Here’s all I can think: that when we are born, we are born with a sort of mood in us, a mood that comes to us through our genes, that will be seasoned by experience, but deep down, it’s already there, looking for company, for someone to share itself with, and when we happen on the right piece of music, the right person, or, in this case the right artist, then, with a muscle that is as deep as ourselves, with the force of someone grabbing for a life preserver, we attach. And that’s what happened to me that day.
There is performance art. There is rock ‘n’ roll. And then there are St. Vincent dress rehearsals.
‘There is so much autobiography contained within the songs that I don’t see the need to deflate them with the mundane,’ she writes. ‘I’m not very interested in the behind-the-scenes sacrifices at the altar of the god of content.’
‘She’s inspiring to anyone, women and men both, and she knows that,’ [Farrell] says. ‘My seven-year-old daughter is obsessed with her. She saw the photos we took out in L.A. and, from that point on, called her the ‘rock-star lady Daddy works with.”
At one point, our conversation inexplicably turns to high school sports; when I explain how water polo is played, she responds, eyes wide in amused disbelief: ‘We distract ourselves from death in so many creative ways.’
Some of my favorite bon mots from Devon Maloney’s outstanding profile of Annie Clark, “St. Vincent Has Crafted a Magnificent Mythology on Her Own Terms”
She sits right behind Leonard Cohen in my musician hero-worship pantheon. (Tom Waits is my favorite, but he doesn’t make me feel like an awestruck idolator in the same way.) I am about to listen to the new St. Vincent album for the first time, and I am nervous. Go figure.
(Aside: if you don’t follow Jessica Hopper on Twitter, you are missing all the best music writing.)
a rare snap of the famous secret meeting between Martin Heidegger (left) and Billy Wilder (right)(Paris, 1962)
But people did see this movie, and scores of them were young eggheads like me, who were inspired not by its intellectual rigor, but by the very passion that The Atlantic piece disdains. And that’s what movies do well. What academics are supposed to do is take that passion and turn it into close study and real analysis, rather than turn up their nose at the source.
by vincent lee
Margaret Atwood, from “February”
"There is a moment in every dawn when light floats, there is the possibility of magic." Douglas Adams (So Long and Thanks for all the Fish)
…from the bow of the ship heading back into the ice.
If you remember the one on the left, the one on the right is not going to make you feel particularly spry or vibrant.
Welp. Guess I’ll go take a nap, have some Metamucil, watch a little Pat and Vanna, eat a light supper, and go to bed around 9 tonight.
(No but for real: 1994 was the first year I really grasped that not only was there music, but there were whole (sub)cultures of musicians, fans, and writers; and that many of those cultures were fascinating and fucking awesome.)
(But for even realer: going to bed at 9 sounds kinda great, right?)