focus: You Were a Dick by Idaho

Oh Boi-se, Idaho, what have you done here? This, the eighth offering for the Los Angeles-based group, takes the loosely-bound genre of “sadcore” to entirely new lows, but that’s not such a bad thing given its alignment with frontman Jeff Martin’s artistic intent. In fact, it encapsulates what may as well be the state capitol of this Idaho album: Irony. Despite the consistently subdued and mannerly sound, everything about You Were a Dick teems with the extreme.

For one, each composition is extremely downtrodden. It’s slower than the soundtrack to a Quaalude binge heard from the user’s perspective. It drags and sputters more than a slow-motion stutterer. Even tracks that should display a pulse (see "The Space Between") languish and enter the ears definitively dead-on-arrival. That makes the album title extremely ironic. Beneath its aggressive and confrontational façade are placid melodies and sissy-boy lyrics espousing existential ideas of love and loss. Is the operative title word Were? Is this some sort of take on "The Metamorphosis:" From man to bug, from Dick to…less evolved dick? The answer may or may not be extremely profound, but one thing is extremely obvious: this album is extremely unsatisfying.

Great, truly great, records are at once transformative and timeless. They exploit an emotional niche and magnify the sensation through memorable moments that linger long after the spinning stops. You Were a Dick accomplishes precisely half of this. Its sound is well developed and deliberate, and it could be remarkably effective if properly utilized. But it's not. Instead, an unnecessarily broad array of instruments meanders aimlessly through the sonisphere in search of something tangible to grasp, and rarely is anything found. "Weigh it Down" is a refreshing exception, but much of the album is light on structure and drifts into immediate obscurity. Genres aside, even more avant-garde artists like Flying Lotus manage to implant infectious elements into their soundscapes that reward undivided attention.

The final bit of irony here is that You Were a Dick could actually be directed at Idaho themselves. Nebulous songwriting lulls the listener into a melancholic haze that lifts with utter inconsequence and minimal takeaways. That, from a listener’s perspective, is extremely impolite.

focus: bon iver by bon iver

When Justin Vernon retreated to the confines of his father's wooded Wisconsin cabin during the winter of 2006/2007, something truly magical happened. Stricken with Mono and sinking in the tumultuous wake of a failed band and relationship, Vernon found inspiration in the surrounding ice and isolation. For Emma, Forever Ago, the 2007 album that resulted from his excursion, was deeply affecting. The circumstances and surroundings of its origins were captured and conveyed in haunting, hibernal hues. Somehow, in vexing his demons, Vernon managed to crystallize the essence of his emotion and implant it, perfectly intact, into each individual track. The process proved so therapeutic that he dubbed the project Bon Iver, an easier-to-pronounce simplification of Bon Hiver, French for "Good Winter."

The acclaim and accolades, all very much deserved, accelerated Vernon's ascent to notoriety and earned him all the typical marquees of indie stardom: sweeping tour schedules, collaborations with Kanye, and a track on the New Moon Motion Picture Soundtrack. As time passed, the whispers of doubt regarding Bon Iver's ability to follow-up with the same manner of success grew increasingly audible. This time there were expectations. Fans, budgets, and studios added variables to the simple equation of a vintage drop-tuned guitar in an inconsequential rural retreat. How would the man (now the band, for one thing) manage to rekindle that magic and avoid the common "sophomore slump" that befalls so many promising artists in similar situations?

Luckily for everyone, Vernon found the answer. To wind up at the same musical destination, he headed off in the totally opposite direction. Seven of the 10 track titles on Bon Iver's self-titled follow-up refer to cities, and an eighth, "Towers," was written about the high-rise, communal living dorms dotting the University of Wisconsin, Eau Claire campus. In terms of setting, Bon Iver couldn't have picked a more disparate motif.

Remarkably, though, the sound still exudes the vulnerability and genuineness so beautifully imbued in its predecessor. Listening to Emma, one envisions Vernon's face bathed in light next to a roaring fire, guitar in lap, as he reflects upon the flames reflected in his eyes. Troubling emotions slowly emerge as specters of himself, wailing in empathetic harmony as they are evoked and exorcised into the surrounding darkness. On Bon Iver, Vernon strolls down each city's dimly lit streets and serenades its sleeping citizens. Gradually, they awaken and accompany him through the boulevards with a rousing, ever-enhancing array of instrumentation that echoes for miles and miles. So much of the band's success is attributable to mastery of mood, and somehow, using entirely different methodologies, it's managed to replicate that feat.

Few albums are truly perfect, though, and this one is not without its flaw. For 9 songs, Bon Iver builds the type of tension and expectation typically released in some gloriously eargasmic final track. However, when the big moment arrives on closer "Beth/Rest," the result is probably not what you're hoping for or expecting. Instead of some breathtaking symphonic climax, Phil Collins busts out of the town hall with a fog-emitting keytar and marches through the city square as he overzealously plunks out a piano line dripping with his trademark synth effects. I applaud the willingness of Vernan to take a risk and go for the jugular, but this sound is too blunt an instrument for that.

Taken as a 9-track LP, Bon Iver embarks on a sustainable new direction for the band and is evidence of a successful transition from one-off wonder to durable outfit. Assuredly, when the third album drops, more people will be listening than ever before.

focus: sorry for party rocking by LMFAO

Los Angeles-based duo LMFAO first introduced the world to their brand of club-pop with the 2008 EP Party Rock. Consisting of DJ/Rapper/Producers Redfoo and SkyBlu, the group’s familial ties (as uncle and nephew, respectively) are rooted in their common relation (as son and grandson) to Berry Gordy, Jr., founder of Motown Records. The Party Rock EP was expanded to an LP of the same name in 2009, which received mixed reviews praising its feel-good frivolity and panning its distinguishable motivation: profit, not passion. “Party Rock” isn’t music that happens to be conducive to clubbing, it’s a product made explicitly to cash in on it. In that sense, it’s no different than Bacardi, glow sticks, and perilously short miniskirts.

Listening to the band’s new album, Sorry for Party Rocking, does nothing but reaffirm those points. The bigger problem, though, is that this latest offering shifts what was a tenable (if unremarkable) balance into decidedly negative territory.

The most conspicuous indicator of this trend is the album’s production. If it was, or already is, popular, LMFAO will give it a go. The vocals on "All Night Long," for example, are awash in Auto-Tune, and the majority of tracks rely upon it to a debilitating degree. Cher scored innovative points for busting it out on Believe, but that was 1998. T-Pain gets some kudos as well for sparking its proliferation in the mid-2000s, but its resurgence has already infiltrated the industry to such a nauseating extent that Jay-Z released "D.O.A (Death of Autotune)" as a single in 2009, Time declared it one of their “50 Worst Inventions” in 2010, and Wikipedia’s article on the proprietary vocoder suggests that visitors “See Also: Overproduction.” Album opener "Rock the Beat II" even devolves into dubstep. No, LMFAO, not even in jest. The whole album has been spit-shined to the point that it should be sold with tweezers for hygienic handling, and a health advisory should be prominently displayed next to its Parental counterpart.

Further magnifying its case for caution are the lyrics, which prompt a frenetic search for the nearest hazmat suit. “I’m gonna get you wet,” SkyBlu croons (through a vocoder, I might add) on "Champagne Showers," “I’m gonna make you sweat…a night you won’t forget.” As a veteran party rocker, SkyBlu should know that one, if only out of common courtesy, offers a drink before making such assertions. Elsewhere, he boasts that he’s “running through these hos like Drano,” which elicits all sorts of cringe-worthy implications and makes me wonder if the same chemical could be used to unclog his neural pathways. When the lyrics aren’t sexual, they’re stupid. On "Hot Dog," a bonus track from the iTunes Deluxe album, he spends 2:27 telling the world that if his late night drunk dog isn’t bacon-wrapped, well, by golly, he won’t pay for it. Without major label backing, LMFAO would undoubtedly be forced to take their own advice and "Put that A$$ to Work" in a 9 to 5.

The album does have one redeeming aspect preventing its plunge into epic echelons of suck, and that’s lead single "Party Rock Anthem." Lyrics aside, this song is proof of concept for their brand, proof that it can be just as infectious and blissfully brainless as the post-apartyrockalyptic zombies in the Thriller-inspired music video (which, true to form, includes blatant product placement for Dr. Dre's Beats earbuds). The drums are tight, the pulsing synth right on time, and the flow isn’t stemmed by Auto-Tune. In fact, the beats throughout the album are serviceable and may even spawn some enjoyable remixes ("One Day" comes to mind here). Still, situations like this are the reason iTunes offers singles purchases.

Sorry for Party Rocking incorporates what industry boardrooms deem marketable and manufactures it for the masses, but at least they got the anthem right. Without it, I doubt if even God himself would grant the forgiveness half-heartedly sought in its begrudging title.

3/10

spotlight: the tallest man on earth

If someone were to sneak a few of Kristian Matsson's songs onto your iPod, you probably wouldn't recognize exactly what you were getting. The first reason is that the artist would be listed as his stage name, The Tallest Man on Earth. The second is that, despite the Dylan-esque sound, sublime lyricism, and feverish finger plucking of his well-worn acoustic guitar, English isn't even his first language.

This wouldn't be the first instance of an indie outfit trying to justify its sound by suppressing its origins. Take Mumford and Sons as a comparative example. Listening to the rolling banjo, countryish harmonies, and unmistakable southern drawl flavoring lead singer Marcus Mumford's vocals, you'd assume he'd grown up down south playing on front porches in a rocking chair. My Momma always said, "Never assume, lest you make an ass out of u and me," and she'd be right. Born in California, Mumford moved to the UK when he was 6 years old and rose to prominence as part of the West London folk scene. I don't even know what that is, but color me skeptical. What's next? German country? And Mumford is all of 24 years old. His backing band (thankfully) aren't his sons. He simply tacked the last bit on as a tribute to the nepotism of small-time American business. I like the band's sound, I really do, but it lacks the authenticity to be truly great. If I want to hear that kind of music, I'll bring a jug of sweet tea through the screen door and offer a glass to someone whose tunes actually reflect local culture and life experience.

At a cursory listen, you'd assume Matsson's employing the same trick. He readily admits that his musical ambitions were fueled by his love of Dylan, and it's easy to dismiss his work as a Swedish fanboy's take on that well-worn genre. But remember what my Momma said. Look closely at the album cover for his most recent EP, Sometimes the Blues is Just a Passing Bird. That half-liter can of beer is undeniably a Carlsberg, Swedish kroner lay atop the table, and all the electrical sockets are European. If he's trying to conceal his origins, he's doing a damn poor job.

So what accounts for all the pastoral imagery evoked by his tattered voice? Surpisingly, it's his Swedish upbringing. Matsson hails from the small town of Dalarna, and the surrounding landscape probably looks remarkably like that seen through the open window behind his coffee table. Photographed from a more picturesque perspective, it's easy to imagine how life in Dalarna could make one attuned to the great outdoors. It also explains how he could have put in the practice required to become an astonishingly proficient acoustic guitarist (among other instruments): there doesn't appear to be anything else to do.



The best thing about Matsson, though, is his ability to meld talent and experience into a soft, shimmering sonic alloy. The instrumental minimalism is beautifully counterbalanced by the complexity of his arrangements. It's a musical paradox: effortless and impossible at the same time. Nowhere is this better displayed than on "Drying of the Lawns," a track from his second LP, The Wild Hunt. Upon close listen, you'll notice an alternating bass line kept in perfect tempo while higher-pitched triads are plucked on the top strings. I've tried to play along with it, and I'm convinced my hands will decay before they acquire the coordination required to replicate his patterns.

Then there's the lyrics. Scandinavians are notoriously good at English, but I don't know too many native speakers capable of crafting such emotive concepts. Take another song from The Wild Hunt, "Thousand Ways." "I have lived for ages I'm a thousand turns of tides," Matsson sings. "I'm a thousand wakes of springtime and a thousand infant cries." How many people write from God's perspective? How many could better articulate that perspective? "I'll always be blamed for the sun going down on us all," he continues. "But I'm the light in the middle of every man's fall." I could espouse an entire entry detailing the metaphysical implications of that statement. To be fair, some of his phrases occasionally delve into incoherent realms of abstraction, but his ability to cram mountains of meaning into melancholy melodies is, well, monumental.

What Matsson has done here is take the simplest of songwriting, pair it with a geriatric genre, and come out with something that is somehow new and engaging. Rather than mask his background and go faux-folk (I'm looking at you, Mumford), Matsson has integrated his experiences and created an innovative product. Even if his success somehow spawns a "West Sweden folk scene," he'll always be its forefather. As the Tallest Man on Earth, he'll simply peer outward over imitators and off to the mountains beyond.

Focus: Codes and Keys by Death Cab for Cutie

Death Cab for Cutie last cruised around the block with 2008's chart-topper Narrow Stairs, a record that furthered the band's reputation for weaving together introspective ideas and themes of romantic unfulfillment using deep blue thread. Its more experimental sound rattled fans of Transatlanticism's acoustic beauty, but the dab of dissonance was a colorful addition to the band's sonic palette.

Musically, Codes and Keys picks up exactly where Narrow Stairs left off. Those familiar with the Death Cab discography will instantly recognize several songs fused with facets of their forebears, a hint of the bridge from "Death of an Interior Decorator" blended into "Monday Morning," and melodious vocal chants imported from "Soul Meets Body" to "St. Peter's Cathedral." That's not to diminish the overall sound; Death Cab is one of the few career bands of the modern era, and they helped found the indie pop empire in which they now prominently reside.

Consistency of sound aside, frontman Ben Gibbard's lyrics reflect the sense of vivacity and vibrancy that very well should accompany a marriage to Zooey Deschanel. Familiar concepts rooted in distance and disillusionment are prevalent but examined through a decidedly optimistic lens, and one can't help but envision his bride's shy smile tacitly indicting herself as the subject of feel-good closer, "Stay Young Go Dancing." This sung, by the way, by the same man who on 2006's Plans exclaimed, "Our youth is fleeting. Old age is just around the bend, and I can't wait to go gray."

These slices of melancholy were standard fare for Gibbard on Death Cab's 6 previous albums. How refreshing, then, that Codes and Keys sports the subdued smile of boy with a head full of rain finally jumping in the puddles.


9/10


Top Track: "St. Peter's Cathedral"
If televangelists could convey their theological philosophies with as much emotional panache as these guys, they'd be doing primetime. A tolling synth leads Gibbard in before drums, guitar, strings, and vocal parts add layering embellishments. The sonic snowball swells into a slowly rolling behemoth of near-Sigur Ros grandeur before abruptly fading like the simplest of reveries blinked instantly away. Undeniably a mood piece, but masterfully executed.

2010's best of the best: #20

Ever hear of Pitchfork Media? Hipsters and musicians alike hail it as the flagship source for online indie music coverage. It began with Ryan Schreiber, fresh from the 1995 high school ranks, launching an online music publication and developing the company's reputation for underground coverage and distinctly florid reviews. It's also quite controversial: the company's immense influence on the indie genre makes it a gatekeeper to success. The publication has also come under scrutiny for being overly fond of particular genres and music that defies genre completely (often not in a good way). I like Pitchfork, but in my experience they evaluate music based more off artistic merit and achievement than pleasure and listenability.

Every year the site releases an influential list, its compilation of the best 50 albums of the year. And whether by self-propagated inertia or sheer power of prediction, they do a darn good job of determining what's going to become popular in indie cliques. If you missed this year's Grammys, the award for Album of the Year went to Arcade Fire for The Suburbs. The Blogosphere and Twitterverse were a funny sight in the wake of the ceremony, with half of the posts hailing a victory for "good music" and half wondering who the band was. Pitchfork knew. They'd named Arcade Fire's debut album, Funeral, the best of 2004. The Grammy winner was featured at #11 on 2010's Top 50 list.

So there exists a bit of a quandary. Pitchfork does highlight skilled, innovative, and exciting acts, but they're often diluted and obscured by offerings that reflect talent but rebuff taste. In light of that, I've spent the last few weeks listening to the Top 50 Albums of 2010 list and working to distill a list of songs that are both meritable and enjoyable.

It was difficult, but I pared my favorites down into a top 20. They represent bands I've long been familiar with and others that I heard for the first time. Over a series of posts, I'll break the list down and discuss what sticks out to me about each number. I promise that if you follow me through this you'll be able to bear your weight in any discussion on "the modern scene." Exciting, I know.

Today: #20

Sufjan Stevens- "Age of Adz"



Album: The Age of Adz
Pitchfork Review: 8.4/10
Album Rank (1-50): 25
Album Artwork

About the Artist
Sufjan Stevens, 35-year old composer from Detroit, is known for his lush orchestrations, large touring band, and oddly titled Facebook fan group, "Sufjan Stevens was probably conceived by unicorns." After graduating from a small Michigan college, he was accepted into graduate school at New York City's The New School, a prestigious institution best known for housing Parsons The New School of Design. The school has a list of "notable alumni" longer than a sumo wrestler's grocery list, and Stevens will undoubtedly be added to it after his 2005 Album, Come on Feel the Illinoise, reached #1 on the Billboard Heatseekers chart.

About the Album
Fans expecting a sense of continuity between Illinoise and Age of Adz are bound for disappointment. Horns, violin, and banjo play second fiddle to ominous synthesizers and drum machines, and no track matches the triumphant spirit of "Chicago," the lead single off Illinoise and arguably the best Sufjan song ever. The fact that this album succeeds in spite of abandoning all the elements that made its predecessor successful speaks to Sufjan's brilliant use of concept, in my opinion his greatest strength. Come on Feel the Illinoise was the second installment in a semi-serious endeavor to release an album dedicated to each of the 50 states. He could have released a third in the series, and it would have been easy, easy money. Instead, for Age of Adz, he developed a new concept entirely.

The album artwork is more than a little strange. I'd describe the prominent figure as a crayon-colored psychedelic sultan-spaceman silhouette. If that sounds a little out there, good, because the man who painted it was. His name was Royal Robertson, a Louisiana artist who passed away in 1997. Robertson was a paranoid schizophrenic who regularly experienced hallucinations born from the collision of his religion, Christianity, and his preoccupation, prophesy and science fiction. After his wife left for Texas with their 11 children, Robertson became consumed with documenting his visions and used whatever media were available, cardboard, magic markers, and tempura paint, to realize them.

Age of Adz is an aural experience derived from Robertson's visuals. No melodic ballads? Strained chords wrought with tension and dissonance? AUTOTUNE!?! It's a strange sonic palette, but Sufjan works with it very well. In the Age of Adz, excess and frivolity have been replaced by apocalyptic discord, confusion and decay, and this is how it sounds.

About the Song:
The album is brilliant both for its concept and execution, and no song better exhibits this tandem than the title track, "Age of Adz." At 8 minutes, it's the longest song on this countdown by far. From the get-go, disparate timbres swirl around a single voice bellowing a simple melody. Stability is non-existent. I can't identify 1 instrument or sound that holds pitch for at least a half measure. Like a metaphor for Robertson's perception of reality, everything trills about in chaos yet is somehow tethered and guided by an otherworldy creator of questionable intent. "This is the age of Adz," Sufjan declares, "Eternal living!" Should I really be happy about that? The irony works, but only because the music achieves its intended tone. Sufjan tiptoes the line a bit with these offerings, at times sacrificing listenability to pursue some particular abstraction, but this one is a distinguished compromise.

I saw Sufjan in Copenhagen May 1st, and he summarized the album's lineup a little more simply. "These," he said, "are my space jams." He blurs the line between "out of this world" and "out of his mind" a few times, but there's little doubt that Sufjan has an excellent creative mind and has mastered the tools to express his ideas. Even if you don't particularly enjoy the finished product, what more can you really ask from an artist than that?

review: this is your brain on music

Ticket to Bonnaroo: Ouch.

Acoustic guitar: Not cheap

Audiophilic earbuds: Too much.

Figuring out why I invest so much in music: Priceless. Actually that’s not true, it was $16.00.

I love music. I munch on melodies and revel in rhythms for hours every day. I deconstruct my favorites to establish exactly which elements I most enjoy, be it the double high-hat tap in the chorus of Bloc Party’s “Banquet,” the seamless transition from voice to synthesizer in Miike Snow’s “Silvia,” or Matt Berninger’s subtle inhale after singing “losing my breath…” in “Lemonworld.” My addiction to music and the pleasure it yields overshadows the pointlessness of this analysis. Given this fact, it’s no surprise that This is Your Brain on Music was, to me, a fascinating exploration of the neuroscience behind humanity’s affinity for organized sound. The book’s content was dense and a bit repetitious, but some of the concepts were too interesting not to share.

1. Rippling waves caused by air displacement are responsible for “sound.” This sound is only perceived by organisms equipped to convert and assign meaning to the displacement. There lies the answer to that age-old question “if a tree falls in the forest…” The answer is no. With nothing around to witness it, the tree generates only the potential for sound. Hairs within our ears send signals to the auditory cortex, which converts the waves into a pitch. Different organisms translate the waves differently: when pets watch our television or listen to our music, they’re hearing something entirely different than we are.

2. One of the most important musical concepts is timbre. Loosely defined as the way something sounds, timbre refers to the metallic clink of a struck triangle or the squeal of a tenor saxophone. Sound waves actually vibrate at many frequencies that are multiples of each other, creating a fundamental tone at, say, 50 hz, and overtones at 100 hz, 150 hz, 200 hz, and so on. Each object has a unique frequency signature determined by factors like density and thickness. This signature is largely responsible for its timbre. Our brains can memorize and later identify these timbres, accounting for our ability to identify instruments and, more importantly, individual voices. Synthesizers rocked the music world by allowing the user to manually set and change frequencies, enabling them to adopt any timbre. They don’t sound perfectly identical to real instruments, however, due to variations in two more timbre components beyond frequencies—attack (the sound of the initial strike of the instrument) and flux (change in sound as a note rings).

3. A scale is composed of 12 semitones. Each of these differs in frequency from the last by 6% until, compounded by a factor of 12, the frequency doubles. Doubles or halves in frequency are heard as octaves. Intervals aurally perceived as stable, the perfect fourth and perfect fifth, have frequency ratios of 3:2 and 4:3, respectively. In contrast, the most unstable, the tritone (augmented 4^th/diminished 5^th), has a ratio of √2:1, an irrational number.

4. The brain controls everything. Dualist philosophers like Rene Descartes once believed in the segregation of “mind,” the consciousness that you are you, and “brain,” the motor that moves and controls you. This isn’t the case. Consciousness is generated by electrical impulses from neurons firing, and tweaking the brain even slightly has profound consequences. Damage to the frontal lobe causes severe changes in personality and stimulating the cerebellum can totally alter mood, even to extreme, inexplicable rage. So where does the brain show activity when listening to music? Everywhere. Rhythm (toe-tapping) is controlled by timing circuits in the cerebellum, the hippocampus and frontal lobe categorize and convert to memory new timbres and chord combinations, and the amygdala, responsible for emotional processing, shows activity. Most telling, though, is the involvement of the nucleus accumbens, the brain’s pleasure and reward system. Initial research done in 1980 showed that administration of a chemical called nalaxone removed much of subjects’ pleasure in listening to music. Here’s the kicker: nalaxone blocks the uptake of dopamine, the neurotransmitter primarily responsible for pleasure. Later research confirmed the release of dopamine during dedicated music listening. It’s the same chemical released when gamblers win a bet, chocoholics eat a Godiva bar, and heroin addicts shoot up. Music, quite literally, is an addictive drug.

5. Familiarity significantly impacts musical taste. The auditory system is one of the first sensory systems to develop in the womb, and babies begin hearing sounds (and music) roughly 5 months after conception. The brain begins forming memories of timbres, melodic contour, and chord resolution patterns. As more music is heard, processing capacities improve and music taste graduates from children’s songs with simple melodies and few chords to denser, more advanced structures. Children may love Barney’s sing-alongs, but adults find them facile and simplistic. Additionally, those raised hearing western songs featuring guitar, drums, and bass may balk when presented with middle-eastern or Asian music using different scales and instrumentation. Those native to that region, however, would feel the same listening to western music. Taste is a function of acclimation.

6. Music likely began (and continues to exist) as a means of natural selection. Dancing requires advanced motor coordination, a skill valuable for dexterity in hunting. Mastery of an instrument, in the tribal era, signified a wealth of resources so great that the musician could afford to waste time on something nonessential to survival. Also, the composition and performance of music demonstrates a degree of intelligence. Psychological studies of women revealed that during peak fertility periods, males with intellect and cunning were regarded more highly than those with resources. As hormones subsided, these preferences switched. The implication is that, on an evolutionary level, women may want a child fathered by an intellectual and raised by a provider.

I rarely read, let alone write book reviews, but I learned a great deal from this one. I must admit, though, that the link between music and mating is really, really disappointing. It makes perfect sense, but I’d like to believe that my passion for music stems from appreciation of artistic expression, not my need to flaunt intelligence for suitors. Even more troubling, this realization called into question just how much of my personality, hobbies (even blogging) and goals are dictated not by free choice, but by how likely they are to attract a mate. I had this misplaced notion of humans as dignified creatures with morals and standards that supersede those of less refined species. But the more I learn about neural function and human behavior, the more convinced I become that we’re a race of over-evolved animals clinging desperately to a misplaced notion of purpose.