Trapped in the Closet
R. Kelly has gone insane. If you haven’t yet, I urge you to listen to his “Trapped in the Closet” song cycle, because it is truly wonderful in the most awful way. I guess it’s a comedy of errors, or maybe some kind of sex romp farce thing involving a lot of sleeping around, strange unnatural dialog, and a little bit of gun play. I have a few complaints/things that I love about it:
1. I get the feeling that R. may have phoned it in on the music. Each of the five songs is exactly the same, just with different words. Maybe he is trying to comment on how boring infidelity is.
2. The lyrics sound like they were made up on the spot in the studio. By accident.
3. It’s called “Trapped in the Closet.”
4. There is an excruciating sex scene involving these phrases: “…baby we must slow down before I bust a vessel in my brain…” and “…Oh my goodness I’m about to climax…” Oh my goodness.
All of this really being an excuse to point you to these most excellent Cliff’s Notes. Damn I wish I’d thought of that. I think my favorite is essay question #2: In chapter four, what does Sylvester mean by “a tear fell up out my eye?â€
More Maths
Well, someone else has emailed me to point out a flaw in the Mandelbrot lyrics. For those of you using my song to write programs that generate the Mandelbrot Set, I urge you to consult another source for clarification. Here’s the problem:
I say, “Take a point called Z in the complex plane, let Z1 be Z^2 plus C…” What I really mean is, “Take a point called C in the complex plane (and by the way, set Z=0), let Z1 be Z^2 plus C…” Otherwise, when you look at my lyrics, what the hell is C supposed to be? Well, I guess it’s supposed to be Z. Or something. Anyway, you can kind of get there my way, or at least, if you know what the actual algorithm really is, you will still recognize a vague outline of it in my lyrics. And perhaps you will laugh.
All of this makes me think of the one guy who really needs to hear this song and tell me what I’ve done wrong, Dr. Professor M himself. I’ve always wanted for him to hear it, but I fear his corrections. Which is why I just emailed him the mp3. Hopefully he will not be offended by the line in which I joke that he is not dead (yet). Or by the above-described mathematical shortcomings. Or by the “too-much-rocking” that I put in there.
Our Bodies, Ourselves, Our Cybernetic Arms
That is the title of the soundtrack for the September issue of Popular Science magazine, which I have just now finished. Still too close to it to know how much it does or does not kick ass, but it’s safe to say I’m pretty proud of what I was able to do in such a short time. And there are some pretty good ones in there – it’s funny, the ones I hated the most while I was writing actually turned out to be my favorites. Stockholm syndrome. Or else they’re just better because they were difficult (and vice versa). Should be posted on the PopSci site sometime soon, I will let you know.
I had a moment this afternoon when I was just finishing up the mix for DNA in which I decided maybe I should just look up the names of the base pairs to make sure I was remembering them right from high school biology. What do you know, I wasn’t. I was saying “cystine” when I really meant “cytosine.” Idiot! Cystine isn’t a nitrogenous base, it’s an amino acid! Jesus! Thank goodness I caught it in time. I’m still smarting from the mathematician who told me he would have said “If the sequence of Z’s…” instead of “If the series of Z’s…” in “Mandelbrot Set.”
Anyway, done. NEXT PROJECT!
Whew
Take that, muse! Finished “Womb with a View” on Thursday night in an incredible speed round, and just got done with “Better.” Everything’s recorded, now it’s just a question of mixing. Horrible, all-consuming, interminable mixing. Luckily I have a deadline, otherwise these songs wouldn’t see the light of day until several weeks of small adjustments that nobody cares about but me.
I have a secret for you – I cannot play the guitar. Really, I suck. I bit off a little more than I could chew in one of the solos, and it took me a long, long time to painstakingly comp it together from a thousand three-note sections. Somehow I missed the teenage boy phase where you sit in your room obsessively running scales and patterns. I think I may have wasted that time playing strummy folk songs for chicks, or maybe drinking beer at the sand pits. Either way, I’ve got to take some lessons because this is embarassing.
Now I am off to eat some eggs, and then to go see the Brooklyn Cyclones play “baseball.”
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