alright

Written by

Girls – Alright

It had been weeks since the apartment was this eerily silent. Often times everybody would sleep long into the afternoon, stumbling out occasionally in the shadows to slip into the bathroom, their piss trickling against the inside of the grubby toilet bowl that had sat bolted and unwashed for weeks. In passing they would stub their toes on the tiled steps that framed the shower, cursing and hacked-coughs scoring a sick symphony that would permeate across the rooms and give noise to the thoughtless space. It was a dysfunctional household that looked like a dysfunctional household, rather than a mimicry of the orderly workings of a functional one. The wooden shutters that offered a portal into the kitchen from the side walls were scratched, indented from frustrated outbursts, slammed and slammed and slammed off their hinges more than twice, thrice, four times. The walls bore bruises from the kicks of oppressed men, rabid with the strains of fever that come not from infection of a bacterial kind, but the infection that possesses all young men with no ambition, no comforts, no lights leading the streets they walk on. The glasses were cracked and whiskey-stained. Underwear and wet towels made impromptu carpets as the cotton desert dragged on out to the balcony. If only one rule remained, it was that there was no smoking inside. Crumpled cigarette butts overflowed from the greasy ashtrays on to the stained table, smeared across the playing cards and binders of paper filled with nonsense scribbles and words. The bathroom door opened, closed, the toilet unflushed, the bedroom door opened and scuffling feet were heard as it closed, again. [Buy.]

Now to know it in my memory

Written by

Bon Iver – Holocene

“Boss.”

I’m on the stairs up to Midlands (the mall, not the area in England). A guy wants me to pay for parking. Sometimes you have to pay for motorbikes, sometimes not. Depends where you are – and Maggie, my 2004 Suzuki, sits about four feet from the steps.

“How much?” I ask in Malay.
“One ringgit,” he answers in English.

I grew up in this mall. It used to be Komtar was the only shopping center on the island, and it took well over an hour to get there on a bus. So when Midlands opened just 15 minutes down the road, well, we were there every weekend, sometimes twice. Even if we had nothing to do.

(I’m starting to notice just how much lounging happens in Malaysia. People just sit around doing nothing, staring at the distance. I’m starting to join them. I unplug my computer and chuck my iPhone in a drawer and just exist for a while, let my brain slow down. It’s boring and soothing.)

BOS means bekas orang sinting (translation: a crazy person, as in someone who was institutionalized, not the edgy or zany kind) in bahasa. It’s difficult to tell the levity-to-spite ratio when locals call foreigners ‘boss.’ But this nation is populated with earnest, unironic folk, so I don’t take offense.

To the left as I enter the landing are a series of closed shops. One of them used to be a pretty decent kebab joint. One of my Japanese friends went there alone in 9th grade and the cashier asked if he wanted to see his dragon. The cashier lifted his shirt to reveal a tattoo of a red dragon which covered his torso. Then he pulled down his pants to show the rest: His dick was the head. From then on it became a running joke among my friends – “Do you want to see my dragon?” – and the shop closed shortly afterward.

Almost all of Midlands is closed now, its business sucked away by other malls. Entire floors are empty. The old McDonald’s where we ate nearly once a weekend is gone. No huge yellow M. No plastic Ronaldo McDonald lounging out front for me to pick his nose.

The back escalators I used to take are gated off, a makeshift purse shop blocking its mouth. The place where I used to buy basketball cards turned into a Jet Asia. Then that, too, closed. The bowling alley is gone. The Fun Zone, an arcade, moved down from the top floor, but somehow it feels neutered on carpet and with glass wall along one side. Half the reason we went was to hide in the din of blaring noise and darkness where we were guaranteed never to bump into any staff from school. The internet cafe where we’d play Starcraft and Counter-Strike (we would wear sweaters so that we could shed the cigarette smoke smell when we crept back home) has a sign for a bistro above it, but it’s boarded shut.

Popular – the Borders of Malaysia – is closed. That one is recent; it was open when I visited a year and a half ago.

I head away from the main block and up the back stairs. No air conditioning. I march all the way to the top. The railing, all chipped green paint, is coming loose from the tile, and I can shake it back and forth. Around and up I climb. The last floor has a hallway, and at the end is a gate. Along the wall the cement is painted like logs to give the place a lagoon feel; this used to be a water park. One side of the gate is padlocked, the other chained to the wall. I shake it. I heave into it. I yank as hard as I can. I scream and bang. Through the gate I see sunlight and the back entrance to the park. I can hear the low hum of the motor which powered the water rides. But I can’t get through. My hands are filthy from the gate and my breath quickened.

For a while I just concentrate on breathing, slowing my slight hyperventilation. My knees feel weak, my head light, and I think about how peaceful it would be to fall fall fall off the edge and drift through the wind to the bottom nine floors below.

Back in the main tower, on the seventh floor, is the shop where I used to buy my video games. I liked it because the games always worked and the guy who ran it was really kind. He was clean-cut, with a trim bowl-cut and pressed white shirts. The store is closed now, of course. The entire floor is closed, really. Out in front of the deserted gaming shop, one of the lights flickers like the twitch of a madman’s eye.

This is what has become of my childhood – a husk of a building, hollowed out except for the nostalgia, with the strobe of flickering light fixtures.

[Bon Iver, Bon Iver.]

A note about piracy

Written by

Hello beloved reader,

A couple days ago, an email from TV Girl plopped unexpectedly but delightfully in our email inbox. Dan previously wrote a charming little piece which initially introduced me to the catchy band. You can find the entire correspondence copied below:

Hello (It’s Me). This is Trung and Brad from TV Girl. Today we were unpleasantly surprised to find that the Warner Music Group started making good on their promise to remove our music from the web. Several blogs reached out to us after receiving takedown notices regarding our music. We noticed that you posted our music, so we thought we would reach out to give you a heads up and give our two cents.

Just to clarify, TV Girl had nothing to do with the takedown notice. We have no affiliation with Warner Music Group or any other songwriting association or record label. The copyright claim is on behalf of Todd Rundgren for the use of a sample from his song “Hello, It’s Me”.

Even though it’s a bummer that our particular song is being silenced in this way, we feel that this is representative of a larger issue that will only get worse as blogs continue to gain influence over an increasingly desperate music industry.

When the song started getting really popular late last year, we reached out to the copyright holders to get the sample cleared so that we could avoid this mess. Their responses were completely unreasonable. To give you an idea, one company demanded 100% of all proceeds from any money made, in addition to us paying a $5,000 clearance fee. Basically they were saying: “Fuck you, we have all the power, either pay us or take the song down.” Because we weren’t making any money off the song anyways, and because it had already spread around the net thanks to blogs, we declined their offer.

The fact is, because of the amazing independent promotional capacities of music blogs and sites like Bandcamp, it’s increasingly unnecessary for bands like us to align ourselves with major labels or music companies like WMG. Our use of the sample easily falls under the protection of “fair use”. WMG’s actions are a rather blatant attempt to bully independent artists and blogs into playing by their rules. It’s easy to see tactics like this becoming more common as the industry continues to shift.

Obviously, we wouldn’t recommend keeping the song up if there’s any chance of your site being affected. We just thought that you and your readers might want to know about this issue as it directly affects every band, blog, and music fan operating outside the mainstream music machine.

Thank for listening, and feel free to post about or reprint this e-mail. We are truly grateful to all the blogs and fans that have supported us.

-Trung and Brad
TV Girl

I mentioned above that Daniel introduced me to this band to illustrate a point: We hope this humble blog serves as a place to find new, heart-warming music to buy, as opposed to a means to separate artists from their due wages.

The music industry is in an odd, transitional phase. At some point it will need to accept that new media exists and come up with inventive ways to earn a living through, rather than despite, technology. (The pay-what-you-will albums ala Radiohead‘s In Rainbows are a start, but not the solution.) Throughout my adult life, I’ve collected compact discs and vinyl meticulously; however, since moving to Malaysia, I’ve found it difficult to procure physical copies of albums I enjoy. In the cases in which fans don’t live near an independent record store or a city which the band will graciously stop by on tour, more inventive means are necessary for earning a living.

This blog is not that means, nor is it even highly useful in the grander scheme of financial plans (note the lack of ads or the cobwebs in our bank accounts). Eventually, perhaps soon, music blogs will become obsolete. That’s not the case just yet, though.

Joan, Daniel, and myself started TUNETHEPROLETARIAT over a year ago for selfish reasons: We wanted to control just one corner of the Internet, to have one nook of the web reflect our creative and cultural leanings. In many ways, we selfishly use songs to bring attention to our own self-absorbed narratives.

For our own self-involved interests, we still quite enjoy the site (despite Joan’s recent absence). The layout’s sexy, the pictures are crisp, the music thumps infectiously along, and the prose . . . well, the prose could be worse. But this site was never meant to (nor do I think it does) take the place of purchasing music.

I’m a professional writer. For the past handful of years, my entire income has been built solely on the words I write (and edit). I become rather frustrated when outlets offer or ask to use my writing free of charge. The creation of art is a skill, and one that should be compensated. I firmly believe that, and all the corporations which cash my checks tacitly do as well.

The same goes for musicians.

It’s our hope that if you like songs on this little blog of ours, you’ll invest in the artist either by buying the music we link to or by attending a show (musicians tend to get a bigger cut from merchandise purchased at live shows than online). A society which does not support the arts is soulless, brittle and not worth living in.

My sincere apologies for the rare sincere post. Irregular service to resume tomorrow.

Zac Lee Rigg and TUNETHEPROLETARIAT

P.S. While we’re being momentarily sincere, a huge congratulations goes out to New York for becoming the sixths U.S. state to legalize gay marriage. TUNETHEPROLETARIAT has, and always will, support equality in all forms, however inconsequential our voice may be.

The centre of the world

Written by

Sidney Bechet – Si Tu Vois Ma Mere

There’s a whimsicality to Woody Allen’s fondling and measuring of life’s curiosities and starkness, and it doesn’t quite sit with the claim to himself be the room’s gloom. Reality, however, assumes it must sit quite agreeably, probably in a cross-legged gesture, otherwise where would the movies go? There would be no resulting art to speak of nor cured curiosity to honour dead cats. We’ll call it cognitive dissonance or maybe we’ll call it just getting along, but Allen has stared the banality of it all square in the nostril and concluded only that it too holds warmth and humour. Have you yet seen Midnight In Paris? It may be the only cozy corner in this rather circular – yet undirected – and fatalistic world; an unhurried and spacious ode to nostalgia is Midnight In Paris and, ironically, a knowing nod to that disconsolate yearning to be a great artist among greater artists. You’d be a ruddy fool not to see it; a silly git not to feel it. [Petite fleur.]

Sometimes it kills

Written by

A streak of light exposes all the glass

Written by

Mark Ronson – Glass Mountain Trust (feat. D’Angelo)

Ghost – I’m going with the name airbrushed on his black cargo Capris – crashed open the train car door, awakening me from my open-eyed sleep. My fellow passengers (except the passed-out, inebriated ones) and I slightly turned our necks, the bang having diverted our attention from drowsy meditation.

The towering wanderer meandered through the car, murmuring, “Excuse me, excuse me,” and softly shepherding human impediments with his hands and forearms. Ghost was hard to ignore. I squinted, trying to decipher his tattoos, black inked on slightly lighter skin. A cross was on his right eye socket with an unintelligible phrase imbued underneath. His left cheek was the home of a splotchy eagle, but I’m not much of a birdwatcher.

“This is the type of thing you see on your way from Newark at 1:30 at night,” sniggered some chick from Boston to her faceless girlfriends. She sucked. They all sucked. I’m glad I don’t have to see them ever again. At least, the appearance of Ghost ended the discussion concerning some guy named Aaron Klein. He’s cute, ya know? He’s funny, ya know?

Ghost pulled his shiny do-rag to the bridge of his nose, zoning out as we sped past the shadows of abandoned factories and the classic billowing smoke stacks of New Jersey. He rolled up the sleeves of his purple flannel, reached for the bar above him, and began doing pull-ups, alternating the side his head bobbed over on every lift.

We pulled into our station and Ghost landed on his Dunks just as the doors beeped and slid open. Exhausted figures exited and entered. Ghost didn’t turn or make notice of anyone, but ambled again through the car. The doors closed and the train lurched forward. I quickly clutched a pole as my feet slipped, and continued to observe our subject.

The door crashed open as I attempted to rub the torpor out of my eyes. Ghost was straddling the exposed threshold between the two cars, his collar flapping in the gale. I chuckled and looked down at my Keds. The ether was abandoned when I raised my glance. [Record Collection.]

Avery Raimondo is a kid. We like him pretty alright.

You cannot just believe part way

Written by

The Book Of Mormon – I Believe

Things I believe in:

1. Editing
2. Free Wi-Fi in public transportation hubs
3. Globally standardized electric outlets

[The Book Of Mormon.]

I can see through you

Written by

The Horrors – I Can See Through You

This little boy, he crept his head inside the already shyly opened door. There was no need, for the walls were glass, but he crept through anyway. He was just making sure. In the first corner to his left was a bin of used fabric softeners, empty water bottles, detergent canisters, but mostly cans and gum wrappers. He dipped his hand into this bin, this boy’s lucky-dip, scattered what was there – just enough to catch sight of items underneath – and unearthed a plastic bottle or possibly two. Into his bag they went and off he skipped to the other end of the Laundromat. For a boy searching bins, he looked happier than the rest of them.

He couldn’t have seen above the washing machines for his height, and it was a long room, yet he knew exactly where to go. He might have done this before, maybe yesterday. No winning ticket in that final dustbin either and so out the door he went and onto the sidewalk, clasping the loose jeans covering his father’s thick legs as he sold copied DVDs to no one. A girl, much older than the boy and much younger than the father, watched every step the boy had made. His smile was as infectious as the empathy for his situation, she thought to herself while passing through radio channels of bad music.

Knowing, she moved from her seat to the boot of her battered car – she was asked twice already that week did she need a repaint and someone else had offered $1,000 to take it away. The boy and the father had gathered their belongings into their red truck, their newer belongings, too, and were on their way. Like the boy opening the door, she waved them down. “Do you want more bottles?” Nothing. “Bottles,” and she pointed at the bag in the back of truck. “More?” “Sí!” And smiles.

The boy opened the truck door, jumped the height to the floor with a kind of excited plod and followed her to the car, his father chasing them through the truck mirrors. She opened the boot, the trunk, and pulled from it, with some effort, a garbage bag of empty water bottles she’d been keeping to avail of a chunky coupon at the local grocery store. Searching in bins … they might need it more, she figured. With it came some shoes and a bag of old clothes. The boy grabbed everything but the bottles before they hit the floor and tucked them back in, coyly taking the bag of plastic away as she smiled again and saluted towards the father. He didn’t see her; instead paralyzed by his son’s smile and the way he sat up beside him with a glance suggesting a sense of pride in their successful evening. [Skying.]

R.I.P. Clarence Clemons

Written by

Soft as a love song

Written by

El Perro Del Mar – Heavenly Arms (Lou Reed cover)

In a world full of hate
love should never wait

[Love Is Not Pop.]