NONALIGNMENT PACT

Most nights, as my wife Heather puts our 10-month-old Althea to bed for the evening, my 6-year-old Maya and I are left to fight for control of the airwaves. It’s usually time to clean the kitchen, a time Maya dreads because she knows I can’t read to her or pretend to be Pocahontas’ enemy for a wrestling match. But since I can’t bury myself in the headphones when Maya’s around (I hear it’s considered rude), I need to provide some soundtrack for our evening, something we might be able to agree on – and perhaps dance to if so moved.

Trouble is, our musical Venn diagram doesn’t have a large intersecting field. There’s more of a tangential connection. So where there might be agreement on favorite books to read or favorite foods to eat or favorite eggnog flavor during the holidays, there is not likely to be agreement on musical selection. I mean, she’s 6, I’m 37 – what could we really have in common musically, anyway? But the specific critique of my musical selections still hurts, even though I know it’s true. About 80% of the time, Maya simply tells me my personal selection is “too sad.”

I generally answer her by telling her she is too pollyanna about most everything and needs to get her head out of the clouds. When she doesn’t understand that, I tell her I will try to find something a little more upbeat for her – and then spend 10 minutes trying to determine if I actually have anything that fits the bill. What I will often settle for is this:

It’s a perfectly fine album, but moving beyond it and finding something else at least borderline happy — without James Murphy’s cynical take on emotional angst — is a dicey proposition. Most times I need to determine which albums have at least up-tempo first tracks (In Rainbows is a frequent alternative choice to my first too-sad choice), but then I still need to adjust at a later time when things turn more morose.

But it’s never been a secret for me that my music collection is much heavier on the somber material than the lighter material. I guess the musical geekery on display here every week is the sign of someone who takes serious music seriously and doesn’t make room for the happier choices, the ones Maya and I could enjoy on our different levels.

I guess I am looking for the up-front, visceral joy that comes from those rare artists who are passionate about having fun while they are making music. It doesn’t come from here

the place where John Darnielle lays his heart and horrid horrid upbringing out on display for all to see.

It doesn’t come from here

where the structures are intricate and meticulous — and levity seems to be the last concern.

OK, we’re getting closer here:

I admit that’s partly because of Beck in a muscle shirt and the classic Steinberger bass. But is this one really age-appropriate? Perhaps not.

I did find some sheer joy this past week in my music collection, but it took a 2:30 a.m. insomnia attack on a business trip to get up the impulsive gumption to download it.

This is an album made by two bands confident enough to know they can’t possibly go wrong if they aren’t afraid to go big on sound and experimentation. The tumbling, exhausting opener “Spiracle” bubbles with the kind of joy you expect from teenagers bringing their first band out into the limelight after extended rehearsal in the basement – except these teenagers have had lots of soda. Yet the energy and joy, miraculously, carry on nearly relentlessly through track 10, stopping only briefly to breathe on “Elq Milq” about halfway through that stretch. Every track finds new mind-blowing ways for the bands to keep the energy rolling forward, from the chopped-up, grunting “Psychic Swelling” to the antidote, the smooth-as-glass track directly after it entitled “Lemon Lime Face.”

There’s a spirit that emanates from this album that says, “We played with sounds and riffs until it sounded great. Then we hit record.” Whether or not that was the case, that’s the kind of musical project that creates immense joy for me – one that speaks to the passions of its members but manages to translate those passions to something that fairly springs out of the headphones and takes a hold of your brain.

The fact that it is all, essentially, instrumental makes this a great choice for Maya to listen to – no concerns about adult themes or words. She also recognizes my Octopus Project T-shirt on sight now; if she asks what the music is and I say “The Octopus Project,” I get the sense a smile will cross her face because she knows how much I like the band – and the T-shirt.

While more contemplative at turns, this track and the album from which it hails evoke similar feelings for me:

There simply isn’t a sound The Octopus Project doesn’t play with in their three full-length albums, and it’s all in evidence on Hello, Avalanche. It all comes out as this aggressively joyous melange, a body of work that makes you feel as if the band members are constantly up on their toes, ready to jump — if they aren’t already.

That’s what joy feels like this week to me. That and an entire 7 1/2-hour car ride so that I could enjoy both albums on repeat and at full ear-splitting volume. Maya and I will no doubt have our share of music airspace fights in the future. But I don’t think I’ll get any argument from Maya that BMSR and The Octopus Project make you want to get up and dance with pure, passionate joy – like a beleaguered father and a young daughter who has missed him.

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Joy can also mean uncontrollable laughter, which was what I experienced when I viewed this for the first time (h/t to my friend @eatswell on Twitter)

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Finally, some brief sports talk – I heard the following two Super Bowl songs pitted against each other on The Rachel Maddow Show the other night. See if you can guess which one causes me more joy?

Sure, the New Orleans folks are hard to mess with in terms of music with the cross-cultural influences resulting in a veritable explosion of styles and venues in that city. The gospel touch is a nice one. But…as a bass player, I get a little teary-eyed every time I hear Tones on Tail’s “Go!” Mud Kids have to get some credit for that. And because I am partial to 80s pop references, I’m going to call this one a push. Looks like this one will go to sudden death. Or, more likely, I’ll have forgotten both songs in two weeks and be back listening to the depressing, depressing majority of my music collection. And loading the dishwasher.

Eerste Ding

This seems to be some kind of Ali G-like put on. And yet it doesn’t really matter.

Tweede Ding

More musical birds.

Derde Ding

It appears that Men at Work have lost their plagiarism case. I really don’t hear it.

When
the Sony Walkman came out I was in junior high at St. Anne’s Catholic School in Houston. The student body at St. Anne’s was a mix, mostly middle class and some poor kids who I guess got some financial aid. There was also a considerable contingency of wealthy River Oaks kids. I went to school with the Mayor’s niece. Her name was Kiki. There was also a Muffet and she had anorexia. I honestly don’t know where I fit in. I’m not sure if my father sent money from Arabia or if we were getting financial aid. I do know that there was no chance in heaven or hell that I would be getting a Sony Walkman.

However
one of my wealthy friends got one. Not the wealthy friend who touched my private parts and later committed suicide in a manner clearly meant to make his parents suffer (he called them and asked them to come over so they could find him hanged in his apartment). This was the one who was an average troublemaker but since his father was the D.A., the family handled this trouble-making in high fashion and he was off to military school.

A couple of years
before that though, found him and me in his forest-green spacious upstairs bedroom just a couple of backyards and an easily surmountable rotted fence away from the River Oaks Country Club. There, in his room, he plopped a cassette from an unknown band (to me anyway) into this awesome gadget and placed the ear plugs into my ear. In this manner I was introduced not only to the Sony Walkman but also to Tom Sawyer. I had never been so close to music. It still seems like THE most “wow” musical moment I’ve ever had.

Six months
later I stole a cheap knock-off “walkman” from Eckerd’s Drugs. Sounded the same really. Earphones shut everything out so the music is quite personal. However they irritate in short order. And being stuck in your own head listening to recorded music gets old. And batteries are expensive. And I had already become so depressed over all the crap I stole from Eckerd’s Drugs that I had already started going back there and stealthily putting Erasormates, yo-yo’s and other stuff back on the shelves (probably drove them mad at inventory time). And by the way I wasn’t feeling depressed with guilt so much on account of the sin of theft, but on account that the stuff truly wasn’t worth stealing (So I was 12 already –you got to learn some time).

And now
I can no longer listen to the Beatles. But I can listen to their mangled remains re-crafted into hip hop. This is cool.

One of the sponsors of the San Francisco Mixtape Society, with which I am involved, is Matador Records. We were thrilled to have them on board, not only because of the amazing catalog that people think of when they hear the Matador name, but because we thought it would be important to have a record label involved with our event.

The SF Mixtape Society is an event that is perhaps best described as a Secret Santa party, but with mixtapes and with a little friendly competition thrown in for good measure. People assemble a themed mixtape (this month’s theme was Cities v. Town, open to broad interpretation), and show up at a rock club to trade them via raffle. This event is a project that I’ve been working on in my spare time with some very talented music nerds over the past few months, outside of my job at the music supervision company.

Of course, the black-and-white reality is that it is copyright infringement to assemble a mixtape, just as it is copyright infringement to make available or download all of your mp3s via Bittorent. But if we could repaint our copyright laws to reflect our cultural in shades of gray, mixtapes would not fall into the same category as bootlegged mp3s.

The mixtape is a cultural artifact that takes many forms. It is a letter, a birthday surprise, a theme statement, or as one of our sponsors Jason Bittner from Cassette From My Ex might agree, a monument to something loved and lost. There are many books and films about the emotional and cultural significance of these lists of songs scribbled in Sharpie on CD-Rs or penciled into the J-card of a cassette.

But beyond the fact that mixtapes are socially significant, I think it’s worth noting that people tend to find out about music from mixtapes, and when people like what they hear, they tend to buy the music. Much of the music I fell in love with came from friends who took the time to put record them on a CD along with other music they thought I would like. It’s hard to say that mixtapes cannibalized album sales when the songs from new bands on mixtapes have most often led me to buy amazing music that I would otherwise never have heard about.

I think the people who run Matador Records understand of all this, and because of this, were open to the idea of supporting an event that promotes the culture of the mixtape. And we are thrilled and honored to have them involved with our event.

An addictive personality can play havoc with your ability to enjoy the finer things.

I have been blasting my ears out with music through headphones since I was 12. It certainly can’t have been because the quality of the sound from those experiences, can it? Of course not. I had a collection of GE boomboxes and personal stereos (not sure I can call it a Walkman if it’s not from Sony) that could never be mistaken for anything with the Bose name on it.

And as I’ve detailed previously, I have always left the volume knob as high as my personal shame and space would allow. “Eyes Without a Face” – including Steve Stevens’ ridiculously undervalued solo – was much better at 10 than at 4. “Murder by Numbers” seems more forcefully jocular – and less forced – at full volume. Somehow it even enhanced some of my awful choices, such as the Styx live double album Caught in the Act and the album-specific (i.e., not released as singles) tracks on Yes’ 90125.

I recognized even then that the quality of the sound wasn’t necessarily what I was in it for in a number of cases. Sure, the music, the hooks, those pieces were maybe what got me to go for repeated listens, but if I wanted the full experience, it needed to be loud – even if that meant the straining of the available resources. Even if that meant that I heard constant buzzing from my headphones because the speakers simply weren’t built for that task. I mean, let’s face it, no headphone speakers are built to run on full volume all the time. They will, eventually, blow. But I simply don’t care. That will be just another feature of the music, and I will appreciate it all the more because of that feature.

The two shows I remember above all others were the two loudest shows I saw – Mudhoney during college, Barkmarket just afterwards. I am not saying they were the best live shows I ever saw; I am simply saying that the volume makes me remember them (including the lovely floral print sun dress Mark Arm donned at the end of the Mudhoney show) more because that’s what rules my particular musical universe. When music gets to that disorienting volume level, it feels almost as if everything is shifting under me. Plate tectonics may not interest you as an effect of music listening, but it is captivating for me.

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When it’s just me involved, this situation isn’t particularly complicated. But it can’t be just me all the time, nor do I want it to be thus.

I have been playing in bands for 15 years, some louder than others. And no matter the band, there have always been and continue to be issues involving volume – the overall volume of the band, the volume vis a vis space available, the volume during practice, the balance from member to member. When you share the musical space with others, you really have to share the space. And it’s something I’ve not yet come to terms with at all. But I may be starting to understand just a bit.

Volume issues seemed less significant when I was in a pop-punk outfit. We were gunka-gunka-gunka pretty much all the time, with the occasional slower but rarely quieter tune. We did strain to be heard above each other, especially when equipment got out of sync and our guitarist’s Peavey Rage was up against my combo amp with the 15-inch speaker. And I know we had discussions about it. But in terms of volume discussions I’ve had since, it was a fairly minor thing. The music wasn’t quite as subtle. No, what I think I’m mostly on about is in more recent bands, where volume was a bit more variable and required careful calibration – at least in the minds of others.

My previous band, Bullyclub, probably spent the most time of any of my bands on the process of getting sound just right (to the extent possible) at every show. We always seemed to have a friend or a band member taking on the tiresome task of listening carefully to whatever sound check we could get (we didn’t always get one) and helping everyone understand where they were in the mix, who needed to come up, who needed to back down. I always needed to back down, it seemed.

But beyond my personal issues with always having to turn down, I never felt quite the same when we had to bring down bass or even guitar to get the mix right. Something felt like it was missing. People would tell us we sounded great because they could hear everyone, including our singer and his lyrics, and yet it would feel oddly unsatisfying.

It was always the songs that were a little louder both in practice and at shows that landed better. They often did have a sloppy edge to them, and I know that those who advocate for that well-balanced sound say that this is because everyone in the band can’t hear anyone else – as if that sloppy edge were actually undesirable. Me, I’d rather have the slop than an impeccably clean, decipherable, and ultimately dull sound.

It’s the same in practice. Because every practice is an opportunity to figure out how ready you are for the next show or recording session, I always find that bandmates look around at each other after each completed song in an attempt to assess that performance, that moment in time. Did we nail it? Did we flop? And there’s always a snap judgment to be had.

And again I often find my snap judgment to be somewhat at odds with what others think. While others may shake their heads at what they consider a less-than-tight performance, I’m usually feeling like a good dose of volume and the energy it provides can make up for any timing shortcomings. I am primarily concerned that we put everything into it. I’m not sure I put everything into my subtler, less-than-full-volume practice or live show performances. So perhaps it is just my own dissatisfaction I’m feeling. But when it’s done, I’d rather have had that hot, messy performance than the refined and carefully practiced one. So I say “that was great” and I get a lot of quizzical looks. And then we play the next song, ready to make the next snap judgment.

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With my most recent band, I have run into the same issue. There seem to have been more times with isobell than with any other band where we have completed a song in a show or at practice and I’ve said “great!” and gotten stony faces or quiet disagreement. And I think there is something of a volume issue – everyone wants to be heard and sometimes the big bad bass player does get a little too far into it and humbucks everyone out of the way, in combination with the usual co-conspirator the drummer.

Other band members, especially our singer (who is concerned about her voice), talk regularly about being drowned out and ask for a little deference volume-wise. I don’t want anyone to feel they can’t hear themselves or any other part of the band because of what I’m doing, so I always oblige. However, it leaves me wondering how I can continue to seek those loud, sloppy edges if we are to be so very respectful of each other so as not to drown each other out even a little bit.

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I suppose this is the flip side of the Josh who likes to point out specific points within songs and single them out for brilliant construction. Whereas that Josh might be compelled to pull at every string in the arrangement and have them all stand out, this Josh likes to have things become maybe a little less clear during performance and even practice in order to raise the spontaneous creative energy of the room. This lack of clarity often plays itself out in loudness, though I can say that I’ve not had a practice or a show where I felt we were entirely too loud.

Yet this morning, our band had a practice in our guitarist’s living room. This practice was quiet, mellow, and peaceful. It was also very much to my liking. And that was confusing to me. It was everyone putting everything they had into a much smaller space and looking for – and finding – their niches. It was about the continued welcoming of new members to the band. But beyond that, I couldn’t tell you what it was about.

What I can tell you is that there were moments where I felt I was swimming in similar ways to how I feel when the volume is “right” (i.e., cranked). I felt swept up in those moments, and even though after one of those moments, our guitarist pointed out parts he hadn’t played 100% well, I still felt we had achieved a sort of swaying motion, a startling clarity and musical character that we hadn’t achieved for a while. Is it the right personnel? Is it the song we were playing at the time?

The band – specifically the singer, who no doubt needs to hear herself – for the most part felt it was about volume. They felt that if the volume were right, if everyone could hear each other, that energy that I’m looking for would form organically. I’m not sure about that, or at least not sure that volume alone is the key./

But I guess, having had this experience, I’m willing to listen. Because after all, I’m always looking for that right combination that’s going to make me feel really good about every practice, the combination that we are playing songs well and tightly enough to please an audience. Should volume really matter to that? Intellectually, I could say no, but experientially, I’d say it does matter. And yet it seems that I might yet be proved wrong after this great practice.

I’m still not sure that the practice’s good energy was a function of it being the opposite of loud. But I’m willing to have that conversation with the band. Because whatever it was, it felt like we were a band again. And that’s something even a volume addict like me would be willing to turn down for, if necessary.

Of course, that remains an “if…”

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Here are two bonus links, both of which remain better at higher volumes:

I have to say I was skeptical of the potential value of this song’s remaster. But I can hear exactly what fucked-up parts each member of Mudhoney is playing throughout, and I find that has enhanced my listening experience. Isn’t that odd? I guess a part of the key here is that this song was recorded on the nastiest possible equipment – really, you’re never going to get a true quality recording out of this song. You’re just going to get a clearer or dingier Mudhoney. At least with the cleaner version, you can hear the dingy component parts much better. Especially at high volume, which is something I won’t compromise here.

At first blush, this probably isn’t the first song you’d feel the need to blast in order to get the full effect. But if you’re looking for the parts that show the passion seemingly missing from the typical Grizzly Bear recording, all you have to do is wait for the distorted Wurlitzer piano to hit your ear at the 3:01 mark on this creepy, creepy video. It gives you the buzzsaw edge you will always be glad you found but never knew you were looking for. My current air instrument fantasy is sitting at the coffee table, pounding along at the Wurlitzer and hitting all the correct high notes. I want to have that much fun. I really do.