Paul Simon’s “Graceland” was released on August 12, 1986. I was born a little less than two months later. In September of that year, as summer turned to autumn, my mother and father listened to the album on repeat. They still listened to vinyl (everyone still listened to vinyl), and the record spun around and around in their home in West Philadelphia: South African rhythms and Paul Simon’s hopeful brokenness swimming through the rooms of the house. I was their first child.
The album was recorded during the apartheid, and Simon used the South African vocal group Ladysmith Black Mambazo on many tracks, and the Everly Brothers and Linda Ronstadt on others. The music encompasses everything, and comes out feeling calming and hopeful. The record was exceptional—Simon’s incisive lyrics about the end of his marriage and the problems of contemporary city-dwelling transition seamlessly to Africa, where they’ve been sounding all along. Even if universality is an impossible thing to ask, “Graceland” spans half the globe in less than an hour, and it does so effortlessly and with a personal edge that compels the listener’s attention.
When I was in sixth grade, my mother purchased “Graceland” on cd, and I remember being home alone in the afternoon and dancing to the first song, “Boy in the Bubble” in my parents’ blue bedroom—“The bomb in the baby carriage was wired to the radio,” Simon sings, before bursting into the chorus, “These are the days of miracle and wonder, this is the long distance call”. It’s that kind of sentiment which makes “Graceland” work. At thirteen (at twelve?) these kinds of juxtapositions impressed me, the idea that music could be about more than one thing, that it could span place and time. My parents alleged that it was because I had heard the record so much in my last months in the womb, that I had come into consciousness to the sounds of Ladysmith Black Mambazo and Paul Simon whispering lullabyes to me. I think it was because the music was different than anything I had heard before.
The record deals with the disintegration of Simon’s marriage to Carrie Fischer, and seems to involve a rediscovery of self. The song “Graceland” itself articulates these ideas, imagining a trip to Memphis with Simon’s nine year old son. He sings, “There’s a girl in New York City, she calls herself the human trampoline. And sometimes when I’m falling flying tumbling in turmoil, I say, whoa, so this is what she means. She means we’re bouncing into Graceland. And she says losing love is like a window in your heart. Everybody sees it blown apart, everybody sees the wind blow.”
I’m going to do a series of posts on the record, and on covers of songs from it which have recently come to my attention. “Graceland” might be having a resurgence, or it might just be my own rediscovery. For exactly a year I didn’t have the record, and I missed it. I listened to it visiting my friend in Montreal, and looking out of her concrete block dorm room onto the slope of Mont Royal, about a year ago (the only time I listened to the record in from July to July), I didn’t feel any better but I managed to feel different. And this summer, I drove only listening to “Graceland” for a few weeks. The record starts, and the vocals swell and build. And we have reason to believe we all will be received.
3.14.2007
Fictions, Addictions
Aimee Mann, Red Vines: Cigarettes and Red Vines, just close your eyes and baby come on.
The Lucksmiths, Smokers in Love: Amidst a sea of empty bottles, crockery and coffee cups, using anything for ashtrays, drinking drinks we can’t afford. And we’re still bored.
Kate Bush, Wuthering Heights: Oh, it gets dark, it gets lonely on the other side from you. I pine a lot.
The Blow, How Naked are we Going to Get?: Do you remember the route to her heart from her thighs?
Hefner, Hymn for the Cigarettes: Lucky strikes remind me of my friends out on the West Coast. Camel Lights remind me of my ex-girlfriend at Christmas time. Marlboro Reds remind me of not giving up in Berlin. B&H remind me of not giving up, but giving in.
The Rosebuds, Drunkards’ Worst Nightmare: She’s buck wild with her clothes off every night.
The Snow Fairies, Thank God for the New York Public Library: I wanna read Borges, oh yeah. And I think you oughta read Borges too.
Cansei de ser Sexy, Alcohol: Am I a mouse? Am I an elephant?
The Hidden Cameras, Union of Wine: Pause and rewind.
The New Pornographers, Slow Descent into Alcoholism: Something like this song. Salvation, holdout central.
Magnetic Fields, I don’t Want to Get Over You: I could smoke clove cigarettes and drink vermouth, like I was seventeen, that would be a scream.
Belle & Sebastian, Marx and Engels: She spoke in a dialect I could not understand.
Shearwater, If You Stay Sober: I wanted to die for two days in ’95.
Cat Power, Lived in Bars: There’s nothing like living in a bottle. There’s nothing like ending it all for the world.
Hank Williams, Tear in my Beer: I’m gonna keep drinking until I’m petrified.
Readyville, Avanel Square: The heart’s all cold, but the tongue’s all gin. This paperback is giving me a heart attack.
Okkervil River, Red: Yes is my favorite answer, I took a dancer home, she felt so alone. We stayed up all night in my kitchen… She said, “I know it’s easy to have me. But I’m full of fictions, and fucking addictions.”
Whiskeytown, Too Drunk to Dream: So baby you can leave if you want to. There’s no drinking when the bottle is dry.
Of Montreal, Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse: C’mon chemicals.
Tom Waits, Book of Moses: Book of moses….
Harry and the Potters, Save Ginny Weasley: We’ve got to save the school from unseen horror.
Wilco, Shot in the Arm: Something in my veins, bloodier than blood.
The Finches, Leviathan’s Home: Hey, Leviathan.
Elliott Smith, Needle in the Hay: You ought to be proud that I’m getting good marks.
Rhett Miller, Our Love: Kafka in his letters to his lover Milena was alive, but he was waiting for a love that never would arrive.
Arab Strap, The Shy Retirer: These people are my friends, this cunted circus never ends. I won’t remember anything you say.
Jackson Browne, Cocaine: You look like you could be forty-five.
Mary Lou Lord, Some Jingle Jangle Morning (When I’m Straight): Too freaked out to deal with it all, and too fucked up to care.
Freedy Johnston, Delores: Delores was her middle name, she’d read the book and everything.
Old 97’s, Valium Waltz: Hover above her, but never sleep with her. Watch her through windows as you pours herself out.
Weakerthans, Our Retired Explorer Dines with Michel Foucaullt…: Thank you for the flowers and the book by Derrida, but I must be getting back to dear Antarctica.
Camera Obscura, Books Written for Girls: Now I think separation is okay, ‘cause you’re no star to guide me, anyway.
The Lucksmiths, Smokers in Love: Amidst a sea of empty bottles, crockery and coffee cups, using anything for ashtrays, drinking drinks we can’t afford. And we’re still bored.
Kate Bush, Wuthering Heights: Oh, it gets dark, it gets lonely on the other side from you. I pine a lot.
The Blow, How Naked are we Going to Get?: Do you remember the route to her heart from her thighs?
Hefner, Hymn for the Cigarettes: Lucky strikes remind me of my friends out on the West Coast. Camel Lights remind me of my ex-girlfriend at Christmas time. Marlboro Reds remind me of not giving up in Berlin. B&H remind me of not giving up, but giving in.
The Rosebuds, Drunkards’ Worst Nightmare: She’s buck wild with her clothes off every night.
The Snow Fairies, Thank God for the New York Public Library: I wanna read Borges, oh yeah. And I think you oughta read Borges too.
Cansei de ser Sexy, Alcohol: Am I a mouse? Am I an elephant?
The Hidden Cameras, Union of Wine: Pause and rewind.
The New Pornographers, Slow Descent into Alcoholism: Something like this song. Salvation, holdout central.
Magnetic Fields, I don’t Want to Get Over You: I could smoke clove cigarettes and drink vermouth, like I was seventeen, that would be a scream.
Belle & Sebastian, Marx and Engels: She spoke in a dialect I could not understand.
Shearwater, If You Stay Sober: I wanted to die for two days in ’95.
Cat Power, Lived in Bars: There’s nothing like living in a bottle. There’s nothing like ending it all for the world.
Hank Williams, Tear in my Beer: I’m gonna keep drinking until I’m petrified.
Readyville, Avanel Square: The heart’s all cold, but the tongue’s all gin. This paperback is giving me a heart attack.
Okkervil River, Red: Yes is my favorite answer, I took a dancer home, she felt so alone. We stayed up all night in my kitchen… She said, “I know it’s easy to have me. But I’m full of fictions, and fucking addictions.”
Whiskeytown, Too Drunk to Dream: So baby you can leave if you want to. There’s no drinking when the bottle is dry.
Of Montreal, Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse: C’mon chemicals.
Tom Waits, Book of Moses: Book of moses….
Harry and the Potters, Save Ginny Weasley: We’ve got to save the school from unseen horror.
Wilco, Shot in the Arm: Something in my veins, bloodier than blood.
The Finches, Leviathan’s Home: Hey, Leviathan.
Elliott Smith, Needle in the Hay: You ought to be proud that I’m getting good marks.
Rhett Miller, Our Love: Kafka in his letters to his lover Milena was alive, but he was waiting for a love that never would arrive.
Arab Strap, The Shy Retirer: These people are my friends, this cunted circus never ends. I won’t remember anything you say.
Jackson Browne, Cocaine: You look like you could be forty-five.
Mary Lou Lord, Some Jingle Jangle Morning (When I’m Straight): Too freaked out to deal with it all, and too fucked up to care.
Freedy Johnston, Delores: Delores was her middle name, she’d read the book and everything.
Old 97’s, Valium Waltz: Hover above her, but never sleep with her. Watch her through windows as you pours herself out.
Weakerthans, Our Retired Explorer Dines with Michel Foucaullt…: Thank you for the flowers and the book by Derrida, but I must be getting back to dear Antarctica.
Camera Obscura, Books Written for Girls: Now I think separation is okay, ‘cause you’re no star to guide me, anyway.
2.16.2007
Probably more depressing than originally intended. Or not. Radio: 2.15.07
Old 97’s/Valentine/Of all the many ways a man can break his heart, well there ain’t nothing meaner than he tears his own apart. Valentine, the destroyer, valentine you belong.
Replacements/Valentine/If you were a pill, I’d take a handful at my will and wash you down with something sweet and strong.
Groovy Little Numbers/Shoot Me Down/I can lose, but never again to you. I can only take so much but want much more.
Joy Division/Love Will Tear Us Apart/Again.
Wrens/Ex-girl Collection/Anne slams in, she pour herself a don’t-ask gin. No ice and light on the bitters, I’m done with quitters. It’s just how men mark time.
Cars Can Be Blue/I Can Think of Things to Do/Love is love is love is love, but this just isn’t that. Take a shower when we’re done, but this won’t wash away.
Pulp/Pencil Skirt/I’ll be around when he’s not in town. I’ll show you how he’s doing it wrong.
Mountain Goats/No Children/I hope the fences we mended fall down beneath our own weight. I hope we hang on past the last exit, I hope it’s already too late.
Bright Eyes/If Winter Ends/I dreamt of a fever, one that would free me from this cold winter-set heart.
Pants Yell/My Boyfriend Writes Plays/Here’s some sense of purpose for you: Fuck your stories, I’m leaving, it’s true.
Cansei De Ser Sexy/Music is my Hot Hot Sex/Music is where I’d like you to touch.
Rilo Kiley/Portions for Foxes/The talking leads to touching, and the touching leads to sex and then there is no mystery left. And it’s bad news, I don’t blame you. I do the same thing, I get lonely too.
Johnny Cash/It Ain’t Me Babe/Go melt back into the night, babe. Everything inside is made of stone. There’s nothing in here moving, and anyway I’m not alone.
Arab Strap/Glue/Sex without love is a good ride worth trying, but love without sex is second only to dying.
Hefner/Where Angels Play Their Drum Machines/Let me let you let me down again. One more time.
Why?/Gemini (Birthday Song)/I want a verb and you give me a noun. What’d you dream up while I tongue you down?
Heavenly/Sperm Meets Egg, So What?/Just don’t tell me what to think, if it turns pink..
Crabs/Bricks of Gold/The thrill becomes familiar, and it loses its shine. Will you still call me sweetheart? Will you say you are mine?
Ryan Adams/Dear Chicago/I’ve been thinking what you said is true—I’m gonna die alone and sad.
Magnetic Fields/ Yeah! Oh Yeah!/ Are you reaching for a knife? Would you really kill your wife? Yeah! Oh, yeah!
Mirah/Nobody Has To Stay/It is the evening of these days, where we have chosen to remain. Nobody has to stay, but we wish they would anyway.
Destroyer/Virgin with a Memory/Formative years—wasted.
Liz Phair/Divorce Song/It’s harder to be friends than lovers and you shouldn’t try to mix the two, cause if you do it and you’re still unhappy, then you know that the problem is you.
Okkervil River/Lady Liberty/You say you’ve been used, you’ve been betrayed. That old bed’s been newly made.
Misfits/ Die, Die, My Darling/A dead end girl for a dead end guy.
Pipettes/Your Kisses Are Wasted on Me/And you might cry for some time…
Elvis Costello/Mystery Dance/I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I’m still mystified. I can’t do it anymore and I’m not satisfied.
Jesus and Mary Chain/Upside Down/It doesn’t matter to me.
Tullycraft/I Kept the Beach Boys/The chances that we took, the oddsmakers gave us. Without much to save us, seemed nothing could save us.
Uncle Tupelo/Gun/My heart it was a gun. It’s unloaded now. So don’t bother.
Tugboat/Love goes home to Paris in the Spring/I’ve had enough. You never give me anything. Don’t you know love goes home to Paris in the spring?
Camera Obscura/Lloyd, I’m ready to be Heartbroken/I can’t see further than my own nose at the moment.
Replacements/Valentine/If you were a pill, I’d take a handful at my will and wash you down with something sweet and strong.
Groovy Little Numbers/Shoot Me Down/I can lose, but never again to you. I can only take so much but want much more.
Joy Division/Love Will Tear Us Apart/Again.
Wrens/Ex-girl Collection/Anne slams in, she pour herself a don’t-ask gin. No ice and light on the bitters, I’m done with quitters. It’s just how men mark time.
Cars Can Be Blue/I Can Think of Things to Do/Love is love is love is love, but this just isn’t that. Take a shower when we’re done, but this won’t wash away.
Pulp/Pencil Skirt/I’ll be around when he’s not in town. I’ll show you how he’s doing it wrong.
Mountain Goats/No Children/I hope the fences we mended fall down beneath our own weight. I hope we hang on past the last exit, I hope it’s already too late.
Bright Eyes/If Winter Ends/I dreamt of a fever, one that would free me from this cold winter-set heart.
Pants Yell/My Boyfriend Writes Plays/Here’s some sense of purpose for you: Fuck your stories, I’m leaving, it’s true.
Cansei De Ser Sexy/Music is my Hot Hot Sex/Music is where I’d like you to touch.
Rilo Kiley/Portions for Foxes/The talking leads to touching, and the touching leads to sex and then there is no mystery left. And it’s bad news, I don’t blame you. I do the same thing, I get lonely too.
Johnny Cash/It Ain’t Me Babe/Go melt back into the night, babe. Everything inside is made of stone. There’s nothing in here moving, and anyway I’m not alone.
Arab Strap/Glue/Sex without love is a good ride worth trying, but love without sex is second only to dying.
Hefner/Where Angels Play Their Drum Machines/Let me let you let me down again. One more time.
Why?/Gemini (Birthday Song)/I want a verb and you give me a noun. What’d you dream up while I tongue you down?
Heavenly/Sperm Meets Egg, So What?/Just don’t tell me what to think, if it turns pink..
Crabs/Bricks of Gold/The thrill becomes familiar, and it loses its shine. Will you still call me sweetheart? Will you say you are mine?
Ryan Adams/Dear Chicago/I’ve been thinking what you said is true—I’m gonna die alone and sad.
Magnetic Fields/ Yeah! Oh Yeah!/ Are you reaching for a knife? Would you really kill your wife? Yeah! Oh, yeah!
Mirah/Nobody Has To Stay/It is the evening of these days, where we have chosen to remain. Nobody has to stay, but we wish they would anyway.
Destroyer/Virgin with a Memory/Formative years—wasted.
Liz Phair/Divorce Song/It’s harder to be friends than lovers and you shouldn’t try to mix the two, cause if you do it and you’re still unhappy, then you know that the problem is you.
Okkervil River/Lady Liberty/You say you’ve been used, you’ve been betrayed. That old bed’s been newly made.
Misfits/ Die, Die, My Darling/A dead end girl for a dead end guy.
Pipettes/Your Kisses Are Wasted on Me/And you might cry for some time…
Elvis Costello/Mystery Dance/I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I’m still mystified. I can’t do it anymore and I’m not satisfied.
Jesus and Mary Chain/Upside Down/It doesn’t matter to me.
Tullycraft/I Kept the Beach Boys/The chances that we took, the oddsmakers gave us. Without much to save us, seemed nothing could save us.
Uncle Tupelo/Gun/My heart it was a gun. It’s unloaded now. So don’t bother.
Tugboat/Love goes home to Paris in the Spring/I’ve had enough. You never give me anything. Don’t you know love goes home to Paris in the spring?
Camera Obscura/Lloyd, I’m ready to be Heartbroken/I can’t see further than my own nose at the moment.
2.08.2007
Tell me where it all went wrong. 2.8.07
Ryan Adams/ World War 24/ Time stops.
Gogogo Airheart/ Nice up the dance/ Listen to the guitars
Go-betweens/ Old Mexico/ Go somewhere nice.
Lucksmiths/ Self-preservation/ Try a little harder.
Camera Obscura/ If looks could kill/ Sing a chorus. Try it again.
Coupleskate/ Trophy/ Being away isn’t so bad.
Loveninjas/ Keep your love/ Another autumn rain.
Juana Molina/ Elena/ Oh, children. I want a different difference here.
Destroyer/ The bad arts/ Sarcasm, sundry or something.
Grizzly Bear/ Knife/ A lovely spill.
Of Montreal/ Suffer for fashion/ We just want to emote til we’re dead.
Voxtrot/ Wrecking force/Bring it on.
Magnetic Fields/ Papa was a rodeo/I could play guitar and rope a steer before I learned to stand.
Sing-sing/ When I was made/ Being from Denmark ain’t so bad.
Tom Waits/ Book of Moses/ Recording helps a song out.
Andrew Bird/ Fake Palindromes/ See below.
Prototypes/ Exister/ Try it again.
H.P. Zinker/ Neon Angel/ Bring it back.
Hello Saferide/ Valentine’s Day/ Tune in next weeek.
Okkervil River/ Maine Island Lovers/ The songs, better.
Rivertube/ Every Little Thing/ Lovely lovely
Tullycraft/ Polaroids from Mars/ Let’s kill the mod revival to some applause.
Essex Green/ Don’t Know Why (You Stay)/ Never will.
Apples in Stereo/ Energy/ Songs about physics are better than physics themselves.
The Blow/ My heart/ Stretch towards…
Madeline/ Nobody/ And time begins again, again, again.
Gogogo Airheart/ Nice up the dance/ Listen to the guitars
Go-betweens/ Old Mexico/ Go somewhere nice.
Lucksmiths/ Self-preservation/ Try a little harder.
Camera Obscura/ If looks could kill/ Sing a chorus. Try it again.
Coupleskate/ Trophy/ Being away isn’t so bad.
Loveninjas/ Keep your love/ Another autumn rain.
Juana Molina/ Elena/ Oh, children. I want a different difference here.
Destroyer/ The bad arts/ Sarcasm, sundry or something.
Grizzly Bear/ Knife/ A lovely spill.
Of Montreal/ Suffer for fashion/ We just want to emote til we’re dead.
Voxtrot/ Wrecking force/Bring it on.
Magnetic Fields/ Papa was a rodeo/I could play guitar and rope a steer before I learned to stand.
Sing-sing/ When I was made/ Being from Denmark ain’t so bad.
Tom Waits/ Book of Moses/ Recording helps a song out.
Andrew Bird/ Fake Palindromes/ See below.
Prototypes/ Exister/ Try it again.
H.P. Zinker/ Neon Angel/ Bring it back.
Hello Saferide/ Valentine’s Day/ Tune in next weeek.
Okkervil River/ Maine Island Lovers/ The songs, better.
Rivertube/ Every Little Thing/ Lovely lovely
Tullycraft/ Polaroids from Mars/ Let’s kill the mod revival to some applause.
Essex Green/ Don’t Know Why (You Stay)/ Never will.
Apples in Stereo/ Energy/ Songs about physics are better than physics themselves.
The Blow/ My heart/ Stretch towards…
Madeline/ Nobody/ And time begins again, again, again.
2.07.2007
She's got blood in her eyes, in her eyes for you.
At some obscene level, anxiety is what keeps us going. I live in an apartment a block away from freight train tracks, and every hour or so a rumbling comes and a heavy train carrying things north towards Chicago hums past. The trains are a combination of shapes and cargoes, and I don’t know what they carry. I assume it’s important, but what’s more important than the trivial?
There’s a beautiful winter here now, with snowflakes that look like snowflakes and wind chills in the negative teens. We wake up and go outside, we catch the bus and get to campus. There’s a certain level of commitment to get where we need to be.
I’m behind the times on Andrew Bird—it’s one of those albums I’ve always kept around, but rarely listened to for various reasons (mostly that I never felt like it). He’s been recording for years, and people have loved him as long. I thought he was okay. Before last night, my iTunes counter tells me, I played his most popular album The Mysterious Production of Eggs about four times. But there’s one song, “Fake Palindromes”, which has, for lack of a better word, started to glow.
And this is where anxiety enters. Because, what do we get for listening to a song over and over again, other than the reassurance that it’ll be in our minds forever? Other than the idea that we’ll remember the song, or the song will remember us? Which one of these is the most false?
“Fake Palindromes” opens with a rush of strings that I’m sure was used in the past year for some montage in an indie film. I can’t remember what film. I can’t remember if I liked or hated it, though I’m fairly sure that I saw it (and here, again, some anxiety). The lyrics, which start immediately, “My dewy-eyed Disney bride, what has tried swapping your blood with formaldehyde? Monsters? Whiskey-plied voices cry fratricide”. The lyrics are strange, and brutal, but have a lovely Dylan-esque quality that I can’t help but appreciate. “She’s got red lipstick and a bright pair of shoes and she’s got knee-high socks, what to cover a bruise. She’s got an old death kit she’s been meaning to use, she’s got blood in her eyes for you.”
So, we are anxious. There are all sorts of theories about death and knowledge, God and nothingness. But there’s another thing, and it’s pretty monstrous. At some point, we wonder what has happened to us and it’s not really clear. Nothing is really clear. But the words are exceptional. The ending (and I think it says enough), “Some lonely night we can get together and I’ll tie your wrists with leather and drill a tiny hole into your head”. I could say all sorts of things about the breakdown of language and the utterance of violence and self-blame, I could parse this several ways. But I don’t really want to say anything. I just want to listen to the song again.
There’s a beautiful winter here now, with snowflakes that look like snowflakes and wind chills in the negative teens. We wake up and go outside, we catch the bus and get to campus. There’s a certain level of commitment to get where we need to be.
I’m behind the times on Andrew Bird—it’s one of those albums I’ve always kept around, but rarely listened to for various reasons (mostly that I never felt like it). He’s been recording for years, and people have loved him as long. I thought he was okay. Before last night, my iTunes counter tells me, I played his most popular album The Mysterious Production of Eggs about four times. But there’s one song, “Fake Palindromes”, which has, for lack of a better word, started to glow.
And this is where anxiety enters. Because, what do we get for listening to a song over and over again, other than the reassurance that it’ll be in our minds forever? Other than the idea that we’ll remember the song, or the song will remember us? Which one of these is the most false?
“Fake Palindromes” opens with a rush of strings that I’m sure was used in the past year for some montage in an indie film. I can’t remember what film. I can’t remember if I liked or hated it, though I’m fairly sure that I saw it (and here, again, some anxiety). The lyrics, which start immediately, “My dewy-eyed Disney bride, what has tried swapping your blood with formaldehyde? Monsters? Whiskey-plied voices cry fratricide”. The lyrics are strange, and brutal, but have a lovely Dylan-esque quality that I can’t help but appreciate. “She’s got red lipstick and a bright pair of shoes and she’s got knee-high socks, what to cover a bruise. She’s got an old death kit she’s been meaning to use, she’s got blood in her eyes for you.”
So, we are anxious. There are all sorts of theories about death and knowledge, God and nothingness. But there’s another thing, and it’s pretty monstrous. At some point, we wonder what has happened to us and it’s not really clear. Nothing is really clear. But the words are exceptional. The ending (and I think it says enough), “Some lonely night we can get together and I’ll tie your wrists with leather and drill a tiny hole into your head”. I could say all sorts of things about the breakdown of language and the utterance of violence and self-blame, I could parse this several ways. But I don’t really want to say anything. I just want to listen to the song again.
1.25.2007
Do you want to break my heart? Yeah! Oh yeah!
Swan Lake/All Fires. Sitting in the autumn leaves, and the grass is wet, and so are our hands.
Hefner/ Hymn for Cigarettes. Smoking while laying in bed, a vertical line—not minding the cover of “Heartbreaker”
Pastels/ Yoga. Doing stretches towards the sun in a winter-lit kitchen, arms raised and legs tight.
Billy Bragg/ Accident waiting to happen. A bright computer screen, a gin and tonic.
Helen Love/ We Love You. Sneakers and mud in Ohio.
Grizzly Bear/ Knife (Girl Talk remix). Caffeine overload, and headbobbing, a misguided Charleston—none of these things make any sense.
Arab Strap/ One four seven one. The morning, and choosing to go back to sleep.
Of Montreal/ Grolandic (edit). A car, Tennessee, a pharmacy.
Beaten Awake/ Browns Town. Sidewalks at 5 AM, summer exudes from boring pavement, and screaming.
Look Blue, Go Purple/ I don’t want you anyway. Sentimental neuroses.
I’m from Barcelona/ This boy. An orange bedroom, and then one with trim painted the wrong color.
All Girl Summer Fun Band/ Later operator. An airplane back, a convincing. Lies.
Kimya Dawson/ Fire. But, but. Everyone I know is a liar.
Pipettes/ I love you. I mean that.
Bound Stems/ Wake up, ma and pa are gone. Lovely city streets, right after dusk.
Magnetic Fields/ Yeah! Oh yeah! EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS SONG IS AMAZING, except for the song itself: “Though I need you more than air/ is it true you just don’t care/ are you having an affair? Yeah! Oh Yeah!”
Manhattan Love Suicides/ Crush whatever. Saturday night.
Joanna Newsom/ Cosmia. Monday night, and airport security lines.
Casiotone for the Painfully Alone/ Graceland. Headphones and static, and a reason to believe.
Tullycraft/ 8 great ways. Love, love, love.
Lovenotes and Lithium/ When Love Gets in the Way. Accuracy.
Deerhoof/ Come See the Duck. Absurdity.
Tom Waits/ Goonight Irene. Lullaby, of the terrifying kind, under Little Mermaid sheets which look like water.
Readyville/ Life is Rough. Psychotic behavior, embodied and justified, to some degree.
World of Pooh/ Someone wants you dead. Accuracy, again.
Dressy Bessy/ Side 2. The library stacks, and music squeezing out too loudly.
Cat Power/ He War. A rushed choice, a regret, a triumph.
Hello Saferide/ The Quiz. Don’t settle for less, but on a night like this, how can you want too much?
Hefner/ Hymn for Cigarettes. Smoking while laying in bed, a vertical line—not minding the cover of “Heartbreaker”
Pastels/ Yoga. Doing stretches towards the sun in a winter-lit kitchen, arms raised and legs tight.
Billy Bragg/ Accident waiting to happen. A bright computer screen, a gin and tonic.
Helen Love/ We Love You. Sneakers and mud in Ohio.
Grizzly Bear/ Knife (Girl Talk remix). Caffeine overload, and headbobbing, a misguided Charleston—none of these things make any sense.
Arab Strap/ One four seven one. The morning, and choosing to go back to sleep.
Of Montreal/ Grolandic (edit). A car, Tennessee, a pharmacy.
Beaten Awake/ Browns Town. Sidewalks at 5 AM, summer exudes from boring pavement, and screaming.
Look Blue, Go Purple/ I don’t want you anyway. Sentimental neuroses.
I’m from Barcelona/ This boy. An orange bedroom, and then one with trim painted the wrong color.
All Girl Summer Fun Band/ Later operator. An airplane back, a convincing. Lies.
Kimya Dawson/ Fire. But, but. Everyone I know is a liar.
Pipettes/ I love you. I mean that.
Bound Stems/ Wake up, ma and pa are gone. Lovely city streets, right after dusk.
Magnetic Fields/ Yeah! Oh yeah! EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS SONG IS AMAZING, except for the song itself: “Though I need you more than air/ is it true you just don’t care/ are you having an affair? Yeah! Oh Yeah!”
Manhattan Love Suicides/ Crush whatever. Saturday night.
Joanna Newsom/ Cosmia. Monday night, and airport security lines.
Casiotone for the Painfully Alone/ Graceland. Headphones and static, and a reason to believe.
Tullycraft/ 8 great ways. Love, love, love.
Lovenotes and Lithium/ When Love Gets in the Way. Accuracy.
Deerhoof/ Come See the Duck. Absurdity.
Tom Waits/ Goonight Irene. Lullaby, of the terrifying kind, under Little Mermaid sheets which look like water.
Readyville/ Life is Rough. Psychotic behavior, embodied and justified, to some degree.
World of Pooh/ Someone wants you dead. Accuracy, again.
Dressy Bessy/ Side 2. The library stacks, and music squeezing out too loudly.
Cat Power/ He War. A rushed choice, a regret, a triumph.
Hello Saferide/ The Quiz. Don’t settle for less, but on a night like this, how can you want too much?
1.15.2007
Sweden, seriously.
In terms of music, I am notoriously anti-Sweden in a manner not particularly fitting to the current indie (especially twee) climate. Among the most popular acts from Sweden are adorable mainstays such as Jens Lekman (cute, but a painfully awkward lyricist) and I’m from Barcelona (cute, but kind of terrifying in their pressured sweetness). Though I’ll admit to liking both Barcelona and Jens, I can’t listen to either for a long period of time, usually because their lack of grasp of the English language and forced rhymes get to me—not to mention that they constantly sing about unrequited love. Ick.
However, my new favorite Swedish act is none other than Hello Saferide, a band notorious for singing specifically about unrequited love. Hello Saferide is the essence of adorable—but unlike the other Swedes, their lyrics don’t have such an irritating quality (i.e. they don’t write their songs in weird couplets which rhyme ‘make believe’ with ‘maple leaves’ or ‘goddamn’ with ‘last tram’). Hello Saferide’s last EP (my preferred method of listening to Swedish pop) Woud You Let Me Play This EP Ten Times A Day? has two fantastic songs on it. They are both hopeful and broken, sarcastic and honest. “The Quiz” is a laundry list of things that are important in a new relationship: “Would you freak out if I said I liked you?”, “Can you at all times wear socks because I’m still scared of feet?” and “Do you read at least two books a month?” The criteria may be random and strangely idiosyncratic (staying quiet during Seinfeld and sloppy eating also make appearances), but it has a well-articulated heart. “2006” ("January 1st and it's already clear, it's gonna be another shitty year") also functions as a list song—resolutions ending, of course with “I haven’t told you yet, I’m gonna be with you." I’m also a fan of the resolution “learn a new word everyday, today’s word is ‘dejected’”. I think it’s just the right kind of adorable.
But what is Swedish and definitely not adorable? The answer is, of course, both August Strindberg and Ingmar Bergman, my two obsessively self-involved Swedes. They are adorable in a misogynistic, hateful way (exploring the depths of human cruelty, if you will). I’m particularly into Strindberg, currently. In many ways he is completely insane, but his plays (Miss Julie and The Creditors are especially entertaining) make normal people into monsters, based mostly on their horrible decisions and some compelling character flaws. The mileage Strindberg gets out of this intimate betrayal and manipulation is really marvelous. It also totally redeems Sweden from the cloying, saccharine grasp of even the best twee pop.
However, my new favorite Swedish act is none other than Hello Saferide, a band notorious for singing specifically about unrequited love. Hello Saferide is the essence of adorable—but unlike the other Swedes, their lyrics don’t have such an irritating quality (i.e. they don’t write their songs in weird couplets which rhyme ‘make believe’ with ‘maple leaves’ or ‘goddamn’ with ‘last tram’). Hello Saferide’s last EP (my preferred method of listening to Swedish pop) Woud You Let Me Play This EP Ten Times A Day? has two fantastic songs on it. They are both hopeful and broken, sarcastic and honest. “The Quiz” is a laundry list of things that are important in a new relationship: “Would you freak out if I said I liked you?”, “Can you at all times wear socks because I’m still scared of feet?” and “Do you read at least two books a month?” The criteria may be random and strangely idiosyncratic (staying quiet during Seinfeld and sloppy eating also make appearances), but it has a well-articulated heart. “2006” ("January 1st and it's already clear, it's gonna be another shitty year") also functions as a list song—resolutions ending, of course with “I haven’t told you yet, I’m gonna be with you." I’m also a fan of the resolution “learn a new word everyday, today’s word is ‘dejected’”. I think it’s just the right kind of adorable.
But what is Swedish and definitely not adorable? The answer is, of course, both August Strindberg and Ingmar Bergman, my two obsessively self-involved Swedes. They are adorable in a misogynistic, hateful way (exploring the depths of human cruelty, if you will). I’m particularly into Strindberg, currently. In many ways he is completely insane, but his plays (Miss Julie and The Creditors are especially entertaining) make normal people into monsters, based mostly on their horrible decisions and some compelling character flaws. The mileage Strindberg gets out of this intimate betrayal and manipulation is really marvelous. It also totally redeems Sweden from the cloying, saccharine grasp of even the best twee pop.
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