Aiieee Breaking Bad!

God Help the Girl is marvelous!

Update: Except for that new version of Funny Little Frog. Blech. Stiff hearted "soul", no.

Update:: Oh and that jazz thing is ridiculous too but it's short. Why do old people invariably have to go "jazz"? I'm old. I still understand that jazz is stupid. Will this change soon?

The Long Lost is wonderful!

Update: The Long Lost The Long Lost. This could have been Siesta. Who do they need to pay off to make it onto Siesta? There is a beautiful spring day peering in through the window, through the newly leafed out Aspens. My father is old school, he calls them poplars. He's technically correct but we're oh so snobbish about our Aspens. At this elevation they die prematurely, they reach their ultimate demise when they reach 15 inch dbh, cytospora, leaf spot, blah blah blah. Ephemeral trees are best in that they live fast and furious. Not like those stodgy breeds that live forever, a bristlecone pine, casting aspersions at the winds in the wisps that frolic in their shadowed playground. Bristlecone pines are important to dendrology. Of course if you were to study the dendrology record for this year you might miss the fact that we were frightfully dry up until recently, months and months of the dry and then all of the precipitation in one burst. You might mistake this year for normal. But scientists make mistakes, it is what they do, it is why they need welfare. Is Daedelus a scientist? Unknown. He looks pretty nerdy on his Wiki page. Does he mean to have misspelled Daedelus? Unknown. His given name is Alfred. I think he should have kept the name Alfred instead of adopting Daedelus. Daedalus of course is Icarus' father, the attempted murderer of the inventor of the saw, honeys and ants and wax and fodder for Verlaines songs. First song is meandering folk, unfocused voices, a path to an end. What are Alfred's favorite trees? Is he an arborist in his spare time? The Emperor of the Air as Ethan Canin might posit? Probably not, he looks frail and unsturdy, he might be Patridge-like in real life. I don't know. His wife is in the band. She's the singer. He sings, but not often. Here is a song that sounds a bit like a song off of Sol Y Sombra. High praise! If only you knew how much I love those Siesta human compilations. Goodness those things are brilliant. So sad that they have told Ramon Leal to go home and die or something. Today is Sunday. I spent it eating Indian Food and then later I went downtown and sat and watched people play chess and wrote descriptions of people who walked past. I do this about once a month. I keep a bound notebook, gold embossed, it is filled with writings that do not go anywhere in particular, it is an exercise log, a journal of effluvia, a bit like these songs. Are they meant to be deep and revelatory? I can't imagine so. Even with the pretense of misspelling Greek mytholoical heroes it seems like this is just a throwaway record of delightful pop nuggets. Third song now Sibilance, its' a bit clever this, with all of the sibilant tones, silver, slippery, skipping, seven, etc...English majors make decent pop stars. A tempo change into an electronic flourish now with digital strings, his vacant voice, and whirrs and drums, nice. All the while her voice remains aboe it all dizzyingly obscure. What was his wife's major? Would she disagree with the city of Denver's outright ban on the planting of Autumn Blaze Maples on city boulevards? She might. But then Autumn Blaze Maples are just prettied up Silver Maples which fall done and murder lonely people on walks with ipods as companions with but only the slightest breath of wind. Next song. One about girls who wear glasses, are their lives as repressed as we all imagine they must be? I like a girl in glasses. But then I don't make passes at the bespectacled nor to the non-bespectacled. I am equally non-opportunistic. I feel as if I have finished my book. I have written a beginning and an end and some things in between but I am not sure it is a book. What is a book? I have been reading loads of them recently and they all seem to get a bit lost in the middle. Anything over 300 pages probably should not be over 300 pages. This is my thought. My book is not over 300 pages. I could have sewn in some short stories as well. I wrote a story about someone I went golfing with. It was inspired by a golf partner. I don't think she would recognize the inspiration. But then life is interpretive. Next song. Past Perfect. More about grammar? When you write a book is it always semi-autobiographical? I wrote about my life experience from when i was 21-23. It was not an exciting time for me in real life, I was on a path to greatness and then I was derailed. I suppose it is the last time I had any sort of emotional turbulence. Since then I've been a bit of a tree, a Linden, a noble Linden, boring and green, spade shaped, stronger than I would appear. But the hunan parade downtown was strange, there were some people who clearly were part of some existential pageant and others who blended in and others who just looked comfortable being generic and sterile. I am too harsh. I wrote it all down. I also enjoy going to the cemetery and taking my gold embossed notebook, I bought it for myself, and making a list of names lifted from the cemetery plots. Is that morose? I could write a chapter on pogonotrophy! Politicians with beards are not to be trusted. How much is Mark Sanford reveling in Michael Jackson death? Expect him to commission a commemorative stamp sometime next week in relief at the misdirection of the media glare away from his romp in Argentina to the king of pop. Next song, airy vocals, chirpiness, chaotic folk music, I rather like this record. I received a nice email from someone from that Antler collective that I can't ever name correctly. The one with difficult sorts who make sometimes lovely records like say the people in the Knit Separates. it was specifically to thank me for mentioning the Knit Separates. I love the Knit Separates. They were not usually difficult. There was the one 7 minute bit of tunelessness on the album but I found the album for 99 cents, I could bear it. Now Daedelus is singing, it seems like an audition for Scarlet's Well. Nice. I love Scarlet's Well, Scarlet's Well are on Siesta. It's all relevant to someone. It's not as whimsically grotesque as a Scarlet's well song, the strings are serious and the performance flat and decorous but it is very good. Sirens and somberness. Oh ho, it is called Siren Song. What is Daedelus' own material like? He's on Ninja Tune so I imagine he takes himself far too seriously for my liking but you never know. Is it a million miles removed from this? This is all too lovely. Next song, another song about spelling, I like to use the alternate spelling for color myself. Is this album about me? Have they been reading this website and laughing at my Canadian parapraxes? My Nolton Nash wannabe status is undeniable. Mostly it is understated. Mostly it was down to having a copy of Bump Wills Texas Ranger card from Canada that for strange reason was worth a lot of money (American Money not funny Canadian looneys) and I lost all of my copies of Bump Wills Canadian Baseball card. In Canada the backs of the cards were light tan. Why was this? But not en francais. Why Not? This song is a bit of fluff. But I don't mind, it touches my heart, my "could be pretentious but am far to simple" heart. The music here has a Wee Willy Hymn feel, nice, I imagine Daedelus is a fan of Alastair G. All right thinking people are. Nolton Nash had class. No wonder Peter Jennings fled to the USA, he never stood a chance. When Peter Jennings died there were not tributes on most radio stations. When Jeff Lynne dies there won't be tributes on most radio stations. Next song, harmonica, I have a friend, one that I treat so shabbily, that has an uncommon fear of harmonicas. I don't mind the harmonica but mostly they seem pointless. Which songs are they essential to? None. Really. Melt them down, build F-22 fighter planes with the metal. We need the F-22 Raptor because it's super cool. Who cares if it costs 100 million a plane it's crazy one plane can allegedly shoot down 13 planes without even being detected. I'd like a Raptor for myself. I could have an inner city Harmonica trade-in program, instead of the kids trading in their Glocks and Tech Nines they can hand in their Harmonicas and I would give them a mix cd as compensation. A mix Cd with Montt Mardie and Hood songs on it. They would be set on the right path. Have you seen the show Life After People or whatever it is called, it is on the History channel, well last week they went to Detroit and the funny thing is they didn't need to recreate digitally the effects of Life Without People since something like 25% of Detroit city limits have been abandoned since the riots. It was hilarious. Detroit was once a beautiful city, Palmer Park, The fashion District in Livonia, Belle Isle, etc...Now it really does need to be blown up. If only to grant werewolves free range. I could get behind Obama's plan to bulldoze it and plant soy beans for Chinese biofuels. Will it happen? No. We must preserve our urban demise, it's part of our heritage. Dave Bing is mayor. He played shooting guard for the Pistons in the 60s and 70s. He founded Bing Steel. I haven't any idea if he made good steel or not but why he wanted to be mayor of Detroit is a puzzle. Bill Laimbeer has a better job and he coaches the ladies basketball team. Last song was about a cat, not all that great. Maybe this album is not fantastic? Cats are a prickly subject. They don't inspire cinematic greatness the same as dogs do. One of the most devastatingly sad motion pictures ever is My Dog Skip when that kid from Malcolm in the Middle reaches down and smacks Skip my heart died! And then there have been myriad other classics like C.H.O.M.P, Old Yeller, Lassie. Can you name a good movie about a cat? No, you can't. There shouldn't be cat songs either. Actually I can't seem to recall any quality songs about dogs, oh wait, Neil Diamond's Shiloh is pretty ace, so dogs win again. This one is Woebegone, a Garrison Keillor tribute? I don't know, I was just now lost in my Dog theory, too far gone to pay attention to the lyrics but it really was a very nice song. Now a more striking arrangement on the next song, martial drumbeats, glockenspiels?, pretty voices, I love this and now cello, oooo!!! Finders Keepers. I am not much into the words on the last few. This one seems pretty dumb. Is the whole point of the record to write songs about mundane subjects? I think it may be. Pretty vacancy. This is very pretty and mostly banal. They are not always contradictory. Ask Keira Knightley! I need to clean my keyboard, I really should have gotten a black computer. I am messy. I've always been a mess. It's strange because my parent's are neatniks and so are my brothers. I may be adopted. But they adopted me from someone who looks just like my mother. That song was very nice, it deserved more commentary. I apologize. Next one is a call and response Brunettes-esque number. More banality, the existential angst of suburbia, not as penetrating as they probably imagine it to be. Can you qualify someone else's happiness? There are joys in the tiniest of tasks, mowing the lawn, cleaning the water spots off of stemware, Billy Mays filling the air while cheetos crawl down the front of your shirt. His voice is less generic than hers and I can dig it, I might have demanded more songs of this sort if I had been the executive producer. I might have suggested a song to be written about Magic Shell. Last song. Circular melody, cello, samples, Tim Burton audition. He's singing again, I am pleased again. Her voice is too typical ethereal girl affairs. He's got an awkward tunefulness. I don't think I'd enjoy an entire record of his pitiable croon but I like it in small measures. This is a basic love song. It's the appropriate sendoff for the ordinaries.

Cortney TIdwell Boys. I only discovered her yesterday. It's already love. Have you a broad depth of knowledge about Cortney Tidwell? I don't. I don't know anything about her. Except that this album is amazing. Astonishing. Brilliant. You know the story. FIrst track now, it's a bit of a soul flamed relaxed introduction until she turns fierce about halfway through, and the strings seem to haunt more ominously, the rhodes turns sinister and darkness under cover. Was this really recorded in Nashville? It's passionate and exciting and I'm only one song in. When you read descriptions of her they boggle the mind, mentions of Joy Division (not really apparent except possibly some of the drums resemble those on Transmission or is it She's Lost Control? I am not the world's biggest Joy Division fan though I love them), country (sorta, but I'd compare her to some blue eyed soul singer instead), Goth (nah), downtempo (yeah sure). It's really very smart. Second track now. We've moved from some sort of torch song eulogy to love to "would be fierce" programming, distant icy vocalscapes and a spectral presence driven by momentum and dance floor energy. A candidate for a remix from someone less talented than she is. Surely. I am so easy. I had never had even a passing thought of Cortney Tidwell ever and now here I am obsessed and dreaming of those songs to be discovered over the next few days and those which will move me to heights of rapture. Bliss. And the songs, so short, for electronic songs. And her voice, ah, amazingly she even has occasion to mimic Harriet Wheeler on tracks. Those fans of hyperbole are coming soon. It's breathtaking. Really. Today was the anniversary of the Columbine shootings. I had been here in Colorado but a month when the shootings occurred. I remember the day explicitly. There still does not seem to have been a reckoning for the police who refused to enter the building while the kids were being killed. It's funny but when there is a false alarm at my place of business and the police respond they come in guns blazing and really all they might then expect is some Meth head stealing some computer monitors, why not wait for them to come out, but no Dirty Harry's are on patrol and yet when they had the call to protect and serve they failed. The role of police is mischaracterized as such. Police arrest people after they have already turned criminal. When that lunatic in Canada was cutting the head off a man on the bus the police actually waited all night before taking him into custody even though it was only the psychotic, his knife and his prey that were left on the bus. Anyhow. This could be an elegiac tribute to the goodness of human nature that lies in opposition to such madness. It's the most beautiful record to emerge this year. The Long Lost is rather good as well, by the way. Son and Moon, random squiggles, the sort of bits that make up entire tracks for Boards of Canada. Viionaries, behold. Her voice, softer, more fragile, she's gone from seductress, to dance floor hero to shopworn fairy in three songs. Multi-tracked, one seemingly backwards, a thickening of electronic bedding, gosh this really is gorgeous. Is she a country singer? Her label is home to Lambchop and To Rococco Rot. Gladly, for us, she merely destroys both of those bands. All by her lonesome. It's a delicious amalgam. It seems there exist in secret really intelligent sorts who can sift through their influences and favorites and pull out the threads of things that fit their inspiration and make exasperatingly special moments come to life. See also Luke Sutherland, before he worked with the Rot. It's such a restrained piece of work. Now it's an almost traditional folk number, a duet with someone, I think it is a male but it's a squealie male if he's male, it's beautiful, as always. An acoustic guitar, or two or three. Laptop percussion, as in laps and the tops of them. I've found the second record as well, still looking for the first mini-lp. Is it all this wondrous? I haven't yet decided as I haven't listened but I am pretty certain that she must have been born a phenomenon. Will she be a big star? Will she play a Columbine tribute concert on the 15th anniversary. It's slightly sad that the only notoriety some of these kids will aspire to will be their existence in the aftermath. Surely it was a defining moment in their life but was it only a stop sign. I don't know, I always offer conjecture from a distance, nothing of consequence ever happens to me. I meet Linus Pauling and he commented only on my being polite. That sort of thing. Next track, Oslo, here then the Sundays track. Really. If the Sundays had had soul. I relate the story of meeting David Gavurin in front of a moving bus and thinking of pushing him in front of it and then asking Harriet Wheeler to marry me. But it isn't an interesting story because all of the action that didn't occur didn't occur entirely in my head. I didn't even bring flowers for Harriet, not like the 11 other saddoes did. it was a blizzard, not a Denver in April sort, but still impressively precipitative and yet the hall was filled and filled with an abundance of love. Will Cortney Tidwell draw similar outpourings when she plays St Andrews Hall in some future weather event? I hope so. Bring her flowers, and chocolates and a teddy bear for her Boys. I won't be there. I won't think of pushing her husband in front of the light rail line. I have moved past these things. I think instead of making a time machine to travel back to 2007 Springfield, Ohio to watch the Lillian Gish film festival. I could take one passenger, she's agreed, I simply lack the funds to harness the output of a black hole. Next track So We Sing, somewhat conventional, thumping regular drums, her treated voice, a boring guitar riff, but it's still pretty great based on her performance. My time traveller companion is prone to not much liking singers who emote or "dramatise". It's an acceptable blind spot, I don't much like a lot of things I should by rights love in order to make my life more rich by shared loves and experiences but I have this overwhelming tendency towards contrarianism. This has just turned awesome. It's all awesome. Really. My contrarian nature turned queasy today. In my vocation we have occasion to be called stewards of the earth and as such we were invited to take part in an Earth Day/Gaia Youth "celebration" at an elementary school today. Names withheld to protect the creepy but the religious fervour on display was truly bizarre and frighteningly coercive. I watched as an entire school's worth of brainwashed lumps were singing along to Joni Mitchell and chanting for mother earth. There wasn't any science on display, it was a purely emotional projection and blatant effort at indoctrination. Why do they need to start with kids before they know how to form an intelligent opinion? It's scary to think people will use this sort of trojan horse tactic in the guise of education. I didn't offer up any thoughts to counter the theme of the day. I was not acting in my own capacity as sole proprietor of Ron Powlus Role Model and my conformity streak on my PDP is actually stirkingly high, strangely enough, so I was mute only with mouth agape at the vacuous nature of what passes as education today. Next track has been playing, oh yeah, it's amazing. A slow grower, thumping percussion and multi-layered voices, builds into some sort of cacophony, still no thoughts of Joy Division, perhaps a bit My Bloody Valentine on this one, but only if I close my eyes and lose my mind completely. My Bloody Valentine are playing here next Friday. I am not going. i can't afford it. I saw them before they were overweight and interested in things like fiber content and HDL's. They were alright, but I never connected with My Bloody Valentine the way I did with say Ride or Chapterhouse. Chapterhouse entry coming soon, slobbering sycophantism is all but assured. Chapterhouse require a reevaluation. I appreciate Loveless, I think it is beautiful, but the truth is that even if in attendance I would not know or recognize at least half of the songs from it when they played Loveless live. It is all so dreamy, seamless and anonymous. It's the case of the music outshining the performers. Kevin Shields is known for his fondness for pies and his slack work ethic. He's not really know as a performer is he. Besides they play so very loud, I am too old for tinnitus, I was too old when Mercury Rev made a desperate lunge for credibility at Alvins 1996, His Name is Alive opened. Another song is playing, this is a bit of the programmed thing going on, it seems simple enough but it's smartly structured and I think the song lengths are to the advantage and her personality on parade is also what wins me over and then the synth washes or digital strings come in and it's heart crushingly ache filled. I keep getting added to spam mail lists for silly Indie rock labels. Please stop. I am also sent more requests to review records. These aren't really reviews are they? I don't make any objective pronouncements on any record's worth, it is all an emotional investment on my part. I love nearly everything I write about or why else would I feel compelled but it is disappointment that drives me to write about things I hold less dear and disappointment is inextricably liked with anticipation. I have come to the understanding that anything that I desire for greatness will fail to measure up. Better to take a flyer on unknown stars in the sky like Cortney Tidwell and then discover the richness lying in this untapped vein right beneath my fingertips. As I type I am connected to an entire hidden world filled with more treasures such as this, oh the power, my pan is somewhat defective but still workable. Really, when will the cult of Apple go away with the Cult of Gaia. Is it an indoctrination issue there as well, Apple rules the schools, but their hardware is a joke. Really. Admit it! Or don't. Man that song was beautiful, vibes, children samples, magnificent. Now something darker, a jolt, her voice shriller, more desperate, she's gone from Liz Fraser to something with a tender slice of ferocity. It's charming, almost heart beat turned still, a repeating percussive loop and her voice soaring above. This is the single. I think. It won't erupt from the speakers. Not without a good set of speakers but it stirs because of the intensity of performance. It's slightly Pj Harvey-esque. Fiery. People in Nashville think of her? My brother lives in Nashville, right down the street from Trace Adkins actually. Is Trace going on the Nashville Network with Roy Clark and repping for Cortney Tidwell? Is she playing the main strip in Nashville? This song would set the blood curdling there. When I was in Nashville there was a beautiful bartender named LeeAnn who represented herself as an aspiring singer-songwriter and I wonder if she has seen Cortney Tidwell and since decided that she could never measure up to such monumental awesomeness? Possibly. Intimidation is real. I feel tiny in its shadow. Last song. An epic track, N acoustic guitar, MELODY thickening, a rush of end of the affair charged romanticism. I haven't spoken of the lyrics much. I read the Pitchfork review of the Camera Obscura today, written by the person who seems to write all of the Camera Obscura reviews for Pitchfork and it covered the lyrics almost exclusively. It seems brazen to make assertions on the state of mind of a songwriter based on words on the page. Do songwriters sing these words to convey something to the listener? To another object? Or just to the advancement of their art? It must be a combination of the three. Surely you are driven by emotions and strife turns them sharper but misinterpretation is part of the allure of universality that becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy by accidental evolution rather than design. This is just remarkable. The last song, the best song on the album, her voice wounded and ethereal and strong and defiant and the final track as epic struggle is painted with a flourish.

Chapterhouse Whirlpool. This was a terribly important record to me. I was a simple boy. Turns out the second album should have been metal but oh how we caterwauled when we, me, dreamt of it. EMF went metal. It didn't do much for them. Breather! Are there 18 guitars on this track? I was a young idealist when I saw Chapterhouse live in Pontiac. While I was there I was also at home recording the show. I didn't collect the entire moment because the tape was not long enough. I missed their cover of Die!Die!Die!. which was so metal-icious. But I did not miss the cover of Rain. Andrew Sherriff is a genius. Do not disagree with me. He's got an emmy, as proof. But as a dictator he was poor doings, Chapterhouse fell victim to what ails so many bands that start out with such promise, one day the drummer comes in and says "I've got a song". Ugh. This, it's mainly led by an assault of acousitc giddy-ups and tender voices, there is a lead vocal but it barely takes precedence over the backing vocals. This was the Cocteau Twins influence, the egalitarian influence, the middle class influence. Shoegazing was much derided for not being working class. Horror. Look at the working man poet Noel Gallagher writing his laments for affluence, next door to his fellow voice of the working class in Beverly Hills the Boss. Oasis killed music in the UK. There was a spark, a hope, this, Chapterhouse, here is where you laff, could have led somewhere more esoteric and avant garde, there could have been a movement towards the artistic and delicate and complex instead of the hammering maw of Liam and woo-hoo. This is one of the greatest songs of the decade. The 90s. It was never a single in the USA. They released Pearl which was ubiquitous on alternaten radio, one summer before Catherine Wheel's Black Metallic and one summer after Ride's Vapour Trail which although being the superior of the three was the least hit worthy. The lazy gaze-y days of summer. Now then we turn to Pearl more delicate still, loads of guitars, already three guitars, the John Bonham sample and more guitars. You could dream of dancing to this at syndrome. The indie sway, the floppy fringe hanging over your face, the striped tee shirt, the chuck taylors and ripped jeans. But you were clean shaven, showered and not nearly so foul as grunge would have made you. Swervedriver complicated things, I was certain I had to enjoy them because they were lumped in with shoegazers but really they were leaden guitar Black Sabbath aping tools of the grunge. I hate Swervedriver. But then Swervedriver have reunited, to the joy of Jack Rabid and their other fan, and still Chapterhouse have not. Andrew Sherriff recorded something electric, I've never heard it. Is it marvelous? Stephen Patman was underrated. Did he make music post-Chapterhouse? There was Cuba, someone from Cuba married Rachel Goswell, shoegazing royalty, but Cuba was part of the dark period for 4AD along with the Paladins and Scheer, oh dear. I am emailing A Dream to someone for their half-brthday, I am profligate, yes yes I know, I should be stimulating the economy with things other than poetry. I purchased the Chapterhouse Whirlpool reissue when it came out some time back. It must be one of the last few CD's I've ever purchased. I could feel alright if it had been one of the last CD's I ever purchase. I feel somewhat disappointed that in fact the actual last CD I purchased is the Pas/Cal album. I made a ritual sacrifice of it recently, tossing it in the trash to cleanse myself of it and all of its disappointment and despair. It really is a dreadful artifact. I am crying across the qwerty just thinking about it. Literate tears of loss. Now to Autosleeper, a Steve song. Maybe my least favorite song on the album. It prefigures Spiritualized's Angel Sigh by a short period. They shared a label with Spiritualized and when Chapterouse started they were lumped in more with sonic terrorists of the sort like Spacemen 3 and Loop than with Ride and their fey gang of accounting students. Chapterhouse resembled a boy band. They turned softer in hopes of being commercial I suppose, but Everett True wasn't buying it, he was more concerned over Courtney Love's mating habits. Was he in Seattle at this point, hunting down those rare Green River 7 inchers and buying his first flannel duvet. This song is boring and meandering and then for short bursts it is intense and dizzying but it is still mainly dull. it is a respite from the tender delicacies they offered us on side one. The next track is the most underappreciated track on the album. Another Steve song but this time done smashingly. Rachel Goswell sung on Pearl but she didn't need to. Treasure now. More guitars, guitars layered on top of each other but guitars without notes, guitars with scrapes and strums and floating bits of effluvia and an emotion more than the truth. Soft voices in a vague repository sunken within the mix, tucked cozily inside to protect from the sunlight that the notes instinctively shied away from. Was it night time music? It was and it was music for late night cemetery picnics and moonscapes splashed across rain swelled brooks and beautiful girls that made your heart quake with fear standing inches away in the near rain hoping for a caress. I was pitiable. There wasn't anything political about this. But there wasn't anything political about the music that replaced it. Blur went on to trumpet cool Brittania but aside from some sharp duds all that it ushered in was an age of luddite hammering about on guitars and dull consciences all singing as one. Tony Blair killed shoegazing. Here is the dreamy sequence, the artless wordless vocals, the wombedelic sensations envelop a sensitive soul not yet inured to the dreams of the world. Not yet innoculated to heart break by the Field Mice or Brighter, when heartbreak seems so poetic and essential that you almost long for it but instead a dream world of Christina Rossetti inspired images of grace and beauty and a world where boys and girls lived in each other's ethereal experience of sunrise throughout the length of a mix tape. Such times. Next, the baggy tune. The wah-wah guitar that everyone stole from John Squire but of course Chapterhouse have about ten guitars here, still without a riff in sight. Was ever there a shoegazing riff? Noel Gallagher wrote riffs, do you remember a single one? No, you don't. I really do despise Oasis. Everyone should have wanted to murder the unibrow and the they nationalistic celebration of mediocrity they engendered. But they love instead of hate, fools. The brow wan't enlightened or clever or with it, he wrote stupid words for stupid people. Oh well. He's still a millionaire, I am still here complaining about the fact. This one sounded great when driving by in the car, past houses of former high school classmates trying to remind them that I was romantic and aware and they were not. This entry seems all about envy. It is the tone of the times. The national mood here in 2009 is to sock it to anyone who might not be suffering quite as much as you though really you brought it all on yourself. Didn't you? Maybe you are the treasurer of your local HOA, a fascist regime, you have a tidy little scrap book with the approved colours for painting the exteriors all suitably dull Mao greys and taupes. You suffer, barely, those that have children but endorse that they drug them with a variety of psychotropics that can be purchased through the monthly newsletter and you are planning on installing 36 inch high speed bumps with spike strips embedded within to keep the Jehovah Witnesses out. And the Jehovah Witnesses they are listening to Chapterhouse! Really. I am listening to April and it is a symphony for twee drone, loads of guitar and a whisper and a vacuous sigh and all of the emotions left vacant by the listless performance. It's color by numbers for a sentimental sap like me, a palette rich with dull torpors, warm nostalgia, tepid earnestness. The climax now, seventen guitars, he's about to express some sort of euphoric glee through involuntary exhalation. Beautiful. Beautiful people would have listened to Chapterhouse. If only Grey's Anatomy had been around in 1991. Andrew Sherriff as the most shaggable man in Britain. And the archetypal indie OFM. I am disillusioned by music mainly. I could join the board of an HOA, become Secretary, demand that people install wireless speakers that look like rocks and demand that Chapterhouse be played 24 hours a day. Rock music. I could threaten them with a lien on their home if they refused. Cheers. I passed a workmate on my bike ride on Saturday. Riding a bicycle is making my arms longer. Why is this? I notice today that I am able to sit further away from the keyboard and type comfortably. Maybe I am undergoing some sort of Lamarckian transformation and soon I'll be able to reach around corners and change radio stations all over the world to the soft drone of Guilt. I remember the Prodigy shoegazing boards, a gentle enclave of Chapterhouse lovers united in cause to free the world of the tyranny of Eddie Vedder and Kurt Cobain. There I was watching some show on the most important songs or greatest songs or whatever songs of the 1990s and Pearl Jam always shows up around the top ten but then there is Nirvana in the top spot, without fail. How is this? Nirvana didn't mean much to the kids I knew. I was in college during Nirvana day and when the kids would spontaneously break into songs in Histology class it was either Black by Pearl Jam or Make'em Laugh. It wasn't ever anyone busting out with 'my libido, a mosquito'. I remember there was once a Spin magazine article with a poetry professor comparing the lyrics of Michael Stipe and Eddie Vedder and Eddie came out on top. By a wide margin he dominated the King of REM. At the time I must have thought that this was preposterous. Had Out of Time come out yet to disillusion me from REM? I can't remember. But Pearl Jam changed a lot more lives than Nirvana ever did. Eddie Vedder may not have actually meant it but he was a convincing actor if he didn't. Sure it was all a load of contrived sharpies and cargo shorts but Pearl Jam deserve your respect much more than Nirvana ever did. I've been typing over the second best song on the album If You Don't Want me, forgive me. This is the second version. I posted the original a while ago, I think it was on this blog. It is, however, most magnificent in this its updated form. The album is worth buying for this alone. Now the last song. So so sad, ethereal doings and etchings from Robin Guthrie and the boyband/shoegazers. It could have fit well on Spooky. I remember the tears of angst and betrayal that were shed over Robin Guthrie's alleged desecration of Lush's genius on Spooky. You know those songs weren't so great were they and then Lush turned rather dismal really soon afterwards did they not? They did. I am writing out my audition for Tangents. The post-Tangents version of Tangents. Now the tender guitar lines spiraling around the center and the vocals drift in the outer orbit of the maelstrom of teen melancholy. The most important record of my youth? Maybe the second most important. Really.

It was record store day. I haven't purchased anything in a record store in years. Am I just dreadful then? The problem with record stores is they don't normally have any good records in them.

I have been placed under arrest by spam robots.

Brobdingnagian snowflakes are falling from the afternoon sky. Erasure alights my already leavened spirit. Andy Bell longs to be a fisherman. Out on a trawler, bursting forth with 'blue savannah song' as the sun glows gently across the sea.

Montt Mardie Skaizerkite. My eye continues to twitch. It, my own spasm, has taken on a romanticised life of its own "alien eyelid syndrome", Alec Baldwin can narrate a faux serious documentary on it. My eye is dead tired in it's complicity in my own painful existence. All of my excitement comes from work. I am taking more initiiative to be a work jerk it would appear. I recommended firing someone who wasn't fired. I saw him this morning in the frozen foods section. I would have fired myself if I had done what he did. I quit for less. I wasn't allowed to quit. Welcome to Stalingrad. There is a new abundance of corny, shiny Swedish indie "soul". Montt Mardie came before Napoleon. But after Corduroy UTD. I miss Corduroy UTD. Don't you? Montt Mardie's not nearly as convincing as a singer as the handsome young man from Napoleon. He wears ascots and has loads of hair and is prone to not shaving. Perhaps John Mcentire should have produced. This record seems less "high school drama", to borrow one of his song titles, and more, ahem, adult. Mature? Possibly. Second track now, One Kiss, romance has replaced melodrama. It is an improvement. Montt Mardie was once a one man concern. As such it might be difficult to compete with the likes of the 139 strong Napoleon. Have they their own brand of military elite? Immortals? What has France to do with Swedish faux soul anyhow? This sounds more like a collective effort than in the past, it doesn't sound as if it was entirely gestated in his bedroom. Alone. Though perhaps this only means that he has upgraded his software. The first record was tinny drum machines and clever lyrics and boyish naivety, the second record was partly that and partly something smarter and more interesting. This one is mostly organic and stirring and as large as his life as an artist. Third song. Some sort of Celtic jig or something, strange, this is their Pearlfishers record? When they go from mediocre amateurs to auteurs? Surely not. He's not David Scott. He's not even Michael Scot. I almost bought an Iphone today but who would I call and who would call me? I was intending to use it as a level. What would Michael Scot have thought of an Iphone? Would he have fetishized it as so many brainless tarts have today? Are today's vapid geeks assuming the inheritance of the brave souls of Toledo who carried forward the greatest traditions of Western Civilization? I assume Micahel Scot knew how lucky he was. I doubt that the situation today is analogous. This song's a trifle mediocre. I am not much for the guitar, not for the samples and not for the voice. Hmmm...maybe that song is not for me. Now to singer songwriter territory. Many are demanding a movie be made about the pirate escapades this weekend. I'd rather see a movie about Peter Abelard. Please. The cult of Apple may become one of the world's major religions one day. Will Steve Jobs have his own council of nicea? In 300 years when the average temperature is 193 degres fahrenheit and everyone is permanently tan and drinking pina coladas. 88% of Americans believe Jesus was real. Ah. But people who believe in God do a lot of godless things. That's alright. They could always act contrite by driving a Prius. In the next world Gaia will smite those who drive a Ford Excursion. This record's alright. I really don't love it though. Not like I love the Napoleon album. I think this one's meant to be a Hall & Oates homage but he's not Darryl Hall is he. It's pretty good, maybe a bit Joe Jackson? But he's not Joe Jackson although he does seem a nice boy. I can act condescending, I am old, I have accomplished so little. This one is called Bang Bang(Echo in Warsaw). It is the best track so far. Do Swedes have natural soul? I alays thought the national malady was melancholy. But that's what making generalizations gets you. A head in a hamper and a realization that I do not have any friends. The one person who is my friend I act weirdly around, completely different to how I act around every other person that I might possibly interact with. Mostly because I believe I know them but then there was the distance of time and they changed and I stayed the same. I have the same stories. The same nervous twitches with new spasmodic eye. The same worries of boring through their skull with my tedium so I don't say anything. Ah. Wise. Next song. A duet. This is part of the Pearlfishers thing I am feeling from this album. The adult contemporary smarm soul style that David Scott pulls off with great aplomb but Montt Mardie needs some work. He's too earnest. David Scott is more wedded to the idea of performance I think. I could be completely off base. Orange Juice might also be a touchstone. Is it a Joy Division reference? The new corporate "indie" station also plays Joy Division regularly and then they will play the Editors and Interpol in succession. Is this cheek? Are they clever enough for cheek? Possibly. Of course there are those who claim that Interpol sounds nothing at all like Joy Division. And...uh he does sound a bit like the guy from Kitchens of Distinction but clearly there is a love letter to Atrocity Exhibition underneath the pillow of the guy from Interpol who hasn't been outed for having a well travelled STD. This is so last Pearlfishers record, Womack and Womack. Soulful. Next track, nice, perhaps this is a really good record. This has some Dexy's spirit about it. Strings, biggish sound, nice vocals, very very good. It sounds smaller than the Napoleon record. perhaps they should work together. The NHL playoffs have begun. We are very excited over this as well. We haven't watched a single regular season game, not one, but we will watch every evening now. There is a ridiculous billboard nearby with soccer players aboard and the caption "Passion". Ha. I think maybe he's a big fan of David Scott. There need to be more David Scott fans in order for the world to right itself and for the population to come to its senses. I sent in my tax bill. I owed 126 dollars. I had capital gains. Yes, Turkey was good to me before the crash. I need make sure that i declare my measly 200 dollars in gains and somehow overlook my monumental losses from my 401k. Shouldn't the risk be the tax? Ah but I need to contribute to the mortgage bailout. I have a database of homes now that I could afford. I am frightened of the government though, I am convinced that when I buy a home they will somehow criminalize buying a home, or criminalize the thought of buying a home, or I'll get shipped to Durban and have to repent for my sins against the United Arab Emirates. Next song. Piano, Billy Joel meets the Pearlfishers. Nice. For the Longest Time was on the radio today, I was miffed when I realized that I was only catching the last few moments. But it was alright Just the Way You Are came on another station only a few moments later. Today is the aftermath of a very large winter storm. In April. Luckily, for my sanity, it was mainly rain on the plain, and not snow, though there were maybe 8 inches of snow lying about. It could have been 8 feet. It could have been Tuesday. I could be marxist. My feet are wet beyond human tolerance of wetness. I feel cold. It is meant to be 75 in a few days. All of the snow will melt and will travel through storm drains and tributaries and canals and estuaries and arrive in Nebraska in a few weeks. Unemployment is rather low in Nebraska. Is it the Saddle Creek effect? Emo is a growth enterprise. Next track, big horns, whispered vocals. Very David Scott. He should feel honored to be compared to a legend like David Scott. I rather like this. This is the Am morning radio lite rock album. Tender, dreamy, competent, professional, really good! He's no Henrik Zetterberg. Henrike Zetterberg is magnificent. Napoleon is about setting medium sized dance floors aflame with corny, Swedish soul, Montt Mardie is about playing solo concertos for the lonely and alone. Both are honorable positions to be accorded the deepest respect. This is very smart. He's grown with each record, perhaps next record he'll make his Neil Hannon 'happy meal' record. He'll record with the Topeka Orchestra and write songs about horses and Kate Beckinsale movies. Cold Comfort Farm has been taken, perhaps Underworld 2. Next song, more grown up guitar, more Dexy's-ish soul. According to a post on I Love Music Searching for the Young Soul Rebels received but one star when it was reviewed by Rolling Stone. What madness is this? Will they besmirch the Blue Ox Babes similarly? Possibly they have run out of stars after giving 5 stars to every record ever released by Bruce Springsteen. Apparently he's a cheater and a botoxer, Brooooce, or so it is alleged by the corporate indie DJ's who feel it is their duty to disparage non-corporate indie rock. They would not understand my tears of joy over Just the Way You Are. This is epic and romantic and dreamy. It is too idealistic to be the Pearlfishers, there is a boyishness about David Scott but I think only in the nostalgic remedies in his daydreams where this is adolescence suspended. Different flavors of the same thing. This is an interview with Graeme Downes. I am not sure I am happy about discovering it. While listening I had the image of Ward Churchill run through my mind. Oh dear this song is silly, dungeons and dragons and star wars references, he does sort of look the part of shined up nerd. Graeme's a smart man, sure, but he's on and on about politics these days. I suspect his new record with the dreadful title Corporate Moronic will be nothing but impotent rage over the dismantling of the Common Agriculture Policy, rants against John Key and some sub Blubird bilge about global warming. it does not portend glory. His last record was actually a bit of a drag, but it is a complicated mess. We didn't love it. Is the use of "we" as annoying as I intend it to be? Annie, the reprise. Is there a real Annie? His own AnneMari? This is the big hearted send off the sappy love song, a declaration for the human right to unrequited love, viking vocals, tenderness and a big splash.

The new Montt Mardie is "nice".

The next Moscow Olympics record, if there is one, will be wonderful.

Is it my left eyelid or my left eyeball that is in regular spasm?

Bobby Baby seems to make a lot of records for someone as dull as a fro.

I've hidden the only copy of The Ten Cent Plague somewhere within the walls of Koelbel library. Sorry.

Just watched the clip of Pains of Being Pure At Heart on Carson Daly. Mediocre. The album is great though really the song they played sounded just the same as it would have if they had placed a boombox in the middle of the stage. Compare this with Beirut's recent appearance on Letterman which had all of the earmarks of ambition. I know, that's a dirty word.