Yeah, so Bobby Lightfoot does batshit insane re-captioning of New Yorker cartoons for giggles, and gives us Dadaist reworkings of the old Spy Magazine "Separated At Birth?" feature and generally kuts a kookie figure. That'd be enough, because that aspect of it is hernia-inducingly funny. I mean, I couldn't breathe in for about 30 seconds after seeing that cartoon up there.
But he also writes insightful shit about his life in music, shit that's both keenly perceptive:
Rufus Wainwright reminds me of Tom Waits, in that he pursues a very specific esthetic that is eclectic and eschews that which is "tasty", "punchy" and "sleek". His works are unapologetically ambitious and his approach makes me think that perhaps he knows his days of commercial viability are numbered. There is a desperation, a cramming-in of ambitious and difficult music that connotes a desire to get it out while the getting is good.And snot-blasting funny:
If [Avril Lavigne's Under My Skin] were my dog I would drown it and bury it with its head above ground that the insects and beasts of the forest could slowly devour the skin and eyes, leaving only the skull with its weeping eye sockets.The fact that he's my disgustingly overtalented kid brother's got nothing to do with it.
1 comment:
Unfortunately, since said dog belongs to my 11 year-old daughter, I can't in good faith bury the thing alive. Although her brother and cousin did shoot it with a BB gun. Worse yet, she knows I'm not at all fond of the thing and takes every chance she can to get it under my skin.
AKP
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