Saturday, June 29, 2013

Candy Claws Ceres and Calypso in the Deep Time.  Fort Collins' mightiest!  Back to plug their board into the tall fescue and find it stunning that that particular cultivar is digital rather than analogue.  They are all about working at the upper levels of the eq.  "Joel, this is not a toy for you and your friends.".  Hippies should be more gentle.  Firebreather is more gentle.  On Firebreather records, which are, ostensibly, Candy Claws records, the music and the voice live separate existences, brought together in redefined marriage by Anthony Kennedy's divine jurisprudence.  Strange that as a society has decentralized the entire concept of marriage in the foundation of western civilization that all of a sudden a person's worth is decided strictly upon one issue.  It's true, marriage is overrated.  I am married.  I love being married and everyone should be married.  But truly, it is overrated in the sense of its cultural importance.  I have been reading The Story of Civilization and it is a constant refrain, people rarely married for love, it was an obligation to the bloodline, to the family, to foreign policy, work rules, etc...But now apparently love is all we need.  It isn't.  We also need Candy Claws records.  They are certainly free of cynicism and this record could be a dream interrupted, perhaps they need to dial down the dosage of the Ambien, perhaps instead of the cables being plugged into the turf being watered outside the studio window they were attached as electrodes to the hippie head and of the Candy dude.  His brain a mishmash of static and COBE radiation.  Robert Goddard could be a distant relative.  As a Candy Claws record it is more similar to the first record than the spaced out last record.  Short songs, pop song structures, it could have started life as a Firebreather record for all we know.  It is a concept record about something cosmic and far out and it is a lovely one.  But these days I listen to records with hope that I can play these songs in the car, on a hill covered highway, when dark and my wife will turn to me and smile and squeeze my hand gently as it rests on the gear shift.  But when I play for her the new Candy Claws record and the mélange of distortion and impenetrableness comes forward for a slight introduction I imagine her turning her gaze to the window and dreaming of Zach Condon or worse Marcus Mumford.  The mosquitoes have arrived, I am typing this in my back yard, next to the soon to not be vacant home that sold for 40,000 dollars more than I paid for my house.  Madness.  Pangea Girls begins, it could have been marvelous, really, but it is just nice enough.  The evening continues now inside, in the kitchen, along the windows a line up of mosquitoes engaged in mating dances that date back to the Triassic.  Hmmm...they've reimagined Peppermint Delight as Pangea Girls, not successfully.  Peppermint Delight is a mix cd staple for me and although my career as a mixologist has waned in recent days I still have great success with that particular song and will not be altering my mix for the updated version.  The mosquitoes are now singing, odes for Gladiator bugs and other mythical creatures of the underworld and we're disappointed to see that the hailstorm that visited last evening was not impressive enough to result in a new roof from the insurance company.  Look at me sounding all progressive.  Puns, ha.  Next track, incomprehensible, but pleasantly so.  Are they shy?  Are they embarrassed?  These could be the loveliest songs ever made in Fort Collins, Colorado, they still might be, but they have mucked them up.  It's just the same as when Peter Jefferies married Jean Smith and decided to make Two Foot Flame records with Michael Morley when Michael Morley wasn't painting fences and when Jean Smith had eaten his talent with blood curdled on her fangs.  I am sure Jean Smith is lovely actually, just as I am sure these songs are lovely, but in the purposing of art the first thing that must be sacrificed is beauty.  Maybe I need to buy the CD.  Such anachronistic thoughts enter my mind on occasion.  There is a movie about to be made, allegedly, about some American's overwrought despair at the Smiths creaking up and his invasion of a heavy metal station in 1987 to force them to play Smiths tracks for 24 hours straight.  Sybil from Downton Abbey is scheduled to star, no wonder her eclampsia, but will it draw a significant audience?  Better to make a film about some fan's distress after discovering that the Cardigan's Gran Turismo is actually a classic album but she can't convince a single other person on the planet about this universal truth and her questioning whether all of the inhabitants of the planet have been infected with some otherworldly disease that forsakes for them the truth.  Kate Upton could play the Cardigans singer.  This record is frustrating, From Prairie(Charade) is up now and it could be a haunting, antiqued melodious adventure in evolutionary theory but we are still at war with our ear drums.  Perhaps, like the unisexual evolution in Boulder, there has been movement in human adaptation in Fort Collins and as a resident of Westminster my geographical isolation means I don't yet possess the dolphin sonar array and offset jaw line which allows me to make sense of the music on offer.  I can sense it's gorgeousness, viscerally but not as the divinely rational creature I am.  God apparently invented marriage although it was around long before we invented God.  Long before we invented the stultifying culture of consensus and uniformity.  It started with Mtv, when everyone became a fan of Skid Row because Martha Quinn overlooked Sebastian Bach's homophobic tee shirt, and then the goal of life became to have a reality tv existence rather than an actual one it is now acceptable only to have the same set of beliefs as your favorite character on How I Met Your Mother, anyone stepping outside of the boundaries of such conventions will be sprayed with Sebastian Bach's tee shirt.  Brendan O'Neill was right.  I wish I could speak of the songs, this one is lovelier than the one before and it was the loveliest thing ever but they are like the White Throated Needletail, swimming through the air between them and us just close enough to have their head chopped off by the Scottish wind turbines they have hidden in their pro tools.  Global warming has abandoned us this summer, we had snow this past May 1st and now that July is very nearly arrived the temps will not break out of the 80s.  James Hansen save us from the coming iceocalypse!    Maybe a love story between James Hansen and the White Throated Needletail will provide the libretto for the next Candy Claws record which promises to be even more inscrutable than the last one.  James Hansen is a enviable leading man, Candy Claws can smear his entrails across a piece of celluloid and expose him to the maunder minimum and make beautiful light where music should exist in the space between the speakers and my heart.  I was meant to see Camera Obscura this last Thursday at the prettied up Gothic Theater but I was more interested in watering the lawn.  It seemed more important to maintain my obligation to my lawn than to see Tracey Anne warble through her new role as Zooey Deschanel for smart kids.  Night Ela.  Maybe the leaked copies are contaminated with grodiness.  This could be marvelous and lonely, honestly, I could fall deeply in love with this record.  But it is just nice.  In Minturn, when the kids turn up to watch Candy Claws play next to Lake Constantine, they will hold each other and wonder why science is so mysterious, is there an intelligent designer, are the alpine glaciers going to leave us for the southern hemisphere, will the Denver Nuggets ever win a playoff series and why did I wait so long before upgrading my swamp cooler.  Humidity, it is a magnificent phenomenon.  It used to exist only in one place in my world, at the Denver Aquarium, where my friend the Napoleon Wrasse would wink at my as my asthma was induced by the tropical atmosphere.  In the time of Candy Claws records it was more humid and there was less oxygen.  Gladiator bugs could have been substantial members of the food chain consuming baby Thrinaxodons and ferns.  We live near to Fern street, perhaps if I stand on Fern Street while this record plays out of my tinny MacBook speakers I might then make the connection between the music and the harmony of the spheres and all will become lucid and I will have achieved enlightenment and merge with the sould of poets and Gladiator Bugs from all eternity.  For now, it's just ok.