February 2005 Archives

JMJ foundation/adidas 35th anniversary superstar kickoff party. i am always this somber at red-carpet events, especially when depressed and underdressed. connie makes up for my brooding roll, non?

Poorly focused evidence: Flava, too quick for the camera!

There's a lot to be said for hearing critics so great as Greg Tate, Vivian Goldman and Bob Christgau expound passionately and expansively on the rap- and New York-altering impact of It Takes A Nation of Millions, only to walk into an unrelated sneaker-freak party and witness the men themselves performing "Bring The Noise," "Don't Believe the Hype" et al. Serendipitous and lovely and, for now, mine.

I suppose we can't be mad that Jon no longer breaks language; he's switched his game to slang-checking his friends' blogs in the Village Voice. (And he gets paid for that.) This comes after my triumphant MIA review in SPIN (the triumph being that my kind, loving editor didn't chop the adjective "binoculars" from the piece). Does this mean we're gonna get shouted-out in Matos' roundtable about the ever-nebulous boundaries between print crits and the net pool? Separatism begone; I'm gonna start scanning my print work and posting it on my blog.

COWBOYZ'N'POODLES
an installation

by Julianne Shepherd: feminist writer, performance artist, choreographer, blogger, smack talker and slang inventor

The installation is a series of 245 Mac iBooks, displayed side-by-side atop an Apple-white, plastic mobius strip (built with the assistance of Vito Acconci). On each screen is a piece of the artist's writing, scanned from its original published format--primarily magazines and newsprint, though in one case the original medium is a silkscreened pair of men's Hanes briefs. If desired, the viewer may read each published work in its entirety on the individual computers. At the innermost point (heart) of the mobius strip, there is kinesis: a constantly refreshing, live internet stream of the artist's blog affected by the activity in the room. The writer-artist, Julianne Shepherd, hangs from a plastic swing hung directly above the blog-computer and blogs in real-time. Because she is writing online, the installation is free and accessible to anyone in the world during the duration of the piece. However, only those present in the room can read the artists' published magazine-works at once, while the blog computer is inaccessible; the only evidence of its truth is the presence of the writer, constantly typing. What happens here, is blogged here.

ARTIST'S STATEMENT:
I'm interested in traversing the ever-nebulous boundaries between print criticism and the internet blog-pool from a Marxist, feminist standpoint. As writers in late-stage capitalism, we create within the structures alotted to us, tethered to word count and content restrictions which sometimes prioritize the hunger of commerce before the desires of humans (be they writers, editors, or readers). As a result, we are increasingly attracted to the free-space and unbound, un-word-counted, illusorily infinite medium of the blog. I wanted to comment on the blog as nucleus of a writer's creative space, and the more traditional format print media as satellite--the outlying islands to the inner thought-community and largely untamed colony of the blogosphere. My blog is the place where I riff freely, a fuck-all battle-cry to punctuation as equally as format. In shedding the conventions of formal journalistic writing, I am able to indulge the heart and raw, unharvested ideas within the craftsperson. And by offering these up to the imperfect populism of the internet, the blog becomes a cell in an organism--it joins a continuum that is alive and breathing, right now.

Blog as safe space, print media as proscenium. Both mediums are flawed and both will someday die, but in this piece, they support each other, and they are one.

More DeVyne Stephens than Darrin's dance grooves: the man who gave us Usher's angled body verbology in "Yeah" gets the Cowboyz'n'Poodles award for best choreography in an R&B video for Tyra's "Country Boy"; for one, it's a feat for pop dancers to pull off interpretive moves that correspond to lyrics without seeming like the Colorado State University Half-time Cheer Squad (no dis to them specifically, but it's the difference bt large-format audiences and a confined space--moves that cross over end up looking corny, and not the good corny). DeVyne is an intelligent choreographer who balances his pops and flow, employs the full spectrum of body motion and is not scurred of breaking back-up-dancer formation. And he implies hotness, like a seductive flash of a well turned ankle, not all beyonce flesh'n'cleave sexual simulacra in yr face that gets the airplay—a little hip here and cut-my-hat-with-the-hand, seven and eight, and I'm out. He respects his dancers as people, not the art-canvas of body-forms. And I respect that.

see you at public enemy weekend?

After watching the All-Star game with Chris "Billups" Ryan, a more entertaining basketball commentater than anyone ever (BCAT, hit him up here) Connie Wohn, Ghettotechmanica, and I hit the grime thing--DJ Cameo from radio 1xtra, who played i think FOUR Dizzee Rascal tracks and was clearly from radio's landscape, because every shout was a kind of advertisement: (ladies come upn get cds) (don't forget to sign the mailing list) (free minute maid at the bar) woo, and also, the flow was as fluid as shattered glass. However, on a janky sound system run over with dudes rapping/toasting/announcing/backspinning almost nonstop through tracks like "Pow" and "Wot Do U Call It," it is not a mystery that people riot at grime clubs in London--epileptic audio activity + disenfranchisement = exactly what happens when you put marshmallows in a microwave.

Speaking of equations.

Dave S., aka ghettotech young buck Disco D, whos pals-ish with JC, arrives wearing a Jamaica lanyard & white surfnturf wifebeater-beater. He tells us fuck this grime, and convinces us to visit his studio, which he calls "The Booty Barn," at 3 am. He has just produced a track for 50 Cent, and he wants to play it for us. Also: beats he's made for a well-known singer whose career began on a reality TV show, a rapper from Atlanta, and "the female Eminem," who's actually quite good. We get in Jon's little car and while he's scraping the snow off the windows, Dave's like, "I invented an equation for living. Its called positive pimpin. Give me a pen." On a discarded ATM receipt, he writes:

(Pos En Neg En)(NT)^i = R

"That stands for Positive Energy, minus Negative Energy, times Networks, times Time, to the power of Individuality and Ideas, equal Results. You can use this equation for anything.. love, work, investments. Apply it to any scenario; it's positive pimpin, and it works."

He breaks the good news: he has just gotten engaged to a 35-year-old Brazilian supermodel/actress, who is about to star in an Antonio Banderas film. In case we do not believe him, he spits to us in Portuguese.

It is unclear whether his equation has created this union, or if he managed to get into it on his own.

When we arrive at the Booty Barn, Dave shows us photos of his fiancee, who is indeed a gorgeous Brazilian supermodel, in various states of glamour pose; then informs us he is making a DVD of his life, to be released in series as completed. This also means he must film us. He flips on the camera and makes formal on-cam intros:

"This is Jon Caramanica, the best hip-hop critic out there as far as I'm concerned... this guy is so knowledgeable and I totally respect his opinion. He's always shown love and support to the D train" or something to that effect. Applause; thank you Jon.

He aims the camera on Connie and asks her to introduce herself:

"I'm Connie Wohn... that's all you need to know."

He gets to me. "What do you do?" he asks.

"My name's Julianne Shepherd. I'm a writer, choreographer and editor--"

"You're a choreographer?"

"Yes, actually--"

"Don't sleep on the choreography," Jon affirms.

Dave says, "Listen. We need you to do our video... the idea is to have the New Rock Steady crew and a regular choreographed group of dudes start a dance-off here in the studio, and then they all spill out onto the roof for a big dance battle. It'd be gratis, but the money will be there later..."

I can't believe it. He's describing a five-minute-long version You Got Served, which he wants me to choreograph... AND it's low budget! This is the moment I have waited for my entire life.

TO BE CONTINUED

When you have TIVO, you are eating at the all-glitz Vegas style magic-spread buffet of mass television... but you are missing out on Brooklyn Community Access (BCAT), the homemade paper-plate spread at the block party. I have just discovered Jamaican television on three separate BCAT channels: a Bounty Killer live interview and videos by Junior Kelly, Foxy Brown, Damien Marley, followed by "Ghetto Girl Films": women in Jamaican flag bikinis oil-wrestling, plus video of the Girls Gone Wild Bikini Bikers Fest, in Jamaica, W.I., (Connie: "What is WI--Wisconsin?" "Yes, there is a secret warm city in Wisconsin where Jamaicans enjoy wintering") featuring a group of five teen girls' choreographed spectaculara to a dancehall track i did not know.

Channel flip: four women in camo cheerleader outfits dancing at the Chim Pum Callao Restaurant in Yonkers, NY (chimpumcallao.com). Another BCAT station is airing footage of a "Thiry & Over" party in Queens, at a convention center, with "over-thirties" dancing close to "Lets Get it on" in their best chiffon gowns, a few wearing tiaras and sashes after being crowned "MRS. 30 and OVER." Next channel, someone's home video of Trinidad Carnivale 2004, a posse of ladies in fire-orange feather headdresses, bikinis and fake Gucci sunglasses singing, stomping--the cinematographer is a bit directionless, but still.

At 12:30 we're watching "Mackin with Christ."

To all this i fly my flag: fuck tivo, fuck satellite crapbtle, fuck whatever because I have three channels of Jamaican home video programming on my second-hand Panasonic! FREE TV, GOODBYE WORLD.

the blogs have not been updated because nearly all the rock-crit bloggers in the tri-state area were at matos' birthday party last night, in case you were wondering. amazingly, when i woke up this morning, the internet was still there!

fuck a valentine's day, but my cousin brian has been chronicling the "i love you"s spraypainted across the city, which i think is sweet of him.

i would like to give thx my friends and all people who hold jshep & co close to their hearts, or even those don't but who live their lives with love and spirit, and holler a heaping womanpile of "eat mes" to the done-me-wrongs 1976-2005: you are toejam. don't call me crying until after the playoffs!

p.s. also, if you are in Sa-Ra Creative Partners, please email julianneshepherd@yahoo.com. Thank you!

Mark Ibold's new psych band "Cam'Ron's Foreskin" may be playing this weekend at the Kitchen, matinee show before the Fawn Kreiger/Wynne Greenwood installation performance. Also, they are new, but because of Mark's vision and penance in some sort of underground famousish bands through the years, someone told C'n'P that Cam'Ron's Foreskin might be going on US tour with The Gossip and Eddie Izzard in early 2007, and it's gonna be fucking awesome.

I keep forgetting to tell you that my friend Shayla Hason, photographer/DJ extraordinaire, has a photoblog. (As does Chas Bowie, the best [retired?] art critic in Portland, Oregon.) Shayla's been posting photos of Portland/vicinity musicians all week, including J.Ho/JShep PazznJop ballot superstar Randy Jones aka Caro of the Little Pretty Pony, Rock & Roll Camp for Girls superstars The Bookworms [is that Io of The Black Peppercorns we see?]; Decemberists guitarist superstar Chris "The" Funk; and Misfit Massive superstars Libretto and Wolverine. I am sure that you will agree Shayla is a talented lady.

Pazz and Jop time again... which means... time to be reminded that a lot of man-critics are jealous of Amy Phillips! I don't blame them, she is a great lady who writes from her heart and in clear language; I could see her being a good Times critic one day. I very much relate to what she said about not wanting to listen to music on Nov 3.

Also, Jimmy Draper is awesome for being one of the only male critics in the Pazz and Jop whose ballots are disproportionately led by female artists. I know he did not vote for representation--imagine, someone liking lady voices--but I will say this: so what if he did? We could use more politics / statements of purpose in the music-listings, especially if Brian Wilson's toupee is going to place first or second every year.

I didn't send comments, because the one thing I felt compelled to write just seemed funnier in email--about cam'ron, sociopathy, nihilism... and that if i owned my own rap magazine, funded entirely from dollars i receive for everytime someone finds my blog googling "is cam'ron gay," I would not let one iota of Cam'ron's right-wing penis all up in it.

Cam'ron would not even get a photocopy of his foreskin in my rap magazine.

It's amazing how many of my straight man-friends FREAK OUT when I say the word "foreskin."

also, Jessica is here and wanted me to tell you the story about the time I was interviewing Dizzee Rascal, asked him if he owned any pets. Missing no beats, he responded, "I got an alligator in my pants."

Joanna Newsom will tell you she loves the Senegalese polyrhythms for the kora, she learned them in art-composer's school before she dropped out. I am essentially unfamiliar with kora music, but today I've been listening to Toumani Diabete & Ballake Sissoko's New Ancient Strings--:37 into the first track dudes start high-end, magic treble counterplucking and it's just devastating--and actually I think "Salaman" IS a Joanna Newsom song, or vice verse, but I cannot remember her song names enough to know which one. You know, the one about the crone and the dancing seahorse in the Redwoods. Sprite joke, faerie joke, hippie joke, etc. I am just noticing how much of her music (aside from the unleashed woodsprite vocalizing and scribing, of course) is peeled from the Toumani Diabete (prince of the kora, fyi) stee.

tonight we jessica sasha and i glued together a wooden bridge with the best curly-headed kids, terrific kids that give me pause enough to step outside my messy brain and messy office and imagine that maybe i will have some, once i clean up my clutter in like, 2043.

the smaller of the two sang us a song in his pajamas while hopping around the kitchen island like a bunny:

"YOU MIGHT BE THE MOST MAGICALEST PERSON IN THE WORLD
I DON'T KNOW IF YOU ARE, BUT YOU MIGHT BE!"

Gawker reminds us today that Inside Deep Throat is amassing press. I have not seen the film, but I want to refresh our memories on Linda Lovelace's post-porn life, that in two autobiographies--Ordeal and Out of Bondage--she detailed physical, emotional and sexual abuse at the hands of her manager/husband/pimp, Chuck Traynor, which lasted until she escaped, found god, and had two kids with a cable TV installer named Larry Marchiano. She denounced her whole porn career, claiming she was essentially battered into filming Deep Throat at the hearings for the anti-porn civil ordinance in Minneapolis, 1983. In 2002, she died in a car accident after a lifelong battle with alcoholism.

Here's an interview with the directors--they believe her story; I hope in the film they do not gloss over the difficult parts about Linda. Discussing the facts of her life would be very useful in examining Deep Throat's cultural impact, which is the point of the movie, apparently.

i knew it was that time again when, walking through bryant park at 10 am, two angelic boy-men in Knotsberry-plaid knickers and golf hats offered me a free pill-packet sampler of Cargo lipgloss.

Sign on industrial-sized trash can outside NY Public Library: "NO FASHION SHOW GARBAGE IN DUMPSTER"

I would apply to be MIA's backup dancer/ choreographer, Paula Abdul to Janet Jackson style, if everyone else in NYLA wasn't already palming that stick shifty (Anyway, I only work with unknown artists with a specific vision, or multi-million dollar productions like Honey II. Mekhi Phifer, holler at your pas de bourre). Last night, the captivated throngs scrum out her name in between songs, of which she played her entire record Arular, the album of which makes me want to take up arms and join RZA in his teflon-bound superhero crime-fighting aspirations. Diplo backed the vinyl and another lady, who always, unfortunately, goes unnamed, sang and danced with her. Maya's mic was down and she sang with guide tracks, karaokelike, which worked at her first show few months back (at the Fader party, where she performed galangfirefiresunshowers and bounced) but in a venue with already-shitty sound, was not ideal. also i could not see. i watched three songs, and the rest of the time danced in the corner by myself, or tried to go to the bathroom. fyi, the knitting factory bathroom is under construction.

but people, it was her 5th show ever or something, she is being saddled with all this fancy-fame and fetishizing, getting jockeyed by Jay-Z and LA Reid for the Def Jam, certainly overwhelmed and she probably cannot see peoples' motives from Adamski.

also jessica, i feel that way too about the ivy league, but being solid in the knowledge we are both as smart as attendees of said universities, with the one disadvantage of having to look up Latin phrases on m-w.com and also hiding the "Education" part way, way down in the bottom of the CV. And in relative perspective, I am like, my grandma did not even know how to read or write, so on the educational curve of my fam, I am doing fucking awesome! Besides, we are putting out a magazine with heart and horns.

and now we're going down for a bagel.

BINOCXULOKX--something so binoculars it requires harder consonants. As in: "D Double E's verse in that 'forward riddim' video Sasha posted is BINOCXULOKX."

Dogstarr--term of endearment. Combo of "dog," Gang Starr and Keanu reeves' band.

Teeter--Teeter Sperber, aka SUI GENERIS AND FOCUSED.

on the phone w/Kris Ex: "what do i want with a woman without a blog? how could i possibly be dating a woman without a blog right now?"