The anthropomorphic personification of everything Indie-, Garage and Rockabilly shouldn’t be.
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Another zero to hero, emerging from the murky depths of british music with a surprisingly unusual take on the current mass frenzy for everything bass. The uncrowned king of pianos, minimalistic sound and inhuman vocal ranges. James Blake.
Now since there’s no possible way to avoid reading the name J’aime Blaque a gazillion times within the first second of loading any music webzine, we’ll play a fun game called reverse-this-shit, which I imagine is what teachers do to make life worth living.
Blake, James is the estranged white, non-rapping, half-cousins son to my previous reviewees. How so? Well, he’s just as hyped, and by hyped I mean that no one has bothered to attend to a critical view, as it would get them nothing but a swift tour of Guantanamo Bay’s greatest interrogation hits. At least the tiny idealist wants me to believe so, yet I’m strangely compelled to believe contemporary music critics to be as afraid of peer pressure as any teenager with acne and a hunchback. So let’s oppose the established media …. Okay, let’s prostitute ourselves to gain followers, in the most pitiful of ways, that doesn’t include .gifs and/or boobs.
In the glorious year of 2k11, the blogosphere managed to get a collective, hence massive boner for the words bass. But what does that mean, you ask, you feebleminded subhuman? Groovy slap bass? Upright jazz bass? Monstrous techno bass?! No, you fool, it’s simply bass. Adjective-less. Fucking. Bass. Which is a fitting if not very explanatory description of the auditive manifestation of bellyfat wobbling like 2 minutes post christmas dinner. It’s as if someone decided to record themselves vomiting on one of the aforementioned delicious and time tested bass’. Or maybe even shoving one of said bass’ up a pregnant woman’s arse and nailing a microphone to her belly. It’s just not that fucking great, blogosphere, you malevolent twat.
Well, since he’s not a DJ and therefore indie and shit, Blake, James has become God, Jesus, Pope and Arch-bishop of the church of unholy wobble, thus if you want any of that delicious music-cred the established critics, har har, are constantly hogging up, you better start praising the lord. Mind you, it’d be rather unfair to claim that Blake, James is the only artist engaging in horrible wobble coitus, rather there’s a quite large scene of dubstepping people out there, and if you haven’t already noticed, I hate them with a white hot and incredibly persistent passion. Just because you managed to call originality on your project or distinctive sound, har de har fucking har, does not give you free reins from the quality control, people!
Right, right, getting off topic; a less critical voice than I, would tell you to embrace Blake, James for seamlessly mixing dubby-bass, haunting vocals and minimalistic sound. But you’re reading my blog so you’ll get my thoughts, señor obvious.
Well Blake, James did indeed record his debut and a shitloads of mixtapes in his bedroom, which in itself would be impressive a few years ago, except everyone and their surprisingly high tech grandparents can now record, remix, master and distribute a record off their MacBook Pro these days, so once again you may color me a heavy case of unimpressed. It might also be true that he has an unnatural vocal range that, at various points of my first encounters with the debut, made me ponder just how much progress the sex-change procedural has made these last few years and/or if it could be performed exclusively on the vocal cords. Then I began wondering who’d want that and ran screaming back to my dark lair. I’ll even go as far as to acknowledge the technical provess of the instrumentation performed on the record, but this is 2011 and you don’t score points for knowing how to play, not with the aforementioned MacBook Pro paradox and mindscrewing increase of sampling, which is not as much original re-envisioning of a bygone era, as it is being an utterly lazy bastard.
To sum up, I’ve grown to like Jacque Blaque quite a lot and as of this writing he’s got 166 plays in my iTunes, making this entire ranting one big piece of hypocrisy, which I guess is quite fitting as the divided parts of my mind are currently re-enacting the battle of Gettysburg in the name of Bames Jlake.
Ps. I’d love to tell you how the above picture of Blake and Tyler didn’t fuel my rage with enough metaphors to power & feed a substantial third world country for the next century or so, but that’d be a lie, and as the good little atheist I am, such is not really allowed.
Somehow, if an artist has enough shock value, he/she/it will blow the ever loving crap out of the musical tastemakers and acquire a massive following of teens trapped in adult bodies, alike charismatic politicians or Jason Cameron post-Avatar. In case you haven’t read the title, since you’re obviously too busy with your important and exciting life and just happened upon this post on your way to the military state of internet-importance, today we’re talking about the demigod of hype and double standards; M.I.A.
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There’s no better way to gather an enormous, albeit intellectually challenged, following than embracing the hypest of hypes with your own not-quite-original angle. So, Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All Don’t Give A Fuck Litter Life Bacon Boys Loiter Squad Butt Fuck Bitch Niggas, henceforth referred to as OF, let’s dance.
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