One Thing, Having Occurred to Me…

A thing occurred to me altogether of a sudden whilst I stood singing in the shower this morning:
The National’s “Baby We’ll Be Fine” is an update of the Go-Go’s “Our Lips Are Sealed”. Oh, holiest of shit.

Tighten the Bunions, Screw Down the Tennis Shoes, Make Fast Loose Tread


So, into Friday. Are our teeth loose yet? We’re burning up on entry to R&R, and I’m so tired I can hardly see straight.

Lambchop’s Damaged came out in August of 2006. You might remember it as “The Summer What Meltede My Face Like Soe Muche Gumme, Oy Vey, What Withe Alle This Uff Da Heate.”

I personally thought the summer before was worse, but then I didn’t have an air conditioner that summer.

I have made this Lambchop recording a part of my daily ablutions. I know what you might be thinking- “What, another band that started with an adjusted country twang and has since shot well into the experimental left field? I have a LOT of Wilco records, thank you.”

Well, alright. However, if you travel that pernicious path, traveler, you will not know the rich sentimental tonality of Kurt Wagner’s nearly spoken, rumbling musings. You will not be treated with intimacy by the wry sense of humor that is the spool of yarn from which the songs are darned. You will not meander, fork in hand, through this garden to the feast of non-sequiturs, surprise revelations, instantaneous understandings of things past, that a story as then currently unfolding brought to the singer’s memory.

It was the final track on the record that came on my headphones during a shuffle play sometime in the recent few months that remembered the album to me- the track “The Decline of Country and Western Civilization”. It’s a surprise cloudburst, erupting from a clear atmosphere of noise into something so dramatic it ought to be on stage evoking tears from the aristocracy. But, then, I’m a sucker for songs that subjugate all the most evil tendencies of humanity in order to tell an object of affection how good-looking they are.

This is a drum. Today you can buy it from Musician’s Friend for $69.99 in American Currency (or the approximation of said currency floating in digital internets your web browser draws pictures of when you log on to your bank account).

When you hit this, everything becomes more awesome. That especially applies to rock band practice, which we had last night, and which included a guy who was nice enough to hit- not one of these, but a whole set of them- not once, but many, many times. I needn’t tell you how much more awesome everything became with each successive strike of drumstick to drum. When you’re a member of a band that has been seeking a drummer for a couple of months following the departure of your original drummer after your first show at the now-defunct Siberia, you get a real hard-on for having a drummer in band practice. Everything just fell together with the drunken synergy of a group of people who are on the same page, squeezing the juice that is music from our respective instruments like so many fucking amazing oranges into very tastefully designed juice glasses- perhaps the kind one might buy at Crate & Barrel.

I have been a fan of the glassware for sale at Crate & Barrel for some time. Very classy.

Man, my ears are ringing.


In addition to the above-mentioned Lambchop record, I have also been hearting Destroyer’s Rubies by Destroyer. Hearting is something my girlfriend says, and it’s pretty cool. It’s when you replace your blood with something else, and your heart pumps that through your circulatory system, instead. Did you know that there is about 60,000 miles worth of tubing that comprises the human circulatory system? Needless to say, Destroyer’s Rubies is really tired. Sorry, Destroyer’s Rubies– you’re going around a few more times, I’m afraid.

It’s Friday, ya’ll. Catch the girls, kiss them and make them cry.

DJ For Hire

DJ For Hire: S/T


It’s good to step out of a scene obsessed with itself, good to get away from feeling bored, good to get away from conceits like status, nostalgia, the dictates of history, and the rules of composure. It’s good because once you’re there, you can’t go back.

Try this:
Turn on your CD player or boot your computer. Put the DJ For Hire S/T in the tray. Load up the playlist in your digital playback platform of choice. Back away. You can’t.

Big hooks and guitar virtuosity layered over waves of noise and distortion- oases of directed chaos between stretches of sparse pop- have obscured the way back to the affect of disaffected malaise. Tiny notes in furious succession beating needlepricks of color on your tympani are heralds for the hum washing up behind.

The excitement that I felt, signing up for a rotation as a DJ at my college radio station, as I was pulled off the axis of corporate radio and major label distribution, stemmed from my discovery of a universe of finished, real, fantastic music that was living, breathing, and throwing parties without so much as a “how’s your father” to any judge but enjoyment, wherever it happened to be executed. Cities as nearby to me then as Champaign, Illinois and as distant from where I was, but just as cut off from much else (excepting the Vast Expanse) as the towns I was living in (Omaha?), were the physical site of cultural frontiers, epicenters of changes that scared the limits of the mind into retreat.

From the first notes of DJ for Hire’s opening track, Pensive Purple Porpoises, there’s that same taste of fresh discontinuity with everything you’ve unwittingly become comfortable with. The break is there in the Japanese influence of many notes plucked from guitar strings in succession, the break is there in the narrative themes that backbone the songs. My Grandmother Hitchhiked in the Sidecar of a Nazi BMW R-75 Military Motorcycle points to the wonder that could at anytime spring from prosaic roots. Track Bum is an energetic standout showcase of guitar virtuosity and a boisterous anti-apology for prolonged insouciance. Passion without conceit, the music of Fukuoka, Japan’s DJ for Hire carries that weird change of kilter that brightens you awake with the youth hidden in what you know. Fukuoka, Japan, home to DJ For Hire, is now hard-coded into the authoritative astral version of google maps under the search strings “where it’s happening,” “Where it’s at,” and “that ain’t no bullshit.”

Look for them on itunes or at their website.

Wild Anniemals Need Vodka, Are Very Polite


I just put on Magazine’s “Permafrost,” and as soon as the chorus line “I will drug you and fuck you on the permafrost” came up, I remembered I ought to write about my vanilla-mediated run-in with that cruel arctic clime last Thursday.
Saw the American debut of Norway’s Annie at the glamorously packed Tribeca Grand Hotel by way of a free invite from a friend of a friend. Annie is a dancey, Kylie Minogue-y, Discoteque debutante with songs and moves endearingly clumsy and, as such, weirdly sexy. Imagine being Tom Hanks with Darrel Hannah nude as Venus standing in your living room making little girl noises and weird overtures to sex that you’re not sure she- or you- understands. What is happening? You ask yourself. Then the mermaid pulls out a giant bottle of vodka and proceeds to drink half of it during her 5 or 6 song set. It’s finally happening! the Tom Hanks you is forced to conclude. What do you do next? You scream “Play Heartbeat!” and attempt to dance ass to hip with the other early adopters, industry insiders and other types of sweating bodies while holding a messenger bag that you should have dropped off before going anywhere that night. Had a great time. Annie and her band do a good mix of European Giorgio Moroder disco revival replete with vocoders, Kylie Minogue coquetteishness, innocently direct overtures for sex and silly metaphors for aforementioned having lots of sex (see “Bubblegum”). Many thanks to my companion that evening, whose veteran scenester pushiness and unameliorated excitement at the prospect of seeing live music despite many unmoving bodies standing between her and the stage has imbued her with superpowers that turn her finely-lathed frame into some kind of mass surgical instrument/crowd drilling tool. Without her I would surely have pussed out and stood way back in the bar looking uncomfortable.
Annie was very polite.

$20 for Afrika Bambaata- Let’s Get Expensified

I stopped in at the Virgin Megastore on my way back from Barnes and Noble tonight (big corporate shopping trip) to maybe give in to the urge to get a disc, but they wanted $20 for the new Afrika Bambaata. $20. $20. I, uh, $20.

I got the Big Silver Motor of Sin EP by Two Lone Swordsmen earlier today. I like it… but I wouldn’t have gone so far as to call it an EP- more like a single without the original version of the single track- only the b sides. If I had realized that, I might not have paid the $7, but at $7 it’s still almost worth it. I’m remembering a time when cds didn’t cost much more than $7 at an indie record store. What is going on?