Tuesday, January 22, 2008
How It's Done
Good writing about music is not dead, just comatose. Here's a faint blip on the EKG via Tris McCall, who I know nothing about except he/she is totally awesome. Check out the year-end roundup here.
Rilo Kiley -- "Silver Lining", "The Moneymaker"
Just before Under The Blacklight concludes, Jenny Lewis makes a passing reference to the "dogs of L.A."; right before that, on "Smoke Detector", her band channels whitechocolatespaceegg. Sympathy for Liz Phair bleeds through the cracks of the new Rilo Kiley, and why shouldn't it?, trill recognize trill. Like Phair, Lewis never considered herself "indie" except by trick of ill fortune: she had her eye on the Hollywood Hills from the outset, and if making nice with Conor Oberst could help get her there, well, that was a price she was prepared to pay. Liz Phair owed much of her initial run of terrific press to desperate rock journalists who believed that because of her indie-girl approachability, they stood a puncher's chance to fuck her someday; ditto for Lewis. And that's amusing for awhile, until it isn't. And when it isn't, you might be tempted to put out an album like Liz Phair, or Under The Blacklight: an album that says "no, sorry, you will not ever fuck me; moreover, here is some alienating hypersexuality for you to choke on, just so you understand that you and I are playing in different leagues". Then, those journalists race home to write their bad reviews, and whack off to St. Vincent. So everybody's happy.