PWNAGE!

listening to: Epic45 – May Your Heart Be The Map

HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHHAHAHAHAH x412452452345.

So the same bench which essentially reinstated the CJP has now ruled in favour of Musharraf. AHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA. I wish, I wish I could stand infront of a bunch of lawyers and watch their faces contort in surprise and astonishment.

Mind you, I’m not in favour of Musharraf getting re-elected in uniform, and it does send the requisite bad waves around the country and blah blah blah.

But its really rather nice (and plentiful ironic) that these same people who championed the Supreme Court and our badly raped constitution (which by was raped far worse by Nawaz Sharif, your democratic champion than by Mushy, but lets forget that! QUICK!!) are being slapped for their prophecies that the SC would rule for them.

Legit or not, I’d like to see them argue it but to accept the decision temporarily with a pinch of salt. Alas, they’re as pathetic and myopic as everyone else, so we’ll see the melodramatic histrionics. 

I liked Dawn News’ interview with Wajiuddin Ahmed after the verdict. Waji sir went on to talk about how the decision is now public and open to constructive criticism. Fair enough, if not succintly put! Except wait, what’s that? Do I hear you speaking about ghostly lunches sir? Wait, what? Its an absolutely ridiculous decision and nowhere in the civilized west will you find this happened? Whoa!

Where’s the constructive criticism gone sir? Calm down now! There’s a phrase gen-Y uses, its called:

SHIT HAPPENS.

Either way, it would’ve been nice seeing the SC rule against Musharraf, for this just gives him more leeway and we’ll have to see if he stays true and doffs his uniform when he’s elected or before.

Swans – The Sound

Swans – The Sound

And it starts. Bells draped in reverb chiming in ever so quietly, while a lonely morose cello plays symbiotic in the background. Mind you, its not tugging at you as much as creating the requisite stark Swans atmosphere. You feel a bit claustrophic, maybe even nauseous.

And then comes in Gira. His god-like baritone frightening and intriguing at the same time. The guitars play ever so subtly in the background, entwining with the bells only to show themselves upfront for 1/4 of a bar. They’re shiny chords, shiny chords strummed with manic incisiveness, but nothing can overtake Gira’s voice. It’s his stage, while the players for those few precious minutes are nothing but obsequious, perhaps in awe.

And then he vanishes. Just as he came, he walks to the back, leaving the end-of-the-world cascading cymbals to eschew in a very mired yet stunningly simple palette. And the toms, oh the toms. A constrained beat that seems to want to break out every single measure, like a rabid dog slamming into all corners of its cage, this isn’t a beast meant to be restrained. But that, that’s what makes it frightening.

The repitition. The glorious repitition. It is incredibly alluring, masking you in a state of submissiveness.

The noise builds up, ever so slowly. The guitars still don’t thrash about, they’re still playing that same mellow riff. Two chords, that’s all. That’s all it takes to build up this monster. There’s little else needed.

And then, it takes a break. Some respite for the listener, a mere 5 seconds maybe before the second onslaught. No quasi-post rock climaxes, no. The drums morph into a tribal monster, waiting to charge at you with all its pompous might. Your dark horse untethered. The guitars apply, but those two magical chords are gone, to be replaced with something a bit more searing; more appropriate.

And then it starts to die. Those same two chords are in a sycophantic revelation, their austerity all but damning; their beauty all but torturous. The bells are back too, they’re the strength.

And Gira. Again. With that voice that could rip open the Earth.

If only my words could do it some minute justice.

somerset!

listening to: The National – Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers

I think, after maybe an age (or the first time), I’ve been geniunely scared/weirded out by a piece of remarkable literature.

W. Somerset Maugham’s short story, The Pool, is a somewhat acerbic observation on marriage between people belonging to wildly different cultures. Ultimately, however, it is rather frightening; especially the end. Though the culmination is hardly unexpected, perhaps its the consistency and the truculent nature of the story that is disheartening.

On another note, I wish we as Pakistanis would forego our subconscious impropriety towards thinking in clusters; and to be myopic on a truly infuriating scale.

uh-oh

listening to: Hrsta – Ghosts Will Come And Kiss Our Eyes

So Nawaz Sharif decides to come back to Pakistan, to capitalize on Musharraf’s decreased popularity.

A contravened act, considering how he’s still charges in his name. Funny though, are his statements of willingness to go to jail for those charges. Statements that weren’t echoed when he accepted exile instead of life imprisonment for treason.

Granted, those charges may or may not be politically motivated, but his hypocrisy on that ‘deal’ is interesting, not to mention indicative of the Nawaz Sharif we’ve known. It’s a shame that most of our politicians call for Democracy and the ability of our people to choose their leaders, completely forgetting that this is a country where you can “rent” political rallies.

How do you have democracy in a country where most of the educated either have no interest in politics, or know nothing about what can ultimately be construed as a reasoned understanding of political ideals and issues?

PPP and PML strongholds simply exist because of geographical reasons; and little else.

It’s going to be interesting now, and unfortunately for those so quick to point fingers at Musharraf (who does deserve it some of the time, agreed), 5 years down the line, not very good.

Mono & WEG – Palmless Prayer / Mass Murder Refrain

Unfortunately, I’ve only heard World’s End Girlfriend – The Lie Lay Land, and that was a stunner in its own because of the weird-esque sonic palette it put forth. Everything seemed to be all over the place yet was held in a concise circle by Maeda, never really falling out of the imaginary cirlces bequeathed to it by music as an art. Sometimes, it would almost, almost, seem like the soundtrack to particularly scary movie set in rainforests, space, and well every other place.

As for Mono, I’ve heard everything they have to offer. From Temporary Residence volumes to bygone EPs. The prospect of these two matching up was rather mouthwatering for me, because I was genuinely perturbed as to what sort of monster of a sound they’d concoct.

The album itself, is absolutely heavenly. Does it incorporate the trademark weird idiosyncracies of WEG? No. Does Maeda weave a trembling pattern of indulgence with Mono’s exceptionally loud crescendos? No.

So what do we get?

Palmless Prayer / Mass Murder Refrain is essentially a classical album. Its got 5 tracks, which can aptly be constituted as 5 movements. And that’s where it lays itself out.

For the first two tracks, you’d be lucky to hear more than a hint of guitar. Instead, we are, somewhat, serenaded by violins and cellos dancing in melancholy with each other. On the first track, around the 8th minute mark is a refrain. A beautiful, subtle refrain, one that will slowly pull at you, and one that will duly make a winning appearance on the third track.

The second track also traverses the same ground. More strings and even a piano build up endlessly. Though in a way there’s not much going on musically, in terms of sheer emotive brilliance its astonishing. The music is arresting, affecting.

The third track is where it really kicks off. A lonely synth invites the guitar; the same refrain from the first track. Its supported, barely, but that only gives it a more gleaming outlook. Cymbals wash all over the place, cascading the guitars with a dutifully pleasant atmosphere, waiting for the strings to make another warranted appearance. It builds up and then, on cue, Mono take over with their lush white noise. Few bands can take you from calm, surreal clean parts to a thrust of mind-boggling noise.

And then it all settles down again. Waiting, for something else, for Track 5. Clocking in at just under 20 minutes, its the longest track of the album, and sonically, the fullest. There are no more lonely instruments, no guitar being plucked away or a violin disconcerted. Instead, it is the album’s crescendo, the ultimate fulfillment. It is, simply, one of the best pieces of music i’ve ever heard.

In a way, this album is a disappointment. There’s little, if any infact, ingeniuty. Some will even doubt what WEG brought to the table. On the other hand, this album is gorgeous because it quite simply, sounds good. Infact, it sounds fantastic. It’s a classical album without the wankery, an album that heads straight for your heart (sorry!). It doesn’t have anything else in sight but to grab the listener and force a substantial emotional reaction.

It is ultimately a really beautiful album that just HAS to be heard.