"In every society one can contrast occasions and moments for silence and occasions and moments for talk. In our own, one can go on to say that by and large (and especially among the unacquainted) silence is the norm and talk something for which warrant must be present...In holding our tongue, we give evidence that such thought as we are giving to our own concerns is not presumed by us to be of any moment to the others present, and that the feelings these concerns invoke in ourselves are owed no sympathy. Without such enjoined modesty, there could be no public life, only a babble of childish adults pulling at one another's sleeves for attention. The mother to whom we would be saying, 'Look, no hands,' could not look or reply for she would be saying 'Look, no hands,' to someone else."

Erving Goffman, Forms of Talk

"Linear, overt activism that calls attention to itself is as shitty as cosmetic beauty that does the same. And "political" punk-folk farted out for a like-minded protest-horny audience is just as redundant as hymns about being at church or club anthems about clubbing. (We'll be DIY when we make our own cigarettes, fuel, and plastic.) The consistently poverty-stricken Edgar Allan Poe dropped a great term for such "humble" imps: "self-bepuffed." Bragging about how you're going to cultishly "liberate" a particular community is as bizarre and arrogant as hoarding stuffed animals, which, as the cultural critic Daniel Harris has pointed out in his book Cute, Quaint, Hungry, & Romantic, is an act of sadism: surrounding yourself with helpless lessers in need of your propping."

William Bowers, "Puritan Blister #44 | 2009: A Xiu Xiudyssey"

When brief asides are as good and on-point as this--in a longer, autobiographical piece about his Xiu Xiu fandom and sexual abuse, no less--there arises the need for several deep breaths when you're writing your next thing that you think is going to be good.

"The output of symphonies in Europe in the fifty years between 1750 and 1800 was prodigious; it has been estimated that the number was well in excess of twenty thousand. It was customary to order a symphony for a specific occasion, as one might order a new coat or wig; one would no more play an old symphony at a special occasion than one would wear an old suit of clothes. The musicians who composed these pieces to order regarded themselves more as skilled craftsmen producing for a market than as artists in the modern sense.

Symphonies were generally played at sight or after a single rehearsal; typically, they would receive one or at most a handful of performances, and then the score and parts would be put away to gather dust in a cupboard or used to light the fire. The demand for new symphonies was as insatiable as the demand for new pop songs in our own time, and last year's symphonies were as stale as last year's songs."

Christopher Small, "Musicking: The Meanings of Performing and Listening"

It's a long clip (c. 16 minutes), but it's a doozy. And it starts with a swell vertical tracking shot.

Hitchcock's Blackmail (1929) is widely regarded as the first British talkie, and this clip testifies to his genius and self-promotional acumen. Right off the bat, as film was still struggling to develop its own language, Hitchcock takes full advantage of his technologically-afforded options by letting a song do the narrational and affective work of the crucial early scene in his film.* As Alice changes into her costume to be "captured" by Crewe the creepy dilettante, he sings "Miss Up-to-Date" to her-- a Billy Mayerl trifle about the changing social roles and public perceptions of the Twenties Woman. It's telling, of course, that Hitchcock frames the song in a split-screen, undeniably (and creepily) revealing his own take on the topic: Crewe sings about a modern woman on one side, we watch one undress in front of us on the other side. "They praise the woman of the past age/ And loathe her daughter of this fast age/ They sing a hymn of hate for Miss Up-to-Date/ And spin their spite/ From morn 'til night." Crewe ends the song by defending the woman-as-object-of-scorn (rhyming her name with "you're absolutely great"), but then...yeeeeeeeee.

The entire scene's worth watching, to marvel at the way Hitchcock--again, at a time when narrative film was far from a stable storytelling medium--was able to build suspense slowly and elegantly, without the worry of an intrustive score, (at least until the bad part is over) but simply through silence and shadows and strategic cutaways. The climactic moment is relayed only through the visual of flailing underneath the drapes, and the really climactic moment is totally silent.

* Hitchcock also learned of one of the many side-effects of sound during filming, as well. Anny Ondra, who played Alice (see previous post), came packaged with a wicked Czech accent, something that wasn't an issue prior. Her voice is dubbed throughout the film.

Anny Ondra, in a promotional still from Hitchcock's Blackmail (1929)

"The most striking thing to me about this isn’t: Downloading possibly leads to sales. But: Over the course of the past decade, a lot of people just stopped giving a shit about music altogether. Yet the survey, its results (from what I’ve seen) and the discussions of it don’t seem to consider this at all."

This is Scott Plagenhoef's response (scroll down to the comments) to my response to Maura's response to that study attempting to causally link downloading habits to other forms of consumption. One of the things I wasn't really able to get into in the ridiculously quick conversation I had with Maura over IM that afternoon is exactly the quandary that Scott raises above. Which can be answered pretty briefly, actually: The reason that no one really discusses why "people stopped giving a shit about music altogether," if this is in fact the case, is because the sorts of research that end up in newspapers and on tech blogs aren't designed, from the beginning, to answer questions like this.

I mentioned this in an earlier post here, but it bears repeating. It's not an issue of a study being "longitudinal" or not. Both quantitative and qualitative research are both perfectly equipped to conduct research over time. What is the issue at hand is the questions and problems that different forms of research are equipped to address. This particular survey, like others that get picked up by wire services, seeks to place the messy, chaotic activities involved with mundane music consumption within a framework that reifies the market categories that we all find so frustrating to begin with. These researchers, from what I can tell, are interested in making connections between downloading and buying habits, and are thus asserting that those are the most important considerations to take into account when talking about music in everyday life.

Which is fine, don't get me wrong. There is plenty of utility in this sort of research, namely the capacity to accumulate data from nearly 2,000 respondents in a quick amount of time. But this sort of research also tells us little to nothing about the myriad other functions and roles of music in people's everyday lives. It tells us nothing about the ways that people engage with music in situations that have nothing to do with market ideologies. We don't hear the voices of individual Norwegian 15-year-olds, whose responses to questions about what they think of music's purpose or utility might address Scott's above question in illuminating ways. But also in ways that don't necessarily travel well through venues like newsapers and tech blogs, which, even though online, are still burdened by the tyranny of word-count and simple, easy-to-follow facts. Quantitative research travels well because it's easily translatable into dichotomies, because it can be made to hew closely to simple arguments about right and wrong.

This is a research topic I'm preparing to embark upon in the fall, and a topic I will summarily blog the fuck out of, either here or elsewhere. At this point, I'm inclined to disagree with Scott's assertion, but only because it's predicated on the assumption that there's one particular way to "give a shit about music", and that it's also possible for everyone to suddenly stop doing that. Talking to people about what music does for them when it's mediated through the Web and Internet will hopefully reveal new paradigms through which we can understand how people invest meaning in art that's become infinitely accessible, replicable, and freshly sedimented in the most mundane of everyday activities (answering one's phone, for instance).

Scott's been thinking about this stuff for quite some time, and has even expounded upon his ideas in a very entertaining book. But let's think about the data he's using to support his claim: "dwindling shelf space given to music at big boxes, the number of indie or chain record stores closing, the relative amount and variety of music on U.S. TV/MTV/radio vs a decade or two ago ...plus the factual and quite striking shrinking record sales." If "not giving a shit about music" means "not buying or engaging with music in the ways we did in the 80s and 90s," then yes, his point is fine. But it's also tautological. We need to consider the vast amount of other ways that people are imagining their connections with music, occasioned by the new technologies through which they're experiencing it. Once audiences have broken an imaginary tether to the traditional musical commodity, what new forms of relationships are going to emerge?

A new track from The Field, the first from his forthcoming Yesterday and Today LP, called "The More That I Do," is available in downloadable form. Predictably, it's good. But a different kind of good than the icy winds of From Here We Go Sublime: it's still based around a fat rhythm bed, clipped vocal samples, and oh-so-rewarding shifts in pitch that hit you hard, even though you see them coming from a mile away. But "More" is glittery and disco-friendly where Sublime was mostly tundra-conjuring. I know I'm starting to repeat myself here, but that break at the 3-minute mark, yeah, that's significantly "My Girls"ish.

But that's not the best part. At the end of 07, I got the chance to write about Sublime as the ninth-best album of the year, and made reference to "10-minute epic 'The Deal'," which "floats an ethereal Elisabeth Fraser-sounding vocal over the softest, slightest rhythmic variations." Looks like Willner's gone and done me one better on "More": after that break at 3 minutes, he shifts the piece perfectly, and loops in a huge sample of the ever-lovely "Lorelei" (particularly Fraser's vocal at about 2 minutes into the original). I probably don't need to over-emphasize how appropriate I feel this is.

My Tinted Windows game has caught on! (At least in Idolator's comment section). People are approaching the boy-band timeframe liberally (some NKOTB in there), but that's OK. I particularly like the all-British one, and Maura's picks.

Animal Collective "My Girls"

If a band wants to conjure up a satisfying series of earthy hippie brews, it seems like they'll eventually have to mix in a bit of patriarchy. In an earlier period of my life, I might say about “My Girls” something like “Hey Noah, it’s all well and good that your intent isn’t to opt into ownership culture, but tell that to the possessive pronoun pertaining to the two most important ladies in your life.” A decade or so later, I sort of just want to say, “Lennox promises to ride for his boo and his seed, and it sizzles like a forest rave.” But while I certainly don’t think the most engaging aspect of the song is its ideology, I'm also unable to ignore the fact that Lennox himself wants his particular message heard loud and clear.

When all the song’s wonderfully subaqueous bottom-end drops away, and that booming, evangelical refrain—easily the indie refrain of the year—emerges from a sea of glimmering electronics, it becomes immediately clear that Lennox doesn’t simply want to peace out and and live off the land while making sure his ladies don’t get rained on. No, the first half of the "My Girls" refrain takes a step past, say, "Bro's": "I know myself, and I know what I want to do. I'm doing my best, and I want to know, is it good for you?" The first part of that refrain--"I don't mean to seem like I care about material things, like they're social stats"--changes this song into something very different, and something very current: neoliberal protest in the midst of self-reflexive confession culture. Lennox wants to drop out, but he takes the unnecessary, extra step of pre-emptively silencing any armchair sociologists.*

That's what makes this song personal and political. It's how "My Girls" is protesting, in its own way, what, say, M.I.A. is celebrating (in her own way): Neoliberal identity politics. "My Girls" is sweet and glittery, but like Person Pitch's "Take Pills", there's an undercurrent of anxiety amidst the placidity. Like the star of his own zombie film, Lennox wants to escape the necessity of imagining himself in the same way that corporations do: as part of a social sphere set up like a market. His language betrays what he wants to escape--speaking self-reflexively, statistically, in the same way that companies refer to their brand images.

Sure, "My Girls" is also, let's be frank, this. But let’s not forget: If you're Noah Lennox, your work and public image are thoroughly sedimented in the everyday practices of thousands of rabid fans, who feel like they know what's best for you (man), and your career has been forged within a social realm which breeds a new understanding of intimacy between performers and audiences, and which thus breeds more opportunities to lose control of other non-material possessions (as in, your digital music, or your bandmate's identity [that's not tape-trading, folks]).

I think Lennox is passionate and sincere on "My Girls", and I don't fault him one bit for looking over his shoulder when he tells us what he wants to do when he grows up. He's just a simple guy, after all, who wants to try and make sure that what he's sending out is the same as what gets picked up. A different kind of "controlling the message," sure. But also, probably, a bit of paranoia.

*(All of which would be irritating as hell if the song didn’t also happen to be gorgeous. Like Orb gorgeous--that kind of gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that makes indie kids bump into arms-folded dudes at concerts [the indie refrain of 2006, btw] because they're dancing like hippies.)

The Tinted Windows Album Is Astonishingly Competent

Which shouldn't be surprising, of course. The group comprises four seasoned pros bent on re-branding themselves as a B-Team power-pop Traveling Wilburys. It says something when your presumed charisma-bearer is the Kid Who Looked Like A Cute Eighth Grade Girl in Hanson 12 years ago. This is a group of guys proud to be session-level, okay with making the musical equivalent of these posters. Classy, vaguely hip I suppose, definitely "catchy," if you get caught staring at it, but mainly made to match the drapes. Adam Schlesinger (Ivy, Fountains of Wayne), Bun E. Carlos (Cheap Trick), Taylor Hanson (Hanson) and Jimmy Iha (Smashing Pumpkins). Four dudes that make you go, "oh hey yeah, that guy." Or in the case of Schlesinger, whom I resent, it's "that's who the New Pornographers remind me of, that band Fountains of Wayne." No, imaginary person, that's not how things work, your ears are blind. But even with all that, I have an admission: I have that exact poster hanging in my kitchen. It's framed and everything, and it came free when I bought my furniture set 8 years ago. I probably won't listen to Tinted Windows when I want to party, or "enjoy music," or drive the car. I'll probably listen to Tinted Windows when I want to drive the car like I'm in a car commercial.

But here's a fun game they've made me think of: shake Tinted Windows' lineup until the actual people fall out of it, and just their qualifications remain. Then fill in those qualifications with other people who have the same, or pretty close to the same. Here are the qualifications:

1. Redeemable former boy-band member from the late 90s
2. Sideman from influential 90s alt-rock band
3. Reliable jingle factory who does movie scores and stuff but who's had a big hit
4. Sorta-unknown component to legendary power-pop group

And here is my ideal Tinted Windows, then:

1. JC Chasez (justification) (and because picking Justin Timberlake is cheating)
2. Jimmy Chamberlain (because he needs a gig bad, and also because we need a drummer)
3. Danny Elfman (I mean, come on [and so what if it only hit #45]) (runners up: Mark Mothersbaugh, Matthew Sweet [sorta])
4. Benjamin Orr (totally fair)

As I'm sitting here watching my Interpersonal Comm. students take an exam today (update: something which I'm still doing), my friend Maura pops up in my IM window with a question. She was wondering as to the validity of this particular study (warning: not in English), and more specifically, this arstechnica article citing it. Here's our conversation, which is more or less me hurriedly constructing a generalized argument against the ability of quantitative research to address complex problems like this. I've not read the actual article, so I strategically steer clear of, you know, making claims about its actual content, just its reception, and the model used to collect data.

Elsewhere, here's me on Gentleman Reg's Arts & Crafts debut Jet Black, and me on the new SFA song "Inaugural Trams."

"During my first week back in Liberia I had been invited to Hawa’s birthday party, on Sembehun Beach, not far for Robertsport, so I passed some time with the ladies while they were preparing western-style food for everyone: rice, beef stake, pasta and potato salad. Then they started stirring what would have to be two cakes for the dessert, and I started wondering how they’d be able to bake them, since the only cooking apparels in the big warehouse were these coal pits on the ground."

Here are my three favorite entries for the Wilco ticket contest I offered up last week. All three are very good (two are from Ghost! All song titles have four syllables!), but "Pieholden Suite" nudged just a bit ahead of the pack. Thanks to everyone! Now, then:

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“Pieholden Suite” / Sheila Blanchard

Summerteeth’s “Pieholden Suite” captures the dissolution of a romance from the perspective of a cheating partner. Whether the protagonist is participating in a two-way dialogue or inner monologue, his discomfort is immediately evident, as he recognizes his wrong but is uncertain of what to say or do or where the relationship stands now. His words are deceptively simple and awkward, the discomfort of his measured confession covered with uneasy rhymes unevenly spaced, echoing the break in the rhythm of the couple. Acknowledging that the relationship could be at an end, he brings his partner back to their beginning. Could remembering their original spark rekindle their connection? Although no answer is directly given, the music provides the context for what is not being said. Underscoring the uncertainty of the lyrical performance, the music meanders through several paces and tones. Starting with a single note and slowly plodding through the layers of the early confession, the music then breaks off into a wistful instrumental before the hopeful remembrance of things past. As the lyrics end, the music takes off, expanding the tune of the previous verse, then pausing before breaking into a jaunty march. The old-fashioned style of the finale indicates nostalgia for the spoilt past, but its open ending and buoyant tone also point to optimism for a potential reconciliation. “Pieholden Suite” therefore reflects the complicated outlook of the wayward romantic protagonist from beginning to end: uncertain, unstable, yet hopeful for recovery of the ruined relationship.



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"Some Things Go Without Saying" / Nancy Nichols-Pethick

"There's a random painted highway," she sings, "and a muzzle of bees". She opens her eyes. It's 2 a.m., and you're sitting on the floor in your friend's roommate's room, the one room in the apartment you've never been in before, at the end of the hall. "My sleeves have come unstitched, from climbing your tree." There are plants in the tall windows and the bed is made, but the pillows are on the floor. Everybody's gone, including your friend. Someone cracked a window in the living room and the February air settles around your legs and your bare feet, so you pull the blanket off the bed. The old smoke rises away from the cold. "...The sun gets passed from tree to tree, silently, then back to me..." It's weird you never noticed how strong her hands are. Her voice is coming from a carved wooden box in the corner. "...I'm assuming you love me, and you know what that means..." Yes, you almost say out loud, except you don't want to, and you know she knows. You hear the apartment door open, and you hear your friend call your name. "...With the breeze blown through pushed up against the leaves..." You don't answer. You're outside now and hot air balloons are bumping into the sky. The grass has something important to say. You roll over slowly and check the time on the clock radio. 7:15. It's going to be a perfect day.




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anti-anxiety / Christopher J. Mulé

The Wilco song “Spiders (Kidsmoke),” for me, represents rock-n-roll yesterday and today. It is an eleven minute collision of two different realities—the Sex, Drugs, and Rock n’ Roll of the 1960’s anti-establishment era and the Fear, Meds, and Anxiety of our current Xanax Nation. A few seconds before the four minute mark of this song, these two worlds meet; they handshake; they trade pills; they have a drink; they talk about the future. “Spiders” is a sonic and lyrical mental breakdown that suddenly becomes, with the help of a heavy guitar riff, a rock anthem. It is as if Tweedy and Co. are summoning the spirit of rock-n-roll to save us from our maniacal multitasking that paints a Blackberry glaze over our nervous minds. For Tweedy, it is personal.

He wrote the song while making A Ghost is Born at the height of his struggle with migraine headaches and panic attacks. Struggling to get through the session, Tweedy and Co. simplified the complicated piece with a bunch of bashing guitar chords. He was just trying to get by, he did it loudly and I respect him for it. Over the years, Tweedy has gone public about the panic attacks and migraines he has suffered with his whole life. If you know anything about this disorder you can understand how amazing it is that he has never missed a show because of it. Ironically, one of the symptoms of a panic attack is an overwhelming feeling of “fight or flight”—a struggle to flee, to escape your anxious reality. Come to think of it, maybe the anti-establishment has something in common with our age of anxiety, but maybe we are all just doing the wrong drugs.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs "Zero"

The cover of the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s third LP It’s Blitz! features a striking high-speed camera-captured image of Karen O’s hand smashing a raw egg, sending its innards flying out in the shape of a Y. The 25th letter, of course, has become emblematic for the band in two distinct ways. First and most obvious, it’s the logo that signifies their name, represented on the fan-made “flag” that marked the cover of 2006’s overlooked Show Your Bones. Secondly, though, is the Y of “Y Control,” the flash half of the diptych from 2003’s Fever to Tell that opens with “Maps.” This Y is the label given to the chromosome—that last one of the 23 identical pairs—that determines a mammal’s sex as male. Thus, when Karen O sings, from the perspective of “one poor baby,” “I wish I could buy back/ The woman you stole,” she’s not protesting gender inequity, but lamenting biological determinism. That egg photo make more sense now?

That photo, along with the “Maps”/“Y Control” pair, frames Karen O’s serial negotiation of femininity, which is beautifully continued on It’s Blitz, and especially, if not necessarily directly, on “Zero.” Over the course of three albums and two EPs, she’s come quite a distance, from “as a fuck son, you suck” through “they don’t love you like I love you,” the exhilarating claustrophobia of “Way Out” (“it’s around me so tight!”) and now “Zero," in which she advocates for a public life lived privately, a neat script-flip of "personal is political." “Zero,” as is most likely obvious, doesn’t quite take the shape of Billy Corgan’s teenaged self-abnegation: out of his hands, leaving him only to wail at his own inefficacy. Karen O's “Zero” is an offer to us: to purposefully make ourselves blank slates—to assert agency in the interest of anonymity—while at the same time wholly giving ourselves over to the social. In other words, no one’s gonna ask our names, but we'd still better find out where they want us to go.

It’s the perfect pop-as-everyday-performance metaphor, expressed wonderfully in the video when her "stage" turns out to be the street. More importantly, it fits exceedingly well--"Zero" being as loaded a sign as "Y", or, why not, "O"--with her overarching political and artistic project, which has been devoted from the start to understanding how power works, and how we (especially women) can work within, and negotiate it. You can be anonymous, sure, but you're still subject to forces beyond your control. You can't escape power, in other words, but you sure as hell can adapt to it. Release can only exist where there once was restraint. Put your leather on.

Hopefully soon, I'll be able to post two things: some thoughts on 2009 songs and albums thus far (Phoenix, "My Girls," Yeah Yeah Yeahs, AC Newman, Royksopp), and more excitingly, my take on some of the best stuff to come out of Indiana lately (the Broderick, We Are Hex, Push/Pull, I'm looking in your direction[s]). For now though, some plain-old link-enabled narcisissm (much more to come this month, too).

Obi Best jumped out at me immediately late last year, then faded a bit, then re-emerged early this year. The closer I got, and the more I realized the template from which she was working, the more my enthusiasm waned. Still, though: Capades is about as solid as vaporous lady-pop gets. The record took a few years to get out in this form, which means, at least to me, that it's a bit of a yard sale. Hopefully the followup comes from a briefer moment in time--I think that will reward her talents a lot more.

Who knew how much I'd still like Beth Orton, after 12 years? The first time I heard "She Cries Your Name" came in the midst of my Portishead thrall, when the girl I was dating opened a mix with it, and I dismissed it as too "resolutely Lilithy" to play around my friends. Guess I needed a few years of de-douching before I could properly recognize its proper merits. Revisit!

I'm not entirely overwhelmed with the new John Vanderslice single, but he's a hard guy to be overwhelmed by. This is about as Vanderslician as he gets--impeccably crafted, sensitive, that balance between over-obviousness and obscurantism--and that's...just fine.

Micachu and the Shapes seem destined for a ridiculous backlash, which is unfortunate. Jewellry (sic) is very good, not the kind of thing that could be called "great", though it no doubt will be. "Calculator" isn't the best track on the record ("Curly Teeth" is), but it's the one that grabbed me first (the Champs riff, doy). The component parts of Music Blog Voltron went a little nuts over the record a month ago.

Cargo

Spotted and snapped, oddly enough, while buying my niece a giftcard at the same store.

I've never done a concert ticket giveaway before (or any sort of giveaway, for that matter), but this one is too good to pass up. Here's the sitch: I've got two tickets for Wilco's forthcoming show at the IU Auditorium (April 16th, next Thursday) for two lucky people, because I happen to be close personal friends with Jeff Tweedy*. Here's the catch: write a 250-word (no more, not too much less) piece about your favorite Wilco song ever, and send it to me over email (marathonpacks at g mail dot com) by noon on Tuesday, April 14. A week from today, two days before the show. Anything from AM to Sky Blue Sky, all's fair. Tell me why you love it so much, I'll pick my favorite, post it here, and get you into the show. Deal? Deal. Write away.

* All statements herein regarding my relationship with Mr. Tweedy may or may not reflect the true status of said relationship.

When Jandek played Indianapolis for the first time back in 2006, it was crazy enough to see the guy himself, on what would turn out to be a still-going, cult-expanding (disintegrating?) tour. As he still apparently does, he picked up some local Indy people for support, and here's part of what I wrote about it then (don't judge--I cranked this out late at night before forgetting the whole thing):

The band played about 9 or 10 songs with a surprising and satisfying amount of range and differentiation between them. Each song started with Vollmar and Johnson finding a basic rhythmic structure, which Jandek would recognize, followed by Smith and Janes, who were there mostly to provide texture. Vollmar, who caused a bit of concern re: his chops before the show, proved to be an incredibly competent improviser, often emerging within songs as the most striking feature. He alternated between rhythmic styles well—from a John McIntire-ish horizontal splay of ride cymbal and snare on the opening song, to a stunning Buddy Rich-style polyrhythmic march on another, and many, many stylistic shifts in between. Johnson veered eerily close to funk vamps on several numbers, which, when combined with Smith’s flute, channeled Eric Burdon-era War, or Gil Scott-Heron’s early 1970s backing bands, which made for a strange friction when Jandek was simultaneously singing lines like “if I unscrew your head, are you full of sand?” The third and fourth songs were sort of revelatory in this regard—Johnson and Vollmar locked into a thing that reminded me of On the Corner, over which Jandek worked out a blues lament: “Good bye mama, I must go over, to see what’s on the other side.” We’re not talking Sonny Boy Williamson here, but we are talking something I clearly did not expect to hear.

So if that set recalled Gil Scott-Heron or War, Jandek's set on Sunday in Houston (his hometown) resembled our boy auditioning for Freakey Styley-era Red Hot Chili Peppers, or else jamming with a bassist who really likes Larry Graham a lot. It's absolutely fucking bizarre if you're even remotely familiar with Jandek, and probably pointless and lame if you're not (just like, well, Jandek). But if you are familiar, wait until about :50 into this clip, when the camera pans around the crowd, and you can get your cognitive dissonance on while watching people freak with each other to Jandek, as he seemingly intones "what do you want? Do something!" Thanks to Marc M. for the tip.

The worst April Fools' Day jokes = The unintentional April Fools' Day jokes.

"The e-mail, which began, "We're thrilled that you've been admitted to UC San Diego, and we're showcasing our beautiful campus on Admit Day," was sent to the entire freshman applicant pool of more than 46,000 students, instead of just the 18,000 who had been admitted, Brown said."