Wednesday, June 13, 2007:
Jed played guitar in a band. On the weekends when they weren't booked and weren't practicing, he would drive his car out of the city to climb mountains. His favorite was Mt. San Isidro, a moderately tall and moderately difficult mountain which he would nevertheless climb solo. In the early afternoon one day as he reached the summit, he found there a building that had never been there before. It was a modest structure, made of wood and stone, and inside he found it attended by silent men with shaven heads. They let him wander about, unbothered, and when he lay down his pack and removed his coat and gloves they did not comment or even seem to notice. In one hall he found an empty room with a pallet on the floor and a low-cut rock for a pillow. He moved his belongings into it and had potato soup and a small cup of water for dinner. Over time he learned the customs of the place, beyond the overwhelming silence: where and when to bathe, how to help with custodial duties, what to cook and where to gather the ingredients. The ingredients were usually potatoes and dinner was usually potato soup. The soup was made from potatoes and water. Depending on the cook, it might be flavored with additional water.
Jed came to enjoy the silence because it allowed him to reflect more on its absence: on what to say and when to say it, and what to play and when to play it. On his seventeenth day at the monastery he found himself unable to shake a stupid couplet from a song he'd last heard years ago and last enjoyed never. He had found his mantra, though he did not know it.
Over and over it played: "won't you take me back to school / I need to learn the golden rule." The melody was facile, trite, the instrumentation facile, trite, the vocals soppy and ineffectual. The song itself was the very definition of rubbish, and in fact he could find nothing about it to recommend it. Nor could he stop thinking about it. He began to reflect on what this obsession might mean, on what melody might mean, on how rhythm could fit with melody to expand its meaning and leaven its sweetness.
After six weeks of meditation he decided to share his discoveries. "Music reveals itself through study, showing truth not only about specific instances but also about governing principles in general."
There was a silence, and he imagined this insight might be well received. It stretched on until he imagined it might not.
The man to his right spoke. His voice was hoarse, and cracked midway: "Dammit, Jed, we are not Sufis. And this is not a talk show." This was followed by another silence.
Then, from across the room: "He has not spoken for seventeen years."
It was a stinging rebuke.
That night he wondered if he could manage longer than six weeks of silence. He wondered if he wanted to. He missed his guitar; he missed creating.
In the morning he pulled his pack from the corner, put on his boots and coat and gloves, and made his way from the monastery. Halfway down he slipped, caught himself, slipped again, began to tumble. He woke up, which was more than he'd expected just moments before. He was in a bright cloudiness with a burning pain in his chest: covered in snow. He dug himself out, gasped for breath, coughed up icy water. Once he realized he could breathe he realized also that he had twisted his ankle. He limped down the mountainside, making it to ground level just before dusk. He carried on until it was dark, then made camp and slept in his coat and snowboots. The pack felt too comfortable as a pillow; he emptied it and put a rock inside.
In the morning his ankle was still swollen. He had decided on North as a direction and continued that way, concentrating on music, trying to tease out further revelations. He was bitten by a snake while within sight of the highway. On the highway itself he passed out, trying to work a bassline into that rattle he had processed as merely a fast tempo, a rhythm in search of a melody. A descending bassline could work, ascending could as well--eight to the bar? four to the bar? three to the bar? Simple repeating, repeating with variations, alternating patterns? The world was full of possibilities.
...
The desert was flat and Lucia was not yet hypnotized by interminable monotony; she slowed her car from well ahead and recognized the shape on the asphalt as human. She dialed 911 on her cell and approached the person with her finger on the call button. When she pressed it, it was to report a man delirious and feverish, leg swollen until the pants were tight around it.
Jed was airlifted to the hospital, his leg cut open to relieve the pressure from the swelling, a chunk of calf removed due to necrosis.
Lucia met him at the hospital as an excuse to miss a family reunion. She had not been on good terms with them since she had abandoned polyrhythm in favor of monorhythm: they were shocked about her behavior, worried for the future, unsure what to think but sure that somehow they had been deceived and betrayed.
Jed and Lucia began to chat, as people do when in a room together. Over a course of months Jed had new skin grafted on followed by extensive rest and physical therapy to learn to walk again. It was tedious and painful but the food was good. They began to get to know each other. Jed had ideas for some melodies. Lucia had ideas for some rhythms. They decided to form a band.
[Jed and Lucia probably have a Fanatic Promotion page, but I got the email about them so long ago that I lost the URL and Google isn't turning it up]
of mountains and monasteries and music
Jed and Lucia -- Off the GroundJed played guitar in a band. On the weekends when they weren't booked and weren't practicing, he would drive his car out of the city to climb mountains. His favorite was Mt. San Isidro, a moderately tall and moderately difficult mountain which he would nevertheless climb solo. In the early afternoon one day as he reached the summit, he found there a building that had never been there before. It was a modest structure, made of wood and stone, and inside he found it attended by silent men with shaven heads. They let him wander about, unbothered, and when he lay down his pack and removed his coat and gloves they did not comment or even seem to notice. In one hall he found an empty room with a pallet on the floor and a low-cut rock for a pillow. He moved his belongings into it and had potato soup and a small cup of water for dinner. Over time he learned the customs of the place, beyond the overwhelming silence: where and when to bathe, how to help with custodial duties, what to cook and where to gather the ingredients. The ingredients were usually potatoes and dinner was usually potato soup. The soup was made from potatoes and water. Depending on the cook, it might be flavored with additional water.
Jed came to enjoy the silence because it allowed him to reflect more on its absence: on what to say and when to say it, and what to play and when to play it. On his seventeenth day at the monastery he found himself unable to shake a stupid couplet from a song he'd last heard years ago and last enjoyed never. He had found his mantra, though he did not know it.
Over and over it played: "won't you take me back to school / I need to learn the golden rule." The melody was facile, trite, the instrumentation facile, trite, the vocals soppy and ineffectual. The song itself was the very definition of rubbish, and in fact he could find nothing about it to recommend it. Nor could he stop thinking about it. He began to reflect on what this obsession might mean, on what melody might mean, on how rhythm could fit with melody to expand its meaning and leaven its sweetness.
After six weeks of meditation he decided to share his discoveries. "Music reveals itself through study, showing truth not only about specific instances but also about governing principles in general."
There was a silence, and he imagined this insight might be well received. It stretched on until he imagined it might not.
The man to his right spoke. His voice was hoarse, and cracked midway: "Dammit, Jed, we are not Sufis. And this is not a talk show." This was followed by another silence.
Then, from across the room: "He has not spoken for seventeen years."
It was a stinging rebuke.
That night he wondered if he could manage longer than six weeks of silence. He wondered if he wanted to. He missed his guitar; he missed creating.
In the morning he pulled his pack from the corner, put on his boots and coat and gloves, and made his way from the monastery. Halfway down he slipped, caught himself, slipped again, began to tumble. He woke up, which was more than he'd expected just moments before. He was in a bright cloudiness with a burning pain in his chest: covered in snow. He dug himself out, gasped for breath, coughed up icy water. Once he realized he could breathe he realized also that he had twisted his ankle. He limped down the mountainside, making it to ground level just before dusk. He carried on until it was dark, then made camp and slept in his coat and snowboots. The pack felt too comfortable as a pillow; he emptied it and put a rock inside.
In the morning his ankle was still swollen. He had decided on North as a direction and continued that way, concentrating on music, trying to tease out further revelations. He was bitten by a snake while within sight of the highway. On the highway itself he passed out, trying to work a bassline into that rattle he had processed as merely a fast tempo, a rhythm in search of a melody. A descending bassline could work, ascending could as well--eight to the bar? four to the bar? three to the bar? Simple repeating, repeating with variations, alternating patterns? The world was full of possibilities.
...
The desert was flat and Lucia was not yet hypnotized by interminable monotony; she slowed her car from well ahead and recognized the shape on the asphalt as human. She dialed 911 on her cell and approached the person with her finger on the call button. When she pressed it, it was to report a man delirious and feverish, leg swollen until the pants were tight around it.
Jed was airlifted to the hospital, his leg cut open to relieve the pressure from the swelling, a chunk of calf removed due to necrosis.
Lucia met him at the hospital as an excuse to miss a family reunion. She had not been on good terms with them since she had abandoned polyrhythm in favor of monorhythm: they were shocked about her behavior, worried for the future, unsure what to think but sure that somehow they had been deceived and betrayed.
Jed and Lucia began to chat, as people do when in a room together. Over a course of months Jed had new skin grafted on followed by extensive rest and physical therapy to learn to walk again. It was tedious and painful but the food was good. They began to get to know each other. Jed had ideas for some melodies. Lucia had ideas for some rhythms. They decided to form a band.
[Jed and Lucia probably have a Fanatic Promotion page, but I got the email about them so long ago that I lost the URL and Google isn't turning it up]
Labels: folk rock, is fiction, PR
posted by Tuwa @
11:27 | permalink |
4 comments
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Monday, March 12, 2007:
Fuzzed guitar, booming drums, singalong melody, banjo mixed low: this song is like a three-piece hemp suit, the fabric woven just rough enough to be distinctive but tidy enough to get you into a nice restaurant.
Of God and Science are from Albuquerque and are Matthew Dominguez on guitar and vocals, Jeremy Fine on bass, Julian Martinez on piano, guitar, pedal steel, vocals, and banjo, and Ryan Martino on drums. They have an album coming out on May 1st.
[Of God and Science's official site, record label, and Myspace page]
Barton Carroll -- Scorched Earth
Brushed drums and violin, melody in leg-irons, a quiet charm to a forlorn track: the kind of thing that reveals itself slowly, weary but determined, hurt but not bowed.
[Barton Carroll has more tracks up at his site and at his Myspace page. His Love & War is on Skybucket Records.]
Of God and Science, Barton Carroll
Of God and Science -- America's QueenFuzzed guitar, booming drums, singalong melody, banjo mixed low: this song is like a three-piece hemp suit, the fabric woven just rough enough to be distinctive but tidy enough to get you into a nice restaurant.
Of God and Science are from Albuquerque and are Matthew Dominguez on guitar and vocals, Jeremy Fine on bass, Julian Martinez on piano, guitar, pedal steel, vocals, and banjo, and Ryan Martino on drums. They have an album coming out on May 1st.
[Of God and Science's official site, record label, and Myspace page]
Barton Carroll -- Scorched Earth
Brushed drums and violin, melody in leg-irons, a quiet charm to a forlorn track: the kind of thing that reveals itself slowly, weary but determined, hurt but not bowed.
[Barton Carroll has more tracks up at his site and at his Myspace page. His Love & War is on Skybucket Records.]
Labels: folk rock, indie, PR, rock
posted by Tuwa @
00:02 | permalink |
0 comments
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Thursday, March 08, 2007:
Kings of Convenience -- Stay out of Trouble
The beauty of this song completely defies my attempts to describe it. Picture a Norwegian Simon and Garfunkel with syncopated violin, plucked strings, and acoustic bass. And it's just the mellowest thing you've heard, a warm blanket, shadows on the wall, light falling in from the hall golden and nostalgic. Feist guests on the album and is, as usual, excellent.
[Riot on an Empty Street ]
Bob Marley -- So Much Trouble in the World
I remember loaning someone this CD in 1993 and being utterly amazed that he couldn't get into it. This is Bob! backbeat! sweet melodies! fiery political lyrics! Mon Dieu.
[Rebel Music]
Cat Stevens -- Trouble
Surely one of the supreme editing achievements in film is Harold getting the news at the hospital and driving away angry, shocked, tearful, speeding, to Cat Stevens' plaintive lament. Surely one of the more deliciously perverse decisions in music was to leave this song "If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out" unavailable for thirteen years except on the film. (thanks, David!)
[Footsteps in the Dark: Greatest Hits, Vol. 2]
a million miles from reality
I'd thought of doing a "trouble" mix some time back and abandoned it, thinking half the songs too obvious and the other half not good enough. And now I've landed myself a cold, days suffused with the taint of unreality, going from meal to bed to meal to bed to meal to bed, so here I am again. I hope you'll forgive me if these tunes aren't exactly new to you but for the moment it's back to comfort music, old friends, familiar joys.Kings of Convenience -- Stay out of Trouble
The beauty of this song completely defies my attempts to describe it. Picture a Norwegian Simon and Garfunkel with syncopated violin, plucked strings, and acoustic bass. And it's just the mellowest thing you've heard, a warm blanket, shadows on the wall, light falling in from the hall golden and nostalgic. Feist guests on the album and is, as usual, excellent.
[Riot on an Empty Street ]
Bob Marley -- So Much Trouble in the World
I remember loaning someone this CD in 1993 and being utterly amazed that he couldn't get into it. This is Bob! backbeat! sweet melodies! fiery political lyrics! Mon Dieu.
[Rebel Music]
Cat Stevens -- Trouble
Surely one of the supreme editing achievements in film is Harold getting the news at the hospital and driving away angry, shocked, tearful, speeding, to Cat Stevens' plaintive lament. Surely one of the more deliciously perverse decisions in music was to leave this song "If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out" unavailable for thirteen years except on the film. (thanks, David!)
[Footsteps in the Dark: Greatest Hits, Vol. 2]
Labels: folk rock, pop, reggae
posted by Tuwa @
22:22 | permalink |
4 comments
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Wednesday, February 21, 2007:
This song is a tricksy time machine. You start it up and the melody and the harmony take you back to the nearest time when everything was okay: for some it was last night, everything accomplished, stretching out, drifting to sleep smiling; for others it's decades, unraveling the years, the conflicts and disappointments, the heartbreaks which will not be silent, to arrive at 6 minutes 21 seconds of bliss. And then the present returns.
It's a salve, a temporary fix, requiring inattention to the lyrics expressing that same loss the listener had hoped to escape. In a Philip K. Dick world some might hack the song into a permanent fix, programming it to repeat ad infinitum, increasing exponentially in volume and intensity in a doomed hope of shortcircuiting all conflicting thoughts, of rattling the skull so hard the words don't make sense, just the lullaby.
Christopher Porter/Suburbs Are Killing Us posted this track in mid-April 2004, and I'm only just now catching up to the CD: it had been half-forgotten (not the melody; no, that stays) until I recently stumbled onto it again, used and in great shape.
Ghosts of the Great Highway has been re-released recently with six bonus tracks, and allmusic.com considers the alternate version of "Carry Me Ohio" better than this one. Have any of you heard it? Thoughts on how they compare?
Sun Kil Moon -- Carry Me Ohio
Sun Kil Moon -- Carry Me OhioThis song is a tricksy time machine. You start it up and the melody and the harmony take you back to the nearest time when everything was okay: for some it was last night, everything accomplished, stretching out, drifting to sleep smiling; for others it's decades, unraveling the years, the conflicts and disappointments, the heartbreaks which will not be silent, to arrive at 6 minutes 21 seconds of bliss. And then the present returns.
It's a salve, a temporary fix, requiring inattention to the lyrics expressing that same loss the listener had hoped to escape. In a Philip K. Dick world some might hack the song into a permanent fix, programming it to repeat ad infinitum, increasing exponentially in volume and intensity in a doomed hope of shortcircuiting all conflicting thoughts, of rattling the skull so hard the words don't make sense, just the lullaby.
Christopher Porter/Suburbs Are Killing Us posted this track in mid-April 2004, and I'm only just now catching up to the CD: it had been half-forgotten (not the melody; no, that stays) until I recently stumbled onto it again, used and in great shape.
Ghosts of the Great Highway has been re-released recently with six bonus tracks, and allmusic.com considers the alternate version of "Carry Me Ohio" better than this one. Have any of you heard it? Thoughts on how they compare?
posted by Tuwa @
11:03 | permalink |
5 comments
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Tuesday, May 23, 2006:
This is from a disc that got a fairly bad writeup on allmusic; their second disc got a much better review (and I think the second disc probably is more solid all-around).
[Cyne's official site]
Popcanon -- Ballyhoo
Say, what do we really use from science?
"E=mc2"
Are reason and faith an unholy alliance?
"I don't know and I don't care."
A lot of my family has a sincere love for kitsch--Precious Moments bells, cow-spotted milk jugs, etc.--and I've only just now realized that I probably do too. This is a very nerdy, goofy song.
[Popcanon's official site]
Whoreculture -- Crop Duster
I like this song; I think it's a lot of fun. Whoreculture's Join strikes me as more rock-oriented; Boondocked is slower and heavier but equally impressive. I've been unable to find anything more by the band, as they broke up years ago. They don't seem to have a site up.
Lars Din -- Ness City Bank Job (Yer So Sweet)
[Lars Din's (older) site]
[Lars Din's newer site]: lyrics, tour dates, songs.
The lyrics are in five sections: a series of vignettes, some choice details, activity in the ellipses. Who are these four people? Or are they two? And that valentine--why for her mother?
This song is not the best-sung song you'll hear. Lars is nearing the end of a concert and his voice is tired. He aims high and misses, aims high and misses, aims high and misses ... aims high and nails it, nails it when it counts the most.
It's a quiet number, exhausted--on the ropes, maybe about to give up. And then, out of nowhere: left hook, stars, roofbeams on a tilt. Mat.
the mix part three
Cyne -- Nothing's SacredMike Williams -- The second hip hop track is loads better. The vocal sample is great, and it has (nu-)soul. A keeper.
Jerimee Bloemeke -- The production sounds like something Kanye would do. I'm not a big fan of rap, but this is not bad. I can't really get into it, though, because it has no chorus.
This is from a disc that got a fairly bad writeup on allmusic; their second disc got a much better review (and I think the second disc probably is more solid all-around).
[Cyne's official site]
Popcanon -- Ballyhoo
Mike Williams -- I think this song is about religion and science. It finds in favour of the latter, which is fine by me, but there are better forums for such a discussion than a song with humorous instrumentation. It sounds like a number from The Producers musical.
Jerimee Bloemeke -- No, no, no. The back-up singers said it so well.
Say, what do we really use from science?
"E=mc2"
Are reason and faith an unholy alliance?
"I don't know and I don't care."
A lot of my family has a sincere love for kitsch--Precious Moments bells, cow-spotted milk jugs, etc.--and I've only just now realized that I probably do too. This is a very nerdy, goofy song.
[Popcanon's official site]
Whoreculture -- Crop Duster
Mike Williams -- Ridiculously entertaining and very Southern rock. This song takes an idea (what it's like to be a cropduster) and solves it. The result is a McSweeney's article set to music by George Thorogood and the Destroyers. If joycore was people having fun for a reason (rather than no reason) it would sound like this.
Footnote: Whoreculture is probably one of the top five band names ever.
Jerimee Bloemeke -- With a name like Whoreculture, how can anyone take you seriously? The music doesn't help either....
I like this song; I think it's a lot of fun. Whoreculture's Join strikes me as more rock-oriented; Boondocked is slower and heavier but equally impressive. I've been unable to find anything more by the band, as they broke up years ago. They don't seem to have a site up.
Lars Din -- Ness City Bank Job (Yer So Sweet)
Mike Williams -- This is singer-songwriter storytelling that manages to be poetic and avoid the literal hectoring that can easily befall a song about Events. The Band were good at this. Bruce Springsteen is good at this when he isn't too busy being awful at this. Lars Din is good at this, and I want to hear more of his stuff.
This is my favourite track on the CD.
Jerimee Bloemeke -- This is soothing. The singer is like an unironic Morrissey at times. And he plays nice acoustic guitar.
[Lars Din's (older) site]
[Lars Din's newer site]: lyrics, tour dates, songs.
The lyrics are in five sections: a series of vignettes, some choice details, activity in the ellipses. Who are these four people? Or are they two? And that valentine--why for her mother?
This song is not the best-sung song you'll hear. Lars is nearing the end of a concert and his voice is tired. He aims high and misses, aims high and misses, aims high and misses ... aims high and nails it, nails it when it counts the most.
It's a quiet number, exhausted--on the ropes, maybe about to give up. And then, out of nowhere: left hook, stars, roofbeams on a tilt. Mat.
Labels: folk rock, hip-hop, indie, pop, rock
posted by Tuwa @
00:31 | permalink |
2 comments
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Friday, September 10, 2004:
Lars Din -- Urge
Lars Din is a laid-back, unassuming, cheerfully malcontent folk-rock singer from Gainesville FL. I thought about uploading "War Prayer," his version of Mark Twain's story about the second, unspoken prayer people utter when they pray for the troops, or "Ness City Bank Job (Yer So " a quiet & devastating track about alienation, loss, and the sneaking desperation behind most jobs, but I'm feeling these more right now (probably because they're louder). "Next Dollar After" is about overworking yourself to stay even financially; "Urge" is about wanting to throw in the towel: sell everything and take off.
These are from Lars' recent CD Know Where You Are / Conflict. He used to play by himself, just guitar and a voice; now he has a band. They're good people too.
Order the CD from Lars.
Lars Din: "Self-made and underpaid for my labor"
Lars Din -- Next Dollar AfterLars Din -- Urge
Lars Din is a laid-back, unassuming, cheerfully malcontent folk-rock singer from Gainesville FL. I thought about uploading "War Prayer," his version of Mark Twain's story about the second, unspoken prayer people utter when they pray for the troops, or "Ness City Bank Job (Yer So " a quiet & devastating track about alienation, loss, and the sneaking desperation behind most jobs, but I'm feeling these more right now (probably because they're louder). "Next Dollar After" is about overworking yourself to stay even financially; "Urge" is about wanting to throw in the towel: sell everything and take off.
These are from Lars' recent CD Know Where You Are / Conflict. He used to play by himself, just guitar and a voice; now he has a band. They're good people too.
Order the CD from Lars.
Labels: folk rock
posted by Tuwa @
13:39 | permalink |
0 comments
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