When Clem Snide began recording albums more than a decade ago in New York, the band’s clever alt-country songs often came across as an ironic take on Americana. Everyone knows you can’t do country music in the big city, and where did Israeli-born singer/guitarist Eef Barzelay get that twang from, anyway? After years of slogging through the indie-rock touring circuit, a band breakup and a move to Nashville, the reunited Clem Snide has earned the all-American desperation and heartbreak that lies in the marrow of its latest album, The Meat Of Life, out this week on 429 Records. Barzelay is guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Barzelay: Jason Glasser and I started Clem Snide together in NYC toward the end of the 20th century. I would write the songs, then he dressed them up ever so sweet and stylish. Unfortunately, he moved to France with his young family around 2003 and was not involved in the band thereafter. He still plays music, but mostly he makes painting and installations, though I especially enjoy his sad and beautiful short films. We lived on Ditmars Boulevard in Queens, N.Y., for a time, back in the day. We ate a lot of olives and listened to field recordings from Papua New Guinea, and whatever he came home with—be it a red snapper, a Sarah Ogan Gunning record or just some broken-off chunk of back-alley flotsam—he always managed to turn it into Art. Video after the jump.
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When Clem Snide began recording albums more than a decade ago in New York, the band’s clever alt-country songs often came across as an ironic take on Americana. Everyone knows you can’t do country music in the big city, and where did Israeli-born singer/guitarist Eef Barzelay get that twang from, anyway? After years of slogging through the indie-rock touring circuit, a band breakup and a move to Nashville, the reunited Clem Snide has earned the all-American desperation and heartbreak that lies in the marrow of its latest album, The Meat Of Life, out this week on 429 Records. Barzelay is guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Barzelay: Jimmy Scott is one of my very favorite singers. Born with a rare hormonal condition that kept his voice from ever changing, he somehow sounds like a man, a woman and a child all at once. Also, he sings so far behind the beat, it just devastates; nobody sings slower. I saw him at Birdland on New Year’s Eve years ago, and it was one of the best nights I’ve had upon this earth. Video after the jump.
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When Clem Snide began recording albums more than a decade ago in New York, the band’s clever alt-country songs often came across as an ironic take on Americana. Everyone knows you can’t do country music in the big city, and where did Israeli-born singer/guitarist Eef Barzelay get that twang from, anyway? After years of slogging through the indie-rock touring circuit, a band breakup and a move to Nashville, the reunited Clem Snide has earned the all-American desperation and heartbreak that lies in the marrow of its latest album, The Meat Of Life, out this week on 429 Records. Barzelay is guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Barzelay: Jenny U! We could all stand to take a couple classes at Jenny U. That is if we want to learn about being more natural and honest and free of pretense with our art making. Jen Uman did the art for the last two Clem Snide records. She lives in Jersey City, and she will cut a bitch! So go to her website and buy a print already, you cheap indie-rock dilettante motherfuckers. Video after the jump.
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When Clem Snide began recording albums more than a decade ago in New York, the band’s clever alt-country songs often came across as an ironic take on Americana. Everyone knows you can’t do country music in the big city, and where did Israeli-born singer/guitarist Eef Barzelay get that twang from, anyway? After years of slogging through the indie-rock touring circuit, a band breakup and a move to Nashville, the reunited Clem Snide has earned the all-American desperation and heartbreak that lies in the marrow of its latest album, The Meat Of Life, out this week on 429 Records. Barzelay is guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Barzelay: Jens Lekman is a kook in the best possible way. Me and the wife love that movie Mask, so for him to sing a song as Rocky Dennis that is both beautiful and sweet and also includes Rocky’s prediction that “someday I’ll be stuffed in a museum scaring little kids with the inscription ‘carpe diem,’ something I never did” further cements Lekman’s place in my heart. I want to show you more colors. Video after the jump.
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When Clem Snide began recording albums more than a decade ago in New York, the band’s clever alt-country songs often came across as an ironic take on Americana. Everyone knows you can’t do country music in the big city, and where did Israeli-born singer/guitarist Eef Barzelay get that twang from, anyway? After years of slogging through the indie-rock touring circuit, a band breakup (from 2005-2009, during which time Barzelay issued a pair of solo albums and scored the film Rocket Science) and a move to Nashville, Clem Snide has earned the all-American desperation and heartbreak that lies in the marrow of its latest album, The Meat Of Life (out this week on 429 Records). From country weepers (”Denver”) and power pop (”BFF”) to the rangy, almost prog-like title track, Barzelay is now surveying the modern heartland with all the acumen and authenticity of peers such as Bill Callahan and Jason Molina. Barzelay chewed the fat with MAGNET about The Meat Of Life, ukuleles and the day that he and Ben Folds each wrote separate songs about Normal, Ill. Barzelay will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com this week.
“The Meat Of Life” (download):
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: What has made a big difference in my life now besides music, art, movies and good food? Marcal paper products! No, I don’t get paid for this. I’m big on recycling and cutting down on waste, and Marcal is my paper product of choice. The paper in them is recycled, and they don’t bleach with utterly toxic to the environment/marine life/humans chlorine. Sorry, Martha Stewart, but you’re wrong. Way cheaper than the health-food brands, the paper towels are absorbent, napkins cheap and the new toilet paper … soft! I know, a weird way to end this, but hey, gotta share my thoughts. Video after the jump.
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: I had the great opportunity to be in director Doris Wishman’s last movie, Each Time I Kill. Doris was the pioneer woman director of ’50s and ’60s nudie films. I loved her—what a true character. She filmed no-one-knows-how-many movies. Nude On The Moon has the best opening titles of any film of that genre. How to get around the censors in the early ’60s? Everyone in the film (except the “star”) is naked because the moon is a giant nudist camp! Nudist films were legal, and they even have antennas on their heads! Dildo Heaven, from 2002, is a hysterical, incomprehensible mess. Something about a nerdy peeping tom, but I can’t even begin to explain the “plot.” A howl! The “Chesty Morgan” series stars stripper Chesty Morgan, who plays a detective(?!) who smothers to death the bad guys with her 70-inch (for real!) chest. The script for Each Time I Kill was actually great, and the premise was very original. Then I went down to be in it, and let’s just say it didn’t turn out, um, quite as good. Originally, she wanted me to play Luigi, the Italian (me, Italian???) owner of the malt shop. (Like kids today go to the malt shop.) Anyway, let’s just say, Doris—God, I love her—was a little out of touch. Also, she claimed to be in her early 70s when she was actually close to 90! I could go on and on, but I sure will miss her. Oh, BTW, I’m terrible in it. Video after the jump.
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: Two of my fave movies of all time are The War Of The Worlds (no, not the Tom Cruise mess. What a crap ending. Why did the aliens or whatever they were not go to Boston at all? It’s full of people ready to be ground into fertilizer) and Forbidden Planet. Genius plot, special effects, cinematography and sets and the whole Krell civilization that vanished. I still get goose bumps when I watch the invisible “monster from the Id” climb the stairs of the space ship, bending the metal steps. Video after the jump.
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can.Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: And back to “screw you, America” with Dick Cheney. I think I know why he was always hiding in his bunker: He’s a Borg! Think about it. He’s cold, ruthless, has no heart and is oblivious to Americans. He was down in his hole recharging! On that note, I love Star Trek: Voyager. I don’t know if it’s still there, but the gift shop in Vegas for the Star Trek ride is amazing. The craziest junk: Mr. Spock Xmas ornaments, Seven Of Nine tees, resin Uhura statues, Borg cube watches. Even better than the lame-ass ride. Video after the jump.
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: Speaking of idiots, what the hell is this so-called Tea Party movement? Don’t these gas bags, old bags and trash bags know they’re being manipulated by lying Republicans? Wait, maybe it’s good: Apparently, they may form their own party, which’ll hurt Republicans even more. Me, I’ll have an American champagne—not imported tea—party to celebrate. Video after the jump.
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: Speaking of smelly, dirty, people, I wish the Mayflower had landed somewhere else and we would’ve gotten the criminals, miscreants, etc. from England and not Australia. I would think things here would be a hell of a lot more fun: fewer right-wing nuts of all stripes religious and political. The idiots at the business across the street from my apartment put up a sign reading “Stop Obama.” Stop him from what? Helping the average Americans? Promoting alternative energy? Granted, he’s not everything supporters wanted, but who could deal with the mess he inherited in one year? What do they want? Eight years of an idiot like Sarah Palin or a reptile like McCain or Cheney? Help! Video after the jump.
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: I just finished reading Charles C. Mann’s 1491. It’s the story of how incredibly civilized natives of the Americas were. This amazing book chronicles the achievements of the true Americans. Who knew the Declaration Of Independence and most of our laws were based on the laws of the natives of New York? Everything was great ’til smelly, dirty men from across the sea caused their demise very rapidly. Fascinating and heartbreaking.
Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: In the early ’80s, I said we were not in the post-space age—it was the trash age. Little did I know that it would go beyond even that. The Real(ly dreadful) Housewives of (fill in the blank), Tila Tequila, any reality show on MTV. You name it. It’s like watching a train wreck; you can’t look away. So long live The Soup, which distills the stupidity into the plastic decanter it deserves. Video after the jump.
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: What’s that song, “Once In Love With Amy”? Well, I’m in love with all of Amy’s organic frozen vegetarian foods. I’m too lazy to be a vegan (though you don’t miss eggs or dairy with Amy’s vegan entrees), and everything I’ve tried is incredible. Even my meat-eating pals love Amy’s stuff now. Fattening? Who cares. One of my biggest cravings is pot pies, and Amy’s are the best. The Mexican dishes are better than any I’ve had in New York. Why spend hours when you can just heat and eat things better than you can make from scratch? Video after the jump.
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: Since I consider myself a pop-Dadaist, it’s no surprise my favorite art is Dada. Talk about nothing new under the sun, the Dada exhibit at the MoMA a couple years back proved that they did everything truly modern first. Pop, minimalism, expressionism, today’s photography, you name it: The Dadaists did it. And with more humor. And this was 1914, when every European country had damn kings and queens. Video after the jump.
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: I like just about any Moog album, 90 percent of which probably aren’t gonna be re-released. Ever. Dick Hyman’s LPs on command, and especially the Perrey-Kingsley works (on CD now). Who wouldn’t love a crazy song titled “Barnyard In Orbit”? Working since the ’50s, Jean-Jacques Perrey is still making great albums in collaboration with younger Moog aficionados. Video after the jump.
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: One of my favorite types of music—besides electronic, soul, funk, weird vocalist and exotica—is mambo. Nothing could solve the world’s problems like any Perez Prado record. “The King Of The Mambo” had a long reign and recorded a gazillion songs. There’d be no trouble if everyone got in a conga line and danced away their differences. Video after the jump.
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. Through that band’s commercial success and longevity, Schneider’s goofy, new-wave jester shtick has evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our Q&A with him.
Schneider: Except for the fact that a box of vinyl LPs weighs a ton, I don’t know why everyone doesn’t have a record player. I have OCD record-collecting compulsion. I still hit thrift stores, yard sales, abandoned records on the street—and strike gold every week. So many things’ll never be on CD or on iTunes: new-wave dance 12-inch remixes, eccentric vocalists, tons of exotica, even famous singers like Julie London. Other things go out of print on CD, too. The nuttier the cover? I’ll take it. Ten cents—what, my keyboard doesn’t have a “cents” symbol?!—to $1 is all you have to pay for more music you’ll ever be able to play. Video after the jump.
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Fred Schneider has been partying out of bounds as the male mouthpiece of the B-52s since the late ’70s. To put it in perspective, Andrew W.K. would have to party for two more decades—and invest in a more adventurous and colorful wardrobe—just to catch up to Schneider. Even then, it would be difficult to match Schneider’s originality: a goofy, new-wave jester shtick that—through the B-52s’ commercial success and longevity—evolved into an iconic voice that’s now an inspiration to younger artists. Schneider’s latest project, the Superions, showcases both his supreme silliness (”Who Threw That Ham At Me?” is one of his most riotous efforts) and influence (the Superions’ debut EP, Totally Nude Island, features remixes by four Athens, Ga., bands). Along with fellow Superions Noah Brodie and Dan Marshall, Schneider has delivered a handful of songs that combine sex, sci-fi, shoplifting and a dance called the Disco Garbage Can. MAGNET spoke to Schneider about the Superions, the early days of the B-52s, Just Fred (his cult-classic, Steve Albini-recorded 1996 solo album with backing bands Six Finger Satellite and Shadowy Men On A Shadowy Planet) and dirty jokes. Schneider will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week.
“Totally Nude Island (The Lolligags Remix)” (download):
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By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: It gets cold here in Boston in the winter. My flannel bed sheets (I have red ones and salmon-colored ones) are heaven on the bitter freezing nights. There’s absolutely nothing better than taking a hot bath, then putting on flannel pajamas, then double-flanneling by jumping in between my warm, cozy, thick, soft, 100-percent-cotton sheets and curling up and falling asleep enveloped by flannel-based, flannel-generated happiness.
By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out Tuesday on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: We’ve got the ocean, we’ve got mountains, we’ve got gay marriage! And a proud history of revolutionary free-thinking: Emerson and Thoreau, the real tea partiers, etc. Also home to J.D. Salinger (R.I.P.), Frederick Wiseman, the Cars, Aerosmith and James Taylor. Video after the jump.
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By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: Mark Tobey was an abstract expressionist painter based in Seattle. His work is sometimes really dense and involves lots and lots of little lines and squiggles and curves; he once characterized his own stuff as “a whirling mass.” It’s sort of like Jackson Pollock but more controlled, to my mind. I never really liked Pollock and didn’t get what the big deal was about him; anyone can fling paint on a canvas, right? Tobey’s work seems more deliberate and methodical and reminds me of some of the intricate, repetitive-line abstract drawings I do to soothe myself and my frenzied, unquiet mind. I’m kind of autistic, and Tobey’s paintings are kind of autistic (or “artistic,” spoken with a Boston accent), and I guess that’s why I like his stuff so much. Video after the jump.
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By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud were contemporaries. Freud is arguably the more famous and influential, but I always thought Jung made a lot more sense. Freud sexualizes everything—places way too much emphasis on the libido as a motivating force—and that, to me, is limiting and annoying. But Jung’s idea of the unconscious—of our true, deep Selves—went way deeper than sex. Spirituality, dreams, art and history were just as important to who we are as biology. Jung wasn’t just another egghead clinician. He constantly put his own theories and techniques (dream analysis, active imagination, drawing/painting/writing, etc.) into practice in his own life. He practiced what he preached. In Jungian analysis, I learned to pay close attention to my nighttime dreams, because, as Jung said, dreams are giving us important coded information about things we might be confused about in waking life. Jung also reinforced my instinctive belief that exploring my emotional problems through creativity/art is an extremely worthwhile pursuit not just for me but for anyone struggling with identity problems. Or any problems, really. Jung came up with the concepts of the archetype, the collective unconscious, the complex, synchronicity and lots more. It all makes so much sense to me. I have become a happier person over the years—more at peace and at home with myself, thanks to Jung’s writings. Video after the jump.
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By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: I don’t know when or why I started doing this, but at this point it seems to have become a permanent part of my lexicon. I refer to things—objects—as “this guy,” personifying the things as if they are my friends. “I love this guy” is my all-purpose, go-to positive affirmation of whatever is giving me pleasure in any given moment. Like, say, I’m watching The Rockford Files and something really great or super-’70s happens—like the stock hippie character says something like, “Man, that chick is far out”—I might say to the TV, “I love this guy,” meaning I love The Rockford Files in general. (Not the hippie.) Or if I take a bite of something delicious, like maybe the first spoonful out of a fresh pint of Ben & Jerry’s, I’ll exclaim, “I love this guy,” to no one in particular, and I’ll be talking about the ice cream. (Not Ben or Jerry.) One more example: If my dog is on her back with her legs in the air and I’m scratching her chest and my hand comes to the little, tiny anomolous spot of white among all of her otherwise uniform brown-ness, I am liable to say—speaking of that little splash of white fur (not the dog)—“I love this guy,” as if suddenly reminded of a dear old friend. Or something.
By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: I like ice cream with stuff in it—chunks—rather than smooth traditional flavors like vanilla, chocolate, etc. Ben & Jerry’s Everything But The… has lots of junk in it: white chocolate, Heath bars, peanut butter cups, chocolate covered nuts and probably some other things I’m forgetting. Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield sold their company a few years ago, and I really hope the new owners are still using milk/cream only from cows that are not injected with hormones. Otherwise I am afraid I might grow a third boob or something; I have eaten quite a lot of this stuff over the years. (I go through vegan phases once in a while, and when I do go back on the dairy, this ice cream is pretty much the only dairy I eat.) All of my parents’ children are serious ice-cream eaters. I have a theory: My siblings and I are in love with ice cream because none of us was breast-fed. (My mother claims that breast feeding wasn’t fashionable at the time.) We crave that sweet, creamy, comforting nurturing sensation that we never had and will always feel is missing. We are forever sucking on that teat that doesn’t exist. Video after the jump.
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By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: I took a three-day, intensive women’s self-defense course at a place called IMPACT Boston. They have branches in other cities, too. I recommend this for every woman. The program teaches you, through repetition of certain defense techniques, to fight your way out of various kinds of bodily attacks and to do so while adrenaline—real, heartbeat-speeding, shake-inducing adrenaline (which could normally paralyse a victim or with fear)—is surging through your body. You get to wail on the guy in the padded suit and helmet, with full force. Many times. From many different positions and in many different life-like attack scenarious. It is very emotional for some of the women—women who have been raped and beaten in the past—to relive the traumatic experiences. But it is therapeutic for them to know that they can empower themselves in a very real, hands-on way. I think IMPACT provides some scholarships so that women with limited funds can take the courses. Video after the jump.
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By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: When I’m skiing and I see a bump coming up in my path, I get all excited like when an alcoholic sees a bottle of booze. When I hit the first bump, it’s like the alcoholic taking his first drink of the day; it feels that good, that necessary to my well-being. I am addicted to mogul skiing: to pointing my skis down the hill at the top of a trail and visualizing a path through the bumps and following that invisible line, my mind creating it every step of the way, all the way down, like a visual directive I must obey. When I am above the slope in a chairlift looking down and I see a mogul run beneath me—a beautiful white field of closely packed little snow hills, all laid out like a delectable infinity of scoops of coconut ice cream—it triggers something in my brain; my dopamine receptors are activated. I want to jump off the chairlift so I can get to those bumps. I yearn to be amongst them, with them. I like a nice, flat, groomed run at the end of the day as much as the next guy, but more than a little of that bores me very quickly. What I am saying is that I crave moguls. I want them and I need them, even though they make my knees hurt afterward. Skiing makes me happy. Video after the jump.
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By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: Not all of German director/producer/screenwriter/cameraman/editor/production designer Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s films are great, but they are all interesting—and interesting to look at. The women are especially fascinating creatures, including (and sometimes especially) the unbeautiful ones. Ingrid Caven in Mother Küsters Goes To Heaven, with her thin line of eyebrow and her red lips and her skirt suits and scarves, is a vision of fading worldweary loveliness. Fassbinder’s women have such great style—old, young, bourgeois, working class, bohemian. Who else but Fassbinder would have the female anarchist pointing her big gun at the enemy while wearing a fur around her neck? (Kind of like Patty Hearst/Tania in her beret and peacoat during the SLA bank holdup.) Video after the jump.
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By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: The Hurt Locker is a movie about a guy who defuses bombs for the U.S. army in Iraq during the war, in 2004. It doesn’t seem to have a particular political point of view; it simply presents a very small cross section of army guys doing their jobs during wartime in Iraq. As I watched these people doing their very intensive, complicated and dangerous work—and saw the resentful civilians trying to live their lives around them in a war zone—I kept thinking, “What the fuck are we doing in Iraq? What were we ever doing in Iraq? All that work and expense and pain and injury and death seems so pointless.” But then I came to the end of the movie and saw that this is all that William James—the main character—can do. (“War is a drug.”) Which supports my long-held theory that there will never be peace in this world because some people just love fighting too much. Video after the jump.
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By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: The. Coolest. Crap. They have all kinds of vintage stuff you don’t realize you need until you see it. Stuff like Scandinavian fondue sets and teak frogs.
By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: I first heard this song in the Humphrey Bogart/Lauren Bacall movie The Big Sleep. There’s a scene in which Bacall is casually singing it in a roomful of people at a sophisticated house party. I’ve since found two recorded versions of the song—one by Ella Fitzgerald, one by Anita O’Day—and I’ve been listening to them nonstop. The song is just so infectious and cheeky, it makes me giddy. I bounce around my apartment singing, “She’s a real sad tomato/She’s a busted valentine,” and feeling really good about life. I haven’t been able to find a recorded version of Bacall singing this song. Does such a thing exist? Her version remains, in my memory, the best. Was it the thrill of hearing the song for the first time? Bacall is not known for her singing (and as fas as I know, it might not even be her voice singing in the film; she may have been lipsynching to someone else’s singing), but she sang it so cool in the movie. And she was so beautiful in that dress. Video after the jump.
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By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: When I hooked up my analog-to-digital TV converter box a few months ago, I found that I was able to receive a few channels that my rabbit ears had not ever accessed. One of these channels is RTV (the Retro Television Network), which airs The Rockford Files every weeknight at 10. I remember watching it some as a child in the 1970s, but I am enjoying it much much more as an adult. (It’s not really a show for kids; it moves kind of slowly, and the main characters are not very flashy.) My newfound love for The Rockford Files (and for RTV in general) is partly nostalgia (for my childhood, for the ’70s), but part of it is the fact that Jim Rockford, the self-employed private detective (“$200 a day, plus expenses”), is such a great creation. I love that he lives in a run-down trailer in the parking lot of a restaurant by the ocean in Malibu. (How is it even possible that a person can live in a trailer in a parking lot in Malibu? Today, with real estate the way it is, that would not be believable. Today, the likes of Jim Rockford—anyone who is anything other than super-rich—would not be able to afford to live anywhere near Malibu, dilapidated trailer or not.) I love the chummy, sweet relationship Rockford has with his dad, whom he calls “Rocky,” as everyone else does. I love that he keeps his gun in the cookie jar and wears polyester wash-and-wear slacks that do not flatter his chubby bum. (This was before people worked out, before TV stars had to be all fit and muscly and healthy and botoxed and facelifted and perfect and inaccessible and unrealistic and cookie-cutter boring.) Rockford smokes and eats dollar tacos and drives without a seatbelt. He’s a straight shooter, taking everything as it comes. He’s always getting jumped by bad guys, but he never gets really angry; mostly he sighs a lot, grumbles a bit and gets on with it. I like him. Video after the jump.
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By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: I have a lot of animal-printed stuff. Mostly I am drawn to a leopard/cheetah-type of pattern in various shades of tan/brown/black/gold/cream; wild-animal-fur colors. I have an animal-print car-seat cover, an animal-print jacket, animal-print gloves, two animal-print bags (one cotton, one fake fur), an animal-print suitcase, an animal-print winter hat, a pair of animal-print shoes, two animal-print dresses, and I am seriously considering purchasing an animal-print lampshade that I’ve got my eye on. You have to be careful not to wear more than one animal-printed thing at once. Otherwise you might look ridiculous. Sometimes I ask myself, “Why? Why all this fake fur in my life?” I think I might be trying in some way to get in touch with my inner wild-animal, which is, sadly, kind of repressed most of the time.
By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir and our brand new Q&A with her.
Hatfield: The Animal Planet TV channel airs Puppy Bowl each year around Super Bowl time. It’s a very simple concept, but it’s brilliant: A bunch of puppies are let loose together with toys in a miniature (puppy-sized) indoor model football stadium. Cameras track the dogs’ hilarious haphazard movements while color commentary—the play-by-play—runs throughout in voiceover by a very official-sounding sportscaster. When a dog runs across the end zone line with a toy football in his mouth, it is declared a “touchdown,” and a canned audience roars and cheers. When a puppy relieves himself on the field, it is called “foul.” Puppies run around and around, playing and jumping and skidding and wrestling, and it’s endlessly entertaining. I could sit and watch this for hours and never get bored. Who doesn’t love puppies? Video after the jump.
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By the time Juliana Hatfield had reached her mid-20s, she’d become the poster girl for ’90s indie rock. She was looked upon as the thinking person’s alternative to the riot-grrrl phenomenon, and the future seemed rosy. Hatfield had formed revered combo the Blake Babies, launched a red-hot solo career, played bass on the breakthrough Lemonheads album and gained national attention when she told Interview magazine she was still a virgin and wasn’t too worried about it. The backlash from those without much of an attention span was inevitable. In the ensuing years, Hatfield has honed her art and produced a wealth of stirring, self-confident albums. Peace & Love, out next week on her Ye Olde label, is an utterly sincere revelation that proves well worth the wait. Hatfield will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our exclusive excerpt from her 2008 memoir.
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