it’s so dope to see where Tyler is now compared to where he started. it was always pretty obvious that he was super artsy. anyone who saw his debut self-directed music video for Yonkers would tell that the dude has always had an eye that’s just as unique behind the camera as his voice is behind a microphone; but if you would’ve told me that the dude who wrote creepy songs about rape and shooting schoolmates would be making hip-hop ballads with Wes Anderson style videos to accompany them, i’m not sure i’d believe you.
anyway, i love everything about this video from the incorporation of Rocky (always loved how tight these two are) the oversized boat (which reminds me a lot of Ron Mueck’s “Man in Boat” that i got the chance to see in person last year), the use of primary colors and how they make everything pop, the AMAZING runway scene, and what i took to be an ode to A Ghost Story during transition to Where This Flower Blooms.
i still remember watching this video dozens of times as a sophomore in high school just to hear the snippet of the song being recorded at the 1:05 mark of this video. there are few greater pains in my life than knowing i will never find the name or full audio of it :(
i get to see my favorite band of all time next month and i really think i might cry. i joke about crying at concerts all the time but if i were to ever really cry at a concert, this one might be it. for some people the thought of being brought to tears by a concert might seem ridiculous, and to be quite honest i don’t blame them for feeling that way. the mere idea of concerts in general is kinda weird when you think about it. we’re all humans on this same ball spinning through time and space and we willingly hand paper that symbolizes hours, days, entire months of time that we’ll never get back to other humans to utter words into a microphone in a room full of thousands of other humans. believe me when i say, i completely understand both the absurdity of not only paying for a concert, but also being brought to tears by the performance of music.
when i hear certain songs by Phoenix, i can vividly remember certain times of my life, where i was living, how much i HATED my fucking job(s), what car i was driving, how i felt about myself, how i felt about the person i was dating.. their music has been a backdrop to so many great (and tremendously shitty) moments in my life. their music is an audible teddy bear.. the Buzz and Woody to my Andy.
what i love most about Phoenix is how painstakingly normal they are. they’re four regular ass french dudes who’d probably look much more at home in your local Gamestop than they do on an international tour playing for thousands of fans. if you’re looking for Freddie Mercury-tier vocals, my friend, you’ve come to the wrong place. their lead singer is Thomas Mars, who’s a regular ass dude who wears regular ass clothes, with a regular ass voice, that is somehow regularly amazing. there’s something about singing along with a voice that isn’t otherworldly that allows you to bop a little harder and gives you a faux confidence that just maybe you could actually be a singer in another life. what really takes Phoenix’s music to the next level though, is the careful time and effort they put into crafting big budget soundscapes out of thrift store instruments. these guys literally use everything from children toys found at garage sales, to 80s synths and keyboards to build amazing beats that both elevate and punctuate Mars’s euro-quirky lyrics without ever stymieing them.
i get to see four of my oldest friends i’ve never met next week. i’ll let you know how it goes.
is to be in a constant state of questioning if you care too much or if you don’t care enough. it’s choosing between being plugged into the current events in which people of color are routinely victims of atrocities that are rarely ever atoned, at the detriment of your mental health; and being unplugged, desensitized, and abandoning the realities of the world and attempting to drown out the little voice in your head that refuses to be distracted, all the while maintaining maintaining what little grip is left of an extremely fragile sanity. it’s constantly struggling to decide whether to have “constructive” conversations with people about race or to simply maintain the same level of sufficient cordialness required to get through the day with minimal awkwardness. it’s second guessing yourself when your first instinct is to go off at things that are casually uttered with the slightest twinge of racism in the work place. it’s rolling your fucking eyes when you hear someone refer to literally anything other than an actual ghetto as “ghetto”. it’s swallowing your tongue when someone tells you what “real” (insert practically anything that black people are known for here) is. it’s knowing to eurostep your way right the fuck past Beth’s collard greens at the potluck and to be EXTRA cautious of what few items you actually do try (you can’t try everybody’s everything). it’s synchronized code switching to maintain “professionalism” at work and familiarity at lunch. it’s knowing exactly what the hell “all lives matter” really means. it’s having an entire conversation with someone by the simple upward flick of your head. it’s knowing that we will all fucking fight anyone who disrespects Beyonce, Serena, or Oprah. it’s knowing exactly why people kneel for the anthem. it’s making the absolute best out of a terrible situation. it’s riding for each other in times of injustice.
this initially started as a post about Botham Shem Jean but eventually turned into an observance about black people. this story has consumed my mind, my heart, my spirit, for the last 48 hours or so. as i began to write and get myself more worked up, i thought maybe it would be good for me to just let my mind go. let the pent up angst, aggression, and frustration flow through my fingertips until i felt better. i’m still angry, but i do feel a little better. praying for Botha’s family tonight. may God bring them comfort.
man. i never considered myself a huge mac miller fan but i recognized his talent early on. even in his early, more pop-friendly frat rap days, i could still see the talent wading through the machine looking for it’s rightful avenue. mac was a one of a kind talent for a rapper, but he was especially a one of a kind talent for a white rapper. he wasn’t the first white rapper, nor was he the first white rapper to rap well; but in a time of rappers like eminem (the pinnacle of white rappers who’s whole shtick is “look at me, i’m cool enough to be embraced by blacks”, macklemore (the well intentioned by over-apologist white rapper), lil dicky (the white rapper who literally makes songs about how white he is, as if anyone cares in 2018), and post malone (the white “rapper” who’s actually a meh singer appropriating the rap genre), mac stood out by simply being himself. he didn’t try to “act black” but he came off with a certain soulfulness and coolness that felt as natural to him as it does to most black people. he didn’t rap over trap beats or tap the migos for features on his albums, he did songs wit jay electronica, cam’ron, and earl sweatshirt instead. mac was literally handed the keys to the pop rap kingdom with an mtv show to boot and he punted it in favor of finding a lane that felt more him. mac may not have been “the best” or the most popular, but in the age of maximum follows, maximum likes, and maximum relatability, mac opted for comfort.
not many others can say they are as much of themselves as mac miller seemed to be himself at all times. i still remember stumbling across the above video on twitter and realizing mac had finally hit his stride. every artist has that span of 3-5 years (more if they’re lucky) where they hit their creative stride and i truly believe this was the beginning of that period for mac. so much joy, so much potential, so much life.. gone. rest easy, mac.
edit: the performance referenced in this entry is at the 11:15 segment of the embedded video. for some reason youtube wouldn’t allow me to set the outplay from there.
