Why Football Is Sometimes Still Worth It, Or A Guide to Euro 2012 : Eye Candy Edition.

[For whatever reason, Blogger decided to publish parts of this post in the most obnoxious double-spaced format imaginable. I've tried everything I could think of to fix it, to no avail, and I am pissed. Many apologies for how ugly the formatting is here on this post. Let us now look at pictures of hot football-playing persons and be happy.]

The draws have been made, the preliminary matches have been decided, the 16 teams all have their passports and tickets in hand.The Internet will be flooded with article after article of team analysis, tactical breakdowns, strategic predictions, and lists of "Ultimate Up-and-Coming Players to Watch" or some variation thereof. This, however, is not my forte. Not at all. No; I am here to provide football guidance of a very different nature. I am here to tell you all about Players to Watch, indeed. But it's the kind of watching that makes us all that much happier in our ladyparts (or manparts, if we are so inclined).

I must admit that I've sort of given up on football lately - the drama, the corruption, the same famous faces and teams have turned me bored and jaded, and sent me running after the (sometimes literally) greener pastures of rugby . But the idea of an international tournament always gets me pumped up again. Ladies and gentlemen, friends and acquaintances, football(er) lovers and comrades in soccer dude-objectification! Have faith, for here are some delicious reasons why football is sometimes seriously still worth the trouble.

*I've tried my absolute best to include players from as many national teams as possible, spread out across all four groups, but since this list is based purely and entirely on my own personal tastes, you must forgive my heavy biases towards certain countries. And also for completely leaving out the likes of Poland and Greece (you guys just aren't doing it for me, man; buck up).

Group A

Group A, sadly, yields very little in terms of glorious manflesh objectification potential, but all hope is not lost, for we do have ;

Václav Pilař [Czech Republic / Midfielder]

I know very little of Vaclav, and have actually never heard of him before the national squad announcements were made. What little I've seen on Google images seems promising, however, and I look forward to getting to know him better during the course of the competition. And if things go really well, he should start thinking about making some room for me. In his pants.


Andrei Arshavin [Russia / Forward, and also Captain because BAD ASS]

Andrei is on this list purely due to ADORABILITY FACTOR - while I don't necessarily feel the urge to reach through my TV set and dry hump him across several time zones and a continent, I do find him ridiculously sweet and personable, with a tremendously quirky sense of humour, and definitely one of the more memorable footballing personalities around. And that smile! One just feels like grabbing him by the dimpled cheeks and gurgling baby talk at him. It will serve well to counter the extreme horniness induced by other occupants of this list.


Group B

Group B contains Germany, and therefore also the motherload. Being tremendously biased, I could just tell you that the entire 23-man squad is bangable, and leave it at that. But I'll be helpful and point out some of the finer specimens that Deutschland has to offer ;


Mario Gomez [Germany/Forward]


The half-Spanish Mario strikes me as being somewhat of a bimbo sometimes, but his effusive fondness for walking around shirtless for no reason kind of made me warm up to him a great deal. He is usually the first player on the pitch to divest himself of his soccer kit the minute the final whistle blows, and I shamelessly love him for it. Plus, he has great hair! Look at that shit on his head. Dude's working some fine cranial follicular growth up in da hizza. Sometimes, he scores goals. But frankly, the propensity to be shirtless is much, much greater. He's just so good to us.

Mats Hummels [Germany/ Defender]

You may remember Mats from my gushy post in appreciation of the ridiculously dorky-yet-sexy Nutella ads featuring members of the German national team. If you remember that post, I don't need to tell you that Mats is utterly lush. He is what Orlando Bloom could have been with higher quality parts, better production standards, and an extra four to five inches (of height, I'm talking about height, dammit). I spent most of the weekend chewing on my fingernails, wishing most desperately that Mats would be included in the final team list, and joy of joys! He will be playing in the tournament this time. The guy is a fabulously talented defender in his own right, and I wish great things for him in his life. I also wish to one day get in his pants. That should be on his list of career aspirations. Someone call his agent, quick!



Mats is totally down with this plan, you guys. Also I think I finally figured out how to make animated gif images work on Blogger. YES.


Benedikt Höwedes [Germany / Defender]

You gotta love a good solid German name with an umlaut. Benedikt is also a n00b to major international tournaments, but has already more than proved his mettle as an athlete and a leader in the German national league. Also he is the most adorable thing I have ever seen with the exception of Russia's Andrei Arshavin.

But my favourite thing about him is that he comes in a bromantic package along with Hummels, and it is too sweet for words.


Let the bro-lovin' commence!



Group C

You can always count on the Spanish national team to come through for you in the hotness department. Always. Though I find most of the players to be far too vain and self-absorbed for their own good, it never hurts to ogle.



Xabi Alonso [Spain/ Midfield]

Xabi Alonso is quite simply the classiest motherfucker to exist in the world of football today. He can rock your standard football jersey and shorts and make it look like a freshly tailored Armani three-piece suit. And he can pull off the real deal pretty well, in case you were wondering. The man just oozes elegance from every pore. And in a sport rife with prima donnas and petty fights and sneaky cheat attempts at every turn, here we have a man of class and principle and intelligence who will not dabble in bullshit of any kind, and also has great hair. It's a hard combination to resist.


Iker Casillas [Spain/Goalkeeper]

This guy - nay, this man, has been on my To Do list since pretty much two weeks after I hit puberty (and I was early, so you can imagine how longstanding this affair has been). This glorious hunk of manflesh has been guarding the posts of the Spanish goal in a magnificent fashion for the last 10 years, and has been getting finer and finer with the passage of time. And if Benedikt Ho(umlaut)wedes can have multiple pictures in one post, then so can Iker.



This shot of Iker bawling his eyes out after Spain clinched the 2010 World Cup is one of my favourite things in life. COME HERE AND LET ME LOVE YOU THE WAY YOU DESERVE TO BE LOVED. 





Jesus Navas [Spain / Forward]

Not entirely my type, but I feel like I have to include him because those eyes. The eyes. You might have noticed them. They are RIDICULOUS and should be illegal. Those ocular receptors probably have the power to stun opposing defenders into immobility, and send goalkeepers swooning away in the wrong direction. Daaaamn, Jesus.



Group D

France has pleasantly surprised me this time, by actually - and for once - living up to their sexy reputation and  providing subjects for dry humping fantasies.


Yoann Gourcuff [France/Midfield]

Yoann Gourcuff almost suffers from being really way too pretty for his own good, but it is rare that we come across such a finely crafted physique in international football. There is an elegant, almost classic quality to his beauty, enhanced by how the coal-black shade of his hair contrasts so becomingly with the paleness of his complexion and how stunningly flattering the lighting is in this shot and what I am basically saying here is that Yoann you are very pretty and we should bone or something, oui? 



Olivier Giroud [France / Forward]

I really know next to nothing about this guy but ooooh la la, OM NOM NOM, get in the pants, and so on.




Euro 2012 kicks off in just about 10 days, and I hope everyone enjoys a month of great football and assorted exquisite specimens of masculinity. I am especially looking forward to the gems and nuggets of sexiness I may have overlooked in the process of putting this post together. BRING ON THE DUDES, EUROPE.

[all composite/collage images of the Euro '12 groups snagged from here]

It's Just A Life Story, So There's No Climax/ No More New Territory, So Put Away The IMAX

I turn 21 in a couple of days, and I'm still waiting to see if it's going to feel particularly milestone-y. I know for a fact that it will not be a night of drunken debauchery ; I will be in classes from 8am to 6pm, followed by a pizza dinner with the family back home. But who knows, if I'm feeling really wild, I might toss in an all-night Supernatural marathon. I'm such a crazy kid, you guys!

"These are the best years of your life, appreciate them while you still can" is something I've been hearing a lot lately, and though I understand the sentiment, I hope like hell it isn't true. Sure, I see where the philosophy comes from ; we are technically adults, but without any actual adult responsibilities just yet. Not much responsibility beyond getting to classes on time, remembering to feed yourself, and writing an essay or two. And maybe showering twice a week. This is when we're meant to make mistakes, try insane new things, learn to do all the chores we never bothered doing properly at home (and somehow still get it all wrong), and stay up till six in the morning reading slash fan fiction just because we bloody well can.

But here's the thing - I sincerely do not want my university years to be the best times I will ever have. I'm having fun, but if my life is really going to peak by the time I'm 24? That's just depressing. If all goes well, I have decades and decades of time left, and there are plenty of things to see and do and experience and learn as I get older. Seriously (certain) adults, stop insinuating that every year of my life, post-graduation, is going to be some long downhill slog into the realms of existential despair, regret, bitterness and resentment. I'm still trying to get used to the fact that there is no longer the need to say "____teen" when telling anyone how old I am.



Let me just add that as I was discussing these matters of life and growing up with Sue Fyenn some weeks ago, this Okkervil River song (containing the lyrics which make up the title of this post) immediately started playing on the good old shuffle playlist. Way to get me down. iTunes is such a troll sometimes.


Rugbying Update :Today was the final of the rugby World Cup, and New Zealand won, just like I wanted them to. It's only the second time they have clinched the trophy in nearly 25 years, and a well-deserved victory it was.


CONFETTI! FLAMES! EVERYONE GET IN MY BED!

New Zealand, I congratulate you on this tremendous achievement. I congratulate you on your discipline, persistence, sportsmanship, heart, athleticism and courage. I also congratulate you on having the highest concentration of players I really want to bone, out of any rugby team on the planet. Especially Dan Carter.



Um dude, seriously. Get off that bench, take the rest of your clothes off, call your extremely sexually attractive friends over, and bring the exotic oils. It's fun time, mofo.

I should also mention that their opponents, France, put up a highly commendable fight (and actually probably deserved to win on the day) and also introduced to me Francois Trinh-Duc. He is very pretty, in that really French way, if you know what I mean. He is very good at kicking rugby balls, and sometimes also running with the ball. He is extra good at looking pretty while running and/or kicking a rugby ball.


That's Francois on the right. I don't know who those two guys in the other frame are, or if they are on the French rugby team, but they are tres chic and I like their man-bags and their fashionable nonchalance.

Francois is also of Vietnamese heritage, which is something the ESPN commentators kept mentioning throughout the game. It's all nice and interesting, but after a while I just got the impression that ESPN thought we were obligated to love the guy on principle, because HE IS ASIAN AND EXOTIC JUST LIKE US. I facepalm at you, ESPN. Also, I do like Francoise Trinh-Duc, but not because of his ethnic heritage ; I like him because he is so goddamned pretty, 25% South-East Asian blood or not. So there.

Here Are Six Really Convincing Reasons To Start Watching German Football. Really.

If you are a fan of the soccerball in Malaysia, like myself,  it's very likely that the British league holds 99% of your attention, with the Spanish and Italian leagues hovering somewhere on the fringes of your sports-related consciousness. It is the English teams that sell the most (fake) merchandise, have the largest legions of fans proclaiming eternal loyalty to a different team every two months, and it is the English game scores that dominate all school and workplace conversations come Monday morning.

   Over the holidays, however, my brother developed an affinity for the German football league, or the Bundesliga, which I did not even know we had on satellite TV. I recognized quite a few members of the German national team from the World Cup, and decided to give one or two games a shot. At the end of that month, I decided that the Bundesliga, despite the slightly hilarious name, was definitely something worth investing in, and here's why;


1. The German league is not astronomically famous, so the concept of having superstars on Beckham-esque levels hasn't really set in. The very German philosophy of "the star is the team" can be seen right down to the jersey designs for most football clubs there, where the players' names are printed on the bottom of the shirts, and the team's name on the top. Or indeed, the fact that the team's name is on the back of the jersey at all. I dig it.



Or maybe that's just how shirts are traditionally made in Germany, I don't know. But this attitude of never putting an individual player on too high of a pedestal seems to have resulted in a very significant observation ; there appears to be fewer entitled arrogant douchebags on the pitch, and consequently also much fewer occurrences of entitled arrogant douchebag behaviour.


2. After 10 years or so, I would think even the most die-hard follower of the English leagues would be bored and just a little bit jaded by now ; the same famous faces every season, the same teams dominating, the same teams losing, the same drama. If you're new to German football, it really is a very refreshing experience. It's unpredictable and a real competition in every sense ; there have been three different title winners in the last three years alone. It is literally anyone's game in Germany, and the fact that you can never place a sure bet on the same team every season is hella exciting.

3. In the Bundesliga, the fan is king. Ticket prices and fan attendance are the lowest and highest, respectively, of any soccerball league in Europe. Even if you don't watch the sport at all, massive respect is due for the way these people run their business. It's also something that seems to have seeped into the players as well ; I have rarely seen this happen in an English league match.


However insignificant the match is in the larger scheme of things, the winning team goes over to whichever end of the stadium in which their supporters are camped out, and shows some much deserved love and appreciation. I was very impressed when I first saw this happen. Also I may or may not have been completely overwhelmed by warm fuzzies.

4. Mats Hummels . He is the 23 year old defender for Borussia Dortmund, widely hailed as one of the best young players in his position -
Oh no, I'm sorry. Let me just skip ahead to the relevant bit.

This is what he looks like. And don't lie, you know this is what you're here for. 

Hey baby, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?

Mats is friggin' adorable, you guys. Not that there is a lack of cute players in other national leagues, but I happen to be completely smitten with this young man, and for the next few weeks or so, no other male on the  planet is going to cut it for me. That dimpled smile, that hair you just want to run your fingers through... I bet it has the texture of heavenly clouds shot through with celestial silk woven by the angels or something. I admit I wasn't feeling the love in the beginning - he looked more than a little sleazy. But a few Google sessions later and I was completely sold. This guy has the distinction of quite literally making me squeal audibly every time he smiles, and I don't squeal. Ever. I did not even squeal at Michael Fassbender in that black turtleneck. This is serious business.

Such a goddamn boss. Of adorableness.

To be fair (and less superficial) Mats is also very good at his full-time job (preventing goals from happening) and his part-time job (sometimes making goals happen) and his life-time job (being delicious).

Orlando Bloom, is that you?

Welcome to my ever-growing list of unattainable husbands, Mr. Hummels. I really hope he makes it on the senior German national team by the next World Cup, because he deserves it, and also because we can never have enough hotnessess  to look at during major sports tournaments.

Apparently he's so hot he breathes steam, oh my lord.



5. Mario Gomez. Because that is totally a German name. He is the striker for Bayern Munich and the German national team, which means we have met before, but I never got the chance to really sit down and stare at his German-Spanish (Gernish?) ass until very recently, and I think I like what I see.

Mario Gomez is somewhat disappointing at his full-time job (making goals happen), satisfactory at his part-time job (sometimes stopping goals from happening) and completely ace at his life-time career of being sex on a Deutsche stick (did I use that word right? Does it matter? He's hot).

I have heard a professional male commentator once refer to him as an Adonis. I kid you not. It was hilarious. Also, it's rather easy to spot a Mario Gomez after the match ; he'll most likely be the only one traipsing around with a bare torso, sweat-drenched shirt slung over one shoulder. Not that I mind. Not that I mind at all.

Back away from my man, No.10.

6. I can't really think of a sixth reason, so here are some members of the German national team (including Mats! HI MATS!) indulging in some dorky yet delicious breakfast-themed product placement. Cute footballers and chocolate hazelnut concoctions! But this is ridiculous! That Nutella is spread on all the wrong places here. Bread? For shame. Like, I'm talking Nutella on German footballers. Nutella all over German footballers. A naked filthy goddamned Nutella shower. Am I right? Hells yeah!! You're not doing it right, advertisers.



It is my professional opinion that this ad campaign needs less clothes.

So concludes my extremely convincing post on why German league football is worth your time, soccer fans. Shirtless Sexy Rock-climbing Mats says auf Wiedersehen, and promises to grace the rest of our days with his talent and Teutonic beauty.

In Other News, My Scandinavian-Man Candy-Detector Still Functions Impeccably.

Meet my new boyfriend, Joel Kinnaman. Say hello, everybody.


You'd make an excellent medieval serial killer, darling.

I've been seeing previews of AMC's The Killing all over my TV, in line with its premiere in this here country on Sunday night, and Allison had told me good things about the positive gender representations of the characters, which piqued my interest greatly. And so, in a very not superficial state of mind, I decided to go look up the show online to see exactly what it was about (high school girl Rosie Larsen is killed, and the whole season plays out as the search for her murderer) , and then I ran into Joel Kinnaman.

Hellooo Joel Kinnaman. From what I can tell, Joel plays a skeevy, filthy-looking, pasty, very possibly drug-addicted undercover narc cop (who also sports some extremely questionable facial hair) making the transition into the homicide department of the Seattle P.D. Luckily, he cleans up good in real life.



And apparently uses invaluable photo shoot hours to ponder the mysteries of the universe. Hotly.

I can't really pin down exactly what I find attractive about him, especially since he looks so different in every photograph, and I have to stare really hard to make sure I've got the right person. Let's just call it charisma, or innate magnetism, and leave it at that.



One look at some out-of-character photos of him convinced me that he is almost definitely not all American, despite the impeccable accent he pulls off in what little I have seen of The Killing previews, and I noticed that he bears a very strong resemblance to the super Scandinavian Alexander Skarsgard. And guess what? Joel Kinnaman is TOTALLY HALF SWEDISH. I impress myself sometimes. An Inbuilt Hot Swedish Man Radar is, after all, the most important and useful tool one could possibly possess in life.


edit : I have watched the double-episode pilot/premiere thing, and here are some thoughts I thought about the show and where it could be heading in the next 11 or so episodes ;

1. I don't know if it actually rains that much in Seattle, but I love the moodiness of the whole thing ; the bleak greys and greens and blues, and the wide shots of steely cold lakes and ominous-looking trees and cloudy skies. It looks utterly gorgeous, and the giant TV in my aunt's house certainly does justice to the pretty.



My mom also pointed out that "This looks like that place in the vampire movie" (Twilight is also set in Washington) and I had to spend the entire span of the opening credits thinking about whether or not to be put off completely by this observation. I decided to be a mature young woman and just let it go.


2. The idea of an "anti-procedural", where one murder case is stretched out over an entire season and every episode is one day in the detectives' lives, is admittedly fascinating. Not to mention it's an interesting change from the usual format of TV shows, crime-based or not, where you have your exposition, development, conflicts, red herrings, and your plot resolved and tied up in an average of 45 minutes. This may end up being good or not-so-good in The Killing's case, but for now I welcome the idea of getting to properly stew around in the details of this one case, all the suspects' lives, and how the investigative process affects all those involved.



3. The characters wear minimal makeup and unflattering sweaters and hoodies. I welcome pretty police officers, sure, but it is also refreshing to not have your protagonists' attractiveness be a focal part of their identities, high heels and perfect hair and all. Sarah Linden is a stoic, practical, gum-smacking woman who is excellent at her job, is a good if sometimes neglectful mom, and is in a healthy long-distance relationship. None of these things take precedence over the other ; she isn't more mother than detective, or vice versa, if that makes sense. And best of all, there is exactly zero sexual tension between her and partner, Stephen Holder. There is nothing coy, flirty or anything resembling repressed attraction here, because that is not what the show is about, and the characters seem to have more to offer than that. The question of will they/ won't they never comes up, because the answer is thrown at you first ; they won't.



4. The pace is slow-burning, or maybe even glacial, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that I was never outright bored at any point. It's a good thing the premiere was a double episode, because it takes quite a while to get properly invested ; the body is only discovered at the end of the pilot episode. For such a slow-moving show, it succeeds well enough in holding my attention, and I must admit I was quite impressed at a couple of the revelations that came at the end of the second episode - one of them was worthy of a jaw-drop and a "No waaaaaaaaaaaaaay!".


5. It's probably a good thing I have never seen the original Danish series, because judging by how good everyone says it is, I'd be a lot less impressed with the US version (which apparently declines in quality with each episode, if the majority of reviews are to be believed). Then again, I am seriously considering just watching it all online, because Malaysian TV will censor all the good parts. I'm convinced I already missed out on a scene in which Holder flashes the middle finger at a junkie on the street. It's probably not a vital- to-the-plot type of moment, but it's the small things that make a difference, I find. Damn you, censorship.


6. Joel Kinnaman. Hi. I can't tell if it's personal bias, but this guy is somehow capable of making an undoubtedly skeevy and more than a little creepy character incredibly compelling to watch. Something is so definitely up with Stephen Holder, and I can't wait to find out what it is. So yes, hella great acting. Please go make more movies or something and get slightly more famous so I won't have to look at the same bunch of pictures every time I google image search you, and trust me when I say I've been doing that quite a bit lately.



Why don't you come over here and tell me all about your tattoos, Joel? I'll let you take off your clothes in my house and everything.

Decisions, Decisions.

Next semester, I will have enough credit hours to take up a few extra, unrelated courses, and I am seriously considering making room for a language class. This is naturally a big decision, considering the level of commitment it is going to take to learn how to speak, read and write a foreign tongue from scratch. So I've drawn up a little list to help me decide which sexy foreign language would be the best option.

French

• If I am not greatly mistaken, this is one of the most widely spoken languages in Europe and it would be a natural advantage if I ever decide to go on a backpacking trip around the continent.
  
• I would increase my knowledge and ability of speaking French beyond adding "le" to the beginning of every other English word in conversation (which, admittedly, is very funny, but also not very classy).
• Think also of all the great French philosophers ; Sartre and Comte, just to name a couple. I'd be able to read their works in the original French, and then you know, show off.
  
• And then one day when I'm out ordering baguettes for breakfast in some chic French bakery, some sexy French dude will notice me, and we will get French married and have sex forever. And by French dude I mean him ;
  
  
  Smoking is so le chic and le ladyboner-inducing when the French do it.
  
• And if it doesn't work out with the French dude, there is always Canada.

Italian

• Pasta!
• Go backpacking. Impress sexy Italian dude with my linguistic abilities. Acquire sexy Italian dude.
  
  
  
  So Paolo Nutini is technically Scottish by nationality, but really. Such trivialities.
  
  

German

• I've heard a lot about German being a rather aesthetically unpleasing language ; Sylvia Plath likened it to "barbed wire" in one of the poems we studied last semester, and I remember someone else having written that the language sounded like a typewriter eating aluminium. But I've always been fascinated by how similar it is to English, which could also be an advantage when it comes to learning vocabulary.
  
• Also, backpack around Germany. Acquire sexy German dude.
  Or if I'm really lucky, the entire German national Under-21 football squad. I'm pretty sure all of them are over 18 at least. I think.
  
  
  Or I'll settle for Michael Fassbender. Really, it's no trouble. No trouble at all.
  Also it has come to my recent attention that I apparently have a cigarette smoke kink. Damn all these hot famous people and their bad habits.
  

Spanish

• You know the drill by now, yes? Travel Spain, perhaps South America. Acquire sexy Spanish dude. I don't really care about the all the Spanish-language literature I could be reading (go fly a kite, Pablo Neruda).
  

Meet Xabi Alonso ; footballer, all-round classy motherfucker, my favourite Spanish person ever, and world champion nonchalant shirt-cuffs-adjusting/watch-promoting wall-leaner. I am coming for you with my Spanishes, Xabi.


Russian

• I've heard that learning the Cyrillic alphabet can be a real bitch, but think about how inspired I'd be to actually finish Anna Karenina, and then read it in its original language. Maybe those long-ass names won't annoy me so much, either. Seriously Tolstoy/translators, after the 35th time you've referred to Sergius Ivanich Koznyshev by his full name, I think we'd already have a pretty good grasp on who he is, thanks.
• Come to think of it, there's a barrel of other Russians to be tackled as well ; Nabokov, Dostoevsky, Chekhov. So in terms of Teh Literatures, there's plenty that learning Russian could do to enhance my learning experiences.
  
• Also ; travel Russia, acquire sexy Russian dude.
  

Misha Collins. American, but Russian enough. Which means I'll just have to travel Chicago or wherever it is he's living now.


Japanese

• This would obviously be the toughest, with Japanese really having the least similarity with any other language I already speak. Not to mention having to learn to write from scratch too ; I dumped a Mandarin class halfway once, being the good 10-year old coward I was back then. Tonal languages are way intimidating, you guys.
  
• Traveling around Japan would be awkward, since I would be presumably be the only brown person around for miles, but my ability to speak the language may make things like acquiring sexy Japanese dudes much easier.
  
  
  Takeshi Kaneshiro, who is technically half-Taiwanese, but it's a good thing we're not keeping score or anything. Hotness is universal after all.
  
  
  
  So this really hasn't helped much with the decision-making, to be honest. But at least we all got some global-flavoured eye candy, am I right? Right. You're welcome.
  
  

BAP's 20 Favourite Albums Of 2011 So Far, Which Includes Many Albums Released In 2010, But I Don't Care Because I Am A Fearless Bastard.

It's half-year music list season! And yes, 20 is a lot. The first few months of the year were a godsend in terms of crazy good music, and it will be interesting to see how many of these records age well enough to hold their spots in my end-of-year list. As usual, this is arranged in no particular order.


21 , Adele
There are so many moments in this record which remind me strongly of a female Paolo Nutini (especially her inflections) and I must say I approve muchly. This classy lady has certainly set herself apart from the Duffys and Winehouses aplenty in the music scene. Also I wish I were the kind of 21-year old to sit down and write a Grammy-winning album in my free time. WTF talented kids. Stop making me look inadequate.






Hunger And Thirst, Typhoon
A quirky little band made up of anywhere between 7 and 17 members (I lost count), this album is a treasure trove of handclaps and massive folkjammy sing-alongs, and at least 4 songs made cry a little bit. Damn the emotional manipulation.





Sidewalks, Matt & Kim
So cute. Matt & Kim have gone for a more polished, produced sound this time, and it's like I'm one of the few people who don't find this a big deal. They still sound great, everything is catchy as hell, and it wonderfully evokes the feeling of walking down busy sidewalks on sunny days.





Suck It And See, Arctic Monkeys
I was one of the many who flat out hated the Monkeys' last release, Humbug (and it really was Humbug in every sense of the word). So you can only imagine my pure, unadulterated joy when I discovered that the new Arctic Monkeys record is the most perfectest possible combination of their old selves and their desire to break new musical ground ; the witty, pithy, sharp-as-tacks wordsmithery of Alex Turner meshes wonderfully with the more 60s psychedelic leanings of Humbug. And it is beautiful, and it makes me so happy I want to cry just thinking about how the Arctic Monkeys have made me fall in love with them all over again. I'll even go so far as to say that the title track (despite the crude-sounding name) may actually be the most gorgeous thing they've ever put to record. Well played, Monkeys. Well played. I'm all yours again.





No Color , The Dodos
It is lovely to see The Dodos scale back and return to their simpler, prettier roots of jangly guitar, aggressive frantic percussion and lilting melodies. Not to mention they've enlisted the eternal goddess Neko Case on backing vocals duty. It's noisy, foot-tappy, joyful and pretty much perfection.





King Of Limbs , Radiohead
This album was initially way too experimental for my tastes, having been spoiled by the relative accessibility of In Rainbows. But as the case always is with me and Radiohead, all it took was a few extra months for the songs to grow on me, and what do you know, Radiohead made my list. Again.





Wounded Rhymes, Lykke Li
If I had to pick out an early favourite for my personal album of the year, this would probably be it. Gone is the cutesy Lykke Li of the past ; now she's sharp, edgy, hurt, and full of Womyn Rage. Her voice is massive and soaring, even if the songs are not always lyrically spectacular. The songs are by turn aggressively sexual and painfully tender, and it's one of those times when I understand what it means when it is said that someone bleeds for their art. Don't let the synths fool you. Wounded rhymes, indeed.






Early In The Morning, James Vincent McMorrow
Beardy man who pulled of a Bon Iver, locked himself up in a cabin somewhere in the Irish countryside, and wrote a bunch of really pretty heartbreaky falsetto-ey songs. He is exceedingly poppy-sounding for a man with so much beard, but he already has brownie points for not making me fall asleep the first few times I gave his album a spin.





Bon Iver Bon Iver , Bon Iver
It's Bon Iver, bitches. Dig it or get out.





Mighty EP, Lord Huron
I don't know what sort of folk under which you'd categorize this, but I always get the impression of a bunch of happy animals frolicking around a watering hole in Africa. Also, it is beardy. Very beardy. If this is just the EP then I await with much anticipatory anticipation for the full-length release.





Everything Is Saved , David Wax Museum
Irresistibly infectious countrified folk rock with large doses of Mexican influences and enough handclaps to make anyone giddy. Also they use a donkey's jawbone as part of their percussion because that's not creepy at all.

The David Wax Museum - Yes, Maria, Yes by theericschuman



Romance Is Boring, Los Campesinos!
I'm suprised at how little love this record has been getting since its release in early 2010. It's absolutely fierce and bursting with the energy of drunken lovesick youth, machine-gunned lyrics about vodka vomit and orgasms (among other things) and violently melodic explosions of delicious indie rock sounds. It's no wonder they insist on the exclamation mark in their name ; they do absolutely nothing halfway, and it's spectacular.

Los Campesinos! - The Sea Is A Good Place To Think Of The Future by Arts & Crafts



Go Tell Fire To The Mountain , WU LYF
The weird shouty Kings Of Leon-ish vocals (you know what I mean) kind of rubbed me the wrong way at first, but I have learned to embrace the glorious messiness of it all. At times this record resembles some sort of exhilarating sonic collage of voices and echoey instruments rather than a straightforward piece of music, but it's weird and different and most importantly, fun.





Departing , The Rural Alberta Advantage
To them haters who have been saying how this is nowhere near as good as Hometowns, you are not right. Because this is some good shit right here [although admittedly I'd like to hear more harmonies with Amy Cole].





Love Remains , How To Dress Well
Not being much into R&B , I was rather dubious about Tom Krell's music at first. The fact that Pitchfork was drooling all over him didn't do much to change my mind either. But I am glad I eventually did, because this is sexy, stripped back, ethereal and completely addictive.





Mysterious Power, Ezra Furman & The Harpoons
Armed with his trusty harmonica and guitar, the eternally college-aged and angsty Ezra Furman returns with a set of songs that are everything we expect of him ; noisy, poignant, witty and far more intelligent than his years.





Smoke Ring For My Halo, Kurt Vile
This just makes me want to grow my hair out even more and wear baggy clothes and chill out in the back of a tour bus with a cigarette and some Kafka and talk about intelligent shit like postmodernism. Hells yeah, stoner folk jams.





Epic, Sharon van Etten
Utterly gorgeous and haunting and painful and liberating, and the only thing wrong with it is that there are only 7 tracks. MORE, Sharon, MORE.





Fading Parade, Papercuts
This is a strange one, because apart from Do What You Will (which is a terrific cut, by the way), I'd be hard-pressed to remember what any of the other songs sound like unless I'm actually listening to them. So maybe it's not really the kind of thing that sticks or makes an impression beyond vague memories of reverb-drenched melodies and breathy soaring vocals and dreaminess, and despite all that I still kind of adore this album. It remains to be seen whether or not I'll still want these songs in my music library by the end of the year, but for now it's all good.






James Blake , James Blake
So James Blake's voice is ridiculously sexy, let's establish that first. It's definitely the one thing that kept me invested in this odd collection of sampled beats and loops and endlessly repeated words and unclear structures and long gaps within songs, filled with nothing but silence. Bald-faced, audacious silence. After a few listens though, it becomes rather fascinating. Like The XX, this dude gets that sometimes the empty, audio-free spaces are just as important as actual sound. It also feels incredibly light and refreshing after plunging through albums by so many bands determined to play as many instruments as humanly possible per song (not that I'm complaining, but it's a nice change).







Also James, there is no limit to my love. So feel free to come over anytime and we can make sweet sweet Pitchfork-approved dubstep together.

Fassbending. So Much Fassbending.

Potential SPOILERS for the recently released X-Men : First Class


Here is my overall impression of the film.





Hnnnggguuuuuuhhhh.



Here are some of my other thoughts about the film, but with more words.

1. Michael Fassbender and James McAvoy, two of my favourite British men ever, in the same film. It is still rather odd to see them as leading men in a summer blockbuster comic book movie, and part of my brain refuses to accept it. But still. Fassbender. McAvoy. Together. McBendering. Fassavoying. It's too much for a girl to take. Both of them are easily the backbone of the film, and carry the plot and the entire supporting cast effortlessly, while delivering fabulous individual performances and having mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad chemistry with each other. Acting-wise, totally solid.



2. Speaking of mad, mad, mad, mad ,mad chemistry, the gay subtext within the Charles Xavier- Erik Lensherr friendship (intentional, according to the screenwriters) stopped being subtext and became plain text about 12 seconds after the title card. Even James McAvoy in an interview expressed mock surprise that the two didn't simply get married by the end. I can attest to the fact that he's not exaggerating; the Erik/Charles slash fiction pretty much writes itself.


You see? I mean sure, there's a winged topless woman in front of them, but they are in bed together. As if the Internet needs any more encouragement than that.



3. The entire thing could have just been Michael Fassbender Wears Nice Suits And Kills Nazis While Speaking Four Languages And Doing Funny Things To My Ladyparts, and I would have been just as happy. Happier, in fact.

4. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what the plot was - it wasn't the strongest of storylines but it served its purpose, I suppose. Russians something something CIA something Cuban Missile Crisis something something mutants are DIFFERENT something something January Jones' boobs something. The important thing was that it didn't feel contrived or overly-hammed up, and more importantly, it was a heck of a lot of fun.
But most importantestly (this is now a real word, okay?), Michael Fassbender sexes sexily around the X-mansion, wearing a turtleneck. Of SEX.



5. The women in the movie aren't exactly portrayed in the best light. CIA agent Moira McTaggart is down to her bra and panties within seconds of the audience meeting her (but guys, those were her government-approved stripper club stakeout clothes, they were for WORK dammit), January Jones did nothing but walk around in tight suits with her chest hanging out. The mutant Angel chooses to join the "bad guys" almost as soon as her character is established, which means she had pretty much no lines or any development for the rest of the movie.And then there was that line about why women shouldn't be in the CIA. It's hard to tell if stuff like this was meant to reflect the rampant misogyny of the story's 1960s setting, or if it's just what it is - blatant sexism that's present in nearly all forms of modern media which goes unnoticed so much of the time. But let's forget about all that because here is Michael Fassbender in a suit again.




6. I have not seen a single episode of Mad Men, and therefore cannot comment on January Jones' acting in that show, but holy crap was she completely wooden and uncharismatic and unappealing as Emma Frost. She had a couple of pretty snarky lines that would have worked wonderfully if delivered well, but meh. But that's okay though, because while January Jones was not-acting, Michael Fassbender was providing enough intensity, complexity, vulnerability and charisma to run a nuclear power plant. If you could run a nuclear power plant on intensity, complexity, vulnerability and charisma, that is.


And on top of all that, he was also providing the HOT. Such selfless talent.



7. As Grace pointed out, the so-called villains in this instalment were one-dimensional, paper-thin and completely dispensable. Kevin Bacon's evil ex-Nazi character started off with promise but by the end had been reduced to the cartoonish "let's blow up the world" brand of super villain. His minions fared much much worse - they barely had any lines, and I don't think anyone so much as mentioned Riptide's name.



8. One-note bad guys aside, this film does a great job of fleshing out Magneto's character and origin story (cause let's face it, this is Michael Fassbender's movie and everyone else is there to be pretty wallpaper [except McAvoy, he co-owns this movie. And my heart]). Wait, what? Oh yes, this film does a great job of fleshing out Magneto's character and origin story in a way that made him somehow sympathetic and also not entirely evil/wrong. His Holocaust experiences and the way they shaped his future bitterness, anger, and his vengeful nature did not feel contrived or overdone in the slightest. And where the previous X-Mens seemed fairly contented to leave us with the Professor X = Bald and Good/Magneto = Caped and Bad dynamic, this one gives us more shades of grey, and spade upon spade of sexy.


Fassy darling, you seem to have forgotten your shoes. Don't worry though, I'll help you put them on, so you don't have to stop that intense-staring-into-the-vaguely-off-camera-distance thing you're doing so well there.


9. The focus is placed more on making it a character study of Erik Lensherr and Charles Xavier, and not so much on the flashy CGI or explosions. However, the special effects, when they did show up, were effective and suitably dignified with the proper dosage of badassitude. This scene with the missiles, for instance, was crazy hot.


I don't know how much it had to with the hundreds of phallic weapons dangling in the air right in front of him, or the fact that in this particular scene Michael Fassbender suddenly develops a very prominent Irish accent broad enough to drive several trucks through, but I wanted to bone him so hard at that moment, unflattering helmet or not.

10. I can't think of anything else to say, so here's some more Fassbender. It is a truly great man indeed, who can steal the boiling, frothing oceans of my lust away from James McAvoy.



Sweet Jesus help me.


In conclusion:

Fassbender.

Well okay, in all seriousness, X-Men : First Class, while it has its share of flaws, is a tremendous amount of fun, and in no way a waste of a couple of hours and fourteen bucks. It definitely surpasses it predecessors in terms of quality and storytelling (and hotness) and if any sequels are indeed planned, I for one will be looking forward to them. Also, Fassbender. All fangirl-style objectification aside, the man is a ridiculously good actor, and it's nice to see him (and McAvoy) get some major recognition from the masses, so people can cast him in more movies and I can go sit in dark cinemas and squeal (inwardly) for many years to come.

Excuse me while I just sit here and swoon a thousand times over.

Just a quick afterthought ; another thing that really bugged me was how Charles Xavier had to put two fingers to his temple to let us know every time he was using his mad mutant psychic skillz. Someone needs to come up with a new way for telepaths to do their telepathing, because way to be subtle, Captain Obvious.

After-afterthought : How is it that nobody in Hollywood has cottoned on to the undeniable truth that Fassbender needs to be the next James Bond? Because if he were, I would actually watch one of those damned movies. Many times. In a row. Also someone should appoint me as Head Boss Queen Leader of Hollywood because no one in that town knows what they're doing.