Cover That Junk Up (aka Girl Covers)

Cover songs are the plague of the music industry. They are at the same time the greatest compliment an artist can receive, but also a free ride for someone to use a tracks previous success for their own marketing. The song presumably has already been tried and tested in the public domain, they are the easiest tool for instant public approval. YouTube is the breading grown for cover shittiness, every kid in the world can upload their crappy version of Adelle’s ‘Rolling in the Deep’. That’s not to say there is no place in the world for cover songs, but you have to be able to put forth some originality on it.

Now there are a couple cardinal sins (to me) relating to cover songs. One, bands use this tool to seem somehow more interesting by covering a song that is well outside their breadth. Example: “I can’t believe Belle and Sebastian did a cover of Slayer.” Now to the naked eye, the bad bastard folk music that Belle and Sebastian create on a consistent basis is uplifted, into the world of ‘interesting’ if only for a second. This is a fallacy, Belle and Sebastian do make sad bastard, boring music, and even if such a cover existed it wouldn’t change this fact. If Hell existed it would be playing “The Boy and the Arab Strap” for all eternity, and yes I bought that record for some goddamn reason (chalk it up to teenage wannabe-ness “Let’s drink chamomile tea and talk about knitting techniques”).

The second sin is covering a song you don’t even like, explicitly using the songs popularity to simultaneously poke fun at it, but also reaping the benefits of its popularity. See every pop-punk band who covered a Britney song. A cover used to be a tribute, a declaration that ‘this song/band fucking rocks’. Now at times it seems to be filler for a band that doesn’t have enough material to please a crowd, so they may as well play Wonderwall because everyone and their mom knows the lyrics.

All that being said, and yes I’m going to contradict myself, sometimes cover songs are just fun. Here are three cover songs that are currently rocking my speakers on a consistent basis.

1. 6 Foot 7 - Lil Wayne (covered by Karmin)

She absolutely kills it and with a smile on her face the whole time.

2. Pursuit of Happiness - Kid Cudi (covered by Lissie)

Great song, great cover. People told me “slow my roll”, I’m screaming out “Fuck that”.

3. I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You - The Black Kids (covered by Kate Nash)

Great version. Plain and simple.

Blinded by the Nights aka Dance in my Pants

Throughout a young music lovers life you go through phases, rites of passage. You need to immerse yourself in scenes so you can find yourself, musically. Oh and so you can either fit in with the current trend facing a pre-teen (that band Live, what the fuck was that about?) or so you can attempt to get close to the girls you not-so-secretly pine for (every girl with bright artificially colored hair, tattoos, piercings and an fuck you attitude).

I had my hip hop phase (young money!), my ska phase (Rudy can’t fail!) and my punk rock phase (Nazi punks fuck off!) . So what was left? Why the rave scene of the late 90’s of course.

Baggy pants, endless bass, late nights and of course the drugs. My Ship and Anchor wing lady Jill brought me to my first party, I had no idea what to expect, and no clue how to dance (still don’t). I remember trying to keep an open mind, but I was a punk rock kid, how would I act at some neon lovefest when I just wanted guitar driven aggressive music?

I remember writing my name and address down on a piece of paper before I got there, I knew I was going to try E and was worried I would have to flee the scene and wouldn’t be able to communicate to a cab driver. Which makes total sense right? Don’t research what you’re about to do, just hope for the best and have a scribbled down address as your backup plan. Boys are dumb.

Walking up the stairs, hearing the bass beat, feeling the stairs shake below me, had me thinking I was going to some European gangbang. I must have walked around for hours, checking out the scene, people watching, studying how people danced (cause there would be a test later). Some girl came up to me and told me I was beautiful. I blankly stared back at her “umm thanks” as I continued my travels around the hall thinking “weirdo”.

I won’t go into the details of the drugs (I’ll leave you to make a judgment on the negatives and positives of partaking in such things) but I will say I found myself on the dance floor at some point in the night. And yes, loving it. Although I had no idea what to do out there. At some point I heard the guy beside me call out to his friend “Ha is he doing the robot?” And of course I was, I knew like two dance moves, and the bunny hop seemed inappropriate somehow. Although if you throw that on at a wedding I am more than prepared to tear the roof of like Redman.

The song I leave you with is Mike Skinner’s classic “Blinded by the Lights”, which is the closest commentary on what going to a party is like. Confusing with a chance of awesome.

And as bonus, and to poke fun at ravers everywhere.

The Tao of the Wu-Tranny Clan

Hedwig and the Angry Inch – Angry Inch

First things fucking first. I fucking loathe musicals, I really do, I would do unmentionably horrific things to Andrew Lloyd Weber for the pain he has caused mankind. For countless hours I sat in the back of my mother’s Mercury Comet as a child unknowingly soaking up lines from ‘Cat’s’ and ‘The Phantom of the Opera’ . At the time it all seemed normal, but looking back it explains my ongoing constant desire to break into song in inappropriate/public places. It also explains that weird childhood memory of me singing “Tomorrow” from the musical ‘Annie’ to my babysitter’s cat in their backyard at the top of my lungs over and over on summer day. And I won’t even get into the issue of attempting to define my own sexuality while having ‘Les Miserables’ stuck in the back of my head as a pre-teen, “should I ask her out now or wait for my single spotlight cue?”

That all being said (musicals suck, my mother messed me up, cat serenades) Hedwig and the Angry Inch is different, well to me at least. The story of a gay boy from Communist Germany who goes through a botched up sex change to marry a American solider, only to be abandoned in USA with a ‘Barbie doll crotch’ on his/her way to becoming a punk rock icon of sorts. As ridiculous as that all sounds, it’s even more ridiculous how much I adore this shit. Punk rock, trans-gender bj jokes, Plato connotations, how can you go wrong?

Justin Bieber Feat. Kanye West and Raekwon – Runaway Love

If one ever needed proof that the musical landscape has truly become a melting pot of genres one need look no further than Bieber’s Kanye produced track ‘Runaway’. I find the very fact that this track exists interesting beyond comprehension.

This is Justin Bieber, the 17 year old bubblegum-pop teen record selling machine with Kanye West, who arguably created the album of the year in 2010 (and one of the best hip-hop albums in 10 years), and Raekwon from the legendary Wu-Tang Clan. I repeat, Wu-Tang and Bieber. And this isn’t some track some kid cut and pasted together, this was an open collaboration, they were in the studio together.

Never before in pop music history has two artists at the top of their game, dripping with success and credibility, joined forces with someone the likes of Bieber. I propose that this is a paradigm shift in popular music, maybe the pinacle. Over the last few years we have seen genres mixed and matched (see the current trend of hip hop using house/techo produced beats), artist collaboration is at an all-time high, and already successful pop acts taking genre risks they never would have before.

It begs the question though. What’s the difference between JB and Usher? The fan-base? The age? Aside from the obvious race difference I see no real difference. And what about Justin Timberlake? Who has somehow gained as much credibility as anyone in music (name me one hip-hop artist who wouldn’t work with him). Things done changed (yo), in pop music and in hip-hop. And maybe this is all for the best, maybe it is time genre’s are left behind, maybe this is where we drop the labels. Perhaps DJ’s, mash-up artists and the need to reach new audiences have altered the landscape forever.

So next time you go to make your Justin Bieber joke, remember to protect yo neck, cause Wu-Tang Clan ain’t nothing to fuck wit. Ya ya, i got nothing else okay.

Dry Your Nookie Mate

The Streets – Dry Your Eyes Mate

Alright, it’s no secret that on any given night I’d snuggle up to Mike Skinner in our cozy double bed from behind and whisper sweet nothings into his ear about how perfect he is as an artist. About how his deadpan accent drenched delivery backed by UK drum and bass/house/hip hop beats makes my ‘Bobby Segar’ (get it? get it?) on a consistent basis. I’d explain how his quirky and intelligent word-play made household North American ‘Rap-Pop-Stars’ seem like some inside joke that I didn’t get, like Snuggies or Smart Cars.

How the shit does this work Mr. Skinner? You just talk, semi on beat, or awkwardly semi sing a chorus about cell phone issues, taking too many pills, the legalization of weed, not “mugging yourself” and misunderstood Facebook updates. But it does work. Like some sort of calm White Squall, a perfect paradox of pop music and UK flavor. Of hip hop and rave culture. It’s like Jesus made a mash-up.

Which brings me to Skinners 2004 “Dry Your Eyes Mate”, maybe the most honest and perfect heartbreak song written in the last 10 years from a man’s perspective.

The acoustic guitar is dead my friends; it’s been beaten to death by endless shitty acoustic covers and the perception that putting words over some generic acoustic strumming makes the song more “meaningful”. Please, nursery rhymes sound “meaningful” when sung over Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Landslide’. That being said, an acoustic guitar, a simple slow drum beat, and a Chris Martin chorus (yes that fucking Chris Martin (and no Martin’s sins do not devalue this song)) somehow both makes tender love to my eardrums and forces me to ponder those times when I was on the wrong side of an infatuation.

The thing that should make The Streets fail is the exact thing that makes them succeed. The awkwardly delivered lyrics. Without being overly concerned about rhyme and measure Skinner can delivery in a way that no other artist can, he can just explain it to you, clearly and cleverly.

As Skinner himself stated “You say that everything sounds the same, then you go buy them, there’s no excuse my friends, let’s push things forward”. BTW WTF is an ‘artful dodger’?

Denise Williams - Let’s Hear It Tor The Boy

Ugh, I can’t believe I’m writing this down. But I fucking love this jam. I do. I hate myself for it, but I do. It reminds me of roller-skating, crimped hair and the beat is about as head-bobby as you can get. It’s a perfect white guy dancing track, possibly only trumped by Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark”. But there was always something more to it, something underlying that I was attached to, that I just couldn’t figure out. But then, one day, it clicked. This song is about getting nookie.

The entire song this chick complains about how her man doesn’t talk sweet, doesn’t dress nice (but she doesn’t mind), he has no money and he’s a terrible singer. But when he pulls her close, watch the F out, cause he’s her loving one man show (whoa whoa whoa whooooooooa). Denise Williams basically wrote NIN’s ‘Closer’ in 1984.

Kudos Miss Williams, kudos. (Sidenote: this video is WICKED offside if my theory is correct, which of course it is)

Drinking Virgin Blood

It has been a long time since i wrote anything. My bad. To attempt to make it up to you i have written a horrifically embarassing story for your eyes to laugh at.

As previously mentioned I was a bit of a late bloomer in terms of most things. I didn't drink till I was 17. Didn't try drugs till I was 18. And was hopelessly awkward with girls until ohhhh last night (thanks mom!). The following is the sad bastard of a story that was losing my wretched virginity.

First some background on who I was at this stage in my life. After graduating high school I decided to make the always intelligent "break" from school. Cause apparently high school was wicked draining on me? During that time I got my first job (thanks Safeway) and was also subsequently fired for the first time two months later (fuck you Safeway). Me and "the boys" would hang out literally on a daily basis, playing sports and watching flicks. To be honest girls were kind of seen as too much work and an unneeded dramatic element. Sure they were pretty and smelt nice but unless I was hopped up on 25 cent draft and ‘Pony’ by Ginuwine was pumping through the Taz's speakers I saw no need in heavily investing in them aside from some rad friends who just happened to have lady lumps (check it out).

Anyways. Sorbs and I had made the decision to leave our parents house and venture out into the downtown core. I suddenly put a rather large about of pressure on myself to see if I could bring back girls to the apartment. Sorbs had a girlfriend at the time so I knew i would be solo in my efforts. Btw I think the idea that my buddy/roommate was getting action on a regular basis had a large part to do with my sudden determination to lose my vcard. The first night we had possession I made a promise to myself that I would not be coming home alone. No matter what. What could go wrong right?

So how does a young mildly retarded boy pick up a girl? Why drink pitcher after pitcher of beer and 'cruise' the bar and hope that a girl just sort falls into ur lap of course. I have a hazzy memory of the awkward search. I eventually crossed paths with a girl I had seen at a couple parties and had drunkenly talked to on numerous occasions.

I remember forcefully trying to fill lulls in the conversation so she wouldn't have a moment to give me the "I should get back to my friends" line. I remember thinking "be witty", "make her laugh" and I think I thought to myself "look tough" for some unknown reason. Boys are dumb.

Eventually the lights came on. I knew it was now or never. Time to step up and be a man/drunken boy. So how do I ask a girl home for the first time? I had no idea. But I knew something had to be said. It had to be subtle, and cool, yet keep it classy. So obviously I asked "Hey. Umm. What are u doing now? Wanna…umm. Come to my place to play original Nintendo?"

Yes, I actually thought that was cool and subtle.

Honestly.

And for some god knows why reason she said “ya sure”.

We took the car ride back to our apartment and Sorbs and his gf intelligently made themselves scarce. So there I was, with a girl in my apartment (willingly I might add), both of us tipsy, so what do I do? Why fire up the original Nintendo of course. Almost immediately she crosses her arms (never a good sign fellas) and asks me:

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Ummm I thought you wanted to play Nintendo”

“I don’t want to play FUCKING Nintendo”

“Oh”

Next thing that made sense to me was drinking more beer. Maybe if I had more ‘liquid courage’ this situation would be easier. Hell she might even take the lead and put me out of my misery. As the beer levels decreased and the silence levels increased on my patio I knew I had to take a stab at this. I knew I had to say something, something that would let her know that I was down, but that I wasn’t a total ahole.

So again, what verbal diarrhea comes spilling out of my mouth?

“So ummm what are the chances of a guy like me, and a girl like you….going back to my bedroom and…?”

I kid you not, that is verbatim what I said. I remember so vividly because she was chuckling by the end of the question. Shaking her head. Then turned to me, took me by the hand, and lead me to the bedroom.

I would love to sit here and write about how that night I turned in an all-star performance, that I was impressive on all accounts, made up for my awkwardness and cheesy lines with my ability to deliver. But my friends. That would be a filthy filthy lie. To be honest it was all a blur. I remember doing a little of X and a little of Y and suddenly before I even knew what was up…I was…umm…playing field hockey. Well I had stepped on the field at least. I didn’t play the game for long, and I definitely didn’t make the team that night.

I was officially, and literally a “two pump chump”.

There was this moment of happiness and awkwardness that immediately followed. I had done it. I was no longer a virgin. Meanwhile the girl who I was still laying on top of wasn’t exactly happy about the situation. As I crawled off her and collected my thoughts on how I would deal with this situation she rolled away from me. Her back to me I heard her whisper

“I can’t believe I came all the way here…..for that”

I died a little that night. Ha.

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Anyway you want it (Happy New Years)

Don’t Stop Believing - Journey

So this song is a beyond cliché now. But it still defines a part of my friends and me. It’s been played at all our weddings. It was put on repeat at bachelor parties. It has become a part of our language. Now if only my gf would let me blare the song during sex while a massive asteroid hurdled toward Earth and Bruce Willis wasn’t anywhere to be found. Epic much? Suck on that Jerry Bruckheimer.

Under the Gun – The Killers

For some reason every pop song about love or heartbreak that I like is a song I could fantasize picture myself singing in some high school musical type scenario. Walking though the halls. Nodding my head while I sing about my heartbreak. Pushing people out of my way as I look directly into the camera and express my anger at ‘her’ for choosing ‘him’. Singing in the car is basically a way to live this experience out in a safe way. Really all I want to do is be Ewan Macgregor in Chicago but in a high school setting. Wait does that mean I like Glee?

The Ahole Monologue

**The following is a short story i wrote in my last year of university. I wanted to write something that scared the crap out of me to write. I was reading a lot of Freud and a lot of Chuck Palahniuk at the time. Back then i only had the courage to show one person, mostly because i thought it made me sound like a psycho and because frankly it reads like a bad Palahniuk rip off. Now i see it as more of a tribute (remix?). I basically wanted to write a piece about a complete miserable assholes frame of mind. Annnnnnnnnnnd here we go**

Just look around.

All bets are your life is nothing but evasion. Nothing but avoidance.

Television, the internet, cellular phones, computers, pornography, your iPod. All these inventions so you wouldn’t be alone, your friends of technology existing so you can avoid the silence of your own thoughts, the truth of who you really are. Cartoons, instant messengers, reality television shows, video games.

You distract yourself to save yourself from yourself. Virtual realities created to avoid reality. Filling your life with meaninglessness to avoid your emptiness. This is your life, this is what you made, and this is what you bought into.

All bets are this is exactly who you are.

Bets are you wake up to caffeinated beverages and Regis. Toasted bagels and the Today show. The drive to work with the sports news. Fucking Christ the Astro’s lost again.

Work, this great service to the world, this so-called necessary activity of civilization. What is your role? What service do you fulfill? Filling out order slips from fuck knows where to who-cares-ville, that’s what.

Luckily your boss doesn’t know about Tetris on your computer or you wouldn’t get through the AM. You wouldn’t survive this cubicle existence. Three bathroom breaks. One to jack off in the handicap bathroom, so at least you can feel something. Check your email twice an hour.

Lunchtime with the boys; a beer and a burger, stat. The afternoon slips by easier with a buzz. Shoot the shit about who fucked who last weekend. About the bitch at the club who wouldn’t give you the time of day. Fucking dyke. Ramble on about all the moments that you can’t remember. About your conquest of the weekend through obliteration. Damn it, it’s almost one o’clock.

If the morning is numbing, the afternoon is a painful coma. Four bathroom breaks. Check your email again. Bets are those penis enlarging pills would do you good. I mean who couldn’t use more girth? After all, 80% of women surveyed said in secrecy they were dissatisfied with their partner’s unit. Slip into the inventory room, check and make sure you have enough pens and paperclips. Who-cares-ville is depending on you.

The last hour is the worst. Scanning your watch every couple minutes, if it was only daylight savings. Check your email. And your ex-girlfriends. Who the fuck is Randy? Another bathroom break; pretend to shit for twenty minutes. Finally it comes. Your freedom from slavery, five o’clock.

You grab your briefcase and sprint to your maroon 98’ Camry. Peel out of the underground graveyard. Blare the Beatles. Paul, John, Ringo and the other guy…take it away. All bets are you do believe in yesterday. When you played high school football and got to third base in the girls locker-room with Cindy Templeton. Starting quarterback for the varsity team. Nathan Diggs year end party at his parents place. Drunk chicks looking to score with the popular athlete. Shit, what was that girl’s name who gave you her virginity? Like it matters anyway, it’s not like she didn’t know what she was doing. I mean it was high school right? Saying “I love you” to a chick on the fence doesn’t really mean anything, just means you have a dick and you aren’t a pussy. It means you know how to close. Some call it manipulation; you call it strategic word placement. All bets are yesterday is all you have.

Fast-forward to today and look at you. Here in this twenty-thousand dollar moving coffin catching every red light. Prolonging your living wake. The Beatles singing your eulogy. Rush hour traffic, assholes cutting you off. The soccer mom and her fucking mini-van. The college kid with the Jeep Daddy bought him. The old man and in his drivable yacht. All your sworn enemies, your nemesis’, your Lex Luthers, your Darth Vader’s.

Your driveway never looked so good. Your garage, the pussy of perfection. Home. ESPN and a cold one, stat. Bets are your recliner is your best friend. Always there for you, always warm and inviting. Never asking for shit, just company. Just to be used. Micro-wave dinner, Salisbury steak, instant potatoes and the corn you never eat. Pull out the TV tray; the games on. Thank god you decided to get satellite, 400 channels of self-imposed distraction. Another Budweiser, stat. It’s easier to unwind with a buzz on.

Fuck the Astro’s suck. Bagwell couldn’t hit a curve if my life depended on it. Alright another two brewskies, stat. It’s easier to mourn a loss when you can’t feel anymore. How the shit is it midnight already? Remember to set the alarm and turn off the lights. Curl up in your queen-sized therapeutic comfort controlled bed. Flip through the pages of Maxim and wonder what it feels like to be inside Jennifer Love Hewitt, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Jennifer Lopez. You bet they all love a big cock, love some extra girth. You bet they all love it rough. Not like Patricia your ex, she always wanted to “make love” and then cuddle. Like cuddling ever did anything for the world. Flip the page to the model from Scandinavia on page twenty-six, for sure she loves to be face-fucked, just look at her, I mean come on. They all would if they’d only try it.

Flip the page.

Come to think of it you could use the complete Gillette skincare product line. Bets are your face could be clearer.

Flip the page.

Pull your dick to Hillary Duff. Somehow it’s always easier to come when you can pretend to teach a young chick how to suck dick. Clean up your unborn children. Bets are having a self-administered orgasm just isn’t enough to put you to sleep anymore. Pop your daily sleeping pill Lunesta, formerly known as Estorra. Turn on your 42” television to the nightly news. Pass out wondering what the hell Ted Coppell is bitching about now.

All bets are this is your life.

Passing by a day at a time in a walking coma, a distraction of a distraction of a distraction. Ad infinitum.

Lather, rinse and repeat. Five days a week.