Nobody Wins, Ever

What's up, gang?


Book Worm Week is over and done. I feel pretty good about it. In hindsight I don't feel like I made a total fool out of myself or betrayed a complete lack of comprehension. If I did I certainly wasn't aware of it. To thank you for stick around during the theme week, I thought I'd share a bit of a tale about music and the ebb and flow of bands. Something a little literary and a little musical, perhaps. 


Here goes.


After a tumultuous senior year of high school my parents made the kind suggestion that perhaps I'd be better off with my uncle Chuck on the west coast, where I could make a little money in his tavern and get away from unsavory influences. I figured my life as I knew it, up to that point, was ending, so what the hell? A single suitcase later, I was heading to Federal Way, Washington to live with Chuck, the two of us sharing his lovely suburban home. I toiled away in the tavern and spent my free time either chain-smoking and reading on his deck (I've long since quit - youthful indiscretion) or wandering local galleries and taking in the Seattle sights.

Being a young man with no friends and little family in the area (Hi Gail! Hi Ben!) I was at a loss for what to do while in the area for the four months I lived in the Pacific Northwest. Unlike my recent obsession with Twin Peaks, this was a sunny, adventurous time of my life, full of punk music and sunshine. So imagine my delight then, when my cousin Jason (and boss, let's be honest) offered a ticket from a friend to the Warped Tour. I was stoked. Only catch - it was three hours away in the Gorge amphitheater and I had no one to go with. This being the days before Craigslist, I decided to just say the hell with it and hopped in the car with a couple packs of smokes and some soda, making the three hour drive through the mountains to see the show.

It was a beautiful drive - we have nothing like the mountains in the middle west. There's just nothing that compares to the clear air of the coast. The Gorge is a hell of a place to see a show, I should say. A natural amphitheater, a whole slew of stages were set up, too many bands to see at any given time to take it all sufficiently in. Aside from the mainstays like NOFX, Bad Religion and Lagwagon and some local band that did a great cover of 'Holiday Road' from National Lampoon's Vacation, there was one little band that caught my ear.


Nobody Wins.


I asked some pierced and tattooed girl near me who they were and she could only offer a name. In my pre-wiki days I thought I'd never hear them again, so I paid rapt attention to their heavy yet melodic show, damn energetic and passionate. I thought I had stumbled on something fantastic and unknown. Plunking down what little money I had at the time, I picked up their only CD - a single with two B-sides, title 'Words Unspoken'. I loved it.


But that was all I ever heard from them. 


Even now, I can only find this bare bones Myspace page. How is that possible? Listen to the tracks they put on their page and tell me there aren't countless inferior groups that get more airplay every day. How did I hear this band once, and then never again?


It's stayed with me all these years, this secret awesome single that no one else seems to have any knowledge of. Anyone with any info on the band, throw it in the comments. All I know is they were based out of Seattle and may have put out one more album that I've heard, but it was like a rough precursor to the single. What connection do they have to this other group, The Four Color Process? There seemed like so much promise, but instead they vanished into thin air. 


Damn shame.

Further Regrets

Hey gang.


Yesterday I wrote openly about the regret of sleeping on a talented artist. The positive side to such a piece is that I am still able to get back into the work. Sims has no shortage of energy and passion - we'll all be hearing more from him in the future. What can make ignorance difficult to deal with is losing an artist before you have a chance to appreciate them. I'm in that position now in the absence of Michael Larsen, a talented rapper and musician from the Twin Cities who passed away late last year. Only 28 years old, Larsen (known mostly by his stage name Eyedea, of the duo Eyedea & Abilities) was only beginning to truly come into his talents. He had tons of irons in fires, working in multiple groups and playing and recording prolifically for a young artist. His untimely passing left a huge hole not only in the lives of his friends and family but in the music scene both here and abroad.


I was missing out, both then and now.


I had heard snippets of Eyedea rapping but had little appreciation for what he was putting down. Besides, a fuzzy little iPod earbud on a busy street is not ideal for hearing a new sound. Still, he was outside of my bubble - there are tons of Rhymesayers artists I love and adore, but his work rarely found me and vice versa. But that's on me.

 So when photog-extraordinaire Kate Engelmann tipped me off to an upcoming Face Candy showcase/benefit in August, suggesting I look into the posthumous release, I was curious. Curious not only for what I anticipated would be an interesting and energetic event, but for what I began to understand Face Candy to be - a melding of improvised freestyle rapping over improvised, live jazz tracks. 


How in the world could I have missed this? 


It's every thing I love in hip hop - passionate, intelligent, loose and slinky. I haven't even allowed myself to hear the album completed in the wake of Larsen's passing, only the first release, This Is Where We Were. Recorded live on tour, the album is raw and vibrant, a collection of artists who captured lightening in a bottle. At times it feels like it might squirrel away from the musicians as the weave and bob, reigning in their instruments, but the whole time it holds together in a way that subconscious cohesive ideas can do. I look forward to digging in to Waste Age Teenland, but I'm deliberately saving it for a later time, maybe closer to the event.

It's amazing how we can take things for granted - like the old joke about New Yorkers never visiting the Statue of Liberty despite being life long residents, we just assume things will always be there. I just assume local musicians will always be around for my eventual discovery. They're people just like you and me, capable of leaving or quitting or losing the fire inside. Take a look around and enjoy the world while it's here. Celebrate the artists who do it, not for mansions and money but for fun and fans. Support the arts.

Dreamstate

I never got carsick playing this. Not once. 

As a child of the late 80s/early 90s I was a proud owner of a Game Boy, the inexplicably gender-specific portable device courtesy of Nintendo. My parents, in their infinite wisdom and generosity, decided the best way to pacify me on long car trips (of which there were many) and trips to my grandparents (of which there were even more). I adored the Gameboy both for what it was and what it afforded -  gaming on the go! Official, transportable Nintendo games! I was sold. Rather, mom and dad were. The requisite title was Tetris, of course, but there were other games that mesmerized me beyond the gratifying disappearing of bricks. Of particular quality and experience is the subject of today's Video Game Week piece about neglected and forgotten games - The Legend of Zelda: Link's Awakening.

Zelda and Nintendo (especially of the portable variety) have become inextricably intertwined in the two decades, but that wasn't always the case. At the time of the release of Link's Awakening there had been a total of three Zelda titles - the original and establishing title, the uneven and divisive sequel and the instant-classic Link to the Past. A quality gaming experience was not the guarantee at this point. But with it's pedigree and reputation, it was already known at the time to be a solid, reliable series in the Nintendo canon. When Link's Awakening was announced people were excited but wary - some titles had shown a drop in quality in the journey to the smaller screen. When it finally was released we got something that was a little unlike any Zelda game we'd seen before, and nothing since then has been quite like it. In fact Link's Awakening remains an anomaly in both structure and plot, setting it apart from the rest of the games in the series.

Whereas every single other game bearing the Zelda title has included some form of Hyrule, Ganon, the Triforce and the titular princess herself, Link's Awakening set itself apart by eschewing all of these standard ingredients for a unique and whimsical tale of cast-away adventuring. The core of the game's plot (which was surprisingly rich for its day) is as follows: Link, in the wake of his adventures in A Link to the Past, sets off for sail on the high seas. When a storm wrecks his boat he awakes to find himself on the shore of Koholint Island, a strange place that bears more than a passing similarity to Hyrule. At the center of the island is a mountain with a gigantic egg resting in the crater on top. In order to leave the island and go home, Link must defeat eight creatures in their respective dungeon lairs in order to retrieve instruments to play a song that will awaken the Wind Fish that rests within the egg. See? Told you it wasn't the same old song and dance. What unfolds is a sad tale of both determinism and resignation in the face of destiny. I will be extremely conservative and not spoil a 20 year old game, but my 10 year old self was genuinely sad to see what unfolded in the final moments of the game, and even now I remember it fondly for the adventure. However I still don't want to re-experience the loss that stems from the plot. I think that shows either an extreme emotional attachment or signs of strong game design.

 While I certainly don't want to dump all over the tried-and-true template for a Zelda game (Ganon, Triforce, Hyrule and one requisite tweak of the conventions) I really loved this game for what set it apart, even if at the time I thought it was a bit odd. In fact, my pre-teen brain interpreted the non-canonical setting as a result of the portable nature of the game, i.e. smaller, non-console iteration equated a non-standard game. In a way that subconscious interpretation was right, as I've found that te game's development was almost an after-hours, off-project construction. The designers were afforded more freedom to play around with conventions because of the side-story nature of the game. This sense of freewheeling, 'let's throw this in' attitude made for a unique little adventure, one that felt both large in scope and unlike anything I'd played before. There were cameos from Mario games, the occasional side-scrolling section and even, for the first time in a Zelda game, the ability to (gasp!) jump. These quirks helped break ground for the series, if only in adding a touch of whimsy where convention might otherwise induce stagnation.

 There have been re-releases and enhanced versions in the intervening years since I've played Link's Awakening, but my heart will always remain with the simple little black and white, bare-bones version for the Gameboy. There are...ways...to track it down if you can't find the GBC version. If you've never played it, I would highly recommend it, just to see what a Zelda game can be when the plot and structure are unrestrained by the demands of convention. Even if it involves a poignant moment at the end. 

Metal Hearts

I'm just gonna clear the air.

No bones about it - I'm a huge fan of Kanye West.

There. I feel so much better.

I am well aware of the reputation he's fostered. His behavior is, at times, bizarre, manic or plain self destructive. Either in spite of (or because of) said behavior I find both him and his music absolutely fascinating. With his genius come some demons - he's not the first to endure this and he won't be the last. Sometimes brightly talented individuals have minds that work a little...differently...than the masses. This would be one of those cases. So after perfecting his craft in the hip hop community during the turn of the millennium, releasing some unparalleled solo albums and having success go (deservedly) to his head, when he was dealt a particularly hard year, give or take, he went and little nuts and the world watched and waited as he retreated to the studio. He lost his mother, who was a corner stone in West's life. His engagement ended prematurely. The media began to focus on him with gleeful scrutiny and scorn. It's only natural he was feeling shaken and hurt. What we got when he emerged from the studio was almost completely unexpected, the confounding yet amazing 808s & Heartbreak.

Primarily known for being West's departure from rapping in favor of heavily auto-tuned vocals, 808s & Heartbreak is a notoriously divisive album. If you haven't guessed already, I find the album to be a phenomenal work by a tortured artist. The agony of the loss of his mother, who was known as a center point of West's life, plus the isolating effect of fame and media notoriety, pushed him to a lonely and cold place from which he crafted this strange album. Full of robotic vocals and synthesizers strait of out of The Jetsons, this album was quite unlike anything else at the time, right when auto-tune was ascendant but before it was ubiquitous. Even the title is inspired - the mixture of West's agony and his love of old school drum machines is at the heart of the music here. 

Some people were completely put off by the genre shift, and can understand that - West was (and still is) a master-craftsman when it comes to making hip hop albums. So a whole record full of electro-pop songs about being lonely and paranoid no doubt pushed away some of his hardcore fans. A lot of people were expecting and hoping for another in his education themed albums, not a pop-art, futuristic piece of minimalism. I think the concept of the album works just as well for me as the music itself. I love the ideas West put down on tape here, not just the songs (though they are, in my opinion, fantastic). That West sought to marry the natural and artificial so intricately and without hiding behind a cluttered mix excites my inner nerd brain as much as my white-boy hipster bad-dancing self.

 There's this larger-than-life archetypal sense of self awareness on 808s that I find fascinating. The opening track is absolutely in my ideal vein of music, all haunting and evocative moods, sparse synthesizers and beeps over low and slow beats. That it sits so easily along side the mammoth pop song 'Robocop' with it's over-sized strings and grinding robo-sounds just goes to show how much thought and craft went into constructing a cohesive work. Sure, West's vocals aren't terribly strong but the auto-tune elements not only shape them well but further illustrate how he was aiming to mix the machine and the organic. 

I really can't say enough great things about this album. It's only been three years but it already feels like people have moved past it, particularly in light of last year's pseudo-return to form with the even more deranged My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. I was glad to see some of the experiments here have stuck with him on that album, but this one will always be a secret favorite of mine. If you dismissed it when it came out, give it another spin and see why so many others hailed it as a profound step in the artist's creative growth. It's uncanny and genius.

Youth On Film

Evening!


It's raining right now, on a muggy Friday night. I love it.


I just got back from a showing of Super 8, the new flick courtesy of J.J. Abrams and Steven Spielberg. Long story short - I loved it. I'm not gonna get all gushy here; the movie was not without its flaws. That being said, I did really have a fun time watching it and would highly recommend it if you want a reason to head to the movies.

As is typical for Abrams, the project was shrouded in secrecy from day one and had a de riguer viral marketing deal to it that encouraged nerds like myself to get all obsessive and hunt down clues to get teases and glimpses of the movie. I have made it painfully clear here that time is one precious commodity of which I have little, so I wasn't about to start diving down rabbit holes to uncover tidbits about a film I would end up seeing later. In fact, the last time I saw a movie in the theater was back in late November of 2010 - the excellent and subdued Monsters, and that was mostly due to my curiosity and the fact that it was at a theater less than two blocks from my apartment.


Anyway.


If you've heard this movie summed up as a mashup of The Goonies, ET and Cloverfield...you're pretty much right on the money. That sounds like damningly faint praise but I promise it really does play out quite well. While the writing and script are fairly rote and your basic meat and potatoes Spielbergian "kids on an adventure while dealing with parental abandonment" genre, the kids chosen for the roles were simply great. A bunch of first timers and unknowns, these kids were a real breath of fresh air compared to some of the jaded and disillusioned Hollywood kids we've all become sadly accustomed to and accepting of. They are surprisingly talented and sweet and genuine, making the impossible seem at least a bit plausible, even as I approach 30.

The Abrams Lens Flare? Full effect, but less so than Star Trek.




The...secret...thing? Good, solid (both in the literal and figurative sense). I can't stand when a special effect/construct feels weightless and impotent (see Hulk and anything Twilight related). Really, the effects in the movie were tops - I found myself wondering how they could put kids in such danger when filming, only then to remember that 95% of the explosions never existed at all. The...secret...thing...was very much in Abrams' wheelhouse, if you've seen other...things...he's had a hand in. My companion for the evening observed that while there were a few interesting touches to...it...we've kinda run th gamut on what's original and novel for....things.

It's fun. It's not heavy handed. I've seen Spielberg step out of his comfort zone with Minority Report and A.I., both movies I enjoy dispute their flaws. I love most of everything Abrams has done, and this is no exception. I say if you want to hit the movies, skip everything else and see Super 8. It's a breath of refreshing sincerity and interesting storytelling in our jaded, irony-driven world. Do yourself a favor and check it out while it's on the big screen.

Burnout

Hey.


I'm burnt like a match head. 


As in completely devoid of combustive. Spent. Used up. This is not a matter of only getting to this now, but a matter of not having the mental and physical wherewithal to type something of legitimacy and significance that would warrant your attention. 


So I'm going to be honest. 


I'm taking a dive tonight, gang. I'm tucking in and hoping a decent night's rest will bring some restoration of character and will power. I sincerely apologize for the lack of mental sustenance tonight, but I promise you I have something on the horizon. Something unique and novel that I have never attempted on this site before. Something I think you'll be surprised to see, and it's pretty hefty. 


So I'm asking you to be patient. 


I appreciate that you're even reading my groveling. Trust me, it will be worth it in the end, I just need to charge the batteries desperately. In lieu of the written word, here's something to bide the time - some artwork based on my favorite television series ever, LOST. I can take no credit for any of the work, but it still blows me away. Enjoy, and hopefully I'll see you tomorrow.

Still here? Cool.


Quick sidenote about the Mellon Collie breakdown - a comment from an insightful reader completely broke it down for me in succint fashion. Rather than force you to find it in the back logs, I'll just quote the comment in it's entirety  here:


 "Corgan was writing from a prospective as a teenager here, not as a "rock star". He set out to write a concept album ("The Wall" of his generation he perhaps foolishly boasted early in the writing process), and didn't exactly end up with one, but the voice of the album is still a teenager, perhaps Billy himself (10 years ago at the time), perhaps not. That's why you get such bizarre swings of emotion...from "God is empty" to "deep in thought I forgive everyone".


See? Dude totally broke it down for me in a digestible, instantly understandable way. I was close, but pretty much off target. Funny to see why it made so much more sense as a teenager than when I'm closer to 30. 

Mindful Things

Word.


Like, a few of 'em.


That's all I've got for you today. The heatwave, short as it was, finally broke and those of us in the Middle West are coasting nicely back into comfortable temps where death is not a constant threat. It no longer fees like the fires of Hell blowing against your face when you step outside. Yesterday I wrote a bit about Portishead and how the heat reminded me of listening to them last summer. I got to thinking about what else had that kind of thing going for it, that same recollection and similar feel, and it hit me. 


Last summer when my better half was out of town on a business trip I spent my nights working through an unusual video game  doing so because I was afforded some uninterrupted time on the widescreen TV. That game? A re-imagining of the original Silent Hill for the Wii, subtitled Shattered Memories. The game is a slightly tweaked and twisted take on the original experience, with some novel concepts. Among some of these changes were setting the otherworldly parts in a frozen, icy landscape and removing all of the combat from the game, which had really been ancillary in past versions anyway. Most intriguing was the idea that the game would be psychologically profiling you as you played it, altering the game-play to respond to what it interpreted from your choices and behavior. It was an interesting experience, one that was quite unlike any other game I'd played before. I was torn on removing the combat - the game became more of a post-modern adventure but lost some of the danger, which I'm sure was the opposite of the intentions of the creative team. As always, what really hooked me was the sound.

There's a moment in the game in which the protagonist's car plunges off of a bridge into the partially frozen river below. Yes, you of course make it out at that point in the game, seeing that you're only halfway through. It was a tense moment, regardless. I fumbled around with the Wii's mediocre motion controls, frantically hitting the door locks and windows, trying to remind myself its only a game, when I accidentally hit the radio. In a beautiful moment of scoring, the radio starting blaring Akira Yamaoka's version of the Country Western standard 'You Were Always On My Mind', complete with amazingly haunting vocals by series mainstay Mary Elizabeth McGlynn. It was right at the chorus, the moment when this version is bubbling through some churning synthesizers as Mcglynn moans the title. 


The effect was serene and haunting, the best moment of the game for me.

I absolutely adore this version of the song. To be honest, the C&W versions are not my thing. This take on the standard, though - wow. McGlynn's gorgeous, breathy voice has been an integral part of the soundtracks to the games thus far. To be honest I'm a little ashamed I went this long without acknowledging her contributions, as some of the best tracks are due to her involvement. Check out the song and try to see what I experienced - it's dark and I've had some wine. I'm completely wrapped up in this psychological game, headphones on in front of a massive TV. An hour into the session, the car crashes and I'm fumbling in the dark, trying to hit the locks. Then, out of nowhere, but in a very real, believable moment, I hear this.

It's something that will stick with me for a long time, something I'd cite for the long-contested "Can games be considered art?" debate that rages today.

Ticking Clock

Oh, kids. 

Here we go. 

Chances are, unless you're a bit of a film buff, you haven't heard of the 2003 South Korean flick Oldboy. That's really a shame, considering how good it is. Despite the quality of the movie though, I will start today's write up with the warning that this movie is most certainly not for everyone. There are some visceral, graphically v scenes, as well as some uncomfortable themes that are gonna put some people off the movie. That being said - if you're still with me, you have to see this movie. 

I think I first became aware of it a couple years ago, from the same hip friend who turned me on to Andrew Bird and Doomtree. Talk about a jumping off point. Anyway, I had seen the case for the DVD kicking around his apartment and asked, casually, what it was. His response? "Oh, dude - it's this crazy movie about a guy who's locked up for 15 years with no idea why and then he's just let out into the world and he starts to find out why. It's crazy, really messed up but good." That sums up not only the most basic gist of the movie but how my friend could also sell me on it without spoiling too much of the plot, hooking me in at the same time. On a certain level, he hit the nail on the head. If we were to go deeper we would find there is much more going on in one of the greatest movies to ever emerge from South Korea. 

The story is much more complicated than Rizzo's succinct, encapsulation-take. The overall plot concerns a man by the name of Oh Dae-Su who is mysteriously abducted after being released from police custody, having been picked up on d and d charges. He awakens to find himself in a sealed apartment with only a TV for information, finding out his wife has been m and that he is the primary suspect. His meals consist of nothing but dumplings on a tray, slid through the door. Any attempt at escape or s find him being gassed unconscious by unknown forces. Passing the time shadowboxing and exercising, he remains imprisoned for 15 years, only to be released, unceremoniously back into the world with no explanation. Starting out from square one, he begins the process of piecing together the hows and whys of his imprisonment in a quest for vengeance against the parties responsible. Before we reach the end of the film he is a broken and shattered man, having confronted his past and questioned his own life to arrive in a place of (potential) resolution. I won't go any farther into detail to save you the pleasure and horror of the journey Dae-Su endures, but it was a harrowing experience simply watching the movie, to say the least. 

I watched this movie, alone, for the first time over a Christmas break when my better half was visiting family. Maybe it was being alone for the holidays or maybe it was the emotional turmoil in the movie, but Oldboy really affected me. There's visceral, realistic violence, disturbing emotional content and staggering plot developments. It is unlike any film I had seen up until then. By the time I finished watching it, midnight had come and gone, along with a bottle of wine, and I felt I had to wash the taste of the harrowing plot out of my mouth with something light hearted. Just a little cartoon to lighten the mood before bed. That being said, it is a beautiful, artfully shot movie with a distinctive style that is refreshingly un-Hollywood and completely novel for American audiences. Plus, a a dude eats a live octopus on camera. Ferreals.


If you're looking for an adventure for your Friday night, or like me, your weather is going to suck this long weekend, watch Oldboy. It's a trip, but not for the faint of heart. Tread lightly and be prepared. It's unreal.

Pro Devotion

Evening, kids.

Today's post is another one about music from a now-defunct band, only in this particular case we're not talking mid-90s but mid-aughts. I've struggled with how to convey this as simply and clearly as possible, so instead of agonize over the logistics I'll just throw it our there - I loved the band Amateur Love. As far as I can tell they only had a single release, an EP titled It's All Aquatic in 2004. They broke up soon after and members went on to different endeavors. That brief, shining release of a scant 8 songs is something I still find myself coming back to time and again, despite the intervening years and subsequent musical iterations.

Hailing from Eau Claire, Wisconsin, the band was composed of Brian Moen, Josh Scott and brothers Brad & Phil Cook. Together they created a fine mix of arty, folksy tunes with an electronic current running through them. Interestingly the band shared half of its members with the predecessor to Bon Iver, Deyarmond Edison, which existed roughly around the same time as Amateur Love. This convoluted history may be a bit difficult to parse, but the basic tenants of all the bands mentioned so far include some very indie/folk music that is heavy on acoustic instruments. To continue the confusion, members of all of these disparate acts have contributed to hipster darlings Gayngs, which further illustrates the size and scope of that ever-evolving, ever-expanding project.

But enough about musical genealogy.

There is something about this group that I just love, the feel of the ambience, the light touches everyone in the band wielded when making their music. It's a bit wistful and nostalgic, the kind of music you listen to on a quiet morning, or on a cool Fall evening. Really, it's whatever you want it to be, but to me there's something almost tangible in it, a quality that pervades the music that always makes me calm down and think about poignant things. Part of it must be the separate but joined elements  - the plucked acoustic guitars, the speeding but light and fleeting drum parts, the choices made with the keyboards. It all adds up to gorgeous, introspective music that seemed to be just a tad ahead of its time. Bon Iver would basically make hipster's brains explode just a few years later in a similar vein, and I always thought Amateur Love could have seen similar results in a parallel dimension. Maybe it's for the best, though. After all, the Cook brothers have gone on to form the excellent Megafaun and quickly made a name for themselves in the indie-folk field. 

The songs as individual tracks, and as a whole, are fantastic. The EP starts with a funny bit of broken noises that made me think the CD player I had at the time was defective, but it was a good joke on Amateur Love's part as the sounds segue seamlessly into the first track, 'Con A Sewer'. I love the way the drums hurtle the song forward but don't just pound away relentlessly, a sign of a deft touch. The keys here are fantastic, too, creating a persistently warm and pleasing hum that sets a great mood for the EP. 'Sell Me Your Army' is a wonderful bit of finger-plucked acoustic guitar over some hi-hat, which gets the odd little flourish here and there. Josh Scott's vocals are great, as well, presenting just a bit of grain to his unique tenor. The way the song breaks down at the end, becoming a sampled whistle over a bit of folksy drumming is a great example of how the band was capable of switching gears. 'Gradfadhadya' is one of the harder, more intense tracks Amateur Love put on the EP. Bopping along with solid drum beat and some palm-muted chords, it sounds the most straight-forward but also most poppy of their short canon.  

I got to see Amateur Love play a show! How lucky is that? There's this band that only existed for a fleeting moment between other bands, having broken up shortly after I found out about them, and I got to see them play in the short time they were making music together! My younger brother, who had turned me on to the group, mentioned they were playing at a small venue in my hometown when I was home over break during college. So the two of us went out to a show for the first time together, and they were just as great live as they were on the EP. 

It still makes me smile to know that there is this secret gem of an EP that so few people know about, and it was such a pivotal but unknown step in the development of some incredibly popular music. I like to play it for people, some times, and explain the hows and whys of my love for this EP, but at the same time I like to keep it my secret, awesome thing that no one else appreciated. Glad I heard them, glad the musicians are still doing what they love, regardless of the name. 

Hindsight Being 20/20

Hello again, fair readers. 

I remember very clearly where I was when I heard Michael Jackson died. It was almost three years ago, if that seems at all possible. I was locking the doors for the day at my office when my boss told me with no preamble or warning - just a very matter-of-fact "Michael Jackson died", a hint of gossipy glee barely masked in his voice. Of course, being at work I had no access to the proper channels and was most likely one of the last to know. I had been a fan of his work like anyone in the world, but I had fallen out of touch with his music. When I was young, absolutely no question about it, he was the alpha and omega of music, the King of Pop. Then things went down in the 90s and he became the living embodiment of tired jokes and I completely forgot about how great his music was. I was all into angsty, guitar driven alternative and electronica and Michael Jackson was some outdated, weirdo stuff. Sad how wrong I was.

 In college my better half and I had a series of long, long road trips to get her moved into her apartment at her university. With the advent of iPods we were able to play name that tune and play music that was, in my opinion, much better than whatever was on the radio. So while we were laughing about the snippets of soundtrack from The Simpsons that would occasionally pop up or grooving along to Brother Ali's still-amazing Shadows On The Sun, there was an unexpected moment when the shuffle feature brought us to an unexpectedly jarring sound. It was the opening crashes of Jackson's better-than-it-has-any-right-to-be smash 'The Way You Make Me Feel'. I instantly went from jokey exuberance to sitting back in my seat, staring into the distance and listening intently. 

"Oh my god" I mused. 

"What?" she asked, concerned. 

I shook my head. "This is good," I said. "Like, really, really good" 

She shrugged and kept driving, acknowledging "Yeah. It's Michael Jackson," as if saying "and you're just realizing this now?" 

I had completely forgotten how mind-blowingly good he was. I made her endure working through everything of his she had on her ipod after that. The whole time we were singing along, jamming in the car and snapping our fingers. I copied all her music of his, as I hadn't downloaded any of his up to that point and I didn't have any CDs either. From then on, I listened to him more often but it was still this sheepish, guilty pleasure. My friends would often give me guff for it, like it wasn't normal for a guy to listen to it, but I would just let it play and if I'd ask them later they would cop to loving it as well. Jokes about his legal history or not, dude was awesome, plain and simple. 

When Jackson passed away in 2009 the world lost its mind for just a bit. My better half happened to be passing through Times Square that night and she still talks about the surreal spectacle or people out in the streets paying tribute to him. I had listened to his established hits, the number one singles, plenty of times. So when I kept hearing about the later work he did and how some of it was actually quite good, my curiosity got the best of me and I bought a couple tracks, including the dark and disturbing song 'Morphine'. 

If enough people had heard this track when it was first released, one would almost think he would still be alive, today. 

Almost. 

The song is angry and grinding, some of the most visceral stuff he ever released. Composed of broken drum samples and pounding synths, the song serves as a backdrop for Jackson to work out some pent-up aggression over his increasingly demanding drug addiction. It's honestly a bit scary to hear Jackson scream the refrain, wailing "You're doing morphine!" over and over. When the song switches modes halfway through to that of a piano-driven ballad, he starts to sing about the very Demerol that killed him, even scarier in hindsight. It's quite haunting and disturbing, but worst of all its incredibly catchy and well written, a sign of a truly talented artist in the clutches of narcotics. Maybe I'm wrong about all of this, but you have to ask whether his dwindling audiences heard the cries of a man in need of serious help. Unfortunately Jackson was too isolated and cutoff from reality to get the help he needed. Hey, trying to quit these very drugs could have killed him as well, so what do I know? 

It's a terrible shame that we lost such a talented artist to such a preventable thing, but then again we tend to get the world we deserve and not the one we want. Still, I'm glad I took the chance on digging into some of his lesser known work, just to get some insight into the demons that plagued him.

Glossed Over

Monday. 

Obviously big things have been happening. Not being a big person, I feel I have no authority with which to comment on the situation with anything of consequence. All I will say is that the last 10 years have been very long and strange. I remember where I was then and I'll remember where I was last night. 

Moving on. 

I the interest of being as light and fluffy as possible, how's about we take a look even farther back than everyone else today? Let's shoot some fish in a barrel. Let's go back beyond the beginning, into an untouched part of the 90s that I obsess over while the media continues covering the last 10 years. To cut to the chase, I was a huge Weezer fan. Their debut album will always be a slice of solid gold to me, the very definition of a Desert Island disc. But while that album has been on the receiving end of endless praise and adoration, ever more hipster love has been thrown at the damaged and raw follow up, Pinkerton. Absolutely all of it is deserved as well. While I love the Blue Album for its flawless songs, it's this intriguing and flawed record of emotional discord that fascinates me more with its broken edges and fuzzy instruments. I was out with friends this weekend and the establishment where we ended the night played the album in its entirety, which got me thinking about just how good this album is and how amazing it was that the world at large rejected it outright. Let's go in for a closer look, shall we? 

Released in 1996, Pinkerton shows the emotional turmoil lead singer and guitarist Rivers Cuomo was enduring at the time of its production. While the debut album by the band was a series of tightly crafted pop songs encased in warm distortion with insane hooks, here we saw the sweet and harmless band become frayed and aggressive. It was a surprising move. Not to say they completely broke their mold (they could have done death metal or hip hop) but it was certainly in stark contrast to the cheery, if self-deprecating, tunes with which they made names for themselves. Over fifteen years later, you either know the story at this point or don't' - Rivers was an unhappy mess and his songs reflected this head state. In the past he as described releasing this album as spilling your guts out at a party after having too much to drink, thinking its a great idea at the time but then waking in the morning to the embarrassing reality of spilling one's guts to a crowded room. The rest of the anecdote should include, though, that your friends contact you later to say that whatever dirty laundry you aired was revelatory and insightful and endearing. Basically Rivers needed a hug and was too upset to realize it. So while he was living down the repercussions of making an incredibly personal record that (at the time) was a commercial flop, the rest of the world slowly but inevitably warmed up to it. 

I remember vividly the day I sat in a friends car, realizing she was listening to Pinkerton. It was shocking, not only for this particular friend to break out of her jam-band comfort zone, but that it was with this particular album. What was most shocking, though, was realizing just how amazingly good the album was, coming back to it. In the intervening years my own sense of musical appreciation had grown, my expectations and tastes had changed. I could see not only the reason for the distortion but the amazing quality of the songs hidden beneath it. The songs themselves were raucous, honest songs about heartache, loneliness and feeling old before your time. Not only are the songs well constructed compositions, but their specific elements elevate them to greater heights. There are so many great little parts of each song! The breakdown at the end of 'Tired of Sex' where the drums switch to half-time, the middle eight of 'Getchoo' where the whole band begins a pulsing, juggernaut march, the chunky & stuttering last chorus of 'Pink Triangle' or the way Rivers sings the word "me" in the first line of 'Across The Sea' - these are all little moments that happen just once per song but it makes the song. They stand out for their special, unique flavors they add. I can totally see why this album was so detested upon its initial release but it's so painfully obvious, listening to it now, why it's so fantastic.

I know this is the defining album for the center of the hipster/Weezer Venn diagram - I really don't care. I kinda dug a couple songs when it first came out but quickly dismissed it for not sounding like the first album. Like everyone else my age, I came rushing back to it right after the millennium. It's funny to think it was ahead of its time, yet there's nothing particularly futuristic or avant-garde about it, so what was the problem? Was it too raw for their fan base at the time? Who knows. What matters is we realized we missed it the first time around and came back to it. It's phenomenal, but you probably already knew that, didn't you?

All Left Feet

Word.


Whole bunch of 'em. 


So it's been a massively busy week. I got a promotion at work, which is fantastic. However, as with any new position there are fresh new responsibilities. Turns out this new gig has quite a few. Like, pages of stuff. Whole lists of things I'm responsible for. I assume my last position was the same way but after time you don't think of it as a list of things to do, it's just your job. It's still in that new phase for me, where it feels overwhelming but is approaching manageable. I'm excited - it's fantastic and so are my new coworkers. Still, it wears a body out, trying to take everything in. The one small respite in the face of this change? The simple joy of finishing a book while riding the bus home.

After a day spent taking in as much as possible, trying to put my best foot forward for 9 hours, slouching down on the back of the 6 and pulling a book out of my bag to open it near the end is a gratifying feeling. It's a silly, base thing to take such happiness from but it doesn't mean I can't savor it. Having poked away at the book over lunch breaks and bus rides over the last month, I was glad to put it to bed but sad to see it end. Another of the multitude I was given for the holidays, I am only now approaching the end of the line in my small collection of Murakami's canon.

Dance, Dance, Dance is another of the surreal, bizarre pieces of fiction by the Japanese author. Not only is it a wonderfully bemusing novel, it's also a sort of sequel to his last book I read, A Wild Sheep Chase. Having enjoyed that supernatural gumshoe story, I was excited to read this, knowing that it follows some of the same characters after a somewhat abrupt ending. The same nameless protagonist tells us the story, his astoundingly-eared girlfriend factors in, as well as the strange and mysterious Sheep Man. 


Another of Murakami's musings on the nature of loss and forlornness, the book spends a great deal of time introducing and subsequently killing off characters. Those readers paying rapt attention may spot it coming, but I found myself to be pleasantly surprised by some of the twists and turns the narrative took. Once again we have the protagonist joking his way through a seemingly humdrum existence, writing copy for ads, a process of dismisses as "shoveling cultural snow". That description is actually one of the better things to come from the book, a succinct way of summing up many lives. When he feels something beyond this world calling out to him from the Dolphin Hotel, the penultimate setting of the previous book, his life heads straight down a rabbit hole of high-class call girls, inconsolable movie stars and psychic teenagers. Disparate elements that end of tying together quite nicely in the end. I recall getting within 60 pages of the end and thinking "All right, how the hell does this all tie together?" The answer came pretty shortly after. 

Dance, Dance, Dance is not a book with simple, hit-you-over-the-head action and romance. In fact there was quite a bit that befuddled me and took me out of my comfort zone. Yet, I kept on reading it for the simple enjoyment of Murakami's understated voice. The pleasure of slowly meandering through this book helped me offset the stress I was riding into my inaugural period at my job. I would definitely recommend picking up this novel, but do so only after having read A Wild Sheep Chase. Turn the page, kids. See you on the weekend.

Something To Leave Home For

Happy Friday. Made it through after all.

In the interest of continuity today's post is not only about the nature of musical exposure but also about one of my favorite albums when I was younger. Of the myriad ways I've examined exposure, the one I have yet to hit on seems like an obvious choice yet I sadly have not written about it due to my own circumstances. Once upon a time the primary way people were exposed to new music was through live shows. As I've gotten a little older and mellowed a bit, the number of concerts I attend has declined sharply. When I was young and brimming with energy and free time I had absolutely no qualm about heading out on a weeknight and seeing whoever was playing, accompanying friends to shows on little more than some encouraging words and the promise of a comped drink. Now with a legitimate career and more responsibilities than hours in the day I take joy in finding what little time I can to just relax with my better half. Whereas I used to put on grody concert gear and a pack of smokes on the way out the door, I now find myself thinking I'd rather be able to go running in the morning and if I absolutely have to go I'll sport ear plugs. At some point my internal barometer shifted and I can only attend a handful of concerts a year, on the rare occasion I have a free night and a devotion or curiosity that cannot otherwise be sated.

This was not always the case.

When I was still in high school I was trapped in a small town with a dearth of relevant live music. Basically if I wanted to hear music I liked I had to play it in my own band. That embarrassing little endeavor is a post for another day, though. Point is, if I wanted to see a popular band I had to go to great lengths to do so, often literally. Par example - seeing The Smashing Pumpkins on their last tour? Two hours to Minneapolis on a school night, two hours back past two a.m. Green Day at the Xcel center during their Warning Tour as a gift from my older brother? Pretty much had to make a weekend out of it. So when Weezer was touring seemingly inexplicably far in advance of the Green Album, my group of friends all decided we simply must attend. It was so far in advance of the album that we had to do a bit of research to see that "Oh, there's a new album?", having witnessed the career-gap post-Pinkerton. So we all piled into rusty vehicles and caravanned to Milwaukee to see the band we all loved before the resurgent explosion of the second half of their career. To give you an idea of our technological mind-set at the time, while my better half had a phone at this point in her life, no one in my circle of friends did - we (in all honesty) used walkie-talkies to communicate between cars. Kinda badass but also a little sad. Cell phones were available. I don't know what our problem was.

Anyway, hindsight aside, we made the 5+ hour trek to Milwaukee to see our beloved Weezer, rocking out to Pinkerton and reminding ourselves of just what a great band had been tossed aside, there were two others on the bill - Ozma and The Get Up Kids, both bands that complimented Weezer's brainy, emotional alternative sound. While Ozma were certainly engaging, if a bit shoe-gazing openers (again, a post for another day) when the Get Up Kids took the stage in support of their freshly released 'Something To Write Home About', our collective jaws hit the floor. Sure, we had a sense of what the emo scene was like at the time but here was a band playing so full-on and desperately, brutally honest that we were taken aback at their intensity. Launching their set with the anthemic riffage of 'Holiday', The Get Up Kids were an unrelenting force of emotional furor. Playing (what became) crowd favorites 'Red Letter Day' and 'I'm A Loner, Dottie, A Rebel' the band instantly had me hooked to the point of Weezer simply being icing on the cake. I was so sold on The Get Up Kids that anything coming after was almost overkill - I just absolutely clicked with what they were doing. When the show was finally over and we left, exhausted and covered in other people's sweat, we trekked slowly back to our humble small town. I'm sure I wasn't the only one feeling the discombobulating dichotomy of witnessing something amazing yet knowing nothing like it will pass close for a long time, just the briefest glimpse into what the wider world held out of reach. 

In an act of both consolation and desperation to hear those songs again, I rushed out the next day to pick up Something To Write Home About. As luck would have it, it turns out The Get Up Kids were the rare band that sounded just as good on record as they were live. I can't be the only one who has seen a decent live band and bought a CD, only to be disappointed in their production and recording process. This, however, was fantastic. All the same earnest, honest passion was there in every track, even starting with the same opener, 'Holiday'. The wide-open aching of the defining 'Action & Action', the contemplative 'Valentine' and a few surprises as well, like the soft and moving acoustic number 'Out Of Reach'. In what actually facilitated further appreciation and obsession on my part, the clean production and techinique on display here clarified what had nearly deafened me at the live show. While 'I'm A Loner...' was all wild abandon and heartbreak in concert, on the album I could discern the contrapuntal guitar lines and lyrics that only added to the weight of the song. One of my favorite tracks on the album is the straight-forward and propulsive 'Ten Minutes', which combines a fantastic drum intro, an urgent sense of momentum and some slick keys to make one hell of a song. 

This album is still a favorite of mine, one that I can still play today and find little nuances or details I hadn't picked up on before. It shaped the rest of my formative years, guiding my musical tastes and stylings, from other albums I listened to, to how I wrote my own songs at the time. There's an intelligence and articulate nature to the song writing that I completely flipped over. In keeping with my habits I listened to this album to the point of being totally sick of it for several years, that's the degree to which I had overkill. However, picking it up just a few years down the road brought with it a new sense of perspective and just a slightly broader world view. To my delight it held up wonderfully, unlike much of the music I can cop to listening to in high school. I'm not proud of it, but I had more than my share of albums by Staind and even (ugh) Korn. Yeah. But in my defense, a hook is a hook, and I'm a sucker for catchy songs. But I digress. Something To Write Home About is an absolute gem, a high water mark for the band and their fanbase that was never quite reached but subsequent releases. As great as some of their later work was, this album is far and away their best, and my appreciation of it only intensifies when I look back on that amazing show. I just wish I could have a similar experience again, sometime.