#ye olde clout simulator

[kekkuda]

more games should take advantage of the fact that a horse can be a weapon

[jackalsinthekitchen]

pop report #7 (billboard hot 100, week of 5/18/24)

america is not bored (for a minute, anyway)

Sometimes America gets bored, and dilutes its own hit parade. Only mass disengagement – ideal in an election year – could let that sacred democratic space become occupied, sorry preoccupied, with ranking thirty-one new Taylor songs from least to most enervated. But last week’s chart reflected a striking exception, a national rubberneck. For Drake and Kendrick Lamar are, yes, quite conceivably the Mike Jack and Prince of their genre (a proposed big third has been reviewed and rejected), and no serious, high-profile hip-hop feud has yet graced the streaming era. The 5/18 Hot 100 reflects a sudden, vicious bloom of disses, each star ultimately having accused the other – with apparent sincerity – of something unforgivable. It was savage, yet it perversely brought out the best in both artists, and showed up the old-headline hits as trivialities.

Drake has no status as an innovator, though his preference for doleful singing over speaking has proven influential, helping blur the lines between popular genres. Moreover, he can but must not dance – ergo, not much of a Mike Jack. Yet his place is secure atop the album charts, no matter what he’s on about this time around, and he rivals fellow maybe-mercenary Swift for consolidating power over time. Kendrick’s prolificacy would earned him a verbal dressing-down from the spirit at Paisley Park, and his joie de vivre dwells at an opposite pole. But unlike the Dylan Nobel, that K-dot deserved his Pulitzer felt self-evident. As with Jackson and Nelson, the division of clout and cred feels clean until you stare longer – and also, the artsier one is much pricklier about being associated with the less artsy one closer to world domination.

Amid innumerable chronicles of the fracas are good articles; the beef isn't mine to condense. But the records remain the record. In a field of cherry-bomb epics, Lamar’s “Not Like Us” scorched the widest radius, and now it’s a #1 forever, just like “First Person Shooter”. After a breath of sweet soul comes that graveyard stab of strings, pilfered from a Monk Higgins cover of Ray Charles’ ominous lament “I Believe to My Soul” and sped the hell up. Lamar is hopped up on his own venom, every accusation a gouge; he means fucking business, and it’s the coldest of kills (“stab this way, stab that way”). It’s ruthless, but the smooth dexterity of his performance is riveting – whatever’s on the tip of his rapier, the music is still the point, which helps the unease go down easier.

After all, imagine what a dark landmark this would be if hip-hop’s most handsomely paid icon is, y’know, guilty of all that. “I think that Oakland show gon’ be your last stop,” Lamar spits, after raising (as opposed to prefabricating) the specter of Tupac, half of the most famous such feud – a bicoastal tempest that left two all-time luminaries dead. Without comparing each hypothetical loss to art, the threat of either principal failing to survive this spat has been too terrible to touch, the way the horrific inconvenience of a civil war maybe keeps it from manifesting in our violently polarized era. The level of discomfort this event has and could attain was built to compel morbid fascination. As Americans, we’re awfully accustomed to unimaginable outcomes – and what we move on from says strange things about our ways of processing.

But even when we can't, we often insist on stepping into a sweet denial chamber for a second. Sandwiched between two million-selling musical murders is “Million Dollar Baby”, the club-ready runaway smash from one of those sleepy-eyed white guys with a certain kind of facial hair. The now-aptly named Tommy Richman is from TikTok, and his robotic funk savvy reminds me of Peter Brown’s “Do You Wanna Get Funky With Me”, a one-man simulation of something Black that feels bloodless, but more than functional. The summer and its songs are now upon us, and one of them is that other musical murder: “Euphoria”, Kendrick’s first full-length shot across the bow. “You’re not a rap artist, you’re a scam artist” has waited behind a lot of lips since Drake’s ascendency, but nothing could sound as juicy as Kendrick just letting it slip over a dreamy Teddy Pendergrass sample. Then he erupts with molten contempt, trenchantly transforming a human mess into something profound.

“This conflict did not begin with an act of violence,” Michael Harriot reminds. “In a sense, [this] is really about Black excellence.” And although Lamar’s bars being brilliant is as foregone a conclusion as Drake’s next album going #1 – though any fallout remains to be seen – it remains the apparent responsibility of the Black musical icon to vault over established standards, to pull out every stop. No album has masterpieced harder than Cowboy Carter in a hot minute, and had it lassoed the entire top 10 like Swift’s album did, it would’ve resulted from a livelier, more rewarding mass listening project. Yet stats suggest Taylor’s unwieldy latest affair is winning the attention war – though it rarely gets more exciting than the dirgey “Fortnight”, a flagship single featuring Post Malone, the original sleepy-eyed white guy with a certain kind of facial hair.

Though the album gives up slow rewards (like “I wanna kill him”, it’s in stray lines that hit you sideways, as opposed to the inescapable hooks we rely on her for), I’m on Team Disappointed – and yeah, tTPD’s concurrence with Beyoncé’s ambitious and open-armed coup amplifies my chagrin. The theory that unprecedented validation has eroded TS’s humility and editorial sense is confused by how casual and canny Midnights was at once. Maybe after a tumultuous personal spell and a generous spectacle of a victory-lap tour, this functioning workaholic has earned a This One’s for Her. Yet the album’s overall efficacy as a sedative or a diary feels limited, especially comparing it to the sumptuous acoustic textures and painstaking craft of folklore. She’s not banal yet, but the watered-down EDM “Fortnight” revisits is beginning to wear thin.

Three places down from the archetypal club hit by the white kid is a folky country banger by Shaboozey, a Black performer, rather closer to Zach Bryan’s misty reveries than Morgan Wallen’s rap-smitten flexes. “A Bar Song (Tipsy)” stands as strong a chance of uniting and lighting up a crowded room as “Million Dollar Baby”, though the vibes are otherwise irreconcilable. Our country’s ever-unresolved racial dialogue can feel most productive, or at least most interesting, in the pop-musical realm, though it isn’t always easy to know what questions and answers the constant cross-pollinations are raising. Disheartening recent influx of male artists notwithstanding, the way the Blackest and whitest pop genres are talking to each other right now is politically exciting. It goes beyond softened borders, with Bey’s panoramic expansion of an old Ray Charles concept merely the most pointed, adventurous example. But masc vs. femme, Black vs. white, queer-coded vs. painfully straight, in the box vs. new under the sun, Champagne Papi vs. Kung Fu Kenny – our musical landscape is an ever-restless one, the central conundrums rarely under threat of resolution.

My point, such as I have one, is that if you slice off the top of the charts you always end up with an interesting double record, with even the most recent Swift swallow a more interesting double record. Cue up side 2 of whatever variant you chose of this round, and you get the casually buzzing hornet’s nest “Like That”, with Kendrick already sounding brutally peeved on his verse. The needle then hustles you into the petulant intro to Drake’s “Family Matters”, for which “Euphoria” already provided some context if you’ve been off the grid. Drake's track lands no point harder than how long this month has lasted.

Compare the normally sedate, reflective Kendrick’s palpable anger – you feel the threatening brush of the quills of his mind – to the normally sedate, unreflective Drake’s manufactured-sounding intensity. His sense of affront sounds weakened by his well-funded complacency – easy to project, like the idea that he farms out his verses. But rap is like jazz; the central instrument is too communicative to conceal much. For the former Degrassi MVP, anything like sharpness feels like an imitation. He sounds inconvenienced where his rival sounds murderous, a comprehensible tactic that as fits go earned worst-dressed on the skirmish’s fizzled-out conclusion(?), “The Heart Part 6”. “Matters” is a deft cut which admirably matches the mood-shifting “epic” vibe of “Euphoria” et al. But even with Drizzy stepping up, the contest was never exactly a close one.

The temptation down the rabbit-hole of whether Kendrick is a spousal abuser – a charge so hyped up in the drop, it has the feel of a secret a kid can’t keep in, rather than, like, a lie – isn't much match for the distracting allure of Sabrina Carpenter’s “Espresso”, the latest surefire trifle in a neo-neo-disco wave. Dance music hasn't sounded so percolation-for-percolation sumptuous as it does on this (or, say, the casually flawless “Dance the Night”) since Nile Rodgers was still [c]hic. The song’s unhesitant strut is the kind of thing you just bow down to, pure feelin-yourself momentum from a versatile new star whose identity appears as malleable as Chappell Roan’s is uncompromising. Its phrasemaking, its effervescence, its on-vacation give a fucks – the song is like “Flowers” in full flower, being single as a garden of delights earthly and otherwise.

This top ten is rounded out by a far more gentlemanly duel, for it’s the season of not just the sticks but the Growly Boys. The unabashedly dramatic “Beautiful Things” and “Lose Control” are how-tos for those interested in self-immolation, over a cause Macklemore will swiftly remind you isn’t the end of the world (love, or pussy I suppose. or both). Benson Boone and Teddy Swims sure do have diaphragms; not a dandruff-grain of irony sullies either’s heaving shoulders. Each song has a guaranteed valentine future: karaoke challenge, front-lawn boom box staple, so forth. And both, if you listen over and over (which, why), largely validate their own abundant sincerity. Both also serve to make the “take me to church” guy sound like a paragon of smoothness and restraint, on his new one, which lands like a less self-satisfied, slightly doomier Maroon 5 hit.

Other chapters in America’s bestselling beef (“meet the grahams”, “Push Ups”) fill out the top twenty – the album this feud forms is a great, if bitter and bewildering, one – dispelling a slow-moving cloud of flukes and superstars. SZA, always a lot more subtly exhilarating than people seem willing to concede, continues to gaze out over the waves she rode last year. Ariana finds her place in the moment by encouraging single-soul vulnerability, rather than trying to lead an army of discontents to liberation. Taylor simulates the instant standards she didn’t hold herself to writing this time, dragging herself to the gym and onstage, feeble but serviceable revisitations of “Anti-Hero” self-loathing and “Bejeweled” self-puffing. Jack is still in a post-nut haze, Noah is still wistfully welling up, and Zach and Kacey are still stuck somewhere between the present and past – reminding us just how hard this moment will hang on as it fades into whatever’s next, as moments do. Whatever we don't remember, someone will.

[twinkledadwa]

Twinkledad’s: The “I Got Ghosted” Episode

Today, my CoStar daily alert read like this:

“When you feel an impulse to control another person, use it as a prompt to remember that you can’t.”

Believing in the stars is kind of stupid. Rooting back in my high school naivety, though, I do believe everything happens for a reason. And if you believe in that, then what happens makes sense.

If you read this blog, I made it known there was supposed to be a Twinkledad’s interview. 

If you’re reading this now, you’ll know it fell through.

Reddit PMs are not an efficient way to book plans, first of all. Doing it two months in advanced of a tour they announced morning of is boneheaded too. I recognized how ballsy of an idea it was, given the complete lack of professionalism. I have no professional experience, and honestly, there was no real reason to do the interview. Any money or “clout” ventures are stupid. It was just to have done it.

Yesterday, we agreed to do the interview after the show (through actual DMs). I went to buy merch, and during the interaction, told the initial point of contact who I was. From what I heard (I, a single perspective), the response was:

                                            “Oh...good for you”.

And we exchanged names, which was kinda jarring. I had no idea where to build from, and ultimately didn’t. A friend and I waited until everything was shut off, gear packed, then left. We ate In N’ Out. During the time spent waiting, we delved into conversation that was in the moment. No talks of the future, only discussion that could have existed then.

I couldn’t have had a better finish to the night.

The common response is to fling shit at the walls when your favorite DIY twinkle-emo band doesn’t give you attention, and try to move forces against them. This situation feels inline to being ghosted by/ghosting a romantic interest. 

 I could have handled what led up to it much better. Perspectives differ. They’re a touring band, they don’t owe anything to me as just a fan. Anybody’s selfish, specifically mine in this case, shouldn’t matter to any other but yourself. Not even that statement right there. The night became less of holding onto that sliver of hope and more enjoying where I was at. 

I discovered this band through a person whom my opinion of shouldn’t affect them, and vice versa. It’s nice to know how it has come full circle, ending with a 10 inch, a fleeting experience, and a shirt I’m still going to wear to brunch tomorrow. (EDIT: i also just remembered he didn’t give me my change back for the merch, which i was okay with at the time, but yeah that is kind of dodgy)

However, questions were sent in, and they don’t deserve to be ignored. Here are my answers, and you can imagine some quirky banter if everything went differently.

Dear Twinkledad,

Given everything I just said above, what music recommendations would you give?

Anonymous.

“So I’m leaving...

  voooOOiiiiCCeeeemaaaiiiiiillllsssss”

Cloud District - Hamster Camp

Bug Bath - Unique Experience

Jawbreaker - Boxcar

Algae Bloom - Thornes

Kississippi - Cut Yr Teeth

Dear Twinkledad,

Things recently ended with a person I had been seeing. I hurt them, didn’t communicate my feelings properly, and I feel like garbage for it. I leave the continent for 5 months in a few weeks, and I want to reach out before I leave, but I also want to give her space? Should I wait and see if she reaches out? I’m a dumb stupid idiot.

Dumb, Stupid Idiot.

Dumb, Stupid Idiot,

This is tough. Even through a small paragraph, I could sense a lot of regret. And usually, waiting until they, as the offended party, responds is a smart move, but the continental move complicates it.

If you have genuine sorrow, please reach out as soon as what’s reasonable. The time you’ll be gone will impact how she approaches it, and five months is a lot of time to sit on a negative feeling like that. If you’re in the position of having hurt someone, extending that hand once your heart feels the need to is important. Also, inferring the situation, you’re probably the one who would need to apologize (not a bad thing! we all are in this spot, one way or another!)

Hopefully this helped. I truly do wish you the best.

Casiotone for the Painfully Alone - Nashville Parthenon

Stars Hollow - As You Were Before.

Frail Body - Old Friends

Hightide Hotel - A Soft Subtle Sound

Dear Twinkledad,

how do I find interesting things to do for my last semester of high school? everything feels like too much work to start and everyone else seems too busy to hangout.

Anonymous.

Anonymous,

I was in a similar position Senior year. When you get into college, those troubles will get infinitely better. It’s practically a boiling pot for activity.

For the time being, try relying on your impulses. Stupid, yes, but if you want to experience youth to its fullest, this is how. Interesting things to do lies within the “schizophrenia” (spacy, uneven rhythm in life) of what surrounds you. There is no purpose to try too hard for something. Let it happen, only focus on how your heart beats, and not an ideal nature your mind is trying to create.

Vandalism, finger painting, walks, kratom, anything and everything.

Cow tipping?

Yes.

It sounds like you’re left to nothing but to fuck around for the time you have left. Make it worth it. Hopefully that helped!

Laura Stevenson - Master of Art

Total Downer - Everything Is Gonna Be Alright

For Your Health - Second Aid Kit

Sleep Kit - Je Ne Sais Pas, Aue

Dear Twinkledad,

I am interested in a girl but I'm unsure we are compatible. I always run into her at skramz shows so I know we at least some musical taste overlap but the only other thing I know about her is that she works a blue collar job while I am a white collar professional. I am unsure if it's worth pursuing further knowing that I would rather be with someone that has a similar lifestyle to me. How should I proceed?  

-Business Casual at the Skramz Gig.

Business Casual at the Skramz Gig,

I feel like the point of a crush (opposed to having actual feelings for someone) is to know someone better. It straddles the line between romantic interest and want of general companionship. Our human want is to interact with other humans, and arguably, become more human in the process. Even if she doesn’t check the boxes to your “goals”, there’s a wealth of opportunity there to get to know someone possibly rad. 

Go for it! Skramz is a good starting point. You can’t be an NPC forever. I wish you good luck!

Dianacrawls - Rollercoasting Simulation

Senza - Sentience

Portrayal of Guilt - Among Friends

Shin Guard - Cross Country

Dear Twinkledad,

ask the emo bands how to get gamer girls to step on my face

Anonymous.

Anonymous,

this question makes everything your fault.

Wellspring - Quiver

ORTHODOXXER - IBLOCKEDHIMFROMMYFINSTAINAFITOFRAGE (TIK TOK ANTHEM)

oswald;octopus - montreal is where guys wear nail polish but not condoms (never meant pt. 2 i’m going to beat the fucking shit out of mike kinsella)

SCRAWLERS - 7/11

POSED OUT - THRASHACHUSETTS

friends from home - casket made of stone

god bless gilgamesh - i look for feathers in the rains from heaven, i find mostly piss

Clairo - Bags