Presenting an assembly-line floorfiller from the early ’90s heyday of Bitch-Can’t-Sing Italo House that became a dance chart Number 1 smash and a gay club staple thanks to its perfectly-balanced piecemeal design: typically ace production by super producer Gianfranco Bortolotti, some seriously ballsy sampling, a pulsating bass line worthy of Bomb The Bass, hilariously inept lip-synching, then-innovative video effects, and an unintelligible chorus ranking up there with Manfred Mann’s “Blinded By The Light” — interpreted as anything and everything from “Peter Pan had a plan!” to “Take a perv at my pants!”

Nensha, bitches.

It’s a term I tangentially referred to in an earlier post this month, and a theory I’m frankly fascinated with.

Its essence is this: the human mind with all its untapped power has the ability to psychically impress or burn an image into our physical reality, and thus alter it irrevocably. Post-War Japanese researchers devoted much effort into proving its existence — it would later serve as the basis for the nation’s much-praised film Ringu and its equally effective American remake The Ring — but the doctrine was for decades deemed merely a The Men Who Stare At Goats-type of new age hokum. A flight of fantasy. A failure.

All that changed in 1999 when Nensha was revealed to be a wholly factual (and utterly terrifying) phenomenon brought about not to revolutionize telecommunications or create a super soldier, but from sheer corporate music industry greed and folly.

An affront to Nature of the highest order. (read the full article)

“Arcing ropes of jism.” How could I not open my song of praise to Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme and not feature that description? I had to work it in somehow.

Sure, flying jism is a visual you’d associate with a porn site — but not a Joe Cocker song. And yet that’s the way Homme — the sexy and smart frontdude for the Queens — describes his reaction to a certain snare drum sound that he’s been “chasing” (to mimic and record) ever since he heard it on the Cocker tune.

The jism quote was featured in a recent Pitchfork interview that celebrates the release of the Queen’s exhilarating new album Era Vulgaris.

The title is Latin for “common era.” But don’t take that as an arty snub against our culture’s Last Days cluster fuck. Homme enjoys the times we’re all wallowing in, and considers the current zeitgeist a character building challenge — or as he puts it: (read the full article)

“Whenever I see twins,” Marcel Proust wrote, ” I feel thrown off balance, like nature is trying to sell me a pattern.”

Which may be why Jacob — or is it Joshua? — at left, decided to dye his hair.

The Miller boys are the gay twins that comprise the bubblegum duo Nemesis – openly gay, which, considering the teenybopper demo they’re aiming at, is pretty extraordinary.

For that reason, and also the fact that they’re out Jehovah Witnesses — a faith that severely shuns its gay members — they are currently the subject of a reality show on the gay-themed Logo channel.

All of which is trilling beyond belief, of course, but let’s get back to our burning question:

Which twin has the Toni? Which twin is rocking the outrageous dye job? That was what Radar online wanted to know in a recent interview.

“That would be Jacob,” said the one with the raven black hair. “Naturally, it’s Josh,” insisted the artfully streaked blond. This was the sort of con job the twins had pulled on outsiders since they were teens, making you guess, for instance , if you were really dating the one you thought you were.

As it turned out, the blond one, Jacob, is the faker. “We were 16 years old in Montana,” confessed Jacob. “We did a hair show, and the salon colored my hair blond.”

Currently the darlings of the gay press, the Miller boys discussed how they came out to each other in an extensive Radar interview, part of which we excerpt below: (read the full article)

They’re written for teenage girls, right? (Over 18, of course.)

For little pink things with pink cell phones text-messaging each other about parties and the proper way to give a blowjob (in a nutshell, girls, watch the teeth. Men are real crybabies about shit like that.)

Yet why do gay men — fully grown ones well, well out of their late-onset teens (which for a gay man means he’s about 30) — why do gay guys often quote these twiddling, diddling lyrics at you like they are bridging some shimmering chasm of profundity, which mere words, un-levitated by string sections, could never span?

Why, you chucklehead 30-year-olds — why?

And why do the same soppy lyrics crop up in farewell letters and over long-distance phone lines and in coffee shops where first-lovers stare sadly– and with such large, glistening corneas — into each other’s eyes?

Must the lyrics always come from the songs of innocence, never the songs of experience? Never from say, that snappy little toe-tapper by Peggy Lee, Is That All There Is? (read the full article)

As Henry James once noted: “Summer afternoon. Summer afternoon … the two most beautiful words in the English language.”

‘Tis true: Time and light elongate, clothing slides off, the air gets lazy, breezy — and so do I.

Here are four discs guaranteed to provide the perfect soundtrack for an unwound summer. Two are new, while the others I’ve pulled from storage because summer just wouldn’t be summer without them. (read the full article)