There is a term helmed by screenwriter Dylan Haggerty, the mastermind behind writing Gregg Araki’s 2007 stoner opus, Smiley Face. That term, ladies and gentle”men” is skull fucker. What type of monster creepazoid would fuck a skull, you ask? The kind that obsesses over Bach. That’s right, people who listen to classical music all the time are the types of weirdos who fuck skulls. The kind that actually refers to Bach as Johann Sebastian Bach and can cite the name of the cantata he’s hearing without hesitation. Nay, uses the goddamn word “cantata” in casual conversation.
It’s nice when “men” are learned, sure, but there is more than a tinge of faux learnedness to the “man” overly enthralled by the musical genius of Bach. And yeah, there’s no argument that the “man” was a genius–yet still he was presumably as pompous and self-aggrandizing as the “male” fans he’s accrued over the centuries.
Thus, if you’re in a setting that’s not showing Beauty Shop (in which there’s a scene of a boy who thinks the girl he’s interested is talking about 2pac instead of Bach), in a music conservatory or at a stodgy dinner party on the Upper East Side or the part of Brooklyn where kids’ schools cost more than the average community college, run for cover if you hear any “man” bring up Bach like the magniloquent motherfucker he probably is.
Music has taken so many tumbles since Napster came along, but its latest blow is almost too egregious to bear. Not that Pitchfork Media hadn’t sold its soul long ago, but to sell the remaining modicum to Condé Nast for the price of their remaining reputation shows not only a missing a dick nature, but genitalia that’s completely inverted.
Say goodbye to what you knew
Formerly owned by Ryan Schreiber, the enterprise began so differently than what it has become, a juggernaut of advertising and reviews bought and sold not for the benefit of educating readers on “what’s good,” but what can generate “hits” to the website. Naturally, Condé Nast’s interest in the company stems from their desire for “millennial ‘males,'” even though this infers that 1) women don’t enjoy or have good taste in music and that 2) GQ, Details, Golf Digest and The New Yorker aren’t enough to quench the company’s appetite for an audience with a dick.
An unholy alliance
Undoubtedly, this is a shrewd move on Condé Nast’s part, now able to secure the entire “male” population of Williamsburg in its pocket. Not only is the selling of Pitchfork an indication of those “men” who now continue to take to heart what the site has to spout about what’s “hot” in music not having any viable taste of their own, but also that every company worth shaking a stick at feels inclined to go the VICE route and transform into the antithesis of its original intent by selling itself with the resignation of an aging showgirl.
Using music playlists created by anyone–least of all something as specifically mo-ish as Williamsburg Bridge Radio–is rather lazy, and shows a lack of ingenuity when it comes to having one’s own innovation and personal taste. How hard is it, really, to pull together an hour or so worth of music on one’s own? Not very. Maybe as hard as a Williamsburg denizen’s groin area.
Only a tasteless wanker needs Williamsburg Bridge Radio to tell him what to listen to
And so, for a “man” to willfully download an app specifically intended for traversing the bridge “by train, bike or foot” is utterly dickless, to say the least. Does he really need someone else to tell him to listen to the likes of Mykki Blanco? As if he wouldn’t do that of his own accord knowing his lack of “indie underground” ingenuity. Furthermore, to support an app that only plays artists on a certain record label is just a hair discriminatory. From Decca to Sire, don’t hem yourself in.
I don’t rightly know when Urban Outfitters first grafted hipster culture. But whenever they did, they decided that selling records would be the best way to appeal to the “stylish” “man.” With music selections from predictable acts like Nirvana and The Ramones, Urban Outfitters attracts the dickless man primarily because he’s also tasteless.
What’s more, if you’re buying records in the first place, you either 1) are trying to prove something or 2) probably don’t have a record player yet, but are trying to talk yourself into getting one. If you really must lower your musical taste to the mercy of what Urban Outfitters wants to sell you, you might as well buy Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours to secure your toolbaggery.
It’s widely known that male surf rock is far less masculine than female surf rock. That’s why it seems incongruous to me that most dudes don’t fuck with all-girl bands of this genre. The likes of Bleached, Best Coast, The Donnas and The 184.108.40.206’s possess far more of an angry edge than, say, The Beach Boys or even Wavves. And yet, “men” in Williamsburg who are so fond of this musical form are remiss in owning an album from one of the aforementioned.
Even though listening to surf rock in general is already pretty effeminate, there’s a more rough-hewn edge to “men” who also incorporate female vocalists into their rotation as well. The dickless of Wburg would do well to remember that at their next listening party.