The drummer John Densmore, of The Doors fame, speaks of a prophecy that someday, one man will be able to create any type of music using one machine. The documentary RE:GENERATION shows us not one, but six such men in Mark Ronson, Skrillex, duo The Crystal Method, DJ Premier and Pretty Lights. In the film, these six electro-based producers are faced with the challenge of working with genres outside their comfort zone, in the hopes of producing a track that brings past and present together. Ronson works on a jazz song with Erykah Badu, Mos Def, The Dap Kings, Trombone Shorty and the great Zigaboo Modeliste. Skrillex puts together a rock track, collaborating with the Doors, producing the first song the complete band has worked on since Morrison’s dead. Pretty Lights lays country with Leann Rimes and Dr. Ralph Stanley. The Crystal Method explored the streets of Detroit in their R&B track with vocalist Martha Reeves, while DJ Premier put hand to classical with Nas and Stephen Webber of the Berklee College of Music.

The documentary, directed by Amir Bar-Lev (The Tillman Story, My Kid Could Paint That), opens up the world of music production as never before. We’re given an intimate look at how present-day music men work a song out, from beginning to middle to end. We watch as Skrillex chainsmokes in his hotel room and Ronson experiments in the studio. The struggles they face in working with stubborn musicians, displayed most clearly in The Crystal Method/Martha Reeves collab and in Pretty Lights’ work with Ralph Stanley. When Pretty Lights asks Stanley if he’d like to hear the melody he has in mind for their song, Stanley shakes his head saying, “I’d rather just do it my way.” And that’s that.

Re:Generation is to music producers what It Might Get Loud was to guitarists. It breaks down the process. Shows us the art and skill that is needed in “just pressing buttons.” The only way in which it falls short is the actual tracks produced. Because the challenge is to meld the music producers' styling with the genre they’re asked to work with, the tracks all end up sounding very similar. Aside from DJ Premier’s and Ronson’s, they all have the heavy electronic influence of the producers' past work, and even in the two tracks that don’t, there’s a distinct lack of originality. It would have been more interesting to have challenged the producers to give up their style completely and immerse themselves in the genre they were asked to work with.

I first heard Theophilus London on Peruvian MTV. I was in a dingy little hotel room, packing to hike Machu Pichu, with the TV on for background sound, when I heard a steady beat drop. The rhythm was grounded and smooth, with a chiming ring at the end of each count. I stopped what I was doing and looked up to see a tall, stylish kid, walking the shores of a retro music video, rapping about “Flying Overseas.” I watched the video through, jotted down the name of the track, and the closest spelling I could of the artist's name. Two weeks later I came back to the states and downloaded all of his music. 

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Walter Easterbrook does not make drinks. He creates them. He’s been working behind a bar since he was a little kid, and has perched leg after leg on rung after rung. Working the slop nests. The tourist traps. The denizen lounges. The swanky hotel bars. He knows the customers that walk in, and knows exactly what and how much to serve them.

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Another Super bowl has come and gone with the Giants taking Lombardi home. Going off of last year’s record breaking notch of 111 million viewers, and America’s “just keep gettin’ better” mentality, it's likely that an astronomical number of people sat down and tuned in last night. At least they better have. Advertisers were charged a cool $3.5 million for a 30-second spot of ad space. Compare that to the $512,000 they’re charged for a normal game, and you’ll understand why it’s to their detriment that you drooled over Adriana Lima for teleflora.com. But while everyone is looking to label this years ad line up as the year of the dog, or the year of the model, or the year of the over the hill actor making it that much more clear that he is so over the hill he should be rolling down it by now (MATTHEW BRODERICK), I’m going to go out on a limb and say it was the year of music.

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I’ve never watched Grey’s Anatomy, but I think I get it—there’s some guy called McDreamy and some other guy who’s like, McLovesy or something, and McDoeEyes can’t chose between them. And in between it all there’s McCheatsy, McDies, McLetsJustBeFriends and McDoctor. I mean, that’s close enough right? But here’s the thing—I’m pretty sure there’s no character called McScary (apologies if there is, especially to NY Press, because that makes this entire essay completely redundant).

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In a small town, dark secrets sure do have a way of getting out, don’t they? Such is the case in Secrets of Eden, premiering on the Lifetime network tomorrow night.

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The invite was black and red. It had been delivered by hand that day. “I apologize,” the RSVP said. “No guests allowed.” Meaning no plus ones. Meaning that the next part, instructing me to be at the WESC store in Soho at 10 p.m. sharp, where “you will be blindfolded and taken to the party location,” made me feel a bit uneasy. I’m all for a little kink every now and then, but blindfolding and secret locations most commonly mean a shit ride home. 

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It was about this time last year that the Goth phase began its renaissance. The once colorful city of Manhattantook on a dark suiting of black. It was drapey. It was moody. It led to a ton of unfortunate “synth-wave.” Siouxsie and the Banshees' “Dazzle,” headlining a number of fashion industry friendly shows, definitely had something to do with it. God bless Siouxsie’s soul, she’s a phenomenal musician, but I think she probably hangs her head in shame for her present day offspring. Skinny little things with cross earrings and long mangled hair, plucking strings with their skeleton fingers. Note: It ain’t enough to look the part; you gotta play the tunes too.

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While most prognosticators are sharpening their knives in anticipation of this year’s upcoming Oscars, some of the darker, more indie prospects for next year’s awards have already emerged, courtesy of the Sundance Film Festival.

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Jai Lennard is a photographer based in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. But more than that, he’s a prime raconteur. A connoisseur of sexual identity, one might say. There’s an ease to him that is non-threatening, no matter the conversation point, which makes it easy for him to plop himself down with a stranger and go from, “Hey, what’s up, I’m Jai,” to questions pertaining to that stranger’s boudoir. There isn’t anything schemey about this, it’s just his area of expertise. And honestly, it’s all that’s really on anyone’s mind anyway… I had the chance to sit down with Mr. Lennard to talk about the state of sex in America, his upcoming project and what it takes to be an artist in 21st century NYC.

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