Spencer Krug should be just too precious for me. Too theatrical, fantastical, lily-white. And yet... he continues to rock me right. Maybe it's our shared citizenship (joint) of Canada. Or the organ and guitars he's got swirling rhapsodically here. I'd sit through a musical that featured this tune.
Just because machines work the assembly line now doesn't mean they don't also need to cut loose afterward. Except they don't go down to the bar to get blasted. They just rock an all-night rave up right there on the factory floor after the lights go out, and they don't even need to limp to work the next day.
Some bands just perplex with their monikers. Say you're a bunch of dreamy-voiced ladies from LA who write sparkly, music that billows out in soft shapes around the room. The word "paint" may be applicable to your sound, but not when preceded by "war." Whatever. Guess you have your reasons. Which I might try to suss out if I weren't lulled into a reverie by this song right here.
You start your song off with the bass insistence of "Psycho Killer," and I turn my glance in your direction. You push into a searing, Can-esque groove and I'm getting in the car, fastening my seat, and ignoring the scenery. You kick into a chorus that sparks off like dirty fireworks, and I'll sit tight as you take us through a second half that sounds like you forgot to turn off the tape machine while you rehearsed your next song. There are worse kinds of chance encounters. An yet again, a salute to the infinitely kind Mutant Sounds for the rip.
Several months ago, Kissing The Pink segued out from an Associates jam in the SB flow. And since I couldn't help but give the former a second nod, I figure their neighbor deserves a follow-up too. Which makes sense considering how much I remain enamored of these old Associates. Weird that the voice keeps not annoying me.
You know a band is great when it can pull on several of the best musical threads of their time and still sound uniquely like themselves. The unfortunately-named Kissing The Pink left a pretty thin body of work, but it's all worth your time. I posted a track a while back, but I think they deserve a more than a little extra love, if only for the delightfully weird synth sound at the base of this song. Moody deliciousness.
I'm not sure why I'm often compelled to post a piece of avant Judaica just before heading out of town on a road trip. I'm pretty sure it's not a one-way exodus, but I guess you never really know. Anyway, here are San Francisco's Secret Chiefs 3 rocking up a tune from John Zorn's Masada songbook. Having visions of a tallis draped across the rental sedan. A good way to get pulled over.
I suppose if you're going to cover a sultry jazz standard, it helps to be from another planet. Or the future. Or France circa 1980. This one reminds me of another weird work of re-imagination.
Yesterday's song was long and fraught. This one's just long and spaced-out. But then the electrons jump an energy level at 3:55. Bands like this take a lot of abuse (even the word "shoegaze" is so sneeringly dismissive), but really, when they create and hold a mood like this, what's to complain about?
Stretch out for this one, people. If you're up for a multi-sectioned tour through the wasted American mindscape strung out on fables of wealth and success, Bobby Conn will happily take you there. Don't settle too deep into the spooky cabaret intro or gentle guitar picking that follows because some serious glam histrionics await on the other side of the 3:30 mark. Conceptually incoherent, but in a fine way.
You can say what you will about the Police (I still say they were awesome; we can debate it later), but I will tolerate no slander on Stewart Copeland's drumming. Rarely do you find a percussionist who completely owns his/her style, where the more people imitate it, the more it shines. I should know. His were some of the first tricks I stole when I was 14 and learning to play. 
I suppose it's inevitable for every show-goer to experience that special moment where he become the guy who frowns with displeasure at the kids massed around him, uttering the dreaded phrase he used to joke about. For me, it happened when I went to see the trendy Dirty Beaches last week. I've allowed myself to go along with the buzz, because I do like the dude's mysterious, lo/no-fi aesthetic. And I was excited to see how he'd translate the bedroom grit to the stage.
Yesterday's tune got us into space. And what with fuel costs being what they are, may as well hang out in the distant reaches a bit, courtesy of Gong guitarist Steve Hillage, who has continued to be terribly under-appreciated. Maybe he should've teamed up with fellow Steves Howe and Hackett to form a less embarrassing supergroup than what they came up with on their own. Actually, it's probably better that he pursued a more cosmically-minded career.
I usually try not to judge a song by its album cover. Except in cases like this, where the imagery gives all the context clues you need to know what you're getting into. And we are in fact getting into a sporty little space vehicle bound for interstellar escapades. If nothing else, this tune gives "bionic" some much-needed non-dystopian associations, and the world should be grateful for that. Maybe this is what interstellar radio will one day sound like.
Wouldn't you know it — Songblague turns 2 years old and I'm not even around to mark the occasion. I'd say it at least warrants taking a little listen back to SB's first day on planet Internet. It's an intro tune I'm still quite pleased with.
And a little 2fer Tuesday to remind you that Vince Guaraldi had some grown-up gems too. Here's something Charlie Brown and Linus might've been listening to as they celebrated the procurement of their first dimebag. I'm sure Snoopy was there too.
OK! A week off the decks, and now I'm refreshed and ready to rock, roll, or some combination of the two. Metaphorically that is, because we're jumping back in with a rather un-rocking tribute to sin.
Speaking of buried treasure from the 1980s, I can't recommend the Femmes Sous Cellophane comp highly enough. If you like your pop continental cool, female-fronted, and artastic, there are 21 choice cuts to keep you in a Francophilic state of mind. I'm pretty sure it's out of print, but, you know, the Internet. Here are two of my favorites tracks, more material to soundtrack your alternate mental re-creation of that decade.
How is it that I only heard of The Necessaries a few days ago?! You'd think enough people who love Murmur or early Talking Heads or any smart New Wave pop would've championed these guys a long ago. I'm shocked that the Arthur Russell (keybs and vox) curators haven't been all over this, especially since it's a such a different context for his special genius. At any rate, I'm happy to do my part. If you're a fan of any of the aforementioned, go find their Event Horizon record. I wonder if the cover was done by same guy who did Crazy Rhythms or if there was just something about that shade of blue in the early '80s.
Despite Songblague's occasional brushes with current events, I can assure you that today's song has nothing to do with Libya. It's more about a finger-walk through my CD collection, which I try to do regularly, as a break from my recent lazy habit of Itunes scrolling. I'm not sure whether that's what triggers the nostalgia or whether an unconscious itch to revisit old times comes first, but either way, landing on Pinback's debut record brought a wave of sensory remembrance into last weekend. It may be meat-and-potatoes indie rock, but the right notes in succession have a remarkable way of making a song seem made just for you.
Let's stick with loud guitar rock bands from the 1990s. Or more specifically, the ones I was into then. Even more specifically, the ones that still make me make rock faces and dumb body contortions. I think I've previously commented on how badly a lot of the math-rock/post-rock/indie-anything-but-cock-rock from that era has aged. Much of it has neither the fun/catharsis of rocking out nor the technical wherewithal to prog it up respectfully. (Have you listened to a June of 44 album in the last 10 years? Yeesh.) 
Admittedly, I was planning on taking today off. Presidents' Day may be a silly holiday (jamming together some Rushmore birthdays and calling it a nationally meaningful day...c'mon), but it has remarkable durability for justifying a day away from work. And since I dodged the bullet of actually going to work today, I should at least pony up a song. So, in the spirit of this barely-a-holiday, here's one from our nation's capital. A band as great and dead as the aforementioned Washington and Lincoln. Sorta. Whatever. Rockage!
Been spending the week fighting off a cold — the nasty kind that sneaks up, disarms you, and holds your whole body hostage before pointlessly surrendering without even demanding ransom. In the midst of zincing and lozenging, I've rediscovered an age-old principle that the fighting spirit of white blood cells is greatly enhanced by warm, shimmering dance music. Like this fine specimen. If you recognize the sample melody, it's probably because you were constantly subjected to this in 1988.
Falling victim to the same hubris as Kiss, the members of Yes decided that the mid-'70s would be a good time to unleash a full complement of solo albums upon an unsuspecting public. (You can check out a detailed critical summary here.) At the far ends of the embarrassment scale were singer Jon Anderson's cosmic drool epic and drummer Alan White's, um, reggae exploration. Meanwhile, bassist Chris Squire somehow managed to cram Yes-sized pomp and near-constant bass shenanigans into a decent pop song. Who knows, maybe it had something to do with hiring Bruford back on drums. I like this song with surprisingly few reservations.
Staying with hazy sounds, this one's got my ear of late. Dirty Beaches is just the right moniker here. It sounds like someone's crackly radio playing a ways down the beach on a vacation day that started carefree but then took on an odd nervousness. But it's magically 1965 and there's a girl smiling in your direction.
You want a little St. Valentine's romance? You're gonna get it wrapped in gauze, a slow jam re-engineered from false memory, marinading in a rainy dream and spooning your ears in a subdued restlessness. And you're not going to fuss over the incomprehensible voices, because you know the sweet cooing swirls would drop out of the air under clarifying lights.
