Hello everyone and welcome back to Album of the Year 2019, the yearly series where the users of indieheads talk their favorite albums of the year. Up today, simonthedlgger goes in-depth on the massive Oncle Jazz from Men I Trust.submitted by indieheadsAOTY2019 to indieheads [link] [comments]
Artist: Men I Trust
Album: Oncle Jazz
I can’t believe the odds. It’s December 26th, my favorite holiday not named Halloween. A day of leftovers and familial decompression. Outside, the year is ending. Pine trees, some still webbed with lights, lay on sidewalks.
Historically, December 26th is grey and cloudless. Cold, but not necessarily wintry. A void of a day, ideal for lounging and reflection.
“Have a lay in,” says the universe.
On December 26, it is constantly evening.
And now, there is a playful bounce of synth, murmuring bass like a bear waking from a long nap ... a swell of brightness:
“You’re listening to Oncle Jazz .”
Allow yourself, listener, for seventy ephemeral, December 26th minutes, to be swept away in jazzy philosopop fantasy. All smiles, slide across the kitchen floor in your brand new socks, treat yo self to a warm beverage and snacks, nest in bed as opening titles fade like a path into the deep forest.
I can only suggest you take that path. We’re about to Oncle Jazz.
Men I Trust are a three piece indie pop band from Montreal, Quebec, Canada. The band was established by producemulti-instrumentalist Dragos Chiriac and bassist Jessy Caron in 2014. The pair released their self-titled debut that year, followed by Headroom in 2015, both of which featured numerous guest vocalists. After guitarist Emma Proulx became the permanent singer of Men I Trust, the band put out a series of successful singles from 2016 through early this year. After a few delays, Men I Trust released their third full length album and first as a trio on September 13, 2019.
Review by simonthedlgger
Men I Trust RadioIt’s easy to view Men I Trust as more “chill but danceable” Spotify recommendation-core. The formula is simple enough: breathy vocals over sustained synth, walking bass with jazz and/or R&B flavour, restrained rhythm section. Elevator music, if the elevator were taking you up to a Blockbusters/indie bookstore combo in the heart of Bushwick.
Except, this is not our stop. Ours is an elevator ascending the Ivory Tower, granting us view of all Fantasia. Our elevator alights the lobby of the Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino, where Men I Trust and The Martini Police tradeoff headlining gigs.
On closer inspection, Men I Trust’s music is neither simple nor restrained (though, production is artfully subdued throughout). It’s not even very relaxing, only enough to lull you into a vantage from which you feel comfortable enough to see yourself—perhaps for the first time—as something small within something very large, and to realize that largeness is contained within an even larger space, and so on until the mystery swallows you.
(That is not to say Men I Trust do not have their utterly charming moments, i.e. the deliriously joyous sing-along opening of “Days go by and I still don't know how and why I still make my way without you, without you.”)
On Oncle Jazz, Men I Trust plays timewarped pocket groove music, pulling together elements of modern pop, softrock, plenty of jazz (on show in their latest instrumental single, “Alright,”), and of course assorted lofi/synth/indie/sweet dreams pop, to make something distinctive, comforting but unnameable.
Several interludes further expand the scope of the Oncle Jazz structure, from the absurd funk of “Slap Pie” to the smoking “Fiero GT," lest we forget the balletic mystery of closer “Poplar Tree," which would sound fitting over melancholy credits to a Miyazaki film.
There’s a votive quality to the loop-like nature of the band’s arrangements, cycling frames that range in form from waves of Sega ambience to controlled yet driving beats which draw equally on the electronic and organic. So much happens within the confinements of these loops, yet every moment remains isolated, carefully placed. The songs sound like secrets, but not puzzles for the sake of puzzles: there is an answer to every riddle, a worthwhile conclusion.
“We like to use a lot of repetitive movements in melodies and chord progressions to give the songs a prayer-like rhythm,” Dragos told Crack Magazine, describing the band’s desire to draw listeners deeper into their sonic narratives. The recurring musical movements are complemented by an economy of words the band often discusses:
“I will ... find the way in which I can concentrate [a thought’s] meaning, saying the most with the least words. It’s Bernstein’s idea of poetry and it’s also a necessary constraint inherent to the song genre,” Dragos told me. “Sometimes, these ideas end in Men I Trust songs.”The band takes this minimalist approach to either ends of the spectrum, always leaving room for the listener to process and derive meaning. Compare the simplicity of “All Night” (“You wrap my feet in coloured blankets, so I stay here all night. You keep the one with many moons and stars, it’s always for my shoulders,”) to the stark poetry of “I Hope to be Around” (“I dream of my future, remote from time bounds, becoming myself without any end.”)
Oncle JazzThe clarity with which Men I Trust operates is evidenced not only in the deliberate arrangements and concise lyricism of Oncle Jazz, but the actual conception of the record. Initially delaying the album after touring prevented the trio from finishing, then calling an audible the night before Oncle Jazz was scheduled for upload to major streaming services, there is never a sense of hurry when discussing Men I Trust. Rather, tranquil precision.
Achieving the ideal mix played a large part in the album’s prolonged incubation, with eight singles being remixed for their place among the 24 track album (several considerably so). The songs settle softly in the mix, warm pop rhythms bouncing off watery jazz. “I don’t think loud songs will give the best listening experience in years to come,” Chiriac told Billboard. I agree: Oncle Jazz invites you to absolutely bump the volume, clarifying the perfectly shaped bass tones and depth of reverb, the myriad details, without going deaf (fun fact, I did a write up on Angel Olsen’s All Mirrors for popheads, and the mixes on these two albums could not be further apart).
On “Seven,” you can hear prospective lovers whispering across a dying campfire. The rustic “Pines” paints an immense but lonely landscape (“She moves like wind by deserted pines who stand tall, unstirred,”).
After completing touring obligations, the band returned to Oncle Jazz. “When we spend too much time on the road, we miss being able to settle, to write and record without disturbance,” Dragos says over email. “Listening to a finished song, or album, is the most fun part of recording.”
Recording for Oncle Jazz took place in the green quiet of rural Quebec, which no doubt influenced the hushed mix (they’ve described the album as consisting of all “winter songs,” which isn’t a bad description by any means, but the undeniable warmth of Oncle Jazz makes one wonder what a summery MIT album sounds like). “It put us in a really different creative mood ... there’s nothing to do outside of the house except for walking and thinking about music,” Proulx said (Billboard). Indeed, the band have frequently described how their music focuses on the ways individuals play a small role within the macroscopic natural world; this sense of humble realization is all over the record. When further pressed, the band typically says songs are simply about friends. The interplay of the cosmic and intimate is one of several unifying threads that elevate Oncle Jazz from a standard LP release to a greater musical movement.
For, Oncle Jazz is its own radio station; at one point on the album, Emma clues the listener in: “You’re listening to Radio Men I Trust,” and I can’t help but responding, “Yes, I sure am,” every time. It’s a station wound in the layered textures of the Arturia Mellotron and Yamaha DX7; though, as with any decent station, there are a bevy of unexpected gifts.
My friend, you know, you had your time awhile..but I'm willing to give you mine.Late in the Oncle Jazz sequencing comes “Something In Water” like a plaintive siren out of the mists, “In this land with no sea, hoping time forgot me, 'cause I don’t need your love, only your full weight on me.” Guitars take the forefront, a rarity on Oncle Jazz, especially the submerged acoustics and posthardcore/proggy chorus lead that surprises at 2:22.
“Dorian” consists of brilliant world building by the Zora River, recalling dreams of C.R.E.A.M. and nights spent shooting the shit with friends outside the corner store. You’ve heard the chorus melody a million times since you were young, but, no, it’s a melody only Proulx could deliver, her voice resembling bells and woodwinds more than vocals.
“Found Me” sounds like Nirvana. “Say Can You Hear” has that new wave drive.
The groove of “Air” is otherworldly. A mildly brooding verse spills into the euphoric hook: “So I thought you could come over mine...some time. Our loneliness now gone.” As with many Men I Trust songs, “Air” does not fade out, but dances away.
My friend, you have a vivid quill.Despite the inescapably dreamy qualities of Men I Trust’s oeuvre, there’s a decidedly grounded sense to their work, a desire for clarity -- the contrast brings yet another level to the listening experience, lyricism weaving between daydreaming and existential doubt. “I Hope To Be Around” plays with Platonist-Socratic concepts (“I hope to be around the day we grasp in truth the nature of mind befriending time, in truth,”), though the breadth of lyricism and philosophical ideology (J.S. Mill to Goethe) makes it clear all members contribute to the writing process, questioning many aspects of self-significance and morality.
“For me, these contradictions make for a weird literary genre, at once positing the insignificance of humans and the god-like invulnerability of men and women of good. It’s horrifying and reassuring (the power of truth), sublime (greater than ourselves), and f---g funny,” I’m told. “It’s like watching a horror comedy. It’s a mix of emotions cancelling each other and it leaves me feeling like a blindfolded fool, puzzled with a donkey tail in his hand.” Read through a few Men I Trust songs, and at least one line will leave you handling a donkey tail of your own.
Of course, all Men I Trust lyrics are refracted through Proulx’s mesmerizing vocals. A French speaker, she has described the English language as another instrument (I challenged myself not to use the word ‘ethereal’ in describing her voice. Or ‘gossamer.’ Or ‘gauzy,’ ‘gracile,’ or even ‘as a light rain.’ So, I will not.). Her instrument contains multitudes.
Men I Trust LivesIt’s a bit mystifying to reconcile the immaculate production behind Oncle Jazz and the band’s relentless, globe-spanning touring schedule, delays or not. Men I Trust’s fully realized sound on Oncle Jazz translates beautifully to the stage. “When we spend too much time working on recordings, especially on a long double album, we look forward to getting outside and touring,” they tell me. For Men I Trust, both playing live and recording are exciting paths to becoming better musicians, a thrilling prospect for fans. “The end results of both are especially rewarding.”
Shortly before finishing this write up, I saw the band play a double header at Boston’s Royale and the Sinclair in Cambridge. Men I Trust played as a five piece, yet remained committed to the halcyon aesthetic: a t-shirt remained over the snare for the duration of the set, cymbals were chained, Emma’s vocals were so quiet you couldn’t hear her speak between songs -- even the roaring denouement of a guitar solo that closes “Seven” managed to melt faces without piercing ears.
No, Men I Trust does not make simple, chill out music. They make music difficult to fully grasp, no matter how welcoming the sound, how natural the fit.
Now, our time is at an end.
I don't want to feel
I'm happy my home found me,
In a midway I stand where many stood
原文载于1990年3月刊（点此可获取原刊PDF）submitted by huahuagongzitom to saraba1st [link] [comments]
PLAYBOY INTERVIEW: DONALD TRUMP
a candid conversation with the decade's most flamboyant billionaire
on deal making, self-promotion, world affairs and how much is enough
Donald Trump sits alone. He hasn't slept in 48 hours.
At six A.M., perched high, in the bronze-coated jewel of his empire, Trump Tower; he is bent over a mammoth Brazilian-rosewood desk, scrutinizing spread sheets.
No insomnia, no growing worries.
"Pressure," lie surmises, sipping an iced Coke, "doesn't upset my sleep,'' a standard four hours nightly.
"I like throwing balls into the air— and I dream like a baby."
Three hours later, blond hair marshaled, he announces, with standard chutzpah, his seven-and-a-half billion dollar bid to gobble down the nation's premiere airline, American. On the strength of his $120-a-share bid, the stock vaults from $16 to $99.The 43-year-old billionaire, who owns huge blocks of American Airlines stock ,smiles broadly.
A week later, with the market lumbling190 points, he withdraws his offer, perhaps temporarily. Despite some reports that insinuated his American raid was only cardboard, a poly to rattle up his stock, Trump stares into space:
"Nope, I want it."
Yup, If it's the best, and it's for sale, Donald Trump's stomach begins to growl.
He captured troubled Saudi financier Adnan Khashoggi's onyx-and-gold-plated yacht for a mere $29,000,000—now it's worth $100,000,000. Then he bought the Eastern shuttle for $365,000,000 and transformed it overnight into the Trump Shuttle, complete with comfortable cabins and stewardesses rustling in virgin wool and pearls.
A year earlier, he had bought the Plaza Hotel for $400,000,000 and is now lovingly restoring her without a name change. Her make-over will be surprised by the Czech mistress of Trump's kingdom, Ivana, a former Olympic skier and fashion model.
At home, Ivana presides over a 100-room Trump Tower triplex, recently expanded from 50 rooms ("Better closet space, "she jokes). Trump proud of the salmon-marbled atrium of Trump Tower, where no expense was spared, says, "I bought the whole damn mountain! You've never seen that color before. Ivana suggested it because it makes people look better."
The couple also has a 47-room country house on ten acres in Greenwich, Connecticut, and the well-publicized 118-room Mar-a-Lago Marjorie Merriweather Post estate in Palm Beach, their commute time shortened by the 727 jet and the French-made military Puma helicopter.
The Trump Princess, or the Khashoggi" boat", as Trump now calls it, has gotten cramped, so a Dutch shipyard is confecting not a Princess but a full-fledged Queen costing more than $175,000,000.
Such ostentation, despite a catalog of charities and good deeds done for sick kids, has predictably yielded a rich crop of snipers. Spy magazine, the New York-based humor monthly, cheerfully carries a scabrous vendetta against the Trumps, comparing them to Dickension monsters. Time did s cover story on the decay of Atlantic City and chided Trump for helping create a crime-plagued urban blight divided between welfare cases and high rollers. On the upper West Side, Manhattanites attack him for his proclaimed desire to build an enormous complex, Trump City, complete with a 150-story skyscraper; Phil Donahue charges that Trump’s casinos pillage the gullible; an aide close to outgoing mayor Ed Koch calls Trump ”the most arrogant s.o.b who has ever stepped onto the earth.
Ah, well, To be young, blond and a billionaire.
It doesn’t seem to matter. The most daunting entrepreneur since the Astors, Vanderbilts and Whitneys, Donald John Trump has made his ”art of the deal” work—not just for making money but for crushing adversaries, too.
Case in point: Merv Griffin. Ten months after Griffin bought Trump’s Resorts International Inc for $365,000,000, for which Trump had paid $101,000,000 the year before, Griffin found himself holding a busted balloon. Not only had he inherited the hotel-casino’s $925,000,000 debt but he embarrassingly had to report first-half losses of $46,600,000. There’s now talk of a possible bankruptcy for Merv and a possible lawsuit against Trump.
Looking beyond his one-billion-dollar Taj Mahal opening in Atlantic City next month, Trump has plenty to consider. There are tumors of his building casinos in Nevada and his buying Tiffany’s, NBC, the New York Daily News or the Waldorf Hotel (“I’ve got to have the Waldorf,” he coos jokingly into the phone. ”I can’t sleep without it”).And the Presidency ?No, that takes an election, and it is clear that Trump is not that patient. Too much to do!
“There has always been a display of wealth and always will be, until the depression comes, which it always does. And let me tell you, a display is a good thing. It shows people that you can be successful.”
“We Americans are laughed at around the world for defending wealthy nations for nothing, nations that would be wiped out in about fifteen minutes if it weren’t for us. Our “allies” are making billions screwing us.”
“I’ve always thought the ultimate job for me would have been running MGM in the Thirties and Forties. There was incredible glamour and style that’s gone now. And that’s when you could control situations.”
The billion-dollar baby was born in the exclusive Jamaica Estates in Queens, New York, on June 14,1946, to a mere millionaire, real-estate developer Fred Trump, who had racked up his $20,000,000 fortune building low-to-middle-priced homes and apartments in Brooklyn and Queens.
Among the five little Trumps, only Donald seemed to have a passion for mortar and bricks, riding around construction sites with his father—“who ruled all of us with a steel will”—and showing younger brother Robert, now a low-profile V.P. in the Trump organization, who was boss in their 23-room house.
At the age of eight, little Donald borrowed Robert’s cherished toy blocks, glued them together into one giant skyscraper and never returned them, thereafter exercising his fantasies about changing Manhattan’s skyline.
His father, who harped on the importance of ”knowing how to make a buck,” regarded mop-haired Donald as “rough and wild,” shipped him off to the New York Military Academy in Cornwall-on-Hudson and, some say, forever instilled in him a gnawing sense of inadequacy that fueled the boy’s ambition. There followed two years at Fordham and two years at the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School of Finance, then a few years diddling in middle-income housing until, at the age of 28, Trump delivered the punch that launched him. Taking a hard look at Manhattan’s troubled fortunes, he fastened onto the bankruptcy of the Penn Central Railroad as his ticket into the big time and nimbly plucked options on Penn’s Hudson River Railroad yards, now the site of New York’s Convention Center, and its 59-year-old Commodore Hotel, now the Grand Hyatt.
The coup was in his persuading bankers to lent him $80,000,000 and in talking politicians into awarding him a $120,000,000 tax abatement.
Persuasion, hype and chutzpah thereafter defined the Trump style, welded to a scrupulous management technique.
In 1979,at the age of 33,he snapped up the Fifth Avenue site of the old Bonwit Teller for $20,000,000,won a $140,000,000 tax abatement and three years later finished Trump Tower, a 68-story dazzler that includes a six-story atrium and today draws 100,000 visitors daily, with residents such as Johnny Carson and Steven Spielberg.
Amassing a fortune his father never dreamed possible—a cash hoard of $900,000,000,a geyser of $50,000,000 a week from his hotel-casinos, assets thought to total 3.7 billion dollars—Trump soon became as captivated by mystique-making as by money-making.
As the snooty ads running around New York proclaimed,”Everything does seem to be very Trump these days.” There are his residential buildings, Trump Parc and Trump Plaza and the soon-to-be-finished Trump Palace; Trump Castle in Atlantic City and the soon-to-be-finished Taj Mahal; his book “Trump: The Art of the Deal,” written with Tony Schwartz, which held on to the number-one spot on the New York Times best-seller list longer than any business book since “Iocacca”;his high-rise board game named—you guessed it—Trump(reported to be flop);his upcoming TV game show—you guessed it again—“Trump Card”; and the bike race named Tour de Trump, which, as he points out, sure beats its old name—Tour de Jersey. And—well—you get the picture.
“Vision is my best asset,” he says without a shred of modesty, ”I know what sells and I know what people want.”
Along the way, Trump even found time to attend the 1976 Montreal Olympics, marry his match, Ivana Zelnicek (who has vowed never to look a day over 29),and produce his own little Trumps—Donald Jr,12,Ivanka,eight,and Eric, six.
Notwithstanding the good fortune that seems to have attended Trump’s business moves, he and his family have not escaped life’s darker side. While sisters Maryane, a Federal judge in New Jersey, and Elizabeth, an administrative assistant for Chase Manhattan, have found their niches, Trump’s older brother, Fred, hated the real-estate business, became an airline pilot, took to drink and died an alcoholic in 1981 at 43.
Trump was also recently shaken when, last October, three key executives died in a helicopter crash; the boss reportedly narrowly missed death, deciding at the last minute that he was too busy to travel. ”I never realized,” says Trump today, ”how deaths outside the family could have such a profound effect on me. It’s a tragic waste.” As for himself, he’s fatalistic: ”I work, I don’t worry and I protect myself as well as anybody can. But ultimately we all end up going to hopefully greener pastures.”
To check out his present-day pastures, we sent New York Daily News celebrity interviewer and syndicated columnist Glenn Plaskin to talk with him. This interview had long been in the works, including two earlier starts. But Plaskin finally got Trump to sit down with him over a period of nearly 16 weeks. His report:
“For our first session at Trump Tower, after being visually frisked by a troop of basketball-player-tall bodyguards, I entered the inner sanctum. There was Donald Trump, as he would be for most of our sessions, slumped behind the cinnamon-colored desk, slung comically low in his chair, clipping his fingernails.
“I think best this way,” he’d deadpan.
“As the weeks went by, I found I liked poking through the hooded dare-me eyes with rapid-fire changes of topic, watching for surprise. Often he parried with rehearsed answers, but we spent enough time together that we entered genuinely fresh territory. When I asked for his stand on abortion, he frowned, pouted and asked ne to turn the recorder off. He didn’t really have an option—what the hell was mine? It was a very human moment.
“Supervising his office like an exceedingly well-run vaudeville show, executive assistant Norma Foerderer would wander in with another gold-framed magazine cover to put up on his wall—or with a seven-pound cheesecake or a stuffed skunk. Trump would take calls during our interview—never for more than a few minutes—that invariably ended with, ”Ok, baby, you’re the greatest.” Then secretary Rhona Graff would walk in, bearing little yellow slips of paper announcing calls waiting: down-on-his-luck financier Adnan Khashoggi, asking to have lunch; a hotel executive, dickering to sell yet another big hotel……By the time Duchess Fergie called about borrowing his brand-new accident-proof helicopter, and Don Johnson to borrow his city-size yacht, I was dizzy.
“To get away from it all, we began our first session hovering above the East River in the cobalt Darth Vader helicopter. Donald Trump was strapped into taupe leather, good-naturedly hyping his empire below.”
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