Bon Bon Pistolet: Songs of Love and Sunshine

In the midst of the unrelenting chaos that is my work life of late (or perennially, if I'm not being self-delusional), the following two albums have provided shelter from the storm, one an incredibly happy accident, the other a much-awaited follow-up. The former refers to what I still worry is a sign of my ever-fragmenting sanity --an album that was never released by an artist that seemingly never was. Honestly, if I didn't have a copy of it and hadn't been playing it on endless repeat the last month, I'd be sure I'd made the whole thing up. I don't even remember how I heard about him to first start sniffing around -- all I had was his name scribbled on one of my myriad Post-It notes, an apparent message from Providence written during a divinely inspired blackout. If this is the price of losing your mind, though, it's one well worth paying.

The album is 25 Songs and the artist is Jay Jay Pistolet (British folk singer Justin Hayward Young), but dig around on the internet and that's about the extent of what you'll be able to find. The album is not available commercially, and it appears the extent of Pistolet's official catalog is a lonely pair of singles released over two years ago. Yet somehow this magnificent album exists -- 25 songs of sheer and utter perfection. Songs about love, ladies, and the finer things in life (the few that exist outside those first two categories, that is); songs so peaceful and pretty they make your heart ache and knees weak with every listen.

There's folk songs, honkytonk pop blasts, whispered confessionals, and tiny electro raves. The last album that packed so much variety and heart into a single offering is the one that feels like this one's big brother, the Magnetic Fields' masterpiece 69 Love Songs. Like that album (one of my absolute favorites), this one is busting at the seams with charm and emotion, routinely leaving you on the edge of smiling or crying from the all loveliness. Songs like "Friend, We Weren't Even Lovers," "I Can't Let Go," "The Secrecy of Mon Amie," and "Holly" are absolutely devastating, shotgun blasts of beauty straight to the chest.

Then there are the songs that sound like they were unearthed from a time capsule or the ruins of some ancient civilization. "Saint Michel," "Vintage Red," "Come On," and "Postmodern Blues" sound like they should be coming out of the window of some house as you walk on the bank of the Seine in early century Paris or out of the dusty horn of a gramophone in some Victorian-style lounge. The effect is beguiling -- they feel antiquated, and yet immediately recognizable. For these reasons and others, the album feels like a found treasure; like having the password to some backalley speakeasy or your enemy's invasion plans the week before the attack. You feel lucky for what's been acquired and immediately want to share it with those closest to you.

So you should -- keeping something this good to your self feels greedy, so finish your old-fashioned and launch a preemptive strike. You can download the album here (don't worry, it's safe, and if it was available commercially I'd say you should buy it -- but it's not, so don't deprive yourself any longer) and check out two of its gems below, the folksy charmer "We Are Free" and the beautiful "Emily's Book."






The second album capturing my mind of late is the much-awaited follow-up for Bon Iver, the eponymous sophomore effort for the honey-voiced songster from Wisconsin. As is so often the case, the task at hand is daunting -- release something that can match or surpass the masterful debut, in this case the wonderful For Emma, Forever Ago. (An instant classic, one of the best albums released the last five years.) Rather than try to compete with that, though, lead singer/guitarist Justin Vernon rather wisely took the side door and went in a different direction.

Vernon seems to have realized that Emma was the product of a particular (and particularly painful) moment in time, one that happened to coincide (both in timing and content) with one of my own. For my part, I discovered that album at the beginning of my descent -- when my job situation was becoming untenable and I couldn't find a replacement; when the girl I was going to marry was growing more and more depressed and suicidal and our relationship began to implode; when savings dwindled and debt piled up in its stead; when life decisions were questioned and then abandoned; when the family I had long waited to reunite with had to be left again after seven short months.

For me, the album was catharsis -- by exploring it throughout my life's continued destruction, I found clarity, hope, and renewal along with hearty helpings of sadness and pain. By the time that chapter in my life was over I had been reduced to a broken, battered pile on the floor and the old version of me was gone, but I was still kicking. And it sounds like the process surrounding Emma was similar for Vernon -- he had been bludgeoned and was questioning where he was heading, and set about picking up the pieces by writing and recording those songs. While that album was a hushed, heartfelt affair, the product of a broken heart and a retreat to the isolation of a wintry cabin in the woods, this album is full of optimism and light. That album was Vernon with an acoustic guitar and a recorder; this album is Vernon plugged in with an entire band surrounding him. That album was love, loss, and recovery; this album is hope, joy, and sunshine.

So to try and recapture the thoughts and feelings of that time and replicate it on his new disc would be like a divorcee trying to write songs reflecting the joy of falling in love with their ex -- you might remember the specific events, but not the feeling or the sentiment; you're in a different place now. And it seems the place Vernon is in right now is a whole lot brighter. The lushness and beauty he's found beams from the album, a fact reinforced by all the new players around him. Saxophones, keyboards, and layered harmonies flesh out Vernon's quiet, ethereal vocals and create a serene, smiling atmosphere.

It admittedly takes a while to warm up to it -- especially the 1980s radio-ready closer "Beth/Rest" -- since you're expecting something more along the lines of Emma. (Though the three-song run of "Holocene," "Towers," and "Michicant" sound like extras from that era and are as good as anything off that album.) Once you take this effort on its own merits, though, it starts to make sense. Vernon's Auto-tuned voice still has the ability to make you want to curl up on the floor and cry, it's so pretty (see the aforementioned three songs, as well as the album's first single "Calgary" for proof), and his growth as an artist is palpable, from the seamless inclusion of all the new players and instruments to the various stylistic changes and shifts.

This is a man who's not afraid to take chances and switch things up -- I mean, who in their right mind would include a song like "Beth/Rest" on their album if they were worried about playing it safe? -- and that's something to be thankful for. To have someone who can take sadness and turn it into the beauty of Emma or capture the sunshine of its aftermath and give us this album is rare, and we're the definite beneficiaries of his doing so. Check out the joy on this one, the beaming, booming "Towers."

Until next time, mi amici...

Back to the Future: Soul, Sludge, and (as always) the Urge to Dance

Bom dia, meus amigos! Wanted to pop in during the momentary lull in the massacre that is work right now and highlight the latest 'pod bandits. Maybe it's because my life feels out of control right now that I'm thinking back to quieter times, or maybe it's mere coincidence from listening to the music, but these three albums are instant transports to those nostalgic days of old, when true or not things just seemed simpler. Maybe it's because we first hear music from those generations from the safety of our childhood that it feels that way when you listen (at least for me); maybe they really were soundtracks to a slower, sweeter slice of life -- who knows? Regardless, the below albums are the musical equivalent of that other legend of our youth, the hot tub time machine, and the minute you step in you're gone. So strap on the banana hammocks (or whatever you listen to music in), pop on these albums, and hop in -- the water's great...

First up is this cool blast from the 60s, Fitz and the Tantrums' debut album, Pickin' up the Pieces. From the first notes of the opener "Breakin' the Chains of Love" you feel it -- the strolling bass, skiffle drum lines, sax flourishes, female backing singers -- that old soul swagger grabs you and makes you wanna stand up and shake your tail feather. This style has, and forever will be happy Sunday mornings to me. (Our family's soul Sunday brunches, with Brother Ray, Reverend Al, and Stevie on the record player and waffles, bacon, and eggs on the plate.) Thus it always plants a smile on my face when I hear it, and this album is no different. It gets you grinning from the outset and scarcely lets up for the intervening ten songs.

"Don't Gotta Work it Out," the title track, "L.O.V.," and the lead single "Moneygrabber" -- they all crackle with that generation's pop-timism and lushness. Simple lyrics about love or well-mannered protest, a solid groove, and stellar harmonies. It's like you've stumbled onto an oldies radio station loaded with Motown classics -- which is not to say they sound derivative or stale. Lead singer Michael Fitzpatrick and the rest of his LA bandits have managed to breathe new life into the sound, reviving its best elements (like similar retro band Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings) and reminding a modern audience that certain elements never get old. Check out "L.O.V.," for example -- despite the millions of songs written about love to date, I defy anyone not to start singing along as the spelling bee leads into the big, booming chorus.

The best of the bunch is "Dear Mr. President," though. It combines the dark, cool mystery of a cocktail lounge, a dose of menace with its spiritual-style grunts and "huh!'s" from the background, and female vocalist Noelle Scaggs' incredible voice, whose urgent, plaintive cries punctuate an already excellent song throughout. Check it out here:




Skipping into the 70s comes the second offering from Swedish (that's right, I said Swedish) band Graveyard, the masters of retro hard rock, and their album Hisingen Blues. I don't remember how I stumbled onto these guys a few months back -- I think it might have been one of those NPR music samplers, surprisingly -- but have been obsessed with them ever since. They combine the heaviness and force of that era's best with the slinky bluesiness that so often tempered the bludgeoning attack. Pick any song from this or their first album and you'd think it was a cut from early 70s AM radio.

Sounding like a hybrid of Cream and Black Sabbath, these guys erupt from the gate like a pissed-off Viking and lay waste to the subsequent 45 minutes (to say nothing of your head). Catacombs dark, sledgehammer heavy, and ready to steamroll whatever comes in their way, the band nimbly shifts between those two inspirations -- one minute lead singer Joakim Nilsson growls and shouts like a revved up Ozzy, the next he croons like Jack Bruce in his heyday, often times in the same song.

Stellar examples include the thunderous opener "Ain't Fit to Live Here," whose percussion alone is enough to level small African villages (honestly, when drummer Axel Sjoberg somehow adds more elephantine kicks to the final sortie at 2:30, your brain is a puddle -- the only appropriate response is, "geezus F#$K! that is heavy...") and "Uncomfortably Numb," which deftly navigates the tried and true quiet-loud dynamic and builds the pressure until the song absolutely explodes at the 4:50 mark. The album catches its breath midway through with the instrumental "Longing" before launching into the final assault with winners like "Ungrateful are the Dead" and "RSS," an all-out marauding sprint to the fortress gates.

None are more punishing and primally satisfying than "No Good, Mr Holden," though, five minutes of near perfection. Nilsson shouts and swoons like he's possessed, Sjoberg's snare runs roil the pot til it threatens to boil over, and guitarist Truls Morck and bassist Rikard Edlund fly around menacingly until everything erupts in a frenzy in the song's final minute. Sick, sick stuff -- check it out here:




Last up on our travels is a trip to the trashy punk sound of the early 80s with New York's Radio 4 and their second album, the appropriately named Gotham. Sounding like early dance rock pioneers Gang of Four and their modern day proteges (and fellow Brooklyners) The Rapture, the band has a knack for lighting a fire under your feet and getting you moving. All nervous guitars, propulsive drums, and throbbing bass lines, this music is engineered to make you shake your ass.

They set the table with the opener "Our Town," an effective warmup to the absolute onslaught of the following four tracks -- "Start a Fire," "Eyes Wide Open," "Struggle," and "Calling all Enthusiasts." These are as good a run as you could ever hope for-- the rest of the album is good, but nowhere near as solid as these four -- and worth the price of admission alone. From the enormous fuzzed up bass line of "Fire" to the agitated, buzzing guitars on "Eyes" and "Enthusiasts" (whose conclusion is positively batshit -- I challenge any of you to stay still for the final minute), the urge to move is irresistible.

Never more so than on "Struggle," a three minute heart attack that will have you spasming like an epileptic. The bass and drums are undeniable, vocalist Tommy Williams's repeated injunctions to "get behind the struggle" gets you chanting like a robot, and when the guitar drone starts buzzing at the 2:30 mark your resistance is gone -- your head will be shaking with the rest of you. So stand up, do a quick stretch, and get ready for the party here -- until next time, amici...


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We'll close with two tracks that have been stuck in my brain the last few months for unknown reasons, both quiet gems that have provided the salve to my battered body after another arduous slog in the trenches. First is Neko Case's "The Pharoahs," one of many pretty gems by a woman whose voice is so knee-buckling beautiful it could make the heavens feel shabby and drab. Neko's one of my absolute favorites and this song has been on endless repeat since I saw her live a few months ago (something I urge everyone to do if at all possible). Something about when she sings "you kept me wanting like the wanting in the movies and the hymns, I want the pharoahs, but there's only men" is like a kick to the stomach every time. Which am I, and what do I have/want? Quien sabe? I have my thoughts -- figure out where you stand by giving her a listen here:



The backside to this twin bill of solitude is from the band everyone seems to love these days, Mumford and Sons. And while I've battled my fair share of resistance to these guys thanks to their overwhelming popularity (you know how much I love doing/liking what I'm told to), but there's no arguing with the quality of songs like this one. A beautiful little batch of hushed harmonizing and finger-picked guitar, this one's a soothing blast of cold air on a hot summer's day. The uplifting comfort of the lyrics ("you are not alone in this...") adds a nice layer of heart to the proceedings. Check out "Timshel" here: