While watching the Savannah College of Art & Design’s reputed fashion show last Spring–and wishing they’d attribute the work to the artists so that I could compare the outcomes to the conceptual catalysts of samurai armor, muscle tissue fibers, monsters found in children’s imaginations, Inuit culture, and DaVinci’s anatomical drawings (none of which was identifiable)–something happened that would unbolt a whole new entryway into my persona. With each wardrobe change, the DJ would seamlessly meld a new track into the electronic du jour, and midway through the production, the tempo slowed, the treble chimed in, and a virilized Destiny’s Child classic contributed to the androgynous dubiety of digital music.
That’s how I discovered Cyril Hahn, a Vancouver-based, Swiss producer with a knack for slowing down pop and hip-hop hits and turning them into something light, ethereal and far from the banality entrenched in the originals’ lyrics. Not gonna lie, Hahn’s tendency to turn vocalists like Mariah Carey, Solange, and the aforementioned Destiny trio into contralto men was a large temptation on my behalf (a fact that might stem from my long-standing membership to the RuPaul’s Drag Race fanclub), but for anyone seeking meditative music that blends the soft din of a sea breeze with recurrent percussions and vocals that could double as the bass, Cyril Hahn is worth a listen… And in honor of LeVar Burton stint on Reading Rainbow, you don’t have to take my word for it:
Before discovering this hermaphroditic opus, I was bred into an eclecticism so quintessentially meta that I’ve never once been able to answer the survey question, “What’s your favorite music genre?” Therefore, Hahn’s induction into Emily Moon’s idées fixes means his oeuvre is now conglomerated into a categorial soup so diverse it gives the melting pot of Los Angeles a run for its money. While I have the ability to fixate on one artist at a time, repeating their canon with the same broken record finesse my dad used to drive us insane with, my ears refuse to hunker down with one genre for more than a day, and thus, I always choose to answer that dreaded question with an explanatory list.
Since childhood, I’ve been raised on an assortment of music ranging from the Irish wail of U2 and the soul of Buena Vista Social Club, to the anarchic shrieking of Bow Wow Wow and the utter nonsense of The B-52’s. My pops had a collection of CDs he recycled through with regularity and when I wasn’t manning the sound system with Aqua’s “Barbie Girl” and Now That’s What I Call Music, Vol. God Only Knows, my dad was instilling in me a nostalgic fondness for Peter Gabriel, Fleetwood Mac, P.M. Dawn, The Police, Seal, and Simon & Garfunkel. Meanwhile, my mom introduced me to classical singers-turned-alternative like Paula Cole and Sinéad O’Connor, Californian favorites from her youth like The Beach Boys and Dick Dale & The Del-Tones, and never-stale oldies like Smokey Robinson & The Miracles and Marvin Gaye.
Along the way I picked up quite a few of my own arbitrary additions to the eclectic mash-up pre-programmed in my brain. Included in this assortment was my middle school fixation on Damon Albarn’s brainchild the Gorillaz (and all things Jamie Hewlett); a sixteen-year-old infatuation with industrial German band Rammstein, which occurred in tandem to my classical singing education and resulted in some atypical harmonizations during my drives to class; my teenage liaisons with Björk’s melodramatic gobbledegook, Kanye West’s catchy complaining, and Joshua Bell’s violinistic prowess; “scooping up coconuts” to my favorite dubstep hailstorms in college; and finally my recent surrender to the oxymoronic mainstream-hipster tunes I refused to listen to while dating an indie ex. But I cite these artists and genres as mere highlights in a longstanding courtship with music: a simple answer to an unintentionally difficult question. For while I inadvertently learned temperamental German listening to Till Lindemann roar his lyrics and “danced this mess around” at Kate Pierson’s behest, I never stopped listening to absolutely everything else. Patsy Cline, Enya, The Coasters, Rodrigo y Gabriela, Elvis Presley, Hawaiian slack key guitar, Ella Fitzgerald, Flight of the Conchords, and all the classic Disney soundtracks–you name a genre, and I’ve probably listened to it twice in the past week.
So welcome, Mr. Hahn, to the euphonic jambalaya that makes succinct answers to that age-old question near-impossible.
When I was a freshman in college, back when dubstep was becoming more vogue with each new Mt. Eden and Skrillex single, and I was finding my social footing with a scurrilous group of guys that went by the sobriquet The Basement Boys (more details on which would require a separate blog post), the internet sensation StumbleUpon was taking a viral hold on college undergrads worldwide.
Having received my first iPod at the late age of 15 and with no desire to invest my time in a Twitter account or jump on the iPhone bandwagon, it’s clear that I’ve never been one to heed viral trends, and StumbleUpon was no different. So while my friends utilized this tool to accelerate their freshman ADD, I spent my computer time corroding my eyesight away on Photoshop files, all-nighter after all-nighter.
But now that school is perturbingly a thing of the past and my workaholic nature has little to consume beyond a part-time internship, blogging, and the daily job hunt, I find myself increasingly turning to the internet for creative stimulation. And that’s how StumbleUpon made a reappearance in my life, almost five years later.
A lot of this newfangled free time is spent maintaining a marketing campaign to perpetuate my artistic portfolio in the hopes of procuring work, and while adhering to this daily endeavor, I read somewhere that StumbleUpon was another resource for uploading your website and increasing its accessibility–even if the odds of someone stumbling on your page amidst the millions of websites already circulating the service are mighty slim. So I created a Stumble account, informed the Interests Guru that I dig art, dancing, interior design, literature, comedy, mythology, and cocktails, and got to uploading my portfolio for some college undergrad to stumble past as they avoided work for this algorithmic Russian roulette. In the meantime, I started stumbling just to see if it would retrieve webpages that actually catered to my palate. Turns out, palates are exactly what they had in mind when they decided, “this girl probably hails from the obsessive foodie region of the Northwest and likes to ogle sumptuous cookbook photography and recipes that she won’t have the time or the funds to concoct.”
Well, they were right.
If food photography didn’t utilize so little brain power and conceptual design, I would drop my affinity for narrative portraiture and start shooting Elmer’s glue to look like superlative milk in a heartbeat. If you’ve got a great stylist, food photography is a peaceful endeavor where the model is incredibly reliable until it starts spoiling. And if you’ve got internet access or a bus ticket to the nearest Barnes & Noble, food photography and the accompanying recipes are even more relaxing to simply gaze at.
I don’t know how StumbleUpon knew it, but ever since the 19th when I joined the discovery engine that hasn’t gone out of style since 2002, I’ve received webpage after webpage of the best brunches in Los Angeles, grilled-cheese for adults with spinach and pesto, brown sugar chili-rubbed salmon with avocado crema, and even a seed cake inspired by The Hobbit–all topped off with delectably mouthwatering images whose soft lighting beckons you in while the low aperture composes a visual feast.
Of course I’ve received a couple other web sources here and there: a Nikon app that tells you exactly what happened on this day in history, do-it-yourself inductions into hipsterhood with self-made galaxy jeans, a website that recommends beverages based on the song you’re currently listening to, instructions on how to make a coffee table out of a recycled window, and images of postmodern staircases designed to mimic Escher prints, roller coasters, and spinal columns.
One of the most ridiculous pages I’ve received (besides an homage to the mantis shrimp), combined my love for yuppie recipes and food imagery with unfiltered honesty, resulting in the vegan-gangster haven that is Thug Kitchen. Hilariously brash, relentlessly appetizing, and chartering a 35.2K fan base under the crass motto, “Eat Like You Give a Fuck,” the creator (or creators, considering the blog originates from LA anonymity) of Thug Kitchen is the character True Blood thought they were manifesting when they colored their dialogue, but fell short of when they forgot to include the necessary pinch of Tony Soprano verisimilitude.
The language employed to divulge their recipes is probably too vulgar to share with your mother (my mom gasped in horror at my language when I yelled, “SHIT!” while stalling her manual-shift sedan on one of the Siskyous’ many vertical inclines), but the healthy concoctions that result from the irrepressible cursing cater to everyone’s appetite (including my vegetarian mother’s!). While Thug Kitchen’s linguistic intent is to reduce the aura of expensive elitism that pervades healthy eating, I don’t have the funds to afford the ingredients for peanut tempeh summer rolls or smokey bean and spinach sliders, whether you attach the f-word to them or not. But on that fateful day when I finally win the food lottery and edible ingredients keep rolling in, I’ll be sure to review every last recipe in the blog’s archives and report my findings with gusto.
For the time being, I’ll simply continue growing increasingly addicted to the digital inspiration StumbleUpon delivers–giving the internet a leg up on the prolonged attempt to envelop Emily Moon into pop culture erudition.