« I Rant Because I Care: There Are No Original Ideas Indeed | Main | Friday Afternoon Rhapsodic: I Am Trying to Break Your Heart »

June 03, 2008

Comments

bob

For real, this is where Coldplay enters the picture? The Wilson book is pretty wonderful, but its discussion of schmaltz (and what you're mentioning here on heartstrings and their pluckability) highlighted for me the fact that while I quickly dismiss EMOtive songwriters like Gibbard in the thoroughly modern sense, it's exactly this kind of open sentimentality I seek out in older music (and to a lesser extent, older movies). I mean, George Jones, Sam Cooke, Mary Wells? That's some sappy stuff, but when anyone contemporary reaches so blatantly for my warm and fuzzy areas, I cringe. Then again, I seem to be mid-breakup at the moment, and there's that new Death Cab album on the shelf...

Carson

Next time you listen to "Marching Bands of Manhattan," imagine Celine's voice instead of Ben Gibbard's. Now imagine that special, unlocatable accent of her's. "Your lurv is gonna drown."

The comments to this entry are closed.

Ahem

  • If Ayn Rand and Walter Benjamin got in a cage fight and then made up over foie gras, single malt scotch and indie pop, you'd have the delightful adventures of "That Was Probably Awkward." Plus or minus the single malt and foie gras, depending on the week's finances. But always the indie pop. Sad, stirring indie pop. And a decent happy hour.

august 2007

july 2007

june 2007

what we see

search the awkward!


contact | subscribe

stats