7/12/14

"If I lay here long enough, maybe the bugs will eat me whole. If I stay here long enough maybe the night could take me home. I won't let go, even if you say so."~Divorce and the American South

I often wonder what it's like to be the kind of person who can be happy just by being present, those yoga-minded folk who can see a blue sky and sunshine and feel at peace, who don't need anything more than the breath in their lungs to feel happy and grateful to be alive. Moments like that, for me, are hard to come by. I've just never been that calm of a person. But, I do get that feeling from certain albums; at least they can chase away the constant companions of anxiety and complication, often through commiseration.

I've long admired the work of Dan "Soupy" Campbell, for his ability to tease out the hardest feelings in realist scenes, his brutal self-awareness and his ever-emotive vocals. I've loved The Wonder Years for a long time now, I've drank in all they offer, and loved them more and more along the way. The news of his solo project, Aaron West and The Roaring Twenties, made me excited and nervous. Listening to it makes my heart hurt in the best way, with the saddest kind of tale of loneliness and regret. Musically, it's the most mature, full, and experimental we've seen from Campbell yet.

The first few times I heard this record through I knew instantly it was fabulous but I couldn't tell why. It took a morning or two of feeling unsettled and a little desolate myself before it fully washed over me, as if I needed some kind of target before I let the arrow drive through my heart. That's because it is really fucking sad. This fictional narrative is fueled by emotion of the most broken, busted kind. This is an album told from a lost and lonely soul from the bottom of an empty bottle. Each scene symbolizes defeat, if not admitting to it directly.

From start to finish, Campbell gives imagery to desperation with his story of a man whose lost seemingly everything but the conscious awareness of how fucked up his life has become. Songs like "Runnin' Scared" and "The Thunderbird Inn" are testaments to what it means to be hopeless, a feeling that shouldn't translate itself to sing-along choruses. But this is where Campbell's storytelling abilities come in, with his full-fingered grip on how emptiness manifests itself in drinking, sunken eyes and late rent checks.


"Well I know I'm a coward and I feel a bad night coming, didn't know that I looked that pathetic." ~Runnin' Scared

When discussing this album, Campbell talks about the "expansive tonal palette" he wanted to create, which I think he hits dead on. For all its loneliness, "We Don't Have Each Other" is incredibly warm, satisfyingly so. His strained throat and acoustic strumming are a pretty constant presence, with background vocals and plenty of build in the rhythm section adding a folk-rock weight. I'm always a bit cautious when I hear about musicians tinkering with horn sections, as they can become gimmicks. But here, they add dimension, a depth just theatrical enough to soundtrack the desolate Aaron's journey through his own depression. Even from this depth, though, the album is never frantic or madcap. The timing on this album is so measured and I think that adds to its literary capacity. We've heard TWY take it slow before, but I think Campbell sounds great in this mid-tempo world, with its varied roots of punk and folk creating this indie alt-rock tale, more in the style of The Mountain Goats or Neutral Milk Hotel than his Warped Tour compatriots.

This is a story told in front of stained glass windows and bartenders, crying out from abandoned streets and motels with memories of nurseries, mother's kitchens and old cars. Each turn around the corner stumbles on a little more smoke-tinged heartbreak, like the regret of watching it all fall apart, the strange mix of pride and guilt of your roots, and the slow, sudden sink into drunken depression. This is captured lyrically, with Campbell-as-Aaron's direct cries for help from God and his departed love Dianne, but musically as well - exemplary of this is "Get Me Out of Here Alive," a slow-burn full of pain and restraint, never erupting but wallowing on the brink. This might be my favorite track, at least it is this week. "Carolina Coast" is similarly heartbreaking as a closer, one that gives just a glimmer of hope that our anti-hero won't give up, as if he's realized there's nothing else to do when your choices are to chase ghosts or let yourself drown.



"Hey, Holy Ghost, why'd you leave me? Where'd you go? I know we ain't spoke in so long, but I've gotta know if I'm alone. If I start drinking, I'm gonna be the town drunk. You always said I should lighten up, so I'm gonna lighten up. I'm gonna lighten up. So long. I'm sorry that I wasn't who you want. If I can't make you happy, I'm no good for anyone. So long. I'm sorry that I was who you you'd want. If I cant make you love me.." ~Grapefruit

I haven't read many, or any, reviews of this. It was a highly anticipated release from one of the most popular artists in my favorite genre, so I think in many ways I was predisposed to fall all over it. But listen after listen, I hear more and more of the story behind this all this and how it was built, the channeling of pain and the setting of a scene. The story of Aaron West may be an artist's invention but the resonance is powerful when it taps into this much forlorn defeat and vivid imagery. It's always interesting to see where your favorite musicians take their side projects. The results can be very disappointing or simply forgetful. This, though, is fulfilling and dramatic, well-thought out and incredibly produced, and mostly just the product of careful, gifted writing.

I'm going to go find a physical copy of this CD today. I think I'll be holding onto it for awhile. I think I'll be singing along for sometime. I think this kind of sadness, captured in a bottle, is timeless and transcendent, like a fire-orange sunset that burns up the sky, and maybe for a moment, lets you get lost in something other than yourself.

"When I met you we were young

And like gasoline to matches
Waking up drunk
Sleeping through your early classes
I grew up and grew dull
And you say you wished I hadn't.
Well I'm drunk again
And you're guilty like you're Irish catholic

You ain't no saint
I ain't one either
Guess that's why I'm lying here
'Cause I know that I'm banged up
I got bruises I can't place,
Oh, I've been coughing out blood.
I know that I'm banged up,
I got bruises I can't place,Oh, I've been coughing out blood.
I got a gut full of ulcers
They're gonna burn out like dead stars
and turn to dust."
~You Ain't No Saint
Aaron West and The Roaring Twenties, We Don't Have Each Other

7/4/14

I've said it before and I'll say it again - oftentimes, the most touching songs are the stripped-down ones, those that avoid anything but the truth. If that means repeated verses, repeated choruses, so be it. The best often bears repeating. This beautiful duet, acoustic and piano-trimmed, joins two delicate voices together with vulnerability, a pretty little sad scene in a familiar sad key with a simple melody. I heard it on Pandora tonight, and thought it was perfect.

"I watched you sleepin quietly in my bed
You don't know this now but
There's some things that need to be said,
And it's all that I can hear,
It's more than I can bear.

What if I fall and hurt myself
Would you know how to fix me?
What if I went and lost myself,
Would you know where to find me?
If forgot who I am
Would you please remind me?
Oh, cause without you things go hazy."
~Hazy, The Drifter and the Gypsy
Rosi Golan, ft. William Fitzimmons,

7/3/14

"I came to get hurt/Might as well do your worst to me."

~Get Hurt 

The Gaslight Anthem, Get Hurt



Hearing this song tonight, alone in a hazy July, I don't think The Gaslight Anthem will let me down. The first track I heard off their much-anticipated next album is a good song but it had me apprehensive. It felt a little heavy-handed, like maybe they hadn't progressed much and instead stuck in their comfort zone by pushing the raucous guitars and lyrical tropes that define them without adding much else. But this, the title track, this is slow-burn and frightful, this is dark and wounded and perfectly Gaslight....and it made me realize, I'm glad they've stuck to their sound.

The echoing backing harmonies, the steady drum beat, hint of keys and Brian Fallon's always on point bluesy-rock paint the nights of loneliness and need just the way tracks like "When We Were Young" and "Mae" do, but with a fuller soundscape. I love how settled it feels, how it sits in this slow tempo before building to the same hurt-filled chorus hook that "Handwritten" lives and dies by. I'm encouraged by the layers, the in-between transitions and attention to detail in the guitar licks and vocals, and that same familiar feeling of hurt - and the way that it closes, too soon and without satisfying resolve, that sounds like getting hurt to me.

Often with bands we've loved for years, it's easy to get disappointed when they don't recreate our favorite albums, when there's so much more of that original feeling and connection you're looking for. Sometimes it's because the band grew in a direction that doesn't fit your taste. Or,you realize that original connection was more subjective, colored by the lens of your life and times more than what this band with all about. On the flip side, sometimes you get bored if it sounds too much the same, if it brings the style but not that spark of newness that made it so compelling in the first place. But Gaslight, since I found them in the summer of 2010, has been in a constant in my post-college years through several of their albums, and I've loved that they've retained so much of the intensity and authenticity that drew me in.

I'll never forget that concert in the fall of 2013, when they came on stage to a roaring crowd in DC's 9:30 Club and launched into the opening bars of "Mae," my favorite track off "Handwritten," killed it, and closed it with a massive insignia scrim dropping at the back of the stage as the final chords rang out. That show solidified what I knew - this band is powerful together, skilled and sound, and they're not going anywhere. Their songs, and their words, will continue to fill in the nights for me, the nights spent ruminating and wondering. 

6/26/14

There's a new Say Anything record out, and I listened to it, and it was good, but I didn't really want to listen to it again. Instead I just wanted to listen to old Say anything, so this evening I've been rediscovering songs from records I'd only given a try once or tonight.

"...Is a Real Boy," is a classic, no questions asked. But later albums have choice tracks that have, in many ways, evolved from there. Truly an artist, Max Bemis never shies away from "the crazy," but rather embraces it. So with each record he's change his focus some, tapped into new perspectives or attitudes. "Hebrews" looks outward as much as it does in. It's incredibly passionate, and breaks and bends with frustration at every turn of a chorus to a bridge.  It's a little chaotic, and it feels like madness in a lot of ways. Though I don't think I'll get too much more into it, I'm glad it retains some of that same independent, forceful rebellion that made his breakout so bold and memorable.What has always stood out more, to me, are the songs that channel the insatiable, the thirst for someone else or something for me, a theme you'll see through it all - and as far back as 2002.

Twelve years ago, Bemis did things a lot more simplistically. What a pretty, strange little song this is. But it's still so weird, so right with all its wrong notes, and for how brash and brazen the phrasing is. With the almost sleazy way he sounds, the way he speaks of sweat and spit, it's a song about sex, sure, but there's something more, in the "sugar" and the "angel" that's coming from more than the physical attraction, from the angle that was missed.

Way to go, "About Falling" YouTube playlist, for bringing me back to this one.

"You're looking quite sharp, sugar.

You've got some teeth on that stare.
You've got them tattered blue jeans on.
You've done that thing with your hair.
This bed could use a secret and these pounding hearts could keep it.
If you could, then I could, I swear.

You turned me on and I'd like to know if you were trying.
Angel we are so gone.

By tonight
The earth bursts open
By tonight
We shed this clothing
You'll see me from the angle that you missed.
Nothing exists, but this.

You're looking high strung, sugar. 

Why don't you sink a little bit?
Into the sea of sweat our skin can spit.
It was good to keep me guessing because you know i hate attention,
But can we get down to it? Can we get down to it?

You turned me on and I'd like to know if you were trying.
Angel we are so gone.

By tonight
The earth bursts open
By tonight
we shed this clothing
By tonight
You'll see me from the angle that you missed.
Nothing exists, but this."
~By Tonight
Say Anything, Menorah/Mejora

6/15/14

"Never thought I'd let a rumor ruin my moonlight." 
~Somebody Told Me
The Killers, Hot Fuss

What a memorable summer I had the year I turned 16. I had the best friends, a part-time job at the local amusement park by the lake, and music, music, everywhere, all the time, on the stereo, in headphones, at the church basement where I practiced ballet nightly.

What a memorable summer that was for modern music. We've seen lots of 10-year anniversary stories and collections commemorating albums that came out in 2004, and I cannot believe how long and short a decade can seem. Perhaps these albums are only so memorable because they were so formative for me - and other musically minded souls of my generation - but maybe, in some way, they mark something of a turning point for pop and rock, the branching of indie into the mainstream, that pre-hipster era when laptop production was just coming into the forefront and beards and acoustics and banjos were just starting to seem relevant again. Somehow, through all that, the concept of the band still hung around.

That summer, caught somewhere between a woman and a child, I found myself as obsessed with listening to albums I'd ever been. While preoccupations with boys and friends and fears filled my teenage head, I had found a culture to immerse myself in, a topic to become an expert on that would provide a starting point of conversation with others and emotional fulfillment in the lonely hours. I usually spent the mornings burning CDs to soundtrack laying out in the sun on my driveway, or for when my friends would come over in the afternoon to hang out in the basement before we walked down to 7-11 or the hill by Laurelton-Pardee school. Chief among the albums I played, over and over again, was "Hot Fuss," the debut from this hot chart-topping Vegas band called The Killers.

From the danger-driven chorus of the opening track, "Jenny Was a Friend of Mine," to the infectious "Mr.Brightside," and the anthematic "All These Things That I've Done," not a track on this album is to be missed. Something about The Killers was so fresh and edgy, without being too far afield from the pop rock formats buzzing through the airwaves. This was a post-punk revival, fueled by pedals and swift snare hits supplementing rich synth grooves underneath stories of sex and jealousy and living fast, but not without a gripping fear and fragility.

"Over and in, last call for sin
While everyone's lost, the battle is won
With all these things that I've done."
~All These Things That I've Done

The Killers, Hot Fuss

Take the lead-in to the chorus of "Somebody Told Me," the repeated hook about heaven with ascending chords, suspended and full. So much of this album is minor and dark, it is heavy but sparkling, like it's studded with cheap rhinestones. I love how Brandon Flowers manages to pull off storytelling frontman without making it all about him (not on this album, anyway). Mostly, one of the main things I still really love about this album is how ringing and rich the production is. Every song on this album has layers upon layers of transcendent sounds, building and breaking , the kind painting a landscape far back in the mix, a backdrop for the band to dance in front of. 

But I don't know if I cared about those kind of details when I first listened to this album, over and over again - at least, not consciously. I think I liked the words and the attitude. I think I liked the recklessness, I think I liked how biting and angry the songs could be without being terribly depressing to listen to - see "Smile Like You Mean It," or "Change Your Mind." I know I liked how addicting this hooks are - the last day or so, I've probably listened to "Hot Fuss" three or four times through and every song is an earworm in its own way. What was extra cool about this record was *everybody* liked The Killers. I became friends with one of my coworkers at Sea Breeze, a kid named Steve with curly hair and tall socks who would always annoy the hell out of me, only after I caught him humming "All These Things That I've Done."  When I'd invite friends from all over town to my house, some older, some younger, some hipper, some weirder, this was an album I knew I could put on that would set a good vibe without being dry, dull or offensive to those with more refined modern tastes. Everyone knew "Mr.Brightside," and then everyone knew "Somebody Told Me," and  somewhere in there, The Killers became a band with popularity among the masses that was OK for elitist emo listeners, too.

This album drummed up a lot of high hopes for The Killers as a band to watch. Sadly, I don't know if they really delivered on that front. I've tried hard to get into their later stuff, and I have done quite well, but it's not without biting my tongue through some really cringe-worthy, campy moments (see "Human" or "Flesh and Bone"). Tracks like "Dustland Fairytale" and obviously "When You Were Young," though, have solidified their image as dusty, dramatic American rock band, one who took a shot in the dark on a debut and created one of the most memorable albums of the decade - for me, for certain, and probably for a lot of other listeners, too.