Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Screedom rock

Some people think The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway was the apotheosis of early Genesis, while others point to its convoluted concept and lack of self-editing as evidence of mid-'70s prog bloat. Everybody's right, of course. But I especially love the humble little masterpieces hiding in its corners. Like this workout for the outer reaches of Tony Banks's technique. Coupled with a slinky/gawky 9/8 groove, you've got a strange little specimen from an unexplored world.

Genesis — Riding The Scree

Monday, February 17, 2014

Permanent blizzard dance party

I wouldn't have thought that Patrick Cowley's Hi-NRG stylings would pair well with the daily trudge through snowdrifts and the eerie quiet that these snowfalls bring each morning. Satie-style sparseness...sure. But full-on synthtastic, sweaty disco delirium? Well, that's why they play the games. I may just have to leave this track on repeat all winter long.
  
Patrick Cowley — Invasion

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Majestic dreams of session men

I'm sure you're wondering what a early-'80s California New Age supergroup might have to say for themselves. Turns out it's not as cheesy as you might think. Maybe that's more a comment on what I consider cheesy these days. Hearing a tune like this, I can't help but envision evening shadows cast across vast LA parking lots. Which is a form of sublime contemplation.

Group 87 — The Mask Maker

Monday, February 10, 2014

Foreign unconscious

My dreams lately seem like things out of other people's heads. Incoherent mystery plots in rural houses. Death of minor characters from years back. Long, slow, intense pursuit of nothing in particular. And barely a note of my baby daughter in any of them. Maybe there's a lot I don't know about my deep self. Reminds me how cosmically vast the unconscious can be. A thought that deserves the spacious song to contemplate along with.


Partial Arts — Telescope

Thursday, February 6, 2014

Muscle relax

Been feeling a curious muscular lethargy in the evenings of late. I doubt there's anything medical going on, but that doesn't stop my mind from having all sorts of projects, which may explain the bizarre layering of dreams over those same nights. Coincidentally, Papas Fritas's swan song album has been stuck in the stereo, quaintly enough in actual CD form. Their benign '90s college pop has been a fine complement to these wispy moments. 

Papas Fritas — Girl