Chasing the Zeitgeist
What happens when an artist loses all relevance? When a band is no longer the voice of a generation?
What happens when an artist loses all relevance? When a band is no longer the voice of a generation?
While football-throwing, frisbee-catching and beer-drinking might've best characterized a sun-soaked Great Lawn Saturday afternoon, the annual SpringFest-which featured an eclectic lineup of national acts and campus bands-delighted a mid-sized crowd in what was perhaps students' last chance to enjoy the outdoors before the onslaught of finals arrives.
When I first heard news of a forthcoming Beck album, I couldn't help but speculate about how the famously chameleon-like rocker would transform himself next.
I am sick of Bono. It's true, he's done a lot of really great things in the past ten years, including bringing attention to third world debt and the AIDS crises in Africa.
Poetry readings are largely hit-and-miss affairs; some of the classic great poets have proved to be the worst readers of poetry.
"My life so far has been like a thumbprint on a skyscraper," says Miles Raymond (Paul Giamatti, Paycheck), protagonist of the exquisite new Alexander Payne film, Sideways.
I've come to the theory that one of the best ways one can tell whether a band's live performance hints at its overall quality is by watching the band's sound levels.
"Silence Kit," the first song on Pavement's second album, Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain, begins with a blast of feedback and an assortment of drum breakdowns, some wah-wah guitar and rough bass noodlings; it is, overall, a meandering that gives the impression that the band had no idea what song they were trying to play.
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