Everything this person has written for TUNETHEPROLETARIAT

“…but I’m not the only one.”

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Imagine (orig. John Lennon) – Antony & The Johnsons

It’s a compelling discomfort that comes with writing alongside songs that speak for themselves, like telling a beautiful woman that she is exactly that: beautiful. She already knows. Telling her is a soft rustle in the leaves of her trees, passing by.

Covering John Lennon’s “Imagine” is something like that. Futile. And it’s not that Antony soaking his honey-heavy vocals in it isn’t comely – it is – but telling you that is pinching time that could be better spent listening.

[Thank You For Your Love falls on the 30th of this month. Pre-order here. Their next full-length album follows in October. Pre-order that, too.]

So apropos: saw death on a sunny snow.

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So with her sister, she did go.

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Elephant Micah – The Story Of My Expatriate Friends

“What are you thinking about?” “Stop asking me what I’m thinking about. I don’t know. Nothing.”

[Download Elephant Micah and the Agrarian Malaise in its entirety.]

When we were five.

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Ceremony tingles. Pre-determined weight. Scales of something and often wrong waiting at the gates. “Come in, darling,” she crooned. “I’m waiting for the taste.” Worried for the consequence of desires I’ve come to sate. Laughing at the breathlessness. Sitting on the fence. Typing all these syllables, I’m tired of your friends. Inebriated honesty. Maybe. Save me from the trends. I’ll leave this sentence to you ’cause the rest won’t mean a thing.

[Soraia’s When We Were Five fell from the grinding gears on the 9th. Three-hundred and ninety seconds for ninety-nine cents.]

Said your mother’s dead and gone.

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Antony & Bryce Dessner – I Was Young When I Left Home

Eamon sat on the porch of a house he did not live in. He looked out at the road ahead. It was dusty, one-way, leading away from the trees to flatlands that spanned the horizon and sat lonely with the sun sometimes at the end of the day, when it had tired of hanging in the sky lighting the way for the lost. It would fall, swap tales with the land before disappearing to rest. The moon would kick up its heels, hum a tune, man the post for a few hours. Sometimes only half-there. Eamon picked at his lips. He peeled strips of crackled skin, flicked them away. Touched his hand to his face. Looked down at the red puddles pooling on the skin of his fingers. Squinted in the sunlight. Sighed, peeled another strip.

Blonde Redhead & Devastations – When The Road Runs Out

In the dim street light, the radio hummed slowly through the night. Hugged close by a thin layer of sleet in the middle of the road sat the car the radio belonged to. At this hour there might be a couple of dogs barking, rummaging through the evening’s throwaways in the dumpsters lining the side-alleys, fighting for scraps. There were none. Their thick winter coats betrayed their warmth. The car’s headlights dimmed in the fog, two peering eyes in the evening. Waiting. The engine slowed to a murmur. Bedside lamps went cold. [Dark Was The Night.]

(illustration by Paul Blow)

This is more than a fascination.

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Innate – Fascination

Asier slung his tongue over his shoulder like a swollen, bruised bandolier. He only had the remnants of a rousing chorus. A chorus that echoed in the forest. Consonants ping-ponging from between the branches of the highest trees, swinging from the overgrown canopies. Vowels ooooing and aaaaaing and uuuuuing in their callous tussles with structure. Adjectives hidden in the ground under piles of burnt sticks, jagged rocks, monkey shit. Verbs like mosquitoes biting when he stepped. Soon the nouns would shudder and heave and fall like the others.

(illustration by moleskinex56)

Who makes Steve Guttenberg a star?

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The Simpsons – Flaming Moe’s

Shit, man. For an animated television show, The Simpsons has churned out a hatful of gems in their decades on air. “Flaming Moe’s” has a melancholic honesty that some serious performers will try and try and try to reach.

The Simpsons – We Do (The Stonecutters’ Song)

“Oh yeah. Beer busts. Beer blasts. Keggers. Stein hoist. A.A. meetings. Beer night. It’s wonderful, Marge! I’ve never felt so accepted in all my life. These people looked deep within my soul and assigned me a number based on the order in which I joined.”

[Songs In The Key Of Springfield.]

Leave me alone, I’m in control. I’m in control.

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The Strokes – Take It Or Leave It

OK, let’s talk about The Strokes’ show at Hordern Pavilion, Sydney, on Thursday night: I’m not going to pretend to care about the opening acts (who were, by the way, Gypsy & The Cat and The Like) because let’s face it: everybody was waiting for Julian, Albert, Nick, Nikolai, and Fabrizio to hit the stage. The openers were good, they were somewhat entertaining, but in the way they performed and interacted with the crowd it felt as if even they knew everybody was hanging around to see the headliners play.

A band so deeply idolised by the indie cluster who dearly adore Julian’s close-fisted singing-into-the-microphone style attracted a surprisingly violent mosh. There were elbows thrown, toes trod on, gadgets and jackets lost, and tears and expulsions throughout the night. I started the evening two people away from the barrier and finished six or seven rows back, to the side, jumping deliriously as Julian screamed in his ever-waning voice, “He’s gonna let you down!”

I met ginger-haired freckle-faced op-shop jacket wearing Jerry’s with irritatingly high-pitched voices and a defined articulation. I tangoed with trashy blondes wearing leopard skin tights and a lack of inhibition. I frowned at the alpha-dogs thrashing about in their band merchandise with a bottle of Smirnoff double-black in their hands (I know, right?) tilting unsuspecting strangers on their sides with their unbridled aggression.

But, all things said, The Strokes fucking rocked.

Forget going through a list of the songs. Forget talking about how “Last Nite” was met with a chorus of bellowing screams and body jerking. Forget how Julian’s between-song chatter was pretty funny (at one point, he looks at the beaten crowd and says, “I see a lot of beautiful women and violent movements,” prompting more body jerking and screams).

Forget detailing every minute and moment; I’m surprised I remember any of it.

(photos posted courtesy of fasterlouder.com)

[Check my pre-concert ramblings for pathways to the albums. Daniel was supposed to post today, but he’s making a four-hour round trip to a Leonard Cohen concert and asked for one of us to deputise in his absence. I wish him a magical experience.]

Laughing at the life we’re wasting.

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The Strokes – Someday

Julian was young. His greasy hair framed a kind of chubby face with a faded jawline, against his discolored skin. He wore white-collared shirts and grey suit-pants; flask with a cap screwed on loosely in his back pocket. His voice was unremarkable. Not many paid attention when he spoke.

When he was five, his father threw him a penny and said, “kiddo, work this penny into a dollar and you’ll never go hungry.” He ran into the workshop in the garage and molded that penny into a glowing medallion and stitched it into his chest, “J.C” carved onto the frame. He ran outside, shirtless, and screamed into the rain: “I’m fucking starving!”

The Strokes – Under Control

Julian was older. He was in jail. He’d been pissing on a cop car in downtown Manhattan and they found him unconscious, spread-eagled across the hood, cuffed him and took him in. He was whistling into the wall, forehead scraping against the bricks. There was a stern blonde sitting at the desk. He hummed, “I don’t want to change the world. I don’t want to change your mind.” He chewed through the nail on his pinky finger. She stamped the date on his imprisonment report and chewed on her tongue.

The Strokes – Red Light

On Sunday morning, tracing a circle around Sara’s bellybutton, Julian stared at the ceiling. Sara’s legs wrapped around his. “Are you coming home to me?” came in whispers from her mouth. “Will you stay?

Julian closed his eyes and, speaking to just about anybody that would listen, replied “I would cheat and lie and steal but now I’ll stay at home and kneel for you.”

She lay back on the pillow, sweat simmering in the sheets, and stared at the ceiling. For a long time, she didn’t say a word. And when she did speak, it wasn’t that he wasn’t listening or what she said wasn’t important. It was just that it was for the two of them, and it’s none of your business.

[Buy any one or two or three of Is This It, Room On Fire, or First Impressions Of Earth. I’ll be at the Sydney concert tomorrow night. If you see me, say hello.]

Go, go! Go, Johnny, go go go!

Written by

Chuck Berry – Johnny B. Goode

Strap pushing down on his shoulders, Johnny strummed his air-guitar in front of the mirror with his legs spread wide and one knee kicking to the beat, the other stretched straight. He was wearing his favorite crushed brown leather jacket; one his father would wear on most nights. It was years away from fitting Johnny. He would contort his fingers into perfect chords, and hum his progressions with immaculate timing while grilled chicken and baked potatoes wafted into the room from downstairs where his mother was preparing a meal. Jumping, sneakers pounding down on the hardwood floor with a crash crash crash, Johnny riffed. From downstairs his mother called, “Johnny, be good!”

[Buy Chuck Berry Is On Top.]