skip to main |
skip to sidebar
More DIY sounds. I've heard Nite Jewel referred to as the soundtrack to the blurry moments at the end of a night out. But this song feels more like early morning to me. Like a nature film on fast forward—all the animals stirring and shaking off sleep as little rays of light peak through the sky. There's nothing artificial about that intelligence.
Love is overtaking me...not only a fine compilation of the brilliant/eclectic Arthur Russell's more singer-songwriterly ideas, but also a beautiful sentiment in itself. Taking you over and also getting a little past you. That's what love does, right? Here's a simple song. It's probably unfinished, but still full of grace, unstrenuously poetic, and warm as a hug from someone you want to see every day.
Wow, accidental double dose of instrumental introspection. I think something zippy is in order today. Nothing earth-shattering. Just a crisp, honest slice of guitar pop from that album where Scott McCaughey had Wilco as his backing band. Which explains the vibraphone and kinda pointless fall-apart ending. Wistfulness goes nicely with bendy riffs though.
There are long, weird nights that produce sharp cringes when you wake up. And then there are those unfortunate mornings that mock the conscious mind's attempt to impose a narrative onto the subconscious. Here's some music for surveying the landscape and not knowing how to step into it.
I've spent enough time cruising flea markets and Etsy to appreciate the handmade economy and envy the many talents I don't seem to possess. Of course, music is the most natural thing to tinker with at home. But since any yahoo with a laptop and some ideas can realize his self-indulgent dreams, you need to be a selective browser. That said, this dude from Portland gets a much-deserved Songblague salute. Talking nice minimal synth mystery goodness from the quiet corner of a neon planet.
I wanna rock. Or, more precisely, I wanna listen to a group of musicians rock, and then, with all deliberate action, shake my head vigorously in alignment with the aforementioned rocking, and in that totality of motion, pronounce myself a participant. And I want to share the specialness with you. In 2 parts, like a 45. First stop, Sweden! Pick slides, pumping fists, and accents bent to the international rocking standard.
These guys do it a little more angular. But the chorus makes me go full-on air guitar, so it's a win-win.
As a rule, I try not to get involved in Lennon vs. McCartney debates. Arguing about the Beatles' catalog is like arguing about the periodic table. But solo albums are another matter completely, and as far as Songblague is concerned, Band on the Run is clear evidence of Paul's superior post-Beatles work. And the next time someone tries to lay some crap on you about John being the more "experimental" one, just point them in the direction of McCartney II, if only for the pure weirdness of this one.
Here's another tune from that record. I like to think this is what Paul's dreams sound like. I also like to think that he wakes up every morning with that facial expression he's wearing on the album cover.
Talk about sins of omission. How could the American pop radar of 1983 have missed this Italo gem? I feel my childhood was diminished by its absence. But I partly made up for it the other day, spending hungry hours playing along with it on my little keyboard. How could I resist? It pushes nearly all my synthpop buttons — classy hummable melody, clutter-free groove, and a chorus that stirs in a little drama sauce. A classic, in short.
Well, it seems Songblague has been inscribed in the Book of Life. And not just because your humble host is still breathing. As chance would have it, this is post #366. The actual one year anniversary was in early March, but I was a slack mf-er and went on vacation. So, putting calendar markers aside, let's say this marks an occasion.
Segueing out of Yom Kippur, here's one that's fully secular, but — as conflicted love songs go — has a sensibility that's 100% Jewish. The outro feels like an incantation, and before that, a peculiar laundry list of love's unpolished elements. Who would have thought Mr. Bongwater had this tender side?
I hope it doesn't seem like I'm scrambling for some Judaica to rock pre-Yom Kippur. Last year's fasting jam may have been more mood appropriate, but who doesn't love some good klezmer, especially when it's mixed with a noisier jazz spirit. I'm note sure if these guys are still around, but I was way into them in college. Zorn and his gang called the stuff Radical Jewish Culture, and I still like that idea. Of course, this was before I knew anything about the trad klezmer canon. I have a habit of always learning these things in reverse.
Is it me, or is there just something fundamentally rascally about the clarinet? Anyway, l'chaim, you filthy sinners!
Steely Dan have always been the elephant in the room around here, responsible for my fondness (obsession) for musics of a smooth and greasy character in recent years. It wasn't always this way. I'd long given them the grapefruit face, holding them with the same contempt I reserve for jam bands and subway preachers. And then suddenly, a switch flipped. There was no blinding light or burning whatever. A friend dropped their catalogue on me all at once, and as I dug in, I found that my ears were tuned directly into it.
In retrospect, it shouldn't be surprising. There's the snarky lyricizing and raised-eyebrow perspective that I reflexively appreciate from my Zappa days. Couple that with the prog-precise musicianship of their many collaborators. And then, what could be the dealbreaker, that fusion-y '70s-ness — exquisite chords, mustaches, cocaine, and perfectionism. Ironic or not, there it is. And even that irony has its layers. You love it or you don't. And I love it. A star in the constellation that stretches across my musical cosmos.
It's a tough choice for which tune to go with. I should devote a week to them, maybe two. But this one is pretty instant in its gratification. And yes ma'am, that is one Michael McDonald on the backing vox.
Another old favorite makes a return. Superchunk come roaring back after nearly a decade of musical silence, except of course for building that powerhouse of a label (or at least a semi-functional business model, I'm told) — Merge Records.
This is a feel-good comeback. Who didn't like Superchunk? Nerdy indie rockers triumphantly rocking in their cool, no-fuss fashion. You saw them in college, and you jumped around and loved it, and then you went home to listen to more challenging music, though with a lot less joy.
They have a new album, and it sounds exactly like...them. In fighting trim. Which is great. You do what you do and you do it right. Yessir. Here's one to make you jump around like the big happy dork you still are.
Talk about smoothing out the edges. Blonde Redhead have come a long way since the clamor of their youth — a musical arc as old as the process of growing up. The scraped guitars and nervous bashing are gone, but a lot of implied violence and dread still live in the minor-key gauziness that envelops their songs these days. It lends character to their pretty faces. So they're going full steam ahead with dream pop, and maybe you don't think that's a good look for a band that took their name from this. I don't think it fully suits them either, but when they wear it well, it's a stunner.
You can't turn your back for a second. I jaunt off to LA and come home to find they've replaced the air! Labor Day weekend was a radiant patch of late summer bliss. Summer finally got its shit together like a stumbling performance that somehow nails the encore. But nature is decidedly unsentimental and has taken its inevitable turn without issuing a memo. Why does this ever come as a surprise? I wonder if the season's change could ever feel less binary, if we could dip our toe in autumn first rather than suddenly finding ourselves surrounded by its air. Here's a song for that imaginary slide.
As Labor Day approaches, I find myself again compelled to swerve away from American tunes. It still bugs me that the holiday is a totally neutered version of an actual salute to Labor. Forget about a nod to unions, and how even the khaki-est of office drones has benefited from their struggles. I'm not a fan of politicized national holidays, but a little knowledge of roots would be nice. But then, this is America, and we are dumb by profession.Apropos of that, here's one from an obscure Belgian prog band that was loosely associated with the stridently lefty Rock in Opposition crowd. Nothing strident about this track though. The guitar even has a whiff of mellow sunsets about it. Forget that it's in 5/4 time, and you might even find yourself putting this on come barbecue time.
So, between the holiday and a little bizness trip coming up, Songblague is gonna lay low next week. Cool? See you back on 9/13.
It's been baking outside these last couple days. Hopefully, it's the last gasp of the cruel summer heat. Does Songblague Nation wilt in response? No! We choose to embrace the sweat and rock it out. And I sound this battle cry with the full weight of my office. Literally, I'm sitting in my very climate-controlled office. But still, onward!
In addition to its blissful rock out-ness, this little nugget ranks as one of my favorite GBV song titles, right up there with this one. Can't say I'm too interested in their reunion tour though. Let 1996 stay 1996. As for today, I keep finding myself focusing on the harmony vocal, which I think is an important marker for spiritual development.
Having been off the school year calendar for some time, Sept 1 isn't too meaningful a date for me. But thinking back to when entering the month felt like getting ready for a plane to take off, several songs come to mind. This one reminds me of high school freshman year, specifically my after-school job illegally operating the cardboard baling machine at the local supermarket. Those were the days.
I remember at the time not being able to decide whether the band name or album title was sillier. Still can't. And to that, I'd add a shake of the head to the appalling cover graphics. All the same, the record remains super catchy. Here's a fun review by a karaoke friend, who makes some salient points in no particular order.
Oh, and no, I never owned a Kill Yr Television T-shirt. I'm sure one of you did though. 'Fess up.
Ned's Atomic Dustbin -
Happy
More DIY sounds. I've heard Nite Jewel referred to as the soundtrack to the blurry moments at the end of a night out. But this song feels more like early morning to me. Like a nature film on fast forward—all the animals stirring and shaking off sleep as little rays of light peak through the sky. There's nothing artificial about that intelligence.
Love is overtaking me...not only a fine compilation of the brilliant/eclectic Arthur Russell's more singer-songwriterly ideas, but also a beautiful sentiment in itself. Taking you over and also getting a little past you. That's what love does, right? Here's a simple song. It's probably unfinished, but still full of grace, unstrenuously poetic, and warm as a hug from someone you want to see every day.
Wow, accidental double dose of instrumental introspection. I think something zippy is in order today. Nothing earth-shattering. Just a crisp, honest slice of guitar pop from that album where Scott McCaughey had Wilco as his backing band. Which explains the vibraphone and kinda pointless fall-apart ending. Wistfulness goes nicely with bendy riffs though.
There are long, weird nights that produce sharp cringes when you wake up. And then there are those unfortunate mornings that mock the conscious mind's attempt to impose a narrative onto the subconscious. Here's some music for surveying the landscape and not knowing how to step into it.
I've spent enough time cruising flea markets and Etsy to appreciate the handmade economy and envy the many talents I don't seem to possess. Of course, music is the most natural thing to tinker with at home. But since any yahoo with a laptop and some ideas can realize his self-indulgent dreams, you need to be a selective browser. That said, this dude from Portland gets a much-deserved Songblague salute. Talking nice minimal synth mystery goodness from the quiet corner of a neon planet.
I wanna rock. Or, more precisely, I wanna listen to a group of musicians rock, and then, with all deliberate action, shake my head vigorously in alignment with the aforementioned rocking, and in that totality of motion, pronounce myself a participant. And I want to share the specialness with you. In 2 parts, like a 45. First stop, Sweden! Pick slides, pumping fists, and accents bent to the international rocking standard.
These guys do it a little more angular. But the chorus makes me go full-on air guitar, so it's a win-win.
As a rule, I try not to get involved in Lennon vs. McCartney debates. Arguing about the Beatles' catalog is like arguing about the periodic table. But solo albums are another matter completely, and as far as Songblague is concerned, Band on the Run is clear evidence of Paul's superior post-Beatles work. And the next time someone tries to lay some crap on you about John being the more "experimental" one, just point them in the direction of McCartney II, if only for the pure weirdness of this one.
Talk about sins of omission. How could the American pop radar of 1983 have missed this Italo gem? I feel my childhood was diminished by its absence. But I partly made up for it the other day, spending hungry hours playing along with it on my little keyboard. How could I resist? It pushes nearly all my synthpop buttons — classy hummable melody, clutter-free groove, and a chorus that stirs in a little drama sauce. A classic, in short.
Well, it seems Songblague has been inscribed in the Book of Life. And not just because your humble host is still breathing. As chance would have it, this is post #366. The actual one year anniversary was in early March, but I was a slack mf-er and went on vacation. So, putting calendar markers aside, let's say this marks an occasion.
I hope it doesn't seem like I'm scrambling for some Judaica to rock pre-Yom Kippur. Last year's fasting jam may have been more mood appropriate, but who doesn't love some good klezmer, especially when it's mixed with a noisier jazz spirit. I'm note sure if these guys are still around, but I was way into them in college. Zorn and his gang called the stuff Radical Jewish Culture, and I still like that idea. Of course, this was before I knew anything about the trad klezmer canon. I have a habit of always learning these things in reverse.
Steely Dan have always been the elephant in the room around here, responsible for my fondness (obsession) for musics of a smooth and greasy character in recent years. It wasn't always this way. I'd long given them the grapefruit face, holding them with the same contempt I reserve for jam bands and subway preachers. And then suddenly, a switch flipped. There was no blinding light or burning whatever. A friend dropped their catalogue on me all at once, and as I dug in, I found that my ears were tuned directly into it.
Another old favorite makes a return. Superchunk come roaring back after nearly a decade of musical silence, except of course for building that powerhouse of a label (or at least a semi-functional business model, I'm told) — Merge Records.
Talk about smoothing out the edges. Blonde Redhead have come a long way since the clamor of their youth — a musical arc as old as the process of growing up. The scraped guitars and nervous bashing are gone, but a lot of implied violence and dread still live in the minor-key gauziness that envelops their songs these days. It lends character to their pretty faces. So they're going full steam ahead with dream pop, and maybe you don't think that's a good look for a band that took their name from this. I don't think it fully suits them either, but when they wear it well, it's a stunner.
You can't turn your back for a second. I jaunt off to LA and come home to find they've replaced the air! Labor Day weekend was a radiant patch of late summer bliss. Summer finally got its shit together like a stumbling performance that somehow nails the encore. But nature is decidedly unsentimental and has taken its inevitable turn without issuing a memo. Why does this ever come as a surprise? I wonder if the season's change could ever feel less binary, if we could dip our toe in autumn first rather than suddenly finding ourselves surrounded by its air. Here's a song for that imaginary slide.
As Labor Day approaches, I find myself again compelled to swerve away from American tunes. It still bugs me that the holiday is a totally neutered version of an actual salute to Labor. Forget about a nod to unions, and how even the khaki-est of office drones has benefited from their struggles. I'm not a fan of politicized national holidays, but a little knowledge of roots would be nice. But then, this is America, and we are dumb by profession.
It's been baking outside these last couple days. Hopefully, it's the last gasp of the cruel summer heat. Does Songblague Nation wilt in response? No! We choose to embrace the sweat and rock it out. And I sound this battle cry with the full weight of my office. Literally, I'm sitting in my very climate-controlled office. But still, onward! 
Having been off the school year calendar for some time, Sept 1 isn't too meaningful a date for me. But thinking back to when entering the month felt like getting ready for a plane to take off, several songs come to mind. This one reminds me of high school freshman year, specifically my after-school job illegally operating the cardboard baling machine at the local supermarket. Those were the days.
