Weyes Blood, “Generation Why”The YOLO DissectionPicture this: a…

Weyes Blood, “Generation Why”

The YOLO Dissection

Picture this: a zinfandel-red Toyota Prius cutting by means of late-October fog. About it, burnt autumn cornfields pepper the horizon with droopy stalks, nonetheless and half-frozen, like faceless crowds of naked stick figure scarecrows.

Halloween weekend 2016 was about to commence, and I was driving by way of Fantastic Barrington, Massachusetts, on my way to go to the upstate New York college that I’d graduated from the year before.

I had a half-tank of gas, freshly-filled tires, and a quickly-disappearing package of Eclipse winterfrost chewing gum, which is the excellent gum for driving because the plastic clamshell packaging signifies you do not have to deal with a wrapper when taking out two pieces (by no means just one particular) with only your right hand.

It was mid-afternoon, and despite the fact that it wasn’t especially sunny, I was wearing sunglasses. My Spotify playlist, “To Listen To,” which I’d updated that morning, was saved to my telephone. Weyes Blood’s album, Front Row Seat to Earth, had begun playing twenty miles earlier.

I’d been struck, initially, by the album’s title, after seeing mention of it on a music blog. Natalie Mering (who performs below the moniker Weyes Blood) almost certainly intended it as a dig at the generally-agreed-upon tragedy that is the “social” side of social media, exactly where men and women have swapped physical, human connection with wi-fi-enabled virtual connection, content to view the highlight reels of close friends lives from the front row seats of their couches.

As a young journalist, though, I interpreted the title as asking a query about the position of the writer. Writers are, by our extremely nature, observers. We see or hear or feel anything, permit it to live within us, and, when we (or our deadlines) make a decision it is time, we try to translate the essence of what we have skilled into words on a page. This is its own type of front row seat: by experiencing one thing with the intention of later writing about it, we begin to focus more on the telling of the story than the living of the story.

Nowadays, that way of life has become the norm, regardless of a person’s profession. Facebook has transformed us all into journalists covering our personal lives. We upload brief digest pieces every day, gradually compiling material for cover stories completed over the course of a lifetime, published the moment we die.

“Generation Why,” which sits like a ballast at the center of Front Row Seat, gives religious gravity to a widespread phrase. The song starts with a spooky choir, whose voices have been digitally manipulated and autotuned – the sonic equivalent of a stadium church’s tv screen. From a sweet hum types language, numerous voices asking the question: “Y-O-L-O, why?” You only live as soon as. Here, Mering reaches into the most disposable, seemingly absurd saying of recent pop-culture memory and produces from it a some thing profound: the query of why our generation views “you only reside once” as a comforting idea. It’s a stirring query taken from a trite saying – proof of language’s power to reflect unconscious truths about these who speak it.

“Generation Why” becomes an ode to utilizing an acceptance of death as a explanation to take pleasure in life. “It’s not the previous that scares me,” Mering sings, “Now what a great future this is gonna be.” To Mering, “YOLO” delivers spiritual liberation. And “Generation Why” is a spiritual song certainly its choir projects as though from a pulpit, and the arpeggios of the song’s primary melody – played 1st on guitar, then on piano and organ – bear a striking resemblance to Schubert’s “Ave Maria.”

That “Generation Why” had such a profound effect on me when I 1st heard it probably had something to do with the situation I was in: driving a car from my present (New York City) to my previous (college). A reminder to live in the moment was surely needed I was in a no man’s land in between my personal previous and present.

Like all excellent songs, “Generation Why” has revealed new depths of meaning more than time. The presidential election came just over a week right after my solitary initial listen, replacing the controlled nightmare of Halloween with a significantly less predictable, significantly less short-term one. In the days following the eighth of November, “Generation Why” hung in my mind. I’d hear Mering sing “carry me by means of the waves of modify,” and see the sentiment echoed in President Obama’s words on change: “Societies and cultures are genuinely complicated…This is not mathematics this is biology and chemistry. These are living organisms, and it’s messy.” In other words, alter comes in waves.

We can understand from the cultural questioning at the heart of “Generation Why.” Let us ask ourselves why we say the factors that we say, beyond “YOLO.” Let us appear for unconscious truths in other pieces of ourselves – in the approaches we live, and in what we say. Let us treat the present moment as even though we are fresh graduates, viewing our old selves and selecting what to preserve. Let us contemplate how we can turn out to be a far better version of that individual, how we can create the planet that we want. Such self-assessments feel particularly critical now, as we appear to the future, hoping for adjust, desperately searching for approaches to produce waves of our own. 

Gabe Cohn

Gabe previously wrote for OWOB about Jack White.

One WEEK // One BAND

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The 5 Greatest Films to Get or Stream This Week: ‘The Jungle Book,’ ‘Elvis & Nixon’

One of the year’s biggest commercial and essential successes lands on disc this week, a massive-name, massive-budget remake from Disney that manages to use its pricey effects to inform a story of genuine heart and awe. Meanwhile this week’s primary streaming release of note is on the other side of the spectrum, a tiny-scale character comedy about the bizarre meeting of a pop icon and a political pariah. Plus, a Criterion double-header of late-period Orson Welles, and a cult film icon’s very best/worst picture.


Elvis &amp Nixon: There are few common culture figures far more imitable than Richard Nixon and Elvis Presley, so it’s fun to see what two fine actors like Kevin Spacey and Michael Shannon do when tasked with playing them. Spacey leans in on the impersonation – hitting the familiar cadences, the plosives and the stacatto declaratives, and builds his characterization from them. Shannon does not do significantly impression he has the look and the swagger, but he mainly plays Elvis as a character, filtered via the sympathetic weirdo prism he’s fine-tuned over the past few years. That study in contrasts is one of the several pleasures of Liza Johnson’s giddily goofy dramatization, which treats a fundamentally silly bit of political pandering as a quintessentially American moment. It is a lot of fun, but it is no throwaway.


The Jungle Book: Disney’s ongoing remake parade appears, on its surface, like the most cynical type of branding opportunism – thanks in no modest part to film that kicked that trend off, Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland. But amongst the recent Pete’s Dragon and final spring’s Jungle Book (out nowadays on disc), it is grow to be clear that filmmakers who approach these photographs as possibilities for heartfelt storytelling rather than easy cash can make them their personal, a situation in which everybody wins. Jungle Book director Jon Favreau ingeniously reworks the 1967 animated Kipling adaptation into the type of live-action adventure yarn the studio churned out regularly in the identical period, with a enormous help from impressively convincing personal computer-generated speaking animals. The voice talents are aces – Bill Murray’s delightful Baloo, Christopher Walken’s gangster orangutan King Louie, and Idris Elba’s purringly evil Shere Khan are the standouts – even though newcomer Neel Sethi, as young Simba, impresses the most (do not underestimate the difficulty of acting against characters that aren’t there). The all-or-nothing at all inconsistency of the music is peculiar (only two of the songs show up), but that’s a minor concern this is an exciting and often moving family members film, and like much of Disney’s output, it is about kids on its surface, and the troubles of parenthood underneath. (Involves audio commentary and featurettes.)


Chimes at Midnight: As he aged (and sized) into the part of Falstaff, Orson Welles must’ve despaired that the character’s appearances in Shakespeare’s plays, although memorable, were comparatively brief. So he, rather subversively, created that second banana role into a focal point, taking a jigsaw-puzzle method to the Bard, lifting out and pushing collectively the Falstaff scenes from several plays to produce this ingenious narrative. And it’s one of his very best performances, rich and funny and melancholy, each the overall performance and the direction wittily navigating the tonal shifts inherent in any Shakespeare adaptation, but especially such an unconventional montage. He gets the gregariousness and comic beats, certainly (watch how wonderfully the intensity of the battle scenes is offset by Falstaff, squat and wide in his armor, a figure out of silent comedy), but the wistful way he mutters “I am old… I am old” in a moment of silent reflection definitely breaks your heart. Lengthy an object of wish for Welles and Shakespeare aficionados alike, Chimes ultimately makes its DVD and Blu-ray debut by means of a gorgeous Criterion restoration it is a single of the year’s must-have discs. (Contains audio commentary, vintage and archival interviews, and trailer.)

The Immortal Story: It is a big week for Welles fans, thanks to the 1st official house media release of not only Chimes but this lesser-recognized 58-minute film he created for French tv in 1968. It’s a lot more of a curio than a lost Welles masterpiece, but there’s far more happening in his curios than in most filmmakers’ masterpieces. Making his very first color project and final completed narrative film, Welles not only writes and directs but stars in and narrates this adaptation of an Isak Dinensen story, exploring some of his recurring themes: the fluidity of storytelling, the pain of alienation, the fear of morality, and the haunting specter of the past. It’s mainly carried out as a series of two-scenes, none less than dynamic considerably like in his Shakespeare pictures, the technique (namely the inventive angles and unexpected edits) can be flashy, but the telling is patient. (Consists of original accompanying Welles profile documentary, audio commentary, interviews, and alternate French-language version.)

Disco Godfather: Vinegar Syndrome, continuing to do God’s function, finishes out their loving restorations of the Rudy Ray Moore oeuvre (following current releases of Dolemite, The Human Tornado, and Petey Wheatstraw: The Devil’s Son-In-Law) with what may possibly nicely be his magnum opus: the 1979 antidrug action/dance epic Disco Godfather (or, as it was christened on subsequent house video releases, Avenging Godfather and Avenging Disco Godfather). Moore is cop-turned-nightclub-owner Tucker Williams, who goes back into action when his nephew Bucky gets hooked on angel dust, or, as Tucker calls it, “aaaaangel duuuuust.” Charmingly, soon after 4 starring cars, there’s no noticeable improvement whatsoever: Disco Godfather, like its predecessors, is clumsy, silly, and technically dubious, prompting stone faces in comic scenes, and uncontrollable laughter when it gets earnest. But you gotta give Moore’s motion pictures this considerably: they’re not boring. Put your weight on it! (Includes audio commentary, soundtrack, producing-of documentary, and stills gallery.)


This summer I moved to a brand new city all alone where I know…

This summer season I moved to a brand new city all alone exactly where I know nobody. The Pacific Northwest is supposed to be cool and rainy but this summer time is hot and none of us are prepared, the air sinking down onto us like a heavy blanket. I do every thing I can think of to steer clear of it. I sleep beneath damp towels. I ritualistically place shallow bowls of cold water in front of the only fan in my room so that I can feel a cool breeze often. I leave my residence only to be touched in passing by strangers. I let myself get pushed into a corner on the train. I feel the sweat dripping down the back of my neck, generating the hair at the nape of my neck sticky. It seems silly to mention that I broke up with a girl final month simply because summer is always a time for empty spaces but I did. What this ending has provided me, mainly, is a desperate furious attention to the borders of my own physique, to the limits of my skin. Bodies are nothing when they are alone. The physique is only comprehensible as portion of a mass, pressed up desperately against the negative space between itself and an additional particular person. Summer in the city, I’m so lonely lonely lonely. I went to a protest just to rub up against strangers / I did really feel like coming but I also felt like crying. It didn’t seem so worth it correct now. Physique hunger. A fever that is desire but also some thing else finds itself in diverse guises in so many Regina songs. From “Dance Anthem of the 80s”: “it’s been a long time because before I’ve been touched / now I’m obtaining touched all the time /and it is only a matter of who and it’s only a matter of when.” An addiction to hands and feet. From “Consequence of Sound”: “they just stand there on a street corner / skin tucked in / and meat side out.” In the presence of other bodies your own physique hums. In the summer we turn our skin inside out and show our guts to the whole planet.

This, then, the energy of summer time: the reckoning with others. The reckoning with loss only by reckoning with other individuals. In “Summer in the City” an individual has left you but the psychosomatic response is to conjure a thousand other people in her spot, like producing white blood cells to heal a wound. I’ve been hallucinatin’ you babe in the backs of other females. Summer a hallucination in which familiarity with other women’s bodies is an immune response to absence. Every single exposed back the identical exposed back. I tap em on the shoulder and they turn about smiling but there’s no recognition in their eyes. Regina howls lonely lonely lonely and that, too, is more than one person’s loneliness. “Lonely” no longer a word but genuinely just a sound, genuinely just sob. Just a physique, lonely the very same curve as the back of the girl you miss. I feel so considerably about “her skin makes them sick in the evening / nauseous nauseous nauseous”, the last 3 words trailing off into a whisper. That, as well, is a what nausea feels like. Sitting on your bathroom floor pressed up against the cold tile and you are all alone and you really feel sick and your body curls up, your entire self trails away into a whisper.

Summer season in the city in no way ends. Summer in the city has an indescribable chronology. When you are extended gone from this city, I start off to miss you baby occasionally. When you are long gone, I begin sometimes. Even the syntax of this sentence is one of perpetuation. More than and more than once more, in this song and in this summer season: I start to miss you. Never a letting up, never a filling of space. You never genuinely quit missing anyone. Every missing layered up on top of one more. I miss your smile. I miss your hair. I miss the delicate curve of your neck behind your hair. I swear I saw your gap tooth on 4 other girls last week. Loss by addition. I have built a new physique out of missing you, new guts. A new self, pink and sunburned, scraped knees. I am strong from pushing back so difficult against the empty space about me. “Don’t get me wrong, dear, in general I think I’m carrying out quite fine.” The infinitesimal pause between “quite” and “fine” in which loss appears around, finds itself acceptable.

We shore ourselves up like fantastic containers to hold our longing but it’s alright. We survive this, also. Crying doesn’t seem so worth it proper now. Right here all alone in the space I develop for myself out of loneliness I buy a lot of popsicles, wear only sports bras. I unhinge my jaw to consume peaches in the dark over my sink, the juice splattering down onto the empty dishes. I read only trashy romance novels and books about the philosophy of architecture, I get popsicle stains on their inside covers. This morning I drank grapefruit juice out of an old wine glass and the deep maroon swirl of the wine dissolved off the bottom of the glass in the last swallow of my juice, a secret bitterness. I’m so lonely lonely lonely and her voice swoops beneath itself, swallows that loneliness also. Like a body, loss is at times just a point to reside inside of.

– s

One WEEK // One BAND

We’re possessing a short summer time break this week & will be back…

We’re getting a short summer break this week &amp will be back subsequent Monday!

As requested by some, the “All Weeks” chronological list of all our characteristics so far is now back up. Access it at http://oneweekoneband.tumblr.com/past. 

Certainly the standard/alphabetical “Bands A – Z” list is still there as nicely under http://oneweekoneband.tumblr.com/bands.

Apologies for inconveniently splitting each lists into numerous parts, but that was the only way to keep away from Tumblr’s link limit in pages bugging up the code. Let me know if something’s not operating &amp see you subsequent week. Enjoy your summer season!

One particular WEEK // One particular BAND