Age of Adz Review

Sufjan Stevens is a lonely guy. Whether or not he bares it with sparse strings or buries it in a sea of choral and orchestral melodies, his sense of isolation saturates his music.

Most would not think of Sufjan as a troubled soul; his bright, cheery music on "Illinois" painted him as more of a bandleader of an indie private school than any brooding artist. However, despite the innocuous tone, the lyrics dealt with unanswered prayer, sickness, serial killers, and the darkness that lurks within each of our hearts: in essence, using the guise of state trivia as a platform to discuss deeper issues.

                                "The Age of Adz" has no quirky disguise of levity.

Adz is an exploration into loneliness, insecurity, bitterness, and unabashed love. The opening track "Futile Devices" washes over the listener in melodious melancholy. It's simplicity is one platter on which the tone of the album is served; the next two ("Too Much" and the title track) betray an entirely different one. It resorts to the tactic used in "Illinois," in which Sufjan nearly overhwhelms a simple melody with a complex wall of precise instrumentation. I won't go over each track; they mostly utilize these two different platters, often in the same song: a sound of inimtimidating instrumental and choral bigness, and one of stripped down humility. The title track and final, 25 minute epic (which does keep one's interest) both begin with a bang that nearly covers Sufjan's vocal melody, but each end with only him and a banjo; the melody that once seemed translucent rings clearly with lyrics like "I'm sorry if I seem self-effacing, consumed by selfish thoughts. It's only that I still love you deeply. It's all the love I've got..."

However, Sufjan uses a much less organic sound than the friendly instruments in "Illinois," trading swirling woodwinds for blaring tech effects. The sound is a colder, more cutting platform for his cold, cutting lyrics. Sufjan blurs and swiggles his voice in autotune during one movement of the epic. Yet, he uses it masterfully as a tool to express his lonely dehumanization. Thus, he knows exactly what he is doing: his experimentation is utterly precise.

Despite the initially cold techy sound, this album seemed to resonate deeply with me. I find it fascinating that Sufjan chose to be his most vulnerable on an album as grandiose as this. It was brilliant. "Age of Adz" affected me deeply. I highly recommend it.

Hipsters

THE OFFICE IS BACK. And it's still funny, mainly thanks to how consistently excellent each member of the cast is at stealing a scene; it's basically Ocean's Eleven but... with scenes...

But anyway, the character of Ryan has shifted into his becoming this elitist hipster, complete with dramatic philosophical monologues. "I learned more from Dr. Seuss than Dr. Freud," he spouts. "Earth. You don't have to be crazy to live here, but it helps." He ends with, "I dunno, I just took all the best ones. How was that?"

I've been thinking a lot about the hipster trend, why it's so prevalent among senior high schoolers and college kids, and why it sort of fizzles out with age. I don't have time for a big post, but I'm planning one.

In the meantime, allow me to reveal my own bloviating with a Calvin and Hobbes strip!

Ah, Calvin. How right you are.

Short story

This is a short story I just wrote about a kid addicted to chatrooms and learns about them the hard way xD. It's a first draft, so its EXTREMELY rough, BUT I think it's kinda funny. 

A bell chime, bright blue box, and friendly greeting nuzzled my tired senses. My eyes, locked in a squint, felt heavy under wide-rimmed glasses. It was midnight, and I was lonely. My hair stood straight up from where it had laid on my pillow for an hour. Shadows crept from behind the soft glow of the computer screen, which cast an almost spiritual glow through my little room. I had developed the habit of resting my stomach on the back of my dad’s old office chair and leaning forward to read the small font on my monitor. I held a blanket between my feet, one bare and one with a plaid Christmas sock. The chair squeaked as my arms reached for the keyboard on the desk.

I had joined a chatroom on the website “Christian Teen Forums.” Google had brought it up under the advertisement “Christian? Single? Join for real conversation with Godly peers"; it sounded like the lovechild of a dating website and Bible study, and I would’ve jumped to join either. I signed up with the name “Silent Hunter,” which I heard on a video game; but I soon realized no seventeen year old girl would talk to someone who was a quiet predator. I made the switch to “Pianist4Him,” and wasn’t disappointed. The kids were all screwed up dweebs, but they were still people who would talk to me. I would pretend to go to bed, close the door, and jump into the chatroom.

“P4H!” That was my pseudonym. “Whassuppppp?” A girl with the name “fairylvrofGod” messaged me.

“Nothing much.” I always spelled out everything because I thought it made me look intelligent. The tapping on my laptop sounded like mice fighting. “You?”

“Just chilling ;).” I mentally filled in the semicolon and closing parentheses with big brown eyes and a killer smile.

“Haha, cool. So,” I started. “There are wayyy too many cussers for a ‘Christian’ forum, don’t you think?”

“Totally. It’s ridiculous. Their all so quick to judge to.”

“Really? What do you mean?”

“Yep.” Her phrasing spaced out for several minutes. “I’m considering an abortion, and everyone’s being all judge-y” flashed on the screen.

I nearly spit my lukewarm Dr. Pepper and stared at my grungy laptop.

“I mean,” fairylvr continued, “I’m nearly 13. That’s totally old enough to make my own decisions.”

“Yeah…” I typed slowly. “It’s a tough decision. I dunno what I’d do.” I hadn’t even thought about it; the closest I’d had to experience was listening to a Roe V Wade debate on talk radio. “Don’t you like babies?”

“I love babies! But I think it’d be nonchristian.”

“There’s always a chance!”

“No. The father’s totally went gay after we broke up. It’s in the babie’s genes.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. My mom’s had three abortions. My dad beats her.”

I had nearly fallen out of my chair, and instead knelt in front of the screen, eyes wide.

“I’m so sorry. Can I pray?”

“I’m actually a Muslim.”

Oh my god. FairylvrofGod was probably going to blow up the baby or something.

“Please, don’t be one of those. When you say you’re a “lvrofGod,” you need the right one.”

“But we get to use guns!”

“Is that worth going to hell?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“I’m going to pray.” I started typing out a prayer as I murmured it, but was interrupted.

“Are you pregnant?”

“I’m a guy…”

“Are you gay?”

“No…”

“How old are you?”

My hands quivered. My mom’s warnings of stalkers started entering into my mind. This was probably Charles Manson on an iPhone outside my room.

“Do you wanna sext? I have nudes.”

I hacked “g2g” and left. To this day, I never trust anyone who likes fairies.

Waking Up In Vegas... Genius.

I'm a closet Katy Perry fan. Always have been. And, as I was listening to her song "Waking Up In Vegas," I began to realize why.  I didn't actually watch the video, so I dunno if that's good. I probably already have enough of my community college peers questioning my orientation.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BppuSbxnnfU

If you notice, the verses have no rhyme to them. I find that unique for a pop song, and the chorus has some good imagery. "Wake up and shake the glitter from your clothes, now."

But I think there's a deeper meaning to all this.

 Katy could be representing George W Bush, discussing his foreign policy with the American people. Iraq is the quintessential "Vegas," filled with quick opportunity for cash, but also fraught with danger. Bush has found himself "Waking Up in Vegas."

"You gotta help me out
It's all a blur last night
We need a taxi 'cause you're
Hung over and I'm broke."

Bush is facing regret over the war. He's looking back and wondering what the heck happened. They need an exit strategy! A taxi requires money, so I'm guessing Bush wants a victory, because simply evacuating does not cost anything.  But, unfortunately, the people seem incapable of making a decision (hung over), and we've run out of general war funds (I'm broke).

"Spare me your freaking
Dirty looks now don't blame me"

Ouch. It's not his fault!

"You wanna cash out
And get the hell outta town
Don't be a baby
Remember what you told me
Ah, so now the people want to leave. Bush says "NO! Remember?"

"Shut up and put your money where your mouth is
That's what you get for waking up in Vegas"

Bush is reminding the people of their insistence we destroy Saddam Hussein. He then reminds them that they once realized the conqsequences of war.

"Get up and shake the glitter off your clothes now
That's what you get for waking up in Vegas"

Bush is asserting that the people need to readjust themselves, because we are in war.

I really do feel that I've struck gold here. Quite deep, Kay, quite deep.

Community College

So, today, for creative writing, I wrote a poem slamming community college students as consumerist, idiotic bastards. I mean, I had wanted to write something about 'em from just looking at them a lot in the library (which is now my second home. I know the green chair patterns better than my bedspread.) and I even did that artsy list of brand names over which said bastards would walk into the library obsessing. It was quite postmodern.

Then I read it. It wasn't even good, but I was feeling bold. I got a lot of weird looks (I guess no one appreciates lines as brilliant as "Snickers, Code Red, Vista, remedial" anymore. Their loss.). My teacher looked at me and offered his typical "Good! Good." Self-esteem fodder, and I knew it. You had to wait for his muddled nitpicking to bubble to the surface. "You did get a little lost." There it is! So I got lost in a freaking five stanza poem. Great. "You should definitely go to the Chester campus."

Seriously, I don't mean to be an arrogant jerk with it. Poetry is annoying like that; you can't really hide behind caharacters and stories.

Some dude who hates black people can write a character in a novel who's a racist jackass and everyone will hate the character but love the author for his insight into such a depraved mind. The racist poet is just expressing his mind. No hiding from that crap.

So, in the end, I learned to stick to nature and whatnot. Emily Dickenson probably realized she shouldn't write about her staring at old people out her window constantly. I doubt anyone wanted to hear about Edgar Allen Poe's inner toe fetish. So keep it impersonal, people!