DudeAsInCool

The intrusion isnt as bad on Macs as it is on PCs because there are less users. Im currently searching for what kind of Adware to get... Private industry seems to be less regulated these days--I'm against any intrusion on people's personal computers. I know a guy who's created an anti-spam device; the problem he says, is that it will block regular mail too in some instances.. so he's kind of frustrated. He's a really neat guy--he creates computer programs for free and gives them away. Check out his site. www.analogx.com

LOL. I think Im the culprit, CP.. or there was a programming glitch--I've since deleted it. Ive emailed and resolved the issue with Holy Moly, and sent a notice to the Mod's Corner. (Moderators Note to readers of the thread: There was a human or programming error--nothing was hacked. )

Gee, the dude was young. These guys were big time back in the day and the guitarist was sort of a wunderkind. Saw them Live once--I was literally ten feet in front of the stage right next to the speakers at the Atlantic City Pop Festival two weeks before Woodstock.

News Item: LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - Former Iron Butterfly lead guitarist Erik Braunn, who led the acid rock band to the heights of their success with the 1968 anthem "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida," has died at age 52. Braunn, a San Diego native who joined the Los Angeles rock group in 1967 at age 16, died on Friday of heart failure, the Los Angeles Times reported on Monday. His death was later reported on the band's official Web site. Braunn stayed with the band just two years, long enough to experiencesuperstardom at the release of their 17-minute opus whose title was translated as "In the garden of Eden."

You can check it out here: http://www.station6070s.com/

im on a mac, so i doubt it could help me. good 4 u though!

They were a terrific band. Human Touch - Bruce Springsteen

Sorryabout the programmatic glitch, Holy Moly--I'm glad its been resolved (Modertor's Note to Readers of the thread: There was no hack, just a human error) Anyway, back to the thread. Well, the world of hackers is a fascinating world. Looks like you've been studying it a bit. Do you have any fears about the government using it to intrude into ordinary people's lives?

This is a political rock band, which hails from Canada, and is stirring up some noise.

Metric Old World Underground, Where Are You Now [Last Gang/Enjoy; 2003] Rating: 7.3 When your band is best known for sharing an apartment with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, there's clearly a lot of room for the development of a slightly more personal hype. Such is the case with Metric. Reportedly starting their band based on a mutual distaste for white Toronto funk bands, Metric melds together the usual suspects (The Cure, XTC, The Velvet Underground, New Order) for a new wave-tinged exploration of off-kilter indie rock. You may remember frontwoman Emily Haines from her work with Broken Social Scene and Stars. Here, she seldom attempts the kind of mesmerizing, super-hushed whispers of BSS's "Anthems for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl", instead showing off a nicely breathy sing/talk and a clear affinity for vocal fluctuations and cadence changes. The subject matter is even more varied than her vocal range: spanning topics as diverse as a friend's altered clothing aesthetic ("On a Slow Night"), to the importance of social status ("The List"), to the inquiry of whether it's "wrong to want more than a folk song" ("Wet Blanket"), Haines has an array of lyrical targets on display and she, more or less, handles the shooting range. One of the most stunning successes on Old World Underground, "Succexy" takes issue with the political agenda of the U.S. government from a more creative stance than the indie world's typical anti-Bush rhetoric and generalizations. Instead of placing the blame purely on the government, Haines claims, "All we do is talk, sit, switch screens/ As the homeland plans enemies." Slipping between power chords and her own serpentine synth lines, Haines juxtaposes sex and war without sounding lost in her own thoughts. Metric aren't overly adept from a technical standpoint, and their melodies sometimes feel a bit too simplistic, but, in attempting a mix between accessible dance-punk and new wave, they do deliver where it counts: their rhythm section is incredibly tight, and drummer Joules Scott-Key's delightfully funky meter is particularly notable. Still, the band rarely attempts anything out of the ordinary, and their lack of innovative arrangements often translates to a tendency for existing ideas to overstay their welcome. With Emily Haines' previous work as a frame of reference, you'd be right to assume that Metric does maintain an aura of talent, with the band serving as a hard melodic edge to her serene, plaintive vocal. Though still searching for their place in the ever-evolving world of indie rock, Metric, in their current incarnation, promise great things sooner rather than later. Pitchfork -Rollie Pemberton, September 25th, 2003

Don't know about you, but I think this guitarist is pretty awsome...

The White Stripes Elephant [Third Man/V2; 2003] Rating: 6.9 Church's Fried Chicken now sits at the crossroads of Highway 49 and Highway 61 in Clarksdale, Mississippi like an unaware, prefabricated neon mausoleum. While you can no longer barter your soul to Beelzebub for guitar-picking prowess, The Man will gladly exchange your eternal being for a place on the fryer and a hairnet. Or one may just opt for the Sweet Biscuit Crunchers and some Purple Pepper Sauce for a dollar. The tragicomic irony of a fast food joint squatting on the Valhalla of Delta Blues out-tarnishes our collective lore more than the Bus Stop of Gethsemane and adjoining Mount of Olives Hotel. And when you toss one of those sugary Sweet Biscuit Crunchers or gooey Honey-Butter Biscuits into your fat maw, you can let your mind drift to the thinly veiled sexual euphemisms of the blues, where biscuit almost certainly means "vagina." The Blues had been raped, exploited, stolen, diluted, rediscovered, reforgotten, and rendered meaningless countless times long before the Russian Mafia kept hot on the heels of the Blues Brothers 2000 and the House of Blues primarily showcased Wu-Tang side projects and Godsmack. Now, nearly a century after its birth, a non-ironic, post-Jon Spencer form of the Blues has risen again, ever so stubbornly and somnolently-- and naturally, it's being led by white kids. Jack White *ahem* not only name-drops Robert Johnson, he covers him. Summons him. Wears the same little derby as him. On "Ball and Biscuit", the album-stretching stomper of the White Stripes' fourth album, Jack White moans, "Let's have a ball and a biscuit, sugar," and it's all too plainly clear what he means. What's less clear on the track and the rest of Elephant, however, is just what Jack White intends. Certainly, one of his goals is to simply Rock, which his shit-hot guitar solos do bombastically. Those Sears-Roebucks pickups buzz and screech like atomic harmonicas on the album's best songs. Past this, though, White struggles to tenuously weld a growing amalgam of contradictions and genre experiments held with a veneer of schtick, persona, and Fonzie cool, while Meg's pancake-handed drumming and the two-piece format drips solvent over the whole experiment. The problem being that Jack White wishes to honor his diverse heroes with a limited palette. Imagine paying tribute to Edward Hopper, Ansel Adams, Robert Colescott, and Georgia O'Keeffe in mural with a foot-pump-operated Wagner Power Painter, a bucket of red, and a bucket of white. You're going to get a pinkish, art-student Pollock knock-off. "Hypnotize" valiantly strives for The Stooges. "In the Cold, Cold Night" swings its hips across an unfurnished saloon. "Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine" gives four fingers up to a butcher's knife on the altar of Led Zeppelin. In the end, it should not have to be spelled out in detail that Jack White is no Jim Page nor Osterberg. Suggestions to the contrary will earn you an explanation at the end of the Questionable Musical Taste line on judgment day. Meanwhile, Meg White pleads to her man like a coy Mo Tucker or Georgia Hubley-- more so than take-no-sass Patsy Cline or Dusty in Memphis. Linty in Arkadelphia, perhaps. The White Stripes' two strengths lie in their understanding of the physics of "rock 'n' roll" and, on the opposite end of the spectrum, their ability to craft a beautiful little boy/girl ditty. As for the former, guitars kick in at the mathematically precise moment. Drums drop out of the atmosphere in their window of opportunity only to knock you back like a returning pendulum. And for the latter, "You've Got Her in Your Pocket", like "We're Going to Be Friends", makes one wish this whole new Foghat rock thing would blow over and make way for the Badfinger/Splinter/Fairport Convention revival that's been long overdue. Therein lies the contradiction of The White Stripes. How do you combine the shit-hot with the "twee?" Elephant's shortcomings suggests the enterprise is futile. Similarly, the naïveté of Meg's playing deflates any Big Rock aspirations. The child-like imagery of candy and Howdy Doody shirts renders Howlin' Wolf-like braggadocio transparent. More importantly, the Stripes' multilayered contrived personas, both within individual songs and as the greater public face of the band, fogs sincerity. The useless, cheeky album closer, "It's True That We Love One Another", sums up this last obstacle. Piling on the Meta like Charlie Kaufman scripted the lyrics, the hoe-down toys with the Jack and Meg relationship "mystery" that was made abundantly clear in the 459 press articles on The White Stripes over the last two years while throwing Holly Golightly into a threesome of unfunny winks. When Jack sings, "I've got your number written in the back of my Bible," a theoretically rich image from a much better unrealized song is wasted on an in-joke. The album title refers to the endangered animal's brute power and their less honored instinctual memory for dead relatives. Essentially, The White Stripes admit to the contradictions in their music, but run through their hall of fame like a mad pachyderm. In a climate of kitchen-tinkered, designer cuisine pop, the album offers buckets of batter fried guitar crunch. On tracks such as "Black Math" and "Little Acorns" the grease and grunge of cheap guitar ingredients cover slim-pickings from the songwriting chicken. People who just want some fried chicken may drive-thru and get a quick fix, but remember that underneath the spirits of the heroes are waiting for a true seance. Pitchfork - Brent DiCrescenzo, April 2nd, 2003

Pop Artist is a pretty broad category--by Pop I'm gonna assume you mean what we hear on the radio. Of the new artists, I like John Mayer--I think he's a talented songwriter and guitarist.

His body (of work) is a wonderland Sure, critics make fun of him. But sensitive-guy singer-songwriter John Mayer has put the soul back in folk and the sex back in vanilla. - - - - - - - - - - - - By Keith Harris Oct. 28, 2003 | John Mayer is the best thing to happen to vanilla sex since the missionary position. Much like the regularly maligned ice cream flavor, kinkless intercourse has always been tastier than advertised. So when the musically and sexually adventurous alike dismiss Mayer's Berklee-tutored guitar and Abercrombie-swaddled purr as aural Vicodin for soccer moms and timid schoolgirls, it only goes to show how limited a palette both kinds of fetishists have. In fact, Mayer's new "Heavier Things" is just the thing to heat your bathwater on those occasions when you don't want to get your freak on -- but you're still game for seeing where some heavy petting might lead. Mayer sidled into the limelight two years ago with the mildly rebellious "No Such Thing," on which he insisted "I am invincible" in all but a whisper and defied the powers that be by running through his old high school -- no doubt while chewing gum, and I bet he didn't even have a hall pass either. The single sprang from his second album, "Room for Squares," an acoustic-based collection of modest romantic ruminations that stirred equally modest heart flutters in suburbs and dorms across America. Mayer was always just a twitch of the larynx away from simpering, and his ability to resist that temptation seemed (again, modestly) courageous. For years, women friends of mine have heard sex in Dave Matthews' voice where all that reached my ears was Peter Gabriel in need of a lozenge. But Mayer I hear, maybe because he strips the self-involvement and pseudo-yodels from Matthews' style, leaving a warm, cottony buzz, the vocal equivalent of lavender oil. (He also steers clear of Dave's Hacky Sac party vibe.) Of course, they don't call the tame stuff vanilla for nothing. Mayer's follow-up, "Heavier Things" debuted at the top of the Billboard charts before settling comfortably in the top 10. Like those of his former tour mate Norah Jones, with whom he shares a knack for the genteel nuzzle, Mayer's brisk sales have been at least partly a fearful response to hip-hop hegemony. Yet virtual white flight isn't the whole story. From Missy Elliott's threat, "I'll put my thing down, flip it, and reverse it" to Chingy's inviting a woman to whip her genitalia at him "like a shortstop," there's a pretty narrow definition of sexuality on the charts these days. Pop sex has become a strenuous combination of pole dancing, Pilates and pro wrestling -- plenty fun, but not really practical when you've both got to work in the morning. And now that hip-hop has all but completely colonized R&B, the former province of the gentle lover man, R. Kelly is as demanding a bedmate as any MC, and even a nice guy like Justin Timberlake plays at playadom. With the prognosis for quiet storm as bleak as that of poor Luther Vandross himself, who's to keep the scented candle burning? Granted, a dude whose idea of a come-on is "Your Body Is a Wonderland" is an unlikely bedroom savior. But the awkward title of Mayer's follow-up to "No Such Thing" was part of its charm, as was the contrast between dud lines like "your skin like porcelain" and kindly details such as "I'll never let your head hit the bed without my hand behind it." Like Shakira's "Underneath Your Clothes," this was sex as adoring exploration rather than an expression of mastery. Mayer was conscious of the rarefied gentility of the fantasy he advanced -- what he described on "City Love" as "the kind of thing you only see in scented, glossy magazines" -- and he also undercut it, fretting on the same song that there wouldn't be room in his apartment for his sweetie's toothbrush. Although he's sensitive, he's no prude; he jokes with interviewers about the difference between electric and acoustic guitars: "Well, one of them will get you laid -- and one will get you laid after like an hour and a half of conversation." The shift in album titles -- from the coyly requesting "Room for Squares" to the deliberately pondering "Heavier Things" -- looks like bad news. Like so many pretty boys before him, Mayer wants to make sure you love him for his mind. But while his lyrics predictably fall flat when he's aiming to eff the ineffable -- the lead single, "Bigger Than My Body," fumbles toward some kind of spiritual transcendence -- his voice is so grounded and earnest that even then it sounds like he's reminding his honey to buy milk on her way home from work. Mayer is rarely revelatory when he flexes his brain, but he's often cute ("How come everything I think I need/ Always comes with batteries?") And when, on "New Deep," he pledges to be less superficial from now on, he also gently mocks his own pretensions, quipping, "I'm so enlightened/ I can barely survive." So Mayer's curiosity is just a part of his romantic technique, which, while still self-deprecating, has smoothed out considerably. Mayer has learned that the secret of seduction is not to wheedle and plead but to quietly assume. On most of the songs here it sounds like both parties have slipped out of their shoes before the music kicks in. "Come Back to Bed" is a sharp contrast to the last record's "My Stupid Mouth," in which he tried unsuccessfully to talk his way out of a dumb comment. On the new song he surrenders ground ("You can be mad in the morning/ I take back what I said") without ever begging, and if you're at all susceptible, "I survive on the breath you are finished with" clinches the deal. Mayer doesn't even suggest that you'll be, you know, doing it if you slip back between the sheets. He's voicing the sensuality of monogamy, and he lusts after "Home Life," a fantasy both practical and idealistic: "I will marry just once/ And if it doesn't work out/ Give her half of my stuff/ It's fine with me." None of which would matter if Mayer didn't command his own groove. The opening track, "Clarity," for which he recruited Ahmir "?uestlove" Thompson, the mighty drummer from the Roots, along with jazz trumpeter Roy Hargrove, is hardly the "hip-hop" move Mayer's been boasting about to the press. But the layering of guitar atop piano propels the song forward rather than just supplying a sumptuous backdrop, and the tune's break, in which Hargrove pushes against the drum fill, shows a far cannier rhythmic sense than most singer-songwriters display. For what it's worth, his hip-hop-accredited guest was impressed. "John Mayer is incredibly underrated. Ohmigod," Thompson raved in an interview with the Believer. Referring to the murky, heavy-breathing neo-soul masterwork of D'Angelo, Thompson added that Mayer "wants to do his 'Voodoo' so bad it hurts." (Mayer's manager, apparently, put the kibosh on the in-studio experimentation between Thompson and Mayer.) If it seems like Thompson and I are overstating the case for Mayer -- well, we are. "Heavier Things" is just a tiny slice of what you can accomplish in a bedroom without throwing out your back or charging up the camcorder. But he's still a rarity. While nerdy white musicians have always coveted the imagined sexual prowess of their black peers, they usually try to cultivate a wild sensuality, as though overcompensating for their self-perceived unworthiness. Though no one is likely to mistake Mayer's voice for D'Angelo's -- aside from Matthews, his clearest vocal antecedents are soulish white Brits like Paul Young or Peter Cox of Go West -- he's assimilated the subtler physical assurance and candor of R&B into his delivery. After all, there's a world of fashion accessories between chastity belt and bondage gear, and as wide a range of fantasies as well. Nice teenage girls aren't immune to orgasms, and not every soccer mom is a latent dominatrix. John Mayer never lights up the sky with garish strokes of passion, but he can put you to sleep with that special smile on your face. salon.com

To all you Russians out there: Izvenitza poshowesta, comerades, to beatking.com. And thanx for the tip: I will check out the Greek, too.

Pretty rad flash movie--we may have to run this on the front page. What is it that fluffy bunny and other hackers are upset about?

the kernel to the rescue again! thank god, someones listening to this stuff out there.

LOL. Thanx, Kernel, for keeping us all in line.

Beatking welcomes new member, Kernel32.. Feel free to post, or just hang around. Enjoy your stay. PS--We luv yer reviews. Short and ontopofit, with a sense of humor.

Well, according the article, the government is interested in getting an inside crack to al queda, etc, via hackers. Of course, one wonders what protections there are for ordinary citizens if any. Jim Marrs did a book on the government and 'remote viewing', or psychic spying - heard much about that stuff?

This CD got some nice notices earlier in the year. Check it out.. Massive Attack 100th Window (Electronica) by: Warren Tessler 03.10.03 It’s clear from the opening track to Massive Attack’s fourth LP, the dodgy “100th Window,” that the group is still wrestling with the demons which haunted 1998’s “Mezzanine.” “Future Proof” begins innocuously with a simple synthesizer melody, before slipping into the dark, paranoid regions the last album showcased, complete with droning vocal and hypnotic drum programming. But what should we expect from a band which supposedly broke up after their last tour, only to re-form sans original member Mushroom? “100th Window” is a moody album, but 3D and Daddy G do their best to keep the Massive Attack dream of gorgeous song-craft tied to immaculate production alive. Nowhere is this more evident than on the opening three songs, especially the first Sinead O’Conner collaboration, the stunning “What Your Soul Sings.” O’Connor’s fragile, angelic voice is the perfect vehicle for this techno torch song which ranks up there with Massive’s best, and her inclusion as female muse this time around is a sheer genius. Following is the first Horace Andy collaboration, “Everywhen,” and it’s good to know the group can always count on Andy, as his vocals have graced every Massive Attack album over a decade, providing the most consistent sound to the group’s repertoire. The song is classic Massive paranoid electro-dub, the way the group does it and the way we like it best. Unfortunately, the remainder of the album is a bit of retread of the first three songs, with O'Connor, 3D, and Andy on vocals for each track, and subsequently, tracks which are not as strong as the openers. This would't be so terrible if perhaps they changed up the song styles once in a while. Gone are the joyous, soulful, and jazzy productions of the first two albums, replaced with inferior repetitions of the opening dystopian songs. I supposesooner or later, a band with such a stellar track record was going to deliver a work which would fall short of the lofty expectations Massive Attack deserves. Too bad that time is now. http://www.getunderground.com

This CD has gotten some nice write ups. Here's a snippet of one: Thievery Corporation - The Richest Man In Babylon Rob Garza and Eric Hilton (aka The Thievery Corporation) have distinguished themselves as purveyors of sophisticated downbeat music. The secret to their success was hinted at in an interview in which they explained that they listen primarily to world music, reggae, dub, blues, gospel and jazz - but very little dance music. The eclecticism of their taste in music is reflected in the richly textured albums they produce. Their albums fuse dub basslines with eastern melodies, sitars with breakbeats, electronic sampling with live percussionists. In 'Richest Man In Babylon' they have produced their finest album since their critically acclaimed (and hugely influential) debut. The tracks range from the Eastern motifs on the appropriately titled 'Facing East', to the dub-influenced 'Outernationalist'. Vocalists include the Bjork-like Emiliani Torrini (who's own 2000 release 'Love in the Time of Science' deserved much more attention than it received) and the exquisite voice of the French singer Loulou. The sum effect is another blissful album from these masters of supremely serene soundscapes. www.thread.com (New Zealand)

I can see why Isus would like her - she's a big Mac!

Jim and I have been discussing doing a book on the RFK just like he did for JFK--and Im gonna supply him some explosive information via some researcher frinds of mine. Ive been working for nearly a decade on getting a film of a side story off the ground--almost made it this year...

I'm as passionate about the original Jack Johnson album as Rainbow is about Queen 2. As the urban dudes say, "This is the shit!" The legend goes that Miles was pissed off that the rock stars were making all the money, so he decided to put the best rock band together in the world. Side one, which was recorded in one take, is unbelievable--John McLaughlin's guitar is in another world. I still cant believe that this was recorded over thirty years ago. Dont know how this new rendition is, but everytime I play this CD for people, it blows their minds--particularly when I tell them it was recorded 30 years ago. Check it out!