SO/SN/SB/SB — 5/8/23

Something Old

I talked a big game back in the day that WALL-E was my favorite Pixar movie, my favorite movie of 2008, and definitely better than The Dark Knight. But then a funny thing happened—I didn't watch for fifteen years. So last week I finally convinced Willow (happy fifth birthday!!!) to watch it with me (by using the classic "this is your cousin's favorite movie!" card), mostly because I knew she would enjoy it, but also to see if it held up in a repeat viewing all these years later.

I still loved it enough that I can definitely say it was my favorite movie that year (and better than the Batman thing), but maybe let's be cool about it. I think it's a beautiful film, and does so much emotionally without using dialogue as a crutch. There's a compelling story about faith in humanity and how one little robot reignites a revolution, and if there's one way in which WALL-E has not held up perfectly, it's that here in 2023, there is so little faith in humanity left that the message rings a little hollow. I can see humans trashing Earth so thoroughly that they have to escape into space for 700 years, but I cannot see humans then having the gumption and fortitude to return to Earth to start again and fix things. That requires a selflessness that I just don't know human beings possess on that scale.

Still, that's a me problem; it has everything to do with my nagging pessimism, and nothing to do with the wonder and delight of (the second best Pixar film) WALL-E.

Something New

Context is everything (see: this week's Something Old). The context is especially important for the new indie rock outfit superviolet, who released their debut album Infinite Spring a couple weeks ago.

One context is that frontman Steve Ciolek was also the frontman for the Sidekicks, who were an indie rock band that broke up late last year, and who were beloved well beyond anything I knew about while they were still with us. So context one is that this is a do-over, a fresh start, for the artist in question.

The next context is that the seasons are changing, and so it is the perfect time for a great, catchy, start-fresh-and-do-over album such as Infinite Spring. It's a time of renewal, and this is the perfect soundtrack. Also worth mentioning that I'm finally finishing school this week, and so, like, talk about fucking transitions, right?

The final context is that the final Sidekicks album, Happiness Hours, was released the week that Willow was born, and so I have a lot of little memories of listening to Ciolek's voice as I sat with the infant in her middle bedroom and tried to keep her calm and dry and well-fed and alive. And so here I am again, in the middle bedroom, listening to that same voice, with yet another infant (well, okay, six-month-old, but the timing almost matches up), and it just feels right, man. 

Sometimes life just lines up and gives you one of the best albums of the year at the perfect time and in the perfect context.

Something Borrowed

I'm not making this mistake again. The new album from the National just came out last week, and, like all National albums, First Two Pages of Frankenstein feels like a grower. I will not prematurely review the album this time. I need a few more weeks for it to soak in. I'll eventually review it in a Record Club Follow-Up column, but for now, let's answer this question that no one else seems to want to touch. What the heck is the deal with the title of the album? What exactly is on the first two pages of Frankenstein? Let's find out:

Letter 1

To Mrs. Saville, England.
St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—.

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators—there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at

Okay, so what's the deal? What about these two pages did the band feel like related to their new album? It's not the language, which is way more "classic" prim/proper than the poetry Berninger usually drops. Though perhaps it connects in tone, that sort of dreamy surrealism that the National traffic in can be found here as well. And... I don't know, is it a thing on National albums that the "monster" is never in plain sight, but instead hiding just around the corner, just like Frankenstein's monster here, not visible on these two pages, but instead hiding, waiting. Or am I full of shit? Or is the National full of shit? I don't know... I will probably never read Frankenstein...

Something Blue

Oh yeah, that was my bad. Last week's Something Blue was written in advance, and I had deigned to utter the name "Jack Harlow." Maybe three hours after I wrote those two words to be published on the blog, Harlow announced a new album, which he then released on the world a few days later. Usually, I'd stay away from an album that features the biggest loser on earth posing shirtless on the cover and doing that stupid cross-armed thing that middle school guys do to make it seem like they have biceps bigger than they actually do... but Harlow is an RC alum, and so I will give Jackman. the requisite one spin and then try to forget about it forever.

We skipped his last album on this blog, since it came out two days before we covered Thats What They All Say, and so I can't say whether this is an improvement or same ol' same ol'. The reviews for Come Home the Kids Miss You were pretty terrible, and I imagine they will be equally harsh for Jackman. Either that or—we can only pray—this will just be ignored all together. But we all know that's not how the game works.

Here's how it actually worked: some stupid asshole releases another 30 minutes of music, and spends the entire half hour pretending he came up hard, because it was impressed upon him at a young age that it is important to act tough if you want to be a rapper. Maybe stack a few old soul samples on there because you love Kanye West now that he's a Nazi. No Tory Lanez this time, since it was proven in court that he shot Megan Thee Stallion, and Jack Harlow is all out of excuses. Note: there is a song on Jackman. in which Harlow sarcastically dismisses the idea that he has ever benefited from white privilege. FUCK THIS ASSHOLE.

I have read that this album is his "stab at maturity." The only mature thing to do at this point is to stab himself in the throat so that he can no longer terrorize the American population with terrible C-level Drake-style white boy rap bullshit. This is worse than anything Jack Harlow has ever done, and the only way that he improves his sound is that the album is short.

RC f/u

Jackman. by Jack Harlow

Released: April 28, 2023

Follow-up to: Thats What They All Say, Week 171

GRADE: 0.5 pukes out of 5 (no change from previous review)