The Intake Form is Flavorwire’s questionnaire feature spotlighting emerging musicians worth your time, paired with a premiere. Here, we premiere Jessie Jones’ new song “Lady La De Da,” off the SoCal singer’s self-titled solo debut for Burger Records, out July 24.
Did you originally start listening to Eminem as a child because you were a glutton for chocolate, then only keep listening because you were also incidentally a glutton for punishment? Did you think “…Baby One More Time” was about a temperamental, flailing infant, that “Killing Me Softly” told the story of someone poisoned with Downy, or that “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was an ode to BO?
In October 2000, right around what would have been John Lennon’s 60th birthday, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame opened one of its most extensive exhibits ever, in honor of Lennon’s life and (mostly non-Beatles) work. Amidst the expected artifacts — handwritten lyrics, grammar-school report cards, the white baby grand from the “Imagine” video — sat one that was horrifying: a bag from New York’s St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital containing the clothes Lennon was wearing on the night Mark David Chapman shot him outside the Dakota. Coupled with Lennon’s glasses, caked in 20-year-old blood, this corner of the exhibit was intended as an emotional climax. Even at 13 years old, the weight of these artifacts impressed upon me a jaded anger: How could someone have violently ripped Lennon from this world when all he wanted was to make it a peaceful place?
For a TV show to be as instantly canonized as Mad Men has been throughout its seven-season run, nearly every aspect of it needs to serve a distinct purpose, to be thoughtful. For that TV show to be historical in nature, the details need to be meticulous. And for that TV show to be about the 1960s, one of the most controversial and turbulent decades in American cultural history, it needs to walk a very specific tightrope — one that carefully navigates the generational divide that defined the late ‘60s. Mad Men creator Matthew Weiner and music supervisor Alexandra Patsavas, one of the most influential players in the music-on-TV revolution of the early ‘00s, have achieved all of this — and with plenty of irreverence, humor, and hidden meaning to boot.
“I’m not big into Monty Python, but I’m pleading ignorance on that one,” admits Ryan DeRobertis, the one-man electro-pop band known as Skylar Spence (and formerly known as Saint Pepsi). “I like the Beatles enough too, but I actually like this Rutles song more than most Beatles songs.”
On the second edition of the Faux Real compilation, to be released next week by Father/Daughter Records, musicians cover songs by fictional bands from TV and movies. You’d be surprised at how many great tunes by fake bands exist, from Pete & Pete to Doug to The Simpsons to Josie and the Pussycats, oftentimes forgotten outside of the context of our screens. The concept of a compilation of such songs is novel, sure, but it’s one that seems to bring listeners a bit of nostalgic joy, particularly when the covers are creative re-imaginations of their originals.
Pot-smoking and pop-culture consumption go hand in hand: do the former, and you run the risk of only wanting to partake in the latter. So it makes some sense that pop culture has taken ample advantage of pot. At its funniest, it’s given us the stoner comedy of Richard Linklater, the Coen Brothers, Amy Heckerling, and Ilana Glazer and Abbi Jacobson. At its trippiest and most philosophical, it yielded some of the greatest art of (and set in) the ’60s and ’70s, from The Beatles to Dylan, Fear and Loathing to Inherent Vice. Then there are the more lively party-stoner creations, represented here by hip-hop touchstones The Chronic, Missy Elliott, and The Beastie Boys. Farther afield, we get the inadvertent stoner favorite, a diverse subset that ranges widely, from Adventure Time to David Lynch’s Eraserhead. Each of these categories is well represented in Flavorwire’s Stoner Canon, which we’re proud to present in celebration of …Read More
The idea of writing a song lyric as a letter is one that’s as old as music itself, but if you’re like Flavorwire, you may have occasionally found yourself wondering: what if the recipient of the song in question wrote back? What might they have to say? Wonder no longer, dear readers, because through the magic of a program that grants access to the the hitherto undiscovered secret archives of rock (aka Photoshop CS5), here are the unseen responses to a bunch of our favorite “letter” songs.