September 27, 2005


Lyndie England's defense paralells most every narrative in Too Much Time by Jane Evelyn Atwood , a book about the lives of women in prison and how they ended up there, which I purchased last week, but find too depressing to look at more than 2 pages at a time. Says a women's prison official on page 11: "I concluded a long time ago that a majority of the women here are primarily guilty of bad taste in men."
I do not know what I think about it all, yet.

"Truckstop Cassettes" on the just-out Portastatic record is so spooky adult cha-cha. On the bio, which was written by the wee milk tooth, Conor Oberst, he names it Americana --that's the genus they give you when you get the fiddle out. If you do not think the nu Portastatic is the best thing Mac McMacMac has done since "Driveway to Driveway", then we are most certaing disagreeing.

Bell Orchestre is the upcoming Arcade Fire side-proje (rhymes with bloje) for which you or others are shitting sweat in anticipatory glee over, perhumps bouyed by the fact that Pitchfork gave it 47-googleplex mics in rating, but I am here to deliver the baddest news since, I dunno, the Times morning edition, and tell you this: It's like Kitaro and Jean-Michael Jarre jamming over the Nature Store's Spirit Wind CD, minus the "babbling brook" sound of a positive feng-shui inducing 9-volt mini-fountain. It's like a viola-bukkake dis track/answer back to Animal Collective's best Andreas Vollenweider-inspired moments.

Posted by Jessica at September 27, 2005 07:51 PM | TrackBack