Broken Hearts Are For Assholes - Frank Zappa - King Of Prussia (Vinyl, LP)

It was a little bit more rural. I had a friend of mine scare it out, and it ran right up a tree. So I aimed and shot it. I kept pumping arrows into it—I think I shot it eight or nine times. It finally fell out of the tree, and I was pissed because when it fell, it broke about fifty dollars worth of arrows.

I was so angry at this raccoon for eating my oatmeal. I grew up in a farming community. Bennett Were you into hunting? Have you ever considered revenge the motivating factor behind the music you make?

I never even thought of that until you mentioned it last night, but it was pretty apparent when you brought it up. The constant theme is the underdog creep who prevails in the end. Yeah, I guess so. That was my idea when I started a punk band. I wanted to destroy everything. Now I just write about that instead of trying to physically do it.

I got really into smashing disco balls for a while. I ended up spending over two thousand dollars on disco balls. The last one I broke was actually in the States, at the Empty Bottle in Chicago, and they made me buy it. After that, I refused to play the Empty Bottle.

So sometimes being stubborn works out. I feel like I spent so much time in my youth worrying about trivial bullshit. Like what? Like trying to get back at people. How Britney lost it all. A pop star at the mall is an eternal cause for happiness, especially on a Sunday afternoon in the Valley.

One moment, shoppers in the Westfield Topanga mall are living in the real world, monotonously selecting a new shade of eye shadow or rubbing perfume on wrists, but upon the rapture of Britney Spears, they are giggling, laughing, orgasmic, already sharing their secret on cell phones. In person, Britney is shockingly beautiful—clear skin, ruby lips, a perfectly proportioned twenty-six-year-old porcelain doll with a nasty weave.

She cuts through the crowd swiftly, the way she used to when 20, adoring fans mobbed her outside a concert, with her paparazzi boyfriend, Adnan Ghalib, trailing behind. Only a few kids are in the store, a young girl with her brother and two blondes checking out fake-gold charm bracelets. Then she ducks into the dressing room with Ghalib.

He emerges with her black Am Ex. A new card finally goes through, but by then Britney is out the door, leaving her shirt on the ground and replacing it with the red top.

She whirls around and stares the girl deep in the eyes, her lips almost vibrating with anger. She is not a good girl. If Britney was really who we believed her to be—a puppet, a grinning blonde without a cool thought in her head, a teasing coquette clueless to her own sexual power—none of this would have happened. She is not book-smart, granted. She is not ashamed LP) her new persona—she wants us to know what we did to her.

Before her first hospitalization, Britney shut herself in the bathroom with her youngest son for three hours, wearing only panties, arguing with cops who tried to give her a sweater. Today, Britney is alone: Arrogant, anxiety-ridden and paranoid, she has lost faith in everyone. She has no stylist, image consultant, crisis-control manager or driver. The multibillion-dollar new-media economy rests on her slumped shoulders, with paparazzi agencies estimating that she has comprised up to twenty percent of their coverage for the past year.

New players enter the gold rush by the minute, with people from around the world getting into the game: The flashiest new player is Sheeraz Hasan, a PakistaniBritish immigrant who recently founded Hollywood. A devout Muslim who can be found at the mosque on Fridays for prayers—and also drives a yellow Lamborghini—he was on the hajj to Mecca when he stopped in a small town on the side of a mountain for a bottle of water, and there he saw a newspaper, and on the cover was Britney.

I tell her to make the meeting. It seems to be an unironic shirt. I grab my laptop case. He tells me to get into his car. My celebrities get free furs and diamonds. Britney is a queen. His own mother committed suicide when he was fourteen. He generally came home on weekends and drank too much. Over the next few years, she and Lynne would split their time between New York and Kentwood as Britney booked commercials, played the lead in a Broadway play, Ruthless, and performed on Star Search.

Baby One More Time. She loved it: She had basketball practice and a handsome boyfriend, Reg Jones. She reportedly lost her virginity to him at fourteen. Britney denies this. The genius stroke of her creation was that her next single was a ballad, with a video featuring her dancing in a white outfit on a pier: By emerging as a vixen and then reverting to a child, she allowed the world to breathe a sigh of relief that her temptress act was make-believe. She played along. Have you seen MTV—all those girls in thongs?

Jamie was not in the picture. She was devastated. According to a source, she and Lynne had made the decision for her to get them, on the assumption that the culture demanded it, but the press leapt on her scornfully.

Britney has denied having implants. Some in her camp argued that Britney was too young to be pushed so hard, and wanted her to return to Kentwood to reconnect with girlfriends. Even though she had a squeaky-clean image, things changed backstage. Although the world thought Britney was an innocent sexedup for the cameras, she was always lobbying to appear sluttier, which she thought would make her appear more mature.

From the time she was young, Lynne and Jamie let her walk around the house naked. They were literally picking out her panties for her. I want to have throw-down, hot sex! Both Britney and Robson have denied the affair. Britney and Timberlake were performing on Saturday Night Live that night, and they sat backstage, miserable—he refused to accept her apologies. She began desperately seeking love in nightclubs with inappropriate guys like Colin Farrell and in the studio, most notably with Fred Durst, who violated her trust by boasting about their exploits on The Howard Stern Show.

Britney does. At AM on January 3rd,after watching The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, she and Alexander took a lime-green limo to the Little White Wedding Chapel, where she strapped a white garter over her ripped jeans and held a small bouquet of roses in cardboard for their forty-dollar wedding.

Eleven hours later, they called their parents to give them the big news. Lynne flew to Vegas, the couple were separated, and lawyers worked to annul the marriage.

Shipped home with a false promise that Britney wanted to stay together, Alexander cracked under the national spotlight and dropped out of school. This was to have been the new Britney, and she was genuinely disappointed, wearing a wedding ring in defiance. Lynne tried to circle the wagons around her furious daughter, keeping her in Kentwood on the day of the Grammys and taking her to a church service instead, but within a few months, the road called— Britney went back on tour with In the Zone a much more mature album with songs about early-morning sex and masturbation.

There were demons that she was battling, and she wanted everyone to know. Jive insisted on a different method of death, so she ran away from the paparazzi before drowning in the tub.

Britney was compliant on the first day of the shoot, but on the second, she refused to leave her hotel room. With little else on her mind, Britney was relieved when her knee gave out in the middle of the tour, and Jive announced that doctors had prescribed four months of rest. But the next week, she asked Federline to marry her he refused, mock-horrified, and proposed a few minutes laterand they got hitched immediately, with Juicy tracksuits for the bridesmaids in pink and groomsmen in white embroidered with MAIDS and PIMPS.

Two weeks after the wedding, Britney fired her managers, Rudolph and Lynne. Her interest in her recording career was minimal. She recorded three songs in three years. Night after night, she hit the L.

She circled his house three times, furious at having to concede to their demands, before pulling into a random hair salon in the Valley and taking her hair off in big clumps, less as a penance than a liberation. That was her fate, she declared—she was next. After rehab, Britney was deeply angry and cut out every person in her life who had argued for it—her parents, Federline, Rudolph, even old best friends.

She claimed not to have a drug problem, and stopped returning calls to her disloyal subjects, changing her phone numbers. Britney signed a new management contract with the Firm and started working out a few times a week. The day of the show, she arrived early to the arena. Timberlake was rehearsing. Suddenly, her face fell, and she started getting panicked, nervous, afraid—what was he going to think of her performance?

What about the rest of her peers? She headed backstage and was pacing in her dressing room when Timberlake knocked on the door. She refused to come out. Soon, she was going to put on her hair, and maybe she would feel better. All she had to do was sit for the afternoon so the wig could be glued to her head, piece by piece, then remain very still for an hour so it could set, and she would be the old Britney again.

The hair divas turned on their heels, leaving the Firm to try coaxing them back while insisting to Britney that she must change her mind. Britney sat for those in her glittery black bikini and then stepped into the rest of her outfit, a Posh Spice—style corset-dress.

Then she took it off, refusing to wear it. She wanted to go onstage without artifice, as naked as possible, and for us to love her just the way she was. The edge of Mulholland Drive is the lip of a pit, a vertiginous fall into destruction.

Was it terrible? Lutfi has had two temporary restraining orders issued against him for harassment. The rumor flies around the lobby that the government is looking into Lutfi, curious about his connection to the Saudis.

This is how it will go, they explain: I will give them the money, and the cash will be held in escrow. They will be at the shoot, making sure Britney is happy—I will have to bring five photographers, five stylists and five makeup artists in case she is not.

Ryan Seacrest stops by the table. He is very pleased. He calls Lutfi to tell him. He turns to me. He thinks for a moment. It would make a great book! The lights flick on, and we hug goodbye. After explaining to Claus that there is no money, I write to Lutfi many times, explaining that we are still very interested in interviewing Britney and telling her side of the story. No response. As comes to a close, Britney starts to really enjoy her paparazzi chases.

She races around the city for two or three hours a day, aimlessly leading paps to various locations where she could interact with them just a little bit and then jump back into her car.

A Britney chase is more fun than a roller coaster, but with the chance that the experience could cause lasting harm. There are twenty paps in the core Britney detail, a bunch of hilarious, slightly scary thugs who use expert drag-racing skills to block off new guys who try to get in the mix. Williams, a former beatmaker for Death Row Records with a long braid slithering down his back and multiple silver rings on his fingers, gets in front most of the time, riding her Mercedes SL65 hard.

Almost all the paps drive rental SUVs, most with dents and scrapes on the sides, because no one wants to get their real cars messed up. A plastic bag swings from the door to the trunk of the SUV in front of us—the pap had been using it for trash all day and forgot to dump it.

Britney pulls into her driveway, and Williams waits down the street. He puts Blackout on his CD player. Then she flips a bitch and heads right back where she came from. The other cars get lost as she circles a Ralphs supermarket twice, dumps her assistant at the Starbucks and zooms down the street to a red light. Williams pulls out his video camera. She waves hi. Good album. Good job. Vocals were tight, girl. Once Britney asked him into the bathroom of a Quiznos; his wife has filed for legal separation, and he has said that he plans to marry Britney and get her pregnant.

For the past few years, Britney has begged friends to help her run away, to leave everything behind and become a stylist or schoolteacher, or move to an island where she can work as a bartender. Ghalib helps her achieve her goal, evading the paparazzi for weeks on violent, terrifying chases.

The other agencies are having nervous breakdowns. They were only there when the getting was good. She knows that the people who had a responsibility to support her bailed out and is very hurt by their actions.

She argues with Lutfi, and Ghalib rushes in to save her, but Lutfi calls security to keep him off her property. Lynne arrives, dragging her daughter around town, and Britney begins to spin out, staying up for sixty hours straight.

On January 30th, she arrives back home after a day at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and meets with a psychiatrist, according to X Someone starts running down the block, and everyone runs after him; they hide in a driveway and laugh when everyone catches up. The next day, her parents file a restraining order against Lutfi. We want her to survive and thrive, to evolve into someone who can make us proud again. She said it best to me: She refuses to live her life anymore reflected in the eyes of others.

With the aid of computer editing software, he creates danceable sound collages that often incorporate over 15—20 audio sources: namely, popular and less popular rock, rap, dance, and electronic songs, no era or genre excluded. Either way, for Pitchfork and many others, Girl Talk raised the bastard-pop bar.

He was not just playing two songs on top of each other like 2ManyDJs or Freelance Hellraiser, nor was he playing two songs next to each other in an anything-goes free-for-all DJ set a la Optimo or Erol Alkan. Instead Gillis is something of a surgeon, scalpeling out drum breaks from one song, vocal melodies from another, a guitar riff from another, and stitching them into some danceable semblance of a new song.

He had a well-blogged reputation for inviting people on stage to dance with him as he huddled over his computer, triggering his samples live, and soon he became a festival headliner. A career in music firmly established, soon Gillis quit his Pittsburgh day-job as a biomedical engineer. And now Gillis is at the point fame-wise where MTV News is more than happy to run a story about his last show, to take place on December 21, That date counts for the end of the Mayan calendar—believed by some to be the day the world will end.

The mega-fans are remixing their favorite songs, lacing them with dance beats and synthesizer presets, posting their remixes on their blogs, commenting on those of others. Even if there were precedents for these complications, the 21st century form of mashups is a very palpable convergence: an internet-mediated, meta-pop moment.

The mashup was at best the democratization of once elite techie show-off skills. Pro Tools Free or Fruity Loops or Live cracked or otherwise were now widely available, and so anybody with an ounce of computer know-how was able to twist and contort their favorite songs into a seamless mixtape.

Soon, an army of sixteen-year-olds would surely adopt the mashup as a standard protocol in their early musical careers.

Similarly, Girl Talk is a young, innovative, Internet-based artist whose level of sampling is unique and incredibly diverse—racially and stylistically. And both Obama and Gillis draw from the same demographics: African-Americans and young liberal whites.

Plus, they both put on killer live shows. The genius of 2ManyDJs and some of the other first wave mashup artists was the naturalness of their blends. Without tinkering too much, the harmonic and melodic elements would align to make a sonically pleasing moment.

In the pre-Girl Talk days, the standard of judgment was the seamlessness, the beauty of a ridiculously paired, yet ironically similar set of songs. But this is Girl Talk. Technically he is working in the tradition of musique concrete, which when Pierre Schaeffer and Pierre Henry and Stockhausen and friends did it, comprised cutting up physical vinyl records and tape reels and re-pasting Broken Hearts Are For Assholes - Frank Zappa - King Of Prussia (Vinyl together—using prerecorded sounds and reconfiguring them and then playing them as pastiche.

These were compositions but not traditional songs. And most of these compositions, to be frank, are more fun to think about than listen to. But since then, the concrete nature of recording has been exploited tremendously as part of the modern recording studio setup.

Most radio pop songs are cut-and-pastes of previous takes actually, looped and warped and seamlessly woven together. And so musique concrete, one could reasonably argue, has significantly altered the path of recorded music, not necessarily with its content but as a process. The effect is an advanced version of that game on the iPod, which challenges you to figure out what the song is from a four second random clip.

He is obedient angle. David Marx and Nick Sylvester more to his Broken Hearts Are For Assholes - Frank Zappa - King Of Prussia (Vinyl than the finished product. This would surely prompt a severe drubbing if done in real life. But as it stands, Girl Talk just seems to love pop music as a sadistic steward, morphing all the hooks and cherished moments of the last forty years into devalued fodder for a long stream of time-stretched mid-range EQ mush with no peaks or dynamics.

We just think the relatively innovative gimmick of his style has exempted him from critical thought put towards the actual result. With fewer mistakes to distract us, the Girl Talk Thesis Statement seems more apparent, i. Like a good crate-digging producer, Gillis aims to salvage what the past has discarded and wishes to figure out how to make worn-out songs sound good again.

Later Girl Talk rescues the one great chorus from an otherwise terrible Southern rap track cf. Maybe the word is money-savvy. Getting paid is a forte; this is something else entirely. From a technical standpoint, this is also a project that requires a certain degree of time and effort and patience and an endless supply of a cappellas. But with music at least, the best moments are more value-indicative to me than the plethora of shitty ones. Shittiness is an LP). As pointed out, digital music manipulation tools have become cheaper and more available and the d-word, shudder, democratized.

Some of it was awesome. Most was terrible. But compare him with the rest of what the internet has put out there for us—all the ridiculous song title puns—and you realize the incompetent idiots, they could draw nothing, paint nothing, just so the mess they make is original. Even years ago who wanted to be original, to be original was to admit that you could not do a thing the right way, so you could only do it your own way.

But in doing so, Girl Talk has deftly avoided the mashup label, and the musique concrete label, in favor of a brand-new artform whose result, critics be damned, has no point of comparison. If not an outright lie, most times uniqueness is a bad excuse for Not Art. Many artists recoil at the mere suggestion that someone is doing something else just like them. To that end, these technically proficient user of audio software.

I mean do whatever you want here. But please let him be what he is. Do not do this: I decided in the end to choose the records that I enjoyed the most, period—pleasure principle over agonizingly weighted critical judgment. David Marx and Nick Sylvester artists create new rules so that no one is on the same court. And by using every sample known to man and every a cappella downloaded from Jam Gluehe basically outmoded the entire circa mashup sport.

We can put Girl Talk under the umbrellas of musique concrete or loop-based pop music itself, but these titles further confuse Gillis, making him out to be some kind of outsider or misunderstood auteur.

And they do say something—just not something serious. Girl Talk is a comedian, really. As a second cousin, Girl Talk has that guy who sped-up all the Beatles albums to fit in a single ten minute file. David Marx and Nick Sylvester same length, about 16 bars; the choruses are all more of less the same length of time too. It is understood within the architecture of pop and hip-hop music these days that the song is waiting, begging even, to be mashed up.

Rock has coexisted with hip-hop has coexisted with noise. Our ears are better-than-ever equipped to handle these kinds of recombinations. In the public imagination, these artistic decisions are no longer scandalous. The first sentence of the second paragraph. Girl Talk fits into our national cultural mood extremely well. I had no idea Kayne West made music; I just thought he was that whiny Fauntleroy in shutter sunglasses always hanging out at colette in Paris.

Forget art. The question is, without a public hungry for the references, is Feed the Animals anything at all? It would just be a long stream of unstructured pop drone. Imaginary straw-men that have lived in an underground bunker for fifty years would totally hate Girl Talk! To extend the earlier Lego metaphor: Just as bloggers have two basic options—write original content or become a central link every other sentence.

Let alone the recording process. But these are not equal options. That the difference is truly manufactured, that the concerns of each song are not interesting. Taking cues from the Grand Wizard Theodor: pop music Broken Hearts Are For Assholes - Frank Zappa - King Of Prussia (Vinyl not art, but sound design.

David Marx and Nick Sylvester Therein lies the insidiousness. Adorno pulled no punches. But Girl Talk poses as a pop optimist. He loves pop music—all pop music. That it all sounds the same in the end. That listening to a bunch of songs we used to care about in his refracted, rejiggered form is, at its heart, the same exact thing, compositionally and otherwise, as listening to a brand new song by a brand new musician.

Why bother, right? This project, worse than any covert corporate sponsorship, he calls a celebration of pop music. Yet there we were, whizzing through arid country past pastel bunkermansions, the architectural embodiment of militarized paranoia and extreme wealth, en route to an empty four-star hotel.

We were going to rest for a day and then play music in the ruins of a crusader castle. It was the year I was the turntablist for an acid jazz group from New York City. There were four attendants in the hotel casino, bored behind the gaming tables, and only two other paying guests—British pensioners, holdovers from remembered pre days when Cyprus was undivided. Down the coast, thirty miles away in the haze, a tall cluster of glass-and-steel buildings hugged the shore.

It looked like Miami. Completely evacuated in the conflict. A ghost town on the dividing line between North and South Cyprus. The only people there were UN patrol units and kids from either side who entered the prohibited zone to live out a J. Ballard fantasy of decadent parties in abandoned seaside resorts. If North Cyprus represented the forgotten side of a fault line of global conflict, how were we getting paid? Who owned those scattered mansions that we saw on the way from the airport?

Was our trip bankrolled with narco-dollars, to please the criminals hiding out in an empty landscape, or with Turkish state funding, to win tourists back? I never found out. I bought a laptop with my earning, quit the band, and moved from New York to Barcelona. But the artists made much of their living in forays to the periphery. To kids coming of age in a world of technology and unhinged capitalism, our music seems to sound the way global capital is—liquid, international, porous, and sped-up.

Frank Zappa vs Steve Vai. And, of course, there is the solo within Yo' Mama. But, as was often the case with much of Zappa's material, this song is a mix of live material from multiple performances and studio overdubs. Somewhere there is an article that alludes to the song's origin. The lyrical theme has to do with an individual's ineptitude Hi-yo-hi Went to buy some cheap detergent Some emergent nation got my load Got my load Got my toad That I stowed Well, well, Hey lawdy mama, Can't afford no shoes Maybe there's a bundle of rags that I could use Hey anybody, Can you spare a dime If you're really hurtin', a nickel would be fine Hey everybody Nothin' we can bu Andy?

Frank Zappa is definitely an artist who helped change and shape my taste in music and understanding just what is possible to do with the medium. Discovering him in earlyI've found myself completely drawn to his work, and over a year later I've finally caught up with his massive discography that was already large before his death in but has only grown even larger since Yo' Mama.

Buy track It's not that we have forgotten him, but we have been searching in vain for someone to fill his boots.

Frank Zappa's genius, both cosmic and comical, has no equivalent today, this is because no one, in almost three decades, has. But to me, the musical highlights are mostly by keyboardist Tommy Mars, who was one of the finest keyboardists Zappa ever employed At in track 6, a wild solo section ensues, with Tommy Mars and Peter Wolf doing keyboard improvisations. You can unsubscribe at any time by clicking the link in the footer of our emails.

By submitting this form, you agree to the privacy policy Guitar aficionado's alert, the central core of Yo Mama is a clinic, an organic and tangible aural event. The encore and performance concludes with 'Black Napkins' originally from Zappa's record Zoot Allures. Similar to the preceding 'Yo Mama' this track allows Zappa to disseminate his guitar work in another context.

In order to finance his artier excursions, which increasingly required more expensive technology, Frank Zappa recorded several collections of guitar- and song-oriented material in the late '70s and early '80s, which generally concentrated on the bawdy lyrical themes many fans had come to expect and enjoy in concert. Yo Mama 4. Magic Fingers 5. Don't Eat The Yellow Snow 6. Strictly Genteel 7.

Black Napkins Total Time. Line-up might not be entirely accurate. Released in November catalog no. P ; CD Il testo e il video della canzone Yo' mama di Frank Zappa: You ain't really made for bein' out in the street ain't much hope for a fool like you 'cause if you play the gameyou will get beat. Yo' Mama [live] Frank Zappa. Let us know here.

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