Friday, March 24, 2023
Most of my posts on this blog have been about songs that would fall into the "emo rap" label. It seems that genre’s heyday has passed, gentle reader. Much like hyphy music peaking a couple years after Mac Dre's death in 2004, emo rap followed a similar trajectory after Lil Peep's death in 2017. What we are left with is the most notable artists of the genre leaning away from the rap side and into things like pop punk, post-punk, and dance music (Bladee's transition from sad cloud rap to hyperpop is something I could write a 10k-word essay on, but I'll spare you). There is only one artist from that emo rap wave that remains heavy in my rotation:
Drippin So Pretty's lyrics have always really connected with me. Idk what that says about me, because they all follow the same themes: 1. I used to do a lot of drugs 2. I have dark thoughts 3. some emo shit about a girl breaking his heart. I suppose I just appreciate the vulnerability of his lyrics. From the song above:
Tell me what you see in me because you can't let it go
Baby I'm just being me and I hate every bone
Then in the next verse he is bragging about getting his dick
sucked and threatening the listener with gun violence. DSP represents the
dichotomy of man in its purest form. We are all just a mix of cocky lil shit
and sad sack of shit.
One thing I love about Whirr is that their band name sounds like their music (I had to google to recall the word "onomatopoeia" lol): droning, hypnotic guitars conjuring a hazy atmosphere i.e. guitars going whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
The best form of music criticism in the post-blog 2020's is
random youtube comments and nothing tops descriptions of Whirr's music:
This song is like finishing a good book or
film, and not knowing what to do with your life after
Love it! Can't really beat that description.
Gleemer is my favorite band out right now. Just the right blend of wall-of-sound guitars, dreamy atmospheres, and accessible songwriting. The singer's vocals are great; emotional and longing, but always subtle and pushed back in the mix. I highly recommend their whole discography.
According to subreddit posts about Whirr and Gleemer, both bands fall under the rock subgenre of “Shoegaze”. This is because a common thought you have when gazing upon your shoes is "my guitar needs more reverb" (jk I know why it's called that, don't leave a snarky comment). It's a great genre though! Heavy and loud, without being angry, if that makes sense to you.
I cannot recall how I came across this song, but I have been listening to it constantly for the last 1.5 years. Something about the singer absolutely screaming his lungs out, while keeping a melody in his voice and the accompanying soaring emo guitars really hits the spot for me. Shoutout to the coffee machine and ugly lamp shade in the video. Very aesthetic!
I have this lil pet theory that the 80's set that standard for modern pop and the 90's set the standard for modern rock. You can hear 80's synths in countless modern pop songs, and it's been like that for years. Similarly, I have been hearing rock music with a strong grunge influence for over a decade now and I don't think it's going anywhere. Narrow Head have been making grungey rock for their entire decade-long career, but are so much more than a 90's revival band. Apart from the video's appearance and guitar tone, this song sounds pretty dang fresh to my ears. I love the change to a heavier tone at around 2:35 before the chorus (is this considered a bridge?). Check out Narrow Head if you are about that Seattle heroin life.
Ok that's all for now.
Rest in peace to Galen Kennedy AKA Nyquil. I'm sure he would
hate all these songs and goof on me for not continuing to bump mid-2000s Messy
Marv. Things are always changing for better or worse and I hope to appreciate
each moment in time a little more as it is happening. Some good posts to read about him: Link #1 & Link #2.
Please treat yourself with kindness.
Thomas is a former--wait no, current!--music blogger and ground turkey enthusiast living in North America. He used to have the best music blog of all time (100 Grand On My Wrist, Yeah Life Sucks) but it died. RIP 100grandonmywrist.com and RIP Nyquil. I'm still in the denial phase with both of you.
Friday, January 27, 2023
“Try to remember the best day of your entire life…the sparkle and confidence you had” said the narrator of The Dog Whisperer’s audiobook (NOT The Dog Whisperer, it’s worth noting, or even a guy with a Mexican accent). I scanned my memories of days and was a little disappointed with the “best” I pulled. Definitely wouldn’t have announced it as my best day back then.
“Draw from your memories of that day when you’re walking your dog” said the narrator. “The dog likes it when you’re CONFIDENT and DOMINANT (American accent, don’t forget!) because you’re the ALPHA.”
Okaaaaay I thought.
I was taking my new dog for a spin down 40th Street. For years, everyone in my life’d been telling me to get a dog. That’s what happens when you’re a loser for too long. Concerned relatives analyze your life and think this guy needs something to love him or he’s going to do something gnarly. It hurts. Every time they suggested it I’d think to myself HEY, FUCK, YOU! but passive aggressive people love it when you get mad at their shitty little remarks, so I just got a dog.
“No no no no no” said an ugly old woman passing me and my dog on the crosswalk. The dog was doing something she didn’t like. “What’s the matter with you?”
“It’s not my dog,” I said. “He comes from a violent background.”
That was probably true enough. My entire life, I’d been the type of guy who’d claim the thing no one wanted (black licorice, middle seat, bread heel) and convince himself it was cool just to avoid the hassle of competition. This mindset is what’d lead me to the dog pound, and to this type of dog: an aggressive pitbull.
Not to retread old trodden, treads (for me), but can you believe they’re giving those things away? Pitbulls are the best type of dog! They’re cute AND scary in equal measure! This one wasn’t exactly, shall I say, Amores Perros strong, but you never know. I named hime Lance, after Lance Fusco from The Fusco Brothers.
“You shouldn’t let him shit all over the street like that.” said the woman.
“COME, LANCE” I said, conjuring my best day. Lance was many steps ahead of me, though. In fact, he was pulling me. I was on roller blades, a la The Dog Whisperer, and he was towing.
WHOOOOSH we went, leaving the old nag in our wake.
We were approaching a red light.
Lance picked up speed.
“SLOW DOWN” I said.
Run run run, went the feet. Good thing I was so fat.
“LANCE, SIT” I said.
I gently applied the rollerblades’ heel brake to no avail. Wobbles. Desperately, I brainstormed more stopping ideas: Jump into some grass….Throw change at the dog…Get tangled in another dog’s leash….
In the end, I went with something similar to that third plan. I maneuvered so I was next to Lance and when he went right around a pole I went left. The leash stopped us. Lance gasped as the collar dug into his throat.
I gasped too, but regained my bearings quicker than he and tied him to the pole. Better let the engine cool down a little I thought, leaving Lance there and walking back to my apartment alone.
Good old apartment #2. It was a sparse, masculine place with no windows or wall art. I opened the freezer and took out a big steak. It was for Lance. I don’t know if you know anything about dogs but pitbulls like big, juicy steaks. Mmmm I thought, looking at the steak. I’m gonna have a steak, too.
While the steaks were thawing I went to my bedroom to get some sleeping pills. These were supposed to be for the dog too, but again I felt inspired and popped a few myself. What the hell.
I jacked off twice and the steaks were ready. Hungrily, I cooked mine (rare), crammed pills into the dog’s and re-emerged into the outdoors, high on life and pills and dog ownership (which is the same thing as power, maybe?!) Lance had in fact cooled down a little but when he saw the steak he perked right back up. I remembered reading that you’re supposed to start eating before your dog starts eating, so I halted just outside of leash range and took a big performative bite.
WRONG STEAK! I’d bitten into Lance’s—the raw one with pills in it. I retched and threw the meat at Lance.
He seemed to love it.
The pills were kicking in for me now. I felt even heavier and funnier than usual. Very loving towards my new animal son. Look at my strong, manly boy, rippin’ that flesh I thought. My Amores Pero. My little alpha.
“Slow down boy!” I said good naturedly, knowing he wouldn’t listen.
Slurch slurch slurch.
“Ha ha! You don’t stop for nobody!” I said.
That’s when my big thought hit.
I like it when HE'S confident and dominant…because HE'S the PACK LEADER.
Why would I be Pack leader? I’m not confident at all!
I took off Lance’s collar. “You are the captain now” I said.
He looked up.
“Lead” I said.
He wasn’t getting it still, so I smacked him on the ass to get him going, and he bit me
“OW, FUCK!” I said.
Lance ran into the street and got hit by a car.
I power walked home and hid.
Wednesday, July 13, 2022
Eiffel towered her with a homie
Bed was crowded but we all felt lonely
Met this girl, her name was Elizabeth
Did what we did and we both have to live with it
Everything she said was ignorant
Wrote her love letters, but she was illiterate
Met this girl, her name was Star
Had a big butt but she looked like Bill Maher
Whenever Star was in my car
A gallon of gas got me less far
Met this girl, her name was Courtney
Used to financially support me
When I turned 40, she divorced me
And I burst into tears, there in court-y
Wednesday, April 6, 2022
Saturday, July 31, 2021
Philip G. Taylor, the tightest, most poetry poet in poetry class, who died
The regulars at the Brown Banana Books open mic
Ethan Coen (of The Coen Brothers)
Anyone who likes stupid shit
I’ll tell you this much about Katie:
She was quite the promiscuous lady
She sometimes had sex
That was very complex
But she never had sex with a baby
TO THE TUNE OF “ONE” BY HARRY NILSSON
X is the sexiest letter in the alphabet
Q is not as hot as X
But in fact it looks a little more like sex
A SONNET FOR TUB GIRL
Her face is not the reason for her fame
Though radiant, it’s seen by precious few
A mystery, just like her real name
Irrelevant to what she came to do
It’s said Christian Bale commits to a role
And Frances McDormand is fearless
What, pray, has either one done with their holes?
Compared to my girl, they are rearless
If Oakley, Annie could shoot with her fanny
If William Tell’s face was his target
If X-Men were oversexed men and Japan-y
They’d marvel to see my girl arc it
Some girls are flexible, some girls can spray
Nobody does it like tubgirl.ca
What scientists wanted to find was
What the smallest dick of all time was
They found, in a thicket
A small baby cricket
But his dick was bigger than mine was
A nosy young wife was suspecting
Her businessman husband of sexting
Indeed, texts were found
But her fears proved unsound
It was only his friend, Jeffrey Epstein
On the internet, to my surprise
I found out the government lies
It’s all over Reddit
But I just don’t get it
What kind of man fucks pizza pies?
At Burning Man once, in a tent
I was fucked in the ass by George Wendt
My wife, just that morn
Had yelled “fuck the Norms!”
But now says that’s not what she meant
I put grapes in her butt (that’s amore!)
Lie naked, supine, in the foyer
She squats o’er my face and
North Cali wine tastin’
Is what we call step number 4A
FUNERAL SPEECH #2
Playing “cookie game” once, drunk on rum
Fearing I would be last man to cum
I pictured your mom
Now she has passed on
But I think she’d be proud that I won
Little Jack Horny
Lay there forlornly
With an old man 69ing
He stuck out his tongue
Got blasted with cum
And said “why’s it all icky rhyming?”
THE RHYMING POET’S LAMENT
Limericks and pinner dicks:
They say there’s correlation
Vaginas treat a rhymer
Like a hostile foreign nation
My texts are full of sex
But the narrator’s not trusted
When I write and recite some
To a girl for whom I’ve lusted
My wordplay’s met with mockery
Derision, smirks and hate
The word gay’s used a lot on me
By those who surf and skate
But who’s more insecure:
The person getting mad at art
Or this old dirty wordsmith
With a song inside his heart?
Long ago I made my choice
That’s why I’m walking tall
Rejoicing in my voice, now
But it’s true, my dick is small
IT’S THE MOTION OF THE OCEAN, NOT...
The complexion of the erection
The direction of the injection
The position of the emission
The viscosity of the atrocity
The immensity of the gents in me
The size of truck of the guys I fuck
The brevity of the levity
The BPM of the DP men
The diameter of the man in her
The amount of air in the dinghy
I know an old man from Korea
Makes soup in the back of his Kia
It looks like Nutella
Gives you salmonella
And tastes just like old diarrhea
I know an old hippie named Rosco
Who hangs out at rock shows, and rock shows
His weed is sativa
His shoe is a Teva
But his wife is indica/Chaco
I don’t need to see dildos or plugs
While performing my manual tugs
I can still get a thrill
From a sight as vanill’
As a girl in a cage eating slugs
My friend told me, while drunk on Coors
That the male sex organ of boars
Is shaped like a corkscrew
And sounds, when they pork you
Like those springs that save walls from doors
THE BULL & I
My wife thought me, in bed, under-zealous
So she hired some large, muscular fellas
To cuck me, but then
One became a close friend
We hang out without her, and she’s jealous
My dick’s like a tick’s, or mosquito’s
Slight in even the tightest of Speedos
But one look in your eyes
Can expand it in size
From a munchkin’s to Danny DeVito’s
A moth who was interested in sex
Whispered to me his genre of interest
I said “xvideos”
He said “That’s hideous!
You misheard--I want porn about insects”
THE SASSY WAITRESS
I yelled at a waitress named Ronnette
To hurry and make me an omelette
She filled my poor asshole
With so much Tobasco
The whole Hooter’s wait staff applauded
TO THE TUNE OF “CONSIDER YOURSELF” FROM THE MUSICAL “OLIVER!”
(Please read with the song playing in the background.)
Come diddle yourself / at home / come diddle yourself / for your own sanity / you’ve been horny for / so long / yes, you’ve / been / unlucky with the dong / come diddle yourself / well in / come diddle yourself / all over the furniture / yes, that is the spot / right there / right there! / your / hand and you make a pair / if it should chance to be you should be a lonely one / who is owed a cum / why wait? / always a chance to skeet / nobody can match the thrill / you get when you masturbate! / come diddle yourself / why wait? / there ain’t gotta be / no thrust / they say clitoral stimulation’s good for health / so diddle yourself / till ya bust
I destroyed the receipts and the playbill
My voice, as I lied, sounded stable
But again I got caught
Cause I somehow forgot
The big shit you took on my glass table
My peers call me loser and nerd-o
And I’m always stargazing, ergo
If my sex past
As a star sign were cast
It would, without question, be Virgo
Due, I think, to the drugs they ingest
The loving’s not always the best
We have dirty sex
For 1 min, 30 secs
Then their penises get quite depressed
In a field where the crows never caw
I touched a girl under the bra
The ultimate thrill
But she stood super still
And her tits felt a lot like wet straw
The mattress was covered in actress
Blood, cigarette butts and matches
As for the back of it?
Drenched in ejaculate
See, babe? It’s fun doing Mad Libs
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jesse Wilson is the CEO of Brown Banana Books in Grass Valley, CA (brownbananabooks.com). He enjoys reading, writing, freestyle rapping, freestyle swimming, hanging out with friends and watching adult films on his computer.
Sunday, December 13, 2020
I was looking so uncommonly fresh that it startled my mom. She’d never seen me like this. (Red jacket, Hawaiian shirt, hat with a bird on it, sunglasses. Great lighting.)
“Are you going to a party?” she asked. She sounded hopeful, which stung. I was 30 then, living with my rich parents and washing dishes 6 days a week at a sorority in Berkeley. I was surrounded by beautiful, horny girls there, but I looked and felt like shit so I just ogled through a hole in the dishpit and blasted Indestructible Beat of Soweto on my little boombox.
Things were looking up now, though. Kappa Kappa Gamma was closed for the summer, and I was about to hike up the mountain and do some drugs. On my last day of work, I’d walked down to People’s Park to give the wooks one last styrofoam container of bisque, and they'd given me 4 gel tabs of acid.
None of my friends would do acid with me, due to my penchant for thinking I was a religious prophet and taking my clothes off, but that was fine.
“It’s not really a party” I told my mom.
“Okaaaay” she said.
I ascended the mountain on foot, took the acid at the top, right as it was getting dark, and realized suddenly that dark was going to be a major theme of my vision quest.
How? I asked the mountain.
Just...be a creature on the mountain it said.
I inched my way down. Right foot. Pause. Right foot. Pause.
Maybe I should take my clothes off, to get in the zone I thought.
I threw my jacket into a ravine and ripped off my shirt. A bunch of jingly shit fell out of my pockets as I was removing my pants. This will save me the step of rejecting technology and throwing my phone into a creek I thought.
You're doing it again I scolded myself.
It took me about 8 hours to reassemble my outfit.
As the sun rose, I realized how muddy I was. I’ve turned into a wook I thought. Those wooks gave me drugs to turn me into a wook, and it worked.
It was beautiful out. I hiked to the top of a ridge and looked down at the seaside village where I was raised.
Boy, I hope my mom isn’t doing her morning hike today I thought. But of course she was. My mom’s very good at sticking to her fitness regimen.
“Wow” she said when she saw me. “How was your party?”
“It...wasn’t really a party” I said.
She looked at me funny.
“Ok, bye” I said.