Reading and Writing

Some of you seem to be rather into creative writing, judging from the many such posts, Anaconda's being the latest.

There is nice fiction being written here, as well, as it seems, some kind of pseudo-fiction.

Back in my one creative writing class in college I wrote my only two pieces of fiction. One was a story on how the numbers one through nine related to the Happy Days characters. Fonzie was, of course, number one. Potsie was four. Ralph Malph was five. My other paper was relating those same characters to colors. Ralph was orange, Richie was blue, Potsie was either brown or purple. I really like organization and mapping and it explains why I really love personality tests (Which Golden Girl Are You? being my favorite). You can also imagine my pleasure when finding Ken Nordine’s album on colors years later.

They say women are really into organizing things, more so than men. But probably the reason I don't write anything similarly super creatively is because I'm just too interested in lots of different things. I am not consumed by writing, or making music, or painting, etc. I am consumed by organization, and the system of things.

I realize a good portion of pursuing a traditional art is built on practice, but I don't know how much of it is. I have a feeling a lot is based on talent.

I see you guys seemingly whip it out. Nicely done. Must be related to being musicians, which I am not.

I can't even imagine writing out the whole thing, "Charles told her forcefully, blah blah blah..." Or whatever.

This isn't the only blog for which I write. It was actually written into my goals to write for my company's blog and that was a bit daunting. So, I started writing very similarly to how I do it here, just feeling my way through. One of the early comments sums up how I did: "U R Dumb." Thanks.

I continue working on writing and hope I learn something along with other potential readers. I will most likely never be a fiction writer, but could possibly be a good blogger that can change with the times. I think I’ll probably always be a better reader than writer and that is still worth something.

Reminds me of something an old boyfriend told me long ago that I thought silly, but now, makes me think. He would rate people on how well-read they were. How pompous. Pretentious. But hey, if you are well read, you can't help but have picked up new ideas, new stories, and all of that.

Regardless of how some guy 20 years ago tainted my value of reading, what is now important is that reading is now justified! Ha HA! To help gain these new viewpoints, as well as enjoy the play with words and how ideas are expressed via the written word, one must read, so hey, I know you need something over there, but, can't you see that I'm READING. Back off buster.

This is exciting to me as I barely have time to read, but it is now rated as Important in my mind and deserves attention and time, though I have little to spare. I’ll take my reading time when I can, whether it be on the toilet, in bed, or in an actual reading chair with good lighting nearby.

You can write. You can make music.
I will read and listen.

My offering of the day musically is one of my favorite writers, Jonathan
Lethem. He apparently has moved into being in a band and his music is here,
under the band name I'm Not Jim.

Books you might like, Gun, With Occasional Music, or, Motherless Brooklyn, or As She Climbed Across The Table, or his latest, You Don¹t Love Me Yet, a history of an imaginary indie band called Monster Eyes.

Succour

A few songs I've always found palliative.

00:00;00 Seefeel "Extract"
07:26;04 Whipped Cream "Explosion"
11:58;20 Yo La Tengo "Moby Octopad"
17:43;29 My Bloody Valentine "Soon"
24:40;00 R.E.M. "Me in Honey"
28:45;15 end

You can download this here (for a week or 100 downloads). I was going to put it on PodOmatic, but because we're not "pro", they now seem to be limiting us to 22kHz, 96 Kbps, which is insufficient to properly convey sonic splendor.

Update: Found a different place for files. Download here, or stream below:

thank god for the truck

It seems like most of my posts here tend to be more about sound than about music. I'm afraid it might be getting tedious for you. Nevertheless, it's all I've got today. I am too traumatized to make a good story out of it, so I'll just say what happened. I watched a shootout unfold this afternoon below my window in my alley and I watched a man kill another man. I watched him shoot his gun around the white truck and then I watched the gun in his hand as he got into a car in the parking spot next to the car next to mine and I watched the car slowly drive off as I called nine one one. A few minutes later from my steps I watched them pull the guy out from between the truck and the dumpster and put him into the ambulance. They said when they turned him over he'd been shot multiple times, at least once straight through the heart. It turned out to be a double homicide - another guy was dumped at a nearby hospital with a gunshot to the head a few minutes after the two cars left the scene.

What surprised me in the hours that followed as I was questioned by police and detectives was how much of my story relied on information that I got from what I heard rather than what I saw. I heard the initial gunshots that sounded enough like fireworks that it took me a minute to realize it was a different sound, but it was this difference that caused me to turn around and look down on the scene. I knew the shooting started in the other part of the alley because I could tell from the acoustics. I knew there was either only one gun or the guys had similar guns because the gunshots all sounded the same. I heard lots of shouting. I heard someone saying, "Get in the car! Get in the car!" I heard the car driving slowly, not quickly. (that was weird) I heard a girl shouting "Hang on! The ambulance is coming!"

Even more interesting was how I could literally feel my audio memories morphing into visual memories, as if I'd actually seen something I'd only heard. I had to consciously work to prevent that from happening.

All I keep thinking is how grateful I am for the truck parked there. If not for the truck, I would not only have seen the gunman, but I would have also seen his victim(s?) get shot before my eyes, and I think that would have been too much for me.

MGMT and Hefner

Lately, I’ve been giving a lot of listens to the MGMT debut LP, Oracular Spectacular. I can’t remember where I first heard them, but I know this song hooked me instantly, partly because it didn’t sound like a dumb guitar band and partly because there are brilliant pop-hooks stuffed in every nook and cranny of its 4:21 running time.

When I read about them later I realized why I was so instantly taken with the sound. It’s because producer Dave Fridmann translated the duo’s synth-heavy, disco-baiting songwriting tendencies into a glam version of the Flaming Lips.

So I downloaded the record in March, but didn’t listen all that much. Then I started hearing their other singles on the radio and in bars, only I didn’t know it was them. I just knew their songs sounded smarter and more fun than what preceded and what came after. When I finally gave them my full attention, I realized their slim 10-song debut is chock full of hits.

For example, here’s a decent-quality video of “Weekend Wars” from their performance at Walter’s in Houston.

I’ve tried to pin down what I like about the band, and I think it’s the obvious Bowie-isms and the band’s willingness to put some thought and elbow-grease into their arrangements. So much of what passes for college rock these days is utterly lazy and bitterly formulaic, but these guys consistently write cool bridges and add sensible ornamentation to their formula. They’re working at writing pop songs and you can hear it paying off. Definitely one of my favorite records this year, along with Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago and Dodos’ Visitor.

Finally, I should say that if MGMT sound trendy and young and stupid to you, you are probably right to avoid their brand of fun. But if you dig this it all, I want to point you toward a criminally overlooked record from which MGMT seems to have cribbed quite a bit: Hefner’s Dead Media.

When I tally up my favorite records from this decade, this one will be pretty near the top of the list. It’s another of my “perfect records,” utterly free of filler and stacked with songs that deserved to be hits in a world with smarter radio and smarter listeners. And the kicker has got to be the memorable liner notes that detail the band’s all-analog gear fancy with Asperger’s-like detail.

If Hefner is remembered widely for anything, it will be for two things:

1. Their much-blogged hit “When the Angels Play Their Drum Machines” (mp3 from Dead Media)
2. The idiosyncratic and remarkably consistent branding on their and album and singles art.

I recommend their earlier, more strummy work as well. Get into it.

Ladies and Gentlemen

I still don't have power, so I'm typing this on my phone. If you thought the Blogger interface was bad on your computer, then I would encourage you to try a it on a phone. For some reason I can only type in the "Edit HTML" tab.

I rushed home from work so I could get here before dark because it's a lot harder to feed my new red and black 100 foot extension cord out the window and across the way to another building when I can see what I'm doing and don't have to try to hold a flashlight between my ear and my shoulder, the way you would a phone when you need both hands for something else.

Then I rushed off to a co-working space which was showing the debate outside on a big, inflatable screen. This was the only way I was going to be able to see the debate. On the way I encountered a group of fifty or so bicyclists who had decided to take up all three lanes of the road, threatening to make me late. No good. I got in the left lane and forced my way through, as some guy yelled at me, "Hey man, this is a peaceful demonstation." To which I responded, "It's nothing of the sort. You're just blocking traffic. Share the road." I went around him and drove through their bike column, watching as they rode right through red lights, protected from the cross traffic by their sense of righteous indignation. I had no more time to deal with these idiots, so I continued rushing to the debate, where I could watch the candidates lie to me while in the company of beardy hipsters in tight pants. Has McCain actually been to Waziristan? Should Obama have gone to Afghanistan as chair of his subcommittee? Do pants need to be that tight?

After all this, it was a joy to watch Spiritualized play. Even if it was at the Meridean, my least favorite venue. Even if I didn't get their usual light show. Long, anthemic space jams were the perfect antidote to the previous hours' venom. I almost didn't go, but I'm glad I did.

Week 100: Supreme

A few weeks ago, I left the bar to walk home, like I’ve done a thousand times. It was a bit of a walk, but it was after hours and the streets were deserted and I had a good buzz so it felt good. And don’t you know it, as soon as I start to hit my stride, a screeching of wheels, a scream and then silence again. About one second of my life. In Houston or New York City, I might have kept walking, but in my little town, these are not the sounds that lullaby us to sleep. So I raced down the cross street toward where the scream had come from and there in the middle of the street is a girl. She’s in a fetal position and as I approach I realize her shoulders don’t look quite right, it looks like they are facing the wrong direction. I am not a good medical person. I get dizzy at the sight of internal organs on the surgery channel. But somehow I gather myself enough to call 911. After I give the operator our location, she asks me to stay on the phone and follow her instructions, it’s going to be a few minutes before they can get anyone to where I am. The operator asks me if the girl is conscious. I approach her to see, and see that she is breathing and her eyes are wide open staring into the distance like she is in shock. I tell this to the operator, but I get no response. I look at my phone and notice that the batteries have run out. And that’s when I notice the pool of blood slowly forming under her head.

I talk to the girl, tell her to hang on, an ambulance is coming, but she is not hearing me. I don’t know how it was that I didn’t notice the music. She was wearing earbud headphones and the music was so loud I could hear it from where I stood. Without even thinking about it, I took one of the earbuds off. And she moves. It might have been a shiver, or an attempt to turn, I don’t know, but now she was looking at me from the side of her eyes. And she was mouthing some words. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, and she kept repeating it over and over. Then she gave a big sigh and her whole body went limp and for the first time in my life I saw a life just fly away with a breath.

I was in shock. I wanted to know what she was saying so badly, I wanted to know everything about her. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to get to know someone as much as I wanted to know this girl. She looked like maybe she was in her twenties. Like a street kid with a jean mini skirt, rubber bracelets, messy bright red hair, tattoos. Dead.

And now I could hear the sirens of several cars approaching, ambulance, police, fire truck. Without thinking, obviously, I looked in her purse looking for I don’t know what, and saw the Ipod. Don’t ask me why, but I just took it, earbuds and ipod.

The emergency response people arrived, she was loaded on a cot and covered with a sheet. The police asked me a bunch of questions, then they all left and I was alone again on the deserted street same as before, but with a new Ipod. I walked away quickly and took out her Ipod from my pocket, put on the earbuds, and looked at the display. She had been playing a playlist called the wire and the playlist only had one song. It was a Robbie Williams song. The name sounded familiar, but I thought maybe I was thinking of Robbie Robertson, then I thought I might have heard of a British raver by that name in some drug induced haze during the nineties.

I walked home listening to that song over and over. I knew that’s what she had been doing. This is the song. It is called Supreme and it’s a variation or maybe a response to Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive.

Oh it seemed forever stopped today
All the lonely hearts in London
Caught a plane and flew away
And all the best women are married
All the handsome men are gay
You feel deprived.

This wasn’t what I imagined this Robbie Williams person would sound like. It was a sad walk home. And by the time I got home I had the song memorized and was starting to feel like I knew what the girl was feeling. It’s that connection that music makes between us, giving us the illusion that we can all feel the same thing even when we each interpret a song differently.

I dreamt all night about that girl, and all night the song was the background to my dreams. When I woke up I knew who she was. I realized I had met her when I first moved to town. I was still selling records to buy cigarettes and she was living in the woods with her boyfriend. She had straight brown hair and looked a bit like a hippie girl. She told me about her painful family life, her dead brother and her abusive father. She told me about her several abortions. All this in about five minutes while we waited for the bus together. She must have been nineteen years old when I met her that time.

Later on, I got a job, and my life started to improve, I would see her once in a while on the street, and wave at her, but her life was going in the opposite direction of mine. Every time I saw her she looked skinnier and hungrier, and was soon hanging around with some questionable thugs.

At one point I talked to her again and she was happy because she was pregnant. She was cleaning her life and her boyfriend wanted her to keep the baby. That was several years before the night I didn’t recognize her laying on the street.

When there's no love in town
This new century keeps bringing you down
All the places you have been
Trying to find a love supreme.

I called in sick to my job and went downtown to find the street kids. I talked to all ten or twenty of them who live in our small town. No one knew what I was talking about or they didn’t want to talk to me about her. Then I walked by a kid that didn’t seem like a street kid at all. He was hanging out with a few thugs and rapping the rap bridge from the Robbie Williams song.

I spy with my little eye
Something beginning with (ah)
Got my back up
And now she's screaming
So I've got to turn the track up
Sit back and watch the royalties stack up
I know this girl she likes to switch teams
And I'm a fiend but I'm living for a love supreme.

I asked him about her, and he looked at me like I was a rich daddy looking for his lost daughter that he had just fucked. One of the thugs that was with him called me over and said he wanted to tell me something about her and he walked into a little park off the sidewalk. I followed him and before I knew it he had a tiny little nail clipper knife to my neck. I couldn’t believe he was threatening me with that but I felt the tiny blade digging into my neck. He shoved his other hand in my pocket and pulled out my wallet, opened it and took out the few dollars I had in it. Then he pushed me away and told me to keep walking and don’t look back. I walked away as fast as I could and past the others on the sidewalk who seemed to be laughing at me.

As I walked away I realized the thug had not taken the Ipod which was on my other pocket. I waited until I was out of sight and with shaking hands I took it out and put it on. And listening to that song I walked all the way home.

Yeah turn down the love songs that you hear
'Cause you can't avoid the sentiment
That echoes in your ear
Saying love will stop the pain
Saying love will kill the fear
Do you believe
You must believe

When I got home, I put the Ipod in the same box where I have a broken calculator and a little card with a proverb that another girl many years ago in a far away city, left on a bloody bathroom sink in my house. It was the night of a loud house party with more people that anyone could’ve expected, and it was very late into the night. Suddenly there is a girl peaking out from the bathroom asking me for some vodka. We are all out, I told her, but I can ask around see if anyone has anything stashed away. And then I noticed all the blood running down her legs and the sheer expression of fear on her face. She noticed that I had noticed and in a flurry of words that I could barely understand said something about a boyfriend, a gun, looking for her, hiding, please, I just need some alcohol to clean up. I told her to stay in the bathroom and shut the door and went outside to the front yard where there were a bunch of people milling about, talking loudly and drinking. I tried to get their attention and told them that I was going to lock the door, that they could either stay outside or come back in, but they had to choose now cause once the door was locked no one else was coming in the house.

Then, as I was saying this out on the yard, like an apparition, the girl from the bathroom walked up to me and said, I think I’d better go, and then looked at me with the love of someone that’s at the end of their rope and said thank you. And I watched her walk away into the night.

I asked everyone at the party, but no one else had seen her. But she left a sink full of blood and a little broken calculator and a card with a bible proverb on it, Trust in the lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.

Now that proverb and the calculator are sitting with the Ipod with that one song in a little box in my closet.

When there's no love in town
This new century keeps bringing you down
All the places you have been
Trying to find a love supreme
A love supreme.

International Week on the NAP (OR How to Spot a Jew)

All week I was excited for Saturday to go see Chicha Libre on Navy Pier, presented by the Chicago World Music Festival. Then my buddy calls me up with a free ticket to the Hideout Block Party AND free beer - all of which I actually turned down because I'm trying to be a good promise keeper (well not that kind of Promise Keeper but you know what I mean). But then Tricia tells me she's fine with me going to the Hideout Block Party.

Bye bye Chicha Libre but not necessarily the World Music Festival because Little Cow from Hungary played the HBP and they were also associated with the WMF. But frankly I wasn't interested in Little Cow's funk ska gypsy thing --however they weren't the only representatives of international rockdom because HBP also had: Dan le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip (pretty hilarious hip hop from the UK), the legendary six decade old Plastic People of the Universe from the Czech Republic (you should really look them up and read about their amazing story), Monotonix (from Israel), Black Mountain (some pretty ripping Grace Slick-esque fronted Seventies Heavy Rock from Canada) and Vieux Farka Touré (pretty 'n groovy electric guitar based stuff from Mali).

Monotonix stole the show - setting up in front of the stage, so basically in the crowd, but not settling into any one place. They kept moving around and would also appear suddenly levitated above the crowd (drums included). They made Les Savy Fav frontman, Tim Harrington's, appearance in a garbage can at the Pitchfork Festival look like a pony ride. Monotonix frontman, Arni Shalev, not only got in a garbage can; he stayed in that garbage can and was not only levitated above the crowd in that can, but then kept singing as he was levitated horizontally (still in can). That's all well and good you say but can they play? They rocked. And somehow the sound stayed with them. I'm not sure how that was pulled off. You can download three songs from their MySpace page, put them on your iPud and hear for yourself. AND many of you can see them. They'll be in North Carolina shortly. Then Monotonix does a bunch of shows (including Portland) with NAP favorite Silver Jews.

Monotonix is playing the Mink in Houston and the Mohawk in Austin. Expect them to wind up playing in the downstairs bar at the Mink. Maybe in that little gangway too. Upstairs. On the side street. On the main street. All over. It will definitely be a fun high energy heavy rock hilarious show.

If you like seeing microphones stuck in assholes or you don't like this idea very much but you are open to thinking it might be funny that if every time a microphone was stuck in an asshole it caused feedback, you might like this video entitled Monotonix Destroy North Carolina.

Finally, here's some Monotonix video my friend shot at the Hideout Block Party.

Radio West Twenty-Fourth Place

Pants are an Illusion, like Life

The lights are dimmed, the cocktail is at the ready, the toast is buttered... I am ready.

Rarely have I had a moment like this to do something creative like write this blog.

Let me give you a little rundown on my life of late. Two weeks ago started the weeks of sickness beginning with what the school nurse described as 'emergent chicken pox'. This is basically a variant of chicken pox, as my child has been immunized, at least his first shot. But who really knows as it can look like chigger bites which have been itched a lot, and that's what the doctor called them. A couple of days later my other son gets something like it, so there goes another PTO day. And my husband goes down, the aforementioned, Ozzy-like Artie. Turns out they both have some sickness from the chinese food, a food allergy we think. Moses' illness goes away in a couple of days, but Artie's last for 5. At which point, I get it, and Moses gets it again. This is obviously not a food allergy. I have had it for six days but am finally much better, but still can't eat like a hog. (A built in diet!) Three days ago, oldest son goes down again with our sickness. After Mo poos the most amazing poo (sorry non-parents out there) that is like a freaking soup bowl and on the floor too, Abe starts throwing up at 3 am. He's better now.

That same morning as the shit is hitting the floor, we try to find the keys of Artie's loaner car as his car is in the shop basically totaled and we're wondering if we can fix it or do we need to get a new car. 20 minutes later we find the keys in an unlikely place - a freakin miracle to find, especially on such a day.

All the while please keep in mind we're trying to hold down full time jobs and our new store is opening in just a couple of weeks so the amount of stuff we're trying to do is a lot, and we can barely get to the full time job.

Meanwhile, Abe is having trouble in his kung fu class and I can't even comment on what is happening there but the result is that a five year old thinks he's dumb and a loser because he's not good at moving his body and actually wants to be a girl because they don't get in trouble as much and basically just wants to be a different person who doesn't have troubles.

Meanwhile, we can't pass inspection because after two months the landlord can't replace a door that they put in the wrong spot and the chef had to have words to the head guy downtown. This will be resolved tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to learn how to do payroll and the taxes of when things are due are insane and I slowly realize this payroll accounting thing is not just something I can do in the evenings and weekends but is a part time job.

Meanwhile, I notice that sometimes the shirts I wear have my bra showing and it's completely ridiculous but I have no time to actually buy a new one of a different color. Curse Artie and his fondness of colored dotted bras! So as I'm shopping for food by myself, a rare miracle, but I still have to hurry, I see a section of bras coming up on the right as I drive my cart down the aisle. As I'm coming up to it I see one white one that looks like its my size, and rush and grab it, dropping a few in my wake, and continue on barely losing 10 seconds. This is how I shop for myself. This is what it has come to.

But the latest Avatar came out, the Fire season. And it is awesome. AWESOME. The whole series is terrific! The title of this post is from one of the episodes I saw today. From the swamp people. They wear leaves as clothing.

I even read a book - Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom. Anybody into scifi who hasn't read it, should, it is AWESOME. Great sci fi.

So Carlos, I hope you had a great beach vacation. Houston people, I hope you have electricity or that the lack of electricity provided some interesting times that you weren't expecting. Others, I just hope you didn't have my last two weeks. That has to be some good times.

This post made without courtesy of music. I can't even believe it.

We'll be opening next week if the permit gods are willing.

DPRK Blues

I find North Korea totally fascinating. Who knew they had a website, for instance? Check out their mp3 download section, with top hits from the North!

Watch The Vice Guide to North Korea. I think you'll find it fascinating. If you don't have time for it all, episode 14 is pretty funny. The vice guy does a karaoke version of "Anarchy in the UK" for his extremely befuddled guides, who have little idea of rock and roughly zero conception/comprehension of punk rock.

In reading the comments on the Vice site, I came across a link to a blog by a violinist for the New York Philharmonic, which paid an extremely rare visit to the DPRK earlier this year. You can read the intro and parts one, two, and three. I think you'll find it fascinating reading.

Beautiful big pictures make for fascinating viewing.

And of course, it's always fascinating to watch this video:

(It has a fascinating backstory, too).

Telltale signs that you're amateur

I don't have much to write about this week besides the book I keep talking about, so I'll just say a couple things about this random article I read today that gives the "top ten signs your music is amateur." Thankfully, I don't think my music suffers from any of the things he listed, but I remember when it did. I remember calling up Digi (ack, this is hilarious and embarrassing) after producing my first track, and asking them why the volume was so low compared to my other CDs. Sheesh, was I clueless. In my defense, at that time everything I knew about recording came from my Pro Tools manuals, and they don't talk about that sort of things in the manuals. I also suffered in the beginning with the preset issue and the looping too much. However, I think I managed to avoid pitfall number 9, "misuse of EQ/compression," by just not using EQ or compression at all on my first record. Or maybe non-use is, in itself, misuse, but it forced me to learn quickly how to get exactly the sounds I wanted through mic placement and instrument arrangement and just the simplest volume and panning type of mixing. I kind of wish I could go back to those simpler times before I knew all about EQ and compression - there was a sweetness there.

Anyway, I wanted to take a bit of issue with this guy's advice about EQ. He says, "So by now, you’ve probably heard of compression and EQ, two tools that are used to sculpt sound. EQ seems straightforward enough, but you should always check which frequency you are modifying, and make sure that you aren’t just randomly turning knobs." I agree up to this point (duh - random turning of knobs usually won't end in a professional product), but then he says, "To avoid this, use a spectral analysis plugin to view which frequencies your track is using. FL Studio has a decent spectrum analyzer included. Use it in conjunction with EQ to make sure you can see what you’re doing." I disagree with this approach. This is basically telling people to use a visual crutch from the beginning, which I think discourages people from listening carefully. It would be easy to fall into the trap of becoming so reliant on visuals that without them, you're lost. One example of this for me is the way I'm so reliant on seeing the waveform when editing. I almost don't even need to listen some of the time when editing because I can see so precisely what I'm doing. As a consequence, I never actually use audio scrub in regions I'm editing to find the right cut. This would horrify the old school tape editors, who could make perfect cuts using only their ears, razor, and tape. My controller has a scrubwheel that has never been used, other than as a novelty when I first got it. So maybe I'm just being overly old-school thinking that this guy shouldn't be advising people to EQ visually. Maybe it's like everything else, where good old-fashioned listening isn't so crucial anymore and you can make good-sounding stuff if you have enough good-looking UIs in whatever software package you're using.

Ironically, he goes on in the next piece of advice to bemoan the crutch that autotune has become, complaining about the attitude, "why should I learn to sing if I have autotune?" Indeed, why should an aspiring mix engineer learn to hear EQ frequencies and compression subtleties if she has a UI that shows her where all the problems are?

American Water

I also went to see the Silver Jews. As Friday’s post indicated, it wasn’t all that exciting, but I knew better than to expect entertainment. After all, I’ve heard the records. What I mean is this: if you’ve heard a Silver Jews record, you know there’s no possible way it could be any good live. They actually were better than I expected.

The show did remind me that American Water (represented with 3 songs in Thursday’s set) remains one of the very few perfect records I own. There are two good reasons for loving it:

1. Dave Berman’s lyrics on the record are better than any of his poetry. I can’t think of another record where the lyrics are so consistently good at mixing tossed-off obscurantism with genuinely affecting images and narrative. 
2. Steve Malkmus’s guitar playing. The guitar players in Berman’s new band both played with too much reverb, and were a bit more polished than the Jews deserve or should want. Indeed, on the older songs they were embarrassingly faithful to Malkmus’s extended country-rock solos. I don’t even think Malkmus could play them that well again. He probably played his tracks in two takes and forgot them soon afterward. But as sloppy as it is, Malkmus’s guitar playing on American Water is wonderfully clean, trebly, and virtually reverb-free. Berman’s new guitar dudes should have copied that sound, too.

It’s true that Dave Berman can’t sing at all. But on American Water, Malkmus (who can’t sing either) is there to back him up. Their meager powers combine to form a kind of arch, scraggly chorus that sustains the record and keeps it from drowning in all its minor chords.

I’m not here to win you  over to the record’s pleasures. If you never loved it, you won’t love it now. But nothing could dent how it sounded for me in 1998. Certainly not seeing Berman try (and fail) to replicate his peculiar skills in front of a live audience.

Here’s some chick belly dancing to my favorite American Water track. Enjoy. Or don’t. Also, take a look at Troy Schulze’s review for the Press, which includes a full set list.

Yawn

I'm perfectly willing to admit when I make a mistake. After all, what could I possibly gain by going around being wrong? So I'd like to fess up to a mistake I made last night: I went to see Silver Jews. Hear me out, though, because I think my logic was sound.

Many people whose opinions I respect (or used to, at least) have told me over the years that I might like Silver Jews. For the most part, I didn't pay attention to them, because I'm like that. I never listen much when people go on about music that they like because I know I probably won't feel the same way. It's not that I don't want to hear it or that I'm being I'm contrary (not on these occasions, at least), I just don't have a very impressionable ear. I'm not going to like something because somebody told me that it's good, no matter how much detail they go into about why they like it.

Almost ten years ago, one of these people gave me a book of David Berman's poetry, Actual Air, which lots of people who are into poetry really liked. I'm not really into poetry. I read some of it anyway. I don't remember much about it. It's safe to say that it didn't change my life.

I saw Silver Jews at Pitchfork a couple years ago and I was not impressed then, either. I kept an open mind about it, though, because some bands just don't translate in a festival setting and Silver Jews seem exactly like this sort of band. When I noticed that they were going to be playing at the Orange Show here in Houston, I figured I shouldn't pass that up. I've enjoyed almost every show I've seen at the Orange Show, so this looked like a good opportunity to give Silver Jews a proper shot.

Well, we had a hurricane here last week. It knocked out power for most of the city. Maybe you heard. Since the Orange Show is a part of the city, it was without power and the Silver Jews show was moved to a bar, where other bands were already scheduled. With the new hurricane curfew in effect, all these bands had to play before midnight, which meant the show started early. This was actually a joy for me because I really don't like hanging out at bars at all hours of the evening. Never have.

I thought I might enjoy this show. I had no reason not to. I thought some good music might be just the thing to distract me from the crappy week I'd been having. What I got was a bunch of mediocre indie rock with country tinges. Now, don't get me wrong--I like plenty of mediocre indie rock with country tinges. The difference is that the mediocre stuff I like has good vocals. I especially like good harmonies. Silver Jews, though, are just incapable of delivering anything approaching good in the vocal department. Berman's voice is as mellifluous as a leaf blower and he's almost as charismatic*.

Lots of people seemed to enjoy the show. Many of them sang along. There was a thirty-something guy standing next to me in a civil war era military hat (looking just as dumb as you are imagining) who kept yelling out song titles. We'll call him General Grant. When Silver Jews got to "Punks in the Beerlight," their big closer (after cutting the set slightly short because of time constraints), General Grant sang along especially loudly: "I LOVE YOU TO THE MAX I LOVE YOU TO THE MAX I LOVE YOU TO THE MAX." He was there by himself, by the way.

I should stress here that the show wasn't bad. I could have a good laugh at something bad, so that wouldn't feel like a total loss. This did feel like a total loss because Silver Jews commit the unpardonable sin: They are boring. Boring to the max.

*I couldn't for the life of me figure out why Berman needed in-ear monitors. This type of monitor's purpose is to help the singer keep his best pitch. Moreover, I've never seen anybody use them in such a small venue. Berman bleats his vocals, so pitch isn't an issue. His wife didn't feel the need for these things and she sang on pitch for her parts. It's almost like they are an impediment for him.

~~~~~~

I noticed this week that John McCain was playing Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again" at one of his rallies. Well, that's not exactly the Nuge, but it's getting there. I'm betting David Coverdale has no problem with the extra bit of exposure. Come to think of it, McCain could be on to something there. I bet there are plenty of washed up eighties bands who will gladly not sue him if they can get in a few plays. I wonder what those guys from Mr. Mister are doing now.

Emergency Post

I have forty-two eMusic download credits that I have to use today or lose them. I haven't had any time to think about this. I need your help. Tell me what to get.

p.s. I like all kinds of music except sucky.

Week 99: The Futility of Flogging Music

The lure of money and the pressures of our society to make money and to not “waste” our time on non-profitable activities are not forces to be taken lightly. Making money is the easiest answer to our obsession with results (science would be the more difficult answer).

So it’s not easy telling someone, even oneself, that one has no financial ambitions. No desire to make a million. No interest in investing in stocks or even playing the lottery. No financial wishes beyond what one already has, and maybe an occasional pay increase at the day job. It’s hard to explain in a way that seems rational that ones dreams and ambitions have nothing to do with money and that money even seems to detract from those dreams and ambitions.*

Add a family and a child to the equation, and any semblance of rationality one might be able to muster goes out the window and the lack of financial ambition begins to sound at best like a selfish idealistic conceit, and at worst like a mental disorder for which one should seek treatment. Such is the world we live in.

So here’s an article about The Futility of Flogging Music

In today’s music “industry” the subject of new ways to market and sell music is constantly being thrown around, the model is broken, they’ll say, new models are emerging every day, this is the great opportunity to define a new way to profit from music…. Blah. The world’s greatest salesmen can kiss my penniless poems. There is more music when two kids play jacks, than in all the combined achievements of all the Donald Trumps in the world.

*of course I am referring here to the making of more money than one needs for basic necessities. I would say that someone trying to make enough money to eat, pay rent, buy clothing, etc is someone looking after financial necessities, not financial ambitions.

I'll bet you couldn't guess what's been my top playing record this year.

Robert Gordon with Link Wray --Rockabilly, not the sort of thing I'm known to peddle.

It's an import release that combines two albums recorded back to back in '77/78. This is simple straight up Rock & Roll made by fine craftsmen (the rhythm section -- Rob Stone|bass, Howie Wyeth|drums -- had recently played on Dylan's Desire).

Robert Gordon was a man born out of time - in a way, born at a bad time. These tracks, which lifted Gordon from the relative unknown (mucking about in the Lower Eastside Punk scene), hit the radio at the unfortunate convergence of all things Fifties nostalgia - the unflattering death of Elvis, Sha Na Na, Happy Days, Grease. It didn't help that Gordon slicked his hair back a la Kenickie.

Catching that leather coat tail is probably exactly what Gordon's label wanted, but being tied in to a bundle of sap simply didn't help sales. As well, the Boss gave them Fire but it wasn't a hit (The Pointer Sisters took it to number two the following year). No matter, the fact is these guys cranked out a fine original body of work -- at least worth a Dave Thomas (Wendys)*.

In the end Robert Gordon is much less a rockabilly caricature than the Stray Cats who took the Gene Vincent thing to its ultimate pop limit in the 80's. Gordon dropped the pomp. His live style had urban appeal. Fortunately the recordings didn't need to be redressed. These tracks stand up to the test of time.

Take it from me, you don't have to be a true believin' rockabilly daddy to get into this record. If rockabilly were sparkling wine, this album would be Dom Pérignon.



Check it: Best history of the sessions can be found at bottom of this page. Some live footage on der youtuben. A teeny picture of Dave Thomas.

Songs:
The Fool (Tricia's Favorite)
Twenty Flight Rock (with Elvis backup singers, the Jordanaires)

*David Thomas rating system courtesy of NAP founder Ramone Medina - system can be found here.

Napcast - Ozzy

This week's episode was inspired by Artie. Ok, so he doesn't look exactly like Ozzy, but pretty close.

I was looking forward to doing this cast because I like the totally random mix of music. Somehow it forces me to take each song seriously, rather than being more passive and just listening. At first it was irritating, but now, it has appeal.

Carlos contributed all of the TV Theme songs. My favorite is the Homer Simpson one. Carlos, one you sent seemed too low to me to hear, so I left it off. Sorry.

Kilian, your Walrus had some sounds I have never heard before, so it went well on the cast. McGruff the Crime Dog rocked! I guess I have never heard The Melvins before. I can checkmark that off my list now.

Synchronicity on this napcast I have been planning for the last week occurred yesterday morning as a morning dj played the Pat Boone version of Crazy Train. Get a load of that picture of him. I had to include it. Sexy! And that sparkle! In his eye!

I had to follow the Simpsons song by a lounge song.

I probably rushed putting the Green Velvet song up here, but I like it so much. Reminds me of that Ice Cream song I put on a cast previously. Just some goofy guy singing.

Conor talked about his Who song. A 70s ballad was, again, perfect for this napcast.

Its creating its own little harmony with the other Heaven song, by Black Sabbath, which ties to the sort of metal theme and Ozzy.

It's funny to listen to a bit of metal. I've never done that before. Next up is BRMC. eh, they have a nice beat.

The Blue Nile, typically a Justin contribution, was so weird that I had to look it up to see if I didn't get a messed up copy. Turns out the one on itunes sounds the same. Reading about the band, I see that the whole album was made because the sound engineering was considered so state of the art that it was mainly a plug for the sound recording studio. And I thought the sound was horrible! I am straining to hear the singer. What's that? What'd he say? If I could only HEAR the guy who is bothering to sing to the audience.

The Creatures mix is pretty nice. I never listened to the Creatures before hearing these mixes, and that was just about 3 years ago.

Summer Wind by Frank Sinatra... another song used by The Simpsons, and a perfect end to our lovely summer and so beings Autumn with a lovely cool wind down provided by the 'cane down here in Texas.

This cast was fixed, Wednesday evening.

Napcast RSS for Podcast: http://nap.podOmatic.com/rss2.xml

Stuff This White Person Likes

A short survey of what I've been into lately.

The Who "Heaven and Hell"

After putting some binders of CD-R's in a slightly different position on the shelf, I've been revisiting their contents lately. It's funny how you can listen to a CD you've heard before and have a track jump out at you that you never gave much attention before. "Heaven and Hell", the lead track on my CD of Live at Leeds is one such track. Not sure how I never noticed its righteous awesometude. It starts out in such full-on fashion and just keeps the power at full steam, and with such great lyrics besides. This is their version from the Isle of Wight festival.

Donovan "Get Thy Bearings"

I have a CD-R of Donovan's Hurdy Gurdy Man followed by Butterfield Blues Band's East-West that I listened to repeatedly the other day. Became obsessed with the sixth track, "Hi It's Been a Long Time", but it doesn't appear to exist on the YouTubeNet. The track immediately preceding it was the next most intriguing song on the album for me, "Get Thy Bearings". That doesn't seem to exist on YouTube either, at least as played by Donovan, so you'll have to settle for a rendition by some random dude with a guitar.

Butterfield Blues Band "Mary, Mary"

On the latter half of the aforementioned CD-R, my obsession was with the Butterfield Blues Band's version of Michael Nesmith's (of the Monkees) song "Mary, Mary". Low-voiced guitar hook followed by harmonica honk reeled me in. Again however it appears my choice is a little too obscure for the membership of the YouTube Nation. So the Monkees version will have to substitute. I do like the added sound effects.

Bruce Springsteen "Two Hearts"

Also pulled out The River, one of my favorite records of all time. It has so many great songs, but the one that jumped out this time was "Two Hearts". I love how the vocal line is at times ever so slightly ahead of the beat, adding to the song's propulsive feel. I'm starting to get pretty suspicious of YouTube at this point, though. You would think there would be a nonlethargic version with decent audio, but this is the closest I found.

Thompson Twins "Hold Me Now"

We didn't have cable, so I missed out on being part of the MTV generation. Sometimes it's nice to see what I was missing. There's something about some 80's pop music that seems really pure to me, perhaps in a kind of retro futurist sort of way, even while simultaneously being fairly ridiculous. It reminds me in a way of the various ideologies that people get entangled with that, despite being despicable, still have the undeniable charm of internal logic. At any rate, I think this is a great song.

Sloan "I've Gotta Try"

I loved Sloan's first album Smeared, which betrayed a big MBV influence. Didn't really like their second album though, and sort of forgot about them for a while. Kept meaning to listen to their later albums after hearing that they were quality power pop, but never quite got around to it. Don't remember how I came across this video, which admittedly is totally ridiculous, with its gratuitous computer generated wankery, but the song grew on me in a hurry. Gotta love that guitar chording, which actually kinda reminds me of a band called The Who.

How you know it's music

I was walking down U st this morning around 9am to get some coffee. I consider this to be a delicious luxury. Saturday mornings: farmer's market downstairs (I hardly ever make it, but it's great just knowing it's there). Sunday mornings: Mocha hut. It sounds so mundane, but when you've spent half your adult life out of town, these simple things are extra sweet.

U & 14th is a particularly busy intersection with 4 lanes of traffic on both streets and all sorts of stuff going on - the buses stop at 3 of the 4 corners, so there are usually people everywhere. McDonald's is on the corner. You know, pedestrian city life at its best and worst.

As I walked toward the corner wondering if I should tell someone about the fairly well-dressed man lying in the alley with one shoe missing, I thought I heard something through the racket of the buses and the squeals and car engines and pigeons and people talking on their cell phones and car stereos and sirens (but never any air traffic except the occasional helicopter). Yes, there it was - something faint but oddly regular - too regular to be just street noise. Then it stopped. Oooh, but there it was again...what was that sound? I stopped on the corner for the light and started looking around, trying to locate it. Once I was standing still, I could hear it a little better and soon spotted a large beautiful black woman singing pretty much at the top of her lungs while fanning herself and waiting for the bus kitty-corner across from me. I decided to cross the street and, of course, now that I was watching her, I could hear her song (what's the mechanism behind the phenomenon that seeing something makes you better able to hear it??). She seemed to be singing some chorus over and over again. It had the sound of Jesus, although I don't think I heard the name. I wondered how long she'd been singing it, and what the other people around her thought about it. I thought it was beautiful, actually...she had quite a voice. I briefly thought of going over and telling her so, but then thought not. I realized that what I'd heard through the cacophony of the street noise was her rather extreme vibrato, which she would dive into as often as possible. I didn't hear it long enough to get tired of it. I wondered if she ever came to the end of her song and started another, or if she just sang it just like a song that's stuck inside your head - a little clip less than 15 seconds that won't stop.

As I continued on my soy latte expedition, I marveled as usual at the brain's ability to find music in a forest of noise, or to turn noise into music at the slightest hint of repetition and pattern.

I'm still praying fervently that I get the assignment to go to MIT this year and study how to make use of this ability for scientific analysis of complex data systems. I feel like my whole scientific and creative future is packaged up in a little 8 page application sitting on the desk of another overworked NASA headquarters employee, who probably has to consider politics way more than he wants to in the selection of NASA's first cadre of Innovation Ambassadors.

On my way back home, latte in hand, it happened again. This time it was a guy walking the other direction across the street from me, just singing and strolling. I guess I didn't get the memo that today was Singing in the Street Day.

I'm thinking of all of you in Houston and SW Louisiana and all the places that were hit so hard by Ike. I hope you and your families and friends are all OK and life can return to some sort of normalcy soon.

Here I am. Rock me like a hurricane.

I see that Justin has ably defused any appeal this song might have had for you as theme music for the storm-touched weekend. Nevertheless, I am without prepared remarks and not in the mood to present to you a detailed post. I'm waiting to see how Meyerland pulls through Ike.

In lieu of anything smart or worthwhile, I present to you something even worse than the video you remember. It's an acoustic version. Note that all the trappings of an acoustic rock show are here (the background singers, the "exotic" percussion, the faux-flamenco flavor).

But the Scorpions were always about taking the cliche to the next level, and here you can see that dedication embodied in the acoustic Flying V.

It's too bad this version strips away the only two things that were tolerable about the original recording. As Justin said, the lyrics are offensive in their terribleness, and in this version you can hear and understand every German-inflected nuance as it's limply recited. I prefer the Klaus Meine's more unintelligible wailing in the original.

The other loss is the wicked guitar solo, which I loved when I was a kid and didn't know any better. Not long ago, I encountered it again on Guitar Hero III. As I feebly tried to match notes on my Wii with a fake Les Paul and real pick, I regained some appreciation for its purely athletic virtues. This is the GH3 version on the hardest difficulty level (expert).

Some people can do 100 pull-ups and some people can play scales really fast. I'm happy to have my cowboy chords and my (acquired) good taste. It's difficult for me to remember how or why I loved this song when I was a skinny, nerdy kid who couldn't play guitar and didn't know how music was made. I don't hear music with those ears anymore. But I remember that even bad music was magic then.

There's Calm in Your Eye

I write to you from the edge of a hurricane. I know that others of you are also at the edge of this same hurricane, sealed up tight in the box you call home. Never fear, for I am here to entertain you. For some reason.

When writing about music and hurricanes, there are really only two options. The first, most obvious, is to talk about The Scorpions and their paean to their own masculine prowess, "Rock You Like a Hurricane." Nobody really wants to hear about that, though. The jokes have all been made, so I don't don't need to make them here. I invite you to revisit them in your head now. I'll be waiting right here until you return.

*************INTERMISSION*************

Back so soon? Did you remember to laugh about the "giving her inches" and "feed her well" lines? No? I'd say you did a pretty half assed job of your mockery then, didn't you? Oh well. We're done talking about these Scorpions.

The other road to take when talking about musical hurricanes is Neil Young's "Like a Hurricane." It surprises me that none of us has gone on about Mr. Young here before, but I willingly take up the challenge--I'm only using this "hurricane" conceit in order to have a reason, because I really have no intention of talking about this song, lovely and filled with feedback that it is, because it's really just a bright spot at the beginning of Young's slow decline. Not that you would have known by listening to the radio that there was anything resembling a decline when that song appeared in the seventies. Neil Young owned seventies radio. There was never a time that don't remember hearing Neil Young. This is probably why I love him. His music just forms an often unrecognized bedrock in my musical taste. Specifically, I mean the music of the three albums that form Young's hot streak. These albums include:

Everybody Knows This is Nowhere
After the Gold Rush
Harvest

It probably also makes sense to include Déjà Vu in this list, since that was at the same time.

Actually, I don't even know what to say about these albums. Describing why I like them is like describing why I like my feet. And every time I go through a period of not really liking music that much (now would be one of those times), I can still listen to these albums. I will flip though an entire collection, being disappointed with everything and not wanting to listen to anything, but then I always think, "Well Harvest wouldn't be so bad." And it never is.

So I guess go listen to these albums. And for crying out loud stop with the Scorpions jokes; that was like three paragraphs ago. You are so slow.

Week 98: The Joys of Moving

We are at the tail end of a lengthy move. A move that took us from an apartment to having all our stuff in a storage unit and staying at a friends’ house for two weeks, to a house that still needed a lot of major work. And now finally, the new place is starting to feel like home.

Most of the heavy inside work (plumbing, electrical, painting, floors) is done, and we are mostly unpacked and thinking about the aesthetics of the place, wall décor, lighting, etc. And we’re starting to deal with the garage and the forest that surrounds us.

Here’s our driveway, and the view out the front door.

Like most people I hate moving, I hate the part where you have to pack everything and carry it somewhere else. However, I love arranging the stuff once we are in the new place. I’m an organizing maniac. Writing is about organizing words, music is about organizing sounds, moving is about organizing stuff. It sounds very pedestrian, but there is an aesthetic side to any arrangement. And with the proper organization, the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts.

Books on a shelf, for example. It would be too easy to just organize them alphabetically by author or by title, that would be like music where all the notes are in order, do re mi fa so la si bored. Of course I could just throw them on the shelf in any random arrangement. But then I wouldn't have the time to recall the books I've read and ponder how they belong together, after all, you are what you read, right? Books on a shelf, records on a cabinet, stuff in the closet, pictures on the wall, it’s the story of our life, and it can be told a thousand different ways depending on how you arrange the parts. And each different retelling can reveal aspects of the story that might have been previously hidden or forgotten.

Here’s some shelves in progress.

















And here’s a working plan for the entry wall art.

Each picture is to scale of one of some of the many small pieces of art we have collected over the years, one of Claire’s icons is up there, one of Wednesday’s better half’s photo pieces too. Of course it would help if you knew what the pictures looked like, but I'll try to put a photo of the actual wall once the art is up.

So this house has been taking a lot of our time, but this Saturday we are going to the beach for a week, and when we come back the house will finally be our home, because a house is not a home until you come back from being gone.

And it’s nice to have things in order. Like they say “que buen sentido el tener la casa limpia” (makes good sense to have a clean house).

Here’s some more pictures of the house in progress.

The deck






















The fireplace





























The view towards the back













The view out the bedroom window













The front door
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