The first Little Boots (Caligula to his contemporaries) was a Roman emperor infamous for his sadism, who inspired a really bad 1980 film starring Malcolm MacDowell and Helen Mirren. It’s taken two millenia, but finally another Little Boots has come along to redeem the name. Also known as Victoria Hesketh, she creates elegant and oh-so-infectious electro-pop. Her debut album is still in the works, but meanwhile, you can download her new album, Arecibo, or check out her MySpace page.
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Here we have the video for “People C’mon”, the third track off last year’s stellar Delta Spirit album Ode to Sunshine. The group, best known for their over-the-top and energetic live shows, don some old school gear and seem calm at first in this colorful video. But things start to get a little hairy about half-way through and, well, you’ll see.
On April 21, 1910, author Samuel Langhorne Clemens, better known as Mark Twain, died in Redding, Connecticut
Mark Twain was the heavyweight champion in a time when giants roamed the earth and our color commentary was written in ink. Twain, along with Melville and Hawthorne, represents the holy trinity of 19th Century American fiction: the great white hope. But Twain was arguably the archetypal American writer; certainly that was William Faulkner’s assessment. And if Faulkner says Twain was the “father of American literature” than Twain is the father of American literature, end of discussion. Even still, he was more than that. A lecturer, a satirist, critic, commentator; a genuine public figure and ambassador for the well-examined life.
Well, Mr. Oizo may have shat the bed with his fuzzy little Flat Eric character and the tragic Lambs Anger, but the latest video from Qua’s latest triumph Q&A shows there’s still a place for cutesy little muppets in quality independent music (even if they end up copulating, doing lines, and puking). Props to director Gus Kemp for going to that dark Meet the Feebles place.
Be sure to sharpen your pitchforks before reading Gabe Sherman’s New York magazine schadenfreude-fest about pouty investment bankers, who from behind the cloak of anonymity complain about how unfair life has suddenly become for them. It turns out the bankers are “angry” because they are having to pay higher taxes and because their plutocratic bonuses seem to be a thing of the past. As Sherman notes, “In a witch hunt, the witches have feelings too”—but then, one could sympathize with the witches because they were singled out unfairly by an unruly mob of religious bigots. The fury at the bankers, in their callous cluelessness and their reckless endangerment of the global economy in pursuit of an extra Hamptons mansion or two, seems altogether justified and rational. The bankers aren’t some misunderstood group of well-meaning citizens; they are a group that prided themselves on their sharklike mercilessness and tenacity in extracting every last bit of advantage for themselves, and they would smirk when they rehearsed the exculpatory excuse that such single-minded greed had the inevitable by-product of economic efficiency. They were wrong about that, and they should probably get as much forgiveness as they would give us if we were opposite them at the bargaining table.