on the parasites of dance halls

This here article is exactly why I should drop out of school to get a hipster job and DJ: it no longer requires any skill. It just requires the brain power not to be a self-indulgent douchebag. It is not cool to play Rod Stewart's If You Want My Body at a club on a Saturday night. It is not ironic, nor is it quirky or fun. It is, rather, the quickest way to clear the dance floor. Same for an unremixed version of Bjork's Hunter. I love that woman so much I drove four hours to see her and Matmos three summers ago. That said, that shit should not be played unless you can spin something underneath it to make it danceable. And even then, only be in one of the clubs in Cannes circa 1998.

I think that argument got away from me. I miss hearing new music on the dance floor, weird beats tricked on top of good dance music. Watching another boy at his computer wearing headphones for the style while queing the next track on his iPod/iBook is just not fun enough. If I'm taking four hours away from the gut-wretching grossness that is worm infections, I shouldn't have to listen to this crap.


I'm listening to:
Jesus and Mary Chain- John Peel Sessions
their cover of My Girl makes me want to be a boy making a mixtape for his highschool crush.

Pitchfork musings Part II

My next example is on the bitchier side, but here goes. While studying this last weekend at my coffeeshop, I overheard the following conversation:

extremely nice hipster coffeeshop employee 1: Pitchfork only gave white blood cells a 6.9 while they gave satan a 7.1
extremely nice hipster coffeeshop employee 2: Totally. I mean it's just like, one guy's opinion. I totally wouldn't have given de stijl a 9.3
enhce1: yeah, I have such a crush on meg white
enhce2: totally, she's so pale
enhce1: yeah

I fudged the numbers a bit, but it was the least ironic conversation I've ever heard in my life.


I'm listening to:
Charles Mingus: Mingus Ah Um