Catwalk’s [Please] Don’t Break Me is technically a single, though definitely a bit more than that since it features two distinct and different songs. I like them both, and I’m glad I do, since at first I was simply mesmerized by that fresh, pretty cover art.
In other news, I thought a several month long streak of music apathy was over, but the cure hasn’t stuck. I am now officially in a listening rut. What are you listening to? Let me know in the comments.
Lets operate under the assumption that one 80s band had to come back twenty years later. It was a necessity, so all the late 80s babies who didn’t remember Reagan could embrace Flashdance necklines and side ponytails and screaming cheeseball lyrics at bars. I wish we’d put it up for a vote. (Now there’s an 80s party—round up your friends, a couple of podiums, and a gavel, and prepare to debate the finer points of Wham! and White Snake. Extra points for costumes, kamikaze shots for all!) If we had, my vote would be on legendary facial hair titans and talented punchlines of pop, Hall & Oates. (Do you hear that world? Now quit playing Journey, and making it possible for a band and a song to tire out twice.)
About a year ago, Joshua and I wrote a post about our Top 5 Worst Love Songs, and Joshua’s list featured the classic “Your Kiss Is On My List.” I groaned and giggled through the rest of the list but when I played that Hall and Oates gem, it stuck. It had that scary song magic, the kind that propels your finger forward to hit play over and over again, that runs the lyrics through your head and pushes them out of your mouth as you walk around the house. Sometimes that song magic is awesome and I manically play “Make It Known” by Foxygen 12 times a day until I know every crevice and cranny of it and can luxuriate in it and announce it to all music loving friends. And sometimes I know all the words to “Va-Va-Voom” by Nicki Minaj and shut up, it happens.
So lets say, like me, you’ve contracted songitis of the Hall & Oates persuasion. Lets say you want to play it from the rooftops, but maybe, just maybe, don’t want to blast the originals again and again like you’re the DJ for a strip mall dollar store. The bird and the bee have a solution for you.
Interpreting the Masters Volume 1: A Tribute to Daryl Hall and John Oates is an album of charming, respectful Hall & Oates covers. They maintain the catchiness but slightly update the originals with a more layered sound and a female vocalist (Inara George). The covers remain fairly true to the originals—there’s no cute trick here, they’re not stripped down or made acoustic, they could slink into any 80s mixtape and get along with their mixtape-mates. But they sound a little fresher, a little better, and a lot less like Hall & Oates proper, which is important when you find yourself playing their songs incessantly.
I’ve been hooked on their cover of “Rich Girl,” which popped up on a playlist last Sunday as I made coffee.
“What is this? I really like it,” my 80s-music-hating boyfriend said.
Success.
A Cautionary Tale
I go on about Cake all the time; I know this. Sometimes I can be a bit…fanatical about how good I think they are. But I don’t believe I’m wrong when I say they have an entirely unique sound, be it just in their singles or in deep album cuts. You don’t believe me? Go to your iTunes/iPod/Zune/Spotify/vinyl collection/reel-to-reel stacks (man, I totally wish I had a reel-to-reel stack) and bring back something that sounds like Cake does. Go ahead, I’ll wait.
You back? I see you’re empty-handed. Yeah, that’s what I thought.
The point is, despite the overwhelming love I have for everything this band puts out, I have to come out on this blog and warn everyone to not listen to their most recent album, Showroom of Compassion. It’s, at best, very underwhelming. At worst, it’s a boring and thoroughly depressing album. I’m not sure what happened in the span of seven years between this turd of an album and Pressure Chief, but it seems as though John McCrea, head songwriter and lead vocalist, must be going through some tough times. The music is drab and uninspired and the lyrics are cynical to the point of nihilism.
One of the things I’ve always liked about Cake is that they can sing cynically about something, or write a song about a depressing topic, and come at it with a hefty dose of enthusiasm. This album is completely devoid of that enthusiasm. The perfect example of this is their cover of a Frank Sinatra ballad, “What’s Now is Now.” The song is about finding out your significant other is cheating on you, but you’re cool with it. It’s perfect lyrical fodder for Cake’s cynical covers, which has always, always been their strong suit. But they do it with no irony, with no cynicism, with no…pizzazz . It’s not an angry reproach of the jilted lover, as one might expect Cake to approach the song, but a very straight cover, with little change.
The majority of the album seems to meander around in this mire of boredom (not ennui, which I feel would imply some self-realization of your boredom, which is exactly up Cake’s alley) and total lack of inspiration. And yet, seemingly out of nowhere, comes the tracks “Sick of You,” “Easy to Crash,” and “Bound Away,” all in a bunch. If anything can redeem this album, it’s these three tracks. They are filled with the kind of dripping irony and fat beats I love Cake for, and they all seem to be sung with a droll smirk on McCrea’s face, rather than the disinterested scowl seeming to pepper the previous and following tracks. The best of these three is probably “Easy to Crash,” which has the kind of energy found on Pressure Chief, specifically reminding me of the wonderful track leading it off, “Wheels.” It has the same great driving guitar riff and swirling harmonies, while adding a great up-and-down synth line and a completely memorable hook (read: it’s been stuck in my head for three days).
Here’s where I come to the crux of my problem of this album (and other albums that have this same failure). Do I write the album off as a bad album, despite three tracks that are exactly the kind of sound I love and expect of the band? I don’t want to believe that Cake is capable of putting out a bad album, but I know that’s the fan in me talking, not the music critic. I got the album when it first came out and listened to it and immediately hated it. In a true burst of fan zeal, I left it alone for a long time, hoping maybe as I changed so too would my opinion of the album. I have precedence for this happening in my musical criticism – I used to hate The Mountain Goats. John Darnielle’s whining, nasally voice pissed the shit out of me, as did their lo-fi recordings. But once I heard Tallahassee, my opinion pulled a fast 180. I hoped against hope that this change of opinion would come to pass on Showroom of Compassion, but it seems doubtful at this point. Especially since I’ve listened to it once a day for a week and can’t find anything exciting about it, save those three mentioned tracks.
I’m sorry, Cake, but you’re gonna have to step it up on the next album. I’m not happy right now. One of your most loyal fans is utterly disappointed in you.
Joshua and I were sitting at the birthplace of Charm City Jukebox, nursing a couple of whiskey laced cocktails so strong, we screwed our faces up and incanted the bar’s name after the first sip.
“I’ve got a rule now,” I said. “When it comes to alcohol, I do what I want.”
Joshua raised an eyebrow. When two people with a genetic history of alcoholism hang out at a dive bar, and one claims to have a new idealogy on drinking that allows for whatever, it doesn’t sound promising.
“It’s not what you think,” I said. “It’s not a free pass for debauchery—it’s the opposite. If I don’t want to drink, I don’t. If I want wine and everyone wants whiskey, I drink wine. I don’t take shots. I do what makes me comfortable. I do what I want.” There it was, a final screw you to peer pressure and other people’s nonsense. I’m 26 years old. We all stopped drinking Kahlua in someone’s basement a decade ago. The after school special is over. And me? I do what I want.
Why does this feel so revolutionary? Because I can’t think of another time in my life where I’ve so clearly stood up for myself. I wish I had a really engaging story for you about the time I became a vegan, or the time I got a mohawk, or any other number of alternately cool and virtuous things I could’ve done to get a handle on my personal agency. I’ve stood up for myself in the past, sure, but it’s always accompanied with a burning streak of anxiety, the bone shaking worry that I will be unliked or in danger or, worst of all, wrong. This time I have a clear grasp on what I need, and I’m going to get it. I’m going to look out for myself. I’m not going to worry too much about what that means for anyone else. It’s an idea that started with passing up refills or picking white over red, but sometimes ideas borne out of trivial circumstances and decisions are powerful. I’d like to be this way all the time, not just when I’m saying “no thanks” to an IPA.
If I were to apply this novel way of thinking to my music collection, I know where I would start: With a public declaration of how much I like Lana Del Rey.
I like Lana Del Rey. A lot.
I know there’s something patent leather polished about that image of hers, a little plastic and certainly affected, but I’ve never been able to figure out why that matters. It’s not like she’s unaware of what she’s doing, and don’t most artists cultivate an image? And why are we so hyper focused on accuracy and authenticity from musicians*? These aren’t our friends or loved ones. For all we know, Elvis Costello goes home and wears nothing but sweats and rimless glasses. Maybe he ditches the nervy, hyper literate British songwriter the second he steps off stage and spends half his week quoting nothing but football stats and jokes from late night Comedy Central movies. Maybe Lana Del Rey goes home and is a tee-totaling health nut lesbian, with zero interest in bad men and late nights. Or maybe she’s just Lizzy Grant. Who knows? And really, who cares?
Lana Del Rey’s albums feature one ear weavil after another, and they’re rife with silly bits and baubles that are, well, fun. Really fun, like the musical equivalent of sneaking out your bedroom window to go to the kind of party you only see in movies. There’s the breathy sex kitten delivery and the world weariness and the kitschy Americana (“Elvis is my daddy, Marilyn’s my mother” is certainly the title of one of those terrible old movie star hybrid paintings that are always in diners, where Buddy Holly and James Dean split a strawberry shake). There’s a closet full of references to party dresses and bad men galore, there’s wild adventures and the thrill of escape. It’s catchy, ridiculous, and sometimes raunchy. Is some of it cringe-worthy? Sure. The opening lines of “Cola” are pretty unfortunate. The constant references to calling older beaus “daddy” gets a little weird.
But I like it. I like all of it. I like the Walt Whitman inspired chorus in “Body Electric” and the fast car freedom of “Ride.” I think “Blue Jeans” and “Video Games” are powerful, evocative pop songs that will get better with age. And I can’t stop listening to “National Anthem” and her “Blue Velvet” cover no matter how hard I try.
Lana Del Rey is easy to make fun of and ignore; but, I find her music just as easy to like, and that’s what’s most important to me. All you get out of music snobbery in the end is stop signs and road blocks holding you back from listening to something you might really enjoy. Every critic who I like dislikes Del Rey and can’t get enough of Beach House. I still like them and respect their opinions, but I disagree on both counts. You could say that this is an example of my poor taste in music, you could say I’m not trying hard enough or I don’t get it, you could even say I don’t have the right to write about music after this kind of declaration. I would argue that I’m someone who likes pop music and finds Beach House boring, and that there isn’t much more to it.
The new year is around the corner, and if you want to embrace your own tastes and ignore the crowd, here’s my advice: Skip the music snobbery and embrace music gluttony. Listen to whatever you want, whenever you want, and as much of it as you possibly can. Like what you like, dislike what you dislike, and be open to changing your mind (There’s a Beach House song on my December So Hot Right Now). And if you’ve been avoiding Ms. Del Rey because you saw her on SNL last year, or because you were encouraged not to like her, give her a try.
* There’s actually a great book about the roots of our obsession with authenticity in art, specifically in music: Check out Hey! Nietzsche! Leave Them Kids Alone! by Craig Schuftan.
xx by The xx
Let’s say it’s raining in San Francisco, and day light savings time has sharpened the sunny bits of your day to a sharp peak that ends around 3:30pm. Let’s say you’re staring down a growing pile of work and a growing sense that you have no idea what to do next, or where you’re going. Let’s say you need to get excited, but the kind that pairs well with room temperature coffee and a blank page. Let’s say you have to go to sleep in a few hours. Let’s say you need to forget the dishes in the sink; why on earth do you keep cooking eggs in the morning when the crust stares up at you from the pan all day, waiting for your undivided, teeth gritting ablutions? Let’s say you need to sit down and write and figure and enjoy the early nightfall.
Let’s say none of this applies to you, that you’re churning out copy and clean dishes at an alarming rate. If there’s any corner of your life that requires a potent combination of focus and forgetfulness, put on this album. When you need something to tune into so you can tune out, this album is perfect: steady, atmospheric, and engaging in a way that seems to encourage concentration. xx has a strong, continuous pace; each song flawlessly weaves into the next. But, and this is important, it’s not boring zone out music, the beloved soundtrack of cafes and tiny quasi French restaurants. That kind of music puts me to sleep, or makes me want to serve everyone spinach feta crepes (tiny quasi French restaurants were my bread and butter in my waitressing days).
So go forth and work and write, and if you need a break from your album du jour because it’s distracting or doing something less than helpful to your mood (a common problem for this easily distracted writer/music consumer), let xx work it’s magic on your ears and attention span.
I had a writing teacher in high school who used a different theme every week to talk about poetry…or at least, that’s how it started. After the first few months, the class turned into a freewheeling themed discussion, much to the chagrin of the head of the writing department, who sat in on many classes with her face scrunched in horror (I’m thinking, very specifically, of a winter afternoon half way through pornography week).
One week, towards the end of the third quarter, the theme was burnout. Every day, our teacher told us a story about a different previous job. It started with him at a job that ranged from mind numbingly boring (if he were editing this, he would scribble “cliche” next to that description) to truly awful. But they all ended the same way: One day, he left to get lunch or take a break, and never returned.
The last day of that week he told us a story. He gave us an unexpected break halfway through class. When the break was over, he was gone. He never came back.
I learned a lot from that class: I read The Dream Songs, I read poems that still haunt me, I received the best (and harshest) criticism of my poetry. That week on burnout always stuck out to me though: When something isn’t working, at some point you know. You know it’s not going to get better. You know, even when you don’t want to, when it’s time to walk away. It could be a job, a college, a friendship—it doesn’t matter. Sometimes you can muster the energy to give two weeks, or a proper send off, and sometimes you need to walk out on your lunch hour and never return. No one strolls out of a burning building.
So what do you listen to when you escape (because when you do, I guarantee, the relief will be followed quickly by a type of anxiety so trippy you’ll wonder if you’re pacing the ocean floor)? Tim by The Replacements.
Don’t wallow: Turn up the volume. Laugh along to “Waitress in the Sky,” blast “Bastards of Young” the second you wake up, play it five times over. Let “Kiss Me On the Bus” cheer you up, pour yourself a coffee or a double and listen to “Here Comes a Regular” or “Swingin Party.” Get excited, get angry—get whatever you need to get, really, to get by, and have faith that The Replacements will provide you with a solid soundtrack.
I thought this album would be new to me; but when I played it a week ago, I knew the words to every song. “We used to play that album all the time!” my dad said when I asked him about it. Tim is comforting and thrilling—it makes me feel wide-eyed and excited, it makes me remember being about four years old and dancing around a long ago apartment with a giant stuffed bear. I recommend it highly, even if you’ve never two stepped with a stuffed animal while “Kiss Me On the Bus” played on the stereo, even if you’re not burnt out or nostalgic. It’s delicious and this version has some great outtakes for all you Replacements fans.
It was only a matter of time before a Cake album made it to these posts. I’m not going to lie, I’m a bit obsessed with them. And this is the album that started it all. It has a complete blueprint for all future Cake albums laid out, song by song. I can’t say that it’s the best Cake album, or even a great album, proper. Something I’ve come to realize about Cake is that the album format is something they don’t particularly excel at. Every album has at least one or two tracks that either don’t fit the sound of the rest of the album or just plain suck, or both (read: “Dime”), except this album. For a first outing and for the last time, they really hit the nail on the head.
I mean, it doesn’t exactly start on a terrifically strong note with “Comanche,” but it’s not a bad song – just one that is tough to justify as a lead track. If I were to have never heard any Cake before (oh, what a world!) and I wanted to start at the beginning, I may be less than satisfied by their first song they put out into the world. They don’t really start getting into their stride until “Pentagram,” a delightful little ditty about Satanism. Then comes what quite possibly is my favorite Cake song, “Jolene,” which I have mentioned many a time on this blog. If you somehow have yet to hear this song, stop whatever the hell you are doing (really, it’s not that important. What are you, a doctor in the middle of brain surgery? Then yeah, ok, maybe keep doing what you’re doing. Otherwise, shut up.) and put this song on. Other standouts from the album include “You Part the Waters,” a song that showcases just how good their guitar player is (and how awesome their harmonies are), and their first single, “Rock ‘n’ Roll Lifestyle,” a track that I’ll bet hipsters love because it’s a scathing indictment of their lifestyle.
A personal note: Somehow, some way, my copy on my iPod for maybe 6 or 8 years now was somehow missing the song “Jesus Wrote a Blank Check.” I’m rather super pissed I’ve been missing it. I blame Apple. It was on my cd copy when I imported it to iTunes. What’d you do with it, iTunes? Huh? You made me forget it existed! I’m so mad I’m gonna go dig up Steve Jobs’ grave and slap him across his desiccated face.
In another life, I was a noodle girl. I know that sounds like a euphamism for something (“What hard drug could noodles be?” cluck the tiny cartoon grandmas who read this blog only in my head). Big reveal: Noodles are….noodles. I cooked noodles for a carb-fiend themed restaurant the summer after freshman year of college. I made big steamy pots of penne and defrosted cream sauces. I melted half-frozen sticks of butter into butter sauce. I nursed a strong case of the blues with a diet of free warm flat breads and freshly baked rice krispie treats.
The restaurant was in a newly developed area way out in the suburbs, and the timing of my shift turned the highway into a parking lot, requiring a long, back roads filled drive to get home. I listened to “Satellite Rides” by the Old 97s every day. I smoked cigarettes, ate cookies, and rolled the windows down. I practiced functional weeping—that impressive maneuver where you cry like the apocalypse is nigh, while your body continues the calm, fluid movements of operating a vehicle. I prayed to Rhett Miller that things would turn around. They didn’t, and I blamed him.
I think it took me five years to get over being eighteen years old. When you spend five years trying to out run an outdated version of yourself, you end up throwing a lot of things away in the hopes that you can end that race. Sometimes I wonder why I got rid of a t-shirt I loved, or why a friendship ended without fireworks or reason. The other day I wondered if I could listen to “Satellite Rides” again without time-traveling. I did, and I found out it was exactly as I had left it: satisfying and fun, full of choruses you can’t shake out of your head for days, songs you have to play again and again until you wear your ears out.
There’s something deliciously healthy about reclaiming music, and I recommend it to everyone, noodle girl or not. Why should your exs, episodes, and bad memories get permanent custody of music you used to enjoy? It takes time. But that’s a good thing. It’s good to know that time can pass, that you can feel better. That you can turn that song on again. That you can forgive Rhett Miller.
Here’s a picture of Rhett Miller, who is very dreamy, especially in concert. Enjoy.
Fear Fun by Father John Misty
Yesterday I went to the grocery store in search of a pumpkin carving kit. There were none. In fact, other than pumpkins, there was almost no Halloween paraphernalia It’s a week and a half before Halloween, and all I could find were turkey carving kits and towers of canned cranberry sauce. It seems like every year the anticipation for the next holiday comes earlier. Halloween is trotted out in August. If stores and commercials are to be believed, Christmas, a holiday that is months away, is just around the bend and you’re already too late when it comes to buying the perfect gift.
Are there holidays for music fans? Yes. Sort of. Come December, every music writer I care about will publish their top 10 albums from this year, and I want to recognize them. This nervous impulse is born out of an ongoing fear that I don’t listen to enough new music, that I’m constantly missing out on something and I need to hear it, now. If I were to do a Top 10 Albums that came out in 2012 list, I don’t know that I could crack 10, but I do know that Father John Misty’s Fear Fun would be on it. It’s a weird album—the tone changes a lot, it sometimes slows down too much, and it took me several listens to like it, much less want to recommend it. But it haunted me, especially “Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings.” I had to keep listening to it because I had to figure it out. I don’t know what that means, exactly, but in the process I’ve come to really appreciate it. Give it a second chance, if you give it a first and don’t like it. It’s worth it. (Also he’s from Baltimore which, as you may guess from the name of this blog, is a plus)
I really like the cover art, which reminds me of Super Jail and psychedelic posters and Melbourne, because a poster of the cover was all over the streets when I was there.
