Sufjan Stevens is what you might call a “college degree” rocker. Not only did the gentle-voiced Michigan native receive a degree in creative writing from the New School in New York, but he fills his songs with sly historical references and brilliant turns of phrase in the manner of a grade-A essay. It’s this special blend of intelligence and songcraft that young Sufjan (pronounced “Soof-yahn”) is bringing to Mississippi Nights this Thursday, September 22.
You can’t accuse the good people at the Gargoyle of slacking in their duties. Next Tuesday, Mallinckrodt’s very own CBGB will host four of the independent scene’s most promising young acts. Minus the Bear, These Arms Are Snakes, Thunderbirds Are Now! and the City on Film represent a number of different styles, records labels and subject/predicate constructions, but all can be counted on to rock.
If you’re planning on seeing “Last Days,” Gus Van Sant’s eulogy of Kurt Cobain, do yourself a favor: bring an iPod, a six-pack, an easy date–anything to keep you occupied during its two hours of mumbling, glacier-like crawl. Okay, okay, so it’s not that bad–William Pitt basically is Kurt, right down to his stringy blond locks and thumb-cut sweaters. It’s just that its snail’s pace makes “My Dinner With Andre” seem like “Total Recall” by comparison. C-SPAN Books is roughly 14 times as exciting.
You’re more than likely sick of hearing all the welcoming salutations, the endless administrative emails, the constant advice about academic choices, new opportunities, et cetera, so let’s get down to it: You’re in college. You’re gonna hear a boatload of great new music.
It crossed my mind that I should write an apocalyptic rant for my final column, prophesying the decline of musical culture and calling us all hell-bound heathens, hopelessly tuned in to mainstream FM radio and listening to people like Gavin DeGraw. But then I realized that I actually like Gavin DeGraw, so perhaps any elitist ire would be out of place.
The frustrating thing about Michael Jackson is not that he shows up late to his court appearances, or looks like the exhumed corpse of Jackie Onassis, or puts wine into the Diet Coke cans of young boys-it’s that he used to be so good! At least one MJ song (preferably pre-1983, although “The Way You Make Me Feel” is permissible) must make it onto a party playlist for it to be successful in my mind.
I am a sick man… I am a wicked man. I lurk in the aisles of Vintage Vinyl, I slink through stacks of old records in the city’s forgotten musical depositories. The MusicHound Rock Guide is my Bible, the endless cross-references of Allmusic.com are my Internet lair.
The SWA protesters aren’t the only ones pitching tents in the quad these days. Glance over at the stage, and you’re likely to see members of All Student Theater sporting their own, well, members. No need to be offended; it’s all a part of the group’s spring production, Greek comedian Aristophanes’ “Lysistrata.”
Picaresque means “dealing with sharp-witted vagabonds or rogues and their adventures.” No wonder the Decemberists picked such an adjective for their latest album. These quirky rhapsodies delight in stories of Spanish princesses, government spies and vengeful pirates.
One look at Britain’s Kasabian, with their scruffy hair and tight-fitting jackets, and you’re thinking, “Hello, newest Strokes/Interpol/Franz Ferdinand hopefuls.” Amazingly, though, Kasabian (who took their name from Charles Manson’s getaway driver) mine a retro trend that not many have attempted.
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