I don’t know where this phrase came from, but along the lines of family nicknames for pacifiers and variations on spaghetti with leftovers in it, I grew up with the line “lose your bones.” It didn’t mean osteoporosis; that would have been sad. It was used as a sort of catchall for a mixture of punchy and silly feelings, like when you’re stuck in a stalled elevator and “Muskrat Love” comes on twice in a row, or when you’re eating dinner and you can hear someone’s dentures clicking and you look down and your slippery shrimp suddenly seems way too slippery and almost grotesque. You get the giggles against your will. In an SNL context it’s a pleasurable sensation: Stefon’s visits are bone thieves, and so was Louis C.K.’s “Last Call” and many of the assorted oddities (thanks, Twitter, for reminding me) of the past 38 seasons. I had big hopes for Jamie Foxx’s gig this past weekend, I really did. I wanted to hold on to my bones as they became long, white, quivery milkshakes; unfortunately, the first half of the show was a disappointment, and I was kind of considering calling in sleepy on this recap because things weren’t looking too good. It wasn’t Foxx’s fault, and I was actually impressed by the fact that he was featured so prominently (in "Weekend Update" and pre-recorded shorts as well as sketches): The fault lies somewhere between “Bitch, What’s the Answer?” and Mrs. Claus on "Update." I know a lot of you liked Mrs. Claus, but I got stuck on “milkfarts” and my face got stuck like this. I’m glad I kept watching, though, because there were some good sketches late in the game (“Dylan McDermott or Dermot Mulroney,” Swarovski crystals hawked by hard-living former porn stars, and the bizarre Maine bayou courtroom hybrid). Plus Foxx as an angry Ding Dong (“you can call me Dong”). Djing Djong unchained!
Every week, Hollywood Prospectus editor and masochistically devoted mainstream-radio listener Emily Yoshida will pick an aging Top 40 hit she has heard enough times to render the song meaningless and thus likely to inspire otherwise inaccessible epiphanies.
"It goes beyond the realm of just a relationship between man and woman … this is understanding what it is to allow another person to get close enough to you to teach you how to love yourself. This song, if taken care of the right way, could help the world!" — Shaffer Chimere Smith, via a press release for his fifth studio album, R.E.D.
"Is Ne-Yo implying that once I learn to love myself he'll stop loving me? Kinda messed up :/" — Emily Yoshida, via Twitter.com
Welcome to the Overplayed Song of the Week. Every week, Hollywood Prospectus editor and masochistically devoted mainstream radio listener Emily Yoshida will pick an aging Top 40 hit that she has heard enough times to render the song meaningless, and thus likely to inspire otherwise inaccessible epiphanies.
The thing really ought to be done, preferably in an expedient manner.
Hey, I can get onboard with that message. This song is made for two things: running on a treadmill, and flailing around at a club or house party once everyone quits pretending and trades out Grimes for Britney and Ne-Yo. Its flimsiness becomes apparent in any situation when you can't distract yourself with physical movement. If I'm being cynical, I'd say this song was also made for a third thing: Ad licensing. There are no swears. It could be about virtually anything, like drinking Pepsi or playing World of Warcraft. Unlike that other inescapable club jam featuring Ne-Yo, Pitbull's "Tonight," there's no exhortation to let someone take advantage of you, though if you wanted to make it about that, you certainly could.
Tracy Flick, Captain Kirk, and Bane make up the points of a love triangle in this broad action-comedy from director McG. Fill up on heavy artillery, CGI schlock, and neck-swiveling double takes while Chelsea Handler salts the rim with her patented zingers about being slutty and drunk. I'll probably watch this eventually, but it should be said that I would watch a movie of Tom Hardy's beard growing for two hours (This Means Fur).
Usher works his falsetto as he teams up with Diplo, who outfits this post-grown and sexy jam with sad electronic growls. Taking cues from minimal techno and The Weeknd's dark down-tempo R&B, "Climax" is a quiet storm that is less about climaxing, more about edgeplay on a late-night express train to nowhere. Grade: A Best YouTube Comment: "whenever I hear this song I look to the nearest person to me and look them in the eyes and whisper 'body roll,' then I body roll like nobody's business." — jmkeo44
If, like most of us, you spent your Sunday night watching Billy Crystal viciously mock Christopher Plummer, then you missed — well, technically you missed Pitbull's NBA All-Star game performance, which featured Chris Brown, Ne-Yo, and what has to be at least three/fourths of Orlando's lithe, smiley-female-dancer population. But really: You missed nothing. Over 13 minutes — 13 minutes!!! — Pitbull, dressed like John Cusack in Grosse Pointe Blank, mugged ferociously, callously switching out his precious lyrics in order to better pander to the collected NBA fandom. “Orlando make it crazy! NBA All-Star weekend! Everybody put your hands up!” No thank you, Pitbull. I think I would rather wander the concourse in search of a commemorative pretzel holder. Also: You “don't play baseball” but you “hit a home run”? Who is writing your lyrics? And how extensive is that person's whippet budget?
1. Pitbull feat. Marc Anthony, "Rain Over Me"
There's currently an enormous Bud Light billboard with Pitbull on it on my street and it has seeped into my consciousness. I like this song. It's stupid and flashy. A fitting end to the Summer Of Endless Eurotrash Style Technopop. Pitbull's life's a movie. He claims Scorsese but it's clearly Brian DePalma. Grade: B
Nirvana, “Territorial Pissings”
Here is a professionally shot and edited video of Nirvana, playing “Territorial Pissings” at a show in Seattle on Halloween of 1991. It comes from the deluxe 20th anniversary reissue of Nevermind that’s out next week. It’s a tight, blistering version, but there’s nothing revelatory about it, and if you already feel inundated by the steady torrent of covers, tributes, and essays that have accompanied the album’s anniversary, we totally understand if you choose not to click. But just know this: You’ll be missing the opportunity to see Dave Grohl wearing white shorts over white long johns.
