Goner – “Jersey Roy / An Island’s Worth of Avenues”
In October, Scott gave me an advance copy of the new Goner CD while we were in New York. Sitting in the airport on the way out of town, I looked past the tarmac to the distant city lights, listening to this over and over. The acoustic first part doesn’t just fade into the next; it is overwhelmed by this grinding, industrial sound, and you can actually feel NYC imposing itself into the narrative. I am lucky–the metropolis I moved to humbled me, then made me stronger. Some people move to other big cities, and they are beaten down mercilessly. With an exhilarating shudder, I guess that it sounds exactly like this. And it’s not even the best song on there.
The Fort
Fellow Raleigh transplant goes in on a Cicero artspace with his scriptwriter friend, and all hell breaks loose! Well, maybe not (see: Cicero), but I’ve had two separate musically revelatory evenings at this sometimes-performance space in the last 5 months. The first was a sweltering August night where I shared the floor with some of my favorite local singers, and I got to (really) know the amazing Bowerbirds. We pretty much played for each other, but we had a blast. The second time was the first time I saw Des Ark, on Halloween. She was so good, slipping from her delicate countryish solo stuff to her batteringly awesome “album cuts” that I almost couldn’t handle it.
The Thermals – The Body The Blood The Machine
Choked with religious imagery, these are punk songs that slam past with a zealous momentum. (“Here’s your future!” Wham! “Keep your eyes straight, for Christ’s sake!” Wham!) To be sure, there’s an impending something in the guy’s evocations, and I’ve even read reviews claiming this is a concept album. I dunno–maybe in the same way Swans’ Children of God felt that way, though in both cases I’d say the evangelical vocab is being stolen for its power rather than its message. I think the kids call that “subverting.” Still and all, this is the kind of blunt urgency that wakes me up whenever I catch myself slipping, spiritually and otherwise.
Committing to MOJO Magazine
When we moved to the new house, I decided to subscribe to as many magazines as I wanted. MOJO crossed my mind, of course, but out of fear that the CD would get “lost” in the mail–and with the realization that subscribing is no cheaper–I instead began checking the record stores (and Borders) regularly. I used to think the ten dollar price tag was ridiculous, but the CD is usually full of good (or at least interesting) stuff, so that’s almost worth it right there. Still, the real value is in the fact that, as a music nerd, I will read anything about any band, but it’s far more satisfying if the articles I’m devouring are well-written and researched, and MOJO never disappoints on either score.
Re-Release of It’s Always the Quiet Ones
Collectible Escalators polished up the artwork, made a wise edit, and mastered my latest CD to a better fullness of sound. It’s a shame I suck so much at promotion when I have a Product as good as this, but I remain humbled and inspired that Mike Uva took the time. And in the end, it’s a good, solid record, if I do say so myself.
Hoot Nite at the Hideout
Hoot Nites, in addition to being rare nowadays, have been a little weak lately. Not so, this evening of “Fed Up and Strange” tunes staged, for a change, at the Hideout (rather than Schuba’s). Joie de Diva toned down the camp for a genuinely Carter-family-sounding take on Phil Collins’ “I Don’t Care Anymore.” (I know!) Nora O’Conner did Ween’s “Piss Up a Rope,” and immediately afterwards, Tom Dunning got on the mic and apologized to my parents-in-law about the profanity. It was hilarious. Plus, I had the privilege of holding a flashlight up to the sheet music for the piano player during Tom’s first song. All in all, especially with the tighter confines and the presence of family, it was a real down-home good time.
Peter Adams – The Spiral Eye
My band moved to Cincinnati, and all I got was a lousy CD by some guy who lives there or something. Just kidding. Sort of: Casey gave me a copy of this shortly before their move date, and I admit there was a cowardly sprinkle of bitterness in my “not getting around” to listening to it for a few weeks. “The Nnati is bush-league! And who needs another singer named Adams anyway?” I stand corrected, on both counts. This is everything I wish M. Ward sounded like–the distinctive voice, but with more of a Beatles sense of tunefulness, and some thick Grandaddy production. It’s really really beautiful, and the fact that he apparently played everything on this busy-sounding platter blows my mind. The best of the Adams family, to be sure.
Earwig – “Used Kids”
That such a quirky indie rock tune–centered on the ramblings of a used record store worker–can also serve as the opening song on a powerful rawk CD is the perfect illustration of the charm that is Earwig. I’ve known Lizard McGee since 1996, and I’ve known of “Used Kids” for half that time–as a demo, as an acoustic thing. How satisfying to hear its three chords blasting out in all their mountain/molehill glory! They just don’t make ‘em as straighforwardly fun as this any more, and the rest of the disc is full of likewise soaring stuff.
Puzzling Out the New Killers Record
Once the dust settles, I will feel the same way about Sam’s Town as I do Hot Fuss–3 to 5 excellent songs, usually singles, padded out with some aimlessness. As a piece of music, I don’t regret picking it up. But what’s been more interesting is all the issues it serves as a crucible for. First and foremost, I’m talking about the dissonance between what Brandon Flowers kept saying it was gonna be (a Springsteen-esque conceptual suite and the “best album of the last ten years”) and what it actually is (like Hot Fuss, only more guitars, longer songs, and some painful lyrics). Sonically speaking, I can think of no better case against the over-compression of music (well-chronicled throughout 2006 by Nick Southall at StylusMagazine.com), even though it was produced by Alan Moulder. Puzzling. And lyrically, when this thing fails, it fails in such a wide-screen, Rattle-and-Hum sort of way that I’m seriously torn as to whether I should give them credit. Specifically, one of the songs I like is actually titled “This River Is Wild.” End-to-end, there’s maybe no dumber song written than “Uncle Johnny.” Go ahead and listen to the first verse. How can such sludgy bit of nonsense be on the same album as “When You Were Young?” Troubling. And even now I’m experiencing this weird cultural vertigo where I’m always reading about what a disappointing bomb Sam’s Town is, yet its music is completely inescapable. I’ve heard it at Old Navy, at the airport, in random bars–and we’re talking album cuts here, not just “Bones.” It’s such a perfect storm of hype and bad decisions that–maybe, just maybe–it’s also the perfect incubator for their next, unreservedly-great record…? Or not.
The Windy City Rollers and the Hoopafreaks
The first time I went to a match staged by Chicago’s rollerderby league, the halftime act was a group of ladies performing complex flips and twirls with a whole lot of glowing hula-hoops. I loved it, just as I grew to love rollerderby, but I also loved the song playing during their routine, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. Well, I emailed the Hoopafreaks directly, and they were kind enough to let me know that jam was “Smack It Up” by Fannypack. It’s little gestures like that–the fact that someone took half a minute write back a couple sentences–that make being a music fan worthwhile.
Getting a Record Player
Not that I ever really sat at my computer and played songs on it. To me, iTunes is and always will be just a way to fill up my iPod–which is and always will be strictly a headphones-portable, convenient-but-compromised listening device. But even after I set up the CD unit NEXT to the computer, I found that I would get distracted by the latter anyway. “What’s Allmusic got to say about Zeppelin’s Coda?” “Ooh, I bet I could find a cheap copy of MSB’s Heartland on eBay.” “I don’t remember–did Pitchfork take a pass on that last Elliott Smith?” And so on. The spinning CD wouldn’t get its due, and the slow erosion of my attention span continued apace. But surfing the net isn’t really work, right? It’s like flipping through a magazine. Wrong! Once again–but hopefully not forever–the digital music revolution caters to the nerd rather than the fan, and if you’ve got both of these types living inside you, it can be quite a dilemma. So I got a record player as an obtuse form of combat, and so far it’s working. Aside from the arguably superior sound quality, more than the awesome affordability of the source material (Joe Jackson’s Jumpin’ Jive for two dollars???!!!), it’s the deliberate, unobstructed act of listening that’s been amazing. Music should make the world disappear–not every time, but certainly more often than has been the case in my adulthood so far. The record player, and the listening habits it encourages, does that for me. Lester Bangs put it best: “To sit at leisure stoned or not…slapping on sides and feeling good.”
