rebecca LANDO

Otis Redding - (Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay

It doesn’t matter where you are or how you’re feeling. There is no moment in life that this song wasn’t written for. 2:40 of perfection.

Played 6434 times

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copycats:

Unbreak My Heart by Weezer
originally by Toni Braxton

90s appreciation appreciates the 90s.

Also this is not that great but it’s better than anything Weezer’s put out in, oh, 8 years at least.

Played 2674 times

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copycats:

Fallin’ Slowly by wait what
Falling Slowly by The Swell Season vs. Fallin by Jay-Z 

Head over to wait what’s bandcamp & name your own price for the This Is Real Life Mixtape. All profits from this record go to 826 Valencia to help youth writing, so your money will go there if you’re feeling charitable.

 You may recall wait what’s first mixtape The notorious xx from last year.

track via mcdavis

surprisingly good.

Played 1150 times

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mills:

Sergei Rachmaninoff playing his Prélude in C Sharp Minor, Op. 3, No. 2.

Rachmaninoff recorded many of his compositions on piano rolls -then the most accurate way to capture and reproduce piano performance- during the first decades of the 20th century. This piece, which he wrote when just 19 years old, was committed to roll between 1919 and 1929.

Many composers thusly established authoritative versions of their work before audio recording and reproduction technology obsolesced the player piano. Just over two years ago, Topherchris posted George Gershwin’s piano-roll-recorded performance of his famous Rhapsody in Blue, used so memorably in Woody Allen’s Manhattan.

The clarity of this recording is as stunning as the track.

Played 410 times

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ericnelson:

beautifulordinaire:

Lay Lady Lay - Bob Dylan

(via liftyrskinnyfists)

molls:

(via topherchris)

You cannot deny the 90s summer jamz. Happy 4th!

meaghano:

Walk Away Renee - Elliott Smith
originally by The Left Banke

(via sometimesagreatnotion,copycats)

gotagirlcrush:

Got A Girl Crush On: anything (and everything) Kathleen Hanna

lowbrowbrilliant:

Kathleen Hanna - I Wish I Was Him (Noise Addict cover)

I fucking love this song. Kathleen Hanna covering a Noise Addict - takes on a whole different meaning when sung by a woman. 

Favorite lyrics:

It may sound stupid when I say it out loud
Like I’m just jealous of his silver cloud
He looks real good he drinks diet Coke
He gets his NME’s sent by air and not boat
I wish I was him

He’s got six different flannel shirts
Airwalks not thongs
He even understands the words to Pavement songs

I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to be mean
But he plays guitar much faster than me

Played 690 times

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kevin:

moderation:

Lil’ Wayne v. The Office Theme Song

(via salacious sound & fabledfriction)

amazing.

omg. win of the day.

krispayne:

“Taxman” - The Beatles

Happy 415, y’all.

Janet Jackson - That’s the Way Love Goes

A summer dusk feels permanent until you realize suddenly the sky is dark. The citronella torches burning. Dixie cups of bug juice with real, unfortunate bug corpses littering the surface. 

Gap jean shorts with the trims deliberately frayed; tube tops, the occasional oversized t-shirt hoisted above a pierced belly button with a side-tie. Hair high in scrunchies. Birkenstocks your older brother got you on his trip to actual Israel last summer. Boys in baggy Gap polos, below-knee khaki Gap shorts held up by  woven leather Gap belts. Three cracked asphalt tennis courts, nets down, grubby ground exhaling the day’s heat, a writhing, living ad for a ubiquitous clothing chain. Since 1969 or go lean against the chain-link, outcast.

Saturday nights are societal rule breakers. Shabbat is over; you’ve paid your weekly penance, mandatory Shabbat services, wearing only white, mumbling along to the Sh’ma, hoping Brad from the lake or Irish Mick from soccer will be assigned to serve your cabin’s table at dinner. Knowing you’ll be the last, somehow forever every Saturday every summer, to rise at the end of the meal. You’ll be bussing the whole table while your Gap-clad cabinmates dash on long tan legs for the swinging screen doors, find the boys they kiss and the older girls they emulate on the trek up Heart Attack Hill to the tennis courts. You’ll wipe chicken grease from your hands, avoid the condescending eyes of the Yugo kitchen crew in their paper aprons, hustle out alone as Robbie or Big Drew or maybe Mel-Co kicks off the dance with a feedback-heavy call to action from the old emcee set up.

You cannot dance, and you know it. But you are too young to always care. Some songs you’d never listen to on your Walkman late at night in your short-straw top bunk. But, week after week, they pull you from your crossed-arm observatory against the taut chain-link and into the mass of children approximating bump’n’grinds, an older, foreign grace that looks real. You slide in, find a dense congealment of the other 11 year old. Your hips are rigid and jerky, despite the off-season practice in front of your bedroom mirror. But you know all the words to the song, to every song, an uncanny skill and your one very small saving grace. 

Citronella burns, the sky darkens. Mosquitos barnstorm at the tennis court’s perimeter, biding time.