Support Your Local Record Store

If there's one thing that unites the WDR crew besides our love of hard-core, barely legal pornography*, it's our shared musical taste (as for the pornography, let's just say it's that weird stuff that you have to get through the mail in brown paper bags). Much time has been spent discussing the relative merits of latter-period Pearl Jam, the mind-expandingly awesome nature of The Flaming Lips, or just how freakin' awesome that one(International) Noise Conspiracy concert was. So I'm sure they will be with me in spirit as I write this.


I spent the last weekend searching for a copy of the brand new Sigur Rós album, because I need a small rectangular box that conveniently shows just how pretentious I can be (and at the same time, how much of a pussy I am). I mean, we're talking about a fake album (it's two EPs put together), from a band that sings in a fake language a lot of the time. However, the big-box retailers all failed to have this album in stock. But you know, I totally could've gotten a sweet deal on a karaoke mic. Though strangely enough, Best Buy all of a sudden had 3 copies of the Airbag: How Am I Driving EP, after being totally absent from the shelves for years. But since they're too late, fuck 'em.


Eventually I rectified the situation and hit up the local record store establishment and found myself a copy (though at a price that more than a few would balk at paying). I then got into a discussion with the clerk about other post-rock bands and other bands on the Icelandic music scene. On top of that, I got my hands on a Guided By Voices album that is currently burning up my iTunes. It's this kind of personal touch that you have to love--the entire WDR crew is friends with the owners of Harvest Music, and as such not only have become good friends, but also get some pretty sweet deals for being regular customers.

Thank God Oregon has a passion for independent businesses, so we have more than our share. So make sure you stop by tomorrow, and do something like pick up the latest Hives record. Good times.

*Not true at all.

WDR Election Day Craptacular!

That's right kids, it's that one day a year that truly marks us as citizens of these glorious United States, Election Day. (Well, today and Tax Day, but who wants to remember a day in which you unwillingly give money away (unless you're me, who's getting a nice fat check from the government this year--perhaps it will even reach into the triple digits! That'll get me my fair share of penguin bongs)). To the more idealistically inclined, it's a day where we swear to uphold our duty to the principles of democracy, and for a brief moment put the destiny of our nation into our hands. Of course, to the cynical and opportunity-costed mind, it's nothing more than a waste of time. And to the conspiracy-minded (which, according to our latest research, makes up 92.4% of our blog's populace), it's just another confirmation that we've sold our souls for the illusion of control, when in essence we have none. And for the majority of the population, it's a Tuesday that has shitty weather.

Since it's one of those off-years, there's not much up for debate this year. Most people are the President-or-go-home crowd, and with not even a congressional seat to decide, we're left with ballot measures here in Oregon. Because we don't trust our legislators, we have a ridiculously easy system that puts various cock-eyed measures up for direct vote, and then when it comes time to vote for them, we bitch and moan that the legislators in Salem aren't doing their job and that we're doing their work for them. If you haven't figured it out already, Oregonians are good at two things: indie rock and fucking complaining.



At least Oregon has one thing going for them when it comes to the democratic process, and that is its vote-by-mail system. The number one complaint that people have about the national election process has to do with the inconvenience of voting, in terms of both times and location. There's no such problem in Oregon, where we have about two weeks to decide on how to vote, and can mail or drop off our ballots at our convenience. In fact, during the writing of this blog, I just dropped off my ballot. Plus, you keep a paper trail and avoid other problems associated with electronic voting, though I'll defer to others to argue the merits of this point (that means that Hal the Holiday Armadillo better make an appearance in the comments section). The only downside that I can find is that I never get the privilege of confining myself to a tiny voting booth, and re-enacting the scene from "Black Sheep" where Chris Farley single-handedly destroys a polling scene.

So what are we democatizing this year? Here are the issues:

Measure 49: A few years back, Oregon voted on a similar issue with Measure 37, whose defined purpose had something to do with restoring property rights, which involved compensation for when the government fucked over your property by enacting some sort of zoning restriction or another (honestly, my eyes roll back into my skull when people talk about zoning). That all seemed fine and dandy, because apparently we all saw commercials that showed Ida and Hank and their family farm, and how they had relied on being able to sell the property for developers to make a couple of houses but were now unable to do so. Apparently this loss of income resulted in them living in a Nicaraguan nursing home. Instead, we ended up with a measure in which people could file multi-multi-multi-million dollar claims of potential lost income because the government would not allow them to develop a turd mine on their property. So we have 49, which attempts to split the difference between Grandma Ida and Turd Miner Johann.

There's something to be said about property rights--I mean, after all, who is the expert on everything about my property, from the scientific to the aesthetic, than my uneducated ass? However, I don't want to get into my problems with full-blown libertarianism here (the fad political affiliation of the young and retarded), so I'm going to stop typing.


Measure 50: This measure is essentially a state-level version of the federal S-CHIP bill, where our President, Dummy McChimp, made one of his great principled stands and busted out the veto pen for the third time, because sick kids are nobody else's problems but their own. This particular measure puts a tax on cigarettes (and cigars), with the money then going to kids health programs, rural health programs, and anti-smoking campaigns. There is something to be said about the constant gang-raping of the rights of smokers in this country, especially when compared to those who engage in other "sins". There is also something to be said that this is the only resort we have when we need to raise taxes.

The argument against the bill states that it is unfair to burden one small segment of the population for the cost of providing a benefit to others. Unfortunately, that's exactly what we do when we do things like tax the rich. And the fact that treatment for lung cancer and other smoking-related illnesses put an undue burden on the health-care system are avoided by the opponents of this measure as well. Then again, obesity-related illnesses not only put a strain as well, but they are also a national security risk! Tax the Mars Bar!

But in the end, what got me was the ads. It's one thing to be pummeled by them at all hours--who wants to deal with politics when you're watching TMZ (not me, but then again, I don't subject myself to the War Crime that is TMZ)? But it's another thing to be subjected to such atrocious acting. Dammit, RJ Reynolds, couldn't you hire somebody with experience beyond community theater?



Yeah, so now you can see how this Election Day was depressing, even for government wonks like me. Let's just get drunk and play Hungry-Hungry-Hippos!

Explaining Our Vendettas: Jed The Fish

Some of you may have noticed a strange item in the layout of our humble blog, a unique feature that you won't see anywhere else (therefore, making it by definition "unique". I am the king of redundancy.). That feature is the list of "Vendettas". Thus begins our series on explaining why exactly we have such righteous fury against these targets.


As a former radio station employee, I am keenly familiar with the various inner-workings of the radio industry. I also am highly sensitive to crappy crappy crappy DJs. Hence, the appearance of many DJs on the Vendettas list. However, none inspire my indignation quite as much as one fellow from KROQ.


Why the hell would I care about a KROQ DJ? Well, since they are the most famous rock radio station in the US, they have a lot of their DJs host syndicated programs that get played around the country, shows like Loveline. The reason for syndication is usually one of two reasons--either the show is really popular (think Howard Stern or Loveline), or stations just want to fill up time slots, usually on the weekend. In exchange for playing these time-filler slots, radio stations get free CDs in return filled with various crap that we can use to do our own production. It's not a bad deal.


However, some of these shows are unbearably awful. One such show that fits under this category is "Out Of Order with Jed the Fish", a countdown show that uses it's inability to count correctly as a gimmick. That is actually the smartest thing about the show, if you can believe it. The host is a smug, retarded jackass that goes by the spectacularly mediocre handle of Jed the Fish, whose idea of hosting a show means him making a terrible pun or speaking in a weird voice for 15 seconds before introducing a song. That is, if he's speaking at all. Often he'll just introduce an interview segment, splice in someone else's interview, and call it a day. This all wouldn't be so bad, but his nationwide show nets him a deal that makes him a millionaire, all for a few minutes worth of quarter-assed work--producers do the rest.

And for this, he earns a deserved spot on the Vendettas list.

100 Posts (?!) and a Three Month Anniversary

We here at WDR like to sit back and reflect often. This may be due to our innate love of procrastination in all its forms, or because of the massive amounts of NyQuil we consume on a bi-weekly basis. It's a mystery, but one not at all worth solving.


The reason for this introduction is that today marks the 3 month anniversary of our crappy little blog, and so we're celebrating. Well, at least I'm celebrating. I have to get rid of all this alcohol somehow, and damned if I'm going to share it. And by a remarkable coincidence, this post was to be our 100th, marking another milestone. Unfortunately, I went back and deleted a couple of drafts, and we're now a couple shy of 100, but we'll be there soon enough. And why are we celebrating 3 months after not celebrating the 2 month anniversary? Because only women would do something like that, according to my old Algebra II teacher Mr. Phillips.

To mark the occasion, I'm taking it upon myself to do a bit of explainin'. Some of you may have noticed our little subheader up near the top of the page. None of you probably notice that we change it every month, much like Stephen Colbert in his opening montage. For the benefit of those of you who weren't paying attention, here's a rundown of what you've missed.

1. An Inside Joke That Went Too Far
2. It Involves A Banana
3. And Sometimes The Banana Breaks Off...

And now it's time to reveal Month 4's slogan, which is really just Month 3's slogan lengthened:

And Sometimes The Banana Breaks Off...And When I Say 'Sometimes', I Mean Every Time.

All of which goes to prove the lengths that we will go to just to continue a retarded inside joke between the three of us and to continue to mystify the masses. Mainly, we will sacrifice aesthetics and brevity. Yes, we have rich fulfilling lives here at WDR. Except for Zhuang, whose post will now have come up before this thing actually gets posted (asshole).



Everybody Get Drunk!

Is Paul Banks Really A Bad Lyricist?

A perfect time to reflect, considering the brand new Interpol album comes out today. IN FACT, I just bought it an hour ago and ripped it a few minutes ago. I should be able to render the definitive verdict by the weekend, though I imagine that considering this album is one that everyone around the offices of WDR is anticipating, we might get a veritable plethora of opinions about it (and no, "plethora" has not lost its luster--it's close to being overused, but it's not quite there yet).

The inspiration for this post came from a recent article in The A.V. Club, a publication I hold in high regard. It's actually a hilarious piece of work, in which Josh Modell asks the reader to pick out the fake Interpol lyric. He does a brilliant job with it, creating false lyrics that are spot-on in capturing the Interpol style (I especially loved "You're a fox, but not the foxy kind"). But the whole endeavor made me feel a bit uneasy, as I feel that Interpol wasn't getting a fair shake.

I found another article which straight-up calls out Interpol for their bad lyrics. Yet I feel that in this case the author just simply was unable to understand the point of them. Perhaps an explanation is in order (key: they're mainly about sex).

I am usually not one to analyze or defend lyrics--as a musician who can't sing, my primary focus has always been on the music, and when vocals are considered, it is in relation to how they fit with the overall sound. I've written about my relationship with lyrics before, and in the future I'll reprint my original column on the subject as a whole. The point is, I will never claim to be an expert when it comes to lyrics.

The question remains, though: are Interpol's lyrics really worthy of such snide derision?



Take for example the line cited in the lede in the original story--"Her love's a pony". Reading the line itself standing alone, it seems absolutely ridiculous. Actually, when you first hear the line in the song it sounds ridiculous as well. In context, it flows much better. The entire song ("Leif Erikson") is about a relationship in which the individuals attempt to connect, but keep failing to do so. The song is filled with brilliant couplets that explain each side of the relationship:

She swears I'm a slave to the details
but if you're life is such a big joke, why should I care?

There is an attempt at communication, but we still have conflict due to philosphical differences (yes that was wordy and needlessly pedantic, but I felt I needed an explanation of some sort). Communication is the key: "It's like learning a new language...helps me catch up on my mime". There is the awkward stage of getting to know each other, but they're making the attempt.

As for the line in question, "her love's a pony", it's presented in direct contrast to "my love's subliminal". Her love is something tangible and concrete, but ultimately fleeting, while his is a more subtle love that is difficult to grasp. It seems awkward, but that is the point--this is not a comfortable relationship. But combined with the music, it's a damn good song.

The thing with Interpol lyrics, they often entail being deliberately absurd. But the absurdity itself is directly tied to the meaning of the song. "Roland" is an example of this. We have random lines about the narrator's friend Roland, how he was a butcher with 16 knives oh look it stopped snowing and how he's from Poland um he has a beard. With this shaky delivery filled with random non sequitors, Paul gives us a portrait of confused narrator. Listening to the rest of the song, it seems that the narrator is being interrogated about his relationship with Roland and his knowledge of the crimes he committed, so this device gives us a clue into his state of mind without directly stating the obvious. It also is a perfect complement to the jittery music that can't sit still.



Or when Paul sings in "Obstacle 1" that "Her stories are boring and stuff", there is deliberate emphasis on the fact that he can't really think of anything else to say, and it makes the accusation all the more vindictive. It's the effortless carelessness that The Strokes have always tried desperately to convey (with varying success), done in just a single line.

Everyone attempts to rip Interpol by pointing out these strange proclamations that are prevalent in their work, but they also don't take the time to acknowledge some of the truly great lyrics that they have done. "Slow Hands" and "Evil" are both great examples, and though they are well-known songs their lyrics are overlooked.

I submit my incentive is romance
I watched the pole dance of the stars

I just love the poetic and erotic imagery used here, especially in conjunction with the extremely proper attempt at courtship. And yes "You make me want to pick up a guitar/and celebrate the myriad ways that I love you" is direct and to the point, but it captures the romantic sentiment perfectly. "Evil" on the other hand deserves accolades for its ability to blend the story of a guy trying to come to grips with the love triangle he's created himself with imagery that is directly evocative of The Stranger (the beach, the trial and cell, and the general attitude of the narrator are all consistent with this).

But my heart is with two different lyrics that capture the two overlooked aspects of Interpol's personality: their humor and their occasional earnestness. "I cannot control the part of me that swells up when you move into my airspace" from "Say Hello to the Angels" is the best description of the unanticipated hard-on ever written (beating out Next's hilarious song "Too Close"--"you're making it hard for me!"). Now contrast that with the opening lines from "NYC":

I had seven faces; thought I knew which one to wear
I'm sick of spending these lonely nights training myself not to care

This perfectly captures the spirit of depression and the attempts to self-regulate one's behavior. By capturing the absolute despair of the moment, it makes the proclamation that "it's up to me now to turn on the bright lights" and that there's "got to be more change in my life" all the more poignant, with one not entirely sure if these proclamations are empty or not.



Well, that's my defense of Paul Banks and his lyrics. I think Interpol's musical bona fides are airtight--it's deceptively simple, but the interplay between all four elements (vocals, guitars, bass, and drums) are incredibly complex, and they deliberately subvert song structure without anyone really noticing. And if you believe that Paul's voice is merely a monotone, it's a case of being merely a superficial listener. It changes with different emotions and is capable of amazing melodies if you listen closely. This is usually the case when you have a unique sounding singer, like John McCrea from Cake who actually sings notes, though it's not immediately obvious. Compare this to "Mr. Brightside" from the Killers, which is actually just one note (seriously, listen to it--once you realize this, the song is ruined). The same can be said for Interpol's music in general, but this misses the subtlety that is often employed--yes they have a certain style, but they're exploring every inch that the style allows. I don't want to hear Interpol do their own version of "Run To The Hills".

Anyways, I leave you with this nugget: the strange video to Interpol's latest single, The Heinrich Maneuver. Enjoy.