability, is another somewhat-empowering song about no one being able to handle her, so she says she only needs herself, “the girls that [she] love[s].” Again, this could be anyone’s song. It channels Adele, who would’ve handled it better as it’s a soft piano ballad. Antonoff got his grubby hands on the track which immediately sucks the genuine aspects of the song right out. It’s the classic tale of a real artist getting overexposed to the commercial side of making art. We’ve got enough of that thank you.

While the LP has yet to come out and prove me wrong. I have my doubts considering that she mentioned that the whole album describes one house party (http://pitchfork.com/news/72821-lordes-new-album-tells-the-story-of-one-house-party/). This could be an interesting narrative if Green Light is the opening track, Perhaps as the night goes on, she slowly realizes that even after breakups people are shit, and the experiences you thought you’d enjoy after a breakup are romanticized by shit like Green Light. Maybe it’s more meta, like a Kendrick Lamar album. Maybe it will be more reflective. Maybe Green Light would have been better if it didn’t sound like the Chainsmokers slobbered on it like the Beast from the goddamn Sandlot. Maybe Lorde will never get back in touch with that wise, youthful spirit she exhibited so well in Pure Heroine. But for now she’s slowly turning into one of those White Teeth Teens she so proudly claimed not to be.

[charliehatesyourmusic]

The time I told a punk to listen to rap

   I recently went on a business trip to New York where I had some downtime to bop around the guts of Lower Manhattan. Scrolling through my phone one night in search of something to do, I stumbled across a bar that was spinning 80s New Wave and industrial music. A fan of both bars and 80s New Wave I thought what the hell. An hour later I found myself walking into a hole in the wall bar across the street from what looked like tenement buildings. As I walked through the already-open door, I passed a man in a safety pin-riddled leather jacket, a septum ring and a beanie. He was having a smoke and didn’t make eye contact with me when I went in. I took my place at the bar, ordered a beer and gave the place a once-over. Meanwhile, Smoking Man came inside, stood next to my seat at the bar and called the waitress by name. He ordered his drinks confidently.

     After he took his shot and sipped his chaser, he turned to me and asked where I was from. I told him. He said he knew a girl there (“Gorgeous, totally fucking crazy”) who was from the same place. Thus began my conversation with Smoking Man. When he noticed me mouthing along to Six Pack by Black Flag, the conversation turned to music and that’s when Smoking Man really opened up. At 45 (he didn’t look a day over 30), he told tales of the early years of the punk scene in New York; how he used to be the lead for a band that toured with the likes of GWAR and the Misfits. He told me stories of getting kicked out of clubs in LA and giant inflatable penises being passed over crowds of screaming, sweating, swearing men and women. He told me stories of when punk was a lifestyle and not a fashion. We talked about what constituted as good punk music, leaning into each other drunkenly so as to hear each other over the pumping Cocteau Twins in the background.

     “Shit’s not like that anymore,” he told me sadly.

     Feeling the furthest away from an expert on the subject as one possibly could, I suggested the opposite. I told him that there is just as much unrest as there ever was, the means of dissemination have just changed.

    In the early 80s, the best way to experience a real punk band was to keep your ear to the ground, stay in the know about the scene. Word-of-mouth, I learned, is still the most effective transfer of information in the punk world. Smoking Man told me about up-and-coming bands who, of course, can’t be found on any streaming service. They can only be found if someone tells you where to find them. So in that regard, Smoking Man was right, shit isn’t the same. That was what he found so special in the punk scene: the sense of community. The same sense fans of any band feel at any concert, but without the aid of social media, making it more familial.

     The punk family has indeed suffered over the years. Things to get pissed off about have risen as they always have over the years, but punk bands (true punk bands) seemed to have evaporated from the public eye. Most have turned into something else, something worse. EMO BANDS. These bands served their purpose to the millennial crowds who banged their heads to the hyperbolic emotional ravings of singers with more zippers and straps on them than a goddam Thriller/Gimp hybrid. The target audience related to these songs of mixed emotions, whereas punk bands target audience focused on one emotion: unrest. Granted, when bands like Minor Threat, Misfits, Bad Brains, etc. came out with music, it was successful largely because of the shock value, shaking up the Reagan-era public. Today, we’re not so easily shocked by what they said, but I believe in a time where we’re offended by everything, punk has a chance for a real comeback. 

     But it’s hard to go back to basics when everyone wants to be known for being pissed off instead of taking action because they’re pissed off. Someone filming a punk show on their phone instead of thrashing with the rest of the crowd in hopes to show their friends how badass they are on Instagram are the real punk-killers. Don’t get me wrong, social media can do wonders if you want to gain popularity for a band, but the elusive nature of these bands and having heard about them through the grapevine make them a type of urban legend. And that’s what makes them special.

     These types of bands are still here, though, under the surface, known only to those on the lookout. Times and locations scribbled on bathroom doors. Homemade posters speckled with skulls stapled to telephone poles. A friend of a friend knows a guy. All of these are how, from what I learned from Smoking Man, punk still exists today. The world seemed to grow around it, as it did around my new friend. The genre relies on open-mindedness. It’s a brave thing to go see a band you know nothing about at an undoubtedly shitty venue. It’s healthy, though, and you can learn from it. Bands don’t need a discography on Spotify or Apple Music to validate their talent or message, and that’s what I learned as Smoking Man rattled off all the up-and-coming punk acts from Brooklyn (none of which I can find any information about online, to prove my point).

     At one point in the conversation I suggested something risky. I told Smoking Man that rap is becoming the new punk, or the closest thing to it. Acts like Kendrick Lamar, Run The Jewels, even (bear with me) Kanye West. Kendrick uses his wit and storytelling ability to fight to marginalization of black America. Run The Jewels uses shock value (as many in the genre do) to encourage dissatisfaction with the system (like Rage Against the Machine!). Lines like “we the type to greet the preacher with a grin and a gun,” “I put my pistol to your poodle and I shot that bitch,” and “When you n*ggas gon’ unite and kill the police motherfuckers?” are incredibly similar in effect as lines crooned by Glen Danzig in Bullet, which I won’t quote here as, even today, they’re massively shocking (check that shit out). Kanye West could even be thrown into the ring for his outrageous claims and actions (having sex with America’s Worst Sweetheart, calling himself the last rockstar) that early punk bands were known for. To my surprise, Smoking Man said he’d have to check my suggestions out. Even at 45 he’s living proof that punks still need to remain open-minded.

     Punk music inspired listeners to challenge what was happening around them and not let themselves be turned into something they aren’t. It allowed listeners an escape what they were being told and sold. Like Woody Guthrie killing fascists with his machine, like Elvis thrusting his pelvis on television, like Dylan being homesick for the Greenwich Village underground, punk is a call to arms and a call for unity. People will always be pissed about something. As long as there’s someone to vocalize what they’re so mad about, there will be punk. When people inevitably disagree with this anger is when there can be room  for discussion, and through discussion, progress. Punk’s far from dead, and in fact we might need it now more than ever.

[charliehatesyourmusic]

To the dear music lovers and haters

My girlfriend usually can't deal with my rants about music. Some of it I like, but what I don't like, I loathe. So this is a page to spare my girlfriend the fits (it's basically Pitchfork because they hate every goddam thing). I will try my utmost to not sound pretentious, I like all types of music. Radio songs are boosting production value, are capable of sounding more lush and full and offer some catchy sign o' the times anthems. Off the radio stuff has some incredible offerings as well (as it usually goes). On this page I'll talk about it all. Maybe even politics (GOD NO). And I'm more than happy to discuss. I won't just piss off to piss off, I'd like to encourage discussion. I'm open-minded, occasionally angry, and typically opinionated. But if you can get me to find any musical worth in a song by Train, I'll give you $1,000. Good luck, and buckle in. -Charlie