from the LP The Pink Mountaintops, Jagjaguwar Records, 2004
Stephen McBean’s other band, Black Mountain, have never delivered for me on the promise that such a monolithic name carries with it (too much focus on a musical image, in my humble opinion), so when I was told by a friend about this album of his other stuff under the moniker of Pink Mountaintops, I was somewhat skeptical. Happily, it was surprisingly good, and where his other project comes off somewhat contrived, these songs really evolve organically. This particular song hits the nail on the head for me: lightly tribal percussion, cyclical bassline, gentle guitar, and mysterious lyrics (“…I fuck fire, and I, I fuck rain; if I had my chance, I’d get down again…but the A-bombs are comin’, oh oh, the A-bombs are comin’…”), coming together to create its own little drugged-out scene, sounding as if the Brian Jonestown Massacre went krautrock, or if Zeppelin’s “No Quarter” & Janes’ “Slow Divers” had a baby. Dig it.
from the LP Vento Sul, Odeon Fonográfica, 1972
The cover art for this utterly captivating & enigmatic album is a good indication of what lies between the grooves: a swell of warm hazy vibrations from outer (inner?) space that slowly floods into the listener’s mind like a pool of cannabis-infused caramel, coating your brain with luscious layers of sunny melodies and sleepy beats; this particular track espouses the end of autumn like no other, that lightly strummed acoustic guitar shuffling through the piles of dead leaves as the patient rhythm section ambles along through the calm skies, wary of the storm ahead, heeding the wintry warning call of that creeping electric guitar. Marcos Valle is one of the most celebrated Brazilian musicians from the ‘60s & ‘70s, a perpetual hippie who found inspiration within a plethora of music scenes from outside his homeland, dipping his cup into some psychedelic prog-rock Kool-Aid on this stellar LP (backed by his fellow countrymen, O Terço). Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em…
from the LP Another Side of Bob Dylan, Columbia Records, 1964
Full disclosure: I postponed getting into Dylan for as long as was humanly possible, due mainly, I suppose, to my contrarian nature, which recoiled at the sheer magnitude of praise which has been heaped upon his shoulders over each successive decade; along this same reactionary & juvenile train of thought, The Beatles & Stones both came purposefully towards the end of my classic rock education as well, excepting for particular hit songs which one just knows. In the case of Dylan, he had become a Christian during the halcyon days of my childhood, so by the time I was adopting metal, punk, & hip-hop there seemed very little place for this preachy, shaky old man whom I had decided probably didn’t deserve all the credit he received. “…Ahhh, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now…” Although his early tunes have become increasingly distanced from youthful ears, mainly just due to time, these lyrics are among the most astute & genuinely willing words of all modern music, “…crimson flames tied through my ears, rolling high and mighty traps, pounced with fire on flaming roads, using ideas as my maps; we’ll meet on edges soon, said I, proud 'neath heated brow, ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now…” The cliché is true, onwards from the apex of our adolescence, when we know everything, the older we get, the more we realize that we know nothing at all---we also become increasingly socialized, which sort-of leaves major forward progression at the feet of younger generations’ blind blazing idealism, short of us all resisting what’s come before anyways, which is always a safe bet. Love or hate his voice, but respect the dude’s unyielding insight.
from the LP …e a Tropa Maldita, Continental Records, 1973
Fuck man---as long as I continue to unearth mind-blowing gems like this entire LP, there appears to be no end in sight of my unceasing obsession with Brazilian music, something about the boundless & intrepid approach which gets me floating along through those blissful fields of mental repose and creative possibility. Paulo Bagunça told Rolling Stone in an interview that his music, “…only come’s from within, the heart of the cave, dreams and nightmares…” I’m telling you people, there exists a palpable energy woven into the measures of the songs found on this album, a feeling of mystery, but an atmosphere of celebration; this particular track expands like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, woodsy percussion & driving bassline leading the way, and that sing-along chorus brings the campfire vibe just right.
from the LP At Echo Lake, Woodsist Records, 2010
It’s easy enough to sit around and complain about how crappy Top 40 music is right now, but it’s more fun to expend that same amount of effort (or more) digging for & discovering current stuff that happens to be great, even if the goods aren't getting the adulation they deserve. Singer and guitarist Jeremy Earl is a good example--- this man is busting his ass, helping create captivating tunes for our savaged minds with the Brooklyn crew Woods & helping others to do the same by running Woodsist Records; the DIY spirit flows strong in this one. The mashup of dissimilar noises proves to be enthralling rather than confusing (that sitar paints all the right colors), thanks largely to an underpinning in simple, pop-savvy melodies & hooks; also, his tender vocals match well with the gently witty lyrics, “…up in the air, for a time, let’s go; it’s not what it seems, but that feel lets you know…in an hour or so, I’ll let you know, in an hour or so; as the hours let go, time fading lines, creeping into control…” This one brings the autumn vibes so good…
from the LP Bonnie & Clyde, Fontana Records, 1968
What is it with our nation’s never-ending romantic obsession over violence?! Sure, we could have a nice scholarly discussion on the contextual links between sex & brutality, the symbolic impact of the media, or the cultural acceptance of machine guns---but I don’t have to be back at work for another week and a half, so fuck that. The last escapee from an Arizona prison break & his fiancé are still on the loose, and they have apparently referred to themselves as the new Bonnie & Clyde, which seems like something of a self-fulfilling prophecy if they know anything about how that couple ended up. Of course, that would imply that these individuals, who happen to be first cousins (yes, it’s legal in 19 states), have any rational sense about them, which is doubtful. At any rate, I encourage them to instead direct their homicidal tendencies toward themselves (see: Thelma & Lousie), rather than forcing the police to do that for them, fuckin pussies. Speaking of fucking pussy (awful transition, I know…), Russian by-way-of Paris crooner Serge Gainsbourg enjoyed a short fling with sex kitten Brigitte Bardot in the late ‘60s, even recording a few songs together; this relatively brief encounter radically changed the direction of Serge’s writing, leading him to embrace his inner dirty old man---and embrace that he did, although I don’t think he ever screwed with his cousins. Here’s to hoping these crazy rednecks get caught or off themselves before anyone else is hurt!
from the LP St. Radigunds, B&C Records, 1971
Along with everyone else, my heart was warmed last week to learn that they’d found that teenager alive, the girl who was attempting to sail around the world---but, now that the buzz of her survival has worn off, one has to wonder just what the fuck was going on there. The rescue effort wound up costing Australia & France close to $1 million, which is actually less then what has been spent on rescuing similar adventurers in the past, and if you were a taxpayer in one of those countries, would you be okay with your money being spent in that way? I mean, ethics say you must try to help a fellow human in distress, no matter how fuck-tarded they (or their parents) might be, but perhaps there’s a way to regulate such ambitious journeys, like forcing people who embark on these “voyages” to have a vessel tail them at a distance in case of an emergency. If, as it’s been reported, the family of this chick winds up scoring a reality series behind this, they better donate the paycheck to those nation’s who saved her sorry ass. Ahem. Progenitors of the so-called “acid folk” sound, Spirogyra named themselves after a type of green algae, which is very ‘60s I guess; more importantly, their pensive acoustic tales really move me, conjuring up visions from the days of old, the way all good folk music should.
from the LP To Be Still, Fargo Records, 2009
This colossal mess down in the Gulf of Mexico is unfolding to become both a significantly larger hindrance & tougher challenge to solve than was first sold to us…big fucking surprise. The visions of shit-streaked estuaries and decimated coastlines are only part of the story however, as the entire fishing industry in that area has essentially been put on an indefinite hold until it’s determined exactly how toxic this sludge is going to make living things in the gulf; to families that have seen generations of their ancestors make a living in this way, the idea of having to figure something else out is literally unfathomable, “…higher hills do not provide for hearts born of coral and moss…he’s left a deep desire for a home beside the water…and that voice is never still, you know a voice is never still…” I cannot understate the level to which I am helplessly enraptured by the smoky voice & minor-chords of Alela Diane! Let's hope we actually learn from this spill...
from the LP White Chalk, Island Records, 2007
The thought (fact?) that the image, smell & feel of white chalk dust , as both a reality and allegory, will cease to impart the emotions of youthful pursuit due the increasingly diminished use of chalkboards in school anymore (replaced by the stimulating future of dry-erase and, progressively more, digital ‘smartboards’) is both crushing and, strangely enough, pleasantly dissociating. Remember when that was a classroom chore, worthy of a particular colored star on the name chart, the banging out of erasers, and that strange smell; shit, some teachers who were especially consumed with passion and a need to scribble would wind up coated in that pallid powder by the end of the period, as if they were a pastry chef tasked to cover the Octomom’s birthday party, on short notice. This song is, in turns, terrifying, spellbinding, distanced, and even threatening---and to be honest, I have always been largely put-off by Polly Jean Harvey’s tunes; I’ve always dug her DIY ethos, but the music has mostly left me cold, that is until this opus of melancholia kicked my ass, “…white chalk hills are all I've known, white chalk hills will rot my bones, white chalk sticking to my shoes, white chalk playing as a child with you…” So many of us seek endlessly to overcome & compensate for the dead-end towns we began our lives in, perpetually assured that, indeed, they are vortexes that will sap our souls of the motivation to move ahead---and yet, whenever I go home, there is such solace to be found in those chalk hills…
from the LP Five Leaves Left, Island Records, 1969
Wrapped in the wooly swathes of an aspiring musician’s hazy autumnal days, cult hero Nick Drake’s debut album absolutely radiates with talent and humility, a couplet rare to be found in those heady days of the late ‘60s; adrift in an era that was rife with mega-rock-stars and hectic touring schedules, Drake just wasn’t cut out (or couldn’t be bothered) to jump through the necessary hoops laid before would-be “next-big-things”. This isn’t to say he preferred obscurity, as his poor record sales certainly depressed him and played into the puzzle which was his decline; he passed away in the fall of 1974 from an overdose of antidepressant medication, never determined whether or not it was accidental or suicide. His feathery timbre somehow makes all the melancholy & shades of grey easier to swallow, causing despair to seem almost idyllic, “…Betty said she prayed today, for the sky to blow away, or maybe stay, she wasn't sure…gonna see the river man, gonna tell him all I can, 'bout the ban, on feeling free; if he tells me all he knows, about the way his river flows, I don't suppose, it's meant for me…”
from the LP Emerges, Lion Records, 1974
Autumn along the front range always feels like an extended summer, albeit interspersed with patches of chilly weather; the only thing about that is, when winter arrives, she comes correct---one week you’re hanging out in shorts and sandals, and the next week its scarves and heavy coats. I’m not complaining though, I actually love the diversity of seasons, and winter’s included; maybe it’s because I grew up in Florida, but some part of me still gets all excited inside when I see snow piling up on the ground, even though I’ve lived through enough winters in cold climates to be bored with it. Something about the harsh weather awakens the survivalist portion of my brain, which in turn sends my thoughts adrift in all sorts of different directions, ultimately always coming back to the idea that we are so better prepared to persevere through winter than people in the past, and that always makes my grateful ass settle a little deeper in my chair cushion, bare feet warming over the central heat vent. This lo-fi duo hailed from Youngstown, Ohio, and anyone from that half of the state will tell you, Y-town is both ghetto & crooked; James Traficant Jr. anybody? Also, having spent a couple of winters in Cleveland I can tell you, once summer is gone, you don’t see the sun very much until spring; thus, it makes sense to me that these cats hung out getting high in their basement a lot, composing gently baked tunes and recording them on 4-track machine, the result of which almost sounds like it could be a GBV album.
from the LP Brösel maschine, Pilz Records, 1971
Have I mentioned lately how much I love hashish? The recent explosion of medical cannabis dispensaries in this area has produced a rather competitive market, benefiting the consumer in numerous ways, one of those being a healthy & burgeoning hash scene, the size and potency of which already eclipses even that of the ‘70s, when white people went to Afghanistan and Pakistan to purchase hash, not to drop bombs. Something about the level to which it stones your whole body, the way one good hit slows & deepens your breathing, even the smell and taste of it for fuck’s sake, some of the purer full-melt bubble not only looking, but smelling & tasting like earthy chocolate wonderfulness; and it packs a wallop my friends, right to the dome. There is nary a better soundtrack for the hashish fiend than Krautrock, its hazy freeform cycles lulling you into a trance, tenderly lifting you out of your mind. Like so many before it, this tune comes to life upon a drone of sitar & tambura, guided by the light tapping of some tablas, but soon an acoustic guitar joins the party and things get both a little folkier and tad bit stonier. I have no idea what the lady is talking about towards the beginning of the track, but the German title of this song means “butterfly”, so the flute solo is entirely apropos; the band’s name loosely translates to “machine crumbs” in English, which is both far out and cool.
from the LP Bookends, Columbia Records, 1968
Amidst the haze of drugs & hormones that was my early adolescence, within the passionate deluge of cognition & vain angst, I found myself running away quite often, before getting locked up anyways. Strange as it may seem, I always pumped myself up for these adventures by listening to particular songs that, I suppose, engaged the more romantic visions of a spontaneous existence inside my mind; this song, along with others like Jefferson Airplane’s “Wooden Ships” and Jimi Hendrix’s “If 6 Was 9” helped focus my thoughts on the sunny possibilities rather than the dire potentials. What’s interesting to me, in hindsight, is that many of them were laced with a certain melancholy or impending doom, this track in particular; I wouldn’t have been able (or willing) to put it into words back then, but I think a part of me was drawn to the danger & detachment of life on the road as much as I was repelled by my parents. It’s almost as if Paul Simon was playing with two different chronologies here: one of the couple’s fictional jaunt across country, the other carried along metaphorically by his tale but representing the passage of time from the mid – late ‘60s. Considering Simon’s long involvement in the folk scene previous to the hippie explosion, and his early interest in the Beats, one has to wonder if the last verse about, “…counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike, they’ve all gone to look for America…” was a slight jab at the fact that the once rare & new journey of self-discovery ala road tripping had become standard and near-stale; they were both known for being rather skeptical and sharp individuals. Whatever their intentions, the repeating chorus at the end of the song, when things are at their most orchestral and dramatic, “...all gone to look for America…all gone to look for A-mer-ica…” still gives me goosebumps from head to toe.
from the LP Gorgeous Johnny, Jagjaguwar Records, 2009
When I heard that the Skygreen Leopards had essentially given in and released a pop album (well, as close to “pop” as you’re gonna get coming from anyone signed to Jagjaguwar Records), it initially bummed me out; this folksy duo of Donovan Quinn and Glenn Donaldson have become known for delicately thin folk arrangements which walk up to pop-music’s ledge but never fully indulge the listener. After buying this album however, I must say, my primary reaction was dead wrong! This album absolutely SHINES, and though some purists will likely be miffed by this more-mainstream turn of events, I think the Leopards are far better for going there; a full 7 albums into their career, these guys might just be getting started…
from the LP Chelsea Girl, MGM Records, 1967
In my estimation, Nico (né Christa Päffgen) remains one of the most complex and misunderstood enigmas in the pantheon of modern music; everyone who knew her, even if they only crossed paths for a mere sliver of time, has chimed in with their own subjective theories about what drove her, what made her tick, why she was so unusual. Most observers and “friends” fall prey to oversimplifications and reedy, black-or-white judgments which do little in helping to paint a thorough picture of the artist as a whole person and individual. There are certain manifest facts: she had a child in 1962, Ari, whose father (famous, award-winning French actor Alain Delon) never publicly acknowledged his paternity---even though his friggin’ parents mostly raised the kid; she had several famous lovers (Dylan, Lou Reed, Brian Jones, Jim Morrison, Iggy Pop), none of whom she stayed with for any real period of time; she shot dope for over 15 years, but got cleaned up and was living much healthier the year before her death. People like to carry on about how “cold” she was, how no one was able to really reach her, and that she was so distant from humanity; yet, when you consider the lavish life she led and the amount of men she bedded, those labels just don’t hold up entirely. Many of the pictures taken of her over the years, both official and bootleg, show her in high spirits, cavorting with acquaintances, and decidedly not sitting around pouting; although her looks deteriorated considerably through the decades, which many point to as “proof” that she hated her good looks and had set out to become ugly, I’d like for anyone to find me somebody who shoots smack for a long period of time and retains their youthful appearance! I’m not debating that she may very well have grown to despise the treatment she received in life as a bombshell, and that she may have been proud, to some degree, of all the track marks and wear & tear---but to presume the whole evolution was a pre-planned transition is just thinking too hard. Life happens, you adjust your game as it goes, and if there’s one thing that is clear from virtually all accounts, it’s that Nico was indeed quite the game-player and manipulator. She knew what she wanted in life and she set out to get it, loving to fuck with others’ expectations and coming through successfully more often than not, leaving a trail of scorned lovers and scorched bridges in her wake. This song, written by another one of her notable lovers (Jackson Browne), seems a rather apt portrayal of the closed-off chanteuse everyone paints her as, “…I've been out walking, I don't do too much talking these days…I had a lover, I don't think I'll risk another these days…these days I seem to think about how all the changes came about my way, and I wonder if I'll see another highway…” Again, when compared to her actual life, it doesn’t jive entirely; the truth, as usually is the case with anyone, is far more complicated than the boxes people have painted her into. If any line jumps out at me, not to try and pin on Nico, but as an existential truth that really packs a wallop, it’s this: “…and if I seem to be afraid to live the life that I have made in song, it's just that I've been losing, so long…”
from the LP Hand Cranked, Mush Records, 2006
This is the sound of life passing, sun-dappled and sleepy-eyed, full of rich sepia tones and fuzzy edges, a lo-fi time lapse of your entire existence. Steven Wilkinson is the one-man force behind Bibio’s enchanting appeal, and while he often uses electronic touches and washes to bring out the character of his music, this song sort of purifies everything that he strains to accomplish. Layer upon layer of acoustic guitar loops build on each others melodies, some of them playing forward and others being looped backwards, so that when they are heard as a whole they amalgamate into this windswept vision of existential presence. I have tried to turn others onto Bibio’s supernatural folk, but for some reason it doesn’t catch them the way is has me…so forgive me if I’m just crazy as a loon, but these riffs sooth my busy mind.
from the LP The Pink Mountaintops, Jagjaguwar Records, 2004
