this song would've surely made it into one of his films, probably in the opening credits. And in that alternate universe, around the age of 12, this would be the song of my summer. Any given day, it would insinuate itself into everything—soccer practice, the wind blowing through my hair while walking home, and later that evening, the rain falling on the grass outside. I would drink a Fanta and all would be right with the world. 
Like they say, nostalgia isn't what it used to be. Not being English or of a certain generation, I guess something about Village Green will always get lost in translation. The songs are unimpeachable, but I suspect that if I actually knew the places Davies was re-imagining, my memory would probably have a slightly more contemptuous flavor.
It's just too much. Tears fall down my cheek and onto my 'Beat It' jacket. My hands won't stop trembling, no matter which one I put the glove on. I moonwalk for a few uncertain steps, then fall to the ground. Somewhere up above, I hope Michael knows that I hum 'Man in the Mirror' whenever I undertake a daunting task like bringing out the recycling.
More mellowness required. May as well go full on ridiculous with it. I saw these guys play once, and they enacted every zonked-out visual signifier the music suggests. Including actual rose-tinted sunglasses. At night. Still, give 'em respect. They have their thing, and they're sticking to it. Forget sleeping under the stars. This is music to evaporate or decompose to. 
Long, hectic days deserve simple songs and not too much in the way of explanation. This one reminds me that I'd like to be walking slowly in a quiet place, looking at other slow moving things. Gonna try to work a dream around that.
Forget all the artificial intelligence concept album nonsense. This is just an honest struttin'-down-the-avenue groover. Except the moody dude who's struttin' is on his way to marching band practice and he keeps trying for that moustache that just won't fill in for him. But cool it with the mockery. One day he's gonna fire your ass.
Like him or loathe him, Peter Greenaway's films are genuinely disturbing. The Draughtman's Contract has the notable distinction of being both dull and disgusting by turns. Happily, Nyman's soundtrack succeeds better. This tune in particular, which releases the tensions of heavy manners and period costumery in a galloping surge. You could commit acts of cruelty to this music and convince yourself you're not such a bad guy.
Home-stretch. Finish line visible. Fix your headband and commence your sprint. Or, if you prefer, browse the racks at your local American Apparel, whose soundtrack programmers seem to think Braxe and Falke's work will put you in the mind to part with cash and show some skin. Well, they're probably not wrong. Meanwhile, I request only that you fight the temptation to hum the Chariots of Fire theme as the inaugural Songblague theme week comes to a close.
You know that moment when you're running and you realize that your brain has gone someplace far away and that the best thing for the momentum is to keep it as remote from the body as possible? Here's a song for that zone. No drugs required.
Given how weird and spooky the Knife have been known to get, it's hard not to think they're being a little cheeky with this. My mind toggles between images of runaway teen rebels and dangerous aerobics. Ideally, they're both part of the same movie.
Exciting stuff this Monday. Songblague debuts a new feature — Theme Week. For the next 5 days, we're all about focus. And for our first great theme, we explore the training montage—that special cinematic interlude where the hero/heroine has gotten his/her head straight and is furiously getting in shape to prove him/her self at the Big Whatever. Think Rocky and Apollo running on the beach, sweat-drenched aerobics classes, endless practice SAT tests. These important moments deserve equally important musical accompaniment.
What if the post-apocalyptic future is nothing like Mad Max? No scattered remnants of industry and marauding humanoids with their strange rituals and techno-animalism. What if it's all gentle, homespun, cooperative living among barely disturbed nature? What if starting over sounded like this?
I have a hard time with Nick Cave's early albums. I like that they seem to come from another place and time, with good old fashioned archetypes—usually the mysterious, maybe murderous drifter recounting his bad acts and inner torment, seducing and raising hell in equal measure. And yet, my attention drifts. Like watching porn. It's easy to get numb to it.
What's wrong with America? I mean, besides imperialism and gross inequality. We were the vanguard of space travel. We put a flag on the moon. We still rock missions to the international space station. So why didn't we shower our affections on the Rockets? We should've made them our galactic ambassadors. But no, these French disco futurists had to settle for a merely respectable career in Europe, living out their glory in Italian arenas and variety shows.
Talk about rainy day music. Could anyone but Curtis hit these notes of despair, fear, and underclass resignation? With a plaintive grace and a groove that insists on pressing ahead? Sure, Marvin Gaye maybe, but Curtis just oozes righteousness, and without all those dad issues. You've got to be stone-hearted to be unmoved by this tune, I say.
People usually think John Cale was the civilized one in the Velvet Underground, what with the viola and the accent. But he could do spine-tingling, locked-in-a-closet-for-2-weeks disturbed as well as Lou Reed any day of the week. This one finds Cale taking Elvis out of the maltshop and into a demonic place, capturing the hellishness of lovelorn despair. It's got a great shriek at the end, and Eno hooks him up with some sympathetic keys. A scary little masterpiece, this one.
Time Bandits is probably my lifetime favorite movie. I mean this literally. Layered as hell, the film dazzles at all the crucial stages - childhood, pretentious undergrad days, mature/damaged adulthood, decline and dotage (I'll assume). With all that imprinting, how can I not have a soft spot for George's theme song, which isn't all that great, but, like the 25-some-old blanket I refuse to throw away, commands my complete loyalty. I can't think of anything else that could soundtrack the plundering of history's treasures with a gang of renegade midgets.
I'm already feeling nostalgic for my last wave of nostalgia. So I found myself reaching for this record. I sorta wish these guys had left more of a mark. Looking back at all the early-'00s NY bands who aped post-punk, these guys had an un-obnoxious charm that has aged surprisingly well. How many people can you say that about?
From what I understand, Klaus Doldinger is the Miles Davis of Germany. His Passport group has been a stopping point for German jazzers since the early '70s. As far as the Miles comparison goes, he's definitely stuck to the fusion period; the Passport albums I've heard play like Cliff's Notes for the genre, a fair share of it deliciously hokey.
Happy June, dear Songblague listener. Balmy days are here, so why not be in the spirit. Today's selection presents you with the dynamic duo that has been the object of my near-constant auditory devotion since my man TPK hipped me to them more than a year and a half ago. Like some kind of magical gum, the sweetness refuses to fade. 
