*****2 Kewl 4 U THUGLYFE*****

            *** The names and essenses of each song is really a part of the story; hence no links this time***

          Das Racist broke up two months ago. It must have made sense I found out in heaven, because that's where they were, and it was a matter of location. I was at Chipotle. I'm not very much the religious type, and I'm terrible with healthy habits, although I live on humus and bananas. Let my pores be Chipotle. Every Wednesday or Tuesday or Thursday my parents decide it's too much time to look in the refrigerator, and we make our pilgrimage to that familiar place of cilantro and brown rice. Chiptotle is my heaven because one day I will die of overdose, and my veins will ring themselves with all salsa blood, and thick guacamole will clog my arteries. Chipotle is my heaven because it has unearthly food.



                   Dara Bean told me Facebook had been Facebook again. "AIDAN. IT SAYS DAS RACIST BROKE UP." Well there's facebook telling you all its information because it's twitter. I really do care facebook, I really did want to know that. "SOME FRESHMAN KID MADE A COLLAGE." This is how I knew when I died I was going to a Mexican fast food restaurant.
             I didn't feel much. I didn't feel as if I had to cry, or as if I had to wale, or scream to the slicing cold I wanted my Brooklynites back. That I wanted my music taste back. That I wanted back that first time when I fell in love with not-radio. I didn't feel much, I just felt:



Oh. They're playing a joke again, are they? They are fools. This is why I only listen to them a week out of three months. I don't have time for this.

And I expected it to be like when my dog died, or when my friend died, or when Michael Jackson died. I would be very quiet, and contemplative, and I wouldn't really get it. Then I would cry and I would realize I could never listen to nonsense lyrics of stylishly obscure haircuts in my life ever again.

       
 That was the most brutal trick Das Racist played. It was a Poe death. The death brought nothing within me, I hadn't departed from anything, and that was the game. They had won monopoly because they had kept their piece on the same station the entire time. After they laughed in my face, they yelled "that's how we do," because that's how they do. Their break-up wasn't the issue, what was was that they knew you didn't care, and that was the most bitter treatment to empathy there was. You care because you don't care.



          I miss Das Racist sometimes. I haven't played their tracks on my iPhone and cried, or felt sorry because I wasn't ever going to learn how to properly produce a track such that it flows perfectly into some social issue I have. I haven't felt bad because they're gone, and perhaps it's because they don't. Victor was the children's author who had lied in his autobiography of having seen the world and it's hidden vortexes of dinosaurs playing on iPads and told his most loyal fan it was all butters and nothing to obsess over.

Why I don't like Social Networking (Victor):“for the record i quit das racist 2 months ago and was asked by our manager not to announce it yet. apparently @himanshu wanted to do it tho.” 

Himanshu was the author who had lied in his autobiography because he was never aware it was to be of truth at all.

“hah dag, my bad dont even remember saying that [filth]"



         

          I mean to say Das Racist ruined all of my dreams and hope for a new music and a sane group of artists to produce an era of loveliness and introspection, but that happened with the Fugees. That happened with my mother's favorite television show Girlfriends after the writer's strike. That happened to My Favorites in 2006 when each of them were crazy enough to separate. It happens because break ups are going to heaven. Break ups are going to no where, and break ups are going to hell. Break-ups happen because things end, and that's almost as axiomatic as how great Chipotle's food is after you're devastated your band's called quits.

Peace

Baccy and Filter in 6 Foot Deep Antique Coffins

       
      I like to go against myself. Its inception was the beginning of the ninth grade, when I decided I would fall under the "underground" trend and become a bit of a mainstream recluse. My campaign was successful. My music hadn't been seasoned to my friend's ears, and my clothing was very much different from theirs. I was insanely obsessed with the Strokes, which I found was not an underground band, but instead an Indie Superstar that catered to the aching hearts of tortured teenage girls. I don't have many regrets. Once you're underground, you have to dig yourself out.
            I'm not quite so underground; I'm not as deep as I could be. I haven't dug myself six feet and rested myself in a vintage limited edition casket. I have dug myself six feet and listened to my iPod until the juice drains out. This is why I'd like to sue Das Racist. I'd like to look them in the eye, and say, "On this Bible, I swear you have taken my ability to listen to music on the radio.... Most of it anyway, and with that you've taken my ability to dress normally. And you've taken my ability to care about things most important, and you've granted an ability to care most passionately about those beyond any control. It's your fault. It's your fault, it's your fault and I wish I had never cared about the Newspaper."
           January 1, 2011, I was reading the Washington Post. December 31 I had been singing extremely loudly each Auto-tune the News video I had found days before; perhaps it became my Christmas playlist. The Washington Post isn't a fashionable newspaper. It's for politics and art. It's for old people on the metro after days they had hoped were those of Florida beaches and exposed cellulite in over washed swim suits. It's for the interns who see futures in black ink and overworked writers.
           I liked the Washington Post before I was in my underground phase. That was a most paradoxical statement, but on the first day of the year, the Post tells you what's in and what's Out. It's a thesis of the Post's unfashionable status because the references entail pop culture from like.. the 70's. Das Racist must have been some obscure 1970's one hit wonder band, I thought to myself as I read it had replaced Auto-tune the News for a Post endorsed "in" spot.
             This is how it began. This obscure 1970's Old People Band had better been good, because nothing could rid Auto-tune the News of its relevance. This obscure 1970's Old People Band would sue if anyone addressed them as such. I YouTubed Das Racist and listened to that song which will not be named, for fear of a six month long ear worm. In any case, I found they were young! They were Hip! That song which will not be named is only one of a social issue! They're called Das Racist because of actual racism and Wondershowzen! They were so Hip, they were a part of this group called "hipsters"! "Hipsters" were who I wanted to be.
            It is best to remember I was young then. This was the middle of eighth grade.  Das Racist was burried in a vintage casket with a plate which read "2 kewl 4 u THUGLYFE' except we dead. Peace" until late September. Late September had reckoned Halloween too early, as I dug Das Racist from the dead.
            I started simply. My party with Das Racist started at 11 o clock in the night with a constant replay of Rainbow in the Dark. I'm a bit simple, and not completely in a whole because the most popular songs are often my favorite. So I replayed Who's That? Brooowwwwn about three times, and You Oughta Know about six, and Rapping 2 U about ten times. Then, revelation.
             Julian Casablancas says the only way to know music is to listen to it, and then discover the artist. If the artist has good cheekbones, that's butters because what matters is the marrow of their beats or riffs. I wasn't being faithful to my Music Messiah! I knew Das Racist's music, sure, but what I didn't know was them.
            So until three I watched all the Das Racist interviews there are on the internet. This may not have been the swiftest choice I have made. It was one of the most entertaining. I don't like the word Hipster because it reminds me of gentrification and thrift store buys I will never find, no matter how many times I visit all of the chic good wills in the city. Das Racist is a band composed inside and out of Hips and Sters and Hipsters, Hipsters, Hipsters, Hipsters, Hipsters. They are always high, and they are always fashionable with the most ironic clothing, and everything which comes from their mouth has a reference to pre 1970s underground culture. They're young professors of Brooklyn. Their studio is your class, and you're the pupil.
             Perhaps Hipster Rap is the new English class, but they seem too entitled. Almost distant and obnoxious. The English Teachers before had hard lives, and they were real about it. The hipsters went to liberal arts colleges and read Rap Bibles and Aristotle for fused inspiration. That's not English class, that's going to college.
               I love Das Racist, they're geniuses. They are the rappers you'd like to have a dinner conversation about. The ones who will show up for dinner on time and (although high) seem presentable. They're rad people. But they're not the future of rap because they don't have its core. Maybe that means Hip Hop and Rap is changing. And this is how I thought of Das Racist as I continued the party a second night. The second night I had discovered tracks of which I was oblivious; however, Das Racist is like little kids, they're really fun for a while, and very cute, but you can only be around them in doses. I was about tired of them (although I couldn't stop watching them sing "AZIZ ANSARI, HE IS THE MAN WE LOVE, LOVE, LOVE."
s1. I had to stop listening to them because
                 a. they were addicting,
                 b. they're sort of jerks with how clever they are and it was catching on
2. The people in the suggestions looked kind of cute so I wanted to see what it was all about. Also the name was kind of funny so I wanted to see if they were 12 year olds.
              This is how I found out about Rizzle Kicks. Rizzle Kicks is or was a very popular group in England, composed of Harley, or Sylvester ( the one who sings) and Jordan, or Rizzle (the one who raps). I hope the students coming over have heard of them, and like them, because they rule and they're really only very popular there. I asked some French kids if they knew who Rizzle Kicks were, and they said "No, but we like One Direction."
               This is how I dug myself out of the hole. This is the English Class. The video in the suggestions link was Miss Cigarette, one of the most genius songs to surface any pop song of any genre. It's the story of Jordan and Harley's relationship with a cigarette, which is a metaphor for that with a girl. As such, to Rizzle Kicks, girls are addicting, expensive, and if it's the wrong one, extremely hard to ignore.
              THEY ARE THE ENGLISH TEACHERS! I'd like to analyze the lyrics, but that would extend the post much longer into even more boredom. Because I'm selfish, however, because I love Rizzle Kicks so much (and because they're the English teachers) I think I will later.
               Rizzle Kicks aren't simple with their lyrics. They're very eloquent, and frank, and smart, but they know how to be a good time. They're posh, but they're friendly. They don't live in irony, they just want to make a nice essay. They seldom curse, instead they talk about vulgar adolescent issues, like feeling you're getting dumber as you get older, but being kind of happy about it. Besides, they have entire songs devoted to cursing, just to get their street cred back.
             When I Was a Youngster is one of the most excellent tracks I've ever heard. It has the prime pop sound, but it's extremely relatable and a bit deep. It uses the Clash for its beat, Revolution Rock, and it puts some synths under and bass, and it makes it into a #1 hit. It sounds extremely happy, and it was featured at the Olympics. If one looks at the lyrics, though, they'll see the chorus is "When I was a Youngster I wanted to be everything on the planet (on the on the on the planet)/ Now that I am older it seems the ambition has vanished."
            I have so much love for that, I can't explain in full. First, it's so happy! It's the happiest song! Happier than Sesame Street when Sesame Street is Happy (their songs are really sad). Also, they could just say "When I was a Youngster I wanted to be everything on the planet now I'm a loser [filthy words]." But instead they say "the ambition has vanished." How eloquent.
             Jordan's part is extremely catchy as well, and it sounds much like an essay. "Wanted to be a fireman, then I lost the desire man, the second I grew old enough to buy myself a cider can. Hey! I was a smart little Kid! Those things have departed me since, these days you can catch me on a park bench with a lager and crisps."
             The lyrics are very honest, and very telling. Once again, they refrain from being vulgar, and instead say "departed me since" instead of "I don't feel that way anymore." They're English Teacher futures shine in the word play as well "fireman" "desire, man". The hope lies in these Vibes and Charisma.
              Rizzle Kicks is, in honesty, my One Direction. I went against my place in the ditch that way. They still have the feel good pop aesthetic even with substance and talent. I've dug myself to three feet, and I've abandoned my coffin. But what's better is that they're in, and I don't have to read the newspaper to find out and go on a musical enlightenment. All I search for, though, is good music, so really I haven't betrayed myself. They're the English Teachers of the future, and that's shown no ambition has vanished after all.