After a weekend of snowboundness, power outages, and hotel hijinks in Western Massachusetts, I'd say a slice of luxuriously decadent pop is called for. If you don't know Ned Doheny, well, why would you? Except that he sits in the same constellation as Steely Dan, Todd Rundgren, and many less celebrated yachtsmen. I'd be shocked if I were told that a bunch of cocaine was not involved in the making of this one.
Oh man, the endless treasures of vintage Library music. You have to discard some chaff, but the effort yields precious rewards. This one should soundtrack some sort of futuristic bloodsport competition. Or a videogame version of it. Or whatever wild stuff you do this weekend.
Talk about a perfect pairing of music and album cover. This is some hyper-maudlin stuff that may be a shade of gray too far for some. Not me though. I like my emotionally manipulative sounds to be as heavy-handed as possible. I'm just not sure if the imaginary movie should take place in the countryside during the bleakest Soviet days or if it should follow the long, lonely retirement of a discarded stuffed animal. Suggestions?
I trust that on this near-November Wednesday, you're all as keen to groove to some Uruguayan psych-pop as me. These guys may not be Os Mutantes, but they take me to a grainy, blurry Tropicalia wonderland all the same. I bet that 40 year ago, some well-meaning middle class hippies in Uruguay were rocking out to this while hatching idealist impossible schemes, bless 'em.
Oh, the effortless style of the French, at least the way I imagine them back in the early-to-mid '60s. The Franco-centric offerings on the 'blague have mostly centered on the lascivious and goofy detours from otherwise lascivious libertines (not counting Stereolab). I'm don't know enough about Chantal Goya to determine if she's any more wholesome, but this track at least sounds mostly disease-free.
It's good to see bands one admired in college days sound even better with more mature ears. The idea of indie rockers doing chamber music may have seemed like a novelty back then, but the quality of the playing is not only more impressive now, but seems possessed of a dignity that allows an even better aging process. This track comes from an album that took its title from the geology of the moon. It does a nice job of evoking the slow, slightly melancholy walk over its cratered surface.
Why doesn't anyone talk about "freak folk" anymore? Unlike most ad hoc genre tags, I always thought that one was kinda benign, and accurate to boot. A couple years ago, I snatched up many a record that could claim an association to Animal Collective, back when they were caarazeeee psychedelic campfire troubadours. I guess these folks could've been the women's auxilliary. Still a quite charming woodsiness.
Low clarinets...sparse synth notes...space...imaginary saxophones...drift into thin air...phantom breath...brief swollen color diffusion...drop the head back...dream lengthwise...
I'm trying to not think of this tune as novelty, but when a ballet dancer moonlights as a crooning synth popper, it's hard to really know how to receive it. I suppose that's part of the allure. As is the sheer catchiness.
I've enjoyed Tom Waits's gallery of carnival characters and multi-lensed channeling of American lore for many years now. In a petty sense, it's been disappointing to hear it mostly rehashed over the last few albums, but then, I'd be a total ass to view that as anything resembling a tatter on his many accomplishments. Which is why when I put the Orphans album the other day, it was so pleasing to hear this weird '50s hiccuping rocker kicking it all off. Could old Tom be hearing new voices in his head? Things settled into familiar territory afterward, but it goes to show how a good opening can cast a glow that sustains.
Gotta say I'm a bit amazed at being able to get my meaningful possessions packed, transported, and mostly unpacked in a relatively short span of countable hours. Now there's the process of acclimating to a new domestic space, but there's plenty of time for that. Unpacking box after box of CDs brings many thoughts to mind. And even more songs. For some reason, this one popped into my head at several moments. Not sure why, but then what fool assigns meaning to any thoughts that come when trying to reconstruct the shape of a collection from poorly packed moving boxes? Maybe something to do with the title.
It's moving weekend, for the first time in over 6 years. Exciting! Slightly terrifying! I'm not really equipped to go into the emotional details of that process right now, if only because the logistical ones are enough of a mindful. Times like this—trying to make yourself as mobile as possible and gauging the true weight of your possessions—it's best to surround yourself with music that feels like home. Even in German, this is one I can wrap myself in as I alter my center of gravity.
If Thin Lizzy had done nothing but bless us with harmonized guitar solos, we would still be forever in their debt. If they had only embodied the streetwise rocker archetype, we would still owe them heavy rotation on jukeboxes the world over. Add to that a fine set of bone crunchers and ballads and I can say it's taken shamefully long to pay them a proper tribute on the 'blague. Here's one from their later days, still full of fire, fueled by booze, and clad in don't-mess-with-me denim.Thought I'd bring things to a grinding halt around here. Put another way, sometime a song offers no music at all except a well-constructed, multi-idea-synthesizing, passionate, and very human talk about the state of Things today. Give Simon's lecture an hour of your day and your socio-economic understanding will be much enhanced. Promise.
One of my favorite things about Sun Ra is that the sci-fi presentation rarely tampered with the genuine jazz/r&b/whatever that the Arkestra was into at the time. The music always was made of good solid terrestrial elements. This one sounds like a groovy '50s party at the house of a man who on special occasions puts on the Christmas lights and sequins and jumps up on the table to describe his interstellar travels. Which is really something any good host should do.
Well, it's my birthday, and I'm going to indulge a longtime personal favorite. Sting's absurd career notwithstanding, I maintain the utmost loyalty to the Police's brief and excellent discography. I continue to be awed by the supercharged push of Stewart Copeland's drumming, Andy Summers's cool/understated guitar wisdom, and even Sting's attitude, pre-pompous assitude. This song captures the best of their hooks and subtle fanciness in one piece of pop magic. Great for both karaoke belting and jumping around the bedroom solo. Here it is live, exhilarating and seemingly on the verge of collapse the whole way through. Maybe even powerful enough to blow out those 34 birthday candles in my mind.
I'll admit it, I like Suzanne Vega, and always did. She's one of the few coffeehouse types who knows that all those vocal curlicues do not signify actual emotion outside of commercials and rom coms. She sings plain and understated, and bless her for it. She got kinda experimental after that "Luka" hit, and most people didn't care much for that. I know she went folky again later on, but I lost the thread there. Here's a surprisingly slinky one. Part of me wants to hear a version with Donald Fagan singing. And for those of you on the Yom Kippur train, a title that loosely speaks to your foodlessness this weekend.
Hell is a waiting room. Hell is regret. Hell is not knowing how to not repeat mistakes. Hell is injustice. Hell is other people. Heaven is so much simpler. It's 16 minutes of Can live in Paris in 1973.
There are days when the worklife is just too much on the nerves. Theses are the times I wanna run around the city making home movies about running about the city, playing in a band, and generally not concerned with time meted out in scheduled blocks, with frantic activity in the margins. Oh wait...
How has this band eluded me for so long? A rock band merging Rhys Chatham's multi-guitar intensities, punk drive, and rock n' roll heart. An muscular American update of shimmering endless Neu!-isms. And with three members named Susan to boot! One of those bands I'd heard many times as reference points but never explored. Now an overdue obsession. This one features their more tuneful side, making you want to pump fists and stomp the accelerator.
Who is this Johnny Warman, and how did he manage to borrow Peter Gabriel's band at the height of their early '80s awesomeness? Maybe more impressive than that hustle is his ability to rip off "Dear Prudence" in the verses and then ride Tony Levin's boomstick authority to a triumphant chorus. Bummer it went right to the dustbin of history. Rescued now for your listening pleasure. And for extra enjoyment, check out the awkwardly/excellently dated music video.
