humanize the vacuum

A dude named Chris Ervin wrote the following. Dig it:

I feel a mixture of sadness and envy when I think of people who don't feel deep, inarticulable truth when they listen to their favorite bands. My favorite bands create a sort of connectedness to the universal commonalities of human life, and an empathy for the particularities of the musicians contributing to the unconscious stream of universal commonalities I perceive in the music. I'm sad that there are people on this earth who don't feel the awe and revelation I do - sad that people can't access all the wonderful, empyreal feelings that I can. And I'm envious because it feels a bit silly, sometimes, to feel such overpowering emotions at the sound of guitar strums and Wuhrlizter wheezes. I'm envious of the people who never have to deal with any sadness or pain when they play their favorite records, of people who don't have to change the radio station when ""Wild Horses,"" by the Rolling Stones, comes on the radio, of people without raw, exposed nerve endings.

Dr. Dog at Portland's Doug Fir

I had been anticipating last night for weeks, trying not to get my hopes up or set my expectations too high. Thankfully, and delightfully I might add, Dr. Dog did not disappoint. Nor did the opening bands--two relatively unknown groups called Hacienda and Delta Spirit, the latter of which has a very bright future.

Working up the crowd into a state of simultaneous awe and rapture, Delta Spirit won over the room and sent people flocking to the merch table after their set. They’re a five-piece from San Diego with a profound, stirring sound and a recent debut album that’s getting lots of attention. One song, “Children,” was particularly rousing and almost felt like a deathbed confession or a reminder to not go gentle into that good night. The guitar player hit the switch on his Rickenbacker and set loose a reverb-laden chord progression with an echoing delay that sounded and felt like a transformative journey to the other side of consciousness. The rest of the band soon joined in, the drummer simply pounding, the singer exorcising some pent-up demon and woefully sucking on his harmonica. It was a spiritual experience and one I won’t soon forget.
I soon snapped out of the Delta Spirit spell, excited by the prospect of seeing and hearing Dr. Dog. I hit the bar and got one for my hand and one for my pocket before finding a spot near the middle of the floor. When they came out, they received a warm welcome and immediately launched into “The Old Days” off Fate, their new album. The song and, subsequently, the show, became an instant party when, about halfway through, it sped up and went to space-circus-land, taking the audience along for the ride. Their music is layered, artfully constructed pop with the unmistakable influence of bands like The Beatles and The Band, at once solemnly heartbreaking and jubilantly whimsical. As fans swayed and sang joyously to “Ain’t It Strange” and “The Breeze,” the Dog reveled in the excitement, tearing through faster versions of “My Old Ways” and “The Girl” while dancing happily and testing the limits of the small stage. Sharing lead vocal duties, the bass player and one of the guitarists sounded great, replicating their respective chord-shredding shout and delicate pitch live and proving that they weren’t just studio flukes. Too, the instrumentation was spot-on--not one of the five missed a beat; this might have been most noticeable on the slow-burning, somewhat intricate rocker "The Beach," which really shook shit up. Whether you dig the songs or not, you can’t deny the musical talent these guys possess. When it came time to end the show, they closed with “Die, Die, Die,” an acquiescent song about giving up built on pervasive percussion. As it grew in intensity, members of the supporting acts slowly began filing onstage with tambourines, maracas, extra drums, even the lid of an old trashcan, and joined the band for one last hurrah. The whole affair was just too damn cool and I suggest anybody reading this heed the following as advice, not as warning: BEWARE OF DOG. The flash on my camera broke too.

none more black

Did you know black computer screens use less energy than white ones? You can thank me later.

SMELL THE GLOVE. CONSERVE.

The Greatest White Liar

Upon first listen, you might be mistaken to assume this album was released in the mid-sixties when in fact, it came out in 2005. Armstrong and his band jump out of the speakers like time-portal troubadours, leaving a trail of earnest sweat and lo-fi fuzz in their wake. The heir-apparent to the British invaders that came before him, he covers the bases with pitch-perfect versions of the white-boy blues, sophisticated pop finery and four-squared songcraft that put his forefathers on the map. I’ve never seen the band live--I don’t think they’ve even toured the states--but I bet it’d be awesome; ears ringing with remnants of the Kinks, Stones and Yardbirds smoldering on the scuffed stage. It is however, important to note that Nic Armstrong & The Thieves aren’t just shameless imitators or slaves to the past. Though they use blueprints that have already proved pleasing, their songs brim with energy and passion and, if not originality, then a dedicated commitment to garage rock revivalism. The guitars sound pure, like a pair of wild and unruly mods popping pills and egging each other on in an effort to prove their fearlessness while the drums are simple and discreet, bolstered by tasteful handclaps, tambourines and maracas. Armstrong’s voice is a versatile instrument as well, morphing easily and imparting a range of impressions; he can sound cutting and zealous on the rockers but light and bouncy on the ballads. Par example, “Mrs. Moraliser” and “Broken Mouth Blues” are stomping romps that showcase his raw howl, calling to mind a certain John Lennon. Conversely, “In Your Arms On My Mind” finds him whispering sweetly over a sleepy acoustic chord progression and rim taps while “Too Long For Her” is just the sweetest slice of English charm this side of the Mersey.

LISTEN TO FINISHING TOUCH and SHE CHANGES LIKE THE WEATHER

DONOVAN...

...was a Scotsman. From the land of Scotland.

With his penchant for vague protest tunes and poetic folk songs, he was sometimes regarded as Dylan lite. Too, his haphazard harmonica playing and unremarkable acoustic strumming were good but not great and certainly lent to the characterization. Pigeonholing an artist though, is an impossible task, and Donovan defied categorization by finding inspiration in world music, rock and jazz, as well as folk. As the 1960s wore on and, perhaps due to the types of chemical stimuli favored by hip young artists, he started mixing ingredients and getting psychedelic, man. Reflecting these influences are tracks like “Season of the Witch” and “Atlantis,” among others, that flow and breathe with a living quality and make use of an array of unusual instruments and strange effects. The harpsichord, compressed reverb (which were fairly typical in the freak-folk scene of that day) and lyrical content on “Epistle to Dippy” are particularly far out. I always liked “Hurdy Gurdy Man” with its dark and stony sound. It’s a creepy song and it’s been used well in films to convey a sense of tense uncertainty and/or impending turmoil. At one point, the crunchy guitar resounds in a manner consistent with a sitar and at another, it thrashes chaotically in a mire of fuzzy distortion (listen closely at 2:03--probably the heaviest 40 seconds in his entire catalog) while the vocal echoes as if it was recorded close-up with a super-sensitive mic in a dank cave. The song is eerie and unsettling, almost like a bad dream. And like a bad dream, it sticks with you long after ending.

LISTEN TO WEAR YOUR LOVE LIKE HEAVEN

nine eleven

Today is September 11, the seventh anniversary of the terrorist attacks that claimed 2,975 lives at the World Trade Center in New York City, the Pentagon in Washington DC and a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. I think the event will be remembered by my generation, and all others who witnessed it, much as JFK's assassination is remembered by our parents' generation: as a tragedy that united the nation in shared grief and common disbelief.

Do you remember where you were when you heard the news? I do. I was at home getting ready for work, finishing out the final days of a summer job before heading back to college. My mom told me that something was happening in New York; she'd heard as much on the radio. There was a lot of confusion as different sources were trying to piece together what was going on. Out of curiosity, we turned on the television just in time to see the second plane crash into the other tower. We watched as New Yorkers panicked, completely shocked, and TV news anchors found themselves at a loss for words. I remember being awestruck, almost numb in response to what was playing out before my eyes. The scale of the building in relation to the plane blew my mind and it took a minute to register what that explosion meant, how many people had died in that instant. I felt kind of powerless, detached and removed from the whole episode because New York has always seemed like it was a world away from me and my home. Even though those people and I shared a common bond as Americans, I still had trouble relating and identifying with what they were going through. It felt unreal, like a dream or something. Did you ever see the footage of Bush getting the news at some storytelling event? He kind of sits there and you can see the little gears turning in his head, slowly and cautiously. That, I can actually relate to because that’s almost how I felt: confused, unsure and partially paralyzed (reactions that are fine for a citizen but certainly not what you’d want from your president). I then drove to work, glued to the radio as a barrage of stories and explanations were offered. When I got there, we gathered around a television and watched as the towers fell, the Pentagon burned, another plane crashed in a field, and the news media sorted through conflicting reports in an effort to make sense of it all. Too, the citizens of this country were engaged in an effort to do the same.

Benches, one for each of the lives lost, are part of the new memorial at the Pentagon. Aren't they cool? I admit that once I saw the photo, I immediately thought how skateable they could be. The edges are stainless steel and the possibilities are endless. Not only could you launch off it like a ramp, you could grind up it, off it or down it. With all the technical progression in skateboarding these days, the benches offer tantalizing opportunities to switch up grinds and slides and even get some flip-out and 180-out combos going. Couple that with the fact that the ground is smooth and that there are 184 of these benches and you've got a vertiable wonderland of options for lines. Some of the sure-footed pros and hungry ams could go buck on these things. That though, would be treading on very delicate ground. It'd be pretty disrespectful to skate them and even if you tried, you can bet that somebody would be incredulously angry at you. So I say they're off-limits.

The Love Language

Prior obligations and general busyness forced me to miss MusicfestNW again this year. Though there were few big names in the lineup that appealed to me, I was more interested in checking out some low-brow bands and maybe finding some local dudes to latch onto--‘our band could be your life’ style. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. But other people went, and if it weren’t for my friends, whose musical tastes more or less align with mine, I wouldn’t have learned of The Love Language. Seriously, my buddy Mike can’t shut up about them.

The band is based in North Carolina and their sound can be almost as grand and ambitious as the Arcade Fire’s. “Providence” is a good example with its succinct parts that build into an anthemic, spectacular whole. “Lalita” is more Strokes meets Modest Mouse, built around excited acoustic strumming, ass-shaking tambourine and a euphoric guitar phrase that wouldn’t sound out of place in a jubilant power-pop hop-along whereas “Graycourt” is a pretty piano song complete with softly wistful singing, shuffling drums and an affected vocal track that doubles as a guitar solo at one point. The Ricky Nelson cover, “Hello Mary Lou,” is harsh, full of feedback and static squall that serves as a marked contrast to the polished sheen of the original. And while bright, insistent guitars and fuzz-filtered vocals layered with dense harmonies propel the short “Sparxxxxxxxxx,” the fleeting slide break in the middle begs to be extended.

The band, a six or seven-piece I was told, seems pretty versatile, moving comfortably between styles and moods. They’re signed to an indie label, Bladen County Records, which is also home to a couple notable Portland bands, but they’ve yet to release anything. Translation: keep your ears peeled!

http://www.myspace.com/thelovelanguage
http://bladencountyrecords.com/index.php/the-love-language/

kill your television

Cable TV is a wasteland. Tonight I had access to the more than five channels that I'm accustomed to and it blew my simple mind. How is anybody supposed to cope with that many choices? As the availability of those 250+ options forced me to cycle mindlessly through the digital TV guide, I still felt that I had to decide on something. Why spend an hour watching bits and pieces of ten different programs when there are far more better things to do (such as complaining about the evils of the TV to my small audience)? Maybe if I knew what I wanted to watch before I set out on my television adventure, it'd be easier to find something satisfactory. Making that decision though, is tough and almost unbearable for a dude like me. There were music videos, classic movies, series' that I've read about, extreme clips of cop chases and people getting hurt, documentaries, nature shows and biographies, as well as a litany of entertaining paid programming. Perhaps the skills of channel surfing have eluded me. Even so, I still have trouble understanding why that many channels and options can be more appealing than a good book or a great record or, for that matter, quality time spent with the ones you hold dear. I guess the choice is up to the holder of the remote control and even though that choice can be easier for some than it is for me, it still leaves me completely overwhelmed. LISTEN TO FUCKING DR. DOG's NEW ALBUM

The Economist on Sarah Palin

The Economist is a weekly news and international affairs magazine based in London. Though it often takes editorial liberties, I find its content to be witty and informative while retaining the objective quality of a trusted publication. According to its editors, it aims "to take part in a severe contest between intelligence, which presses forward, and an unworthy, timid ignorance obstructing our progress." At issue is McCain’s VP pick; I’m still trying to wrap my head around it—what was he thinking? The following is excerpted from an online piece that someone showed me.

Mrs. Palin, who has been the governor of a state with a population of 670,000 for less than two years, is the most inexperienced candidate for a mainstream party in modern history. Inexperienced and Bush-level incurious. She has no record of interest in foreign policy, let alone expertise… This not only blunts Mr. McCain’s most powerful criticism of Mr. Obama. It also raises serious questions about the way he makes decisions.

Mr. McCain had met Mrs. Palin only once, for a 15-minute chat at the National Governors’ Association meeting, before summoning her to his ranch for her final interview. The New York Times claims that his team arrived in Alaska only on August 28th, a day before the announcement… The contrast with Mr. Obama’s choice of the highly experienced and much-vetted Joe Biden is striking.

The article takes a particularly interesting turn when it states and explains that “the Palin appointment is yet more proof of the way that abortion still distorts American politics.” Check out the full text at http://www.economist.com/world/unitedstates/displayStory.cfm?source=hptextfeature&story_id=12066224.