Author: J T. Ramsay

  • The road is a bleak, quiet place.

    Cor­mac McCarthy’s Pulitzer-win­ning, Oprah-approved new nov­el The Road is almost com­i­cal­ly bleak. I hope that he keeps remind­ing us how ashen and black every­thing is, and that the night is always the dark­est night in his­to­ry. Also there are no birds. There’s a mimet­ic point being made, sure, but man is it ever being dri­ven…

  • I might’ve considered Robert Fripp’s suit on Exposure myself.

    I saw this sec­ond on Obtusi­ty, a place I first learned about when han­dling most of Paper Thin Walls bull­horn duties. I think the first stuff I checked out there was their ret­ro­spec­tive of Bjork’s entire videog­ra­phy. Pret­ty cool stuff, if you ask me. But the review that is spot-on at a dead run belongs to…

  • I prefer The Bald Headed Soprano actually.

    My review of Von Südenfed’s “The Rhinohead” is up today at PTW. Short­ly after I filed it, my copy of The Wire arrived with Mr. Von Pseud Mag Edi­tor and MoM on the cov­er. Yikes. To be com­plete­ly hon­est, I’m more con­vinced now that fea­tur­ing Mark E. Smith any­where is a sim­ple ploy to sell…

  • This is the part of the game where the cards are on the table.

    I just summed up my thoughts on Feist’s new album, The Reminder, in a par­en­thet­i­cal sen­tence over at Peanut But­ter Words. Is mil­que­toast total­ly in this year? I’m glad Mike’s polling the elec­torate because I’m find­ing myself express­ing my dis­like for Feist in hushed tones as though I’m an ear­ly Chris­t­ian wor­ried about being pun­ished…

  • I just got off the phone with the psychedelic friends network.

    I’m still try­ing to come back around to Ghost’s In Stormy Nights. I have a hard time believ­ing that it’s been, what, three years since Hyp­not­ic Under­world com­plete­ly blew my mind and that I’m find­ing so lit­tle to hang on to with their lat­est record. Of course, as I draft­ed this, “Moth­er­ly Blus­ter” sound­ed more…