It's Monday, so...

I'm obviously lounging around watching some of my favorite music videos.


"WHO ARE THE ROOTS?" Best.



having a TV for a head must be kind of cumbersome, but I totally wouldn't mind it if it meant I got to cruise around with Saadiq and Tip all summer time like.



One of my favorite things Spike Jonze ever did. "The cookies, buttercrunch."



First of all, Big Boi and Andre 3000 are collectively the perfect man, and secondly (and what's most importantly is), there hasn't been a better wedding music video since "November Rain."



I wish Erykah and I were friends. And not in a creepy super fan way or anything (I swear), but more like, how hilarious IS she? I bet 'Dre wasn't even mad at her "Hey Ya" spoof. He probably was like, damn, my baby mama is the truth. The fake Ohio Players and Minnie Riperton are my faves but Erykah as Maggot Brain cannot be denied.



This song is supposedly about Pharrell. The tub shot has stuck with me since I saw it as a kid.



I think the aesthetic of this video is the '70s Harlem counterpart to Janet's Samuel Fosso and Malick Sidibe inspired "Got 'Til It's Gone."



I remember where I was the first time I saw this video. Molly Ferguson's basement. I was 8, maybe 9. Either way, the sublime casting of Iman, Eddie, Magic Johnson and Arsenio Hall coupled with MAGIC and one of the most beautiful songs about wistful and nostalgic romance ever written was too much for me and I don't think I ever recovered. Also, the awkward embrace MJ and Iman share makes me want to die on the inside. Like, Pharoah Murphy, you just got played by a warlock in black jeans and relaxed waves. Descend the throne while you still have some dignity.



I'm sure you think your mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, but I am here to tell you that you are wrong. Ay yi yi! Has anyone ever looked more sensuous in the history of sensuous than Sade cleaning her kid's dirty white sneaker or running while carrying dry cleaning? The answer is clearly no.



This video is like if Betty Draper and Pam Grier had a baby and it grew up idolizing Bridget Bardot and then I wanted to look just like it/stare at it all day. Obsessed.






BONUS:

Bucket List Achievements: Ann Powers Knows Who I Am

My heart feels so full and wonderful right now, like it's a freshly blown balloon made out of hopes, dreams and the lifelong desire to become relevant in the field that matters to you.

Quick back story: I haven't been writing. At all. For those who care, or accidentally stumble upon TDOS, my last written expression is a half paragraph about the okayafrica festival. To put this into perspective, I have written more impassioned and thought provoking Trader Joe's grocery lists since then. (The Candy Cane JoJo's ice cream is really quite something.) At Thanksgiving, my mom, various cousins and friends all asked why I had stopped writing. My brother recently told me it made him sad to know that I no longer did the one thing that I had done for myself, regardless of whether or not I had a job (or even an internship) at a respected publication or had people reading my work, period. I have been told that it doesn't matter if I am blogging, scratching away on a napkin, or jotting down thoughts in a Lisa Frank notebook; I should be writing. Doesn't matter if it's good, if it's bad, or if it is documented proof that I am slowly going insane from hanging out with children all day (and there is the simplest reason for my lack of inspiration or willingness to create; cash does, in fact, rule everything around me, and being a nanny, while fulfilling and lucrative, wears the FUCK out of you). I moved to New York to someday be Touré. The white, Jewish, female Touré. Because I love soul music. Because I love R&B. Because I can happily produce 1,000 words on why I still, at the age of almost 25, can relate, in a completely not ironic way, to a Mariah Carey song. Because, after a satisfying, successful and resume building college career at Boston's best entertainment weekly, after running the best damn soul, R&B and slow jams radio program this side of the Mississippi, and after managing a staff of writers and photographers for one of the best college radio station's websites in the country, I knew I had something to offer. I had sat with legends, face to face, and asked them what made them tick, I had spoken to my heroes across time zones and oceans on the telephone, picking their brains and trying my best not to embarrass myself, and most importantly, I had learned from the best mentors, editors and writers around. I had, at the young age of 22, accomplished things I never thought I could. I had taken every opportunity thrown my way, worked ungodly hours, utilized the tools given me, and spent every waking minute working, and loving it.

And since then, I haven't done a fraction of any of that. Part of it is circumstance, I graduated at one of the worst times ever to try and find a job, of any kind, the industry in which I wanted to go into isn't what it used to be, I have an ego, but not that big of an ego to pursue music criticism, the music I care about isn't as fairly represented as it should be, I don't want to compromise my tastes, I'm a cry baby, I'm a girl and the only people I know who are successfully being published in this field are boys, boys that once were under my editorship in college, who I would like to say, I am so very proud of, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart, I'm too busy, I need money, I am not good enough, I am only one in a million. And of course, and most importantly, I gave up.

I admit this. And I will also admit that I have made plenty of excuses, reasons and justifications over the past year and a half too, but this is the first time I have said (or typed) out loud that I gave up. Threw in the towel. Blew it. Dropped any and all balls. But that's OK. Because I knew that someday my desire to talk shit, spout my unwanted and unwarranted opinions (which are totally right, by the way) and to blast superfluous blog posts about Charlie Wilson and Crystal Waters into the void of the internet would come back. I knew it would. My family and friends did too. Because the only thing that matches the amount of indignant self righteous taste making bullshit I have within me, is the support of my loved ones. No sarcasm, no jokes, no goofs. It's true. And I am grateful.

The only thing was, I didn't know how or when it would come back. But that's the whole crux of the biscuit isn't it? Writer's block, periods of depression, bird flu and Athlete's foot all have their own time tables, and no amount of tough love, Target brand foot cream or naps will make it end. I knew this, so I waited. I abandoned TDOS (I'm sorry to like, 2 people), I stopped applying for writing industry jobs, stopped networking, and waited. I waited almost a year. And then, one day (yesterday actually), the switch flipped.

My dear friend, co-blogger and music soul mate Ben sent me this email last night, at 6:30 PM:

Uh, your This Is It piece is in the other notable music writing appendix of BMW '10!!!! did you know that?! Congratulations! We need to celebrate this.

Hope all else is well by you.

Of course I did not know that. At that exact moment, I was watching Scooby-Doo with a five year-old. I had completely forgotten, that sometime last year I had in fact, in a bout of inspiration, submitted a few of my pieces to Daphne Carr and the gang at Best Music Writing for 2010 consideration. They politely let me know that they got my submissions, and thanked me. Quite frankly, I was just happy I got an email back from them. I then promptly forgot about all of it. (In fact, our good friend Kyle, who designed our lovely site, was the reason Ben found out in the first place. He just happened to be skimming through the list in the appendix and found me. Just like that. I probably wouldn't have known until I bought the book myself.)

I didn't believe it. I made Ben text me a picture of my name in the appendix. I then tried to Google my name and the book together, but all that came up was my LinkedIn profile. Trife. And when I just tried searching for a list of pieces included in this year's appendix, I came across this:

NYC Thanksgiving Week Double Header

Let's hear it for New York! While there is always a large number of critics in NYC who make it into the pages of BMW*, this is a true banner year for New Yorkers in the book. So, we have an extra special two day extravaganza of writers, henceforth named The Best Music Writing 2010 Thanksgiving Week Double Header:

Monday, November 22, 2010
7pm, Housing Works Cafe
126 Crosby Street New York, NY 1001
Free (please bring used books to donate)

Hosted by Guest Editor Ann Powers and Series Editor Daphne Carr
Readings by 2010 Contributors: Raquel Cepeda, Robert Christgau, Sasha Frere-Jones, Lola Ogunnaike, Starrene Rhett, Jody Rosen, Alex Ross, and Greg Tate

Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Free, 7pm, SouthPaw
125 Fifth Ave. Brooklyn, NY 11217
Hosted by Guest Editor Ann Powers and Series Editor Daphne Carr
Readings by 2010 Contributors: Nitsuh Abebe, Jon Caramanica, Jason Fine, Maura Johnston, Evie Nagy, Tavia Nyong’o, Christopher R. Weingarten

GOD FUCKING DAMN IT. Talk about being oblivious. Instead of being in a car for 14 hours on the way to Chicago, I could have been hobnobbing with Robert Christgau and Sasha Frere-Jones. Thanksgiving dinner this year was good, but not that good (with respect to my aunt's ginger cheesecake that she made just for me, of course). To be fair, they didn't contact me to let me know I was selected, and I assume this is because I wasn't published in the book, only included in the appendix. Which is totally fine, I just wish I wasn't a bonehead and had followed up.

The Best Music Writing series, for those of you philistines out there, is to put it simply, the truth. I have been pouring over these anthologies for years. It's like Christmas. Each piece in the book is a new gift to unwrap and all of them are worth unwrapping. The guest editors are some of my heroes, and the contributors are people I would be honored to share a Twix bar with, let alone an appendix. So now, Isabelle Davis, and her "notable" (!!!!!!!!!) blog post "That Really Was It: Michael Jackson's THIS IS IT" are hanging out on page 318 nestled between people like Rob Harvilla of the Village Voice, Jess Harvell of Idolator, NICK FUCKING HORNBY, GREIL MARCUS, KELEFA SENNEH, DANYEL SMITH, ROB SHEFFIELD and MY PERSONAL HERO, Touré. Touré. Fucking Touré.

My name is in a book. My name, and the title of a piece I wrote, and believed in, is mentioned among a list of luminaries and recommended reading. Now allow me to be self indulgent and congratulatory for one quick, all caps second: SOMETHING I WROTE IS CONSIDERED NOTABLE BY PEOPLE WHO MATTER. I AM LISTED AS SOMETHING WORTH READING, ALONG WITH PEOPLE WHO SHOULD BE REQUIRED READING. I AM MENTIONED IN A BOOK ABOUT THINGS BEING GOOD. A BOOK WITH THE WORD "BEST" IN THE TITLE.

Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to celebrate.

That Really Was It: Michael Jackson's THIS IS IT

A lot has been said about Michael Jackson's THIS IS IT: Father of the year Joe Jackson claims that body doubles were used, his sister LaToya says that Michael would be horrified by the film's release; as a perfectionist, he wouldn't want fans to see him not giving his all, even in a rehearsal. Expectations were high for fans, especially for those who were supposed to see the concert, and many critics were skeptical. After all, Jackson needed this money. These dates were a way to help with his monstrous debt. And since he is one of the most beloved performers of all time, it would be easy, and not surprising at all, for him to simply phone in 50 shows and leave at least a few people satisfied, just happy to catch a glimpse of his former glory.

Well, after seeing the premiering 11:55pm show in Brooklyn last night with my brother, I can tell you this: The King of Pop still had a little fight left in him.

To be honest, I bought these tickets the day they were released a month ago in the hopes that the film would shed some subversive light on his health pre-death. Maybe unintentionally show Michael in a Demerol induced haze, stumbling through rehearsals. Perhaps prove to the world that he was in absolutely no condition to fulfill those 50 planned dates at the O2 arena in London anyway. I am not particularly proud of my initial interest in the documentary, but like most people, I am not completely immune to scandal consciously and unconsciously forming my opinions of someone I have never even met. I was looking for sensationalism. I will admit that. I was looking for a few bittersweet laughs at a fallen legend's expense. I will admit that too. But I got the complete opposite. And I am impressed.

This wasn't funny. Or fucked up. It wasn't even sad, in a pathetic sense or otherwise. Parts of it dripped with melodrama, but that was no surprise, his tastes often lead to that. Really, it was just fascinating. It basically was a run through of the concert that never was, about almost 2 hours of him just planning, singing, dancing and rehearsing his way through the elaborate set. There were explosions, a Swarovski embellished "Billie Jean" costume partially developed by scientists in the Netherlands, that was so bright you needed sunglasses to see it up close (not joking), aerialists hanging from chandeliers, the world's luckiest dancers (one of the best scenes was footage from the auditions held for back up dancers, all of them crying with joy at the prospect of dancing not with, but for the King), amazing musicianship (his female guitarist was particularly excellent, and the band was fantastic) and tons of insane footage that was meant to be projected over the stage for pretty much each song, basically serving as mini music videos, even though the majority of said songs already have pretty amazing music videos to begin with (the "Thriller" one, although filled with great makeup, costumes and special effects, was no match for John Landis' original and the video footage for "Earth Song" had me checking the time a lot).

It started with "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'" and ended with "Man in the Mirror," and in between there was a Jackson 5 medley (complete with an exact replica of The Jackson 5 Show set, which was my favorite part), a reinterpretation of Gilda set to "Smooth Criminal" which via green screen had Jackson spliced into the night club setting with Rita Hayworth, a Chicago-esque performance of "The Way You Make Me Feel," and the whole time, Michael's immaculate attention to detail. Whether he was schooling (soft spokenly and politely of course) his musical director for not playing the EXACT key used on the original "The Way You Make Me Feel" record for the intro of the song, chastising his band for not letting the bass "simmer" enough, or stopping a number because the mix sounded like a "fist was being pushed through" his ear, he was completely at the helm. His voice, is still phenomenal, even if he wasn't going full throttle on each song (although he did a lot and during his duet with back up singer Judith on "I Just Can't Stop Loving You" he got carried away in the moment and really let loose, quite beautifully, and then told her teasingly it was "OK for you to do that, but I need to conserve MY voice").

Joe Jackson, once again, can die in a fire; those were 110% Jackson's moves, start to finish. He didn't miss a beat, he just moved a few seconds slower than normal, partially because it was rehearsal and a lot of sound check stuff, and of course partially due to health, but nevertheless: he not only kept up with his lithe dancers, he led them. This was no walk through. He jumped around, threw himself on the ground, crotch grabbed, air humped, moonwalked, "Thrillered," Jackson 5 "rolled" (you know, the classic hand/arm roll the boys did all in a line with the two-step) and maintained great measure in his singing the whole time. He made perfect sense every time he spoke, even if he used ridiculous metaphors and passively aggressively told everyone when they messed up that he was correcting them with "L-O-V-E" and even though he seemed exhausted, was shockingly alert.

I have always said that Michael, even as a child, looked the most comfortable while singing and dancing. All other times, he seemed uncomfortable in his later giant and skeletal frame, nervously waving, shyly smiling. This film solidified that. His element, is performing. Watching him lead rehearsals was like watching someone come back to life. I wasn't even paying attention to his looks; they didn't matter. His hair, his skin, his nose, none of those heavily criticized things were an issue. I mean, I am no fool. I know they showed the best days of rehearsals. I know things were edited, heavily. I know he wasn't always that lucid. But I also know what I saw and I know that I would have loved to see the final outcome. There was no scandal. No gossip. No circus show (other than the one on stage). No law suits. Just a legend who quietly was building his swan song, proving that even though his records weren't what they once were, his natural gift for entertaining, immaculately and joyously, had never left.

If You Read Only One Account of the Recording of We Are The World This Year...

Taking the death of Michael Jackson a very loose reason for the post, you're going to want to check out this summary of the events that occurred at the recording of "We Are The World," the song that ended famine in Africa once and for all. (NOTE: I did not do a lot of background research, but I assume the combined power of Quincy Jones, Michael Jackson, Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Lionel Richie, Al Jarreau, Bette Middler, Paul Simon, Dan Akroyd, Cyndi Lauper, et al. was unstoppable. It was, right?)

At exactly 5.57am, Dylan's lines are played back over the monitors. Lionel Richie falls flat on his back, eyes closed, then dances awhile, waving his ladies' Reebok aerobic shoes in the air.

Pretty much all of it is that quotable. One more for the road:

Soon after, Al Jarreau corners Dylan by the piano. He's choked up. 'Bobby', Jarreau says, holding back tears, 'in my own stupid way I just want to tell you I love you.' Dylan slinks away without even looking at him. Jarreau walks to the door of the studio, looks back at Dylan, cries 'My idol,' bursts into tears and leaves.

It's basically unbridled pop music porn, a bit flighty but filled with fascinating little nuggets like the ones above. Also, Bob Dylan: not a hugger.

When Bob Met Michael Jackson [bob dylan encyclopedia]
via The Roundup [goings on/new yorker]

Year End Lists: Lap Dances and Dick Rubs

Top three coming at you. Witty introductory remark.

Ben's pick:

3. Rhymefest - Mark Ronson presents Rhymefest in Man in the Mirror
Best hip-hop record of the year? You bet. And it never even came out in stores. Mark Ronson applies his pop scented hip-hop production to a concept mash up of a mixtape, employing nothing but Michael Jackson (and the Jackson 5, natch) samples spanning the King of Pop's career to craft the perfect sonic landscape for 'Fest and his cohorts to rhyme on. As an added bonus, we get remixes of classic Jackson-sampling hip-hop tracks like Ghostface's "All That I've Got is You" and De La Soul's "Breakadawn." The homage reaches a new level on "No Sunshine," which finds 'Fest riffing on Jackson riffing on Bill Withers. It's free, so if you don't have it already, there's really no excuse.

Isabelle's pick:

3. Estelle - Shine
I think Estelle is John Legend's way of making up for his shitty Liberace schtick these last few years. I believe that this is his way of saying I DO still have good taste and I AM a talented musician, see what I brought you? Pure British R&B/pop gold. Sassy, sexy, talent for days...Estelle is just amazing. She can rap, she can sing the shit out of anything, and she can write too. You already know how I feel about "American Boy." I feel just as good about the rest of this record. She and John Legend singing together is nothing short of beautiful, like Marvin and Tammi, except not in love and not as good, but you know what I mean. And this album has Cee-Lo!