metric reflection

(Image from Flickr user allfr3d)

Here’s where I usually insert some sort of commentary on the happenings of the week or the weekend, but you know what, it was too nice outside to spend it cooped up indoors. Luckily, I did spend some time looking for new music, in between bike rides and movies and roof deck book finishing.

Eels - Hombre Lobo: I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be the person I am without e’s voice and sonic palette guiding me. I’m sure I’ll have more to say about this later, but I’m REALLY looking forward to this.

Elvis Costello - Secret, Profane, and Sugarcane : I really love EC, but it feels like every time I turn around he has a new album out. It would be tiring if I paid more attention. Or if I wasn’t so desperately behind on his catalog. Still, though, I’ll probably pick this up.

Cass McCombs - Catacombs: Somehow I missed that this dude had anything since 2005’s PREfection. I loved that album, albeit belatedly, so I’ll look for this one. Unfortunately, his myspace claims the album won’t be available stateside for a few more weeks - which, if that’s the case, is just silly.

Patrick Wolf - The Bachelor: I held off on Wolf’s last album, The Magic Position for some reason. I think I wasn’t ready for it - I remember it being described somewhere as Fiddler on the Roof mixed with indie electronic rock. I have no idea if that’s true, but this album’s been getting lots of buzz, so it should at least force me to go back and look at that one - assuming this one passes muster.

And, of course, Weeds Season 4!

Knowing I was going to be sitting enthralled by the new Grizzly Bear tonight, I instinctively donned my Sennheisers tonight as soon as I got home, like a VR helmet in some early 90s utopian view of the future. There’s something about music like Grizzly Bear that is difficult to reproduce on regular speakers, even good ones - and I have decent ones - that is endemic to even mid-range speakers. It’s a magic, perhaps; by isolating yourself to the music, you allow it to transport you to a new realm. It’s no longer a background, even if it is just background: it still finds a way to burrow into your conscious thought. A lot of music is better served in this environment, so why not celebrate it? I think I’ll make this a semi-regular series.

Ok, back to Grizzly Bear. Each of the songs on Veckatimest feels like it was lovingly cared for, a sculpture rubbed and polished to perfection. None of the songs follow traditional structures. Instead, they meander through forests of sounds with a carefully tuned microphone listening for the distant falling spring water and the whippoorwills’ calls. In this song, a steady, plodding, no, impatiently waiting beat provides some continuity while the melody builds itself up. And then a grand finale as radiant as a smog-drenched sunset, harmonies washing over the stumbling guitar in violets and oranges.

I haven’t spent much time with it, but so far, this is turning out to be my favorite album of this first half a year.

Grizzly Bear - While You Wait for the Others

(A time when Lala failed..)

That’s how rainy it is right now (ok, it may nt look too rainy, but I’m serious, this is some serious MOVIE rain coming down right now); the clouds opened up to thunderous applause about half an hour ago, effectively raining out every BBQ in the national capital. So, instead, I’m inside surveying the music field this week.

Not too much coming out, but some good stuff nonetheless:

Grizzly Bear - Veckatimist: The big one, which has been getting positive reviews seemingly everywhere. I haven’t listened to much of it yet, but what I have heard sounds like the same beautiful arrangements of the last few albums.

Jenny Owen Youngs - Transmitter Failure: Not sure how I missed this before. Poppy female solo artist with a penchant toward multi-instrumentalism. Might come across as a little too polished for some, but I still say it’s great. Available early here, with part of the proceeds going to charity.

Viva Voce - Rose City: The last thing I heard from Viva Voce (Italian for “word of mouth”) was 2006’s Get Yr Blood Sucked Out, an excellent rock record that cemented them in regular rotation. With a couple more band members to aid in developing the multi-layered, effects-driven sound, I have pretty high hopes for this album.

That’s it, as far as I can tell. Slow week, I guess - designed to build anticipation for next week’s Elvis Costello/Eels/Deastro onslaught.

Sometimes I forge my closest relationships to songs while on the road - which, of course, is ironic, since I hate driving. Driving to me has always been characterized by gridlock, with the rare exception of the countryside drive (of course, even then I’m still trying to make sure I’m not going to get a speeding ticket, which kind of takes the fun out of it). I’d much rather take the metro or the bus - let someone else do the work so I can actually unwind.

Today was one such day of traffic horror. I had a great (read:long, hectic, stressful, with only a few moments to actually knock things off the to-do list) 11 hour workday, and when I tried to get back home, every way across the river was backed up. Half an hour into a commute that should have taken 25 minutes, this song came along:

Don’t ask me why it’s in caps. One more annoyance, I guess.

Back to the song, though, I recognize that it has about the testosterone level of a Pet Shop Boys studio session. And it’s pretty silly. AND it’s basically absolutely sickening in its optimism. But the shiny veneer has a stumbling little banjo strumming out in front of the melody, and it’s like the little dispirited kid that the song is trying to cheer up. I guess it’s just encouraging after a long day.

And now I’m off to more work.

I think the last time I heard anything new from Cracker wasn’t too long after the “Low” days.  Low was a catchy hit perfect for the early 90s: along with “Teen Angst (What the World Needs Now)” it defined the hopelessness of the early 90s.

The songs were sloppy. But so was everyone else. I was in high school, the perfect time to embody the slacker lifestyle and still be a little bit intellectual (ie no internet to distract us).

I think somewhere I have Garage D’or, a compilation from 2000 featuring those two songs and a couple other fun ones (Eurotrash Girl, Shake Some Action). But this seemed like a final send-off from a band a couple years past their prime.

All this is leading to something, right? Well, band focal point David Lowery and company have a new album out - in fact, it’s the first album I’ve run across as it came out. On a lark, I grabbed it, and was shocked.

It’s kind of a cliche to see older musicians release a new album in which they let loose and simply rock out. R.E.M. did it last year with Accelerate (and supposedly are working on another); U2 have done it a couple times now, etc. Usually they sound like the artist is trying too hard (I’m thinking, sadly of Pearl Jam’s self-titled album) and it just comes out flat.

For at least half an album, though, Cracker brings on the rock. “Show Me How this thing works” is a rallying cry for an old man, fumbling around with his computer until he breaks out in frustrated song. (I picture a geriatric breaking out into a choreographed routine around a living room.) Snark aside, it’s really a song about how life itself works, and how no one can really figure it out. The next song, the hopeless “Turn on, Tune in, Drop Out With Me,” is as much about figuring out how life works and what society expects from you as it is about stepping away from the mainstream . It’s not a surprising struggle; later in the album he sings that “dying is easy, it’s living that’s hard.” It’s a sentiment borne of frustration (to quote one of their contemporary bands) with the strictures we face.

The highlights continue with We Will all Shine a Light, which frames a cruising melody with a grizzled old rock rhythm, and Hand Me My Inhaler, which is probably the first song about asthma with a guitar solo. (Actually, Hand Me My Inhaler has the same ridiculousness (and humor) as an action movie some aspiring filmmakers made about an asthmatic action hero, but that’s a different post.)

Most of the rest of the album slows down, which allows Lowery’s growl a little too much sonic space. It tries to go Americana and bluesy, but it seems like a bit too much of a shift, at least when listening to the album in one sitting. Moreover, these seem to have stepped aside from the overall tone and quest of the rest of the album, making them seem out of place. Nonetheless, there are a surprising number of hummable songs to keep this around for a while.

I spent the weekend holed up inside waiting for the rainclouds to subside. Sometimes they poured forth; others, they simply made me hesitant to go outside with their dark ominousness. All weekend long, I wanted to test out a bike trail near here, and all weekend long, precipitation kept me chained indoors. Whatever. At least the Lakers won.

There’s a precipitation of music this week (groan). Lots of old standbys have new albums, and some reissues that will help me fill in some of the back catalog.

Iron and Wine - Around the Well: Sam Beam, my favorite woodsman (seriously, look at that beard!) is releasing a compilation of unreleased tracks and B-Sides. Interestingly, there’s also a chance to vote for the songs he’ll play at upcoming shows.

The Field - Yesterday and Today: Despite having only 6 tracks, this album clocks in at over 60 minutes. Luckily, it’s a different experience than their debut, which emerged at about the same time as fields‘ debut album, Everything Last Winter. (It looks like they have a new album coming out soon.. luckily not this week.)

Jason Lytle - Yours Truly, The Commuter: I loved Grandaddy. I once put “El Caminos in the West” on one of those mix CDs music nerds give to girls they like. I’m not sure why, because I’m pretty sure that song’s about car driving purple seals or something random. But Grandaddy’s always been about texture, and the little bit I’ve heard retains that sensibility.

Here’s a remix of one of his new songs by The Crystal Method. Obviously, not representative of the body of work, but good nonetheless:

White Rabbits - It’s Frightening: Fort Nightly was the soundtrack of the summer two years ago, with songs like The Plot and While we go Dancing weaving their music around my toes until they started a-tappin’. iTunes had this one on sale early for $6.99, but it falls a bit flat - even with Spoon’s Britt Daniels at the production helm. Maybe I’ll like it more with some extra listens.

Polly Scattergood - Please Don’t Touch: I’ve been listening to the myspace songs for what feels like ages, so I’m really excited that it’s finally out in the U.S. Polly does some great vocal acrobatics in front of an exciting backing band. Check out Nitrogen Pink, which builds and builds until the end, when it’s a rush of good time.

Jarvis Cocker - Further Complications: Jarvis Cocker. He’s not Jesus, but he’s got the same initials. He can diagnose holes in hearts and, well, in other parts of the body. He looks a bit like Daniel Faraday. He and his band practiced in an art gallery in Paris for a week. He’s the archbishop of cool sophistication. And he went and made a rock album. (btw, everyone must click on that link and watch the videos in the masthead of the page…)

Au Revoir Simone - Still Night, Still Light: ARS’ debut album was a porcelain doll in its delicate beauty such that using the above acronym to describe them feels like a desecration. I haven’t heard anything from the new one, but I hope they’ve retained some of their balance and harmonies.

Nick Cave reissues - I’m ashamed to admit that I only have two albums from Nick Cave: Dig Lazarus Dig and Murder Ballads. Luckily, a bunch of early albums, including From Her to Eternity, are being reissued in the standard remastered form tomorrow. I won’t have to be ashamed any longer.

I really should write about all the new music coming out this week, except that I spent the weekend at a wedding (first Jewish wedding! on a beach no less!) and driving and then spent all day corralling nerdy high school kids (yay model un!) So with about 14 hours of driving under my belt in 48 hours, all my free time was spent watching the bad-ass Star Trek movie.

Plus, none of the music this week is really doing anything for me.  Sure, there’s a cover album of Townes Van Zandt, but I never dove into that hornet’s nest (even though it was pushed on me pretty hard a couple years ago).  Anything on the edge of country twang has to meet a high standard for me, and so I usually just don’t bother.

But that’s ok.  Some weeks are droughts; others are floods.  I still haven’t soaked up all of last week’s music, for instance; I stumbled through the new Conor Oberst and St. Vincent, and only really gave a good listen to My Jerusalem (which wasn’t even released last week; I just got tipped off by a friend on Wednesday).  A lot of this gig (unpaid and time-sucking and enjoyable as it is) involves sitting on the edge of tomorrow, reading press releases and blog posts and listening to samples of cds coming out a month or two from the time you actually hear of them (I swear I’ve been anticipating the new Jarvis Cocker for at least a few months, if not longer).

So, I guess, it’s informed prophecy, tailored for an audience (of what, 1, 2?  3?) that’s interested in the niche subject matter, or who, more accurately, are friends.  But at least I don’t drop any pretense of speaking of anything greater - I don’t have inside sources, I don’t get advance copies, I only know a couple people in bands, and none of them have made it.

Which made it really funny to me to come home from a weekend cavorting on a beach to find a mass mailing emblazoned with capital letters screaming about my prophecy, the most exciting words highlighted.  We’ve all seen these letters, I think - the earliest form of telemarketing and hucksterism - so I wasn’t too surprised by it.  What did shock me was the contents - my own personal prophecy!  Only I couldn’t open it unless I sent back something or other.  Money for a flying cross  that would provide me with “spiritual, physical and financial blessing,” neatly worded to look like that was a quote from the Book of Matthew.  Opening the prophecy, which was on a single sheet of paper sealed with two spots of glue along one edge, without dropping a check in the mail, was tantamount to some kind of dastardly eternal suffering, I’m sure.  So I went ahead and pushed my thumb through the adhesive, anxious at the prophecy specifically tailored to me.  ”Resident,” according to the envelope.

The prophecy was horoscopian in generalities, of course.  It brayed about changing your life and being unhappy otherwise.  Of course, few details were explained - something about inner power and the path I’m on.  Really, it didn’t sound much different from something you’d find in a New Age missive or a pop psychology self-help book.

I bring this up for a few reasons: first, it’s interesting to me that this is the state of our affairs; that the economic depression has already taken hold tightly enough that there’s a market for this sort of thing.  Second, I live in DC, the nexus of evil liberal incarnate.  (We gave Obama something like 90% of the vote - everyone but some Heritage interns and a few Republican Hill staffers.)  And this is where you send this kind of thing?  You don’t want to work the edges first, sending it first to some of the Virginia suburbs where you can hone your message before sending it onto the residents of the Great Satan?  Though, I guess, we’re the ones whose souls need saving the most.  And finally, why make this so over the top?  By appealing to the lowest common denominator, they make their whole message seem chintzy.  Do they really need to print the first letter of random books they’re ‘quoting’ (read:misrepresenting, taking out of context, etc.) in red?  Does every other sentence need to be bolded?  Entire pages in caps?  It’s like everyone’s mother from 1997’s forwarded emails, when she didn’t really know anything about netiquette, condensed into religious fervor nuttiness.

Really, you have a rich and verdant faith.  You can do better than that.

Oh, and your prophecies?  About as enlightening as what I write about.  So I guess both are kind of silly and pointless.

I’ve been reading, in spare moments on buses and lines, D.T. Max’s postscript on David Foster Wallace.  Wallace, of course, based an entire book (Infinite Jest) on the desperate need for every media element to try to gain some of your attention in a hyperactive world.  To be ironic, I got distracted and never finished it.  But I think that message applies here, in the blaring headlines-only typeset of the letter I received, trying to compete against the godlessness and sinfulness and rock music.

Which, of course, I’ll write more about tomorrow.

You’d never tell from the opening track, Rust, but Telekinesis’ first album is a reverie of energy and 80s poppish rock.  Coast of Carolina unwinds with the same atmospheric tone before opening to a technicolor dream, one of a distant love.  The jerky rhythm of Tokyo is reminiscent of an early video, shot in neon washed city streets, with quick shots of happy teenagers and their gadgets.

Telekinesis, in the vein of countless other bands (Voxtrot instantly comes to mind among contemporary artists) trades in bubbly pop rhythms masked behind lo-fi production values.  Delicate harmonies and melodies rule the day, as in the plinking piano melody of Awkward Kisser.  In that song, the melody serves as a stand-in for the awkward teenager that is the subject of the song; a tense, non-adjusted scamp.  Similarly, Imaginary Friends has a simple hook that dances with the same whimsy as the writer does with his childhood imaginary friends.

It’s good to see personal storytelling continue to drive modern power pop.  As in Awkward Kisser, Coast of Carolina, and Imaginary Friends, Calling All Doctors weaves a tale just under the surface.  In this case, it’s about being so anxious that the heart starts twitching.  But, like the album, it works out.

In real life, eels don’t actually howl at the moon.  But in e’s world, anything is possible.

I’m pretty excited about this album, as I have been since every album since electro-shock blues, but I’m not too excited by this song.  It works great with the video, as the song’s little quirks are mimicked on screen.  And the red wash of the video segment pairs nicely with the menacing bassline of the song.

But I have a hard time seeing how this works as anything but a gimmick.  I don’t see it as being exceptionally interesting to hear in the middle of an eels album, even one as crunchy as Shootenanny!  Here’s hoping I’m wrong.

(Image from Flickr user Forty Photographs)

Today NPR found a new bogeyman, since swine flu wasn’t living up to all it promised: children dying from falling TVs.  Or, in their own words:

Your drawers and medicine cabinets may be child-proofed, but what about your TV? As it turns out, unhealthy messages on TV may not be as dangerous as the TV itself, if it’s perched on a high dresser or desk.

Researchers at Nationwide Children’s Hospital in Columbus, Ohio, who analyzed federal data on injuries estimate that as many as 14,700 children are injured at home every year by falling TVs and other heavy furniture.

Which of course makes me think of Ned’s Atomic Dustbin’s Kill Your Television (apparently they’re re-uniting? weird).  Really, it’s the only choice we have left.

Sometimes I yearn for the misplaced optimism of 1993.