Tuesday, July 4, 2017
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
A Note from the Turtle Shell: Eagles, Growlers, and Felonious Kissers
Thought I'd take a minute in the wake of the latest craziness in the news (what is this one about? Who said what? Did someone get fired? Insulted? Deported? You don't know -- that's how much fun we're having!) to drop a few discoveries on you. I've been living like a hermit lately in a desperate attempt to avoid engaging with the dumbfuckery outside my door, and to pass the time I've been hunting for new tunes as my music, as with most else around me, has been annoying me. I've been going back to simpler times, re-listening to a bunch of old bands I was obsessed with in my youth -- the Smiths, the Replacements, Radiohead and Elliott B-sides, I've even channeled my inner Dude and been rocking deep cuts of CCR -- in an effort to recapture a little glow. I've also dug around on some modern bands and these three have given a glimmer of hope, so wanted to share.
First up is the side project of Grizzly Bear's Daniel Rossen, Department of Eagles, which I stumbled on as I was looking for any indication that band might be coming back soon (and it sounds like they might -- they thankfully dropped a new single a few days ago...) The albums are somewhat hit or miss, but the one that resonated best was the odds and sods Archive: 2003-2006, which sounds like a lost Grizzly outing on several of the tracks. (Which makes sense since Rossen joined the band around that time, the voice and sound showcased here snapping perfectly in with that outfit's aesthetic.) Rossen's voice remains a beauty, at turns ethereal, weary, and warm, and it's the constant across the album's better tracks -- the stately "Deadly Disclosure" and "Grand Army Plaza," or the taut "Brightest Minds" and "Flip." "While We're Young" is a cut above the rest, sounding like a Veckatimest castaway -- swirling vocals, shuffling drums, bright guitars. It's a great listen -- check it out here:
Next up is the fourth album from California's The Growlers, City Club, which was produced by Strokes frontman Julian Casablancas. You can feel his influence throughout as his obsession (and almost every band's these days, it seems) with the 80s continues unabated, as gauzy guitar and synth swirls round out the band's normal surfer vibe. It works pretty well, despite how it sounds on paper -- frontman Brooks Nielsen still sounds like he's singing with a mouth full of seawater, but the hooks and melodies are strong enough to surpass any murky vocals/lyrics. The title track and "Night Ride" sound like late night lounge act fare, while others sound like homages to their influences, be they the Police ("Dope on a Rope"), the Strokes ("Too Many Times"), or 60s surf bands from their hometown ("The Daisy Chain," "World Unglued"). It's a little disjointed and long by the end, but works well in bits. I particularly like the second track, "I'll Be Around," with its loafing bass, call and response vocals, and plinky guitar riffs -- check it out here:
Last up is the debut from Kissing Is A Crime, who I discovered in the midst of a bourbon-fueled late night buying binge and gave a listen based on the name. And I'm glad I did -- despite some clunky lyrics/songs ("Noise at Night," "You Would Never Understand") there's some really good tunes on here. Waffling between shimmery 80s style indie ("Permanent Damages," "Sheila's Gone," "Crown Royal") and more poppier fare ("You Make Me Shatter," "Someone Who Needs No One"), frontman Matt Molnar and Co show some really nice guitar work in the songs. Bright melodies, meandering riffs, and echoey vocals all swirl together to create a nice retro feel. Lead track "Nervous Conditions" gets things off on the right foot, building the aforementioned elements to satisfying release in the choruses before tearing it down and doing it over again. It's a solid track on a decent debut -- worth keeping an eye on these guys going forward. Check it:
----------
We'll close with a freebie, the infectious protest song "I Give You Power" by Arcade Fire, which has soul matron Mavis Staples thrown in for good measure. It's a winning mixture -- from the ominous murk of the intro, with its bleeps and bloops bubbling out of the growling bass and frontman Win Butler saying "I gave you power" over and over, the song takes off nearly a minute in and doesn't look back. Mavis serves as Butler's echo, singing lines back at him with increasing venom, and by the song's end she's practically growling at him -- "I gave you power, but now I say, I gave you power, I can take it away," with her hissed "WATCH ME"s serving as a convincing threat come the conclusion. Hearing Arcade Fire dropped a protest song made me cringe initially, thanks to their customary pretentiousness of late, but maybe this is just the right antidote for the times we're living in -- pretentious alt-rockers taking swings at pretentious Presidents. It's like Mar-a-lago trust fund brats getting into a tiff over whose Bentley is more luxurious -- only they speak the same language, so only their words have the power to cut. If that's the case, then bring it on -- we need a whole lot more where this is coming from...
First up is the side project of Grizzly Bear's Daniel Rossen, Department of Eagles, which I stumbled on as I was looking for any indication that band might be coming back soon (and it sounds like they might -- they thankfully dropped a new single a few days ago...) The albums are somewhat hit or miss, but the one that resonated best was the odds and sods Archive: 2003-2006, which sounds like a lost Grizzly outing on several of the tracks. (Which makes sense since Rossen joined the band around that time, the voice and sound showcased here snapping perfectly in with that outfit's aesthetic.) Rossen's voice remains a beauty, at turns ethereal, weary, and warm, and it's the constant across the album's better tracks -- the stately "Deadly Disclosure" and "Grand Army Plaza," or the taut "Brightest Minds" and "Flip." "While We're Young" is a cut above the rest, sounding like a Veckatimest castaway -- swirling vocals, shuffling drums, bright guitars. It's a great listen -- check it out here:
Next up is the fourth album from California's The Growlers, City Club, which was produced by Strokes frontman Julian Casablancas. You can feel his influence throughout as his obsession (and almost every band's these days, it seems) with the 80s continues unabated, as gauzy guitar and synth swirls round out the band's normal surfer vibe. It works pretty well, despite how it sounds on paper -- frontman Brooks Nielsen still sounds like he's singing with a mouth full of seawater, but the hooks and melodies are strong enough to surpass any murky vocals/lyrics. The title track and "Night Ride" sound like late night lounge act fare, while others sound like homages to their influences, be they the Police ("Dope on a Rope"), the Strokes ("Too Many Times"), or 60s surf bands from their hometown ("The Daisy Chain," "World Unglued"). It's a little disjointed and long by the end, but works well in bits. I particularly like the second track, "I'll Be Around," with its loafing bass, call and response vocals, and plinky guitar riffs -- check it out here:
Last up is the debut from Kissing Is A Crime, who I discovered in the midst of a bourbon-fueled late night buying binge and gave a listen based on the name. And I'm glad I did -- despite some clunky lyrics/songs ("Noise at Night," "You Would Never Understand") there's some really good tunes on here. Waffling between shimmery 80s style indie ("Permanent Damages," "Sheila's Gone," "Crown Royal") and more poppier fare ("You Make Me Shatter," "Someone Who Needs No One"), frontman Matt Molnar and Co show some really nice guitar work in the songs. Bright melodies, meandering riffs, and echoey vocals all swirl together to create a nice retro feel. Lead track "Nervous Conditions" gets things off on the right foot, building the aforementioned elements to satisfying release in the choruses before tearing it down and doing it over again. It's a solid track on a decent debut -- worth keeping an eye on these guys going forward. Check it:
----------
We'll close with a freebie, the infectious protest song "I Give You Power" by Arcade Fire, which has soul matron Mavis Staples thrown in for good measure. It's a winning mixture -- from the ominous murk of the intro, with its bleeps and bloops bubbling out of the growling bass and frontman Win Butler saying "I gave you power" over and over, the song takes off nearly a minute in and doesn't look back. Mavis serves as Butler's echo, singing lines back at him with increasing venom, and by the song's end she's practically growling at him -- "I gave you power, but now I say, I gave you power, I can take it away," with her hissed "WATCH ME"s serving as a convincing threat come the conclusion. Hearing Arcade Fire dropped a protest song made me cringe initially, thanks to their customary pretentiousness of late, but maybe this is just the right antidote for the times we're living in -- pretentious alt-rockers taking swings at pretentious Presidents. It's like Mar-a-lago trust fund brats getting into a tiff over whose Bentley is more luxurious -- only they speak the same language, so only their words have the power to cut. If that's the case, then bring it on -- we need a whole lot more where this is coming from...
Saturday, April 1, 2017
Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows -- The Weekly Weather Forecast
Greetings, friends -- figured I'd pose a prank and come out of hiding for a moment, it being April 1st and all. And while some of the hijinks today will undoubtedly be worth a laugh, not much else has been lately. For some reason, I've found myself more agitated than normal -- maybe it's just because Girls is ending... -- and as a result I've been listening to a bunch of loud, cranky punk bands to pass the time. Three in particular have kept me company in this span, so wanted to share them before turtling back up and returning to the basement.
First up is the latest from the Orwells, the skate punks from back home who return with their third album, Terrible Human Beings. (Unclear if this is a joking reference to themselves or the people we're forced to listen to these days...) They've cleaned their sound up some in the three years since Disgraceland, but have also broadened it considerably -- there's glimmers of the Dandy Warhols in lead single "They Put a Body in the Bayou," the Strokes in "Vacation" and "Double Feature," the Pixies in "Creatures" and "Black Francis" (aptly referenced in the latter title), and sundry surf rock bands in the 1-2 of "M.A.D." and "Buddy." Frontman Mario Cuomo still sounds like the smartass mouthing off from the back of class, with the rest of the band gleefully chiming in as his misfit chorus as on songs like "Heavy Hand, "Ring Pop," and "Hippie Soldier," and it's tough to ignore. That last track is the standout here -- bright, hooky guitars, sharp lyrics ("just because you took the easy way out/doesn't mean you know what you're talking about"), and a stop-start rhythm that gets you nodding along. Another solid outing from top to bottom -- take a taste here:
The latter two are debuts from virtual unknowns, one a band from Oakland, the latter from Ireland, and the former's band name and album title will likely approximate your response to what follows -- "Nope(s). Never Heard of It." The two albums top out at just over an hour combined, but they deliver in impact what they lack in duration (just like my good ideas and amorous moments, I'm sure). At their best, Nopes call to mind early Jesus Lizard -- jagged, jugular slitting guitar riffs, punishing drums, and inscrutable lyrics. Similar to the aforementioned's David Yow, I couldn't tell you a single thing frontman Alex Petralia says here, but it doesn't matter -- it's all about feel. And what this evokes is pure frenzy -- 12 songs of fast, fist pumping glory. There's barely a dud to be found -- "Screens," "2:59," "Cubes," and "Full Time Greeter" are all sub-two minute scorchers, while "Saigon/Stow," "Corners," and "3:00" stretch things just a hair longer without diminishing the thunder. "I Hate Living in the City" is the favorite, though -- it showcases everything the band does well in its brief two and a half minutes and I defy you to try and sit still. Pure spitfire.
As for the lads from the Emerald Isle -- Galway's Oh Boland -- their debut Spilt Milk is quintessential UK punk -- brash, accented fuzzbombs of sneering guitar and vocals that knocks you back in your seat. It's another brisk 30 minute affair, the type of no frills, chaotic whirlwind that reminds you why punk can be such a thrill. There's a bunch of good tracks on here -- opener "Jane Russell" and "Oh the Flatlands" speed along on solid riffs, as do tracks like "Caller so Cold" and "Waiting on You." The best one to sample is "First Dog's Death," though -- simple, chunky guitar, half assed lyrics, and a steady 1-2 drum beat that drags you by the collar through its scant 140 seconds. Check it out here:
First up is the latest from the Orwells, the skate punks from back home who return with their third album, Terrible Human Beings. (Unclear if this is a joking reference to themselves or the people we're forced to listen to these days...) They've cleaned their sound up some in the three years since Disgraceland, but have also broadened it considerably -- there's glimmers of the Dandy Warhols in lead single "They Put a Body in the Bayou," the Strokes in "Vacation" and "Double Feature," the Pixies in "Creatures" and "Black Francis" (aptly referenced in the latter title), and sundry surf rock bands in the 1-2 of "M.A.D." and "Buddy." Frontman Mario Cuomo still sounds like the smartass mouthing off from the back of class, with the rest of the band gleefully chiming in as his misfit chorus as on songs like "Heavy Hand, "Ring Pop," and "Hippie Soldier," and it's tough to ignore. That last track is the standout here -- bright, hooky guitars, sharp lyrics ("just because you took the easy way out/doesn't mean you know what you're talking about"), and a stop-start rhythm that gets you nodding along. Another solid outing from top to bottom -- take a taste here:
The latter two are debuts from virtual unknowns, one a band from Oakland, the latter from Ireland, and the former's band name and album title will likely approximate your response to what follows -- "Nope(s). Never Heard of It." The two albums top out at just over an hour combined, but they deliver in impact what they lack in duration (just like my good ideas and amorous moments, I'm sure). At their best, Nopes call to mind early Jesus Lizard -- jagged, jugular slitting guitar riffs, punishing drums, and inscrutable lyrics. Similar to the aforementioned's David Yow, I couldn't tell you a single thing frontman Alex Petralia says here, but it doesn't matter -- it's all about feel. And what this evokes is pure frenzy -- 12 songs of fast, fist pumping glory. There's barely a dud to be found -- "Screens," "2:59," "Cubes," and "Full Time Greeter" are all sub-two minute scorchers, while "Saigon/Stow," "Corners," and "3:00" stretch things just a hair longer without diminishing the thunder. "I Hate Living in the City" is the favorite, though -- it showcases everything the band does well in its brief two and a half minutes and I defy you to try and sit still. Pure spitfire.
As for the lads from the Emerald Isle -- Galway's Oh Boland -- their debut Spilt Milk is quintessential UK punk -- brash, accented fuzzbombs of sneering guitar and vocals that knocks you back in your seat. It's another brisk 30 minute affair, the type of no frills, chaotic whirlwind that reminds you why punk can be such a thrill. There's a bunch of good tracks on here -- opener "Jane Russell" and "Oh the Flatlands" speed along on solid riffs, as do tracks like "Caller so Cold" and "Waiting on You." The best one to sample is "First Dog's Death," though -- simple, chunky guitar, half assed lyrics, and a steady 1-2 drum beat that drags you by the collar through its scant 140 seconds. Check it out here:
Saturday, December 10, 2016
Apocalypse Now -- The Best Music of 2016
Well, that's the perfect capper to an absolutely exceptional dick punch of a year. I was ready to put the finishing touches on my usual year in review, having worked on it for several weeks now, carefully explaining why I felt the below albums were so good (or justify my assertion that they were good in the first place), only to log in today to find it inexplicably deleted and irretrievable. Which is sort of how I feel about the rare good things that managed to poke their heads through the avalanche of shit this year -- they fought to the surface only for a moment, before quickly being buried in another cascade. Take time to write about all the good music that came out this year, one of your favorite things to do? OK -- but I'm going to wipe that out before you're finished and can share it with others. Switch jobs in part to try and bring to fruition something you've been pushing for piecemeal for years? OK -- but I'm going to surround you with micromanagers and misfits who are going to make it almost impossible for you to focus on that and advance. Redesign your kitchen and improve things in your house? OK -- but I'm going to make you live like a hoarder and deal with an insufferable, ignorant asshat of a contractor for eight months.
This year was about punishment and your ability to withstand it inhuman amounts. About watching the things you care most about -- intelligence, integrity, and the careful application of craft -- be ignored or impugned in growing amounts. Nothing escaped unscathed or was permitted to shine too long. That two of the best things of my entire life had to occur in the midst of this unrelentingly misery is a bit like falling in love at a mass shooting or finding a bottle of water in the middle of a house fire. It sullies their individual splendor and feels insufficient in the face of what surrounds it. And what's around them is an almost laughable litany of lousiness -- friends getting divorced. Coworkers and relatives unexpectedly passing. The global culling of icons from almost every corner of our culture. (Honestly, look at the list of folks here -- you'll be saying "holy fuck" by about picture fifteen -- and those are just folks that have passed this month.) To say nothing about the unholy abortion that was this election and what is waiting in its wake.
So rather than step right back in front of the DPM Charlie Brown style to recreate what I'd painstakingly put together for these albums, I'm cutting my losses and putting my head down. I'll maybe see you all next year. I might just lock myself in the basement and call it a day. Enjoy the below and if you really want to hear my thoughts on them, just hit me up. Appropriately enough there's thirteen of them for this nightmare of a year.
Here's to next year not being the Old Country Buffet of fucking terribleness like this one was...
Soundtrack to the Apocalypse: The Best of 2016
1. Kanye West -- The Life of Pablo: he's a thin-skinned, self-important asshole. And quite possibly a legitimate crazy person. But apparently that's our thing now. So pop on the perfect soundtrack to our modern times and buckle up. It's gonna be a heck of a ride.
2. Bon Iver -- 22, A Million: soundtrack to the most intense, stressful, and ultimately happy week of my life. Did that really happen this year? Yep -- a measly two fucking months ago. I feel the joy of that event still like a morbidly obese person feels their abs. FML.
3. Parquet Courts -- Human Performance; the Kills -- Ash & Ice; Black Pistol Fire -- Don't Wake the Riot: bands I'm obsessed with that're good.
4. Lewis del Mar -- Lewis del Mar; Ona -- American Fiction: bands that are brand new that're good.
5. White Denim -- Stiff; Woods -- City Sun Eater in the River of Light: bands that start with W and sort of sound alike that're good.
6. Kevin Morby -- Singing Saw; Hamilton Leithauser + Rostam -- I Had a Dream that you Were Mine; Lumineers -- Cleopatra: bands that sound old that're good.
7. Pete Yorn -- Arranging Time; Violent Femmes -- We Can do Anything; A Tribe Called Quest -- We Got it From Here...Thank You 4 Your Service: bands I used to listen to a lot that're back unexpectedly and still good.
8. Boxer Rebellion -- Ocean by Ocean; Local Natives -- Sunlit Youth: bands like the California fall (80s (sounding) and sunny) that're good.
9. Andrew Bird -- Are you Serious; Wilco -- Schmilco: hometown bands back from mediocre albums that're good.
10. Catfish and the Bottlemen -- The Ride; Frightened Rabbit -- Painting of a Panic Attack: bands from the UK that're good.
11. The Coathangers -- Nosebleed Weekend; FIDLAR -- Too: punk bands that're good.
12. Miike Snow -iii; Prism Tats -- Prism Tats: bands with falsetto singers that're good.
13. Band of Skulls -- By Default; Kings of Leon -- WALLS: bands you don't quite trust / want to like that're good.
That's it. GOFY 2016.
--BS
This year was about punishment and your ability to withstand it inhuman amounts. About watching the things you care most about -- intelligence, integrity, and the careful application of craft -- be ignored or impugned in growing amounts. Nothing escaped unscathed or was permitted to shine too long. That two of the best things of my entire life had to occur in the midst of this unrelentingly misery is a bit like falling in love at a mass shooting or finding a bottle of water in the middle of a house fire. It sullies their individual splendor and feels insufficient in the face of what surrounds it. And what's around them is an almost laughable litany of lousiness -- friends getting divorced. Coworkers and relatives unexpectedly passing. The global culling of icons from almost every corner of our culture. (Honestly, look at the list of folks here -- you'll be saying "holy fuck" by about picture fifteen -- and those are just folks that have passed this month.) To say nothing about the unholy abortion that was this election and what is waiting in its wake.
So rather than step right back in front of the DPM Charlie Brown style to recreate what I'd painstakingly put together for these albums, I'm cutting my losses and putting my head down. I'll maybe see you all next year. I might just lock myself in the basement and call it a day. Enjoy the below and if you really want to hear my thoughts on them, just hit me up. Appropriately enough there's thirteen of them for this nightmare of a year.
Here's to next year not being the Old Country Buffet of fucking terribleness like this one was...
Soundtrack to the Apocalypse: The Best of 2016
1. Kanye West -- The Life of Pablo: he's a thin-skinned, self-important asshole. And quite possibly a legitimate crazy person. But apparently that's our thing now. So pop on the perfect soundtrack to our modern times and buckle up. It's gonna be a heck of a ride.
2. Bon Iver -- 22, A Million: soundtrack to the most intense, stressful, and ultimately happy week of my life. Did that really happen this year? Yep -- a measly two fucking months ago. I feel the joy of that event still like a morbidly obese person feels their abs. FML.
3. Parquet Courts -- Human Performance; the Kills -- Ash & Ice; Black Pistol Fire -- Don't Wake the Riot: bands I'm obsessed with that're good.
4. Lewis del Mar -- Lewis del Mar; Ona -- American Fiction: bands that are brand new that're good.
5. White Denim -- Stiff; Woods -- City Sun Eater in the River of Light: bands that start with W and sort of sound alike that're good.
6. Kevin Morby -- Singing Saw; Hamilton Leithauser + Rostam -- I Had a Dream that you Were Mine; Lumineers -- Cleopatra: bands that sound old that're good.
7. Pete Yorn -- Arranging Time; Violent Femmes -- We Can do Anything; A Tribe Called Quest -- We Got it From Here...Thank You 4 Your Service: bands I used to listen to a lot that're back unexpectedly and still good.
8. Boxer Rebellion -- Ocean by Ocean; Local Natives -- Sunlit Youth: bands like the California fall (80s (sounding) and sunny) that're good.
9. Andrew Bird -- Are you Serious; Wilco -- Schmilco: hometown bands back from mediocre albums that're good.
10. Catfish and the Bottlemen -- The Ride; Frightened Rabbit -- Painting of a Panic Attack: bands from the UK that're good.
11. The Coathangers -- Nosebleed Weekend; FIDLAR -- Too: punk bands that're good.
12. Miike Snow -iii; Prism Tats -- Prism Tats: bands with falsetto singers that're good.
13. Band of Skulls -- By Default; Kings of Leon -- WALLS: bands you don't quite trust / want to like that're good.
That's it. GOFY 2016.
--BS
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
The Impossible Journey: World Series 2016
Amici -- I know all I normally write about is music here, but at the risk of offending my eight readers wanted to post the below since it was such an incredible experience and huge thing for me. It's about baseball and my beloved Cubs, so if that's not your cup of tea I'll see you next post. For the rest of you, hope you enjoy... #flytheW #gocubsgo --BS
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You knew it before it started – the week was either going to
end in total heartbreak or pure, unadulterated joy. However, in life as in
baseball, things rarely fall so squarely into one bin or the other, so the
subsequent seven days unfolded as an almost unrelenting mixture of the two. Which wasn’t totally unexpected -- truthfully,
they were just following the pattern of the previous two weeks and the correlating
series. The near-miss tension of the
shortened series against the Giants before some late inning heroics, followed
by back to back blanks against the Dodgers and the game’s best pitcher before
coming to life and beating them both three straight.
And we'll close with the song that got things started for me every game day, getting worn out along with the rest of the album as I played it on virtual repeat. It's the lead track off Bon Iver's new album, 22, A Million, and the pinched falsetto of the title served as a hopeful harbinger of things to come as it wormed its way around your head. It's a great song on an equally excellent album (we'll be seeing it in a few months on the year end wrapup...), so check out "22 (Over S∞∞n) in the meantime:
-------------------
And while the subsequent pattern may have been the same, the
intensity and frequency of the peaks and dips that followed were ratcheted to nearly
unbearable levels over the final seven games. From the disbelieving joy of Game 1 (“we’re
finally here!”) slightly soured with the loss, to the tense rebound of Game 2 (“we
can’t get on a plane to go home down
0-2…”) ultimately sweetened by the win. Some thrills, some scares, but the net
gain was zero -- it was down to a five game series.
And then comes the return home, where you saw a constantly flowing
stream of people wearing blue or flying the W from their houses, cars, or
apartments, literally from the minute you stepped off the plane. The airport (and your plane, for that matter)
is full of people wearing Cubs gear, heeding the call home the same as you -- all
hands on deck. It all leads up to the weekend, the biggest one for the club in
the last 70 years (and maybe the city, too) for three straight games and a
chance to spin the fairytale ending by winning it all at home.
But that would have been too easy -- this is Chicago and
this is the Cubs, so you knew you were going to have to suffer more before it
was over, because the best stories follow the paths of our winters and need to
nearly break you before letting up. So
the almost worst case scenario unfolds – the joy of Game 3 and our hosting the
first Series game since the Second World War gets blotted out, quickly followed
by an uncharacteristically terrible Game 4 where we compound the damage by
piling several errors on top of our suddenly silent bats.
And thus follows the first of what will ultimately be many
days of high unease and uncertainty. The
giddy block party that filled the neighborhood the first two nights becomes a
tense, stomach churning affair the following day you can see reflected in the
eyes of passersby – instead of toothy grins you now exchange teeth-bared
grimaces and nods, shifting from the self-assured to the self-assuring. (“We can do
this!” to “we can do this…we can do this…”)
This builds to the backs to the wall breakthrough of Game 5 and the feeling of relief that courses through the city in its wake. (“You won’t sweep us at home and celebrate in our city; we will fly the white flag from our beloved field at least once; we will live to fight another day.”) Cue two more days of uncertainty – two LONG days of anxious waiting – but days that are imbued with a flicker of hope stronger than the day before. That flicker becomes fire in Game 6 with an explosion of runs and offense that brings us back to level.
This builds to the backs to the wall breakthrough of Game 5 and the feeling of relief that courses through the city in its wake. (“You won’t sweep us at home and celebrate in our city; we will fly the white flag from our beloved field at least once; we will live to fight another day.”) Cue two more days of uncertainty – two LONG days of anxious waiting – but days that are imbued with a flicker of hope stronger than the day before. That flicker becomes fire in Game 6 with an explosion of runs and offense that brings us back to level.
Which leads to the longest day – the all or nothing pressure
of one final game; the possibility of fully climbing out of the biggest of
holes on the biggest of stages; the hope of seeing something you’ve waited your
entire life for (and your father, and your grandfather…); the fear of having
come this close only to fall short yet again.
These thoughts swirl in your head like a hurricane up the coast and the
weather matches your mindset, a black, blustery mix of rain and wind that sends
you scurrying around town.
But you soldier on. You
follow the same rituals – you listen to the same album as you’ve listened to
before every game, you wear the same hat; your lucky socks and boxers. You go to the same bar where the rally
started, hit the same spots on the sidewalk as you walk around like a crazy
person -- the wheel of fortune looking thing on the sewer covers, the blue W’s
that follow the water lines, the “CWWs” you decide stand for “Cubs WILL win…” (Which you say in your head as your foot hits
the letters…) You do these things knowing it won’t matter, but unable to stop
yourself and take the chance at this late an hour. You fight off the urge to vomit for hours as
you try to distract yourself with these minor insanities.
And then the game starts.
Where the lead that’s acquired from the literal onset –
against the pitcher who’s beguiled us two previous times, now going for his
third victory – gets quickly dashed two innings later. We renew and expand the lead immediately
after that – knocking their starter out early! -- …but then our pitcher is suddenly
and surprisingly removed, too (“he’d retired seven straight – what are you
doing?!”) and the lead is cut in half by a couple errors. (“Here we go again,
just like the other night…”) One of the errant parties snatches redemption on his
next at bat, improbably homering to extend the lead again, while the other does
so too, going two more innings on short rest to stretch the bullpen a little longer.
And now we’re six outs away.
Our shutdown closer comes in to work his magic one more
time, set to throw fire for the remaining four outs and pitch out of a little
jam... but he’s pitched the previous two games, too, including an epic outing
three days ago, so is more human than super and they knock a run off the lead. No
worries. (“Four more outs…”) He gets to one strike away from ending the inning (“almost
there!”) …but then hangs a pitch that gets clobbered into the corner and somehow
stays fair on its way into the stands. Back
to level again... (“Why did you pitch him last night – we were up five at the time!”)
He rebounds the following inning, mowing the opposition down in order after we
squander an attempt to take the lead in our half of the ninth. (“Three more
outs…”)
And then the rains come.
And you’re left to agonize over everything that’s come
before, both in this game and in this team’s history. Goats and black cats, ’84
and ‘03, the spike before the sweep last year …and the urge to vomit comes back
for the twentieth time tonight. You’re
going to extra innings. You’ve blown the lead twice. Most recently with your ace on the mound. This
is game 7. And this is the Cubs.
But twenty minutes or so later play resumes and we quickly
put two more on the board. (“Hey hey!”) A
fresh arm appears from our bullpen and gets an easy out. Then a second. (“ONE MORE OUT!”) And your
stomach starts doing flips with every pitch.
With every second. But then there’s a walk. And a stolen base. And then a double to cut the
lead in half again, courtesy of the guy who’d homered his previous at bat to tie
things up.
Another pitching change. More waiting. More pacing. More
cursing. But then he gets a strike. And
another one. And all of a sudden there’s
a slow dribbler to our all-star third baseman…who slips when he throws it to
first (“oh come on!”)…but after a seemingly interminable flight time………….it
gets there. And it’s over. We’ve won the World Series for the first time
in over a century. (“#$%@!”)
And then the city loses its mind.
There’s jumping, there’s dancing, there’s more smile crying
than you can believe from this many grown-ups. There’s mass running through the
streets, like a herd of buffalo fleeing an unseen predator. Shouting, cheering, hugging, dancing. More running, more smile crying, more
dancing. Until the lights go out and you
don’t remember anymore, your brain unable to process this much happiness and stress. You lose your hat. You lose your jacket, having thrown both off
at some point like a jubilant graduate.
You face plant at least once, unable to even stand upright under the
weight of all this joy. And you keep running.
Until somehow you manage to get home, work the keypad to enter the
building, and find your way to bed.
When you wake up the following morning you try and piece
together whether it really happened because the end of the night is a fog. You check the news. You check the paper. You check the phone because somehow it still
could be a scam. But your screaming calves and scuffed up face are tangible
proof – it really happened. And you start smiling. And you don’t stop for the rest of the
day. Full face, teary eyed joy. You walk around like this all day, making eye
contact with fellow travelers and somehow grinning even more. You high five. You hug.
You walk around this city on possibly the most perfect fall day achievable
and see hundreds of others seemingly on the same cloud you are. And it’s one of
the best days of your life – one of your favorite memories of your favorite
place on earth, seeing this many people this happy about something that hasn’t happened
in over a hundred years and that you’ve been waiting your entire life for.
It’s the greatest.
There’s the formal celebration and parade the following day
that heightens the glow – you get there early to see the rally but can’t get
farther than the parade route. Because
while you expected a lot of people, you’ve never actually seen this many in the
same spot at one time. An endless,
undulating sea of people, all decked out in royal blue. Flags, smiles everywhere. In the road, in
the trees, on people’s shoulders. In all
directions, for as far as you can see.
It turns out it’s the sixth largest gathering of humans – IN
THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD! -- and it’s the happiest collection of people you’ve
ever been around. You sing, you high
five, you smile some more. You see the
team go by, the trophy, all the heroes of the previous weeks (and the season
overall), surrounded by a torrent of confetti and singing, dancing people. You
hear the speeches and the remembrances of everyone who’s worn the uniform or
waited for this day, but didn’t make it to the end. You remember the losses –
of these games and people -- and it sweetens this victory and this unbelievable
day.
And then you go home. The most epic, intense, and stressful
week of your life is over. The Cubs have won the World Series. And you smile
cry one more time, because you still can’t believe it.
The Cubs have won the World Series – holy cow…
-----------------
Wanted to throw a couple tunes up here in line with the above that formed the soundtrack to the week, either being belted out at the bars or creeping from my headphones. We'll start with the former, which besides impromptu renditions of the seventh inning stretch and eleventy billion choruses of "Go Cubs Go" was one of the more enjoyable rarities. It's Eddie Vedder's ode to his beloved team, "All the Way," written during one of our failed playoff runs. The lyrics are sweet, the chorus was what got belted out back home, and the video's pretty great too -- check it out here:
And we'll close with the song that got things started for me every game day, getting worn out along with the rest of the album as I played it on virtual repeat. It's the lead track off Bon Iver's new album, 22, A Million, and the pinched falsetto of the title served as a hopeful harbinger of things to come as it wormed its way around your head. It's a great song on an equally excellent album (we'll be seeing it in a few months on the year end wrapup...), so check out "22 (Over S∞∞n) in the meantime:
Friday, October 7, 2016
Lolla 2016: Bigger Than Kanye's Swimming Pool
It's been an eventful couple of months -- in addition to recovering from the disaster that was our kitchen renovation, which spawned additional projects almost literally the minute it was completed -- projects that required me to punch more holes in the walls, damaged our fancy new cabinets, and otherwise brightened my day -- I've been dodging possums hanging from our front door, mice that somehow snuck into our new kitchen, and rats that have apparently set up shop in our backyard. Since we were supposed to be flying to a wedding today and that instead devolved into a monster hurricane, I figured I'd take a minute to check in before any more stupidity got in the way.
It hasn't all been bad at the Palazzo Rodentia, though -- in the midst of all the nonsense I've been processing all the music and positive memories acquired in my annual pilgrimage back home for Lollapalooza. This year was a little different than the previous ten -- despite adding an entire new day to the festival, this was hand's down the weakest lineup in years. The headliners were actually some of the best parts of the concert for a change and not take em or leave em throwaways like normal -- Radiohead was its usual amazing self and a rare treat to see this side of the pond (it'd been four years since their last appearance), the Chili Peppers put out a solid set of singalong songs for everyone gathered around the campfire, and LCD had one of the best sets of the entire weekend as folks went hellbent for leather and threw everything they had left into a gigantic danceparty before jetting out of town.
In between there was a lot of dead space, though -- a lot of first or second year bands still sharpening their teeth, stretching to fill their hour long slots with material, in addition to the unfortunate creep of monotonous DJs outside the confines of the electro stage ("ONE! TWO! THREE! GO!" and then cue monster sounds and plodding bass lines, over...and over...and over again), which for the first time affected almost every stage at some point or another, if not multiple at once. It was a little unfortunate and felt like a missed opportunity for a 25th anniversary -- no big reunions, no special guests or appearances from bands that were there at the beginning (minus the Peps). All in all, though, it was still a great time despite the mediocrity -- Foals destroyed their set in the middle of a monsoon and rocked so hard they stopped the rain (probably earning my vote for weekend champion), Danny Brown was a riotous good time as he ran back and forth whipping folks into a lather, and Silversun Pickups were pure fire in a blissed out set several years in the making.
There were some new discoveries of note, too -- first of which is Lewis del Mar, a duo from Rockaway Beach, NJ, of all places, who mix a swirl of thundering drums with a more laid back, trippy vibe to positive effect. Frontman Danny Miller's honey-dipped voice and the songs' sauntering tempo give things an almost tropical feel, while drummer Max Harwood keeps you awake and moving as he rides the loud-quiet-loud tempo shifts into the sunset. The pair haven't released a ton, but what they have is pretty great -- "Loud(y)" was the single that took off earlier this year and is a combustible four minute ride (whose opening line is now one of my favorite things to "sing" at people, whether at concerts or at the office), "Painting (Masterpiece)" is a sunnier sounding jam with a great vocal hook, and "Memories" is another delectable spiral of sound effect snippets, juggernaut drums, and lyrics of a busted relationship. "Malt Liquor" is the one to check first, a smoldering gem that ebbs and flows like the waves of the duo's name and waterfront home. Check it out here:
Next up is the folksy three-piece from Boston, Honeysuckle, who kicked off day three in the shaded tree-lined cool and slowly woke the crowd from their heat and booze induced stupor. The band isn't doing anything fancy, just belting out song after song of warm three-part harmony, banjo, and plinking mandolin, but it works nicely. Frontwoman Holly McGarry's voice meshes wonderfully with drummer/guitarist Benjamin Burns' and mandoliner Chris Bloniarz's, and the warm glow at times conjures memories of Out of Time-era R.E.M. and Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac. (With more banjo!) Songs like "Large Regardless" from their Arrows EP and "Canary," "Skincolor," and "Waking Up" from their self-titled debut are all lovely and the perfect soundtrack to a lazy Sunday afternoon. "It's Getting Late" is one of their strongest -- McGarry's voice and the overall melody are great, and when the trio pauses to bellow the title in unison you can feel your heart swell. Check it out here:
Finally, we'll close with maybe my favorite discovery of the weekend, the snot-nosed skatepunks of FIDLAR. Their set was a contender for the most fun I had during the festival and a strong contributor to why the last day was definitely the best. Noisy, brash, "if you don't like us, we don't give a fuck" -- they may have been slightly out of place on such a big stage in the middle of the day in a park, but their attitude and the sloppy excellence of the songs put you in the dark, crappy bar in your head where it needed to be so you could thrash around without worrying. These guys absolutely killed it, tossing out track after track of irresistible punk -- "Got No Money," "Cheap Beer," "Stoked and Broke," "Blackout Stout," "40oz on Repeat," "Punks," "Why Generation..." Time and again this four piece from LA throws down three minute blasts about booze, drugs, surfing, and skating, calling to mind everything you want a garage band to sound like. It's loud, it's messy, but damn if it isn't also a fucking blast. For me, nothing tops their debut single "Cocaine" -- guitarist Elvis Kuehn's surf rock riff slowly lures you into the buzzsaw of his brother Max pummeling the drums, Brandon Schwartzel's thudding bass line, and frontman Zac Carper's unhinged wail thirty seconds in and you're paste after that. It's three minutes of punk perfection that'll have you pumping your fist and flailing in unison -- just crank it up and check it out here:
It hasn't all been bad at the Palazzo Rodentia, though -- in the midst of all the nonsense I've been processing all the music and positive memories acquired in my annual pilgrimage back home for Lollapalooza. This year was a little different than the previous ten -- despite adding an entire new day to the festival, this was hand's down the weakest lineup in years. The headliners were actually some of the best parts of the concert for a change and not take em or leave em throwaways like normal -- Radiohead was its usual amazing self and a rare treat to see this side of the pond (it'd been four years since their last appearance), the Chili Peppers put out a solid set of singalong songs for everyone gathered around the campfire, and LCD had one of the best sets of the entire weekend as folks went hellbent for leather and threw everything they had left into a gigantic danceparty before jetting out of town.
In between there was a lot of dead space, though -- a lot of first or second year bands still sharpening their teeth, stretching to fill their hour long slots with material, in addition to the unfortunate creep of monotonous DJs outside the confines of the electro stage ("ONE! TWO! THREE! GO!" and then cue monster sounds and plodding bass lines, over...and over...and over again), which for the first time affected almost every stage at some point or another, if not multiple at once. It was a little unfortunate and felt like a missed opportunity for a 25th anniversary -- no big reunions, no special guests or appearances from bands that were there at the beginning (minus the Peps). All in all, though, it was still a great time despite the mediocrity -- Foals destroyed their set in the middle of a monsoon and rocked so hard they stopped the rain (probably earning my vote for weekend champion), Danny Brown was a riotous good time as he ran back and forth whipping folks into a lather, and Silversun Pickups were pure fire in a blissed out set several years in the making.
There were some new discoveries of note, too -- first of which is Lewis del Mar, a duo from Rockaway Beach, NJ, of all places, who mix a swirl of thundering drums with a more laid back, trippy vibe to positive effect. Frontman Danny Miller's honey-dipped voice and the songs' sauntering tempo give things an almost tropical feel, while drummer Max Harwood keeps you awake and moving as he rides the loud-quiet-loud tempo shifts into the sunset. The pair haven't released a ton, but what they have is pretty great -- "Loud(y)" was the single that took off earlier this year and is a combustible four minute ride (whose opening line is now one of my favorite things to "sing" at people, whether at concerts or at the office), "Painting (Masterpiece)" is a sunnier sounding jam with a great vocal hook, and "Memories" is another delectable spiral of sound effect snippets, juggernaut drums, and lyrics of a busted relationship. "Malt Liquor" is the one to check first, a smoldering gem that ebbs and flows like the waves of the duo's name and waterfront home. Check it out here:
Next up is the folksy three-piece from Boston, Honeysuckle, who kicked off day three in the shaded tree-lined cool and slowly woke the crowd from their heat and booze induced stupor. The band isn't doing anything fancy, just belting out song after song of warm three-part harmony, banjo, and plinking mandolin, but it works nicely. Frontwoman Holly McGarry's voice meshes wonderfully with drummer/guitarist Benjamin Burns' and mandoliner Chris Bloniarz's, and the warm glow at times conjures memories of Out of Time-era R.E.M. and Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac. (With more banjo!) Songs like "Large Regardless" from their Arrows EP and "Canary," "Skincolor," and "Waking Up" from their self-titled debut are all lovely and the perfect soundtrack to a lazy Sunday afternoon. "It's Getting Late" is one of their strongest -- McGarry's voice and the overall melody are great, and when the trio pauses to bellow the title in unison you can feel your heart swell. Check it out here:
Finally, we'll close with maybe my favorite discovery of the weekend, the snot-nosed skatepunks of FIDLAR. Their set was a contender for the most fun I had during the festival and a strong contributor to why the last day was definitely the best. Noisy, brash, "if you don't like us, we don't give a fuck" -- they may have been slightly out of place on such a big stage in the middle of the day in a park, but their attitude and the sloppy excellence of the songs put you in the dark, crappy bar in your head where it needed to be so you could thrash around without worrying. These guys absolutely killed it, tossing out track after track of irresistible punk -- "Got No Money," "Cheap Beer," "Stoked and Broke," "Blackout Stout," "40oz on Repeat," "Punks," "Why Generation..." Time and again this four piece from LA throws down three minute blasts about booze, drugs, surfing, and skating, calling to mind everything you want a garage band to sound like. It's loud, it's messy, but damn if it isn't also a fucking blast. For me, nothing tops their debut single "Cocaine" -- guitarist Elvis Kuehn's surf rock riff slowly lures you into the buzzsaw of his brother Max pummeling the drums, Brandon Schwartzel's thudding bass line, and frontman Zac Carper's unhinged wail thirty seconds in and you're paste after that. It's three minutes of punk perfection that'll have you pumping your fist and flailing in unison -- just crank it up and check it out here:
Saturday, July 23, 2016
The Bitch is Back: Tats, Spaceships, and Shoegaze
Well -- I had been waiting to post until after the eight months long and counting nightmare that is my kitchen renovation was done, as for most of that time I've physically been unable to get to my computer behind the towers of boxes, cabinets, and other chaos clogging the arteries of my house like a hoarder's wet dream. Unfortunately I'm worried that day may never come (it's been a week and a half since my contractor last returned any calls/texts about what exactly he's fucking doing -- but who's counting!), so wanted to take an opportunity before I dip home for my annual Lolla pilgrimage to toss out a couple recommendations that've been keeping me company amidst the relentless cuntpuntery.
First up is the self-titled debut from Prism Tats, which I discovered by complete accident a few months back. I normally don't show up early for shows, usually opting to catch the last song or two of the opener to focus on the headliner, and if my timing's off and I miss the opener completely, that's the cost of doing business. This night, though, because the art of posting accurate set times on your website or social media fora is too difficult for some to master (#2016isthenew1984 #whatsaTwitter #fuckyouandyourplans) we got there at the time for the headliner and instead got to see all of the opener's set first. Thankfully that happened to be these guys, the normally solo lead singer/lyricist Garett van der Spek and a couple of onstage pals, and they were great. Van der Spek sounds a little like Ours frontman Jimmy Gnecco at times, or even a punkier Jeff Buckley, with his soaring falsetto on songs, but it works -- both live and on the album.
They opened the former the same way they do the latter, with the drunken kazoo sounding intro of "Pacifist Masochist," which sets the tone well with its driving beat, catchy hook, and sharp lyrics. Follow on tracks like "Never Been Shy," "Death of Fame," and "Haunt Me" all shine too, harnessing the band's brash energy and van der Spek's snarky, sometimes biting lyrics. ("I don't know where I'm going, but it's nowhere with you" on "Shy" or "sometimes I'd rather lose myself than prove myself alone" on "Pacifist.") Half the time you think he's kidding as he tosses them out with his high pitched delivery, but there's an acidic sincerity to the words that rings true and makes you wonder. It's a great little album and definitely something to keep your eyes on moving forward.
Nothing tops "Weird Guilt" for me, though, which captures it all in a tight three minute package -- a killer riff, thundering drums, and those cryptic, catchy lyrics. ("I don't want to be your lover again, if being your lover means being your friend (no I no I no I don't), well does that make me just a little insincere?") Pure sizzle -- check it out here:
Next up is a new layer to the continued obsession that's plagued me the last few years, that of Guided by Voices and their unrelenting frontman Bob Pollard. A buddy first introduced GBV to me fifteen-odd years ago when he gave me a copy of their classic Alien Lanes. And while there were tracks on there that I instantly loved ("Game of Pricks," "Motor Away," "Blimps go 90") the album as a whole sort of overwhelmed me -- 28 tracks, some seeming afterthoughts ending almost as soon as they'd began ("Cigarette Tricks," "Hit"), others noisy oddities that seemed to be useless throwaways ("Gold Hick," the snoring overlay that drowns out "Ex-Supermodel"). It seemed too scattered and disjointed to me at the time, like it was rushed to market before an editor could get their hands on it and tighten it up.
It wasn't until Pollard put out the band's greatest hits compilation in 2003 that I really started to get into them -- killer tracks like "Everywhere with Helicopters," "Bulldog Skin," "Glad Girls," "Tractor Rape Chain," "Teenage FBI" were all over the album. Those gems surrounded tracks I remembered from Alien Lanes, which gave me a new appreciation for the earlier material and the band itself. You could hear the unmistakable influences more clearly now (The Who foremost among them) as well as the army of bands they inspired since I'd first been exposed (everything from Stone Temple Pilots and REM to Pavement and Neutral Milk Hotel). When they broke up the following year (in what I'd come to learn was the beginning of a trend for the restless Pollard) and said farewell in an epic New Year's Eve marathon in Chicago (four plus hours, something close to 75 songs) I was fully on board.
I spent the intervening months downloading tracks from their seemingly endless supply of albums and EPs (well over 50, depending on how you count), and slowly started picking through Pollard's equally prolific solo efforts and side projects. And I realized that while my initial assessment was still partly correct (Uncle Bob most definitely needs an editor from time to time), some of my favorite tunes included the ones that could initially seem like throwaways ("Tropical Robots" being but one example that leaves you wanting more).
Keeping up with the ever-burgeoning GBV catalog was enough to keep me busy for a long time, dabbling in some of his solo stuff if I had a few spare cycles, but it wasn't until I got a chance to catch them again when they came through town a month or so ago that I found the latest layer to my addiction. They were here in support of their latest album, Please Be Honest (I've lost count with what number this one is -- somewhere in the high twenties) and the show was brilliant as always -- two and a half hours, two encores, easily fifty-odd songs (including a pretty great cover of The Who's legendary "Baba O'Riley" to close things out), several of which were from this band he kept referencing, the Boston Spaceships.
They were good tunes, very in line with vintage GBV -- sort of British invasion style songs, brash and poppy -- and I made a note to investigate more once the show was over. As I'm sure is no surprise at this point, it's yet another Pollard side project that I'd somehow missed the bead on, and it instantly became the food for my obsession since the show. Like later-day GBV lineups, the band recorded with a rotating array of excellent musicians (John Moen from the Decemberists, Mick Collins from the Dirtbombs, J. Mascis of Dinosaur Jr.) and together managed to reel off a slew of equally excellent tracks. Check out the greatest hits album as a starter -- there were the ones I recognized from the show ("Come on Baby Grace," "Tabby and Lucy," "Question Girl Alright"), as well as several other winners -- "You Satisfy Me," "Earmarked for Collision," "Make a Record for Lo-Life," the unsettling drone of "German Field of Shadows." It's a great addition to the repertoire and will keep me going back to the well (as well as the original albums) for months to come. Check out "Come on Baby Grace" for a taste:
We'll close with a track from a fun little lo fi discovery I stumbled on from another band I'd been introduced to years ago, but also let drift in the intervening years. I'd first heard this London band back when it was a quartet for its self-titled debut and really dug on their fuzzy style of shoegaze. (I swear I caught them at Lolla that year but can't seem to confirm that so maybe I'm making it up...) Their follow-on was a bit of a let down so it was by chance I heard their new album, Stranger Things, was out and gave them another try.
I'm glad I did, because despite losing a member (original guitarist/vocalist Daniel Blumberg) the remaining three respond nicely on this tight little eleven track effort. The band continues to call to mind Smashing Pumpkins and Built to Spill at times with their fuzzed up guitars and meandering melodies, but they do so without sounding derivative. From tracks like the charging "Cannonball" and "Only Silence," to more dreamy downtempo ones like "As I Walk Away," "Like a Moth," and the epic closer "Yr Face" (which could easily be in either the Pumpkins or BTS' catalog) the album shifts styles nicely over its 45 minute duration. "Hearts in Motion" is the purest distillation of the band's strengths -- solid riffs, all fuzz and thunder, while lead singer/guitarist Max Bloom's melodic coos hover over the din. Great little track -- check it out here:
First up is the self-titled debut from Prism Tats, which I discovered by complete accident a few months back. I normally don't show up early for shows, usually opting to catch the last song or two of the opener to focus on the headliner, and if my timing's off and I miss the opener completely, that's the cost of doing business. This night, though, because the art of posting accurate set times on your website or social media fora is too difficult for some to master (#2016isthenew1984 #whatsaTwitter #fuckyouandyourplans) we got there at the time for the headliner and instead got to see all of the opener's set first. Thankfully that happened to be these guys, the normally solo lead singer/lyricist Garett van der Spek and a couple of onstage pals, and they were great. Van der Spek sounds a little like Ours frontman Jimmy Gnecco at times, or even a punkier Jeff Buckley, with his soaring falsetto on songs, but it works -- both live and on the album.
They opened the former the same way they do the latter, with the drunken kazoo sounding intro of "Pacifist Masochist," which sets the tone well with its driving beat, catchy hook, and sharp lyrics. Follow on tracks like "Never Been Shy," "Death of Fame," and "Haunt Me" all shine too, harnessing the band's brash energy and van der Spek's snarky, sometimes biting lyrics. ("I don't know where I'm going, but it's nowhere with you" on "Shy" or "sometimes I'd rather lose myself than prove myself alone" on "Pacifist.") Half the time you think he's kidding as he tosses them out with his high pitched delivery, but there's an acidic sincerity to the words that rings true and makes you wonder. It's a great little album and definitely something to keep your eyes on moving forward.
Nothing tops "Weird Guilt" for me, though, which captures it all in a tight three minute package -- a killer riff, thundering drums, and those cryptic, catchy lyrics. ("I don't want to be your lover again, if being your lover means being your friend (no I no I no I don't), well does that make me just a little insincere?") Pure sizzle -- check it out here:
Next up is a new layer to the continued obsession that's plagued me the last few years, that of Guided by Voices and their unrelenting frontman Bob Pollard. A buddy first introduced GBV to me fifteen-odd years ago when he gave me a copy of their classic Alien Lanes. And while there were tracks on there that I instantly loved ("Game of Pricks," "Motor Away," "Blimps go 90") the album as a whole sort of overwhelmed me -- 28 tracks, some seeming afterthoughts ending almost as soon as they'd began ("Cigarette Tricks," "Hit"), others noisy oddities that seemed to be useless throwaways ("Gold Hick," the snoring overlay that drowns out "Ex-Supermodel"). It seemed too scattered and disjointed to me at the time, like it was rushed to market before an editor could get their hands on it and tighten it up.
It wasn't until Pollard put out the band's greatest hits compilation in 2003 that I really started to get into them -- killer tracks like "Everywhere with Helicopters," "Bulldog Skin," "Glad Girls," "Tractor Rape Chain," "Teenage FBI" were all over the album. Those gems surrounded tracks I remembered from Alien Lanes, which gave me a new appreciation for the earlier material and the band itself. You could hear the unmistakable influences more clearly now (The Who foremost among them) as well as the army of bands they inspired since I'd first been exposed (everything from Stone Temple Pilots and REM to Pavement and Neutral Milk Hotel). When they broke up the following year (in what I'd come to learn was the beginning of a trend for the restless Pollard) and said farewell in an epic New Year's Eve marathon in Chicago (four plus hours, something close to 75 songs) I was fully on board.
I spent the intervening months downloading tracks from their seemingly endless supply of albums and EPs (well over 50, depending on how you count), and slowly started picking through Pollard's equally prolific solo efforts and side projects. And I realized that while my initial assessment was still partly correct (Uncle Bob most definitely needs an editor from time to time), some of my favorite tunes included the ones that could initially seem like throwaways ("Tropical Robots" being but one example that leaves you wanting more).
Keeping up with the ever-burgeoning GBV catalog was enough to keep me busy for a long time, dabbling in some of his solo stuff if I had a few spare cycles, but it wasn't until I got a chance to catch them again when they came through town a month or so ago that I found the latest layer to my addiction. They were here in support of their latest album, Please Be Honest (I've lost count with what number this one is -- somewhere in the high twenties) and the show was brilliant as always -- two and a half hours, two encores, easily fifty-odd songs (including a pretty great cover of The Who's legendary "Baba O'Riley" to close things out), several of which were from this band he kept referencing, the Boston Spaceships.
They were good tunes, very in line with vintage GBV -- sort of British invasion style songs, brash and poppy -- and I made a note to investigate more once the show was over. As I'm sure is no surprise at this point, it's yet another Pollard side project that I'd somehow missed the bead on, and it instantly became the food for my obsession since the show. Like later-day GBV lineups, the band recorded with a rotating array of excellent musicians (John Moen from the Decemberists, Mick Collins from the Dirtbombs, J. Mascis of Dinosaur Jr.) and together managed to reel off a slew of equally excellent tracks. Check out the greatest hits album as a starter -- there were the ones I recognized from the show ("Come on Baby Grace," "Tabby and Lucy," "Question Girl Alright"), as well as several other winners -- "You Satisfy Me," "Earmarked for Collision," "Make a Record for Lo-Life," the unsettling drone of "German Field of Shadows." It's a great addition to the repertoire and will keep me going back to the well (as well as the original albums) for months to come. Check out "Come on Baby Grace" for a taste:
We'll close with a track from a fun little lo fi discovery I stumbled on from another band I'd been introduced to years ago, but also let drift in the intervening years. I'd first heard this London band back when it was a quartet for its self-titled debut and really dug on their fuzzy style of shoegaze. (I swear I caught them at Lolla that year but can't seem to confirm that so maybe I'm making it up...) Their follow-on was a bit of a let down so it was by chance I heard their new album, Stranger Things, was out and gave them another try.
I'm glad I did, because despite losing a member (original guitarist/vocalist Daniel Blumberg) the remaining three respond nicely on this tight little eleven track effort. The band continues to call to mind Smashing Pumpkins and Built to Spill at times with their fuzzed up guitars and meandering melodies, but they do so without sounding derivative. From tracks like the charging "Cannonball" and "Only Silence," to more dreamy downtempo ones like "As I Walk Away," "Like a Moth," and the epic closer "Yr Face" (which could easily be in either the Pumpkins or BTS' catalog) the album shifts styles nicely over its 45 minute duration. "Hearts in Motion" is the purest distillation of the band's strengths -- solid riffs, all fuzz and thunder, while lead singer/guitarist Max Bloom's melodic coos hover over the din. Great little track -- check it out here:
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