Old Vinyl

I just sent my mom a bummer of an email.

When I was in high school I entertained these notions of what life would be like when I got older. I'd be this hep cat, cooler than my high school self-conscious brain would allow. I'd read all these books about big ideas, man, and then write some. You know? Simple, undefined ideas of an unrealized self that never has been realized.

Some things did come to pass, although in a different manner than I would have expected. I did live in the Big City for a spell. A couple, actually. I played in bands. I rapped. I wrote a lot of bad free-verse. I started this blog. Acted in an indie flick. I fell in love. We moved into a happy home and learned to cook fantastic food together. Bought a house together, learned the joys of simple things together. Life is great.

But.

There's always a but. This time it was me responding to an email I received regarding what was to be done with my old record collection. A pause. A moment of recollection and head tilts. Right. Those things. I barely have time to listen to music at all, any more. If I didn't block out white noise at the office with podcasts and dubstep, I'd never listen to much beyond the car. Actually, that's not entirely true. The better half and I tend to push each other on to new tunes. 

The thing is...this idealized self that would eventually have a real bitchin' Hi-Fi with a rad old record collection no longer exists. Instead I find myself excited about listening to new episodes of podcasts as I mow the lawn. I want to listen to comedy albums while I cook. I zone out to techno while I run. Who am I? When did my dad's copies of Who's Next no longer become relevant? When did I give up on his copy of Beggar's Banquet? 

I'm more than a bit disappointed in myself. It's not the end of the world though. There's always some new, unanticipated adventure just around the bend. Better than anything else I could have predicted is that I have my best friend and better half to go with on these adventures. Forget what I wanted to be. I'll be whatever happens to us next.

Besides, vinyl pops and clicks anyway.

Pie Hole

Here's a story I never get tired of sharing: 

A friend of mine (who shall remain nameless) defies convention by being a single, dude's dude who loves to bake. 


One Sunday, after a night of spirited imbibing and more than a few hairs of the dog that bit him, he decided to alleviate his condition by baking himself a pie. All Sunday this guy slaves away in his kitchen while watching the Vikings lie down on the field. He gets the crust, whips up the filling from scratch, does the whole nine yards for himself. 


One dude, one pie. I love it. 


This guy's gung ho about making this pie for himself, thinking everything's going to be all right if he can just get some sugary, home-baked goodness into him. I can't blame him, it sounds great. 

So he gets his blueberry pie all made up, it's in the oven and baking. He's still a little under the influence when he takes it out and sets the still-hot-to-the-touch pie on the counter to cool. Knowing it's only for himself (which I love, he had no intention of sharing it with anyone, even his best friend who lived just across the hall), he gets out the sugar and coats the top of the pie with a gorgeous, heady amount of confectioner's sugar. 


He waits. 


The pie cools. 


The game ends. 


The Vikings have lost once again. He goes over to the counter to cut himself a giant slice of this delicious homemade pie. Plates it, gets a drink and plops back down on the couch to indulge. Takes one massive forkful and immediately spits it back out. In his still-hazy baking, he mistakenly grabbed the salt instead of sugar. Crestfallen, he shakes his head and dumps the entire pie into the garbage. 


A Sunday wasted. 

When he told us this tale of baking gone wrong, my better half asked him "Couldn't you just scrape the salt off the top and still eat it?" 

His response was a frustrated "Nah, I salted the shit outta that pie." 

On Malaise

I should start this off by saying things are never as bad as they may have seemed. 

The thing is, I've had the mixed blessing of suffering from depression for most of my life. It's only a mix in that you at least get the peaks with the valleys, a fuller range of the emotional spectrum. For as long as I can recall, there has been this lingering presence, lurking just beyond the boundaries of my perception. It waits for the right moment, then steals back into my mind like a squatter waiting for the opportunity. I know it's always out there, waiting for just the right moment of weakness that affords it a foothold in my life. 

It wasn't always as intense as it has been in the last few years. As a child it manifested more as a sense of isolation and detachment. This may sound like it borders on solipsism, but there was always a feeling as a child that I was the only one suffering from these feelings, as though all the other kids were running around, oblivious to a whole subset of feelings that dragged down a youthful exuberance into quiet solitude. I didn't fit in. I was weird. The older I grew, the more pronounced it became. By the time I hit middle school there were month long fugues that, when coupled with teenage hormones and a burgeoning sense of identity, left me wanting to live my life curled up in a ball. Going to school was an exercise in coping with anxiety and pressure that didn't seem to alleviate until I transferred to a much smaller school. The smaller school, though, had more constricted and closed social circles which further isolated me. 

Entering high school saw the emotional sine wave elongate, but not ameliorate. I would have long stretches of unbridled idiotic giddiness followed by unrelenting turmoil. There was a lot of up and down, with the few level times feeling like boredom rather than normal life. I suppose, though, that such wild all-or-nothing mood swings are a part of teenage life. At this point I became more aware of having pronounced depression, and began seeing a counselor. It helped articulate what I was experiencing. It put a spotlight on the darkness covering my mind. Although I was generally unhappy with my geographical location, I was becoming happier with who I was. 

College made it worse. I was on my own and free to deal with the world at large as I saw fit. This brought about massive amounts of self doubt and social anxiety. I really struggled to cope with who I was, what I was doing, where I was going with my life. I lost a sense of purpose. Seeking further help, I started taking anti-depressants. They seemed to alleviate the problem, but it felt like the solution was a chemical lobotomy of sorts. I felt like a zombie. I had no highs or lows. Any sort of creativity I previously possessed dried up almost as soon as the pills started to take effect. Along with this new found fog was the rapid change in health. I ballooned up to well over 220lbs, having previously never passed north of 160. I hated it worse than the depression. 

In a move of inspired idiocy, I simply up and stopped taking my medication. When I graduated, I stopped seeing the counselors I had seen previously. Slowly but surely, I found myself taking solitary steps to improve myself. They were hardly intentional steps, and certainly not coordinated in any way. They came almost as instinctive acts of self preservation. I moved to a new place in a part of the city that brought me out of my shell. I found work that had regular, steady hours instead of erratic retail schedules. I had a better half who always tried to see the best in people, which slowly (unbeknownst to me) began to rub off on me. I quit smoking. I started to eat better. I even started exercising. Bit by bit, I took steps to improve the person I was stuck being. I was realizing that, even if I had to be me for the rest of whatever life I chose, I could at least make the best version of me that I could. 

Years later, I find myself in the best health of my life, with a stronger outlook than I can recall ever possessing. This doesn't mean I'm free from depression, however. It still returns, often when I'm least expecting, and stronger and more pronounced than it ever did in my youth. It's a sense of pointlessness and futility that begins to strip away zeal and confidence. I feel the bottom drop out and I become heavy with arbitrary despair. The difference now, though, is that I can recognize it. Whereas in my youth I would isolate myself and rail against the world, now I have an understanding of what's happening. Where it used to sink its claws deep into my psyche, now I can push the demon back and keep it at bay when it strikes. Longer, more pronounced bouts are more rare. 

It still comes back to visit, and I don't think I'll ever be free from such pronounced depression. My understanding of the situation has me thinking that it really isn't a chemical imbalance but a mindset, an awareness of my place in the universe that sometimes becomes overwhelming. The further I've delved into the magnitude and nature of the cosmos, the more I feel humbled and insignificant. Whether that is the root cause is subject for another post. I think, though, that I am in a good place that allows me a greater perspective on a life-long struggle. I appreciate my life so much more now than I ever have. No matter how depressed I become, I am always thankful for my life, unhappiness and joy and all.

Pure Menace

I went to see The Phantom Menace this weekend. Intentionally and with surprisingly high hopes, I should add. 

My reasons for doing so were varied, but I essentially wanted to see if it truly is as bad as the collective internet would have us believe. Though, really, it was a chance to hang out with a friend of mine and go to the movies, which happens so rarely these days. I had a great time with my friend, but the movie...what a fascinating misstep in the annals of film. 

Here's the short version for anyone not in the know: George Lucas was responsible (mostly) for some really great movies. He took a huge hiatus from a beloved franchise and when he returned to it almost 20 years later, he made a movie that has become synonymous with disappointment and fan-backlash. Since then, he made two more that only made incremental improvements, thus tarnishing the very series that brought him to prominence in the first place. Lucas cut a deep dividing line between his older work and his recent work, one body being heartfelt and the other being coldly focused at selling toys and crowding the screen. But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

I loved the Star Wars movies as a kid. As a teenager, my focus shifted (girls, music, what have you) and I never even saw The Phantom Menace in its theatrical release. I eventually rekindled my love for the series a few years ago, the nostalgia fueling a passion for which little else holds such high regard in my eyes. So when the Blu Ray editions of the six film series were announced, I was on board from the get go. Yes, the whole thing, not just the good half. I wanted the whole set, not just for completion's sake, but to evaluate the series with fresh eyes and new presentation. I hadn't seen TPM in ten years, and the only time I saw it was on a VHS on a small screen TV on a sunny afternoon. Hardly ideal viewing conditions. When I watched the movies on Blu Ray a few months ago I simply skipped large parts of TPM, wanting to get to the movies I love instead of enduring what I assumed was absolute dreck. 

I was mostly right in doing so. 

Going to the theater on Saturday, I had a fresh viewing experience ahead of me. The hatred and fervor behind the movie had died down. It would not only be on the big screen, but in 3D as well. This was the big selling point for the re-release and I'll admit, I wanted to see how it changed the movie. As it turns out, not even a fresh, forgiving perspective could fix the missteps Lucas took in constructing TPM from the ground up. The 3D, while subtly applied, didn't add a great deal, just more depth of field and a darker, frustrating image. In my home experience it was bright and vivid, full of clear imagery. This was muddled and sleep-inducing - the bulbs are never turned up bright enough on 3D projectors. While I enjoyed the whole ritual of going to the movies, our immediate reaction upon leaving the theater was amazement. We weren't simply trashing the film for the sake of dog-piling. It really is just that bad. 

Mr. Plinkett's review makes every single flaw with the film abundantly clear, as it is nearly as long as the movie itself. What I can do, though, is give more concise insight. 

For starters, I still can't say with any certainty what the movie is about. I know, I know. Trade routes and Federation disputes, blockades and diplomats. It's insane. Three times, now, I've seen this movie and I still shrug at the actual supposed motivations. I can't event bother with paying attention to the nuts and bolts of the political process in the movie. I get so fed up with politics in my own life, I don't want to pay attention and get invested in ones in a fantasy world. Compare that to plots in IV, V and VI - rebel spies, revenge, running from the Empire. Simple, comprehendible motivations, despite the fantastical setting.

Wooden acting is another integral problem. The only lively elements were Jar Jar and Ewan McGregor, and even McGregor was limited to imitating Alec Guiness. He got much more loose with it in the following installments. Even here it was apparent he was the only one who seemed to know not to take it too seriously. Liam Neeson is stiff and distant, very hard to root for. Natalie Portman just didn't seem to know how to play her part. Ian Mcdermid at least had a sense from his prior experience to ham it up a bit.

On top of all it is the fact that the screen and the universe Lucas created was simply so cluttered at this point. While the first three movies suggested a rich, developed universe behind the story, here it was presented as a full on, unrelenting onslaught. Every inch of the screen was packed with action and detail. The clutter was mind boggling. Seemingly every character had had or eventually had a back story or a novel or a video game spin off. I don't want to have to know all that business - I want to be able to just watch the movie and follow the action on screen.

I know I'm being harsh. There were some cool moments. Seeing the Gungan city revealed in 3D in the theater was actually pretty breathtaking, as were some of the other establishing shots. The score was classic Star Wars. The lightsaber dual wasn't bad. There were moments where the original trilogy poked through, but they were so few and far between that they couldn't buoy the film out of slow, steady sinking process. It was, as I've said, fascinating to see how intrinsically flawed the movie is at every level. I also know I'll go see Attack of the Clones next year. I'm just a glutton for punishment and too quick to give second chances, I guess.

Descending

Hola.


Hope all has been well. Hope it's been a swell couple of days for you. I indulged in a rare day off, which hopefully hasn't betrayed me as a slothful layabout. Truth be told, though, there was a sinful amount of lying about today. I took an epic morning nap. I read a long overdue chunk of the Steve Jobs biography. I also had a massive, indulgent meal of sushi with my better half and her sister, photog-extraordinaire Kate Engelmann. It was the kind of meal where they were stuffed and insisted I finish all that was on the table, which is the best kind of present to me - there is no joy like an abundance of sushi to be personally devoured. Usually it comes in smaller, more reasonable portions. Not today. Today I wallowed in fresh fish and rice. 

All of this lay in stark contrast to what happened last night. I was permitted to participate in the in-law's tradition of an annual Xmas movie, this year's choice (or perhaps resignation) was The Descendants. I phrased it as such not because I didn't want to go (to the contrary I adore going to the movies) but because there seemed to be no strong option this year. Having perused the trailers, though, this George Clooney flick seemed to be the strongest contender. Two hours later, the four of us left the theater with somewhat disparate but converging opinions. 

The Descendants is, in a way, your quintessential indie film. You've got Clooney as the charismatic and cantankerous, conflicted lead. There are his troubled, rambunctious daughters who actually provide quite remarkable performances. The plot and setting are both centered around the practical reality of Hawaii instead of our idealized Eden. Then there is Clooney's wife. She's in a coma, having suffered a boating accident that has seemingly brought her life to an end. What unfolds as a result is both terrifyingly visceral and human as well as poignant and funny. It was, though, not a soft and rolling ride.

I really enjoyed the film but I seemed to stand alone in my assessment. My better half didn't really have the wherewithal for this film, especially on Xmas. Her sis was more open to it's tale, with their mother falling closer to my sensibilities. The general consensus, mine included, was that there too little in the movie that served as relief from the soul-crushing sadness. There were times the movies was proudly genuine and heartbreaking. The trailers sold it as more of a quirky comedy, and while there were the occasional moments of levity they were few and far between. A bit more humour would have brought balance to the sine wave of emotional resonance.

Please don't take my callous take on the movie as a total dismissal. There were some great, powerful moments. In particular, Clooney is on fire here as a father, as are the girls playing his daughters. There is a scene early on where he confronts some friends about the futility of his wife's situation that gave me chills due to his delivery, which should be credited to the writer as well. The end was terribly sad, but genuine and believable. It's not a full-on uplifting movie, but The Descendants was a human story with a lot of heart that cut thought the noise and clutter of the holiday offerings by granting peace and silence in its emotional story. Check it out, if you're interested.

All Right, Place

I'm facing the end of an era and I'm okay with it. 

It's a personal era, I should clarify. For the last five years I've called Uptown my home. I've had fantastic times here - amazing memories with my better half. Crazy nights out. Adventures with friends. I've seen shows that were to die for. Block parties that enveloped the entire neighborhood. I got engaged here. We got married here. I've seen landmarks come and go. I still miss the Uptown Bar. It's not a bad thing, this change. It's a necessary one. As I've grown older, the world has changed around me. Most of my friends have moved away or moved to the suburbs. I don't go out as much, these days. While I love the accessibility and convenience of the stores and night-life, I'm tired of dudes on motorcycles roaring past my place all night during the summer. Makes it hard to have a conversation some times. I'm ready to go, but that doesn't mean I'm not feeling a little sad about leaving a place I've called home for the better part of a decade. 

I'm using music to cope with this change. A lot of days, we've been putting on tunes that relax us and make us happier while we pack boxes and break down our place into smaller pieces. Sometimes the more cathartic music makes more sense to me, but I don't always want to share that with her. As I've been walking to the bus in the morning, each time savoring what would normally be a cold walk through Uptown to the Transit Station, I've been listening to Manchester Orchestra's 2009 single 'I've Got Friends'. It's a song that hits the sweet spot between comfort and upheaval, a perfect compliment to the back and forth states of mind I've been experiencing.

Starting with only a sparse guitar line and a simple but evocative chord change, 'I've Got Friends' is a song that builds over its five intense minutes. Singer and guitarist Andy Mull's voice is high and clear, a warbling thing that trills the melody as a descent over the hypnotic verse. On a dime, the band switches gears and jumps into the refrain, Mull singing over and over "I've got friends in all the right places. I know what they want and I know they don't want me to stay." Every repetition of the refrain sees his voice growing more and more raspy and broken; by the end of the song he's created a wall of his pained wailing, the high harmonies being just as powerful as the inflection in the lyrics. From the ambiguity of the lyrics and the mixture of joy and sorrow in Mull's it's  not immediately clear whether or not he's happy about his predicament, but I hardly care at this point. I'm completely hooked on this anguished ouroboros of an indie rock song. 

Pained or anxious, joyful or eager, I find my pulse rising for no discernible reason these last few weeks. I think it's from the knowledge a major change is going to take place. I feel great about it, I just wish I didn't have to close a chapter in my life along with it. Songs like this, with the simultaneous suggestions of having kin but not feeling wanted, make the self-removal process easier. Most of my friends are out of the area now, so who do I feel I'm leaving behind? My younger self? I don't know. I just want to go home to my better half and get started on our new adventure together. I'll just turn up my music as I'm walking home to ease me through the transition. 

Sick With Regret

Oh, White Stripes. How I miss thee.


What band in modernity have had an impact like that of Jack and Meg White, and with so few members to boot? It would be an easy conclusion to see that their raw, distilled power stems from the simplicity and lack of sleight of hand - this is the quintessential band for the notion of "what you see is what you get". It's always been tightly crafted, furious rocknroll pieces that get right to your primal core. That's why I, like everyone else who ever heard them, was crushed to learn that Icky Thump was to be their final album. The only consolation prize was that they went out with a bang.

As amazing as the entire album was, nothing defined the band for me like the eponymous single. Debuting in 2007, 'Icky Thump' was everything the White Stripes had become known for - relentless energy, massive guitars, bleating vocals and straight forward, bash-you-in-the-face drums. Basically, a knock out. By leading with this mastodon-like track, the two-piece proved they hadn't lost their edge as their careers reached new heights. While the world was quickly moving past the garage rock aesthetics the band had brought to the forefront less than a decade earlier, they were proving their style still had vitality in their last throes.

'Icky Thump' is Frankenstein monster of a single. By all common understanding the song shouldn't work in our over-produced, slick and glossy world of modern media. By cobbling together all these disparate elements, Jack and Meg created a song that felt just broken and dangerous enough to stand out. There's the menacing relentless thump of the verses, layered up with squirrely clavioline lines and Jack's exquisite piss-take rapping. His voice adds the perfect level of vitriolic distaste on the matter of illegal immigration as an added bonus. The single swings into a distinctively White Stripes-esque breakdown of sliding guitar riffs and slamming percussion. A series of broken and dying solos round out the song, as if to say "Solo for attention? How about I destroy my gear instead?" Despite the audacity of individuality and flaunting of convention, it works. Or maybe because of it.

I miss The White Stripes like no other. They were a rare beacon of genuine rocknroll in a homogenized, safe-for-corporations musical world. Still, as much as it pains me to say they;re no more, I can at least enjoy what they left as legacy. It blows me away to know they did tracks like this right up to the finish line.

Fall Apart

No bones about it.


Fall is here and making way for that dreaded sequential terror. The W word. It's lurking just around the bend. The days are shorter. The nights are longer. More often than not the sky is overcast and we have to pull up our collars around our collective scarves to keep the ever-growing chill out of our coats. Not all hope is lost, though. There are the small, subtle things to aid us in our journey, to give us lift in our daily endeavors. For me, one small thing is the old hit by INXS, 'Never Tear Us Apart'.

Unlike other posts I won't cite here, with this 80s hit I can cite specific reasons for personal relevance. I always associate this song with Fall. The melancholic air of the lyrics and sounds. Michael Hutchence's wailing and the pulling-at-the-heart string arrangement. They convey a cold and somber time, which is only furthered by the classic video from the late 80s, which I also saw repeated viewings of during the Fall season. In it, the band struts around in pained, pretentious manner in heavy coats as they sort of perform the song. No elaborate set up, despite the decadent decade - no, in an interesting twist on convention, INXS just wandered around Prague in the cold season, performing the song in a somber setting. I love it.

The song itself is great, a real hidden gem of a pop tune from an otherwise genre busting, funky New Wave band. I love that they made this weird, morose song that stands out among their canon. It's this stealth reminder of finding beauty in the heartache of the seasons passing and fading. Every year I find myself listening to this song more in Fall than in any other time. It's surprisingly lush and gorgeous despite its cold, isolated sense of heartbreak and romance. Hutchence sells it well with his plain yet theatrical voice. The dramatic pauses are wonderful as they unleash in the understated guitar licks and pounding drums. I have to confess this might be the only time that I will go on record as staunchly in favor of the saxophone contribution. There is no way this song would be the same at all with any other instrument playing that solo.

Give in to the season. Feel it surround you, the crisp air and the leaves beneath your feet. It gets cool, yeah, but it's not a bad thing. Just try it on and see if it fits. Putting INXS on your headphones as you tromp through the fading light of Fall is the perfect addition to the season. Let it wash over you and see if I'm right. No bones about it, we're in the thick of it. Might as well make the most of it while we can. 

Old Wounds

By all logic, this should not have worked.


I read about this cover before I ever heard about it. Just reading the words in the order they were presented forced my mind to wrap itself around a pairing so incongruous and unlikely that I had no idea how it would sound. Turned out I was making a mountain out of a mole hill - it sounded fantastic and natural. While yesterday's cover coverage was about improving on a flawed song, today's subject is about simply making the song yours. In this case, Trent Reznor ceded his old, wounded ballad 'Hurt' to the dying Johnny Cash, after the Man In Black made his mark on the harrowing song.

I still struggle to listen to Cash singing this song without being reduced to tears. His inflection, his weariness and resignation in the face of the world are so heartbreaking and beautiful that I can hardly stand to hear it. The video for the song only makes it harder, seeing the legend past his prime, a fading specter of the once-vibrant force that gave the middle finger to the world in his younger days. At its most affecting and personal moments, it's a stark reminder that all good things must come to an end, that we all go eventually. At its most serene its a song that reminds us that we take our lives for granted, that people are seeing their own lives fade before their eyes every day while we complain about spotty Wifi or bad traffic. 

Hard to beleive I get this grandiose and self-indulgent emotional roller-coaster from a Nine Inch Nails song. I always enjoyed Reznor's iteration of the final track on The Downward Spiral, though more so from the quiet and contemplative nature of the song in light of the more combative and unsettling sounds surrounding it. As a conceptual coda I loved 'Hurt', although I understood it to be a step outside of his wheelhouse at the time. It was haunting and beautiful, if bleak and overly dramatic. 

When Cash covered the song for his album American IV, the last of his series of standards and covers before his passing, the world of pop music (and music in general) sat up and took notice. This was something rare, something worth paying attention to. What could have been 'a gimmick' (as Reznor worried) became something astounding. Cash transformed the song into something larger than the original artist could have hoped; he added layers and layers of life, the years and experiences of Cash painting the song in new light. What had previously been a denoumount to a dark concept album became an achingly gorgeous letter to a world that was slipping out of Cash's grip.

I can't even make it through the song now, as I write this. It's too much. It's nice to know such significant moments like this can happen in my life, but at times it seems like to much to deal with, as though moments of such personal and human relevance are so rare as to be jarring. Listen, please, if you can. It's every bit as wonderful as it's told to be, and more.

Car Crash Cacophany

Evening, gang.

I'm totally tapped. Had a massive day at the office, book-ended by a run around the lakes in the morning and a surprise yoga session in the afternoon. I would love to give you an emphatic recommendation buy at this point it would feel false. In the face of failure, I'll throw a bit of honest to goodness fiction in here, one of the first I ever wrote, to be compensated by a double post tomorrow. So, you hang tight and read this short, sad story and check back in for what I ought to have posted today. I'll see you on the weekend...

Keep your cards close – keep your cards close to keep your cash closer.  I hated that phrase the first time I heard it.  Felt so unloving – who would hold it as a life motto?  My grandfather told me that when I was young, and I learned as I grew older that he wasn’t a trusting person.

His wife, my grandma, was just as cynical.  I remember being upset as a young boy because it had rained on the day she was supposed to take me to the State Fair, and the lesson she passed on to me was “Nothing in life is certain, save death and taxes.”  Sick thing to say to a kid, perhaps, but at least she was leveling with me at a time in my life when the whole world was sugar-coated.  It was the kind of lesson you don’t realize you’ve learned until Life already has you bent over and waiting for it and things around you have fallen apart.  No one ever sees it coming until they’ve missed their chance.  

Danse Floor

Bon nuit.


Feeling tapped, as of late. It's that time of year wherein Minnesota flips a switch and we abruptly change from the heat and humidity of summer to the cool, crisp air of autumn. It seems to have happened just over night, in a jarring transition the affects the mind and body. Everyone I know is just a bit more tired, struggling just a bit more to pull themselves from the comfort of bed in what are now dark mornings. I can still (barely) force myself to get up and run before work, which is a shot of adrenaline that gives a slow-burn of energy for the day. The side effect, though, is it leaves me feeling a bit detached. As I walk to my bus stop in uptown I have to force myself to gear up for facing the masses of people, my quiet life shaken from it's peaceful start. So I turn to alienated and alienating music.

A song that's always helped me cope with this sense of detachment from crowds is 'Glass Danse' by new wave band The Faint. A neighbor of mine in college who really had me pegged but never socialized enough (or maybe I didn't reach out enough) included it on a fantastic homemade compilation album. It was called "When the Committee Meets at Your House" and it had some amazing homemade artwork I've never gotten around to scanning. Mark was a real hep cat, a guy who made me appreciate some of the more subtle aspects of city living. I wish I hadn't fallen out of touch with him. I was a different person back then, almost a full decade ago. I had much less social nuance and tact, and I was most likely an obnoxious college student. He was very patient and polite, and had great taste in music. His compilation turned me on to the Mountain Goats and Jacques Dutronc and Bonnie Prince Billie. Still, of all the songs, Glass Danse, from the album Danse Macabre, was my favorite.

I think maybe he saw it as touching on my inner isolation, or his. Who knows. I just knew it was a funky dance number at the time, a buzzing little number with teeth that sounded phenomenal when you cranked it up. Now, as I listen to the lyrics through headphones on the bus, surrounded by people I don't speak with or even make eye contact, I think maybe he sensed I would grow up into a more reserved version of myself. The icy cold detachment in the lyrics is the epitome of Minnesota (n)ice, our polite surface being a form of keeping the world at arm's length. I'm glad I still have the homemade compilation with his handmade artwork - I just wish I was still in contact with him. He was cool.

Addictive Sound

Hey gang, happy long weekend.

As summer is drawing to a close I find myself looking back at other memorable summers. I've written before about the time spent working as a carpenter's apprentice and the music I listened to at the time. While I was certainly attached to my portable CD player (which is amazing it ever worked, in hindsight) I also spent a fair amount of time on the job fiddling with radio knobs to pick up the distant stations from the Twin Cities. These stations were way better than anything else I could get at the time, which was either pop, country, talk or religious. I could not stand any of those. Working on houses far, far out in the goon docks allowed for a faint but clear signal to whisper in, the most treasured being the hard rock station 93X, playing all kinds of music I loved but couldn't lug around with me in CD form. On top of that, the carpenter hated the abrasive sounds, often switching back to Rush Limbaugh or some Christian talk station. It was a give and take - he'd give me an opening, then take the radio back.

 Sometimes he would leave me at a site to clean up or work on something monotonous but easy while he went off to do more complicated and involved tasks. These times were great, a free reign to blast the tunes as loud as I wanted. I actually did work with the better station, too - I didn't slack off when not observed. There was one time, though, that I had to sit down and really listen to a song as it came over the airways, though. It was an overcast morning during a stretch of days spent at my grandparents to lessen my commute to the sites. I was tired and bummed to be trapped in the goon docks, far away from any of the metropolitan culture I would eventually embrace. I was unhappy and tired. It was humid. The house I was working in was not even half finished, with drafts and saw dust to bother the eyes and lungs. The radio was a respite from this. So when a strange and eerie song started with a woman's smoky voice singing notes without words, I had to stop to listen.

 The song began to build. A solitary bassline crept in under the intonations. It was almost spooky, but certainly heartbreaking. Slowly, sadly, the woman sang "Breathe it in and breathe it out and pass it on its almost gone". While obviously singing of addiction (of which I knew nothing) it was still a moving song, one that gripped me and made an indelible mark in my mind. I was transfixed by the song until it was over, the song having risen and fallen several times, taking me on a bit of an emotional journey. All the while the signal threatened to fade out, amping up my focus and the intensity with which I listened. Right before some heavy clouds came in and broke the signal entirely, I heard the DJ say "That was 'Not An Addict' by K's Choice, a great band out of..." and then it went to static. The words imprinted on my brain - I had to hear it again.

It wasn't until I got to college, four or five years later, that I would finally download the song and listen to it to death. This was the era of CDs full of filler and I always had some particular album I had to pick up first in my mental queue. Not to say I didn't appreciate the song - I actually heard it once or twice in the intervening years, with other people even confirming how great it was. I'm pretty sure my band (yes, I was in a punk band for years) covered it at one point. It was just one of those special things you keep in the back of your mind, never quite letting it go, occasionally saying "I have to find this!". When I did, it was fantastic.

The song was sung by Sarah Bettens of the band K's Choice. The band, hailing from Antwerp in Belgium, actually achieved some international fame for the single, due in no small part to her distinct and raspy voice. The band had albums before and after but nothing has hit quite as big as 'Not An Addict', for better or worse. Millions of other people have been just as amazed by the song as I have, but I will always think of my solitary, isolated discovery of the song. Even if everyone I know is familiar with this awesome song, it will always bring me back to that special, secret moment when I was all alone and being deeply moved by Bettens' voice. It's a fantastic number. Give it a listen. Enjoy your weekend. 

Fading Out

Dear, sweet lord. It's the weekend.


Sometimes life is a grind. Sometimes we feel like we have to grind away just to get through the week. Sometimes I don't want my peaceful, quiet trip hop and techno tunes. Sometimes I want the gritty, folksy down-to-earth rock of a songwriter. Someone who can tell a story. But it has to have some teeth, as well. There's a fantastic old album no one seems to listen to anymore that I love to put on for a little relief on a day like this. That album? Sparkle and Fade by Everclear.


Everclear are a strange band. They had a big hit in 1995 with 'Santa Monica', the biggest single off of their major label debut, Sparkle and Fade. This album broke them out in a major way. Their followup So Much for the Afterglow had a few hits but since then it's all been downhill. The band basically hit it big in the late 90s and never hit those heights again. While the sole consistent member, front man Art Alexakis, has toiled away on the band and their albums over the years, this first big album of theirs, with it's California Surf-tinged elements, has always had a special place in my heart. 

Is that a weird thing to say about a seemingly random grunge album from 16 years ago? Maybe. But I like it anyway. It's very du jour - it amazes me the songs were singles and played on the radio and MTV. Hearing what's popular now makes the songs in question here feel so normal and straight forward. In a way, though, that's exactly what it is about this album that I love. It's that simple ability to write and play these songs with no pretension and complication that I love so much. The band is a very nuts and bolts outfit - drums, guitar, bass. That's it. Nothing too fancy, just catchy mid-tempo riffs. Oh, and a songwriter who shone quite brightly for an entire album. Alexakis wrote from the heart here, pulling pieces of his childhood out of his memories and using them to craft these deeply personal and human songs about broken people and their hopes. It sounds corny, I know, but hearing it from such an earnest performer makes it work.

From the dirty little lick that opens the album in 'Electra Made Me Blind', you know what kind of album you're getting into. The songs have some balls. Art sings his heart out. The band plays with steadfast conviction, making simple songs sound strong. Alexakis mines the personal tragedy of his brother's death from an overdose to add terrible weight to 'Heroin Girl', a tragic song that buzzes and drowns in distortion. The mega-pop of 'You Make Me Feel Like A Whore' and 'Santa Monica' take what are quite bleak topics and makes them irresistibly catchy and rocking numbers. The guitar riffs are huge and cliched in the best way only the 90s could produce. There are also sweet and heartbreaking songs, like the saccharine poison of 'Strawberry' with it's shimmering, strummed acoustics. 'Nehalem' is a punchy little punk number that barely clocks in under two minutes but paints a full picture of a breaking couple in a small town. The stealth breakout number, though, is the tragic 'Queen of the Air', where Alexakis tells a story about a man realizing he witnessed something horrible as a child. It's a fantastic song with some personal and haunting lyrics, despite the dreamy alt-rock that backs it. 

Sometimes I wish Everclear were still huge. I'm okay with their decline, though. I still have this great, under appreciated album that makes me feel better after a long week. Life is better when you have something secret and personal to give you a little hidden pleasure. No one I know knows about this album other than the big single. That just makes me love it that much more. So I thought I'd share it with you - to let you in on a secret in the hopes that it means something to you like it does for me.

Live Wire

Happy Weekend!

I wrote yesterday about the mixed reaction I had (along with everyone else) about Bush's Razorblade Suitcase. It was an album I loved at the time, but of which I have since become skeptical. In contrast, today's post is about an album with which I was initially quite disappointed but have since warmed to greatly. The suspect in question? On A Wire by The Get Up Kids.

 I've previously given long winded dissertations on The Get Up Kids and how much their music meant to me, especially at a time in my life when music like theirs could really lift my spirits. I was, as a teenager, head over heels for the group, devotedly listening to Four Minute Mile, Something To Write Home About and the b-Side/outtakes collection Eudora. At the time, I was gasping for more material, having worn out those albums in my ears. As great as they were, I could hardly wait for their next album to come out. When the group released On A Wire in the spring of my senior year of high school I was perplexed, to say the least. A quiet album full of unfamiliar sounds, I felt that I had little to relate to in it. Where were the raging anthems and howling cries of anguished teenage angst?

They outgrew them, it turned out. In turn I would as well.

While I scratched my head at the time, I understand now that band had simply gotten tired of playing the kind of music they did, night after night. Shows like that will drain the life out of you, even if you enjoy it, let alone being on the road non-stop. So the band took a step back and examined their perspective, beginning to write songs from a new creative place. The results were more measured, the kind of album you put on while cleaning your apartment, not while enduring the angst of teenage melodrama. Songs were softer. Their playing was more restrained. I was, as a die hard fan, completely confused. Certainly I wasn't the only one who felt this way, given their track record in light of this shift in tone.



But I persisted. 


I gave the album a chance, listening to a song or two, here and there. There were songs that immediately jumped out as solid and enjoyable - the single 'Overdue', with it's soft strumming and cooed melody, or the closer 'Hannah Hold On', which fit easily in their canon. 'Walking On A Wire' really struck me then, and has only grown more powerful as I've grown older, the mixed emotion and tone playing so strongly. Still, though - the album felt like it wasn't written to with my audience in mind. Years later I would get a better sense of why.

As I edge closer to 30, like the band that wrote the album, I appreciate the slowing down. I dig the songwriting on display and the experiments the band made. The Get Up Kids took a hell of a risk with On A Wire and while it may have hobbled their momentum, it was an inevitable and necessary step. They've never really gone back to the hurtling anthems of their glory days, but then who ever does? They've grown older and more insightful and the songs reflect that. There was a feeling I got, listening to this album as I left my entire life behind to leave home, that the band was writing to that idea. A huge chapter in my life had come to a close and the same had happened with the band. They were done being the emo-rockers they had been revered as, and simply moved on. 


Truth be told, I didn't get it when it came out. I felt betrayed and let down, like a magical thing had vanished from the earth. What I found instead, was the band had hidden something in plain sight. On A Wire is actually a great album, I just wasn't ready for it yet.