We'd really love to hate Apple. We really would. As we sit here, tapping away at the streamlined keyboard of our slim PowerBook G4, we think back to the days when we carried around a bulky Creative mp3 player and blogged read blogs on our desktop PC. And we miss 'em. We'd like to go back. Honestly, we would. But—dammit—we just can't. You can't beat the iPod's interface, you can't hate on Tiger, and Apple's design work is certainly handsome. But, you can rip on their musical taste.

It's hard not to enjoy the Fratellis' "Flathead." It's got handclaps, harmonized backgrounds, and a nifty meter-shifting singalong hook. It's not wonderful—it's lyrically weak and too studio-glossed shiny—but it's a harmless pop song. Or at least it was, until Steve Jobs got his hands on it.

Ever since "Flathead" popped up in an iPod/iTunes/iBuy (?) commercial, the Fratellis have been vilified as hack musicians, soulless corporate cogs, and pederasts. Pitchfork hates the song, and so does the Phoenix. Apparently, the second rule of music journalism (after maintaining a steady 4:1 ratio of "life-changing" or "Garden State" to "the Shins") is that a song blows if it's been featured in an Apple ad.

It makes a certain amount of sense. After all, Apple owns us. They effectively control the way we listen to music, and they've monopolized cool in an age when aesthetic pluralism reigns and our design choices effectively define our identities. So eschewing our technology overlords' conventional pop ear becomes the only way indie types can create distance between themselves and the brand that even their baby-boomer, commuter-train-riding parents use.

So if you happen to watch an Apple commercial, don't like the music. It's the only way to stay cool. If necessary, keep a pair of earplugs handy while you're watching "The Office." (You WOULD watch "The Office.") Because if you want to keep your Stella-drinking, cloves-smoking friends around, you'll do what's best and refuse to enjoy anything you can buy via the iTunes store. And remember: Razorlight was never a good band, even when it was.

We remember the very day: we were at a friend's house, after school, playing Super Mario on his newly-acquired Nintendo 64. Or rather, we were watching our friend play Super Mario -- we wanted to play Mario Kart, but our friend didn't want to, and, since it was his house, and since he was the only person we knew with a Nintendo 64, we had to be content with sitting around and being in charge of the stereo. Bored, we ran the dial to the local Top-40 station, which erupted in an alien blast of sound that was totally unlike anything we had ever heard before. It was as if the speakers were about to explode and set fire to the curtains and then burn our friend's house down to the ground. It was awesome.

But we were there. We were there in 2007 at one of the first Clipse shows of the Hell Hath No Fury tour. We were there.

...And so was everybody else. (Obviously, we've lost whatever edge we ever had). Tickets were hard to come by, and with good reason: everyone and their tagalong hipster girlfriend was drunkenly packed into the downstairs of the Middle East last night, hands in the air like they cared oh so much about the coke-powdered rhymes of brothers Malice and Pusha T. This was the place to be. Sort of.

Hell Hath No Fury was critically acclaimed for a reason. Marrying Pharrell's claustrophobic brainfuck beats with uncut lyrical perfection, it was one of those rare, perfect rap records: no skits, little ego, limited guest spots. And both the mainstream and the indie presses loved it and got the word out.

So while everyone knew the words to "Mama I'm Sorry," few could sing along to mixtape classic "Pussy." The pre-Clipse DJ warm-up had people yelling the rhymes to Kanye's remix of Rich Boy's "Throw Some Ds," but Biggie's "Kick In the Door" left the audience cold. Then there was the drunk white girl behind us (Mama we're so sorry—you're so obnoxious) who screamed "VA! They're from VA!" after Clipse finished "Virginia." This is the same audience member who caught a whiff of weed and immediately asked, "Where's that 'dro at?"

The set was unquestionably hot. There was a snarled intensity to Pusha T's verses that wasn't always apparent on headphones, and Malice's swagger was hard as hell. But on "Chinese New Year," when the MCs fired imaginary pistols into the audience, a forest of white fists raised and fired back. Could they even hear the lyrics: "Make nigga kick that can / Fall victim to the Klick Klack Klan?" Would they have come if Pitchfork hadn't given the album a 9.1?

And then came the finale. An oblivious crowd in polo shirts and BoSox caps (what's a 59-50?) looking Clipse in the eyes as they chanted, "Okay, we get it, yep, yeah you too." Okay, everybody: meet Mr. Us Too.

Yeah yeah yeah, we used him as a jumping-off point the other day, but James Murphy is about to be everywhere because Sound of Silver will be album of the year. So get used to it.

Plus, he's kind of already everywhere. There was that wonderful puff piece in the latest Rolling Stone. No punches were pulled: it told us that Murphy likes Ultimate Fighting unironically (no really guys), is rereading the Pynchon canon, and has—gasp—DROPPED ECSTASY. The interview transcript probably looked something like this:

RS: Do something funny.

JM: What? No. Fuck you.

RS: Say something interesting. Anything.

JM: [Silence]

RS: Just say something.

JM: I've done drugs before.

RS: THIS IS PURE JOURNALISTIC GOLD!

Most revealingly, the article tells us that the man behind LCD Soundsystem is occasionally moody (or at least hates talking to Rolling Stone when he's hungover). But who can blame him? After all, everyone hates his blog for the Guardian.

Especially the commenters. Man, those Brits are mean. After Murphy's yawny post about frequent flyer miles (or something—it was kind of too boring for us to really understand), one commenter whined, "What a waste of time." Another comment starts out, "Hey dummy." PWNAGE!

But then he stoops to their level and comments back as theguywritingthis, starting a good old-fashioned flame war. (Why do people even start arguments? We're online! We're blogging! We have no dignity to salvage in the first place!) And then he writes another sort of meta-post where he basically breaks down in tears and asks why we can't all get along. Of course, the first commenter states his intent to take a cab to Murphy's house, whereupon he'll kill the blogger, the entire readership of the Guardian, and himself with a double-barrelled shotgun. It's a slightly dubious plan.

We're kind of sad Murphy started blogging. We still love everything LCD's ever done, but the mystique's fading fast. It's heartening, at least, to know Murphy has as much free time as we do.

We're not sure what to make of this new video game music video trope. We're not even sure if that's the right name for it; it seems like we shouldn't have to say video that many times. At any rate, the rappers have their rims and hos; the indie kids have their Super Nintendos and light guns. Both have coke. Enjoy the following coin-op bip-bleep bliss.

• Cadence Weapon — Sharks
• Xiu Xiu — Boy Soprano
• DJ Shadow — This Time (I'm Gonna Try It My Way)
• DJ Scotch Egg — Scotch Hausen

Destined to enter the Hall of Fame of rap blog posts, OhWord's write-up of their recent discovery of Cam'ron's rhyme book is, well—it's one word: G'd up. They got Cam's flow spot-on; every verse would have been right at home on last year's Killa Season (which, granted, was subpar), and it's the kind of stuff that fellow Byrd Gang member Juelz Santana can only hope to emulate. Anyway, it got us thinking; can you tell real Killa from sham Cam? Take our test after the jump!