#that tequila absolutely does not have and a very high alcohol content. the latter is rather unfortunate for me as i hate being drunk

[bitegore]

I can't say I think you should just go out and try tequila but for me personally, I'm a flavors freak, so I've been trying as many alcohols as I can get my cheap hands on for the last few years because I like when flavors are overpowering and alcohol is good for that. I think if I were going to try and be more specific... let me go get a small glass of tequila to sip so i can properly describe it

Tequila is primarily sour and sweet, and it's a harder liquour so it has a burn to it that immediately hits you. The sweetness is slightly cloying to me - it's not quite a nice sweetness, it tastes like something has gone off in it, which is because it's alcohol. That's difficult to describe without just calling it alcoholic, I'm afraid. It's a sort of off-grain taste. The closest analogue I can come up with is a mildew or wet dirt flavor, but very mild, and not terribly offensive in terms of flavor profile. This shows up mostly in the aftertaste. It's not a chemical flavor, though, it's a very earthy sort of taste. The alcohol itself is usually a dark amber and if i were to describe the flavor as a color it's a similar one, an orangey-yellowy dark color like clay. It lingers in your mouth for a long time, and it burns on the way down in a "stingy" sort of way, the same kind of feeling as disinfecting a cut.

The addition of salt and lime offsets the aftertaste of cloying sweetness first, making it taste "cleaner" - the lime's sweetness gets mixed in with the sweetness of the tequila, but citrus sourness is part of its aftertaste as well, and it's much stronger than the cloying taste of the alcohol. The salt serves to bring out more notes of complexity in the actual taste of the alcohol and to help overpower the aftertaste.

The way I was taught to do tequila shots is actually not the way I wrote it up there, where I was envisioning the alcohol being mixed directly with the lime juice and the rock salt being encrusted on the rim (this is because I think Drag Strip would struggle with the idea of being a multi-step process). The way I was taught was to put salt on your hand, cut a lime wedge, and pour the alcohol - then take the shot, lick your palm and bite the lime wedge. That way totally cuts off the aftertaste of the tequila. I'll admit I'm not a huge fan of that, because I think if I'm going to drink something I may as well enjoy the entirety of how it tastes, though, lol.

ETA: that out of the way let me respond to the rest of your post lol

wildrider's actively intimidates me. if someone set that in front of me i think i'd try to slide to the side so its not in front of me anymore

That's kind of the point. He's not for everyone. He's not for almost anyone. Bro is not just an acquired taste, he's a taste you really shouldn't be acquiring in the first place. But to me I think he'd taste good if I could get over the. Um. Experience of trying to get a taste lol

and if you want Motormaster, the real Ferrero-Rocher truffles only come in milk chocolate, but I was working off this recipe anyway to find out what was in a regular Ferrero-Rocher truffle to be able to explain how to make it bitter and more complicated regardless - and all you'd have to do is take a bit of espresso powder and mix it into the nutella when making the center of the truffle and you have what I'm talking about. It's not the easiest thing in the world but it's a much easier recipe than it might seem.

I will admit. I had already assumed you meant super duper dark chocolate for Dead End - I keep forgetting that I am still a flavor freak and most people mean milk chocolate and raspberry instead of being like me and meaning "as high cocoa content as physically possible and also some raspberry to counterbalance it". I still think Dead End would be a bit bitterer than all that; he spends a lot of time being difficult to interact with on purpose, and I think that he'd sort of exclude a lot of the dessert market on purpose if he were. well. a dessert lol. But I also forgot that people don't like dark chocolate. So that could definitely work. I just think he has to be, like, a dessert for people who want to feel superior about their dessert flavors as well as just a dessert that tastes good. (Not to say that I'm a pretentious dessert fan for liking salmiakki and pomegranate, but I know there's a kind of person out there who is. Because I keep running into them while looking for desserts. The american salmiakki eater market is miserable to encounter, they're all like "oohhh no one ELSE likes this because i'm SOOO COOL and my palate is MORE REFINED than theirs" and it's so annoying but it suits DE LMAO)

points at breakdown. Fruit. but more seriously I really think he has that same sort of freshness to him that most other desserts don't. I could see him being a mild mint of some sort too now that I think about it.

This is genuinely a really fun thought experiment, trying to balance personality quirks and behaviors in terms of "what flavor could this be converted to" is challenging but oddly rewarding. i want to do this for more characters now

dead end - raspberry chocolate truffle

drag strip - banana split sundae

breakdown - blueberry pie

wildrider - root beer float with a maraschino cherry on top

motormaster - a wild blackberry bush. not the berries, the whole bush

Hold up. Is this what they would look like as a dessert (pretty accurate), what they would taste like as a dessert (i see how you got to some of these but disagree on a few fronts), what dessert they most want to be (question with a lot of moving parts) or what dessert you personally associate with them? Like what does this mean. Give me your sorting criteria before I respond lol

[lifeonashelf]

CLAPTON, ERIC

Before we get started, I should probably mention that it might be helpful to regard this piece as sort of a “to be continued…” affair. A handful of entries from now, the subject on my docket will be Cream, whose work is such a vital part of Eric Clapton’s canon than any appraisal of them will unavoidably qualify as a supplemental appraisal of him. I’m sure I will have some nice things to say about Cream since I think they were a pretty excellent band (although time will tell… as you’ve surely gleaned by now, these essays often encompass topics that have absolutely nothing to do with the artists I profess to be evaluating; I can’t predict where my mind will be when I get around to writing about Cream, so it’s entirely possible I’ll end up writing about Mork & Mindy or something instead). However, for our purposes here, I think it will serve us better if I focus exclusively on Clapton’s work as a solo artist. Which is likely to engender a far different climate than the forthcoming Cream-slash-Mork-slash-Mindy piece since I think 85% of the music Eric Clapton made after Cream disbanded is dreadfully fucking lackluster.

When I was learning to play guitar as a teenager, there were several monthly magazines devoted to that pursuit, all of which I perused religiously. (For the benefit of any millennials reading this: “magazines” were similar to books, except they were shorter and usually had more pictures in them—and “books” were similar to the missives your hyper-dramatic friends constantly post on Facebook, except they took a little bit longer to read, were written with proper grammar, and the stories in them weren’t all a bunch of histrionic bullshit—also, “grammar” refers to the coherent presentation of words that aren’t abbreviated or misspelled).

Much like any periodical dedicated to a singular subject, magazines like Guitar World regularly featured articles which graded the luminaries in their particular field—in GW’s case, these usually took the form of arbitrary ranking reports on “The 100 Greatest Guitarists Of All Time!”. I assume modern publications still rely on similarly banal and undemanding space-fillers: “The 10 Most Lethal Armor-Piercing Shells!” in Guns & Ammo, perhaps, or “The 4 Hottest Members Of  5 Seconds Of Summer!” in NAMBLA Monthly (for the benefit of any tweens reading this: if you ever encounter anyone who subscribes to this magazine, get out of their van immediately).

Of course, discerning readers must surely recognize the flaws inherent in any classification system which surveys qualifications that are subject to myriad personal tastes and biases—in other words, lists like those are completely goddamn meaningless (after all, designating any member of 5SOS as the hottest is utter lunacy; who could possibly make a firm decision between such dreamy candidates with any degree of certainty?). In the post-internet world, such items would qualify as your basic gratuitous clickbait. Yet at the time, I scrutinized those rankings with great interest, and I even took an undue amount of pride in finding some of my favorite guitarists logged at prominent positions on the docket—whenever Soundgarden’s Kim Thayil cracked the Top-20, I figured maybe the editors who put that particular list together actually knew their shit.

The cast of musicians who regularly occupied the apex slots in these polls never changed all that much—it seems to be universally agreed among everyone who reads magazines like Guitar World that the greatest player of all time is either Eddie Van Halen or Jimi Hendrix, which is a verdict I don’t have a strong argument against. Jimmy Page was usually ranked around #3 or so, and I never had any problem with that either because he’s Jimmy fucking Page. The rest of the Top-10 was a bit more fluid, with different architects wandering in and out of contention based on what was happening in their contemporary careers when the list was published. A few guitarists were ubiquitous placeholders who merely shifted numbers from year to year, like Steve Vai and Joe Satriani, who seemed to always be classed in the Top-10 despite neither of them ever recording a single piece of music I would listen to on purpose.

Another omnipresent figure on these rosters was Eric Clapton, who was perpetually enumerated in the uppermost echelons of the guitar-god hierarchy, sometimes even slotted way up in the Top-5. A recent poll on ranker.com with 500-thousand tallied voters escalated the matter by rating Clapton as the THIRD greatest axe-wielder of all time, just below Jimi and Jimmy. And despite my cognizance that these standings are fundamentally inconsequential, the net result of Slowhand’s recurrent designation as one the most prodigious craftsmen in the history of his art-form is that for my entire life I have been systematically instructed to distinguish Eric Clapton as one of the greatest musicians of all time. Which is an assertion that rings as patently incorrect when you actually listen to his music.

There’s nothing incendiary about Clapton’s guitar playing, nothing particularly inimitable about his style. He didn’t develop a new musical language for his instrument to sing with—Jimi Hendrix, Eddie Van Halen, and Jimmy Page all did that, but not Slowhand. The two main things Eric Clapton did exceptionally well were splicing a strain of safe white-boy blues into a strain of nonthreatening AOR rock and building the bulk of his career on serviceable renditions of songs written by other people. Whether this particular musical aesthetic appeals to you is irrelevant; no matter how much you like his version of “I Shot the Sheriff”, a modest benchmark like that is not indicative of genius, it is merely indicative of a seasoned session musician plying his trade. Make no mistake, Clapton is a very good guitar player, and I get the sense he’s a nice enough dude. Nevertheless, while the ability to knock out solid cover tunes might curry plenty of favor on Tequila Tuesday at the local dive bar, that skillset alone does not signify any form of virtuosity.

Timepieces—the 7x Platinum-selling 1982 greatest hits album most likely to represent Eric Clapton in the collections of casual fans—features ten songs culled from his 1970’s harvest, the most acclaimed era of his solo career. Of those ten tracks, Clapton is only credited as a songwriter on three cuts, and only one amidst that trio names him as the sole songwriter. This seems to reveal that out of all the most enduring tunes he released during his most enduring era, this musician alleged to be among the greatest of all time was only able to piece together one outstanding song when left to his own devices. Sure, “Cocaine” and “Layla” are fairly strong by any standards (although, Clapton didn’t write the former and merely co-wrote the latter), but the rest of Timepieces is notably unremarkable as far as best-of showcases go—unless the one major thing your life has been missing is the opportunity to hear Eric Clapton tackle the novelty number “Willie and the Hand Jive” like he was submitting it for the opening credits of a sitcom.

Then there’s the knotty matter of “Wonderful Tonight”, the only song on Timepieces credited singularly to Clapton—and, arguably, the only one of his solo period creations that has prevailed in a comprehensive cultural sense. You won’t meet too many wedding DJ’s who don’t have “Wonderful Tonight” in their arsenal, and I’m positive plenty of couples have selected the track to accompany their first dance at the reception. The tune has been widely appropriated as a naked avowal of love and devotion—and, hey, why not? Is there any woman in the world who doesn’t appreciate being told she’s wonderful?

However, sometimes songs get borrowed for things that don’t necessarily match up with their essence. Consider Green Day’s “Time of Your Life”, which will probably be played over every high school graduation slideshow in the civilized world for the next several decades because of its lyrics about turning points and forks stuck in the road—this, despite the fact that the proper title of the song is “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” and the refrain “I hope you had the time of your life” was actually penned as a derisive fuck-you aimed at an ex-girlfriend who jilted Billie Joe Armstrong. In some cases, the intended meaning of a tune doesn’t really matter; once it becomes transcendently popular, it means whatever the people who made it transcendently popular want it to mean. And before you know it, teenagers are dancing to a song about a bitter break-up at their senior proms without any apperception of irony.

This is why I’ve always been fascinated by the quixotic ideals that have been ascribed to “Wonderful Tonight”. Though the swooning masses have evidently chosen to accept that song as a chronicle of the profound romance nurtured by two lovers throughout a night on the town, to me the lyrics tell a far different story.

My sad tale is about a woman fretting woefully as she dolls herself up to attend a party with her carping husband, nervously asking him, “do I look alright?” She’s well aware that to this imperious man, her physical attractiveness is her primary asset; he regards her as a prop, an arm-candy accessory that buttresses his inflated sense of prestige. When the couple arrives at the gala, the caddish groom basks in the attention of the numerous leering men who crane their necks to look at his trophy (“everyone turns to see this beautiful lady that’s walking around with me”). Each swiveling head substantiates his ego, confirms that he is a superior alpha-male because he has managed to ensnare such a stunning female specimen—“I feel wonderful tonight,” he tells her, and this declaration might as well be a cackle of triumph.

His supremacy established, he then proceeds to get absolutely shit-faced. The song doesn’t specify whether his recreation of choice is alcoholic or narcotic or both, only that by the time he’s finished indulging in his spree of hedonistic rapture he’s “got an aching head.” The brevity of the account doesn’t allow a verse which elaborates on his conduct at the festivity, but we can reasonably assume this sort of character becomes a boorish lout when he’s intoxicated—just imagine the undignified behaviors a man like that adopts under the influence while his unfortunate wife helplessly watches on, mortified; perhaps Clapton is being kind by sparing us that part of the saga.

When the bender is over, he is too wasted to drive, so the onus of shuttling him home falls upon his submissive mate. And she is further demeaned when she has to then assist him as he staggers to bed. There, just before slipping into black-out unconsciousness, he slurs to her, “you were wonderful tonight.” A backhanded compliment, surely, reminding her of her place, letting her know that shutting up and looking pretty while he has all the fun is precisely what’s expected of her. “You were wonderful tonight,” he gabbles again, twisting the knife, reiterating that the evening is now over and she will once again curl up on her side of the mattress neglected and unsatisfied and cry herself to sleep while his insensate carcass snores and farts beside her.

[Okay, I made all that shit up. But now that I read the lyrics again, they don’t necessarily contradict my facetious analysis, so the above interpretation might actually be right on the money. Besides, if twelfth graders can slow-dance with their sweethearts to the soundtrack of a disintegrated relationship, then I can make “Wonderful Tonight” be about a doomed and loveless marriage if I want to.]

The other most obvious benchmark in Clapton’s solo catalog is his MTV Unplugged release, which shifted over 26-million copies and still holds the distinction of being the best-selling live album of all time. (For the benefit of any millennials reading this: “Unplugged” was a program that MTV produced during the prehistoric age of their existence, back when they had to lower themselves to airing rubbish like music videos and concerts because there weren’t enough quality reality shows being made about teenagers who have babies and get plastic surgery to fill their broadcast schedule). The network’s marketing strategy for the Unplugged series was actually quite ingenious: in addition to airing hour-long presentations of sets like Clapton’s in prime time, select songs from these shows were earmarked as “singles” and those individual performances were slotted into heavy rotation among the other hit videos of the era, a model which allowed MTV to essentially promote their own albums as frequently as they wanted. Since the channel’s driving ethos at the time was to pummel their audience with constant spins of even the most mediocre clips until viewers decided those songs must be cool because MTV played them all the time, plenty of latently unexceptional offerings like Clapton’s Unplugged were given a ready platform to become smash hits (lest we forget: this approach was so insidiously effective that even Mr. Big and Wilson Phillips achieved Platinum sales figures in 1992).

Hell, even I bought the fucking CD (I never bought those Mr. Big or Wilson Phillips records, though). I’ve listened to Unplugged a couple times while shaping this write-up, and I still have yet to locate a shred (pun possibly intended) of persuasive evidence that Eric Clapton is one of the greatest guitar players of all time anywhere on this disc. The revue has a couple of high-points—the version of “Tears in Heaven” here is indubitably definitive and “Layla” fares surprisingly well in a slower, stripped down form—but as a whole the album is an unadulterated slog, laden with an abundance of instantly-forgettable renditions of unessential blues tunes that are reduced to benign dentist-office white noise by the neutered arrangements which were integral to the Unplugged format. What these moments actually demonstrate—rather than Clapton’s mastery—is that a style of song-craft which was initially channeled straight from wounded souls into ragtag instruments doesn’t translate very convincingly to a fleet of $5,000 guitars; in a fundamental sense, Unplugged’s glossy and pristine studio-audience presentation, every chord perfectly EQ’d and in-tune, strips away whatever raw immediacy cuts like Son House’s “Walkin’ Blues” may have possessed in their primal form. I’m not earnestly criticizing Eric Clapton for his professionalism, but since the thrilling quintessence of live music is the anything-can-happen spontaneity of the stage, it’s difficult to get overly invested in the meticulously premediated and pokerfaced routine captured for this specific document.

The album does indeed embody Clapton’s mien—capable musicianship and a batch of songs unlikely to offend anyone’s sensibilities—but the guitarists who truly belong in the realm of the immortals are those whose work sounds like an existential search for deeper sonic truths. The notes they strike broadcast more than chords, they transmit fever and fire, each one eddying uncontainable passion from their hearts to their fingertips. This is why procedural players like Joe Satriani and Steve Vai have never been engaging: their main artistic drive has always seemed to be showcasing how many arpeggios they can execute, and the soulless military precision of that execution doesn’t convey any sincere affection for their craft—listening to Satch and Vai et al do their thing is kind of like watching a squad of soldiers marching in lock-step; you get the sense the last thing on those lads’ minds is how pleasant it is to be getting some fresh air. And my reaction to Unplugged is similar: Slowhand’s rigid delivery of tried-and-true fret phrases he can undoubtedly strum in his sleep by now doesn’t rouse much in the way of excitement; since Clapton doesn’t sound like he’s overly interested in challenging himself, he doesn’t challenge me either.    

Ironically, at this very moment, my heart is seized by the precise melancholy sensations that are metaphorically denoted as “the blues.” I won’t go into a whole thing about it, but I assure you I am sad as fuck right now. Yet, even though I always seek out music I can relate to in times of pathos, somehow hearing Eric Clapton chirrup about drinking “Malted Milk” isn’t doing a whole lot to make me feel better—hearing Greg Puciato shriek his way through The Dillinger Escape Plan’s tempestuous masterpiece “Farewell, Mona Lisa” might do the trick, but not this shiny and innocuous enactment that would sound equally at home on a Jack Johnson record as it does on Unplugged. And this is usefully underscoring why Clapton’s work is so profoundly dull to me: despite being an artist who has devoted most of his catalog to the blues, a genre whose lyrical dominion deals exclusively in heart-borne emotions, his music doesn’t make me feel a goddamn thing. When I get low like this, I know from experience that I can release some of those negative energies by weeping, or wailing, or screaming my fucking head off. But try as I might, I can’t think of a single occasion when the balm my soul cried out for was twelve tasteful bars in the key of E with some gentle, susurrated crooning on top.

So you 26-million consumers can keep your guitar-hero, and his bubbly acoustic blues, and his songs about rakish men who disgrace their wives at parties. I don’t give a shit if Slowhand is ranked 16 spots higher in Guitar World—fucking give me Kim Thayil any day.

 August 4, 2018