In answer to the impressive escape velocity of Flynn's track yesterday, I offer one about a sad fool whose girl is running around on him and yet wraps his bewilderment in a sweet groove and a triumphantly dumb lyrical conceit. He's family man alright. But you know, there's loving your family and then there's putting your naked child on your album cover. An Awkward Family Photo, to be sure.
The other day a co-worker remarked that if you've got a song stuck in your head, the way to dislodge it is to start humming "Private Dancer." Preferably the verses, which have an almost medicinal way of blocking the mental desire to loop a tune. I've found that any part of "Careless Whisper" has a similar effect, although its mechanism of action is more like the mighty sun rising up to burn away the threat of any competing melody. No really, that's how it works.
If yesterday's song was about building from the ground up, this one defies gravity. I came across it on a mix recently, and memories of childhood public service announcements flooded my head. I think this track was used in one of those 'Just Say No' spots. Which is also weird because this song makes tranquilizers seem really appealing. I can only hope that some adventurous astronauts have played this while getting busy on the International Space Station.
OK, you're gonna need to give this track a little time. Like 11 minutes. It's worth it. If only to behold the magic of artful repetition. Layering a bunch of simple ideas on top of each other may be an old trick, but if you give yourself over to the momentum and slow building shapes, the effect is overwhelming. This one sounds like the ascent of a civilization, from microbes to globe-spanning cities. Mang.
In the hot summer of 1999, my first in New York, my friend Peter came to visit, armed with a bunch of records I've since forgotten. The one I remember was Manu Chao's solo debut Clandestino, which had yet to invade lefty coffee shops and dinner parties everywhere. It suited the heat perfectly and we left it on repeat hanging out in my smoky, shabby living room, friends coming and going, as often happened in those days. A bunch of us took it to the roof and eventually fell asleep up there. I remember the precise discomfort of waking up on the hot tar. Nothing extraordinary about any of that, but the memory has burned itself in my brain as a snapshot of those first days in the city.
Well, I guess this wouldn't be a proper music blog if I didn't pay a little tribute to Alex Chilton right about now. As far as Big Star goes, I'm in the camp that thinks Sister Lovers is their masterpiece, if only for the fact that it's kinda really hard to turn bitterness and disappointment into art that resonates without it feeling like audio rubbernecking.
Every workday, I get out at Grand Central and walk east to my office. It's all towers, traffic, and khaki, but some mornings like today, I walk into a huge, blinding sunrise. It's especially intense when winter finally passes into to spring. Maybe it has something to do with images of New Order beginning to emerge from Joy Division's shadow, but that morning walk has a way of bringing this song to mind.
I must admit I was surprised to discover that Shudder To Think—with their jagged artiness—could pull off a note-perfect imitation of Glam's creamy triumphs. Many have tried to channel David Bowie, and the failures have ranged from bland to spectacular. The Velvet Goldmine soundtrack is chock full of the rare successes. These DC boys contributed two home runs, and here's one of them.
Flynn's track from yesterday is uncomfortably resonant with my own worklife (metaphorically of course; my complaints are small relative to the world). My response is total escape—another one from team Windsurf. As much as my actual environs please me, it's a soft neon midnight dreamworld I imagine jogging through, as this song swirls through my head. I took it with me on a walk through a cold Lexington evening for a rare moment of solitude. And I had it going today when I bought my first new pair of running shoes in about a decade.
I have a habit of hurting myself in strange ways—breaking my front teeth by running into a wall, tearing cartilage in my sleep, scratching my eyeball on an apple stem. Rack another one up in the dental category. Last Monday, some karaoke overexuberance resulted in more woes for those poor teeth, though I think the microphone got the worst in the exchange. A couple dentist visits have mostly fixed the problem, and in some ways, improved things. Feels like a new mouth.
Driving through Tennessee in the morning en route to a "house party" gig (the house was still being built) in Deliverance country, things just looked funny. Watching the scenery on the side of the highway, the ground looked like it had just swallowed something mean and the sunlight felt equally ominous. One rest stop sold crack pipes and porn videos in solid-color boxes (labeled by ethnicity). Another sold mostly porkrind-related products. A horrible tone hummed incessantly from the fridge. Luckily, the Captain was there to save the day.
Ah, sad under-appreciated genius. Any knowledgeable hipster (or just Wikipedia) can tell you all about the sonic wizardry of Joe Meek, his signature stamp on rock in the early space age, and his tragic demise. I'll just add that it also makes great driving music when you're speeding past small Kentucky towns. It's Hard To Believe It is an excellent comp that you should get your hands on. Pretty well covers the spectrum of his aesthetic with nary a weak moment. Here are a couple of my faves.
We were doing an early morning gig at a retirement home (yes, indeed) in Lexington, KY. Playing deep into the previous night, drinking too much whiskey, and getting way too little sleep brought out the most painful parts of the earliness. I felt like I was going to keel over and needed to summon all my stoicism to keep it together. Suddenly, our mandolin player—who always knows his audience—began singing this song, and it was plain old pretty and sweet. The sunshine coming through the window got all warm, and it made sense to want the things that I'm often crudely compelled to dismiss.
Here's another revelation from the road. Despite the fact that 'We Are The World' was my first musical purchase, I'd never really gotten into Lionel Ritchie, much less gone back to The Commodores. Maybe it had something to do with the mullet overload in the 'Dancing On The Ceiling' video. Terrible oversight in retrospect, but I guess context is everything.
Hello friends! Great to be back in town and back on the decks. Thanks much to Flynn for keeping the 'blague fires burning.
