The Monday Morning Ant Parade

Over the last week or so, I’ve been enraptured by tastemakers. Now, let’s get this clear: I am not a tastemaker, and if you’ve been reading my blog looking for expert opinion, you’re probably looking in the wrong place. Now, I haven’t personally met a tastemaker (though I’ve shopped at Urban Outfitters, so I’m sure that I’ve had brush-ups with them). But as far as I'm concerned, there are three qualities which define impactful tastemakers:

a. You must be intellectually credible;
b. Intellectually credible communities must give you credence; this is generally achieved by ensconcing yourself in intellectually credible communities and having ‘good taste’ (whatever that is);
c. You must be incredibly good-looking.

Now, of the three above traits, I can only lay claim to trait c. Yes, most (nay: all) people who meet are completely blown away by my good looks; it’s a beauty, like the sun, that can only be observed peripherally, as staring too long will leave my likeness burned onto you retina. My good looks, of course, are of a particular brand: I am not rugged, nor handsome, nor frail; I am striking.

Those who are strikingly beautiful typically carry a set of at least two incongruent physical characteristics. Case in point: the mulatto with celeste-blue eyes is striking. I carry a glut of contrasting characteristics: my pelvis boasts a deep, granite-carved V structure, but is crowned with a glutinous midsection; I possess the crank-addict’s complexion, grayish and speckled with scabs and craters, but this is paired with delicate, high cheekbones. And, much like Ghostface Killah, I have a single, muscular bicep contrasting with a fake arm (‘lost it; before rap’); this is likely why I associate with his music.

Despite my incredible beauty, my appointment as a Style Scout on fashion blog Shedoesthecity, and my status as a male model (like this one, and this one), I am still not a legitimate tastemaker. However, there are a few pockets of culture where I feel that my tastes count; one such pocket is hangover music. As I am frequently hung over, especially after the double-whammy of Halloween weekends, and, I’ve refined the elements in music required to nurse one from Sunday-sickness.

It being a double-header of a Halloween – with Halloween festivities on Friday and Saturday – this past weekend, I had to deal with two separate, universe-shattering hangovers. And, as such, I had ample time to explore some new hangover music to nurse me out of my post-boozy haze.

First, I’d gotten Times New Viking’s Rip it Off. Now, while I absolutely love exuberant lo-fi, this was far too abrasive for me; it made my eye sockets pulsate. Next, I tried out The Tallest Man on Earth’s Shallow Graves; right off the bat, I’d noticed that their singer’s voice resembled a cross between Highway 61 era Bob Dylan and Neutral Milk Hotel’s Jeff Mangum. And while this is typically bang-on with my musical taste, in a hung over state, Dylan and Mangum’s voices sound like warbly bandsaws at the best of times. Next, I’d put on AA Bondy’s American Hearts – and I was probably missing the point, but this album references God way too much. And if there’s a time when the absence of God is most pronounced, it’s whilst hung over. And, finally, on a whim, I took a listen to Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago.

And it became the soundtrack to my weekend. This is perfect hangover music.

Now, I will not write a full record review. Rather, I’d like to gather any tastemaking clout I might possess to endorse ‘Lump Sum,’ the second – and strongest – track on the For Emma. Now, Bon Iver typically plays a delicate brand of folk – which makes the rest of the album gentle enough to deal with the most raucous of hangovers. But ‘Lump Sum’ is a complete triumph, and, currently, might be one of the year’s strongest tracks. For proof, see the below video:



What makes ‘Lump Sum’ a particular standout is its combination of two unlikely genres – and the song does so with much more sophistication than most genre hoppers (they did not, for example, crudely combine ska and punk, like Skankin Pickle, or hip-hop and adult contemporary, like Crazy Town or LFO). The stripped down percussion, which I’ve deduced is a simple bass drum, plays at hyper speeds, droning in and out of the track. It’s slightly muffled, recalling techno songs heard outside of a club - a common, almost comforting, experience for many. And though it's clearly a techno beat, it’s indistinct to the point that it could be every techno song or any techno song.

Over the muffled club beat, Bon Iver continues as usual; it’s all whispery folk and Iron and Wine intimacy. The song gives the impression that, upon wandering out from anyclub on John Street, you just happened to drunkenly stumble upon an extremely talented troubadour. And while the muffled club-land cacophony provides a nod to the previous night (read: hair of the dog), the folk nurses you into your Sunday morning reality: the hangover. And, when hung over, Bon Iver are like Pepto Bismol for your cerebral cortex (I have no clue what that means, but I can only assume that it's a feeling roughly comparable to being toe-fed grapes by Meghan McCain - and then having her blog about it. Which, I'm positive, is completely awesome).

So, while my tastes are rarely to be trusted, in one of the few moments of lucidity I will ever have, here is my one, single recommendation: listen to Bon Iver the next time you’re hung over.