And so as we close this year, with a solid six days left as of tomorrow, we must too look at what comes forwards with the new year. It’s probably best that, as we say goodbye to 2013, already pregnant with regret – we should look forwards to saying sorry for 2014. But we’ve also been sorry for most years of life. It’s only the human way. 1938. 1861. 1776. 1450. What do these awesome (literally, awe-filled, for you plebeians) years have in common? Only that which we must examine through a deeper lens, one man’s deepest regret for 2004.
My understanding of this is that for some reason there had been a commercial advertising the iPad, and then they had used a mock song there and released it. What makes this ripe is that the song itself is a cliche stereotype perfected in a way that it could be marketed for comedy. It is in itself a parody, while also a pastiche of a genre, and within that one that is attempting to be palatable. It is a deconstruction of the genre in attempts to fit in with it in sheer mediocrity. As such, there is no band history, no lyrics, and no stylistic history behind it. It is purely a conception of its own by some cheap pop composers in a back room comissioned by a shady advertising agency on the behalf of a cell phone company.
We are currently discussing the video for the song simply entitled “Shots”. If you are not familiar with it, it is presented below.
There is, of course, another cut – by a lesser known dead Italian director. It was produced somewhere in the mid 1970s, in a haze inspired by Thompson. He had gone outside to the pool and decided that this pastoral scene was to be a place for a brilliant postmodern reflection on hedonism, and so he decided that the only fitting music he could find would come in the future. He requested “The stupidest party song in the world” – which, of course, at that time could only be either soft rock or disco. And so forty years later, his request had been met.
The year of the goddamn hippies. Popping up like rabbits, infesting the urban centers like their own rodents – a permeating odor, a musk of marijuana, fresh and ripe in the air to emblemize that smell of revolution. Or: The agitated angst of many thousands of college students ready to spill blood.
I love Street Fighter. It’s a favorite game of mine, and always has been. That’s why I was a little worried, and anticipated a spike in my blood pressure when I decided to look for a Street Fighter fanfiction to review. I don’t know why I do this to myself.
I find bad fanfiction an affront to the game it is based off of. That’s why I found the load of shit in that section to be awful offenses. To summarize the section, it’s all fluff about M. Bison and Vega. To summarize the M rated fics, it is all hardcore yaoi lemons on M. Bison/Vega. Just thinking about that… ugh, what the hell. Why did the teenage girls choose that pairing anyway? Did they just decide one day to write graphic fiction about a bulky megalomaniac getting it on with a man with a claw attached to one hand? I swear to god I hate this site so fucking much
Hello everyone, welcome to Rebel’s Rap Reviews (RRR). I am chryssalidterrorist (known as Rebel in other lands), and I will be contributing reviews of some of my favourite hip-hop albums. However, to call it a review is an overstatement; it’s more like me sharing and promoting alternative rap, instead of forcing a critical perspective upon the genre (which often becomes condescending). As such, I am very open minded about the genre of “rap”. Unlike most folks who exclusively mingle in underground rap and openly hate on anything mainstream, I like to view mainstream culture from a utilitarian point of view and not take it too seriously. Not everyone on the internet is a music aficionado, and I recognize this fact. That being said, I want to begin this post with an album that I consider to be an underground classic, The Cold Vein by Cannibal Ox.