the bodacious excursions of adriel luis ::. ::. ::.

While the Earth Crumbles: a love poem to the victims of China's earthquake

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Sun, 18 May 2008 21:47:00 +0000

It's getting difficult to tell
these Asian disasters
apart from one another.

Sri Lanka still seems only two clicks away
And I don't want to blame CNN
Because Wes Anderson's brow can only stay
in a sympathetic swell for so many special segments
And with tsunamis, and storms, and cyclones,
Who really has the time to hold their finger to the wind
through it all?
Who really has enough buckets to pass around
benefits to organize
or checks to write?
And despite the fact that I feel my heart drop
to death tolls risen
With this election,
and these bills
and those gas prices
and my worries that are a bit too personal to pin as petty
Lately
I haven't quite had time for tragedy.

So maybe it's because this time it was China
and I'm Chinese
Or that it was an earthquake
and I'm Californian
But even with my guilty attempts to ignore the world for
just a little bit while I piece mine together
I'm left sitting here
Shaken.

There's no pretty language for it.
The earthquake in China makes me very sad.

I feel a bit ethnocentric
Because it shouldn't matter whether it happened in China
or Afghanistan, or Iran or Idaho
and I don't know what I can do
to place myself outside of this situation more than I already am
half a world away
But I can't help but notice as
I watch that screen
That it wouldn't have been that much of a stretch
for it to be me on a stretcher.

I never thought I'd say this
But amidst the dust
and rubble
and blood
We do all kind of look the same.

But I don't know if I could have that threshold for pain,
to watch my country crumble on my family
Limbs limp and pale,
impaled, while still instilled in the rest of the world
is this notion of a nation that
slaughters its daughters,
imprisons its sons,
murders its neighbors,
and blankets terror in the heart of Americans,
like me,
horrified of Chinese,
like me,
China,
I don't fear you,
But I'm scared
if I ever wanted to come home
that you wouldn't take me back.

Especially, not like this,
with your front door collapsed,
Half a million of your own vanished,
I've felt banished my entire life
and I know your buildings are hazardous
and people are sleeping on the streets
and maybe I'm being American
and maybe I'm being naive
but amidst pending war
and rice crises
and Olympics politics
right now
all I want to do
is come home to you.

In Beichuan,
when the ground began to quiver,
A woman knelt over her three month old baby
to create a flesh shield for the debris.
Five days later,
amidst broken brick
and shattered glass
on the floor
the mother was found dead,
knelt over her infant
eyes shut
sleeping
without a scratch.
While the city fell the shambles,
her mother managed to leave her cellphone
in her daughter's pocket
that read,
"My dear baby
If you survive
Please remember,
I love you."

So this is about the victims of tragedy--
not quite for them
Because I don't have much more than my genetics to draw a connection
And since 50,000 is only a dent in the population
I don't know how much good a dedication from one of your forgotten children
can do
But know that even an ocean and several generations away,
China,
Please remember,
I love you.

blu - muto

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Sun, 18 May 2008 05:23:00 +0000

OH MY GOD THIS IS THE TRIPPIEST AND DOPEST THING EVER AND THAT IS NOT AN EXAGGERATION.

it's too hot to care though.

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Fri, 16 May 2008 22:07:00 +0000

hi. i'm in the studio right now with phatrick. i was lying on the couch and at some point i realized that my underwear is on inside out. but it's 103 degrees in the bay, and it's already 3pm, so it's probably too late to rectify this matter.

just thought i'd let you know. have a great day.

My interview on two.one.five.

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Wed, 14 May 2008 15:07:00 +0000

Last week my homie Catzie (some of you know her and her bossy ways from supaspokenword duo Yellow Rage) interviewed me for Philly-based magazine two.one.five.. I'm not the best interviewee in my opinion, as I often go off on tangents and every answer ends up being either about OutKast or robots. Oh well.

Read it here.

the days in between.

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Wed, 14 May 2008 06:43:00 +0000

it was a little more than a year ago when i quit my job. as much as i loved working at youth speaks, i had to go. it was necessary for me, in order to make reality of the daydreams that cartwheeled in my head from 10 to 6, monday through friday. during the months leading up to my departure, my fantasies became rambunctious and i could hardly concentrate with all my excitement of this pending freedom. what would i do with all my time? surely, i'd write more. i'd record my album. i'd finish another book. i'd book more gigs. i'd volunteer at youth organizations. i'd learn mandarin. i'd travel to all the other continents. i'd spend more time with my family. i'd pick up painting. i'd get a girlfriend. i'd exercise more. i'd watch more great films. i'd start taking singing lessons. and amidst all that, maybe, just for some extra change, i'll work at a quiet cafe to pass the time.

the great thing about not clocking in and out of a job everyday is that (for the most part) you can set your itinerary for the day, and on the good ones you'll feel ridiculously ridiculously accomplished. but on the days when you don't get shit done, you feel like stale ass.

i wouldn't say that i was unproductive today, but i supposed that it's inevitable to feel shitty if it's a gorgeous hot sunny day in oakland and you spend your entire day cooped up in your dark ass apartment deciphering HTML code. i spent my entire day planning out how to transfer ill-literacy from blogger to wordpress. most people have no idea what that means, and won't notice when it happens. as for me, i've been sucked into the black abyss of geekdom and i'm probably still in it, being that i'm blogging about the shit.

what i'm trying to say is that time and energy is what you make of it. it's becoming increasingly apparent to me that everything that i wish i'd done that i haven't done is directly linked to my apathy in certain situations. many of us have dreams, and based on what i've observed, those that haven't been achieved are usually caused by our passive (and even assertive) allowance for distractions to get in the way.

before i quit my job, i was convinced that once i graduate college i'll have all the time in the world to create art. before that, it was switching out of the engineer major. before that it was high school.

some like to call it workaholicism, but mostly i think it's the human yearning to know that each breath hasn't been taken in vain. i spend too much time organizing and managing ill-literacy projects, as opposed to writing songs and poems and anthems for the art itself. it's the hustle of the independent artist--we're forced to spend more time promoting our songs than singing them.

so no, i wouldn't say that i was unproductive today. in fact, i got a very big check on my to-do list. but i'm starving to create.

i feel so violated..

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Tue, 13 May 2008 07:32:00 +0000

who the hell added USA TODAY to my buddy list??

asian girl beatboxing.

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Tue, 13 May 2008 05:57:00 +0000

i just felt...obligated to let you know that this is happening among our people.

source: disgrasian

n.e.r.d. - everyone nose remix (ft. crs & pusha-t)

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Mon, 12 May 2008 17:57:00 +0000

So I've been bumping (music) and grinding (work) in the studio and I'm really really really excited to show you guys what I've been working on for both iLL-Literacy and Pretty Buoyant Society, but my gut is telling me that I have to be a bit more exclusive with it, but rest assured you'll be the first to know. In the meantime, I'm fighting my urges by sharing everyone else's music. Haaaaaaaa.

link.

gnarls barkley - going on

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Mon, 12 May 2008 06:13:00 +0000

a little late...this came out a few days ago. but still fantastic.

pre-studio inspiration

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Fri, 09 May 2008 18:37:00 +0000

me and phatty are grinding in the studio today for pretty buoyant. our morning rituals included consuming these:

&
n.e.r.d. - spazz

life is a videogame.

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Thu, 08 May 2008 18:41:00 +0000

!!!!!!!!

RoboLove v1.0 a.k.a. Inter-Mechanical Relationships Are Beautiful

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Thu, 08 May 2008 07:57:00 +0000

ATTN: Robot,
I think I love you.

[simulate feel]
[simulate touch]
What slick thick metallic function
just brushed with my sensors[?]
[simulate censors]
Explicitly flustered,
Robo-breezie blow past
My mechanic mind's rusted.

[simulate logic]
[simulate confusion]
Assimilate into you
Ten zillion moons couldn't faze the
phases I steady go through
Like I'm off when I'm on
And my D/C's my A/C
And you see me go crazy
Malfunction down junctions
Heart thumping while thoughts of you
Spin round my cerebral circumference.

To say it in safe mode:
Girl, I just wanna be a part of your network.
[reboot]
Baby, you look like you could use an upgrade.
Let me install my software.
[reboot]
You + Me = 2 (and that's <3)

[Confirmed]
Robot,
I think I love you.
With all my energy and the wires that it runs through
With my whole system and the robo-heart that it pumps to
Tell me, which outlet can I turn to to possibly plug you
To how we could coordinate like clockwork
Words, I'm at loss for
Could my antenna send messages to our cyber-ancestors
To vouch that our robomance could inspire future beta versions[?]

[Simulate imperfection]
Yes, this might be a limited trial.
I don't have all my kinks worked out.
But Robot,
If we unite our fiber-opts
Strike it while the iron's hot
How can metal touch metal and not fire off sparks[?]

See baby,
We’ve got robot limbs
And robot fingers
Let some of this lovin' oil our hinges
Let's send off some blasts, and I don't mean no virus
We've got our jetpacks ready, we could be the flyness
Queen machine,
Let's puff robo-blunts
I want to be in the presence of your highness[?]

Because my, it's lonely being a robot.
So cold in this steel exterior.
How nice it would be boot up each day next to you.

spoken word isn't real poetry

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Sun, 04 May 2008 17:27:00 +0000

Oh, how typical of me to write about this. But it seems the question of what is and isn't real art has been coming up lately (you already know how I feel about real hip-hop). Anyway, here's a comment I just responded to from a fan who asked what I felt about his college professor saying that spoken word isn't real poetry. Maybe I'll expand on this one day, when I stop feeling like dryheaving every time I think about professors like that:

Much love Swan! Sorry for the late comment! Anyway, on to the whole "spoken word isn't poetry" thing: The thing about what people consider "real" poetry is that, in the literary world it has become quite elite. Poetry books don't usually sell very well, and oftentimes the only people who buy/read poetry books are other poets. As a result, the only people who are available to critique these books and poems are people who study and write poetry themselves. When this happens, the demographic of the audience is filtered to English majors and MFA's that they think they know what REAL poetry is, and feel entitled to being able to judge it because they've spent years and years studying all the little facets and rules of what "good" poetry is. Then comes spoken word, a medium that takes similar basics but generally focuses more on conveying the message in way that an audience can get instantly and on the spot, and less on the "rules" and formatting. And most of these poets haven't received the "proper" education that "real" poets get. Even youth are doing it...and they're getting larger audiences, selling more books, and receiving broader acclaim than "real" poets. Meanwhile, most "real" poets can't pursue poetry full time because their books aren't selling, so they keep on studying poetry until they can become poetry professors in order to teach people what "real" poetry is, while using the money they make to write another poetry book that only their students and colleagues will buy. I'm not explaining it this way to invalidate academic poetry. I read and appreciate plenty of it. But when it comes to art in general, I feel like the essential thing to remember is that if there's anything to justify its "realness," it's the genuineness of the expression from which it comes. If someone writes a sestina that follows the rules of format perfectly and is perfect under all the academic standards, the dude who wrote it doesn't mean it, I feel like that definitely makes it less "real" than the 9th grader who poured her heart out all over her first freewrite. Yadigg?
-Adriel

After posting this I felt like an asshole for posting a comment that took up half his profile:(

New Santogold track that isn't on the album that came out on Tuesday

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Fri, 02 May 2008 23:00:00 +0000

I must say, even though this week I copped the new Roots, Portishead, and Estelle albums, the one that I was anticipating with the most fervor and the one that I've been pumping in my car, computer, taking to my homies' houses, and singing in my head when I don't have it on me is Santogold's new jawn. Have you heard it?? You must.

And you know what's even hotter? She just released yet another track for FREE! And you know what else? I haven't even heard it yet and I'm already officially endorsing it. That's how hot she is.

link.

Oh shit! I just found my new favorite blog ever!

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Fri, 02 May 2008 18:43:00 +0000

Scroll down and read their spiel on Kylie Minogue and you'll see why their writing is right up my eggroll.

disgrasian.com

Last night's episode of the Pretty Buoyant Show

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Fri, 02 May 2008 18:26:00 +0000

Daaaamn....hella rusty after 3 months away!

link.

Cool Asian: Chris Chu of The Morning Benders

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Fri, 02 May 2008 17:55:00 +0000

I've been a fan of The Morning Benders for a hot second now, but it was more along the lines of having one song in my iTunes that I'd play viciously on repeat without ever looking more into the band. So when their "Boarded Doors" video dropped today I was surprised to learn that the lead singer is Chinese, and they're from Oakland! And this video has him selling womens' shoes, which brings back painful memories of my winter '01 job (that's right, folks...Macy's women's shoes, Stoneridge Mall. Slip of the Tongue was really a reference to a pair of Rocket Dogs). Lastly, in this video Chris is mighty popular with the older white ladies. I think this speaks for itself:

My Conclusion: If you shave Chris' head, you basically have me.

Here's another video where Chris is a disgruntled worker:

Radiohead - All I Need

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Fri, 02 May 2008 10:07:00 +0000

Wait, before you click "play," don't expect this to be a cover of the Method Man & Mary J. song, or else you'll be utterly disappointed. This video is hella tight though.

French Revolution

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Fri, 02 May 2008 08:04:00 +0000

In 2005 iLL-Literacy went on its first "on the road" show (a.k.a. first show that was further away than Santa Cruz). That show was in Paris.

That '05 summer, Ruby and I got together to send out press kits. We had just recruited Nico six months back, and the new "not a student organization anymore" version of ill-literacy.com had just launched. By the end of the day we had emailed out around 200 press kits to college campuses to all 50 states. Yes, even North Dakota (I see you ND!).

As the sun set over the Berkeley horizon, our eyes burned from staring at our computer screens all day long.

"Anywhere else?" I asked Ruby.

"Well," she sighed. And when she sighs "Well" she says it in a high muppet-sounding voice and shrugs her shoulders up. "Well, I'd reeeeeeally like to go back to Pariiiiiiiiiiis."

"Ah, then Paris it shall be," yes I talk like a muppet too. We googled up Paris schools and came across the American University of Paris homepage. Slithering the mouse pointer through links, we found the database of student organizations hidden deep in the nethers of the website. Voila. Spoken Word Club. We sent them a press kit, but it was more like a "La la la we'll just see what happens, whatevaaaaa" kind of attempt.

One September morning I was woken at 5:30am by a phone number with 14 digits. A month after that the riots in France broke out. And a month after that, we were on a plane to the city of love.

Decades of civil unrest in Paris ghettos. One day while some youth were running away from the police to avoid getting roughed up like they often were, two attempted to hide in a power substation and were electrocuted to death. Riots to respond to poverty. Riots to respond to racism. The walls of Paris were burning and we were about to enter its city gates.

When we arrived we were greeted by Sophia and Joe, two Americans that were studying at AUP, and the founders of the Spoken Word Club. As we chiseled away at our disbelief that we were about to do our first gig in Paris, the decayed brick walls whizzed by our metro windows. In Paris, the suburbs aren't exactly Pleasantville. These suburbs were still containing heartburn from the riots that had swelled in their stomachs just weeks before.

"Are people in Paris worried about the riots?" I asked, really meaning "Should we be watching out for flying trashcans?" Sophia and Joe brushed their hands like they were dismissing a bad dish.

"They don't really come to the city city...they're mostly just messing up their own neighborhoods."

I can't pretend to understand what would drive youth to riot. By the time I was old enough to toss a stone through a window, America had already learned from the Rodney King outcry. Complacency was injected into the curriculum of my upbringing. And now we live through stolen elections, footage of beheadings on the news, and massacre in the streets of Chicago and raise barely a finger to click over to the next news blog.

At the time that I had left for Paris, I was so angry and frustrated. A girl had broken my heart, really badly. Gas prices were high and there were rumors of a pending draft. I felt suffocated. How funny that I chose to escape into a city was literally tearing itself apart.

I've learned that it's arrogant for us Americans to think that we have all this numbness to ourselves. But maybe it takes more to get us mad. Because after 9/11 there weren't any huge Muslim revolts in the Bronx streets even while everyone in a headwrap suddenly became a target. What were the conditions that made Paris, the city of love, so much more unbearable than Bush? Or Jena? Or Sean Bell? What happened in France that made children overturn cars and set fires to their homes?

Is it just that bad in France, or are we just that numb in America? What happened since '92 when all it took was a video of cops kicking a guy around to set Los Angeles ablaze? Sixteen years later, 50 shots, and we read the news report in between email and Myspace.

Coming home to all this crazy news going on makes me want to leave again, further away than I was before. But no one can just run away forever. We've got to change.

Anyway, just things that I thought about when I watched this:

Justice - "Stress"

PS: A lot of people have been commenting about this video and saying that it promotes violence. Personally, this is a realistic depiction of the suburbs in France, and doubles as a metaphor for the current abrasiveness of extreme Christianity. Ug, genius.

Dahlak - I Know Some of These Negroes is Hoping Obama Don't Get Elected

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Thu, 01 May 2008 19:08:00 +0000

HAD to share this with y'all who don't click on the "news" button above.

A video montage of Puff Daddy + Superstar's hook on repeat for 6 minutes straight.

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Thu, 01 May 2008 08:00:00 +0000

1. My cameo is at around 0:45.

2. In this video Puff Daddy's son says, "Don't forget about us." I'm confident that if Puff Daddy ever does forget about his son, he'll eventually come around and be like "My name is Puff Daddy...oh yeah...I'm a daddy."

3. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh. If you are what you say you are, a superstar, then have no fear, the camera's here, and the microphones, and they wanna know, oh, oh, oh.

Coachella Day 2 & 3: Portishead, Prince, and other acts that are worth risking a bladder infection for

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 10:20:00 +0000

I was going to sleep instead of start writing at this ungodly hour but I kept thinking about this conversation I was having with press folks who were basically talking about how posting an article about Coachella on Thursday would be so un-newsworthy. So bliggity-blao.

I suppose no other moment describes the intensity of my Coachella experience as well as Saturday night when I was trying to decide whether to take my bathroom break during Animal Collective, Portishead, or Prince--or to just hold it for four hours. After reflecting on my day and realizing that I had downed two quarts of water and hadn't peed for over five hours already, I decided to take my break during Portishead, since their name most closely resembled Port-o-potty. As I stood inside the grimy outhouse, staring into the makeshift toilet bowl filled with everything that comes out of humans besides music, I decided that the next time I'm at Coachella, I'd like to be a performer. Mostly for the thrill of rocking Coachella, but also because I'm sure all the artists get gold-plated toilets lined with roses, as opposed to the herd of nasty poop rooms that the 20,000 of us civilians were forced to share. And even if the artists have to use outhouses too, at least they're using the same one as Prince.

Anyway, there's probably not much that resembles heaven as much as Prince coming on stage along with Morris Day and the Time, Sheila E, and Ledesi. And YO. Check out his cover of Radiohead's "Creep." Had I been in possession of panties, they could have very possibly been tossed on stage.

DISCLAIMER: I have no qualms with my previous statements about sharing a restroom and tossing panties at Prince. He's Prince, dammit.

Anyway, I don't know how all the journalists do it. By Sunday afternoon I was basically scavenging for any performances that weren't electronic so I could just sleep on the grass.

More borderline paparazzi-ish pictures of people I dig:

St. Vincent

Rilo Kiley

Hot Chip

Animal Collective

The Cool Kids

My Morning Jacket

Sia

Simian Mobile Disco

Chromeo

Justice

And now to end it with an irrelevant Chinese restaurant sign that's doing way too much:

Confessions of a Douchebag

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 20:04:00 +0000

Photos taken during "costume day" at Bestival, Isle of Wight, Summer 07
Ohhhhhhh snizzap, me and my fat fingers. It appears that I got a bit too real in my previous post about M.I.A. which won me this gem of a comment. Now I don't usually respond to anonymous negative opinions because that's about a step above having an argument on GChat, but I do feel like this particular situation gives me a good opportunity to follow up on subject matter that some of my writing has revolved around lately.

So my M.I.A. post as well as something I wrote on thickwitness the other day have both centered on the subject of white people. It's true, I do write about white people sometimes. I live in the United States, and there are a lot of you here. Usually I try to make sure that I provide context and background information as to where I'm coming from, and I feel like I've done a pretty good job not sounding like a dumbass. But over all, lets clear some air about this: Do I dislike white people? Not at all. Do I appreciate my white fans? Of course I do. But if I ever get on stage and see a crowd full of white people pushing Asian folks out of the way to get to the front, will I cause a ruckus? Indubitably.

I don't think there's anything wrong with white people digging M.I.A., or anyone else for that matter. I don't really reflect much about Stuff White People Like, and I wouldn't act like my opinion on that matters anyway. However, I do think there's a problem when white people view someone like M.I.A. as the dish of the day, and meanwhile a large proportion of White America still can't tell the difference between a Sri Lankan and an Iraqi. I think that it's a disgusting display of privilege when hipsters from Orange County can dance to the type of music that they were mocking and ridiculing South Asian kids for up until Urban Outfitters said it was cool. White American culture likes to hold up the red light on cultural tidbits until it finds a way to commodify, market, and claim them as their own. As a result, we live in a world where Gwen Stefani can rock mendhis while Pakistani Americans are harassed amidst post-9/11 rage. We exist in an age where white folks are getting star shine off having band names like The Muslims and Black Kids, while actual Muslims are locked in American detainment camps as suspected terrorists and actual black kids still find nooses where they sit. These labels and cultural artifacts and music that are today's fads are things that people throughout the world have endured relentless turmoil just for the right to exercise. So I find it incredibly twisted when I'm standing in a crowd waiting for M.I.A. and I see a huge white dude shove two Indian girls out of the way so he can see better.

What I saw at Saturday's show was a rude awakening that we haven't progressed much since the days when black folks in Birmingham had to sit in the back to watch Ray Charles play. Nowadays, you don't need a "Whites Only" sign when the white people are physically tossing the colored folks aside. Yes, people are trying to have a good time, but at whose expense? At whose exploitation? I've lived through enough Jet Li movie premieres to know that just because people are clapping to your movies and dancing to your music doesn't mean that they're embracing your culture. After the show, how many of these people are actually taking heed to the message in M.I.A.'s music that details the harsh sociopolitical atmosphere of these countries that are, like, sooo eccentric? While you wave around your glowsticks and self-entitlement, the people described in the music are still rebuilding their tsunami-stricken homes, and your diverse iTunes selection isn't doing anything for them.

Anyway, aside from that whole thing I'd like to point out that this is my blog with my personal thoughts and opinions, and until I sell this to the Fox Network I'm going to continue speaking from my own perspective, unabashed. In the meantime, if you're looking for a blog that you can read without risk of being offended, I can kindly redirect you to this.

Dealt with it.

An open letter to M.I.A.ATTN: Why I didn't stay for your Coachella show

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 19:42:00 +0000

Dear Maya,
First of all, I want to commend you for being so dope. "Bamboo Banga" has the best build-up that I've heard in decades. Next I want to apologize for leaving your show at Coachella last night. Rest assured that it had nothing to do with you, your music, or your electric pink sunglasses.

Coachella is a three-day music festival where people are encouraged to camp outdoors, walk around barefoot, dance in front of mist machines, and paint their faces. So I don't know why I was surprised that the festival is 90% white people, but I was. Surely, I have no problem with that...I think I would've been even more freaked out if I came across a hillside of 15,000 Cambodians pushing up their lighters to Jack Johnson anyway. So call it denial, or just lack of experience seeing you live, Ms. M.I.A., but as I briskly walked over to your tent 20 minutes early, a deep part of me expected your show to be some melanin vacuum...that your presence would be a big Coachella lint roll and sweep up all the dark people and toss us into your tent. However, even from several hundred feet away, the glowsticks and blonde dreads told me that this was a dream deferred.

When I arrived at the stage you had yet to come out, but the frat bros and sises were already pumped, in their RVCA t-shirts and 9-inch platform shoes. I found a nice nook at the left side of the tent, close enough to the outside to get some air if I needed, but close enough to the stage to hopefully catch your distant face every once in awhile between the bobbing heads. Suddenly, the lights turned down and from all corners you could hear a steady and ghoulish "Whoooooooooooooo!" echo. Then, as if on queue, the white people started moshing.

Yes, moshing. And I know it was just the white people because as soon as the elbows started flying, I along with the eight other colored folks sprinkled throughout the audience were immediately struck with a "What the fuck is happening here..." face. So apparently, with no music playing, or lights flashing, or person on the stage saying "Okay white people, it's time to mosh!" at that moment it seemed that without any form of stimulus, there was an internal alarm that set off within the 5,000 people around me to start shouldering each other in the face and inch their way towards the stage. Within 30 seconds, my scrawny 5'6" ass was caught in an anglo tidalwave of chest hair and yellow halters, landing me all the way to seven rows from the stage. My first instinct was "Sweeeeeet...I'm hella close!" However, I looked around and noticed that I was surrounded by at least three pairs of fraternal armpits at the perfect height alignment to my face. To my right a young girl whose eyes were bloodshot redder than the highlights on her bangs was swaying dizzily, looking like she could vomit her garlic fries in my direction at any moment. I looked towards the stage, and you still were not there. I looked around, and realized that it would only take the first 10 seconds of "Paper Planes" to get me drenched in sweat originating from at least seven European countries. At that moment I decided that leaving an M.I.A. show smelling like a white guy would be too ironic for my comfort, so I dashed the curry out of there and watched Animal Collective instead (still just as many white people but too strung out on narcotics to push people around).

I promise that I will be as close to the front as possible at your San Francisco show in May, and though I might still be lying to myself I still have faith that the show will draw out a little more "third world flava" than a festival in the desert that offers, among other foods, burgerritos.

Sincerely,
Adriel Luis

Coachella Day Uno: Santogold is hella boss.

noreply@blogger.com (adriel) — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 18:37:00 +0000

Despite only getting 3 hours of sleep the night before and still missing my 6am flight, I got to Coachella yesterday in one piece, and good thing I did because oh shit Santogold is the shitttt! See for yourself, and check out her badass straight-faced dancers:

Best show of the night. But Spank Rock was sick...not sick as in "Yo broski, Spank Rock was SICK!" Sick as in "Spank Rock won't be performing tonight because he's in the hospital." :(

On arriving:

Not the car we drove, I swear.

Not this one either.

More photos of people whose faces/bodies you can't see:

Diplo

Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings

Black Lips
"Thank you for not going to watch Jack Johnson."

Fatboy Slim
By this point I was exhausted and dizzy from drunk fratboys spazzing out all around me.

Today: Portishead, St. Vincent and MGMT. And I have to choose between Mark Ronson, MIA and Animal Collective. Holler.

Oh, and PRINCE!!!!!!!!! Are you ready?? I know these ladies are: