Voices, on the page and in my ear

Doughty’s voice is perfect, his lyrics divine. Both playful and critical, dealing with the everyday, the otherworldly, and in-your-face criticism of the Western world, often all at the same time. Anyone that can write lyrics like these will always have a special place in my soul:

Slap myself to wake but now it's too late
Cause I spelled your name out on my license plate, Janine

Born to be a God among Salesmen.
Working the skinny tie.
Slugging down fruit juice.
Extra tall extra wide.

And the radio man says women were a curse
so men built Paramount studios
and men built Columbia studios
and men built Los Angeles

[ ]

and the radio man laughs because the radio man fucks a model too
gone savage for teenagers with automatic weapons and boundless love
gone savage for teenagers who are aesthetically pleasing,
in other words, fly
Los Angeles beckons the teenagers to come to her on buses
Los Angeles loves love

I've seen the Kansas of your sweet little myth
You've never seem to know
I'm half sick on the drinks you mixed

Has there ever been a better critique of Hollywood, consumer entertainment than Screenwriter's Blues? No book or critical essay has ever so perfectly nailed the underbelly of this institution for me (although I am sure they are out there). And I know it is about LA too, but the Hollywood smackdown always makes me smile. The way he hits "studio" or "listening" blows me away. And I must admit, it took be a couple of times to figure Soul Coughing out with Ruby Vroom. " Is Chicago, Is Not Chicago" did not resonate. It took "Down to This" for me to get it and get into it. I hope a song about killing does not symbolize something else. You cannot give this post to the prosecution!

I have been listening to a lot of Joy Division lately and thus Ian Curtis’s voice. His writing was filled with imagery of emotional isolation, death, and alienation, not uplifting stuff per se. I am certainly not depressed at the moment, but I find myself grooving on his voice lately. The bass-baritone thing, howling at times, sounding like a drunk uncle – I love it. Dance, dance, dance to the radio.