1. I made a tape of Missy "Misdemeanor" Elliott's ...So Addictive and Peaches' The Teaches of Peaches and measured the entire summer by it. (I coaxed myself onto a plane at Christmas with this tape in my Walkman.) There's something confident, coy and real--almost grade-school--in the rapping-about-your-tits genre, and it makes everyone from Madonna to Le Tigre to Judith Butler look stuffy and unaware.
2. No way do I believe that The Strokes and that Motorcycle Club band actually exist. Tight-pants music was bound to hit MTV some day, but how did it become this boring? I was busy listening to Erase Errata's Other Animals LP.
3. Nelly Furtado is almost as annoying as Alicia Keys.
4. I didn't even have to hear D-12 to realize that I wrote a bunch of stuff about Eminem last December that was total hooey.
5. Whiskeytown's Pneumonia was amazing, but Ryan Adams' Gold makes me want to sing, "Life is a highwaaaay..." That's not a good thing.
6. David Pajo finally got it right, with grating Jerry Jeff Walker covers on Papa M Sings and the comparable opus, Whatever, Mortal.
7. Is Lucinda Williams single-handedly responsible for her artistic decisions, or are her handlers at fault? Essence was mediocre, but I'm over it. Seeing a woman who writes like she does consent to being airbrushed and (so poorly) mass-marketed makes for a fucking shame.
8. The future will consist of Tracy + The Plastics, Subtonix and Monitr Bats, if we're lucky.
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