From his extensive profile in The New Yorker from a few weeks back:
We were somewhere above the Sahara, but Clinton's mind was fixed on the condition of the Democratic Party in the Age of Bush and on the way the White House, even as Iraq verged on civil war, remained on the rhetorical and ideological offensive.
"I am sick of Karl Rove's bullshit," Clinton said. And yet there was a trace of admiration in the remark, a veteran pol's regard for the way his rival had packaged a radical brand of American conservatism as "compassionate conservatism" and kept on pushing it long after its sell-by date had passed.
"Nixon was a Communist compared to this crowd," Clinton said.
Yesterday I reviewed the debut release from The Changes in Chicagoist here. I also peeped Giant Squid's Metridium Fields donewaiting-stylee here. Today I review Veruca Salt's latest as well as expounding on certain literary geniuses that impersonate PCs.
So, dear reader, you benefit from the new laptop in that I get lots of writing done that isn'?t delayed with expletives directed towards a keyboard that drops every third letter.
Also of note, Rob Sheffield's evisceration of The Killer's latest is completely unfair. I almost think he was so cruel in an effort to stir up some controversy and cast his near-forgotten pop-culture referencing self back in the spotlight. The fact of the matter is this: No, the new album has little of the playfulness that made Hot Fuss so enjoyable. But neither is it a papyrus parchment lid at the foot of the Temple of Broooce. It is a darker album, but the synths are still there, the melodramatic crescendos are still there, and Brandon Flowers' reedy warble is still there. The songs ARE a bit over the top, but haven't The Killers always been about overkill? In this instance they just traded in their Duran Duran for something a little less art school and a little more bruised and boozed. And that's okay.
Oh, and hey, whaddya know, it's a Friday so that means a) you must be dying to know what I'm doing this weekend and b) you want some new music to download and appreciate. I can give you that, no problemo!
Tonight I'll be running to and fro trying to take in Astronautilus at Schuba's and then hustling over to Double Door in time for Veruca Salt's homecoming set. (Though can we really call it homecoming when Louise hasn't lived here in close to ten years? Whatever, I'm still looking forward to it.) Tomorrow NYC popsters The Mugs are at Hideout and then Priestess is rocking the Abbey, along with Rye Coalition. Ringo is also in town for a friend's wedding so I'm sure I will be hitting the town with him tomorrow, so that could change my concert plans at any second. Photogal will be out of town to do some riding around in circles at high speeds of the ol' motormacycle, so if you see me passed out at a bus stop, please brush me off and send me on my way home.
And now, a tune from the must-own album of the week.
Love The Oohlas. Love the tune. Love the weekend.
Ollie Oohla pic by Ms. Irene Tien.