Pillow Blog: 80s Relationship Troika

In the tradition of the Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book, here's a Pillow Blog: an observational list on some subject or other.

Three perfect songs from the 1980s, arranged to form the story of an imaginary relationship:


Kate Bush, Hounds of Love (You fell in lust; "Oh, here I go! Don't let me go!")


New Order, Bizarre Love Triangle: (You're unsure; "Why can't we be ourselves like we were yesterday")


Womack and Womack, Teardrops: (You fucked it up; "And the music don't feel like it did when I felt it with you")

Suggestions for Songza

Songza has become my constant companion in my office, as I needed something to drown out the incessant hum of the fluorescent lights. I get a small thrill from picking which situation I would like to play music for, though I know I'll always return to "Northern Soul Dance Party" or "Guilty 80s and 90s Pleasures" eventually. Choices include working out (ha! never clicked),  sitting on a back porch, saving the world, and so on. Unfortunately, there are some categories Songza underserves. I have prepared a list of suggestions for their curators:

• Thinking About Men You Should Not Think About  (Artists include: Bruce Springsteen, The Replacements, Roy Orbison)
• Pretending You're A Character In An Action Movie and Accidentally Stepping on One of the Cats (Artists include: Kavinsky, Justice, Howls of Feline Pain)
• Surviving TTC Transit (Artists include: Kurt Vile, Bon Iver, Incoherent Ranting from the Seat Behind You)
• Really It's Just One Guy You Should Stop Thinking About (Artists include: Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide" on an endless loop, just because you're feeling melodramatic)

If you have suggestions, feel free to share them in your comments. And Songza, feel free to hire me as one of your curators. I come cheap!

Coming Out (Musically)

Back when I toiled in the pits of porno-doom, everybody at the office was convinced that I was an out and proud lesbian. As a lazy heterosexual, who didn't want to end up like Tom Cruise - protesting a little too much - it took a while to deny the reports. And I didn't help myself by reading Patricia Highsmith in the break room. Memories of the saddest twentysomething flirtation with lesbianism ever - all of the labels, none of the sex - came rushing back today.

Back then, I made the mistake of mentioning to my deskmate Will, the hero of my life and the only legitimately gay guy there, that the night before had featured a kd lang binge. He immediately set to cackling. "You're not helping yourself," he chortled. Well, if not helping myself means denying kd, I'll march in your damn parade. I've always felt like music snobs look down on her for some reason. Which is ridiculous. Vocally she's a ringer for Patsy Cline, and her Hymns from the 49th Parallel is a 11-song defense of the cover as art form. That's where you'll find the song I've been playing all day, her take on Joni Mitchell's "A Case of You." So let go of your pretensions, and give in to a Sunday morning of perfectly wrought melancholy. You can have happy brunches next week.

RIP Whitney Houston

As I'm sure Twitter/Facebook/news crawls have informed you, Whitney Houston died today. And so I'm drinking while watching her sing "I Have Nothing" over and over again. Why the sadness? Whitney was a joke for most of my life. The infamous Barbara Walters interview aired when I was 15, and I was raised to despise oversung, overproduced R and B. But when I heard Whitney's songs, they cut through all of my pretension, and even through her own melodramatic production. That voice had a direct line to my soul. Maybe not the best parts of me, but at least to every cell that cried too much, or fell in love with the wrong guy, or wanted to dance with somebody (when the loneliness calls.) It's powerful and sad, running almost to excess. That's not a criticism. That's the whole point.

Running Up That Hill Times Three

My love for Running Up That Hill is a love without end. It's the song that I would skate to if I ever had to come up with an emergency figure skating routine for the Olympics. It's also the song I would dance to if I was ever auditioning, against all odds, for a place in the American Ballet Company, though both my toe shoes and I came from the wrong side of the tracks. Much like the rest of Kate Bush's oeuvre, it lends itself well to dramatic hand gestures, is what I'm saying. So, it shouldn't be a surprise that I usually have three versions on my iPod.

Original Recipe Kate Bush:


This Placebo Version, Which I Feel Used to End Up on TV Shows A Lot:


And The Chromatics, A Band Also seen on the Drive Soundtrack:


If I have to choose one - Really, I can't just keep two, and throw the Placebo cover overboard? No? - I suppose I'll go with the divine La Bush. I like The Chromatics now, but I know that Ruth Radelat's breathy vocals will fade away. However, I'll always be a drama kid adrift in the city, with Kate Bush's wailing to call me home. So why bother to keep the other versions? I know some people hate covers furiously, but if I liked the original then I'll usually appreciate the cover. Even if it doesn't replace the definitive version, sometimes it shifts things just enough that I'll find something I missed. And it stops me from getting bored with my favourite songs.

Try Not to Analyze the Hype

SOPA would be a terrible, terrible thing. My friend Max thinks so, and I believe him. If you're Canadian, you can sign this call to action. If you're American, sign this petition or contact your congressperson directly. The pressure seems to be working, so keep it up. Plus, it's always fun to make Rupert Murdoch angry.

The past week has been a bad one for two people. If, in fact, they are people, and not just constructs built by the online commentary-critical complex to suits its needs. In the sporting world: Tim Tebow, mediocre quarterback, Jockey spokesman, litmus test for your thoughts on religion/the universe at large. From the music sphere: Lana Del Rey. One got spanked 45-10 by Tom Brady and the Patriots, ending the playoff run of the Denver Broncos, while the other mumbled her way through an SNL appearance. I can't say that I bear any personal ill will to either of these fine young Americans - well, maybe Tebow, a little, based mostly on that Super Bowl anti-choice ad - but I was glad as the implosions played out.

In a few months, Lana del Rey generated the kind of media studies analysis Madonna writhed around for years to make possible, and Tebow hit that sweet, sweet intersection of sports, religion and the American news cycle. Klosterman wrote about him, the New Yorker wrote about him, even Canada discovered him and wrote about him, but the article was kind of awful, so let's ignore it. With both of these kids, I resented the constant churning of the explaining machine. My response to them is not a mirror of my feelings on larger issues. And why concentrate on religion, or "authenticity," when the question of whether Tim or Lana are decent at what they do should be tackled first. Actually, in Del Rey's case, WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THOSE LIPS ought to be issue number one. At the height of Tebowmania, the NFL produced photos of what Tim Tebow's babies would look like with various celebrities. Using the same cutting-edge technology the NFL has at its disposal - that is, a free site - I have created Lana Tel Bow. Because clearly, they belong together.

I majored in cultural studies, I have my license to analyze, but there's a difference between that which illuminates, and that which strives for profundity but only gets page views. Here's to getting a break from the latter.

In Defence of the Pet Shop Boys

It has recently come to my attention that some people are not as respectful of The Pet Shop Boy as they ought to be.



To which I say: SHAME. I love the boys for two reasons. The first is that the only friendly employee at the Montreal VIA station once sang part of "Opportunities" to me, completely poker-faced, as various and generally irate people milled about.



The second is that they're a legitimately good act. Don't be fooled by the high production values and superficial lyrics. The Pet Shop Boys know they're singing to the dark, empty - but most of all lonely - heart of the city.

Music, Movies and Zombies

I've been obsessed with this song, Mes Bottes De Sept Lieues by Le Husky for the past week, so I'm linking to it here as a soundtrack for the following links. Have fun and learn something.

1. Ugh, Canada: The saplings around the site of the G20 conference might be torn up. Why? Because "The trees could be ripped out of the ground by demonstrators 'and then you’ve got a huge bar,' said Constable Wendy Drummond, a spokeswoman for the Integrated Security Unit." Yes, a scrawny, vegan anti-globalization protestor will tear one up from the ground and start flinging it around like a bo staff, roots and all. Because such protesters fucking hate tress. And have the strength of the Hulk.

2. Remember how, a week ago, I wrote about The Small Back Room and its wacky alky scene? Well, it seems that The Onion's AV Club is more positively inclined. You can watch the whole thing there and judge for yourself.

3. Should we kill the label of America's Sweetheart? Alyssa Rosenberg thinks so. I'm not totally convinced, except by her argument that Ms Congeniality 2 sucks. Seems like this is almost a case of hating the player and not the game to me.

4. From Tiger Beatdown: Is splicing horror elements into classic literature remixing or just a ripoff? And what are the gender politics of all this? I think Garland Grey comes on a little strong, but at first I thought at least the fact that all the works getting injected with zombies, sea monsters, vampires and the like are written by women was a point worth investigating. Then I found this: Android Karenina. Well then.

This Post Brought To You By 1999

I really like The Onion AV Club. It's educational while being accessible and snarky, but not snide. Basically, it's the anti-Pitchfork, if Pitchfork was ever interested in more than music. So, I read it often, which means I've been following their Then That's What They Called Music feature. It looks at those weird, annoying Now! compilations that were ubiquitous around the time I was buying my first Bonne Bell Lip Smacker.

The most recent column, on Now! 2 reminded me of the existence of this little pop gem.

Is it me, or does the music video have some frighteningly sinister undertones? And how painful millennial are the clothes? Christ, I remember it all, from the bucket hats to the baggy pants/short tank top combos.

Now, I used to have this theory that it takes 20 years for things to become delightfully retro again. However, clearly things have speeded up and with all the '90s parties I've been to, it's more like 10-15. Keeping that in mind, we should be experiencing the bucket hat renaissance any day now. So, which of the following fashion statements do you think will become acceptable again?

-Tearaway pants
-Bowling-style shirts
-Knit hats and tank tops on the fellahs
-Excessive metallic eyeshadow
-Chunky shoes
-Men's hair that's mid-length and parted down the middle

I'm hoping the last one, because it is flattering on no one and is thus fair to all.

Music Chaser

Well, let's wash out the taste of all that righteous anger with some music, shall we? I know I blew mine off my watching Slap Shot thanks to the McGill Film Society, but if you would rather mellow out than watch the Hanson brothers check folks, give this a listen:

For some reason, it makes me want a cottage.

Dance, Not Stand By

Semi-regular posting should resume tomorrow, which should be a day when I don't have a mountain of dishes staring at me, a movie to go to, people to see or six Indian dishes to cook. Until then, enjoy this verrrry exciting and somewhat offensive French disco song.

Laura Branigan, Again and Again

Finally, my life is complete! Two of my favorite things in the world are Branigan! and covers. And I found out that not one, not two, but three covers of La Branigan's classic slice of 80s cheese, Self Control, exist. Witness:
1. From an album entirely composed of covers, Guilt By Association Vol. 2, The Bloodsugars do their take on Self Control. This one is my favorite.

2. And here's another, by some outfit called Project Jenny Project Jan.

And then I found out that, in fact, the Branigan song is a cover itself! No wonder I liked it so much. Although she - or, more likely, her producer - really, really made the right choice by ditching the tragic rap near the end.

The Early Reindeer Gets The Candy Cane

I don't believe that Christmas music should be an after-Halloween, or worse, post-American Thanksgiving thing at all. Once the first snow hits Montreal, my holiday music comes out. And that could be in August. So if you ever want to re-create part of my daily routine for the next two months, here's the step-by-step guide:

1. Place a breakable object near the edge of a desk. A water glass works well for this.
2. Kill any natural sense of rhythm and gross motor control you might possess.
3. Play this:
4. DANCE DANCE DANCE
5. Sweep up shards of glass

Repeat until you've been filled with the Christmas spirit, or at least a love of synthesizers.

The Good, The Bad and the Funny

And another good thing: this amazing birthday present I got from my old roommate Katie*. The books are A Tale of Two Cities, Jane Eyre, The Maltese Falcon, Ghost World, Anna Karenina, Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility. They're on top of a pile of birthday books from another amazing friend. Am I that predictable? Yes.

Man, sorry to let my angry screed about Roman Polanski stay up there for so long. I meant to post something else, but I then life kept on getting in the way. Except for Thursday, since that was Day 4 of Project: Protagitron becomes a hermit and there was just no excuse. So without further ado, three little things about last week:

1. The Good: There's been a lot of this lately. I did nothing but knit and watch movies, curled up next to my cat, for four days. I had an amusing run-in with an old crush object, proving I am genetically incapable of pretending not see one convincingly. And pretty much the whole weekend so far has been awesome, from having curry with friends to seeing one of them kick ass playing lacrosse. Those girls aren't quite as nasty as womens rugby, but they're still pretty fierce. But so far, the biggest "good" has been seeing Dragonette with the delightful Poli and Amanda. We danced. Oh, how we danced. Except to music that was more like this. When I grow up, I want to have cheekbones like Martina Sorbara.

2. The Bad: I always thought the catty bitch thing was just a high school movie trope. And even then, the catty bitch always gets hers in the final act. But no! When I was on the bus, this horrendous girl behind me tore into some friend's girlfriend in a way that made me feel as if I had fallen into a John Hughes movie. It started off with "I just don't think her personality is sparkling enough to make up for how fat she is. I really think he's a chubby chaser," and then went on for ten minutes of the most vile shit I had ever heard. It was hard to choose which was the biggest turd sentence: "But personality comes in a lot of sizes. Why couldn't he get one that was thin?" or "She's like the pair of pants that're too big for him but he still wears." Really, honey? It's not like women don't get enough shit about their bodies already from the media, so just go on ahead and do the dirty work for them.

3. The Funny: I tend to speak quickly and somewhat sloppily. Usually this just leads to people asking "What?" a lot and my mom imploring me to speak properly. But the other day at work, my adorable desk neighbor asked: "Is that an accent, or is it just the way you talk?" Heh. The next time someone asks me "What?" I'm just going to plead it's my impenetrable Southwestern Ontario accent. Thick as pea soup, it is.

*She ordered from an Etsy seller, SophiesBeads, if you want to get your own.

The Generation Gap

A couple of weeks ago, I went to see Adam with my ex-roommate Iris. It was her choice. I'm generally wary of movies that try to cuddle up psychological conditions of any kind. I don't want to stigmatize them, but I also think there's a certain type of movie that beautifies them to the point where a burden is placed on real-life sufferers to be brilliant, life-changing and affirming smurflets who fart out mathematical theorems and platitudes all the time. And judging from the trailer, it was that kind of movie. But I was willing to give it a shot.

Iris, who's worked with Aspies, was loving it. I wasn't hating it, although there were a few parts, like the Magical Black Man, that made me groan. But near the end, lovable Aspie Adam has grown, as has his norm lover. And as he opens a package from her, a song wells up about how "when you were young and everything you needed done was done for you" And even Iris was like, "This is a little much," because now he's more independent, you see. And I was like "I feel like I'm in a Starbucks."

So a few days later, my Dad came up and dropped off a few CDs, probably to get me off my terrible 80s pop kick. And one of them was by a band called The Weepies. And then a co-worker was singing along to them too. Since my Dad is cooler than me, as is the coworker frankly, I decided it was really time for me to give it a listen. So I pop it in the computer and what's the first song that starts playing?

THE STARBUCKS SONG FROM ADAM.

Dad, we need to talk. And far away from venti soy cappuchinos.

Go, Go Sonia

Oy. Those Sotomayor hearings. Sometimes I forget how prevalent racism still is, and then I see a Latina woman being questioned on whether her identity will influence her decisions on the bench. I don't remember anyone asking John G. Roberts how his blinding whiteness would affect his rulings, y'know.

When I haven't been reading snippets of that coverage (translation: making myself livid with rage) I've been working on a special writing project and checking out Dead Snow at FantAsia with friends. And feeling oddly tired. I hope I'm not coming down with something, because I have to volunteer at a music festival this weekend and camp outside. God knows I don't need to add illness-induced crabbiness to my usual post-sleeping bag bitching. Time to start chain drinking the Neo Citran just as a prevantative measure.

Bonne St.Jean/ Hooray for Baptist Day!: A Quasi Rant.

One of the many, many benefits about living in Quebec is the existence of the St. Jean Baptiste holiday, aka today. Maybe I just like it so much because, as an ex-Ontarian, I tend to forget about it until it's actually upon me, and an unexpected holiday in the middle of the week feels like manna from heaven. Or maybe because it inevitably leads to some kind of franco vs. anglo dramz that entertains.

This year was the English band controversy. If you're not reading this in Quebec, you've probably missed the whole dumb ting, so here's the rundown. A couple of bands slated to play at one of the many SJB shows were English, which meant they sang in English (gasp!) and so were summarily disinvited. This, of course, led to a minor media kerfuffle which led to them being reinstated.

Now, I did see Lake of Stew when they opened for the Sadies and John Doe, and I liked them fine. For the first song. And then I realized that I was in for a whole set of bluegrass songs about NDG, which I really thought only had enough material for half a bottle of Jack Daniel's and maybe a quarter of a bluegrass song, but no matter. So I wasn't particularly invested in seeing their performance as a victory for anglo rights or anything.

But I did think this whole controversy was frigging stupid. Nations like Canada or Quebec are made up piecemeal of a bunch of different cultures and grafted onto the boneyard of colonialism. Trying to govern them so they're monolithic and legislate them so they're monolingual (or at best, bilingual), is a dangerous mix of ignorance and reactionary tribalism. And kind of a losing bid anyway.

So my solution for this bullshit next year is to have a St. Jean Baptiste's day concert where everyone sings in any language but French or English. Portuguese, Yiddish, Swahili, Arabic, Italian, Ukrainian, whatever. Go nuts. It's not going to save the world, or even accomplish much in the way of moving past identity politics. But hopefully it will scramble the brains of folks like the Association Culturel Louis-Hébert so much they won't be able to mount an effective response, and Quebec news can get back to getting worked up over road conditions.

Grading the Schools

You might not know who Booker T and the MG's are, but you've probably heard this song on the soundtrack of any movie that needs an aural shortcut to "cool."

That's Green Onions, their first big hit. Even if you don't know that song, you've probably heard them on others; they were essentially the Stax Records house players, a label responsible for Otis Redding, Mavis Staples, and Isaac Hayes. So even when you don't think you're hearing them, you just might be. The Onion AV Club has a really interesting interview with the front man, Booker T. Jones. He has a new album coming out with Neil Young and the Drive-By Truckers, and I think analogheads should read why Jones is embracing new tech so thoroughly. However, what I found most interesting- and upsetting- wasn't anything about the production of the album, but Jones on the sad state of music education in the States:

"Musically, the opportunities for new bands are shrinking somewhat because as far as kids growing up who want to learn music, the opportunities are less than they were for me. I’m gonna donate some of my old instruments to the Tipitina’s Instrument Program in New Orleans, ’cause the schools are not financed well enough nowadays to provide band instruments like they were when I was in school. States are not financing music education like they used to. Opportunities for new bands and new musicians are not as good now."

Jones isn't talking about rich private schools, or even the feeder schools that masquerade as public, because those kids will be kept in horns and bassoons until the end of time. It's just the poor kids who'll get screwed over, and the new music tech won't save them either. With the equally shitty state of school funding in low-income areas for computers, they're equally screwed. Arts funding, or the lack of it, might not seem like much with school violence and outdated textbooks on the grounds. But reading Jones shows how much we're going lose this way, if we lose out on people like him.

Secret Life Agent

By the end of last week, I wanted out. The copy writing job had fallen through, JET had fallen through, I had the ticket to contend with, then I lost the ticket to contend with, and then when I phoned up the people I had to contend with, they said the information from the ticket would not be entered for another two weeks. Oh, and I lost my book outside and work was kind of sucking, between douchebaggy lawyers and stressed-out co-workers. I was considering just stealing a Big Wheel from a kid and biking any where else. Even Laval.

Instead, I decided I would move back to Toronto. Now I'm not so sure, but I feel duty-bound to follow through on my word. To that end, I'm trying to shove as much artery-clogging Montreal goodness down my throat as possible in the next two months. And I'm not just talking about poutine this time. First on the list: spontaneous concert-rama, because I really don't go out to enough live music. So I went to the Sadies/John Doe show last night, because it was the only thing on the list I recognized and could still possibly get tickets.

Operation: Enjoy Life got off to a rocky start however, when I misinterpreted the 8:30 door time as an 8:30 start time. But I feel that nothing fills the awkward emptiness of a just-opened venue like cheap beer, which I could of used more of when I missed the encore to catch a metro that had already left. The Sadies are a ridiculously tight band, so go see them if you can. Especially if you check the start time first.

This is the end of Operation: Enjoy Life: The Band Who Loved Me. But Protagitron will return in The Girl With the Shorter Haircut.

Cram it, Katy Perry

Whenever I'm in Montreal I slide into a music bubble. What's going on in mainstream music? I suddenly have no idea. I'm still not sure who Hannah Montana is, or what she does. Or if she's not just a clever hologram deployed by the Italian leather-booted thugs at Disney. At least in Guelph, I had basic cable and was desperate enough to tune in to the Edge. In Montreal, I just put on podcasts and rent Russian action movies. When I do listen to music, it's either stuff I've scavenged from the superior music collections of my brother and my dad, or synthed-out eighties stuff I've downloaded in shame. I can't imagine how empty my life would be without downloading. I would be too embarrassed to go to the record store to fill the hole in my heart, a hole that can only be filled with synthesizers and fake hand claps.

How out of it am I? Well, when Madonna's Hung Up came out- the one that sampled "Gimme Gimme Gimme (A Man After Midnight) and I started hearing it everywhere, I just assumed Montreal was in the throes of an ABBA renaissance.

So, it takes a rare song to penetrate the fog of my ignorance. Unfortunately, Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl" has done so, helped along by my So You Think You Can Dance addiction. Can she go away now? Not only is the song annoying- her voice sounds tinny and Pro-Tooled, the production's flabby- but her act bothers me. I don't mind when someone like, oh, Madonna plays around with sexuality. And it isn't that a failed Christian-rock singer is capitalizing on fake-lesbian chic that bothers me. Rather, it's her purposefully dim stage presence. I don't have much patience for the kind of little-girl antics that make women pout and stand all knock-kneed. It's not that it makes them look stupid stupid, it's that it makes them look like they want to look dumb. Which is just sad. And then she puts her hand to her mouth when she hopes her boyfriend won't find out about her girl-kissing ways, because she's just too naughty. The whole song reminds me of girls who make out with other girls not because they want to, but because their boyfriends want them to. No one but Focus on the Family's bothered, hetero norms aren't challenged, and only men are getting off. Ten bucks says most of the girls who'll make out in clubs to this song- and to whistles from their guys- will be raising kids in the 'burbs ten years on. Even the ones who think they kind of liked it. And I'll bet another ten that Katy is on some one-hit wonders compilation. Or maybe that's just what I hope.

Now, to get that taste out of your mouth, how about a fun dude-on-dude song?
High School Confidential- Carole Pope