Swim across oceans

Remember when it felt metaphorical to talk about a small world? It was a big, big world for so long that people now coming of age will never truly appreciate that dizzying sense of distance, things being so flattened and easily available in the digital version these days [commence old man exhalation]. Imagine then the excitement or confusion for those exposed to these transcontinental tracks by Hector Zazou, Bony Bikaye, and a couple weird German dudes called CY1. Some call this a European answer to My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts. I say that's a fine description. And certainly worth your attention, especially if you appreciate how long it takes to swim across oceans.

Zazou/Bikaye/CY1 - M'Pasi Ya M'Pamba
Zazou/Bikaye/CY1 - Mangungu

Replicant rock

I've been having quite the musical crush on Gary Numan lately. Such a bummer that he got tagged with one-hot-wonderdom, because he produced a really nice string of dystopian/robotic/androgynous, yet quite catchy, music. In fact, I'd say as much as anyone he elaborated on Bowie's Low-era innovations. And with some glammy sass too. He could've been the biggest star in a Blade Runner world.

Songblague has previously given Numan a little of his due, but here's a day all for him. This tune is just right — foreboding and becalmed at once. Like a beautiful flight through the clouds above a nervous and troubled world.

Gary Numan - The Aircrash Bureau

I look for a center of permanent gravity

I just recently stumbled upon the long and varied career of Franco Battiato, and I'm not really sure how much of it I'm going to like. Seems the general trajectory is from proggy/experimental electronic to opera by way of eccentric pop. An album from that middle period is what caught my ear. Maybe it's how the singing seems almost goofily off from the music. Guess that's what happens when one's inner opera singer struggles to bust out of the rock band.

Franco Battiato - Centro Di Gravità Permanente

Rising son

I don't much care for dynastic succession. In monarchies or any kind of business. But it is nice to see a young man inherit a fair bit of his father's talent. The son of Neil Finn clearly knows his way around a pop song. Based on seeing him perform a few weeks back, he also seems to know his way around looping pedals. And going apeshit on drums. And beards. And all that at once. Good genes at work.

Liam Finn - Cold Feet

Analog space suits

Too much vying for my attention here on Earth. May as well take a little mental sojourn into space. The French-speaking part of it, at least. Check that album cover. Can I get that keyboard stand?

Benoit Hutin - Travelling

I looked so pretty

Here's something of a curiosity — a prickly/precious Anglo-indie '80s staple finishing off their career with a foray into rootsy vibes. And damned if those chorus pedal-heavy guitar bends don't make me all squinty and dopey-happy. And then I look up the lyrics and they seem to be about child molesting. Sigh.

Felt - Budgie Jacket

The wind does not hear

It's never too late to recalibrate the brain. Today's song has occupied a minor place in my head for over 20 years, similar to its interlude-like position on the seminal In The Court Of The Crimson King. There it's sandwiched between the proto-metal blast of "21st Century Schizoid Man" and the proto-prog melodrama of "Epitaph".

But now it suddenly steps into its own spotlight — a rainy day spaceout with some classy flute action and a subtle edge that hints at the darkness tucked into the Aquarian age. That non-heavy handed invocation of the demonic is actually one of my favorite things about the Crims.

King Crimson - I Talk To The Wind

In the ether

Reflecting on a tough day of hard economic realities in the working world and appreciating my good fortune (which is dependably undependable). Wherever the dice roll leaves you, it helps to wrap yourself in layers of ethereal sounds for a good while.

Grouper - Alien Observer

Space is only noise

Among experimental musicians, I'm often most drawn to the ones who can take familiar sounds and make them completely alien. Computers are great tools for that purpose, but it's still the re-imagination that does the heavy lifting. I recently got hipped to Nicolas Jaar, whose Space Is Only Noise album has been a staple of my living room ambience for a couple weeks now. Here's a track that takes somber, minimal piano and puts it in a landscape that only vaguely resembles any place on Earth.

Nicolas Jaar - ^tre

On the back of a new belief

Meanwhile...back in America, the kids are dressed up in their best reverb and dancing the dread away, like a perpetual Kevin Bacon motion machine. Of all the bands that rip off Bruce Springsteen, these guys make me like them with an equal degree of shamelessness.

The War On Drugs - Baby Missiles

In session

Let's hear it for the session men. The best ones find a way to make their mark. Their voices sneak into your consciousness even while wrapped up in other people's music. The rest wear ponytails and/or goatees.

Chances are, if you like Talking Heads' Speaking In Tongues album, you're already a fan of Wally Baradou. He was quite the session butterfly throughout the '80s, so I'm sure he's planted some tasty licks in a diverse number of ears. We're going HAM on Wally today, rocking a generous three jams from his classy solo work. Here's to it.

Wally Baradou - Canyons
Wally Baradou - Endless Race
Wally Baradou - Chief Inspector

Who's that on my radio?

Happy MLK Day. Hopefully, you're enjoying a day off, appreciating the gift of your civil rights. And on a much shallower level—albeit one full of easy, immediate pleasures—hope you appreciate this excellent power pop nugget. Thanks to Mark Prindle for making me aware of these guys' existence. No mean feat. Apparently, the pinnacle of their stardom involved a spot on MTV's New Years Ball to usher in 1983. We all have dreams.

The Producers - She Sheila

Blues run the game

Here's one from the "busted luck folk singer" files. From being badly burned in a classroom fire to a subsequent life of depression, despair, and poverty, Jackson Frank seemed to have had enough sorrows to fill a vast catalog. Instead, he made a hauntingly pretty debut (songs later covered by folkies and non-folkies, apparently) and that's about it. From the comfortable vantage point of the listener, that's all there needs to be. I'm sure, however, that his life would've been a lot better had he been a more prolific man. Sad sad sad.

Jackson C. Frank - Blues Run The Game

Franco Italo

Amid all the gloom about the euro zone meltdown, I think it's helpful to focus on what really unites the continent — namely an appreciation for Italo Disco. Here is a French variety, well-suited to the strutting lifestyle of your dreams.

Le Club - Un Fait D' Hivers

The language of cop shows

Moving from fantastical realms to the real world of tight pants and hot pavement, we look to some guys who clearly had their fingers on the pulse of their day. But then, a listener of yesterday's post now has me wondering if it's really so easy to distinguish between the escape and reality (strokes imaginary beard). At least, ridiculous taste in album cover art is common to both worlds.

Rhythm Heritage - Language Of Love

Hackery

The fabled high-flying guitarist's solo debut is an oft-mocked venture. Usually, for good reason, given their propensity to be full of all the crappy ideas the band had previously stifled. But it would be just plain mean-spirited to throw snickers in Steve Hackett's direction for his first effort, even if its songs are titled after...umm...tarot cards, and even if the cover art a little too closely telegraphs the kind of soundworld on offer.

Most folks who hang around this space know that Songblague has lots of good feeling toward even the most tasteless of prog-rock efforts. Partly for nostalgic reasons, and partly because there's actually a lot to like in excess. This track hits all those notes. What charms me most is how it plays like a nice guy trying to get all sinister and prove that Peter Gabriel wasn't the only one in Genesis who had weird ideas (i.e. dark mellotron "choir" move at 1:53). Hackett just wasn't as savvy about assembling them. However awkwardly, it does sound like a respectable nightmare. And it does its genre proud by ignoring just about anything to do with the 1975 of consensus reality.

Steve Hackett - A Tower Struck Down

Can't chop down a symmetry

You can almost see the in the stairwell at the Canadian food co-op where a young Jane Siberry probably pinned up her ad looking for a New Wave band to execute her proggy/coffee house aesthetic. Or that's how it looks in my most reductionist moments. In reality, I dig this stuff just as shamelessly as I do Kate Bush. This is the nerdy version of that more flamboyant allure. And I am especially loyal to it, since I refuse to follow the muse of Siberry's late career. But this is squarely in that other '80s I sometimes believe I can will into popular memory.

Jane Siberry - Symmetry (The Way Things Have To Be)

The lift stops between two floors

You'd think a Brian Eno/John Cale collaboration would've ended up on the right side of the supergroup train(wreck)tracks. Yet their full-length collaboration Wrong Way Up is a dreadfully bland stab at pop that rightfully was not very popular. The '80s weren't really either of their decades, so I suppose they deserve a pass. On the bright side, it yielded this track, which hits the sweet spot of minimal beauty. It almost seems to float. A nice soft conclusion to a week that didn't really get out of neutral.

Brian Eno & John Cale - Cordoba

Waterfalls of light

Something always stopped me from being an actual Throwing Muses fan. It wasn't the peer pressure of seeing their CD spines running through friends' record collections when they were '90s alt rock staples. It wasn't necessarily that I couldn't really relate to what Kristin Hersh was trying to get across about her troubled head. I dunno. Maybe it'll click one day, although that time has probably passed. This song, however, was always a fave. Can't beat those sparkly arpeggios and the even more sparkly crescendo at 2:08.

Throwing Muses - Flood

Everything is fantasy

Just a few days into 2012 and I'm already completely sick of having to greet everyone with "happy new year!" I'm going to temporarily revolt by denying not just the future, but also the recent past. A little Television Personalities music should help with that trick. Dan Treacy knew a thing or two about escaping his own time. Clearly, the 1981 in his head looked nothing like the 1981 outside the window.

Television Personalities - World of Pauline Lewis

A seething, crumpled, teeming sky

Staycation is over. I couldn't have asked for a better one — somehow both super-productive and super-mellow at once. Super. Anyway, back in the saddle. I realize I've already flaked by skipping the first day of the year (hey, banks are closed too). Let me make it up to you with a get-one-free, baby.

If 2012 is going to be a year of apocalyptic undertones — courtesy of both Mayan calendar kitsch and the prospect of a Republican presidency — let the 'blague year begin with this sense of unease. I recently went back to my man Arto's series of wacked samba albums, beginning in the mid-'90s. The first is the best. And this first track is just a stunner of atmosphere both lovely and ominous, abetted by a curious team of Brian Eno and twin #1 from Blonde Redhead. The other one is a graceful lilt, with the usual great lyrics and Ryuichi Sakamoto adding some classiness on the keys. Happy New Year. Now get back to work.

Arto Lindsay - 4 Skies
Arto Lindsay - Child Prodigy