Welcome to “Things I Hate,” a semi-regular installment in which I discuss something that bugs the shit out of me. This week’s recipient of my loathing: passive-aggressiveness.

First things first, allow me to apologize for the ever-increasing gap between posts. (This is where an excuse would normally go, but I don’t have one, so that’s pretty much it. Sorry.)

I was on the subway last week and, as fortune would have it, I found an empty seat on the train. It’s nominally a three-person bench, but if you’re going for comfort, two people is a more viable number. Usually I’m stuck standing from 23rd Street in Manhattan all the way to Myrtle Ave./Broadway in Brooklyn, which is about a 30-minute ride, so needless to say I was pleased with my good fortune. I sit down, headphones in my ears (YES I GOT NEW ONES), and open up my book (“Charlie Wilson’s War,” in case you were curious, which I’m sure you were.) After a few seconds of reading, I decide to pause the excellent music pumping through my headphones so I can better focus on the book. As I read, I notice the train growing more and more crowded, but since the guy to my right isn’t moving over to let anyone else in, I elect to do the same. No sense sacrificing comfort until I’m asked to do so, right?

(I know that sounds kinda dickish, but unless someone elderly or with a disability is trying to sit down, I think I’ve earned the right to have a little comfort. I’m at work and on my feet for about 12.5 hours a day, and I get a seat on the train about once every two weeks. If you think I’m not going to milk that shit for all it’s worth, then you clearly don’t know me very well.)

After a little while, I hear someone muttering the word “asshole”- I don’t think much of it at first, since I assume they’re just talking to themselves. But it persists. “Asshole…fucking dick…asshole.” I start to pay closer attention to the man lobbing these invectives, and it becomes painfully obvious that he’s talking about me. With my headphones in, I continue to stare at my book, but by this point I’m not reading at all- I’m just trying to discern what I could possibly have done to engender such hatred in this man. And then I hear this beauty of a sentence:

“Must be nice to be sitting down on a crowded train, asshole.”

Are you fucking kidding me?! Seriously, who says that?! Keep in mind, this bastion of passive-aggressiveness never asked to sit down OR gave any indication that he would like me to move over so he can sit; moreover, he seemed to be placing the blame solely on me in spite of the fact that the bench was occupied by two people. Look buddy, I don’t know from what fur-lined cave you crawled, but here in the real world, if you want something you open your mouth and fucking ask for it. I’m not a mind reader, and I have neither the time nor the patience to try and anticipate the needs of every other person sharing a subway car with me because they’re too chickenshit to ask for what they want. If he had asked, I would have had no problem whatsoever moving over so he could sit down; hell, even if he hadn’t asked and just started to plop down in the seat, I’d have moved. Honestly man, did you think if you sat down without my express permission I’d slide a blade between your ribs? What really chapped me, though, was his willingness to stand there and swear at me, but only because he assumed I couldn’t hear anything he was saying. If you’re so sure you’ve got the moral high ground on this one, why not tap me on the shoulder and make me aware of your displeasure? If he had at done that, I’d have been more willing to accept his opprobrium; at least it would have come in a constructive manner.

Anyway, the guy was being a dick, so I decided I had a choice: move over without being asked, or continue to sit there exactly as I had been. Because I’m a petty and small-minded person, I chose the latter. And guess what? I REGRET NOTHING. That guy sucked.

Oh, and we got off at the same stop, and when I stood up, I saw him looking daggers at me, so I turned to him, took out my headphones and said “You know, next time you want someone to move over, you should probably ask them like an adult instead of cursing at them when you think they can’t hear you.” Closed/muttering mouths don’t get fed around here. The look on his face was priceless, by the way.

The point I’m trying to make is this: don’t be passive-aggressive. It accomplishes absolutely nothing, and it makes me hate your guts.

An afterword: I changed trains at Myrtle Ave., and the very first thing I saw was a black guy yell “PARDON ME!” and careen wildly onto a bench already occupied by two people. Now that’s how you sit down on a train.

I found out the other day about the existence of an app called Lulu. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this app (congratu-fucking-lations, by the way), I’ll explain it in a little more detail. Basically, anybody who is your Facebook friend or a friend of one of your Facebook friends can rate you. Ratings are scaled from 1-10; however, instead of asking the participant for a numerical grade in each of these categories, the women have to answer a series of whimsical questions; based on their answers, points are assigned for each category. The categories are: Appearance, Humor, Manners, Sex, First Kiss, Ambition and Commitment. In addition, a reviewer can put hashtags describing in further detail your best and worst qualities. Those ratings are averaged out, giving you an aggregate score which can then be seen by anyone with whom you’re Facebook friends, as well as their friends.

Full disclosure: I was rated on this site, which is how I was made aware of its existence. I debated whether or not I should share my review, since the whole thing is absurd and meaningless, BUT in the spirit of journalistic integrity (I guess?), I’ll share them. My comments on the ratings are below.

Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly thrilled with this review.

Appearance: 4.0

Well, that’s just mean.

Humor: 8.0

Hey, thanks!

Manners: 8.0

I…I guess?

Sex: 6.5

Actually, that’s probably accurate.

First Kiss: 6.5

MY LIPS ARE LIKE PILLOWS FILLED WITH LOTION AND YOU NEED TO LEARN TO APPRECIATE A GOOD MOUTH WHEN YOU SEE IT.

Ambition: 10.0

I rent cars for a living.

Commitment: 4.0

I’m gonna guess things didn’t end so smoothly with this reviewer.

All told, an aggregate score of 6.7; in other words, I’m a D+ as a man. And then there are the hashtags: “#JekyllandHyde,” “#HitItAndQuitIt,” “#50ShadesOfF**kedUp,” “#ThatGuy”. However, I’m also “#Mysterious” and “#UnchartedTerritory,” so I guess it’s a wash.

Let me be completely clear: I could care less about my rating on this thing. I am aware that writing about how stupid this app is (and it is stupid) makes it look like a case of sour grapes on my part because I didn’t get a high rating, but believe me, it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. (That being said, though, what does it say about the reviewer that I’m a 4.0 appearance-wise, yet she still had sex with me?)

First of all, some of those criteria are absurd. “Manners”? What is this, an Emily Brontë novel? And only someone who’s seen “Hitch” 56 times (alone, natch) would think to make “First Kiss” a category. What’s wrong with just “Kissing”? As for “Commitment,” well, you can’t rate someone if you’re in a relationship with them, so the results are guaranteed to be skewed (if a guy breaks it off with a girl, she probably won’t give him very high marks, right?), so I really don’t see the point of this category. (Side note: I saw one guy’s ratings, which were given to him by a girl whose dealings with him were limited to “A Crush,” and she gave him a 10 in “Commitment.” HOW THE FUCK WOULD YOU KNOW?! YOU AREN’T DATING HIM!) “Ambition” is kinda murky, I think- a guy could say he wants to do all sorts of cool things with his life and get a 10, while another guy could just not share his ambitions and get a 0. I don’t get it. And “Humor” is fairly subjective, too, if you think about it- there are people who don’t think Jerry Seinfeld is funny (I’m one of them), so I don’t think Humor can be easily quantified.

This leaves us with “Sex” and “Appearance” which, quite frankly, are what this app (and the countless others like it) are for. It’s the female equivalent of HotOrNot, which is another awful idea brought to life. Apps like those are a way for women and men to anonymously rate the opposite sex with a total lack of accountability, which is pretty unfair. Not only that, but since the person being reviewed has no way of knowing who’s writing this shit about them, there’s no way to find out what they did wrong to avoid making those mistakes with another person. It’s just an excuse to take out your frustration on someone for their real or perceived misdeeds. The problem arises when other people (either your friends or friends of friends) see those reviews and think “Wow, so-and-so is a fucking asshole! GOODBYE, FRIENDSHIP WITH HIM.” That’s a totally plausible scenario, and it’s kind of a shitty thing to do to someone, don’t you think?

I hesitate to make this next point, because I don’t want it to be misconstrued as misogynistic. But given the outcry from women about sites like HotOrNot or other places for meatheaded shitsacks to rate women based solely on physical appearance, isn’t it extremely hypocritical to do pretty much the same to guys? I know that some women will say “BUT THIS IS HOW I CAN WARN WOMEN ABOUT THIS GUY WHO DIDN’T WANT TO DATE ME GRRRRRRLPOWER!,” which may be true, but there are plenty of girls who will cast aspersions on a guy just because he wasn’t interested, the same way that guys will call a girl a slut for not wanting to sleep with them. It’s a shitty thing to do. Plus, with an app like this, you’re deprived of the satisfaction (as it were) of knowing who’s saying shitty things about you, which could help determine if their criticisms are valid or if they’re just being vindictive.

I swear to God, I’m not bitter. That score I received? That could probably be applied to Seth Rogen, and he seems to be doing okay for himself. So THE JOKE IS ON YOU, ANONYMOUS CRITIC.

Here’s your song of the day:

In case it wasn’t painfully obvious by now, I write. (“He’s writing about writing? OMG SO META!”) I write screenplays mostly, but also this blog and the beginnings of books that I find too frustrating to finish. And to be honest, I kind of hate doing it sometimes.

Allow me to elaborate (like you have a choice.)

There are very few feelings better than creating a character or an entire world using nothing other than my imagination; conversely, there are few worse feelings than when I can’t seem to write a single sentence that feels right. (Kind of like this one. Seriously, that took five tries.) There are moments when I’ll be writing and all that runs through my head is: “You’re a shitty writer. You’re not interesting, this topic sucks, you can’t come up with anything good on your own, and you’re never going to find even a modicum of success with this. Just give it up. I’m not saying this to be mean, but you’re just awful.” And then I have to walk away from the computer before I throw it out a window. I’m very easily frustrated, I’m afraid.

I think that has something to do with the fact that I have an absurd case of ADD- I always have this gnawing feeling that I only have a limited window in which to write my stuff before I get distracted by thoughts of vacuuming or chocolate or whatever the fuck, and if I can’t get what I want to write out quickly enough, I start to worry that I’ll forget what I wanted to say and the whole thing will be ruined. And then nobody will love me and I’ll die alone. DON’T LEAVE ME, READERS. I could, of course, counteract this by taking Adderall, but that’s a whole slog and I’m lazy. Plus, Adderall gives me pretty heavy mood swings, not to mention I don’t want to be a 45 year-old man who has to take a drug that college kids routinely snort just to put some words on paper.

The question, then, is simple: Why do I write? I’ve thought about it more than is probably reasonable, and I still haven’t come up with a suitable answer. On one hand, I guess I write so that I might have a record of my frame of mind at a particular point in my life. That’s probably too charitable an assessment, though; I probably write because, like many members of my generation, I’m possessed by the notion that every thought that creeps into my skull absolutely must have an audience, despite the fact that the vast majority of what I think is of zero consequence to anybody.

Then again, maybe I write because it’s a form of communication that is utilized at an alarmingly declining rate. There is value in taking the time to gather your thoughts and commit them to paper (so to speak)- it’s almost a form of meditation. (Technically speaking, that’s an impossibly stupid comparison, since meditation is focusing the front of the mind on a mundane task so the back of the mind can think about other things, and though writing can be tiresome at times, it is hardly mundane. That’s why I said “almost,” so LAY OFF.) Even writing that last theory didn’t sound right, though- I’m not the only person who writes, and I’m certainly not the best writer (feel free to dispute that in the comments), so I’m not exactly Sir Gallahad striding to the rescue of the written word.

Truth be told, I don’t really know why I write. At it’s core, writing makes me happy, and that’s really all the reason I need. I’m sure there are various motivations behind my writing, but I don’t think I’m perceptive enough to figure out the root of my desire to write. I just know how to write, to put it simply, and I think it would be a shame to let my abilities fall by the wayside. There’s more to it than just that, I’m sure, but for now I’m content to accept the fact that I don’t know why I write; not only that, it’s okay not to know why I write. For an overly analytical person like me, it’s best not to dig too deeply into this stuff.

So those are my thoughts on writing in a nutshell. And I hated every last one of them.

When I got my shitty replacement phone, I told myself I could manage for a few months, because I’m a warrior striding valiantly onward in the face of adversity. I was wrong- I’m actually a tremendous coward whose tolerance for things being anything less than perfect is so minuscule as to be nonexistent. So I broke down, ordered a new phone, and it came today. And HOLY SHIT WHY DID I EVER THINK I COULD MANAGE WITHOUT A PROPER PHONE I MISSED YOU SO MUCH [endless kissing noises].

I did notice some differences in my phone usage, though, and they weren’t necessarily all bad things. For one, I found myself spending less time staring mindlessly at my phone (largely because I hated it so much that my eyes couldn’t bear to look at that stupid thing.) This, of course, led to a drastic uptick in productivity, and I’m happy to report that those days are OVER. I’m back to being a mediocre employee and someone who is largely disinterested in their surroundings mere hours after receiving my replacement phone. So that’s good. I also had absolutely no desire to write or post anything from my phone, because the autocorrect was so atrocious that I would spend an hour on what amounted to maybe 250 words. Plus, every time I texted, I was filled with a sudden, overwhelming urge to commit mass murder. That may have been from all the PCP I’ve been using, though. I love PCP.

They sent me an iPhone 5C as a replacement, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t incredibly disappointed at first. Which, when you think about it, is absolute fucking lunacy- who gets upset by getting an upgraded phone because it’s “not quite as nice as my old phone”? The answer is me. I get upset. Now that I have it, though…well, put it this way: if someone offered me a swap of this phone for my old iPhone, I’d slap them on their cheeks for making such a foolish proposal. Even an inferior version of an upgrade is still an upgrade.

I went to the AT&T store to get my phone activated, and the guy who activated it could not have been less interested in doing a good job. He didn’t import any of my contacts, he muttered maybe twenty words total for the whole 15 minutes I was in there, and when I asked if the screen protector I was buying was any good, his response was “I dunno. It’s a screen protector.” What kind of asshole response is that? STEP UP YOUR SALESMANSHIP/CONVERSATIONAL GAME, TIM. Now I have to go back to the AT&T store to get my phone properly set up. And if you think I’m going back to that dickhole, you’ve drastically underestimated how much of a passive-aggressive pussy I can be. Old Timmy boy’s getting a shitty review when I go to the other store, though. I WILL NOT LET THIS STAND.

Now that my old phone is no longer in use, I’ve kinda been considering having a good old-fashioned smash fest with that thing, preferably with a baseball bat. But given my luck, I’ll probably break this phone 20 minutes after ruining that one, so maybe I should hold off.

/stares at old phone angrily as if it’s shitty on purpose

So anyway, this is my way of saying I AM BACK. Until I get robbed again. Enjoy the music.

For my Christmas vacation (“You serious, Clark?”), I went to Florida to visit my parents in their new house. Before you get all “OMG UR PARENTS MOVED TO FLORIDA THAT’S SO KEWL!” on me, I should inform you that they just moved like ten minutes away from their old house. Also, I don’t understand why people get so excited by the idea of Florida, like it’s some mysterious tropical paradise that only the most fortunate of folks will ever see. Florida is largely populated with trashy cokeheads who drive lifted pickup trucks, claim to be MMA fighters (because they watch a lot of UFC) and have never left the state because “WHY WOULD I, BRO? WE’VE GOT IT ALL HERE!” These are the kinds of people who, as adults, actually think Disney World is the most magical place on earth. Picture the trashiest people from your hometown, give them tanned, leathery skin, and presto: Floridians. It’s always muggy there, but with the looming threat of an apocalyptic thunderstorm lurking on the horizon. And I swear I never have any idea where in Florida I am, because everything looks exactly the same. It’s as if  whoever settled the state was like “Most of the people living here either won’t have the mental capacity to realize that they’re living in the real-life equivalent of a poorly-designed video game with recurring buildings and characters, or they’ll be too old to care.” Whenever I go to Florida, my thought process goes something like this:

0:01-0:05: “It’s nice to get out of the city for a little bit.”

0:05-24:00: “Fuck, it’s hot.”

24:01-48:00: “Finally used to the temperature. This isn’t so bad.”

48:01-Departure: “JESUS CHRIST THIS PLACE IS AWFUL.”

I think we all need to stop fetishizing Florida. It’s not El Dorado. You know why we didn’t settle Florida first, even though Ponce de León discovered it in the 1500s? Because, even with his limited knowledge of America, he probably went “Ugh, I’m sure we can do better. This can’t be the best part of this new land.” And you know what, friends? He was right. Florida is awful.

So anyway, I was down in Florida for Christmas, and since my parents had to move all my stuff from one house to the other, my mom asked me to go through some old boxes to decide what I wanted to throw out. As I went through the boxes, I found a stack of notes, letters, birthday cards, etc., and though I thoroughly enjoyed reading every last one of them, I was struck with a very uncomfortable realization:

I’m a pretty shitty friend.

There were birthday cards from people who, at one point or another, were people I’d call close friends; with the exception of one or two names, though, I haven’t talked to these people in years. It’s not like we had a falling-out or anything, I just kinda stopped putting in the effort to keep in touch. The more I thought about that, the more I realized that these weren’t isolated incidents; I do this with more frequency than I would care to admit. At first I don’t talk to one of my friends in a while and I think “Oh man, I gotta call them.” Then more time passes, I still haven’t called, and before I know it, it’s been years since I’ve spoken to them, and at that point, the relationship has pretty much faded completely. And then I’ll think “I can’t call them now, they’ll think I’m in trouble!” I’m fucking awkward like that.

On the other hand, phones work both ways, right? Am I completely to blame for the friendship falling apart, or can I take solace in the fact that maybe the friendship had just run its course? I don’t know. I guess I should probably get used to it happening, because as I  get older, a lot of the people with whom I once had strong friendships are going to vanish from my life completely. Instead of lamenting the loss of these friendships, maybe I should just accept them for what they were: great at that point in time, but probably destined to come to an end at one point or another. It’s a sad reality, but a reality nonetheless.

With that in mind, I’d like to amend my previous statement: I’m not a bad friend, I’m just bad at keeping in touch. So if you’re reading this and going “That asshole never calls me!”, feel free to reach out. I’ll be happy to hear from you.
Or don’t. I NEVER LIKED YOU ANYWAY.

With 2014 right around the corner and my obsession with music showing no signs of slowing down, I thought it might be prudent to put together a list of my favorite songs from 2013. I should note that the songs on this list weren’t necessarily released in 2013, but 2013 happens to be the year I enjoyed them most, and isn’t that the point of any song?  If that’s a problem, feel free to not read any further, but know this: you’ll be missing out. (You probably won’t be, but for the sake of my ego, let’s just pretend you are.)

Let’s get started.

Actually, you know what? I might list a song, I might list an entire album and pick one song from that album to represent it. DON’T CALL ME WORTHLESS, I’M TRYING MY BEST.

Queens of the Stone Age: “…Like Clockwork”

I’ll admit, I haven’t always been a big fan of QOTSA. I’ve always respected their music, but some of their albums are incredibly uneven; for every incredible song, there is another song that’s so weird and abstract that it detracts from the great tracks on their albums. “…Like Clockwork” has moments like that, but they’re a lot fewer and further between than on previous albums, which is a step in the right direction, I think. Maybe they’re not being as “conceptually daring” as on prior albums, but they’re a lot more “fun to listen to” on this one, and “Smooth Sailing” is a great example. I’ll avoid breaking down exactly what I like about the song since that’s kind of subjective, but you have to love a track that features the lyric “I blow my load over the status quo, herewego.” Josh Homme is the fucking man.

Other suggested songs by QOTSA: “Kalopsia,” “If I Had A Tail,” “Feel Good Hit Of The Summer,” “Monster In The Parasol.”

Savages: “Shut Up”

I had never heard of this band until a couple of months ago, when my friend Harley got us tickets to see them at Terminal 5. For those of you who are unfamiliar with music venues in New York City (and shame on you), Terminal 5 is a shitty venue in Midtown. How is it shitty? Well, picture a rectangle. Now, take one of the short sides off (that’s where the stage is) and imagine trying to find a good sight line anywhere except the first 10-15 rows directly in front of the stage. Now imagine there are multiple floors of this, but keep in mind that on every floor above ground level, you can’t see anything unless you’re standing directly against the railing. Now imagine that even though there are only 3 levels, one of them is always closed for “VIP access.” Got all that? Now imagine paying $8 for a bottle of Bud Light. Terminal 5 is the worst.

But yeah, Savages. All-girl band, tons of energy, phenomenal musicians all around. This song starts with an intro, so fast forward to about the 0:40 second mark if you want to skip it. It’s a fantastic track.

The Walkmen: “The Rat”

I got to see The Walkmen this past summer at Firefly, and I was thoroughly impressed with their live performance. It sucks that they broke up, especially since I just started getting into their music. WAIT UNTIL I GET TIRED OF YOU BEFORE YOU BREAK UP, BANDS. “The Rat” has a lot more of an edge to it than some of their newer stuff, which I think is why I like it so much. It’s also an excellent breakup/shitty-weather song, which I’m sure will come in handy for you soon. Because your significant other is leaving you.

Other suggested songs: “Postcards From Tiny Islands,” “Heartbreaker.”

Arctic Monkeys: “Fireside”

I think I’ve gone into sufficient detail regarding my Arctic Monkeys fandom. (This is normally where I’d provide a link to that article, but I wrote it, like, last week, and I don’t update this blog all that often. You should be able to find it.)

Other suggested Arctic Monkeys songs: All of them.

Justice: “New Lands”

I know Justice gets a lot of shit for sounding like a watered-down Daft Punk, but this song is awesome. And the breakdown halfway through? Just magical.

Broken Bells: “Holding On For Life”

I’ve been waiting for the second Broken Bells album ever since they released the last one, and if this song is any indication, their sophomore album is going to be goddamned wonderful. For those of you who’ve never heard of Broken Bells: get out. I SAID OUT.

Broken Bells is comprised of James Mercer (best known as the frontman for The Shins and for a cameo on “Portlandia”) and Danger Mouse (best known for his Beatles/Jay Z mashup “The Grey Album” and for being one half of Gnarls Barkley.) They make wonderful music, and that’s all there is to it.

Other suggested Broken Bells songs: “The Ghost Inside,” “October,” “Vaporize,” “The Mall and Misery.”

Toro y Moi: “Say That”

Toro y Moi is a guy named Chaz Bundick who makes awesome beats. I’ve also previously stated my appreciation for individuals who give themselves band names even when the “band” is just them, so that’s really all the convincing you should need.

Other suggested Toro y Moi songs: “Still Sound,” “New Beat,” “Go With You,” “Low Shoulders.”

Washed Out: “New Theory (RAC Mix)”

Washed Out is awesome, and RAC does amazing remixes of indie songs. The combination of the two? Orgasmic.

Other suggested Washed Out songs: “Feel It All Around,” “Amor Fati.”

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club: “Windows”

I saw BRMC at Terminal 5, and I was pretty disappointed with their performance. It was one of those uneven shows, where every good, hard-driving song was followed by a ballad; to make matters worse, they didn’t play my favorite song. AND it was at Terminal 5. They actually finished their set with “Windows,” which totally pissed me off (you’ll understand when you listen to it- who ends a set on a ballad and then doesn’t do an encore?!) After my disappointment subsided, though, I gave it another listen, and now it’s one of my favorite songs of theirs. The moral of the story: I’m terribly closed-minded.

Other BRMC song suggestions: “Six Barrel Shotgun,” “Weapon of Choice,” “Teenage Disease,” “Conscience Killer,” “Stop.”

Kavinsky: “ProtoVision”

I think I’ve said all that needs to be said about Kavinsky.

Other suggested Kavinsky songs: “Blizzard,” “Rampage,” “Odd Look,” “Pacific Coast Highway,” “Suburbia.”

Black Strobe: “I’m A Man”

Remaking a Muddy Waters song with a heavy-metal/industrial sound? Yes, please.

Sinkane: “Jeeper Creeper”

Sinkane is the solo project of Ahmed Gallab, who has worked with Of Montreal and Yeasayer, among others. I saw him at Mercury Lounge, and guess who else was there? Haley Joel Osment. Yep, THAT Haley Joel Osment. I’ll give you a moment to recover. (Side note: he’s kind of a squirrelly dude. Go figure, right?)

The Drums: “Money”

The rest of their album kinda sucks, but this song is great.

And last but not least:

The Sonics: “Have Love, Will Travel”

The opening riff alone should make you fall in love with the song. If you don’t, then I don’t know what decisions led you to this point in your life, but I just feel sorry for you.

So that’s it: my list of favorite songs of the year. Happy New Year, everyone.

Apparently, December is Music Month here at AHopelessCynic, because that’s really all I’ve been in the mood to discuss lately, and I plan on following this post with a list of my favorite songs of 2013. I would imagine that isn’t a problem for most of you, but if it is, I don’t give a shit I sincerely apologize. I’ve been wanting to write something about Arctic Monkeys for a long time now (roughly three weeks), and since they just recently released “AM,” widely acknowledged as their best album to date, I figured now would be a good time to do it. So today, we’re going to investigate how Arctic Monkeys have managed to gain mainstream popularity without sacrificing one iota of critical acclaim or the indie cred that got them there in the first place. So take my hand, little one- we’re going on an adventure.

I discovered Arctic Monkeys almost purely by accident; in fact, I can recall with almost astonishing clarity the moment I thought to myself “Well, I know what I’m listening to for the rest of my life.” I was playing Guitar Hero 5 in my apartment in Charlotte, trying to find new, fun songs to play. I had continually scrolled past the Arctic Monkeys’ song “Brianstorm” because I thought it would suck (I’m adventurous like that,) but eventually I had no choice but to give it a shot. And I was blown the fuck away.

On a purely musical level, the song is amazing; the drumming is complex but not overdone, the guitars have just the right amount of distortion, and the bass pulls it all together. At first, I didn’t even listen to what Alex Turner was singing- experience has taught me that most bands who play this well are usually lacking in the lyrics department, so I figured that would be the case here. After all, there had to be a reason why this band wasn’t super-famous, right?

I was wrong. Hopelessly, laughably wrong. AH, THE NAIVETE OF YOUTH. Not only were the lyrics serviceable, they were good. Turner’s lyrics are one of the biggest strengths of a band already overloaded with them, and they’re probably the main reason why Arctic Monkeys have been able to evolve musically without sacrificing quality. On their earlier records, the lyrics were tongue-in-cheek and almost punkish in content, which perfectly mirrored the band’s sound. Take, for example, “From The Ritz to The Rubble “:

The lyrics are somewhat indecipherable on first listen; as drummer Matt Helders describes Turner’s Sheffield accent, “when you talk between songs at a gig  and you’re speaking English in our normal accent, it seems a bit strange when you burst into song like you’re from California or summat…it looks a bit  daft.” Anyway, Turner essentially criticizes the indie culture, describing a shitty night at a rock club with asshole bouncers and too-cool-for-school hipsters:

Last night there was two bouncers
And one of them’s alright
The other one’s the scary one
His way or no way, totalitarian
He’s got no time for you
Looking or breathing
How he doesn’t want you to
So step out the queue,
He makes examples of you
…
Instilled in your brain,
You’ve got something to prove
To all the smirking faces and the boys in black
Why can’t they be pleasant?
Why can’t they have a laugh?

He’s criticizing the types of people who buy their albums, but he does it in such a good-natured fashion that he gets away with it. It’s a testament to their winsome qualities as a band, and it’s that affable cynicism that most resonates with me. (Naturally.)

Normally, most bands would be thrilled with the spot that Arctic Monkeys occupied in the mid-to-late 2000s: indie darlings with commercial appeal and critical acclaim. But that wasn’t enough for the band, and 2009’s “Humbug” was an artistic step in a different direction. Produced by Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme, the album marked a dramatic departure from their earlier sound. While their first two albums were centered around devil-may-care lyrics and fast, aggressive tunes, “Humbug” showed a darker, more brooding side to the band. The tunes (in particular, Helders’ drumming, which once bordered on the absurd with its complexity and pace), began to take a backseat to Turner’s lyricism. There were still elements of Arctic Monkeys’ older albums present in “Humbug,” but there was a shift in the presentation of those elements:

To be honest, “Humbug” wasn’t my favorite at first- I missed the more lighthearted, whimsical Arctic Monkeys from their earlier albums. But as time progressed, the album grew on me. It was evidence of a band striving to create more meaningful music instead of resting on its laurels and continuing to churn out songs based on a proven formula, and though I was initially reluctant to embrace the shift in content, that shift has been a boon to the band’s long-term vitality. As Arctic Monkeys grow older, so too do their fans. At a certain point, we don’t want to hear about going to rock shows and the self-absorbed folks who populate those places, full of the unwavering arrogance of youth. Sometimes we want to hear about the quiet bars where you think you saw a former flame:

“Cornerstone” is a shining example of Turner’s lyrical eloquence; when he talks about giving a girl a ride home but not wanting to let her go, instead of saying “I took the long way home,” he says “I elongated my lift home.” Now how much better does that sound? The answer is a lot better. A LOT BETTER.

After “Humbug,” Arctic Monkeys released “Suck It And See” in 2011. “Suck It And See” took the menacing swagger of “Humbug” and paired it with the whimsical lyrics found on “Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not.” A prime example of this was the lead single “Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve Moved Your Chair”:

I’m gonna be honest, though- this one is my least favorite album. It lacked the Josh Homme magic, and though Arctic Monkeys were endeavoring on this record to break new ground musically, the result was less cohesive than their past efforts. It almost seemed like the band found themselves at a bit of a crossroads from a creative standpoint, and instead of choosing one direction and forging ahead with confidence, they tried to straddle the line between creative growth and maintaining the status quo set by their earlier work. This is understandable: “Humbug” was their worst-selling album, so it’s possible that they saw the diminished sales numbers as an indication that their fans wanted to hear music that was more similar to their earlier work. Whatever the case, their effort to recalibrate their sound failed, as “Suck It And See” sold the fewest copies of any of their albums.

After the disappointing sales of “Suck It And See,” Arctic Monkeys went back to the studio and redoubled their efforts, releasing  “AM” in September of this year. With “AM,” Arctic Monkeys embraced the change of their sound rather than continuing to fight it, and the result is their strongest album to date. The whimsy hasn’t left the lyrics, per se, but it’s slightly more brooding, though not as dark as in “Humbug.” (I suspect Josh Homme had a lot to do with the lyrical content of “Humbug,” though I could be wrong.) The songs on “AM” have a late-night feel to them; it almost seems inappropriate to listen to the album while the sun is out. Take, for example, “Arabella”:

It has an edge to it, but instead of the blunt edge featured on some of the songs from “Humbug,” it’s sharper and more purposeful. Without a doubt, “AM” is their strongest album to date; the same mood permeates every song, without any of the up-and-down of “Favourite Worst Nightmare” (which, despite its inconsistency, is a fantastic album.) It’s not surprising that “AM” has outsold “Suck It And See” and “Humbug” combined in just three months, as well as why it’s been so well-received by critics in addition to fans of the band.

The question now is, can Arctic Monkeys continue to walk the fine line of (relative) commercial success and  critical praise without suffering from the common hipster refrain of “Yeah, I liked their first few albums, before they got big”? As long as they continue to push themselves to new heights creatively, they can avoid that fate. And if they can’t? Then, as Turner once challenged us: “Bring on the backlash.”

And I’m back. Sorry for the delay in posting new shit, but I’ve spent the better part of this past week re-learning how to type on this phone, and the results have been a mixed bag. I never realized how phenomenal the iPhone predictive text and autocorrect were until I started using this piece of shit. You know how if you forget to hit space between words on an iPhone, it does it for you? NOT SO HERE. Also, if I write “tl” instead of “to” on this phone, it doesn’t correct it to “to. ” It uses what is apparently the second most-popular option: “Tlingit.” Another treat: “ylu” autocorrects to “Ulises,” but when I tried to write “Ulises” just now, that autocorrected to “hours.” Texting on this thing is like being in a fucking David Fincher film. Plus, since the screen on this phone is smaller, I need a fucking electron microscope to see the keys, and whatever the finger equivalent of an electron microscope is to type my messages accurately. I want this phone to turn into a human just so I can hear it scream when I set it on fire.

But I digress.

I’ve been listening to three albums in almost constant rotation lately: “AM” by Arctic Monkeys, “…Like Clockwork” by Queens of the Stone Age, and “OutRun” by Kavinsky. I’m going to refrain from discussing Arctic Monkeys and QOTSA today, because I want to give them a proper post in the future, so today I’ll just be discussing Kavinsky; namely, how fucking cool he is.

Kavinsky is the alter ego of Vincent Belorgey, a French DJ, actor, and overall badass. But I don’t care about Belorgey the person right now- I care about Kavinsky. You might recognize him as the artist behind “Nightcall,” the song that played during the opening credits of “Drive” (and if you don’t, pay attention to the music in movies for once, you ape. It’s there for a goddamned reason.) The song is awesome, so I did a little research about Kavinsky; with or without your permission, I’d like to share the story of Kavinsky with you.

In 1986, a man named Kavinsky was racing his Ferrari Testarossa on a dark, winding road when he crashed. The car was instantly engulfed in flames, and Kavinsky died in the wreck. 20 years later, however, he came back from the dead…to cruise around in his ’86 Testarossa all night and make techno music for the people. As a zombie.

HOW FUCKING COOL IS THAT?

That’s what “Nightcall” is about- he goes to see the girl with whom he was in love when he died, but things between them have changed forever. His girlfriend recognizes that he’s not the man she once loved, so he leaves,destined to cruise around this planet for all eternity in his Ferrari.

In the hands of a less-creative individual, this whole backstory would come across as meaningless nonsense, but Belorgey commits to the story of Kavinsky so completely that it works. He also uses a lot of equipment from the 80s to make his beats, so you sort of feel like they were created by a guy who died in 1986 and doesn’t know about new technology. It really underscores the whole backstory.

The other cool thing about Kavinsky is the image of the character: he looks like a zombified Billy Zabka, right down to the old-school high-tops, stonewashed jeans and letterman’s jacket. That’s exactly why the whole character works so well: because Belorgey has crafted  the story of Kavinsky so thoroughly. When I listen to the music, I don’t think I’m listening to Vincent Belorgey, a French DJ who tours with Daft Punk and Justice; I think I’m listening to Kavinsky, the guy who died in ’86 and doesn’t know anything other than driving and music. Oh, also, his latest album is called “OutRun,” named after the Sega racing game which features (what else?) a Ferrari Testarossa. Yup.

It may seem gimmicky when I describe it, but listen to “Nightcall” and you’ll see what I mean. And if you listen and say to yourself “What the fuck is Ryan talking about? This guy sucks,” then you’re not a person I want in my life at all.

Think about that.

My phone was stolen out of my pocket while I was asleep on the train on Friday night. Some of you may be saying “Well, you do live in NYC, Ryan! This is what happens!” NO. BULLSHIT. This shouldn’t happen anywhere, and it’s ludicrous to suggest that we’re all living on borrowed time when it comes to holding on to our possessions before they’re inevitably taken from us. Like people who steal are owed the shit they’re stealing, and they’re just collecting on a past-due balance. This sort of shoulder-shrugging indifference only comes into play when the location of the theft is a crowded metropolitan area, and it usually comes from the type of people who “went to NYC once, but that Times Square was just so crowded! I’LL NEVER GO BACK AND YOU DESERVE IT FOR LIVING IN THAT DEN OF SIN!”

Isn’t that a ridiculous thing to think? That a crime’s impact varies based on where it’s committed? If somebody steals a car in Bumblefuck, Kentucky, the owner of that car is just as screwed as someone whose car is stolen in Los Angeles. Both victims are still going to have a hard time getting to work the next day, and no amount of bullshit rationalization as to why the crime occurred is going to help them. But I digress.

So I realized my phone had been stolen, I filed a police report, and I got home around 8 AM. I slept for a bit, then headed into the city to the AT&T store, where I found out that I could either A) pay a $200 deductible through my insurance to get a replacement phone, or B) pay $500 for a new phone. Great fucking options, right? At that point, I was so fed up with the whole situation that I got a new SIM card and went to Radio Shack, where I purchased the underwhelming device I currently hold in my hands. All in all, a rough day, but I did have plenty of time to think about the fate I would like to befall the man (I’m assuming it was a man) who stole my phone. After much thought, I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t decide on just one fate; as such, here is a comprehensive list of things I hope happen to the cocksucking, asshole piece of shit who took my phone.

Fate 1: I hope you stole my phone to help raise money for your dying mother’s medical bills. Unfortunately, because my phone is pretty much outdated, you aren’t able to raise nearly enough, and you can do nothing but watch helplessly as death comes for her, that sweet woman who did her very best to raise you only to be reminded on a daily basis through your actions that you’ll never achieve the heights she hoped you might. Oh, and I hope her last breath is spent lecturing you on stealing from other people instead of telling you she loves you.

Fate 2: I hope you stole my phone to fund an out-of-control drug habit that, revitalized with a sudden influx of cash gleaned from the theft and sale of my phone, results in your procurement of a higher-grade bag of heroin. Unused to such quality, you immediately nod off and crash through a plate-glass window, landing in a dumpster four stories below that happens to be filled with broken glass iPhone screens that slice your body to ribbons.

Fate 3: I hope you have children who desperately want iPhones for Christmas. Knowing that you can’t afford the 5S, you did the next-best thing: you stole my phone, thinking it would be good enough for your children. However, since you spent your children’s formative years stealing from people instead of instilling proper values in your kids, they have grown into materialistic monsters. Christmas morning comes, and you watch as the children open their gifts, only to roll their eyes and sigh. “Dad,” they say, “this is an iPhone 4S. We wanted the 5S. You are a terrible father.” Distraught, you trudge upstairs, draw up a warm bath, get in, and slide a razorblade across your veins, just one final selfish act in a lifetime already jam-packed with them. Nobody attends your funeral.

Fate 4: I hope you were staring at the screen of your new iPhone, elated at the prospect of finally having a decent phone. And then you got hit by a bus.

Fate 5: I hope you develop an ulcer from the guilt and you have to sell my phone to pay your medical bills, but on your way to meet the potential buyer of the phone, you fall asleep on the train…and a homeless man cuts your throat.

Fate 6: I hope you hate yourself for what you’ve done, and I hope you live to be 150 years old with the guilt weighing on you.

So to whoever stole my phone: enjoy it, you piece of shit, and may any (or all) of the aforementioned fates befall you.

I was reading an interview yesterday with Robin Pecknold, the lead singer of Fleet Foxes, and it was…well, it was actually pretty boring. Apparently the quality and depth of an artist’s music is inversely proportional to the quality and depth of their interviews, because I ended up giving up on that thing after five questions. Anyway, as I was reading, a thought popped into my head, so I figured I’d share it with you.

You know what we rarely see these days? Popular bands in which many (or all) of the players are charismatic personalities in their own right. Take, for example, Nickelback; whatever your opinion of them, they are one of the better-selling bands of the last decade, which probably says more about us than it does about the quality of their music, but I digress. I think you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who can name a non-Chad Kroeger member of Nickelback. Compare that to, say, The Beatles (that might be the first and only time Nickelback and The Beatles will be compared in such a fashion)- everybody knew the names of all the Beatles, and each Beatle had their own subset of fans. With the exception of boy bands, that hasn’t happened with a modern musical act in a long time; in fact, even if you include boy bands, the last time it happened was over a decade ago.

(Note: I’m obviously excluding modern “supergroups” like Them Crooked Vultures. I’m talking about bands whose members hadn’t achieved any significant level of fame on their own prior to the band’s formation.)

When I listen to The Rolling Stones, KISS, Led Zeppelin, etc., I come away thinking “These distinctive personalities came together and created a record”; conversely, when I listen to, say, Fleet Foxes, I don’t get that impression. Their music is just as great as that of the bands mentioned above, but it doesn’t have the same evidence of being a collaborative effort because, aside from Robin Pecknold, I have no idea who’s contributing to the music. When The Beatles were at the height of their popularity, people claimed that they could tell which Beatle wrote a song depending on how the song sounded, and they could do this because they had a good idea of each band member’s personality. (They could also tell by reading the liner notes, but let’s not let facts get in the way of a good story.) Nowadays, I don’t think that happens. It’s just assumed that each band member contributed equally to the creation of that song, whether they did or not. That probably means fewer arguments between band members who want to be recognized for their accomplishments; capitulating to the creative goals of the band is more important than individual acclaim. I think the flip side of that coin, however, is that we feel more of a connection to the band’s product than to the members of the band themselves. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, mind you, but it does change the way we listen to and appreciate today’s music. Of course, plenty of bands have recognizable lead singers, but without the aid of Google, I doubt very many people would be able to name the bassist from Metallica. (His name is Robert Trujillo, and he’s the man.) As far as current music is concerned, just knowing all the names of a band’s members qualifies as intimate knowledge.

The more important question, then: Does it matter that we don’t feel like we know the people who make the songs we love? I feel like I know Justin Bieber, and as a result, I have ZERO desire to listen to his music, because the kid is a grade-A dipshit. It’s the law of diminishing returns: let us into your private life a little bit, and we love you for it (hi, Justin Timberlake!) Let us in too much, and your music loses its mystique and a large part of its meaning (fuck you, Chris Brown!) We tend to ascribe our bias toward the artist to their music, which makes it a very delicate balancing act for the people creating the art. Something to consider on this quiet December morning.

And speaking of Fleet Foxes: