OK, enough of the sunniness. Yesterday morning, the sky opened up just in time to drench me on the last patch of sidewalk as I darted into work. A mean gray sky over the Chrysler Building can't help but bring all kinds of Blade Runner-isms to mind. Hence, this beautiful sprawling piece of dark ambient sci-fi noir. I like to listen to it in my 187th-floor apartment.
Is sunny Afropop a substitute for the experience of actual sunshine? Some among us would argue that seeing the sun make its progress from behind a window would qualify as seeing the sunshine. I am not one of these some. But this voice is nearly enough to lift my face out of darkness and into the shape of a smile. The drum machine helps too.
A few degrees' difference and everyone's all dropping layers and happy to hang out in parks and stoops. We're still away from heat-craziness, but it's only a matter of time. Here's one for the scene change. The light airiness is not at all representative of Fred Frith's work, but even fiercely Communist art-rockers need to skip around in the sun every so often.
Some songs have anthemic choruses about anthemic subjects, like growing up or escaping to the mythic highway (and sitting in mythic traffic). And some are about laying on the couch, being sick and watching Dutch TV. Which in Songblague's opinion, does not diminish the effect one bit. Not to be cynical. It's just the sound itself that's of first importance.
Caught between winter shivers and tropical humidity, the weekend had me looking spaceward for cozier climates. Speaking of which, did you know that Voyager 1 and 2 are now in the "Heliosheath" — the outermost layer of the heliosphere where the solar wind is slowed by the pressure of interstellar gas? Both spacecraft are still sending scientific information about their surroundings through the Deep Space Network. Just sayin'.
It's not often that I've underslept enough to slow my brain down to literally half speed. It's weird when you're actually conscious of neurons firing so lackadaisically. When it does happen, I find it best to surround myself with music with mercifully slow changes. Or none at all. Maybe it's not so good that a brain needs a little damage to really appreciate the scenery.
There are lots of ways to love the guitar. Hey, not like that. Mind out of the guitar, people. The sound of the thing, I mean. I don't usually think about it. Growing up with rock n' roll means the guitar seems as much a part of nature as water. But sometimes, its properties just assert their magic — a brain-melting Eddie Hazel solo, a John Fahey rhapsody, Johnny Marr doing just about anything. And then there are minor moments that stop you all the same. Like this tune, where the steady, reverb'd string-raking ushers you solemnly into an ethereal place that suddenly comes into existence. Respect to my man Carl for bringing it to my attention.
Uh, not at all. In fact, in the midst of Passover, I think some completely secular Israeli pop is in order. Apparently, this tune (and all of Gazoz's stuff) is lyrical nonsense. Smart decision when you've a sweet little groove like this. This would easily go on my mixtape for washing dishes at my imaginary kibbutz.
Back to Tortoise for a minute. It's interesting to contrast that band's somewhat awkward attempts at evolution with the classy consistency of drummer John McEntire's other long-term project. Consistent without being boring, deepening without repeating. Pretty impressive. This new one finds the guys as feathery and gently propulsive as ever, no matter how tattooed they get.
So, the thing about stereotypes is that there's always some basis in truth. The big question is how much the exaggeration is unfair. Thinking about the caricature of the lascivious, oily Frenchman, well, some guys just make it all too easy.
Inching towards actual Springtime, my head jumps ahead into a landscape of sunny and starry-eyed psych-pop. Like this track. Caribou's music puts a beautiful melodic haze at the core of whatever milieu he's working in, and the Andorra album conjures a very attractive version of the '60s. Which wisely involves a liberal dose of flutes and swirling things.
Maybe it's the Indian-giving weather, but some days you just can't bring yourself to feel much empathy for your fellow man. And when the devil doesn't seem like such a bad neighbor, it's often a Nick Cave song that comes into your head. 
Still thinking about yesterday's jam. Funny how Tortoise spent two albums defining a genre, and the rest of their career acting like their signature austerity wasn't actually their greatest strength. Unfortunately, the funkier realms they're so keen to get into just don't suit them. It's a little like watching the stiffest guests at the wedding try to get down. It's best to just look the other way. Meanwhile, here's a band that wears those clothes so much more naturally.
I used to despise the phrase post-rock. I also used to take the music that attracted this genre tag very very seriously. Time has a way of burning off a lot of the lofty praise lavished on the stuff, but going back to primary sources puts the initial excitement into relief. Or maybe it's the excitement of anti-excitement—rock guys baking krautrock (very much closeted at the time), dub, electronic experimentation, and good old-fashioned minimalism into a whole new kind of cake.
Another Monday, another ace Canadian talent who impressively makes a virtue of verbosity. Having freed himself from the indie-Bowie tag, Dan Bejar's songs have gotten more inscrutable and also more inviting. Trouble in Dreams is succulently bombastic, overloaded with ideas and vocal affectation, and just the right thing for a night drive back into the city after the long day in greener places. This is probably not the album's best track, but like any good lead-off man, it sets the stage for a big inning.
Jesus, can beleaguered Japan please get a break! Seriously, I'm talking to you, Jesus. A 7.1 aftershock, really? Surely some other nation can step and take their share of the misery. The world sure is cruel, and that's even before people get involved. Songblague's humble response is to send out some mellow musical waves that will hopefully make their way eastward.
So they gave Ken Vandermark a MacArthur Genius Grant a while back. Good on him. Skronkers need money. And look what it accomplished. Gave him time to practice his groovy moves. I like the way he shimmies it up with the trombone here. And the bowed bass is cooking up something awfully smokin'. Unfortunately, the song title calls this to mind.
I didn't rally much around boozy bands during college. My head was usually up in cloudier landscapes. And yet, I always had heart for Silkworm. Still do, especially since a lot of '90s indie rock has a sad habit of wilting before my adult ears. There's no Springsteen-aping celebration of wild, fleeting, beer-soaked youth here. Just drunk drunkenness that staggers around stage, threatening to fall down and not get up. Well, maybe there actually is something a little poetic about that.
Something about springtime always brings XTC tunes into my head. Usually from the less jagged post-Andy Partridge panic attack albums. This one popped in there this past Sunday during a windy stretch of a long Brooklyn bike ride, especially prominent while passing under the Verrazano. No idea why, but it wins big points for working Greek mythology and not being completely dweeby about it.
SB has already noted the rich and surprisingly varied career of Yo La Tengo, a band that keeps getting better with every chance they take. At the same time, there's a lot to like in their juvenilia, when it seemed they would fit neatly into the indie boxes that their influences telegraphed. Here's one such early gem that will jangle around your head for longer than you'd expect.
It's Friday, and who couldn't use a little Fender Rhodes cool-down heading into the weekend? For those of you looking to enhance your soundtrack options for brooding or wandering the mid-'70s Philadelphia streets in the rain, this one's for you. It's alright. We all have our own Apollo Creed to face.
