Making a joyful noise

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.

—-

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)

—-

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.