Archive for the ‘Tunes’ Category

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Give Away

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ACROBATICS – Give Away

I spent two days in Kansas playing with my cousin’s kid, Eric. He’s a beefy 3-year-old, replete with the missing front tooth and bowl cut. When he runs, which is frequent, even when just going down the hall to brush his teeth or wash his face upon a maternal command, he uses only the balls of his feet, like a dancer up on tip-toes.

We did everything together. Made peanut butter, jelly, and cheese sandwiches. Tied shoes. Rinsed dishes, him up on a stool to reach over the sink. Fought dragons. Tamed dragons. Sent imaginary dragons off to do our bidding. Wrestled. Touched the ceiling, him balancing on my shoulders. Played Wii – poorly. Wrestled more.

Whenever I said something Eric didn’t understand, he would look at me for a second, then break into high-pitched and hysterical laughter – a kind of powerful forced laughter which overwhelmed the awkwardness and eased the moments forward by wiping away the past few seconds. Then he would usually grab my shirt and try to pull me down the ground.

In a movie, this song would be the soundtrack to the slow-motion scene of Eric jumping on the trampoline. It would start at the normal speed, but soon slow way down mid-jump. Each arm flail, every bead of sweat on his head, that infectious grin – it would all become majestic and eloquent on the flickering screen with this song’s bass pumping through it. It would be poetry.

And then the song would end, Eric would fall to the trampoline again. And probably jump off and tackle me.

[Free fucking download!]

Posted on January 30, 2011 - Tunes - 2 Comments » Share

There’s a sequel

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Death From Above 1979 – Blood On Your Hands

I bought the record on which this song features almost six years ago in a small store, now closed, along a pedestrian street in Carlow town. Pink covered with elephant-man illustration. You’re A Woman, I’m A Machine. On its fifth track, ‘Blood On Our Hands’, pedal driven bass blasts entire and unstoppable on song’s entry, accompanied by vexed vocals of rooted and wanton observation and admission. “You’re a woman, we both know it’s true from the things that I’ve done to you,” spills lead vocalist Sebastien Grainger as he ignores reluctance with an opulent indictment of said possible lover, “There is blood on all the shoes you’ve worn from the people you’ve been stepping on.”

The fiery tantrum then collapses to a hushed end, steering through drums of next-door realism and sensitivity, awash with subtle lines of pop-organ that feed care and a solemn finish to the preceding chaos and violent abandon, each note plummeting to depths of a celebratory funeral procession. Any flaws that may exist are stainless and fraught with riotous drive. This is the least customary of all songs in that it may be entirely flawless. [Purchase.]

Posted on January 29, 2011 - Tunes - No Comments » Share

Squawk

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The Preachers – Skin & Bone

“I’m afraid your phoenix is suffering from necrotizing fasciitis, most commonly referred to as the flesh-eating disease.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yes, it’s at a fairly advanced stage and, suffice to say, at this point there’s little we can do – (“Oh my god“) – however, and this is peculiar: your phoenix cannot pass. As you may know, throughout the mores of history the phoenix has been thought of as an immortal being. Not so in the idea that it might never age, or age endlessly, rather that it opts for death when it grows tired and sickly and ignites itself before rising from its ashes as a hatchling, the same bird revived. This being the case makes this diagnosis, in particular, a little awkward.”
“So … what are you saying? What will happen?”
“We’re not sure. I perused through the Mythological Creatures Almanac for an idea of the chain of events that will follow its illness but it had little to say on the concept of a phoenix suffering from a disease of this kind. I’m not sure if it will head towards an early ‘grave’ at this point, or allow the infection to spread and whittle away at the living cells remaining. If the latter is the case, you might be the proud owner of a skeleton-phoenix, picking at bones with it’s bones.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It might not be so bad. It would make a great talking point at parties.”
“Parties? This is my pet you’re talking about!”
“Oh, come on now. You own a phoenix. Clearly this is a strange relationship to begin with.”

[Buy / Project 66 is The Preacher’s brain-child, a back-to-back releasing of demos made alongside Sydney – or otherwise Australian – artists, producers, saboteurs. Tweet tweet.]

Posted on January 28, 2011 - Tunes - No Comments » Share

Is this the better way to spend the day?

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The Decemberists – January Hymn

The news lady says it was the coldest day in Chicago for over a year. I don’t heed her and forget my hat.

After hiking the two and a half blocks to the El, I stand under the heat lamps on the platform for the pink line. Wind whistles through my sneakers. I can see my breath; I can see the shadow of my breath on the cement in front of me. My brow burns from the stinging cold, right between my eyebrows. I try rubbing it, then I massage some warmth into my ears. Should have left them numb, now they just hurt more.

I like public transportation. I’ve never really lived in a city where it was convenient, so I always get excited when visiting cities that do. (“It’s less exciting when you use it every day for three years,” Freeze points out when I get back to her apartment). With my earbuds in, I just watch people.

A mid-20s lady looks despondent, even with pink hair. Some guy carries an empty crock pot. Two teenage girls chomp on some Cheetos. Out on the street, and older man smokes a cigarette with his hands jammed deep in his pockets. A runner lets one arm hang next to his body, awkwardly limp.

A homeless man walks up to me, snot frozen into his beard, and asks if I would “give a little something from my heart.” I wonder if he would prefer money or maybe just a cuddle to keep warm. But I offer neither and keep huddling forward after my breath. [Buy.]

Posted on January 25, 2011 - Tunes - 4 Comments » Share

.03%

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Trent Reznor And Atticus Ross – In Motion

Sweeping clean through in a cul-de-sac of spasmodic beats and tricks is the highlight track of a certain soundtrack, whose edge spills with guided nostalgic coughs of arcade-win synth explosives and that old gaming console same-beat same-note looped backing track that never tires [the mind]. Feedstuff for the mindless and incessant, with floorboard creaks of provoked and scouting warehouse guitar. Watch ‘the Social Network’. Delete your Facebook account! [Feed Trent’s Attic.]

Posted on January 24, 2011 - Tunes - No Comments » Share

A call to you and romance

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The Maccabees – Toothpaste Kisses

So this is a love song.

As inviting as a call to conquer! As inviting as the teasing and alluring finger curl of the being in your dreamed dreams. As inviting as the cradle of vinyl crackle and the arrival of growing pre-taste on sight or sound of crisp cigarette burn (00:01) – and its blow out, half a minute later (00:24).

A love song.

The waspish rhythmic fidget of hand over guitar string ensures Toothpaste… is held with consistent regard, allowing for the assurance of grace and a heartfelt gush through its fine centre. Weeks’ voice is entirely implicated in the listeners fall to submission, as his romantic drawl and pitch precision wins inviting hearts, “Cradle me [and] I’ll cradle you.” Swinging Hawaiian lead guitar overlaps rumbles of sweetened bass, all exercising the fresh elegance of subtle playfulness until their final exhaustion, expressed through confidently escaping whistles.

“We’ll do the things that lovers do.”

[See also ‘Precious Time’ and ‘Latchmere’.] [Buy, please.]

Posted on January 21, 2011 - Tunes - No Comments » Share

Someday we won’t remember this

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The Mountain Goats – Damn These Vampires

There was a time in my life, albeit brief, between moving back to America for college and this god-forsaken Twilight fad in which vampires were, unmistakeably, cool. My nerdy friends and I found them just counterculture enough to champion.

We sat on futons in dorm rooms watching Interview With The Vampire and Underworld. We patted ourselves on our backs for picking up analogies to the treatment of homosexuals, and in general geeked out over the superpowers and the gritty themes. We read up on the malleable back-story through the centuries, and posited drunken theories about how the myth began.

Obviously, vampires have since become synonymous with the most nauseating form of tween romance and glitter being worn in public. But this Mountain Goats song reminds me of how, briefly, vampires were as ice cool as the blood not circulating through their blue veins.

[Buy music, not glitter.]

Posted on January 20, 2011 - Tunes - No Comments » Share

Junkyard angel

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Bob Dylan – From A Buick

Women, everywhere: in households, by the water, on the street. Golden-haired vixens carrying themselves in a way that keeps men wary, aware. A young Dylan loves women, writes about them. Gnaws on his molars with his eyebrows contorted, piecing together the clues. “From A Buick” is not the most mesmerising song he’s ever written about a girl, about girls. Hundreds of great singles, covered and remodeled. It’s the instrumentation, the way Dylan crafts a sound that feels like a dose of amphetamines, a rush, a dizzying spell of infatuation and running, running towards the warm light that brushes your face a blushed tone when your wearisome eyes start hanging. It’s the sound that makes this song. [Ready to sew you up with the thread.]

Posted on January 19, 2011 - Tunes - 1 Comment » Share

Like a bird on a wire

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Leonard Cohen – Bird on the Wire (Live In Zurich, 1993)

Like a drunk in a midnight choir,
I have tried, in my way,
to be free.

[Be free with your money when it comes to L.Cohen merch.]

Posted on January 18, 2011 - Tunes - 4 Comments » Share

BOULEVARD

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Ryan Adams – Drunk And Fucked Up (Like The Twilight)

“Fuck,” my stomach growled. I was hungry, the dime-store diners were shut – boarded windows and unkempt sidewalks, leaves crumpled along the cracks in the concrete – and the twilight’s thick, hot air in my collar. I fumbled around in my pockets for loose change, only bus tickets and a stray button.

“Fuck this,” kicking angrily against the curb, stubbing my toe through the worn leather of my shoes.

It should have changed. I was meant to be richer, cleaner, sophisticated. I’m poor, dirty, puerile. Sick to the knees with buttermilk curdling in my stomach. I can feel the mucus in my lungs, the clumps of nicotine blackening arteries, strangling my throat.

I keep reaching into my pockets, thinking there’ll be coins I missed, small coins quiet, stuck, in the stitched corners of the inside fabric. I keep doing this. I know there are no coins and no notes and no unclaimed cheques crumpled and useless, but I keep fumbling.

The last cheque came in the mail on Thursday. A mumbled hello and thank you when Arthur, the postman, nodded and handed me the envelope. $130. Mother was worried. I sat at the foot of the bed and penned a letter, reassuring her, I was alright, I was waiting for the tide to break so I could paddle to shore quietly, unnoticed. As soon as I was on sand, I would make it. I would head to the terrace at the head of the beach and buy a Popsicle, suckle on it while the sun beat down on my bare back and sweat greased in the long thickets of hair hanging from my head. I would be rich, respected, a known expert in my field – whatever field that was. I could do anything.

She would buy it. Parents want to be lied to, want to believe their children are working towards something incredible, something that will feed and clothe and, somehow, absolve them.

I signed the letter, tightened my belt, dropped it into the mailbox on the corner and kept walking.

I liked walking. Women were everywhere. I desired the women on the street. All of them. Plump women, meager women, women with eyebrows that said they would do some beautiful things, women with lips that snarled when they caught you watching them read the newspaper, women with friends, boyfriends, husbands, businessmen, women alone on their way to somewhere, dependent women, independent women, women with a stunning grasp of vocabulary, women that smile warmly when they lie, “I’m sorry, honey, but something has come up. I won’t be able to see you for coffee this afternoon.”

There was nobody watching at this hour. It was late, people were asleep and stuffed with roast dinners. My feet ached, the weary leather soles of my shoes doing little to stop the pebbles scraping. I knelt, leaned against a signpost, lit a cigarette, fumbled through my pockets. “Fuck,” my stomach grumbled.

[Buy.]

Posted on January 17, 2011 - Tunes - 1 Comment » Share

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