Conor Oberst – NYC – Gone, Gone
“All my friends, [I] want you to know, I’m gonna miss you when I go.” There’s something about repetition, isn’t there? There’s something about repetition, isn’t there? NYC – Gone, Gone, while failing to quell this ferocious headache, is at least clasping the crotch of catching attention. “Short and sweet like an ass’ gallop,” my primary school teacher would tell me of my creative essays. Indeed. [Buy.]
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.
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.]
“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.]
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.]
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.]
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.]
