Thursday, September 22, 2011
Lanterns of the Lake=Gorgeous.
Update: Often just a short period after I make this vacuous posts I retract my initial impression. I will not this time, probably. This is a lovely record. Bella Union's new Devics? A country Devics? The first tracks begins all Klima-esque, oh, my swooning heart. A distant whisper, unfocused electronics, strings, hums and delightfulness. I've been reading Stilwell and the American Experience in China and it is marvelous. Barbara Tuchman is a goddess. I have come to realize that as soon as I am master of the art of the Blitzkrieg that I will embody the reincarnation of Joseph Stilwell. I am him, he is me. All of her terms that she employs for the creation of a psychological profile of him apply just as specifically to me. It is both heartening and unsettling, heartening to think that greatness has flaws the same as I do but also disquieting because born with the same hopeless feelings of inadequacy he overcame them and marched into eternity as a giant of his time while I have dinner with breathless editors about my fancy disguised as a novel. I did actually have dinner with a book editor. I gave her a copy of my "book". I can't tell if she thought that our meeting was a business meeting or a date. Will I bribe her with food and wine in order to have my book read? Anyone. Has anyone read my book? Unknown. I could role play in the guise of Uncle Joe in the boudoir to liven things up a bit. This is me, at Rooseveltian angle. And this, after my earlier laments at the vulgar. My apologies. Second track, the male voice, gentle, soft, alright but then she arrives and it's terrifically lovely. Pianos and strings and dust shaded vistas and mountains cascaded out of the desert sands. They are from England. I conjure speculations. It sounds so terrifically polished for a debut record. Did Simon Raymonde produce? There is a Bella Union sound now. This is almost archetypal. Strings and prettiness, a gauzy artistic sheen, spare impressions of emotion. Affecting still. Handclaps arrive just now and it's suppliant of romance. Third track, more horse drawn carriages on lap tops and a fair distance between notes and her tender voice. Very beautiful. The Chinese do not emerge as romantic figures in Barbara Tuchman's book. When reading it is tempting to think that they have not altered greatly from the great traditions. Perhaps they have. i don't know. I've never been to China. My brother went, to work at a factory to build automobiles, he never actually left the factory except to depart. They lived at the factory because there was running water, there were security fences, there was food. Apparently these things were in short supply even within the near vicinity. Will the Chinese eventually come to love Lanterns of the Lake? Or will it go down the same as Noel Coward for the GI's in Ledo? "You know what to do with the pianos." An inside joke between the General, Barbara and myself. Pianos should be played ever more frequently on popular records. I love piano based pop songs. Is this pop? Sure. Ambient folk pop. Fourth track, very brief, a hymn like quality to it. As being from a former maritime power this references the Sea. Will England's resurgence only arrive when they once again take to the seas? When in gardens all over Albion men and women construct seagoing vessels bound for strange and exotic lands. There are still dramatic sea shanties pouring forth from the quills of songwriters all over the land, it should encourage the national spirit. All the hooligans and chavs aligning behind the gorgeous tones of Lanterns of the Lake. Next track, rock music. A bit Jack. The English do this so much more convincingly than the Americans. Is it part of the national character? This ability to write seemingly literate, melodic rock music. I have been all too dreary recently, all of the very and decidedly pretty. I miss rock music. I miss the Playwrights and Moonshake and Flying Saucer Attack. I want to be aurally beaten down, but with a smile on my face, always, with a tender lash. This is not intimidating. This is the louder version of their quieter moments. This is for the drummer's self esteem. We've built to the crescendo of drums and strings and hypnotic rattles and hummings. Very nice. It does remind very much of Jack, especially on this track, the rent-a-string section to add glossy pretensions. The martial drum beat. The gin soaked pose. This is vaguer than alcohol. This a hymnal to our times when everyone believes very deeply in empty and meaningless platitudes, where I search in glances and notice people not much differentiated from the primitives in Our Oriental Heritage. Where lethargic protest is seen as relevant and meaningful. At least Lanterns of the Lake seem more interested in loss, in romance, in the moves of the human soul through our dilapidated civilization. Will Durant does make an excellent case that civilization peaked with the Egyptians and that we have regressed since then. Sixth track now, after the massive crescendo that ended the previous. Tender laments on violins, feathery whispers, underexposed electronics and a dreamy mix. It's analogous to our current social experience, so very close to cacophony but held together by some unseen common purpose. The drummer is reading Negri in the corner, until rainstorm percussion and drama require that he place his Hatchard's book mark in place and render drama. A lovely piano coda at the end. I have been listening to this album when I drive home from work every night. I am nearly old now. I am aware that I will spend all of my life alone, as I always have, just Will Durant as company and without a Hatchard's book mark of my own. Next track, very Devics, but different. They are for the bombast, the poetic, the less personal. Sara Lov, with her flower in her hair, her not dainty ankles, described a more personal vision in her songs. Los Angeles has a port but it does not have a history intertwined with the sea. he sky. "Here, here, let's just stay here, you should love me here." There is nothing so nakedly hopeful here. And isn't that what is important, this notion of someone that you can just be with and who can make you happy. It is not concerning whether they love the Beach Boys Today! more than Pet Sounds, although that is important, it is whether they can breathe in complementary patterns. Tricks now and there is not much here that resembles Devics. Alessi's Ark? When she is 30 and making records with Ryan Adams. We will lament for poor Alessi when that day comes, from fascist blenders to "Fred Armisen in drag". Apologies to whomever it was from I Love Music that I lifted that from. Christmas consumes me now. It does every year. I wake up and I go to work, I go to work and drive home, in the dark and it is only the hope that records such as this continue to be released every year that carries me through. Thsi won't be voted anyone's favorite record on blogs. It may be mine. Every year there are amazing records released. What a lucky time to be alive. And there are a few that strike one's fancy more than others, you wouldn't campaign for their inclusion in any sort of pop pantheon except in the annals of brilliant human emotion only partly contrived through their sampling. But are they overly literate? They make no real allusions in the lyrics that I am able to discern, but this is the age of the pretense of being an artist or artistic is more important than the concept of beauty. The narrative has superseded ability. And so Occupy Wall Street is an exercise in myth making. Thom Yorke is an exercise in myth making. When I do work, on Christmas, on Sundays, some time is spent unproductively watching BBC documentaries on classic records. The series is titled Under Review and I watched the episode on Hounds of Love and then on OK Computer. The comment to be made is not on the comparative quality of the two records but on the admirers featured within. Radiohead's supported sounded all the less convincing of the brilliance of Thom Yorke because even though they may have a singular vision it is so vague and indecipherable, he is unwilling or unable to capture anything that makes him distinct from anyone else in his music. i am not concerned that his lyrics are vapid examinations of political subjects but that his vapidness is so impersonal. Kate Bush has a lion's heart(pardon the pun) in comparison, so willing to be ugly in the pursuit of beauty. Maybe I should have been the age that I am now in the 1970s and in England and close to the sea. Current track is I Love You, Sleepyhead. As impersonal as a Thom Yorke track but because I don't have any expectations of profundity it registers as exquisite rather than tedious. So so lovely, truly. Last track then. A short track. Pj Harvey-esque, a hint at future endeavors? Indeterminate poetic couplets, next to the last page of Kristen Hersh's The Letter.
Update: Often just a short period after I make this vacuous posts I retract my initial impression. I will not this time, probably. This is a lovely record. Bella Union's new Devics? A country Devics? The first tracks begins all Klima-esque, oh, my swooning heart. A distant whisper, unfocused electronics, strings, hums and delightfulness. I've been reading Stilwell and the American Experience in China and it is marvelous. Barbara Tuchman is a goddess. I have come to realize that as soon as I am master of the art of the Blitzkrieg that I will embody the reincarnation of Joseph Stilwell. I am him, he is me. All of her terms that she employs for the creation of a psychological profile of him apply just as specifically to me. It is both heartening and unsettling, heartening to think that greatness has flaws the same as I do but also disquieting because born with the same hopeless feelings of inadequacy he overcame them and marched into eternity as a giant of his time while I have dinner with breathless editors about my fancy disguised as a novel. I did actually have dinner with a book editor. I gave her a copy of my "book". I can't tell if she thought that our meeting was a business meeting or a date. Will I bribe her with food and wine in order to have my book read? Anyone. Has anyone read my book? Unknown. I could role play in the guise of Uncle Joe in the boudoir to liven things up a bit. This is me, at Rooseveltian angle. And this, after my earlier laments at the vulgar. My apologies. Second track, the male voice, gentle, soft, alright but then she arrives and it's terrifically lovely. Pianos and strings and dust shaded vistas and mountains cascaded out of the desert sands. They are from England. I conjure speculations. It sounds so terrifically polished for a debut record. Did Simon Raymonde produce? There is a Bella Union sound now. This is almost archetypal. Strings and prettiness, a gauzy artistic sheen, spare impressions of emotion. Affecting still. Handclaps arrive just now and it's suppliant of romance. Third track, more horse drawn carriages on lap tops and a fair distance between notes and her tender voice. Very beautiful. The Chinese do not emerge as romantic figures in Barbara Tuchman's book. When reading it is tempting to think that they have not altered greatly from the great traditions. Perhaps they have. i don't know. I've never been to China. My brother went, to work at a factory to build automobiles, he never actually left the factory except to depart. They lived at the factory because there was running water, there were security fences, there was food. Apparently these things were in short supply even within the near vicinity. Will the Chinese eventually come to love Lanterns of the Lake? Or will it go down the same as Noel Coward for the GI's in Ledo? "You know what to do with the pianos." An inside joke between the General, Barbara and myself. Pianos should be played ever more frequently on popular records. I love piano based pop songs. Is this pop? Sure. Ambient folk pop. Fourth track, very brief, a hymn like quality to it. As being from a former maritime power this references the Sea. Will England's resurgence only arrive when they once again take to the seas? When in gardens all over Albion men and women construct seagoing vessels bound for strange and exotic lands. There are still dramatic sea shanties pouring forth from the quills of songwriters all over the land, it should encourage the national spirit. All the hooligans and chavs aligning behind the gorgeous tones of Lanterns of the Lake. Next track, rock music. A bit Jack. The English do this so much more convincingly than the Americans. Is it part of the national character? This ability to write seemingly literate, melodic rock music. I have been all too dreary recently, all of the very and decidedly pretty. I miss rock music. I miss the Playwrights and Moonshake and Flying Saucer Attack. I want to be aurally beaten down, but with a smile on my face, always, with a tender lash. This is not intimidating. This is the louder version of their quieter moments. This is for the drummer's self esteem. We've built to the crescendo of drums and strings and hypnotic rattles and hummings. Very nice. It does remind very much of Jack, especially on this track, the rent-a-string section to add glossy pretensions. The martial drum beat. The gin soaked pose. This is vaguer than alcohol. This a hymnal to our times when everyone believes very deeply in empty and meaningless platitudes, where I search in glances and notice people not much differentiated from the primitives in Our Oriental Heritage. Where lethargic protest is seen as relevant and meaningful. At least Lanterns of the Lake seem more interested in loss, in romance, in the moves of the human soul through our dilapidated civilization. Will Durant does make an excellent case that civilization peaked with the Egyptians and that we have regressed since then. Sixth track now, after the massive crescendo that ended the previous. Tender laments on violins, feathery whispers, underexposed electronics and a dreamy mix. It's analogous to our current social experience, so very close to cacophony but held together by some unseen common purpose. The drummer is reading Negri in the corner, until rainstorm percussion and drama require that he place his Hatchard's book mark in place and render drama. A lovely piano coda at the end. I have been listening to this album when I drive home from work every night. I am nearly old now. I am aware that I will spend all of my life alone, as I always have, just Will Durant as company and without a Hatchard's book mark of my own. Next track, very Devics, but different. They are for the bombast, the poetic, the less personal. Sara Lov, with her flower in her hair, her not dainty ankles, described a more personal vision in her songs. Los Angeles has a port but it does not have a history intertwined with the sea. he sky. "Here, here, let's just stay here, you should love me here." There is nothing so nakedly hopeful here. And isn't that what is important, this notion of someone that you can just be with and who can make you happy. It is not concerning whether they love the Beach Boys Today! more than Pet Sounds, although that is important, it is whether they can breathe in complementary patterns. Tricks now and there is not much here that resembles Devics. Alessi's Ark? When she is 30 and making records with Ryan Adams. We will lament for poor Alessi when that day comes, from fascist blenders to "Fred Armisen in drag". Apologies to whomever it was from I Love Music that I lifted that from. Christmas consumes me now. It does every year. I wake up and I go to work, I go to work and drive home, in the dark and it is only the hope that records such as this continue to be released every year that carries me through. Thsi won't be voted anyone's favorite record on blogs. It may be mine. Every year there are amazing records released. What a lucky time to be alive. And there are a few that strike one's fancy more than others, you wouldn't campaign for their inclusion in any sort of pop pantheon except in the annals of brilliant human emotion only partly contrived through their sampling. But are they overly literate? They make no real allusions in the lyrics that I am able to discern, but this is the age of the pretense of being an artist or artistic is more important than the concept of beauty. The narrative has superseded ability. And so Occupy Wall Street is an exercise in myth making. Thom Yorke is an exercise in myth making. When I do work, on Christmas, on Sundays, some time is spent unproductively watching BBC documentaries on classic records. The series is titled Under Review and I watched the episode on Hounds of Love and then on OK Computer. The comment to be made is not on the comparative quality of the two records but on the admirers featured within. Radiohead's supported sounded all the less convincing of the brilliance of Thom Yorke because even though they may have a singular vision it is so vague and indecipherable, he is unwilling or unable to capture anything that makes him distinct from anyone else in his music. i am not concerned that his lyrics are vapid examinations of political subjects but that his vapidness is so impersonal. Kate Bush has a lion's heart(pardon the pun) in comparison, so willing to be ugly in the pursuit of beauty. Maybe I should have been the age that I am now in the 1970s and in England and close to the sea. Current track is I Love You, Sleepyhead. As impersonal as a Thom Yorke track but because I don't have any expectations of profundity it registers as exquisite rather than tedious. So so lovely, truly. Last track then. A short track. Pj Harvey-esque, a hint at future endeavors? Indeterminate poetic couplets, next to the last page of Kristen Hersh's The Letter.
Monday, September 5, 2011
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