a few stripped down songs by my friend's solo project, truman. they breed youth and melancholy in the most organic fashion, taking you to a place of darkened rooms and forlorn love. first quiet, then rises, then quiet, the songs together resembling a loose symphony. listen to it on your bed with the lights off. it'll take you places.
"and i wouldn't try to do the things that i do/you should pray to god and not play with false idols" is one of the most brilliant lines in rap against one of the most twisted, spookiest beats. queens do it harder, i'm beginning to believe. step your dick up, forreal.
in smalltown america, there is nothing grander than socialite balls and debutante parties. and there is nothing more embarrassing than being escorted by your delinquent brother in a rented hooptie. she wears the same dress for every occasion, but she knows everyone there by first name. we all know the type: economically-deprived but yearning to roll with the richies and rollickers. flirts with sophistication and confidence, hiding underneath a volcano of doubt. her parents want a better, upwardly mobile life for her and she insists she can do it herself. glimpses of modern capitalism making its voice first heard. i've never see katharine hepburn, the new england aristocrat of cool, be so desperate and delusional. it's bittersweet and almost sad. the stuff of kitchenette teardrops.
the first novel ever, written by a japanese court insider, about a beloved prince whose romance for his stepmother overshadows his happiness in the imperial 11th century. and we thought dynasty was nuts.
wasn't perfect, but almost completely post-modern in its sheer construction and artifice on the revitalization of a 25-year-old's career. the most american thing i've seen since the oscars.
