We weren't actually in attendance at Arcade Fire's early-career appearance at the Jackpot, but we sometimes tell people that we were in an attempt to get laid. Personally, we find them a little dull, but nonetheless they've quickly established themselves as an "important" band that can't be ignored, and perhaps no album is more anticipated than "The Suburbs," which "drops" tomorrow. Richard, who fancies himself somewhat of a scholar of "suburban literature," is paying particular attention. Pitchfork joins the blogosphere chorus of lavish advance praise with a very high 8.6:
"The bulk of The Suburbs focuses on this quiet desperation borne of compounding the pain of wasting your time as an adult by romanticizing the wasted time of your youth."
Chip: "Sounds like it totally rocks!"
But Pitchfork does level a minor criticism or two:
"...as The Suburbs reaches its second half, there's certainly some thematic redundancy-- surely, there's already a drinking game revolving around Butler's use of "the kids."
Richard: "There is now! Everybody come over to my place tomorrow for a listening party and boozefest!"
Reverend H: "I'm sure I'd prefer listening to this than reading The Ice Storm, but I imagine I'll still hate it."
The NY-Times offers this statement regarding post-modern literary wizard David Mitchell:
"His best-known book, “Cloud Atlas,” is one of those how-the-holy-hell-did-he-do-it? modern classics that no doubt is — and should be — read by any student of contemporary literature."
Richard: "Fuck! I haven't read it yet. Headed to Borders shortly."
Anyway, Mitchell is back with a new novel this summer called The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet., described by the Times as "a straight-up, linear, third-person historical novel, an achingly romantic story of forbidden love and something of a rescue tale — all taking place off the coast of Japan, circa 1799. Postmodern it’s not."
We say: boring! Instead, we'll just re-read the parts of Mitchell's 2006 Black Swan Green that were nominated for the "Bad Sex in Fiction" award : "Now she made a noise like a tortured Moomintroll.".
And here's the full excerpt, for those of you who want it [we actually think we posted some of this once before, but we can't currently find that post in the archives and it's still funny as hell]:
"If Dawn Madden's breasts were a pair of Danishes, Debby Crombie's got two Space Hoppers. Each armed with a gribbly nipple. Tom Yew kissed them in turn and his saliva glistened in the April sun. I know watching was wrong but I couldn't not. Tom Yew slipped off her red panties and stroked the cressy hair there.
'If you want me to stop, Madam Crombie, you have to say now.'
'Oooh, Master Yew,' she croodled, 'don't you dare.'
Tom Yew got on her and sort of jiggled there and she gasped like he was giving her a Chinese burn and wrapped her legs round him, froggily. Now he moved up and down, Man-from Atlantisly. His silver chain jiggled on his neck.
Now her grubby soles met like they were praying.
Now his skin was glazed in roast pork sweat.
Now she made a noise like a tortured Moomintroll.
Now Tom Yew's body jerkjerked judderily jackknifed and a noise like a ripping cable tore out of him. Once more, like he'd been booted in the balls.
Her fingernails'd sunk salmony welts into his arse.
Debby Crombie's mouth made a perfect O."
Chip: "I guess it really is kind of bad. But I'm still going to beat off to it."