The smartest person in content

Marissa Mayer, Google's VP of consumer products, has been called the most powerful woman in the world. That's certainly debatable -- but one could make a convincing case given how her work touches tens of millions of lives each day.

She's also been called the smartest person in content, and evidence of that comes out during this hourlong interview at the opening of the Tow-Knight Center at City University of New York earlier this month.

CUNY's Jeff Jarvis, of Buzzmachine fame, interviewed Mayer and AOL CEO Tim Armstrong and touched on a variety of media issues, most of which centered around the belief both have that "local" is an enormous opportunity for audience and revenue.

It's clear from watching this video why Mayer is where she is. She oversees Google's local, mobile and mapping strategies, and has great ideas on how to give people what they want, when they want it and how they want it.

And while Armstrong has interesting ideas of his own, Mayer is clearly the one with vision that's ahead of the curve. Mayer used to work for Armstrong, before he left Google to join AOL. It's interesting that in buying Huffington Post, Armstrong has tied his future to a woman who knows how to make money off digital content. What comes around, goes around, I guess.

50 years of fuzz guitar

If you're an afficionado of rock music, you'll want to read and listen to a couple of looks at fuzz, aka guitar distortion, whose birth came 50 years ago. 

The "Soundcheck" episode above was inspired by William Weir's Atlantic article "50 Years of Making Fuzz, the Sound That Defines Rock 'n' Roll" (worth a read and a listen for its embedded audio examples).  

I was stunned to learn that Weir credits country singer Marty Robbins with the first recorded use of fuzz, thanks to a faulty connection in a mixing board. I had thought Link Wray (whom Weir also mentions) would get the nod.

It's tough to top the Stones' "Satisfaction" in terms of fuzz brilliance, although more than a few comments on Weir's article rightly toss some love to My Bloody Valentine, a 90s-era band whose ear-shattering sound seemed to be all fuzz. 

The empty side of Lemmy

I recently finished watching "Lemmy," the documentary about Motorhead bassist Lemmy Kilminster, who is one of the most widely loved musicians on Earth.

And also one of the loneliest.

The film captures the expected, including adoring interviews from people like Slash, all of Metallica (who trot him out on stage for a song), Dave Grohl and many others. Motorhead influenced a generation of punk and metal bands, moreso for Lemmy's personality than musical brilliance ("Ace of Spades" and "No Sleep 'Til Hammersmith" aside).

The film also captures a very lonely man who seems trapped with drink in hand, either in his cloistered and pedestrian L.A. apartment or a neighborhood bar, where he regularly passes time playing an electronic trivia game while keeping the barkeeps busy. 

"Lemmy" is a poignant look at an empty legend, someone whose life is filled with fans and friends, but who desperately longs for a meaningful relationship. His son from a failed relationship makes an appearance, and in conversations with him Lemmy shows signs of happiness before slipping into both regret and bitterness over that split from the love of his life so many years ago. 

You get the sense that Lemmy will either die on stage or with bottle in hand surrounded by all things kitschy in his apartment, still hoping for the day when that lost love comes back into his life. After watching the film, it's clear he shouldn't hold out hope.