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This morning Pitchfork reviews the new Kaiser Chiefs record and gives it a fairly decent 6.8. But, know what? I just don't care.
I don't care about 97% of the bands Pitchfork goes on about. Same with Stereogum. The vast majority of it: bo-ring. And despite my well-worn proclivities to appreciate music alternative to the mainstream--I'm simply starting to: just not care. And it's obviously not for TRYING to care or reading the alt-indie-blogs...because I do - daily - HOPING for some savior. Or, a new BREED of saviors...but whoa lord, it ain't coming.
And I'm starting to get pissed, frankly. I think of 'kids' today getting excited over a new Kaiser Chiefs release and I wanna slam my head with a hammer. I'd like to write it off as "just getting old" because, really - it'd be easier that way. But when so few bands of the PitchGum generation sound marginally, oh - I don't know...fresh? Interesting? Compelling? Have something--ANYthing to say -- it's not about being old, it's simply about: knowing the difference.
And really, I shouldn't knock the Kaiser Chiefs. They're actually 'ok'. It's just that: I don't care. (OR, I haven't been made to care...there's a difference.)
And despite yesterday's claim to forego "theme weeks" here at TVD...suddenly there's a theme a-brewing...
I overheard a news report this morning, amidst the hiccupping and burping of the coffee maker, which involved a study on the brain and the various consciousness levels we inhabit during the day. A contrast was being drawn between two competing mental states--one being the detached state of awareness which exists when we're doing routine tasks--commuting to work for example. The other is the more attuned level of consciousness, where you remember to pick up your dry cleaning during that routine trip to work--and the mental machinery that kicks such detail-oriented perceptions into gear.
Leaning against the counter as the coffee maker sputtered to a halt and the cats did their dance for their morning meal, I thought that my musical inclinations are no different than that morning commute to the office. I mean, how many times have I (and have you) arrived at work barely being able to recall the commute, but gosh darn it, there I sit barely recalling anything but throwing a coat on and then--boom--walking through the front door to the workplace.
There's an interesting subconscious parallel here to what music I choose to listen to in particular times of the year (a topic that's been covered here before, I believe). Somehow, the seasons still continue to inform my personal soundtrack...quietly, subconsciously like Spring forward/Fall back-clockwork. It's only when I'm contemplating this here blog and material for the coming weeks, do I "pick up my dry cleaning" or rather, break out of the patterned reality and interject task-oriented musical selections far from my predispositioned norm.
Which is a very long way to say that this week and for however long we're returning to being comfy. (A Fall's back fall back, if you will.) So, pull up a seat. Coffee's on...
"Hey, did you know that I'm/Always going back in time..." I was humming on Monday and maybe a few of you were too as a result. And it's true, the evidence is in and I've come to the realization that I'm hyper-nostalgic. Why, this week alone here at TVD was spent quite like so many days as a kid--listening to tunes, scouring LP lyric sheets, and staring blank faced at LP covers. (Normal fare for TVD perhaps, but man, good times indeed.)
And it's even worse than I make it out to be...why, I'm nostalgic for 5 minutes ago. (Truly, that was one schweet pot of coffee I just brewed.) I'm even nostalgic for times that were tough. Take that one Fall where my grandfather died for instance. I recall driving to his funeral with my mom and dad, while I in the backseat was held in rapt attention by the latest issue of the Aquarian, New Jersey's then alt-weekly, and every so often gazed out at the lovely trees a-turnin' all shades of orange and red and feeling quite oddly alive and vital - perhaps all of 18 at the time. Maybe I can simply force-fire those endorphins to flood at will simply by looking. Back.
I'm nostalgic for this very second, even. Another crisp Fall morning'll do that. I'm nostalgic for yesterday, last summer, last year--underscored with what are now actual ARCHIVES here at TVD where I can go back and reread what I wrote over a year ago and think, "Sheez, I'm even nostalgic for that bullshit I posted last October. Go figure."
Freed the daytime with indifference Watch the twilight starve the sun Shuffle home against the darkness Turn the key and bite your tongue And please be strong You don't know it but you're coming right along
Call belated, leave a message Wait for hours just to talk Feel like slowly getting blown off Stretch your eyes, invite the clock And please be strong You don't know it but you're coming right along Please be strong You don't know it but you're coming right along
Cry as if to say you're sorry Sight a life and hate your own Try to think of what to mention Leave the television on... And please be strong You don't know it but you're coming right along Please be strong You don't know it but you're coming right along You don't know it but you're Coming right along Coming right along Coming right along
Deleted Scenes is a four-piece indie rock band living in DC and Brooklyn, NY. We met as kids growing up in Maryland and have been playing together under various guises ever since. The songwriting, a collaboration between Dan Scheuerman (vocals/guitars) and Matthew "Fatty" Dowling (bass/organ/vibraphone/flex-o-tone), is strengthened by the undeniably precise musicianship of drummer Brian Hospital and guitarist Chris Scheffey. In 2005, we recorded a four-song EP with Billy Gordon (of J-Roddy Walston & the Business) in Baltimore which featured songs Dan wrote at the end of college, and which Fatty helped hone and arrange with various instruments. In late 2006, the EP was released through Echelon Productions, and throughout the year that stretched across 2007 and 2008, we toured the country, and recorded a full-length record with J. Robbins (Jawbox/Burning Airlines) and L. Skell (the Rude Staircase). The resulting album is a diverse, propulsive, and deeply personal set of songs called "Birdseed Shirt." It is named after a passage in Jonathan Safran-Foer's novel, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. We are still finalizing plans for release and distribution.
I count the hours since you slipped away I count the hours that I lie awake I count the minutes and the seconds too All I stole and I took from you But Bonny don't live at home, he don't live at home But Bonny don't live at home, he don't live at home
All my silence and my strained respect Missed chances and the same regrets Kiss the thief and you save the rest All my insights from retrospect But Bonny don't live at home, he don't live at home But Bonny don't live at home, he don't live at home Save your speeches, flowers are for funerals
Hey, did you know that I'm Always going back in time Rhyming slang, auld lang syne my dears Through the years I am the backwards traveller Ancient wool unraveller Sailing songs, wailing on the moon And we were sailing songs, wailing on the moon Wailing on the moon.
Update 10/16: So, who's got your back? TVD - that's who. Due to the overwhelming response to this giveaway, Camila and Leisha have given us ANOTHER pair of tickets to give away--so that means we'll have TWO winners now for our Uh Huh HERE Contest. That's right--your chances of winning just got 50% better, indeed.
It's no mystery to us here at TVD that, despite hailing from the nation's capitol and maintaining a rather DC-centric focus, visitors to the blog arrive from all corners of the globe. (I mean, from ALL corners. Daily.)
So, we've often felt that much of the readership has been shut out of the local ticket giveaways we've sponsored. Sooo - in an effort to remedy that a wee bit, TVD presents our 'Uh Huh HERE' contest where YOU choose the city and venue in which to see the lovely ladies of Uh Huh Her do their thing live. The dates, cities, and venues from which to choose are:
October 24 - Theatre Of The Living Arts , Philadelphia, PA October 25 - The Norva, Norfolk, VA October 27 - The Roxy, Boston, MA October 29 - Irving Plaza, New York, NY
Say hello to us in the comments section and let us know where and when you'd like to see Uh Huh Her and we'll award a pair of tix to the most compelling comment-er. We'll take submissions 'til next Tuesday (10/21) and PLEASE remember to leave us some contact info! Uh Huh Her - Not A Love Song (Mp3)
This is our final installment closing out our “It Came From the North” theme week, and I hope you’ve enjoyed it. Americans take for granted their inalienable right to kick out the jams to whatever music they want. Perhaps you will be surprised and amused to hear that in Canada we have something called the MAPL system, a series of government-sanctioned regulations to maintain certain ratios of music with “Canadian content” on the airwaves. On one hand, that can be a good thing, giving home-grown artists a helping hand with gaining exposure. On the other hand, it’s a dictatorial measure to influence what gets played based on extraneous features, regardless of quality.
Of course I never knew about this MAPL business when I was growing up, innocently flipping on the radio and absorbing everything the federal government deemed fit to broadcast to thousands of impressionable little Canadians. I was raised on this stuff instead of whatever you Americans were listening to out there in the free-radio zone. Now I’m feeling conflicted… Do I passionately adore these songs because they’re so good? Or is it because I’ve been behaviorally conditioned to think so, salivating every time they come on the radio like one of Pavlov’s dogs? Does it even matter now that I don’t listen to the radio anymore? Let’s hear some objective opinions from our esteemed readers: Did Canadian radio raise me right? Or was my musical taste forever corrupted by arbitrary programming regulations?
Back in the summer of '88 I was working along with my roommate Stew at the Record World in Georgetown Park Mall -- ground floor to the left of the Mrs. Field's. (The Record World's gone now, but oddly that Mrs. Fields is still there pimping the doughy sweets.) Stew's girlfriend Fang (no joke) was working at the dress store around the corner along with my then girlfriend. We made a nice little foursome during lunch at the Food Court, we did.
One late morning, midweek and midsummer I was working the register...scratch that--reading Billboard at the register, when some guy breezed in with a notepad and like a man on a mission headed to the back of the store. Glancing up I thought to myself, "Man, that guy must get all the ladies with the Bryan Adams look he's got going on..." and returned to my Billboard. Glancing up again, there was the Bryan Adams look-alike jotting some notes to himself on the notepad at the register counter. I guess my stare was awkwardly long to the point where the dude sticks out his hand and with that gravelly voice says, "How's it goin, I'm Bryan..."
"Holy shit" I say, "Bryan-freakin-Adams right here in the store...hey look - we have your record on sale right there." He's all like, "How's it selling?" and I'm all like, "pretty good!" He says, "Hey - I'm looking for laser disks to play on the tour bus, do you guys carry any or do you know where I can find some?" (Laser disks...remember those? I have to think these were pretty darn near obsolete at the time we were discussing this, frankly.) So, we're shooting the shit, I'm giving him some options to pursue, then he says, "Hey - are you going to my concert tonight?" Thinking fast on my feet I say, "Couldn't get tickets, man - SOLD OUT. Go figure..." (Jon: NOT a Bryan Adams fan.) He says, "No problem - gimme your name and I'm putting you on the guest list. Got a girlfriend? She's on the list too!" He takes our names down, we shoot the breeze for a little while longer, then he's off. "See ya later" he's shouting as he heads out into the mall. Weird, right?. But I was struck by one thought - nicest guy EVER.
So, I get home and I'm all, "Youwon'tblieveitImetBryanAdams. Nicestguyeverwe'reontheGUESTLIST!" which was met with a sarcastic and disinterested twirl of the finger in the air, "greaaat...wheee..." But, we did indeed GO to the Cap Center out in Landover and I roll up to the will call window and say, "Uhh...Bryan Adams has left me tickets..." and the look of the lady behind the glass was easily one of, "Right kid - I've heard that one a million times..." But, she asks my name, flips through some envelopes, and there it was...killer seats and backstage passes. I actually recall hearing surprised gasps from the converted, ...you know, the REAL Bryan Adams fans in the line behind me. Odd.
We're brought backstage before the show to an area zoned off for radio contest winners who've won the coveted privilege to meet Bryan before the show - and in walks Bryan. "Jon" he says, "so glad you could make it - this must be your lovely girlfriend..." And we're talking and joking like old chums for about 20 minutes, then the lights go down and the crowd begins to cheer and my good pal Bryan says, "SO sorry I have to cut this short..." I'm like, "Suuure - I totally understand..." He gives us both a hug and heads out and I'm thinking, NICEST GUY EVER. Sheez.
But we left about a third of the way into the show. (Kinda' not into the music, y' know?) As we're heading out from the admittedly great, last minute seats, he launches into "Summer Of 69" and I thought...he IS talking about the YEAR, right? ...Cuz I've has some summers where...oh, ...never mind.
Now we come to the very best, the crème-de-la-crème. I don’t think there is any group that even comes close to being such a perfect example of ubiquitous musical Canadiana than Blue Rodeo. In the twenty-odd years that they’ve been playing, it appears they’ve been gifted with the Midas touch. Some musical wizard revealed to them the secret formula for writing the perfect pop song, and ever since they’ve been cranking ‘em out in rapid and infinite succession. Their most successful album, “Five Days in July,” went platinum six times over and their singles are featured in heavy rotation pretty much every hour on most radio stations. So what’s this wonderful music all about? Bassist Bazil Donovan summed it all up: “My heart was set in rock but my fingers were in country.” I would amend his statement a wee bit and broaden “country” to include the full range of “roots” genres including rockabilly, folk, and bluegrass. Added to that, the best barroom piano this side of the prairies, and there you have it, the ultimate fusion of badass rock and folksy tunes, guaranteeing them the adoration of fans and critics alike.
They keep reworking this magic combination in myriads of formats, from sugar-sweet ballads to strident guitar solos, and it never goes wrong. Moreover, they tour extensively and make a point of appearing in remote and tiny communities all over the country. When I was a little girl, I remember the way my heart almost stopped driving past the hockey rink of my own small town and seeing the rusty road sign advertising their arrival. Sadly there was nobody willing to take me to the show, but it was almost enough just knowing that they were there. They are hardworking lads and always turn out a good show, in the recording studio and at their live concerts and at their public appearances, building real connections with us salt-of-the-earth folks they sing about and for. Nobody does alt-country better than Blue Rodeo.
"I want my music to be beautiful and unsettling at the same time--something that stops the listener and reminds them of something really true in their own lives. The best songs I've ever heard--by people like Fiona Apple, Jeff Buckley, and Elliott Smith--let me know I was not alone. But don't get me wrong--I hate all that emo shit. It's more about just getting it out than wallowing in self-pity. Belting House of the Rising Sun in my living room at one in the morning when my roommate's not home can be very cathartic. So the goal is getting to do stuff like that better, more often, and for more people. At least my neighbors haven't complained yet."
Buffy Sainte-Marie is the Canadian singer-songwriter par-excellence. Her monumental oeuvre spans almost twenty albums, and she has won many accolades including an Academy Award for the song “Up Where We Belong.” Sainte-Marie seemed to materialize out of the plains of Saskatchewan with her natural musical talent fully formed. “To ask me about songwriting is like asking a patient to talk about a disease he was born with,” she modestly asserted. By the age of seventeen, she was already writing songs and playing the mouthbow. Legend has it that she could tune her guitar in thirty-two ways. Gaining international fame for her “songs of love and conscience,” her singing career did not bear out the early predictions by Rolling Stone Magazine that judged her as “a soprano with heavy vibrato, perhaps too eccentric to gain her mass popular acceptance.” Her tremendous vocal range runs the gamut from Baez to Joplin to Mitchell and back again, yet is always unique and deeply moving.
Sainte-Marie has ventured into rock, country, and electronica, but these projects never garnered as much success as her folk singing. Despite her willingness to embrace the new technologies afforded by digital recording, she has always had to struggle against being pigeonholed into the “Pocahontas-with-a-guitar” stereotype. Nevertheless, her political and artistic influence was so strong and threatening that President Johnson himself supported a blacklist campaign in the late 1960s to suppress her music. Forty years later, her music is still relevant: her songs have been sampled by Kayne West and she is debuting an album of original material this month.
Did you know there was once a flourishing post-punk music scene on Queen Street West in Toronto? Yes, I laughed too, but the fact is that many important acts had their roots there, including the Cowboy Junkies and Blue Rodeo. It also produced the undisputed darlings of the Canadian new wave scene. Though you might not recognize them by name, Martha and the Muffins are famous for their understated yet incredibly catchy tune called “Echo Beach” which cracked the top ten in Canada and the UK and is difficult to get out of your head once you’ve heard it. It is a simple song and charming in its banality, dealing with a subject which practically everyone listening to the radio can relate to: some office drone who hates their job is dreaming about getting away for the weekend to relax at Echo Beach, which is a roundabout reference to Lake Ontario of course. Let me tell you, in real life nobody ever swims there. It’s full of radiation and plastic bags and three eyed fish. But it’s still a great song.
One-hit wonders they’re not: they produced eight albums in twelve years and were influential in the way pop music developed over the course of the 80s decade. They’re often referenced as the Canadian version of Blondie, but I must admit that I like them better. Though their sound is full of tinkling synthesizers and strange saxophones, they are somehow unburdened by the pretension and posturing of other post-punk bands playing in the same style at the time. Their vocals are stripped down, direct, and unassuming. I could listen to them for hours on end without getting tired or worn down by them. The music is very danceable, but in a calm and chilled-out sort of way. And I don’t think there’s any other band cool enough to write a song about the greatest snack food combination of Canadian cuisine. Interestingly, there’s a British soap opera called Echo Beach which debuted this year. I guess that’s another sign that the 80s will never die.
This week on TVD, we’re featuring the theme “It Came From the North,” a look at my favorite acts from your Canuck friends north of the border. These artists achieved enough fame to transcend their humble origins in the land of maple syrup and polar bears, while allowing their national identity to shine through in their music. Can we get a salute for the maple leaf?
While there have been Canadian rock bands making a name for themselves in the USA before, The Guess Who were the first to reach superstardom without having to trade in their passports to achieve it. As legendary giants of Canadian pop music, they were the first Canadian band to chart a Number 1 hit in the States, and the first musicians to be inducted into the Canadian Music Industry Hall of Fame. This notoriety offered them the perfect forum to promulgate their version of Canadian values to the world via their smash hit, “American Woman,” which delighted Canadian nationalists and scandalized American critics. Lester Bangs wrote, “Wouldn’t you be offended by this Canuck creep coming down here and taking all our money while running down our women? Sure you would!”
If that wasn’t bad enough, buried somewhere in the middle of the song are pacifist lyrics which fit right into the politically charged climate of the Vietnam War. Not only was The Guess Who dissing American chicks, but now they were mocking Lady Liberty herself! The degree of offense was such that when The Guess Who was invited to play at the White House for the President and Prince Charles, Pat Nixon made a special request for “American Woman” to be omitted from their set list. This infamous song went a long way towards establishing Canada’s reputation as a haven for draft-dodgers and hippies, but that didn’t stop their records from flying off the shelves. Musically, they represent a nice transition from the pop-soul of the 60s to the burgeoning hard rock of the 70s. The Guess Who remain staples of Canadian oldies radio and I’ve spent many a pleasant road trip zipping down the highway, enjoying the fall colors with their tunes blaring out of my windows. Try it yourself while the weather's still decent!
This morning Pitchfork reviews the new Kaiser Chiefs record and gives it a fairly decent 6.8. But, know what? I just don't care. 
