milo miles

Critic Milo Miles takes a listen to the latest album from Brazilian drummer Cyro Baptista: “The ideal of blending diverse styles never disappeared. One of the most enduring proponents is percussionist and bandleader Cyro Baptista. He’s from Brazil, but his real native land is the recording studio and on stage. Baptista is a regular collaborator with John Zorn and, like Zorn, you never know quite what his records are going to sound like. Indeed, Caym, Baptista’s latest project with his group Banquet of the Spirits, uses a dozen themes written by Zorn as starting points. But all the tracks take off in unpredictable, though satisfying, directions.”

anonymous asked:

"Oh gracious!" Milo rolled his eyes in pleasure, swaying his hips to each wet embrace. "Your beard makes me feel like my cock's entwined in wire, but it rather turns me on" Milo whispered. "Jesus Miles" Gavin spat it out, using his hands. "Can you do anything to make yourself sound more feminine so I feel like i'm not fucking some tranny? It's kinda killing my boner." "Oh, shoot...." Milo sighed, running a hand through the other man's brown locks. "I guess I won't let you trump my asshole 2nite"

i hate you

Fresh Air critic Milo Miles reviews Lizzo’s album Big Grrrl Small World

“Early last year, the reunion tour of Sleater-Kinney was the music show to see in Boston. But when I first heard the opening act was “Lizzo,” my response was “who’s that?” Turned out Lizzo was a vivacious and high-energy alt-rapper who bounded on to the stage and dominated it with harmony vocals and percussion from DJ Sophia Eris, who was sometimes almost a co-star. Lizzo flowed from raps to soul testifying to captivating spiels about food, sex, partying and not taking guff from nobody. The big hooks of numbers like “Batches & Cookies”  from her 2013 debut Lizzobangers and Lizzo’s flair for prompting audience sing-along and promoting hard-nosed optimism made her a wondrous opening act. She left the stage with the audience fired up and full of brand-new Lizzo fans.”

I had a dream last night that Miles was going to go face off with General Monroe on his own when Monroe showed up in the woods alone after I guess finding out where they were.

So it’s this intense scene where Bass is just standing there in full uniform completely still as he waits for Miles to slowly walk over and the suspense is building up and then Miles stops right in front of him, closer than is necessary because he’s clearly trying to be intimidating.

But then they both look down and they’re blatantly wearing two different boots each and it goes immediately from intense and suspenseful of is Miles going to turn himself in or kill Monroe or get himself killed or both to them bickering over who stole whose shoe. And like clearly they’ve both just been wandering around in mismatched boots since Miles left the militia (I don’t know, maybe he got dressed drunk and in the dark and in a rush that day?). And with Miles I could see not having an opportunity to find a different, matching pair of boots while on the run, especially ones that would fit better and not just bother his feet that have at least adjusted to walking all day in the mismatched ones (and now I’m picturing Miles yanking the boots off of every guy they kill along the way trying to get Danny back and then when they don’t fit being like dammit, why can’t he send someone with reasonably sized feet after me?). But I cannot get over the fact that President fucking Monroe couldn’t find another fucking pair of shoes in all that time. Clearly the dude was holding onto Miles by keeping his boot with him at all times (and maybe as a potential hostage like hey Miles, you can have your boot back if you come back and be a general again).

So anyways they both realize where there other boot has been and start bickering about who took whose boot, etc. Then they come to an agreement like okay, fine. We’ll both just take the shoe that isn’t ours off and trade and this is Bass at his prime negotiating skills as leader of the entire freaking republic. So Miles agrees and they both take the other’s boot off and Bass hands Miles his back. Miles pretends like he’s handing Bass’s over and at the last second pulls it back again and then throws it super far into a swamp. He just fucking launches it into the swamp and even if Bass can somehow get to exactly where it is, the boot is still going to be stuck deep in the mud at the bottom and Bass would just get himself stuck so there’s no way he is actually getting his shoe back. So then Miles puts his own boot back on while Bass just stands there, one foot in a boot and one foot bootless, staring out at the swamp.

And I cannot get over how this dream was simultaneously super stupid and yet so in character.

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Music critic Milo Miles has a review of Moving On Up a Little Higher, new album of music by Mahalia Jackson. It contains 22 never-released tracks from the 1940s and ‘50s when Jackson became the most famous gospel singer in the world: 

In the ‘50s and early ‘60s, even music dabblers knew that Elvis Presley was rock and roll, Ray Charles was soul and Mahalia Jackson was gospel. The latter two were a particularly apt king and queen because Ray Charles infused gospel into rhythm-and-blues to produce soul and New Orleans native Mahalia Jackson brought enormous blues inflection and passion to gospel. She’s a clear church-music descendant of Bessie Smith.

Sadly, Jackson left this world behind in 1972, at only age 59, and by the time I began to listen to her seriously, about a decade later, both Jackson and gospel in general had faded almost offstage in American music. She spent much of her career on Columbia records and certainly by the second half of her tenure there in the ‘60s, her voice and expressive rapture had diminished. It was possible to have the heretical thought: was Jackson most famous because she championed Martin Luther King Jr. and civil rights and was richly entertaining on TV?

The new Moving on Up a Little Higher, produced and selected by gospel authority Anthony Heilbut, banishes that thought to the outer darkness.