110 posts tagged “music”

My life falls into a pattern where something can be in front of me for a long time, but I never really see it. And when I finally notice it, I'm left wondering whether I'm walking through the world with blinders on. But better to see it late than to never see it at all, right? That's why "discovering" the band Unrest has been one of the best parts of this craptastic week.

Several months ago, a package arrived in the mail from some lovely kids in Ohio (thanks P&N if you are reading this) who burned me several albums worth of tunes they thought I'd like. At about the same time, I had purchased a lot of new music, so I didn't have adequate time to really sit and listen to each album. I trended toward the familiar and shuffled around on the bands I didn't know anything about. But this week, I made my way down toward the latter half of the alphabet and found Unrest, a D.C. band led by Mark Robinson, founder of the beloved TeenBeat record label. How could I have missed this band? Seriously? Why did nobody tell me?

This song, Cath Carroll, is tribute to the the British journalist/musician by the same name. That's a picture of Cath as taken by Mapplethorpe.

035 Cath Carroll

Unrest

On this day, in celebration of our nation's independence, I will:

1. Play all the Billy Bragg commie songs.

2. Contemplate the brilliance of the lyrics "Killers in America work seven days a week."

3. Listen to the Clash.

4. Answer a text message from my friend in Malaysia, who remembered our Independence Day. Even though I lived there briefly, I can't for the life of me remember theirs. This, unfortunately, is what it means to be an American.

5. Drink for every time someone declares "freedom isn't free" or attempts to be wry and calls America "Murica."

6. Remember that my father threatened to hang the Union Jack from our house every 4th, but never did.

7. Do the thing that all people who actually live in the District do: avoid the Mall at all costs and hang out on a friend's roof in Northwest, safe from the great unwashed masses downtown.

8. Recall one of the best lines from the movie Dazed and Confused: "This summer when you're being inundated with all this bi-centennial, fourth of July, bru-ha-ha just remember what you're celebrating. That's the fact that a bunch of slave-owning aristocratic white males didn't want to pay their taxes."

9. Eat some sort of dip that probably has mayonnaise as a prime ingredient. Renew dislike for mayo, firmly entrench myself in the mustard camp in the age-old mustard vs. mayo wars.

10. Think about why I find this cover art so compelling. Something about it just feels lonely. Go listen to some Pernice Brothers.

Yours, Mine & Ours

The Pernice Brothers

I had a rock star moment on the Metro today. And when I say rock star, I mean I was listening to a song so good during the commute back into the city that I was forced to strum along and put on a show. It was on the late-ish side, the trains were nearly empty, and the suit across the aisle from me looked up and smiled as if to say "I want whatever you got." That, or you're crazy. But I'm going with the former.

Thanks go to both Hot Rod and Akajen for talking about Dressy Bessy long ago. Fuck me, I love twee Indie pop.

Dressy Bessy (Bonus DVD)

Dressy Bessy

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There's been something that's bothered me for almost a year, and I figured it out last night. Prurient has this game "Celebrity Hump Island," which Mer wrote about last July. It involves picking five celebrities/famous types that you'd like to be stranded on a desert island with. You can't have more than five, so rules being rules, if you change it up, you gotta kick some people off. It's all very scientific.

At any rate, I came up with a hastily composed list of four last year, and the only one who stays on there with the benefit of hindsight is foppish Hugh Grant (pre-crows feet, circa Four Weddings). But a very recent revival of my interest in mid-90s hip-hop has made me realize a grave oversight on this list: Q-Tip, from Tribe Called Quest, pre-solo career, while he was still doing the vaguely modest thing. How could I have forgotten?

Sorry Becks. I know you're heartbroken, but you're off.

Editor's Note: For the next 10 weeks, I'll be writing occasional posts about the 10 records that played a role in shaping my music taste. To review.

Help! [UK]

The Beatles

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But they were so much a part of my growing up, that I really can't disown them. My father played them constantly. We owned all of their records in multiple formats (CDs, the American vinyl versions and the British vinyls, which were different than the versions released in the U.S.). We had stacks of books about the band. We had documentaries, demos and rare outtakes. When my father's side of the family got together at Christmas, someone would grab a guitar and we'd sing Beatles songs. Wince. I know. But it's true.

I can't say I listen to the Beatles all that often these days. But when I do, it's like coming home again. And I find that the older I get, the more I appreciate their earlier albums, which I had pretty much dismissed as lame when I was a teenager.  Help! is certainly not their best album, but it's the first I clearly recall knowing all the lyrics to. And if your parents are going to force an album on you, you could do a lot worse.

Glad to see that somebody is raising the kids right:

After a day and a night without any air conditioning in the District, I now know on a deep and personal level why more crimes are committed when the temperature rises. Because I'd like to commit them. Right now. The Target and Best Buy in Columbia Heights have been sold out of window AC units for days, and I'm going out on a limb here and predicting they'll fly off the shelves this week faster than I can get home from work to buy them.

Please don't ask too many questions, or you'll find that I'm to blame for my situation. Yes, I traded cheap rent for no AC. This seemed like a fair exchange in October. In May, with the threat of a DC summer seemingly far away, a busy weekend/work-week travel schedule and a wedding to attend this weekend, it seemed reasonable to wait until early June to buy window units. Hindsight is now mocking me at every turn, saying, "Big, Fucking Grave Error in Judgment" in blinding, neon letters. The storied DC summer has arrived.

How hot is it? It is, as I described to a friend, "film-noir" hot. If I knew how to make mint julips, I'd be drinking them. If I smoked cigarettes, I'd partake of those too. A layer less than naked? I'd want to know about it. To make matters worse, I decided to do my laundry across the street last night. You have not begun to live until you've done your wash in a packed, hot, sweaty laundromat with perverts on either side of you ogling your underwear. It's a rich experience, I assure.

If I don't make it out of this heat wave alive, I'm requesting a few things. First, somebody needs to be in charge of making a funeral mix that rocks everyone's face off and includes "Motor Away." Second, nobody - and I mean nobody -  who is over the age of five will dare wear any seersucker to my funeral. I don't care how hot it is. And third, will somebody please, please show a little respect and play Sam Cooke? He's really the only thing I can stand to listen to in this heat.

Well over a year ago, Akajen wrote a post about musical influences. She posed this question: "What saved you from a life of musical ignorance?," and it sparked a 33-comment discussion that, frankly, I'd revisit every day of my life if I could.

There's a lot of talk among my fellow music geeks about the DID (or maybe it's desert Island Mp3s these days?). But I've always been much more interested in the records - not necessarily the best ones in your collection or the ones you even listen to today - that for better or worse shaped your musical tastes. So for the next 10 weeks, I'll be writing about the albums that started it all/ruined me and changed what I listened to at the time. I don't mean "changed my life" in that annoying way that Natalie Portman declares the Shins are gonna change your life in Garden State. These aren't "of-the-moment" records for me. I don't listen to at least three of them with any regularity. These albums don't always represent the band's best work. But they're in the DNA. They are where I've been, and where I'm going. They are (in order of when they came into my life):

I wish I didn't have to tell you this, but the wretched Late Night Shots crew is setting its sights on the ladies who hang out at the Black Cat after determining that the women who hang out there are "straight up better looking than just about any female you would run into out in Georgetown..."

Well, yes, we are. But that doesn't mean we want you here. I think I speak for all when I say:

Gentle reader,  I’m not going to come at you with some half-assed excuses for not blogging in weeks. I have been busy, blah; I have a job that makes me work blah, blah whine whine. But you don’t want to hear this.  You come to this space because you are a culture vulture, and you need to be in the know.

While you were away, I was busy gathering news, bringing you the very serious reportage you’ve come to expect from these pages. And here is what you need to understand:

-The Old 97's will release a new album next week. The Telecaster is back, thank the lord, and so forth. More at a later date. Some previews here.

Blame It On Gravity

Old 97's

-The Hold Steady announced a new album, with one of the greatest press releases in the history of all histories of rock band press releases. It said: “"A great American philosopher named D. Boon once said 'our band could be your life.' I think that is true. But 'your life could be our band' is also a true statement. I know this because we have lived it. These are our lives. These are your lives. This is our fourth record. Stay Positive."

-The Silver Jews are putting out something that is sure to be better than Steve Malkmus’ recent album.

Now that I can dispense with the music portion of this so-called music blog, I will move to the travelogue. I’ve just come back from four days New York City’s West Village, bearing news of three things:

1. Every woman in New York City is wearing their jeans tucked into their boots. This is not a new trend, I know. But it’s striking just how ubiquitous it was. By the end of the weekend, I refused to be seen out in public without looking like I’d be prepared to ride a horse at any moment. That’s just how big it is. And just how much of a lemming I am.

2. Pinkberry. If you haven’t heard of this, it’s the frozen yogurt crack-a-licious treat that swept Los Angeles a few years back and made it to New York last year. The stores have this very hip/minimalist sensibility about them. It’s the sort of thing you can see going over big in Japan.

They only offer three flavors, and it tastes like frozen sour cream sold for more than $5 a pop. It might sound gross, but it’s weirdly addicting, and I can tell you the lines were out the door. When is the last time lines were out the door at a frozen yogurt place? Oh, p.s., the 1990s are back.

crackberry

The catch with Pinkberry is that it’s supposed to be relatively healthy for dessert, at something like 100 calories.  But the whole thing feels too good to be true, like at any moment it’s about to be upended and revealed for the sham it is. Kind of like the band Vampire Weekend. When I got back to DC, I did some due diligence and found this. Bastards!

3. Speaking of other things that were common in the 90s, but you don’t see so much of these days, the full bush is coming back. Mark my words. Go ahead. Carve it in stone, and come back to me in a year.  Judging from the sheer volume of pubic hair dye in day-glo shades available in almost every salon and drugstore in NYC, one is forced to come to this conclusion. I’m not kidding. It’s only a matter of time before it makes its way to DC, and eventually to the flyover states. Jodi, consider yourself warned. Just say no. This is one trend I’ll be bucking.

I could also tell you about my trip to the Guggenheim, where I checked out some interesting installation art. One of the pieces included a pack of stuffed wolves, suspended in air, heading toward a glass wall. Spoiler alert! The last wolf has a boner.

Or I could write about the term “ginger balls” that I plan to put in heavy rotation in the coming weeks.

But I won’t. I won’t because the editors at Audiogram aim for higher journalistic standards.

Last night, the downstairs neighbor knocked on my door. And when I opened it, he asked, somewhat rhetorically, whether we’d had the TV on or were listening to music after midnight the evening before.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure if we were, but it wouldn’t be out of character. We’re both night owls. I’m convinced nothing important happens before 8 a.m., and all of life’s most interesting moments happen sometime after 9 p.m.

But I apologized, because even if we weren’t guilty, I knew what it meant. It meant he can hear everything from the apartment below. And that means he’s gotten the full force of my recent obsession with Destroyer, Dan Bejar and more specifically, a guitar solo in the song “European Oils.” More on that later.

For those about to snack

I’ve got a complicated relationship with Mr. Bejar. As a member of the New Pornographers, Dan acts like he’s too good to appear on stage with the rest of the band, like they’re just some silly side project to his real band, Destroyer. The last time I saw the New Pornographers, he behaved atrociously. He barely deigned to come on stage, and when he did, he was munching away on a bagel and drinking a Molson (what else would a Canadian drink?). It was if the audience at the 9:30 Club had interrupted Dan’s snack time.

I hate him. He’s a petulant child. And yet. He’s living proof that sometimes, we’re inexplicably drawn to assholes. Because in recent weeks, I’ve fallen totally and completely for his game. I’m now convinced he’s the driving force behind the best New Pornographers’ songs (although he’s notoriously cagey about which songs he pens). Dan’s rocketed to the top of my hate-fuck list. Oh, wipe that judgmental look off your face! Like you don’t have such a list.

I’ve been listening to Destroyer’s Rubies almost exclusively for two months, Streethawk: A Seduction non-stop in the last week. He dropped a new album recently,Trouble in Dreams, and I’ll be picking that up too. And as my downstairs neighbor can probably attest, I’ve been rocking a specific moment on the song “European Oils” like a crack addict for the past month. It occurs about a minute 45 into the song, where Dan sings the following lyrics:

“She needs release/She needs to feel at peace with her father,” and then he half shouts/half whispers “THE FUCKING MANIAC!” From there, he rips into one of the best guitar solos I’ve heard in years. Listen.

What makes his music, and this song, so compelling for me is that you never quite know where it’s going. I’m not the first to make this observation. There’s a Destroyer drinking game that has you take a drink for “moments of unexpected sweetness” in his songs.

If I take a drink for all of these moments when I see him at the Black Cat next Friday, I expect I’ll be shit faced on Dan’s unexpected sweetness. I can’t wait.