Strongarm vs. Gladhand III

Written by

The National – Mistaken For Strangers

I was like in the middle of that real tricky math question Mr. Foster gave us that number sixteen did you figure it out yet I never got it can I copy your answer before class? OKcool. Right so I was like all concentrating real hard and all of the sudden the phone rings, and oh yeah I was baby sitting that kid again so it was like tough enough to concentrate already and the phone rings and I’m all like WAHHHTTT?!?! Who has landlines anymore amirite? But I like totally pick up anyways and I’m like trying to talk and figure out the question at the same time or whatever and it was like a pervert I swear.

“Hi. Can I talk to Robert please?”

Uhhh . . . Robert OBVIOUSLY isn’t there because, uh duh, I am. What a creeper, right?

“I can’t hear what you’re saying, all I hear is lip smacking. Are you chewing bubble gum?”

Uh, duh.

“Oh, well I suppose Karen is with him as well. May I speak to Oliver then?”

And I’m all like ‘Who is this?’ you know before I put the kid on the phone with some pedophile or whatever.

“This is his uncle Ryan. Tell him Uncle Ryan wants to talk to him.”

So I’m like Ugh, whatever and I go to the other room where Oli’s watching TV or whatever, like I care with what they pay me, and I’m all ‘Your Uncle Ryan’s on the phone, do you want to talk to him or what?’ And the kid just keeps watching TV, so I’m all like ‘Hey kid do you have an uncle or what?’ and the kid goes, “No. I like Aunt Julie. She’s nice. She gave me a jolly rancher. Do you like Blues Clues?”

So I tell the pervert, right, I’m all ‘Hey pervert this kid doesn’t have an uncle, go molest someone else’ right?

“You fucking bitch, don’t talk to me like that. I’m his Uncle Ryan, I fucking raised that kid, now let me talk to him, you goddam cunt.”

And I was all, ‘Dude, you need to see a psychologist you fucking perv’ and I hung up just like that or something. But that Robert better loosen up and start paying me decent if I’m going to be protecting his son from like pedophiles or whatever, right?

Anyways, can I copy number sixteen before class or what?

[Buy Boxer, one of my favorite albums of all time.]

Posted on June 19, 2010 - Tunes - 4 Comments »

Strongarm vs. Gladhand II

Written by

Mountain Goats – No Children

The first time it happened, it scared Ryan shitless. He was sitting on the leather couch, bare-chested because of the Phoenix heat and lack of air conditioning, with a burp rag thrown over his shoulder and the baby cradled on his torso. To make sure Oliver’s head didn’t roll around awkwardly, he palmed it in his hand and was running his fingers softly over the scalp where the skull hadn’t quite melded together yet.

Some shitty 90s MTV video was playing mutely on the television, and that’s when Ryan had the worst thought of his life. He found himself daydreaming about crushing the tender skull under the hard sole of his boot. He wondered if the brains would squirt out, and, if so, where? Would the top part cave first, or maybe they’d just squirt out the nose before that?

Shuddering, Ryan snapped himself back to reality, his physical shudder waking Oli and leading to more crying. Ryan stood and bounced Oli up and down in his arms again, cooing and whispering melodically until the baby drifted off, sucking a thumb.

Soon, this became a frequent occurrence. While pumping Oli’s legs to fart him, Oli giggling the whole time, Ryan would find himself wondering if he had the brute strength to snap one of Oli’s legs. Could he pull the baby in half after wiping shit out of his asscrack? What would happen if he bent a finger back as far as he could? His physical superiority frightened him.

Ryan became so comfortable with these thoughts, he accidentally brought them up at dinner once. “Sometimes, don’t you just wonder how far you could dropkick Oli? I bet I’d double your distance, Karen.” Karen choked on a gasp. Robert stared at his plate and took a very deliberate bite. Oli chirped and flung the ingredients on his plate across the table, then laughed.

Soon after that, Ryan moved out and found a place in Seattle. He grew a mustache and started wearing cowboy boots. A couple years later, he sent $100 cash and a tacky birthday card stuffed into an envelope. It was three months before Oli’s next birthday.

[Buy Tallahassee.]

Posted on June 18, 2010 - Tunes - 3 Comments »

Who threw my toys away and gave me coffee?

Written by

Adam Green – Down On The Street

Jarrod’s red rash irritates him daily. Spreads across the broken skin on his neck. He scratches at it with the hook-clip of his tie by nodding – pushing his head forward and back helps. It keeps spreading, cantankerous, and he keeps nodding faster and faster. His colleagues mistake his grimace for a grin, and smile back. He nods faster and faster. He tucks in his elbows, his shoulders tense, and picks up his stride to get his mind off the spreading red rash climbing down his chest, nodding along. And his boss promotes him and his colleagues detest him and his head falls off from all the nodding. The End.

[It’s toe-tapping alcoholism. Go buy Gemstones. I am aware that he recently released Minor Love (an album which, by the way, Green penned the press release for himself – including this tidbit “… He often contends that nothing lasts…that there is nothing to look forward to…and that “we are all living in a butcher shop” which Leonard Cohen told him while at a Bar-B-Que at Lou Reed’s house…”) Go buy that too, you rich bastard.]

[This video has an alternate ending. Fire Escape releases July 12.]

Posted on June 17, 2010 - Tunes - 3 Comments »

Hook me up and throw me…

Written by

M.I.A. Lovalot (Removed at label request)

The album ‘/\/\/\Y/\’ by M.I.A..

The Message

An intro of modern paranoia and conspiracy theory; rhythmic keyboard replaces the reassurance of drum beats as alarm-like synth swirls throughout.  “… arm bone connected to the hand bone connected to the Internet connected to the Google connected to the government.”

Steppin Up

Industry inspired sound effects splatter this urban feel track; grimy and addictive.

XXXO

As close to clean pop as M.I.A. may ever get with a chorus of catchy techno glamour, but still that wound causing edge breathes and it won’t sit comfortably in your ears for too long.

Teqkilla

The record’s longest track, coming in at a time of just over six minutes, and it is sound chaos. You want to dance to it and you want the dance to end. Better is to come in the shape of…

Lovalot

Underground jungle beats provide the crowd for the surfer that is a plethora of words and rhymes of intrigue – and an Allah reference that may very easily pass your ear on first of fifth listen. “I’d fight – the ones – that fight me, because I won’t turn my cheek like I’m Ghandi.” Maybe Lovalot is to Maya what the National Front Disco is to Morrisey. Or maybe she’s stating her position; foot planted. Either way, it’s wrangled in controversy and is convincingly her greatest song yet.

Story To Be Told

All she ever wanted was her story to be told. Had this not been recorded prior to the event, it’s almost certain the suggestion would be that this song was a backlash directed at Lynn Hirschberg, and for the sake of fun we’ll pretend that’s the case. Again, instrumentally astounding.

It Takes A Muscle

“… to fall in love.” This is a delectable electro-hop reggae blend from /\/\/\Y/\; a vocal track offering the basic (and the profound) as whispers of electrified organ and resounding bass bask under same sun.

It Iz What It Iz

It Iz What It Iz is probably the most melodically moving track on the record. A composed effort of swirling synth and comforting vocals. It also ends with a baby, presumably Maya’s, crying over a looped toy-cow-like sample. Really.

Born Free

The introduction of the single-woman-marching-band on opening with the mind blowing indulgence of damaging beats and that clamorous and inducing surge of bass or guitar or both give us this record’s storm. A frenzied sound.

Meds And Feds

I don’t have any of the productions notes, but if this isn’t a Sleigh Bells collaboration then I’d be very surprised. The guitar riff is furious (as are the drums), flirtatious, frustrated and angry, in-the-know, and simply mesmerising with rage. This is an underground dance floor certainty.

Tell Me Why

The unexpectedly cool-aired sing along of the record, whose only exploration is to ponder varying vague frustrations of life and music and war and more.

Space

Not to use the song title as inspiration, but there are fantastic moments whereby space is allowed as an electronic beat halts for a moment’s pause before continuation and so the air is filled with beautiful, swaying vocals and bubbly, pumping beats. “There’s nothing more new on the news, as I float around in space or the sea.” Reminiscent of earlier M.I.A. work.

Open letter:

Maya,

Forgive me for obtaining this illegal leak of your record. I have no doubt you put tremendous effort in ensuring its level of excellence through the hard work of your craft. I will purchase a physical copy on day of release. I promise.

Be well,
Daniel.

Posted on June 16, 2010 - Reviews - 3 Comments »

They trained in A-V-A

Written by

The Strokes – The Modern Age

Up on a hill…

Is where I’ll begin.

Ten years ago, I first heard this majestic piece of work while in the sun, sun having fun. While it was the first song to catch and captivate the ears of many by The Strokes, it was not my first reveling in them. By then, I had obtained a copy, courtesy of my older brother, of the, now, renowned revelation that is Is This It. It was the inducting album of The Strokes that illuminated so many insolvent and destitute fans of music with actual merit in the midst of a popodessy. But then, suddenly, with an opening riff that could strike a jolt in anyone and the impeccability of these exuberant banging drums that implores a free spirit, the world is enthralled and comforted. Rock and roll is not dead. It has been revived and repositioned. The Modern Age is an applicable anthem to anyone bearing or, even, pining for youth.

Being catchy is one matter but aural orchestrator, Julian Casablancas, never fails to engender lyrics that stirs. In the course of my first listening to The Modern Age, not until the chorus lyrics spoke to me did my ears sharpen as sensations sparked. The resonance of his voice has a vibe of a suppressed, wayward laughter. He reiterates a story, but then the woes of reality kick in and we hear an absolving Julian. Work hard and say it’s easy. Do it just to please. Tomorrow will be different. So I’ll pretend I’m leaving. What generic misapprehended soul, departed from the rest of society, can’t be stolen by that? But hold on tight and regenerate, your breath is going to go again. Following, is the concentrated, blazing guitar solo from a, then, fresh but soulful Nick Valensi.

The musical luminosity that is Valensi’s solo is one of the most imperative, endeared solos to many fans. It’s well-nigh the reason as to why this piece of music is brilliance and not just goodness. Perhaps, it is the whimsical, rapturous ride it takes you for. Perhaps, it’s the experience of Valensi making love to his guitar thereupon sheer genius is the child. Tangling with the sprightly pulsations of a tempo prompted by Fabrizio Moretti (I dare you to resist from tapping your feet.), it amplifies the song to a different magnitude. Along with the firm reinforcing rhythm guitar of Albert Hammond, Jr. and sweeping with the tactful trims of the bass provided by the gracious Nikolai Fraiture, the song is layered and laced with delight. Moreover, accentuating that this is an ensemble of five. Every member is vital to the magic and no one is sitting pretty.

You can steer off into tangents of their backgrounds. You can interrogate the quiescent years. The consistent melodic splendors they conceive, howbeit, speak for themselves. The thought provoking lyrics will entice and intrigue any audience. If you were insipid enough to be unimpressed with The Strokes before hearing this song, trust this is the track that will prove to be cogent enough to bind your heart to this band. You’ll be ripping your earphones off bellowing My vision’s clearer now, but I am unafraid. Ten years after adorning the earth, ten years after enduring skepticism, The Modern Age is still timeless and still effervescent. [Is This It… without [a] question [mark].]

Posted on June 15, 2010 - Tunes - 8 Comments »

I wish you’d change the station

Written by

Steve Miller Band – Song For Our Ancestors

They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined – just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.

Young Hodge the Drummer never knew –
Fresh from his Wessex home –
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.

Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge forever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellation reign
His stars eternally.
— Thomas Hardy

[Sail the seas as a Sailor.]

Posted on June 14, 2010 - Tunes - No Comments »

Strongarm vs. Gladhand

Written by

Okkervil River – On Tour With Zykos

Between jobs and apartments, Ryan moved in with his brother and sister-in-law in Phoenix for a couple weeks. Ryan paid rent by babysitting the kid, Oliver. After the parents left for work, Ryan and the baby would eat unsweetened cheerios together for breakfast, sharing toothy grins over unarticulated jokes. (Ryan had lost his most recent bar fight.)

While carrying the diaper-clad infant around in one arm, Ryan taught Oliver how to high-five. It seemed the most natural expression of male camaraderie available. But Oli didn’t so much slap Ryan’s outstretched hand as much as press his own tiny, ruddy palm into it solemnly. The act resembled the sealing of a pact, unspoken like the jokes — a pact that said Ryan would do everything within his power to protect Oli from the harsh world outside the single-bedroom apartment and that Oli would promise not to grow up to be like Ryan.

[Buy The Stand Ins. Also, read this Believer interview with lead singer Will Sheff which begins with the line: “So the first thing I wanted to ask you was if you’ve ever been in a fight.”]

Posted on June 13, 2010 - Tunes - 4 Comments »

My family’s role in the world revolution.

Written by

Beirut – My Family’s Role In The World Revolution

I’ll tell you exactly how I listen to this song:

Waaarp, air-piano! Ba-da-da-da-da-da-dum!

Pause… laugh along with the band, man, you guys are great… and piano!

Ba-da-da-da-da-da-dum!

Trumpets, tubas, whatever the fuck they are, air-play those!
Drop ’em (I’m not worried if they get scratched) and back on the piano.
My feet are pressing the pedals,

I’m making the sounds ring,
they’re flying,
I’m flying.

My lower back and my stomach, convulsing.

Back to the trumpets! Come on, people. Get in here!

I want to hear the thunderous march of your ambition!
The spine-curling cry of your despair!
March march march!
Grip at the air with your instruments and play a goddam song.

We don’t see the melodies, so why should we see the instruments?

And now strip away. One goes.

The other goes.

Just a tinkling piano.

A smashing on the cymbals. Pssshh!

And a squealing trumpet.

And slump, head down, into silence.

[Let’s go to Lon Gisland.]

Posted on June 12, 2010 - Tunes - 2 Comments »

I left my urge in the icebox.

Written by

Brian Eno – Third Uncle

This shouldn’t sound so delectable, so garishly pretty. The bass is a persistent, knocking intrusion, the rhythmic rhyme of guitar comes courtesy of the wrist that rocked the whip, there are drums who flaunt their singular focus of speed, and then there’s the capture of song by a distorted (once birthed on poorly tuned Viola, surely) lead guitar; the stranglehold of sound. The vocal track of let’s-just-get-through-this pace and delivery does nothing to entice either – (“There are…,” “there was…,” “you…,” / “pork,” “Turks,” “leather,” “shoes.”) So why then does the end result, the union of each individual craze, produce an aural mosaic; how are we unexpectedly privy to something so awfully cool?

[Part some money and in return receive ‘Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy)’.]

Posted on June 11, 2010 - Tunes - 3 Comments »

Over-sentimental nostalgia to follow

Written by

Perhapsy – Mountain (demo)

Editor’s note: I spent a month in Asia, where I grew up, half a year ago. Recently, I found a series of notes on my iPhone from that trip, largely written on airport tarmacs. These are reproduced below. The picture above was taken by my brother during that trip.

I’m afraid time has washed away the memories of my youth and that I will just replace them with the images of this trip.

When I was young I fell asleep peacefully anywhere — sitting upright in an airplane chair, on hardwood floor, in sand. Now that my body is fat and old, I require unsustainable levels of comfort.

I have missed these accents. They make what people say sound interesting again.

I held my hands over my ears to trap in the sounds. My headphone earbuds buzzed like two electronic flies against my fingertips.

He was tan of skin. Grime stained his fingertips and palms. His hair was nicotine or jaundice yellow; sickly, unnatural.

The muggy heat, the colorful monies, the curry aromas — it all feels unmistakably of HOME.

The shoulder is just another lane in Indonesia

I rode a motorbike down a hill going 80 km/h and extended my hands like in Titanic. I had forgotten how glorious childhood can be.

Here cops keep their lights and sirens on perpetually. To pull you over they point and gesture.

The widower maker.

[Buy Perhapsy’s self-titled album. No, seriously, he’s a buddy of mine and needs your money.]

Posted on June 10, 2010 - Tunes - 2 Comments »

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