What?!? A month has passed and all I’ve got to show for are some song descriptions of songs no one would care to listen to in the first place? Yes. And the universe is still expanding, so what now? I know I’ve got some explaining to do, or maybe I don’t. But just to fill up the dead space in my month-long disappearance, I might as well do. Well, for starters, we have a “communal” laptop—stemming from the unfailing failure of our “communal” PC to sustain a hard drive that doesn’t crash every five minutes—which, for the past couple of weeks, had found sole, uncontested ownership to my sister. Of course, it only makes sense she uses it more given just how paper-pushing college would be for her compared to maybe my own that prefers to push plates and sketch models. With my hectic pen-paper-kurecolor arrangements as of the moment (I would be ignorant of computer-aided design until next semester) set and the availability of the laptop for recreation close to nil, it would be harder for me to poop anything for the blog without any real time to be around a working computer. Despite this being the case, I, with all the earnestness of a 2-month old puppy, will try my hardest to put something in here at least twice a month. Not just mindless ramblings like this one, or the ones before that, mind you (well, okay, not if I can help it, but I am pretty persistent with the things I want done). If there’s a will, there’s a way. If there’s a Hannah Montana backpack on a shopping window, there’s disemboweling wailing from a 7-year-old girl close by. So believe me when I say this: I have a rash of ideas I’m itching to scratch and would need a good amount of Caladryl for. If that didn’t get you thinking how serious I am about doing this, I don’t know what will.
Songs of the Last 4 Weeks(uh, a month?):
Pixies Live at the Paradise in Boston DVD
The Standouts: (“You think I’m dead/But I’m still awake/On the…”)Wave of Mutilation, U-Mass(“In the sleepy west/Of the woolly east/There’s a valley full/Full of pioneers…”), Mr. Grieves(“What’s that floating in the water?”), Sad Punk(“…named extinction!”), Dead(“Uriah hit the crapper/ The crapper/ Uriah hit the crapper…”), I've Been Tired(“I’ve been losing my life to a whore with disease”), (“Cookie, I think you’re..”) Tame, Debaser(“Got me a movie/I want you to know/Slicing up eyeballs/I want you to know…”), (“All I’m saying/Pretty baby…”) La La Love You, and Boom Chika Boom(“…Boom Chika Rocka Chika Rocka Chika Boom…”)…oh crap…all of them!
It was love at first listen. Back in high school, around the time of their surprising reunion in 2004, the Purple Tape was on heavy rotation in our household for two months; and these strange, almost sinister, sensations I felt only grew with every listen. It was the way they made these incredibly melodic pop songs like nothing I’ve ever heard of before. But nothing felt funnier and scarier than getting caught singing along to those songs that talked of incest and mutilations by your neighbors, who, I’d like to clearly point out, are Oblation nuns. Although the Pixies didn’t succeed in turning me into a serial killer, they sealed the deal for me in discovering adventurous artists who pushed the boundaries of music. In other words, the Pixies succeeded in making me a musical hypochondriac. The discovery was a blessing as much as it was a curse—it was a miracle. I could try to imagine my life without the Pixies. But then again, I wouldn’t have to. And for that, I’m grateful.
Dead Sound by the Raveonnettes
It think it’s safe to say that The Raveonnettes had paradox and the universe in mind in creating this song, which in many ways is a smart move because it’s(or should be) always those big, bold ideas that pays off dividends. It starts of with a static deluge looming closer, larger and louder only to give way to suffused drumbeats and Sharin Foo’s icy, uninflected vocals. The song would occasional flit from these soft gossamer shimmers to an explosion of fuzz and reverb, fueling the mysteries of the young, naive love it bemoans. The static, it turns out, gets the upper hand in the finish, as all that wonder and beauty gets sucked back into singularity. Nothing short of breathtaking.
Vexation by Crystal Antlers
This how loud, messy rock should be executed without going for the overkill. And damn if the stabbing baselines aren’t sexy either. Keyboards pounded with sledgehammers. Check. Guitars whirring like Freddie’s dental tools. Check. Throwing your bones into the bonfire after using them as drumsticks. Check. And all this a little over two minutes. Aspiring metal-punkers, please take down notes.
A-Punk by Vampire Weekend
Loving this band would be easy and obvious. The hype surrounding these fresh-faced kids from Columbia University is almost formulaic, if you can go back as far a time the Strokes and Arctic Monkeys first broke out. With songs so unassuming and catchy, and their musical influences sewn on their sleeves for everyone to nitpick (or, pick a poison or two: Afrikan Bourbon ala Paul Simon, David Byrne on the Rocks..), it's just as easy to hate them like their contemporaries. But to lambaste this band as just another passing "indie wunderkind" of the download generation is also premature and, quite frankly, hypocritical when you find yourself hitting that replay button the nth time over, asking nearly-pertinent questions like, "was that a piccolo I just heard?" And hey, as long it's beating the bland, manufactured and unoriginal, let's say, Click Five, from getting into your gym playlist, then there's hope for music after all--even if it ain't the Renaissance we were praying for.
Black Rice by Women
Channeling the lo-fi, fairy-dusted quality of 60’s psychedelia, Black Rice is one of those songs you imagine waking up to with bleary eye as the sun’s rays slowly permeate through the pores of your gummy skin, warming that weary soul within. Either that or it’s one of those songs you self-medicate yourself with, alongside some trustee dose of coffee and TV, for that pounding case of a hang-over.
Shade of the Moor by Apse
There’s something Sigur Rosy/Tortoisey about this band, with a really dark, ominous undertow. Maybe it’s the post-punk aesthetics with base drumming sprawled throughout these cold Sahara-Desert-nights atmospherics. But then comes this nasal, Druid-like incantation that replete the hypnosis that would be the closest you’d come to spiritual transcendence. Whoah is the right word for a song that bears to be played over for maximum experience.
