your person is my building

Best Albums of 2008

2008-12-21T19:08:00.000-05:00

1. The Dodos, "Visiter" (French Kiss)
2. TV on the Radio, "Dear Science" (DGC/Interscope)
3. Bon Iver, "For Emma, Forever Ago" (Jagjaguwar)
4. Frightened Rabbit, "The Midnight Organ Fight" (Fat Cat)
5. Delta Spirit, "Ode to Sunshine" (Rounder / Umgd)
6. The Black Keys, "Attack and Release" (Nonesuch)
7. Apollo Sunshine, "Shall Noise Upon" (Headless Heroes)
8. The Ting Tings, "We Started Nothing" (Columbia/ Red Ink)
9. Vampire Weekend, "Vampire Weekend" (Xl Recordings)
10. Department of Eagles, "In Ear Park" (4ad Records)

Will Sheff : : Other Music : : 12.11.08

2008-12-11T15:46:00.001-05:00

As a prelude to his headlining show tonight (12/11) in Williamsburg, Will Sheff--lead singer of the Austin based band Okkervil River--treated fans to a solo in-store gig at the cozy East Village record store Other Music on Wednesday night (12/10). The rain was an almost welcome prologue to the evening; a line of umbrellas curved around the block while Sheff finished a last-minute sound check. The tiny room felt miniature as ever--shelves pushed flush against the wall to accommodate the crowd and video equipment. White Christmas lights draped over CD racks served as a perfectly minimalist backdrop.

Clad in brown corduroys and draped in harmonicas, Sheff possesses that characteristic balance of a weary traveler and a stately scholar. In other words, he looks like a college English major. I didn't recognize the first song for obvious reasons; he later revealed it hadn't quite made the cut when assembling the companion Okkervil River albums "The Stage Names" and "The Stand Ins." Segueing straight into the standout track "Lost Coastlines" from the band's most recent release, Sheff tackled both his vocal part as well as those verses shared with (former) bandmate Jonathan Meiburg. This song is, perhaps, the ideal number to showcase the complimentary voices of the two troubadours. Still, with lips kissing his mic, Sheff managed a shimmering solo rendition.

The remainder of the eight-song set featured a gem Sheff said he'd never performed before, as well as one sung by Wrens frontman Charles Bissell (who opens Sheff's show tonight in Brooklyn). Aside from a few slight head bobs, the crowd appeared hauntingly subdued. Although I had already been treated to a set of bull body chills during the first five minutes of the performance, I was holding my breath for one final emotional jolt, which came with the opening chords of "Unless It's Kicks." Maybe it's the lyrics ("On a dark windless night/With the stereo on/With the towns flying by/And the ground getting soft"), or the galloping guitars--but this song makes me pine to drive down a deserted ocean road at night, windows down, hair wild. I had foolishly neglected to eat dinner before the show, yet I walked out completely full.

Jens Lekman : : The Living Room : : 11.11.08

2008-12-06T14:52:00.001-05:00

Early Tuesday afternoon (11/11), a friend mentioned that Jens Lekman might be making a guest appearance upstairs at the Living Room. Recognized as an unassuming spot for local artists (particularly singer/songwriters) to solidify their act, the venue serves as a sort of safe haven in the occasionally overwhelming Lower East Side club scene.

Originally hailing from Sweden, Lekman somewhat recently made a home in Brooklyn--so, not out of the question; he just may show up. I wandered over a bit past 10, and shortly thereafter Jens took the stage, accompanied Joe McGinty on piano and some gal with sparkly tights armed with a recorder.

First things first: there's a reason they give recorders to third graders. I can't recall the last time I saw a recorder as the focal point in any musical performance; I now realize why. Though it's been a while since I picked up the instrument, a small part of me entertained the idea that I might just witness something spectacular. This was not the case--though I can't quite say what a "good" recorder player might sound like. Three songs later (perhaps the word "ditties" is more appropriate), the girl with the recorder called it quits, leaving Jens the job of making things right.

If velourious was a word, that's how I'd describe Lekman's voice. As soon as his lips part, I expect thousands of tiny flowers to start spilling from his mouth and then dissipate into thin air. He wasted no time, launching straight into "Sipping on the Sweet Nectar." A veritable master of microphone placement, Jens knows how to make the most of his voice in any room. Whether he's alone with a guitar and a CD player or backed by a coterie of gals clad in white (as was the case during his last tour), the setup always seems to work.

I wasn't familiar with the second song Lekman sang, but later learned it was a Boyz II Men cover ("not a guilty pleasure, just a pleasure," he said). Closing out his short but sweet performance was "The Opposite of Hallelujah," the obvious gem on his most recent album, "Night Falls Over Kortedala." I knew I'd sleep soundly that night

Deer Tick : : Southpaw : : 11.08.08

2008-12-06T14:48:00.001-05:00

The first time I experienced Deer Tick live, lead singer John McCauley took the stage by himself. For months after, I couldn't stop referring to Deer Tick as "him." Something about his performance was just so lonesome, so bare.

Having since witnessed the full band's show, it's apparent there's much more force behind this than one single man. Sure, it might be McCauley's raw (at times almost invasive) voice that first draws the listener in, but it takes you someplace else--someplace further down a poorly lit country road where his band members patiently wait … ghosts with a makeshift drum set. The music isn't particularly dark or depressing; it's sobering. It's one big exhalation--the realization that this is just how things are.

McCauley showed up at Southpaw on Saturday (11/8) shirtless, with just a black vest and a guitar strap covering his chest. The vest was promptly removed after the first song, making it clear from the get-go the band meant business; it was, after all, their record re-release party. McCauley also promised to be short on the between-song banter, announcing their plans for an "ambitious" set. It took a few songs to warm up; McCauley admitted, "I'm usually wasted when I play. I'm not tonight." There must have been enough whiskey in the audience's collective breath to do the trick.

While parts of the set may have dragged slightly, the overall momentum never suffered. I always admire bands whose sound and style is inherently loose, but whose live performance is so tightly executed. One might be quick to label Deer Tick as blues folk; this would be overlooking just how much these guys can r o c k. Sure, there's a healthy dose of twang nestled in there, but they still seem to possess an unfettered rock band mentality. Bottom line, this is music meant to be heard in a barn: a barn that's starting to fall apart, so we need not be concerned with how hard we stomp our feet.

2008-05-21T22:23:00.002-04:00

jeff tweedy

I want to look where hes looking.

I almost love this town...

2008-02-09T14:11:00.000-05:00

Attempted to go see Dan Deacon play the Whitney last night – not very successful. While we were able to cut the line that wrapped around the corner of the block (my friend has museum membership cards), there were already so many people inside that we couldn’t get downstairs to the performance area. The staircase was blocked off, as they weren’t letting any more people down, so we (along with a few other kids) figured we might as well try taking the elevator down. We got off, but didn’t manage to make it very far at all – the museum staff started freaking out at us and instructing us to get back upstairs. Oh well.

We couldn’t see Dan Deacon from the upstairs area, so we watched the crowd of high school kids for a while instead. Every different kind of ugly. Very confused looking kids. Lots of bright colors and hipster flare. We didn’t last very long. On the way out a group of kids – “These people don’t know what a Dan Deacon show is supposed to be like! An all night dance party!” They don’t know what a museum is supposed to be like.

I decided I’m not a Dan Deacon fan. Quirky for the sake of being quirky. Ugly for the sake of being ugly. Not good music. Plus it smelled bad in there.

Onwards to Nada Surf!

I got to the Bowery later than I had hoped to, and only caught a couple Illinois songs. That band is pretty great. This was the first time I had seen the full band. I heard the lead singer play solo a bit ago (opening for Jamie T) and thought it was really good as well. With that solo set in the back of my mind, the full band sound was not what I had expected...more pop I guess.

Nada Surf put on a great show as usual. This is a band that disappeared for a while and came back ready to do things right. They really have their shit together. I still haven’t heard the new record, but recognized a good few of the newer songs from past shows. I was glad to see they’re still using the mirror setup they’ve had the last few years – such a good idea, and so simple. They played a pretty long set (about and hour and forty-five minutes). Every song on Let Go is a treat to hear. I have such a wintry association with that album - listening to it stoned in a parked car in D.C. while the snow is falling...walking in the middle of the road down the Bowery to see the band after a huge snowstorm (almost exactly five years ago!), climbing over mounds of not-yet dirtied city snow...

Where’s winter when I need it?

Top Albums of 2007

2008-01-06T22:47:00.000-05:00

10. Spoon - Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
9. The National - Boxer
8. Jens Lekman - Night Falls Over Kortedala
7. Of Montreal - Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?
6. Okkervil River - The Stage Names
5. Menomena - Friend and Foe
4. Panda Bear - Person Pitch
3. Radiohead - In Rainbows
2. LCD Soundsystem - Sound of Silver
1. Animal Collective - Strawberry Jam

Dappled Cities :: Mercury Lounge :: 10.31 + 11.01.07

2007-11-01T23:40:00.000-04:00

How do you make a band with a big sound come across as even bigger? Put them in a nearly empty room and leave your earplugs at home. I had a feeling Halloween night at the Mercury Lounge would be fairly quiet, but not this deserted. Readying myself for a possibly uneventful evening of music, my expectations started out at a low point. Walking in a few moments into Dappled Cities’ first song, these doubts quickly vanished.

Their thunderous sound is just dark enough to make you quiver while still managing to shine at all the right moments (and it wasn’t just the glow sticks and tin foil they had adorned themselves with). This is a band that knows how to create a definite mood, even if that mood is nameless. It’s that unidentifiable something that draws you in; I found myself taking small steps towards the stage with every passing note.

Armed with two vocalists and a deep sense of song craft, Dappled Cities fires a straight shot to your insides. While a general sense of grandiose prevails through the majority of their songs, the band strikes that coveted balance of eruption and restraint, an often-sought trait that is rarely this neatly executed. I’m not sure I can think of a band with dual singers that serve as such great counterpoints. Trembling falsetto and some Bowie theatrics coupled with a more hushed introspective howl.

Partly thanks to a talented drummer, the songs maintain their shape through the constant tempo changes. Just when it seems the song is about to wrap up, someone pulls the trigger and the group is off to the races. After a brief math rock freak out we’re brought back to solid ground by some guttural staccato yelps a la Animal Collective.

Sure, there are moments when the choral flourishes kick in, the song starts to gallop, and you can’t help but think of Arcade Fire. There are other times when the thought of Muse isn’t so ridiculous either. This band makes me think of countless bands to reference, but the bottom line is Dappled Cities has something of its’ own going on, and they inhabit whatever it is with a strangely youthful expertise. This something isn’t necessarily groundbreaking or new, but it may just get to you. No doubt this band is young. They still have a whole lot to figure out, but they’re making a damn good effort.

Alberta Cross & The Felice Brothers: I’m No Longer CMJaded

2007-10-20T19:34:00.000-04:00

I probably shouldn’t have left work two hours early on a day that was actually kind of busy, but I had the chance to share a cab ride across town towards the Bowery Presents office – a company expensed cab ride at that. There was a little CMJ happy hour party about to take place, and frankly, I felt like it was the perfect way to start redeeming myself for an extremely poor CMJ performance. Having been sick all week, I had only managed to see one or two bands each night; you know its bad when the first day of CMJ coincides with your birthday and you’re ending the night at 9:30 with a shot of Nyquil.

They had already started their brief acoustic set, but at first I could barely even hear Alberta Cross playing in the conference room. The place was hauntingly hushed. People sat crossed-legged on the floor circling the makeshift set up – a couple guitars, keys, and a garbage can plus Poland Spring water jug drum set. I immediately began to wilt as I listened to the opening notes of “Low Man” – honestly one of the most beautifully painful songs ever written. It destroys me. It gives meaning to the word heartstring. I realized I probably shouldn’t make a scene, but I felt like I could start crying any second. I eventually recovered from my full body chills as they launched into their last of four songs, “Old Man Chicago.” Pissed that I missed the first two, I was comforted by the thought of their 10pm set later that night. Part Neil Young, part My Morning Jacket, part just plain awesome, Alberta Cross are worth your time. The ballads are equally as good as the rockers, and it never hurts to have a song with your name in the title. I think I’m in love.

Against my better judgment I decided I may as well start drinking. Yeah, it’s only 5pm but I feel like celebrating the fact that I’m not at my desk. Having never before heard the Felice Brothers, I didn’t know whether to be excited or not. All bullshit aside, this was one of the best performances I’ve seen all year. It was real, it was raw, it was unbelievably fun. These guys know how to infect you with a good time – throw in an accordion and you’re good to go. A Friday afternoon hoedown on the LES. “C’mon white people, clap your hands!” they hollered. I never clap my hands in unison, but even I had to oblige.

Foot-stomping, raucous Americana born somewhere in the Catskills . . . I knew I couldn’t possibly be drunk after just one beverage - this band is seriously intoxicating. Half deranged and crazy-eyed, the percussionist actually frightened me into taking a step back. His eyes may be closed when he’s crooning, but put a stick in his hand and he’s off to the races – a wicked gaze, it penetrates. I wonder what the fuck those eyes have seen. He was stomping his foot so damn hard on the floor I couldn’t help but wonder if the offices below had been warned. They mentioned that they used to spend their days playing in subway stations, hence the admitted thrill of being above ground. The music is dirty, and to be honest, so were they. The room reeked of body odor, but in a way it was appropriate.

You never know what you’re missing most of the time until it is thrown in your face. True passion isn’t something you witness in music every day; the Felice Brothers have some weird light that manages to glow through the layer of dirt caked on their skin and sound. At times it was if the brothers were singing to one another – the fraternal bond was ever apparent. Three are actual blood brothers; they must have found the bassist (named Christmas?) somewhere along the way. I could imagine them all seated around a campfire in the mountains singing tunes for the sheer pleasure of hearing each other’s voices. Young as they may be, it seemed like they have been through so much together. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so close to the musicians I was watching; the whole event was intimate in the truest sense of the word.

Jens Lekman, Night Falls Over Kortedala

2007-09-15T16:38:00.000-04:00

Although not drastically different from previous endeavors, some of Jens’ best tracks to date can be found on Night Falls Over Kortedala. From asthma inhalers to avocados and back again, Jens exemplifies his signature wit and slightly absurd lyrics of loves lost and found. Much like 2004’s When I Said I Wanted to Be Your Dog and 2005’s Oh You’re So Silent Jens, the young Swede is forlorn as usual, and Lisa remains to be his only friend.

Still, Jens is never down for too long. Give him a xylophone and a ukulele and he’s quick to rebound. Soon enough his heart shimmers and swells and he’s changing the subject to figs. Constantly on the verge of falling either in or out of love, Jens realizes that heartache will always find him. Even if he’s leaving on his own accord (“I Am Leaving You Because I Don’t Love You”), relationships are never easy. Jens still feels the need to apologize, lamenting, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t love you enough.” Nonetheless, his heart goes on beating, “beating like Ringo.” He may be easy to love, but loving is never simple when the object of your affection is a wanderer.

A champion of musical reappropriation, Jens possesses a seemingly endless supply of found sounds. More expansive than ever in his choice of samples, the record is a globetrotting expedition that somehow never feels too far from home. Thanks to Frida Hyvönen and El Perro Del Mar’s Sarah Assbring, we can rest assured that Jens isn’t too lonely either. Whether it’s an ode to his hairdresser (“Shirin”), or an awkward dinner table conversation (“A Postcard to Nina”), I can’t help but believe every word that comes out of his mouth. The explosive opener sets the tone as Jens declares, “I would never kiss anyone/Who doesn't burn me like the sun/And I remember every kiss like my first kiss.”

One could argue that there are more than a few standout tracks at work here, and while “The Opposite of Hallelujah” seems to be the obvious choice, the sunny “Into Eternity” is no exception. We all know what it’s like to be “prisoners of the moment,” and this song is the perfect embodiment of this very idea. As Jens croons over and over, “You in my arms . . .” I know I would gladly die with this song on repeat.

A Distraction, Revealing: Strawberry Jam

2007-09-11T21:37:00.000-04:00

It's not my words that you should follow, it's your inside
Adjust your insides!

There is something inherently obsessive about music listening. Time and time again we come across records that we listen to over and over, and in many cases eventually kill, if only for a little while. We obsess over these albums because they are catchy, infectious, innovative, or just plain perfect for that given moment. Once in a while a record comes along that is more than awesome; there’s something about it that owns us, that demands repeated listens. There’s something about it that seems overly appropriate for that specific time. It becomes the soundtrack to now.

Such is the case with Animal Collective’s Strawberry Jam. Every single note belongs, could never exist in any other context except this one. The album keeps revealing itself listen upon listen; it’s like an endless game of hide and seek. It’s partly a matter of relating on a personal level to the music. In this sense it is a source of confirmation. In another sense the album serves as a revealing force. As the tracks unravel and acquire new meaning, they reinvent life and give new significance to each moment.

And from one moment to a next
Shifting in the plates of what you ingest

Music, by nature, is temporal; it depends on time both in its composition as well as its meaning. Just like Attali observed, “Time traverses music and music gives meaning to time.” Music is cumulative. A song can trigger a specific memory or feeling, as it stockpiles meaning with each repeated listen. After all, “To take on meaning, it requires an incompressible lapse of time, that of its own duration.” Without a listener, recorded music is merely an object. We define music in the same way that music comes to define us. Mutual affirmation. Still, there are certain sounds, feelings, and ideas embedded in the music that exist apart from us.

And I can't hold what's in my hand
Don't do any good to say this isn't what I planned
And little kids slide down on the steel park slides
Little kids can't play with things that've died

Despite the band’s apparent need for a sonic compass, there’s something about Strawberry Jam that grounds me in the present. It’s a perfect fit. As immediate as it is, the album still exudes a curious futuristic glow. Constantly on the verge of chaos, it hurtles and surges and replenishes and purges. It feels like you’re always inches away from falling off a cliff, then the music seizes you and tosses you high up into the air and pretends like it won’t be there to catch you on the way down but of course it always is. A reassuring sort of confusion. It’s okay to be confused, to not know what is going on. At least it IS going on. Sometimes life is a fucking rope ladder.

My tears quenched five feet along
And I can scream but cannot yawn
And people gonna come and people gonna cry
We cry "we hope it's worth the age we die!"

Countless elements are at work here, which although at first seem discordant or cluttered, with mounting momentum they melt into the sublime. This is the sound of movement. Sailboat, helicopter, sled, mule. Traveling through an aquatic labyrinth. I want to get as close to the sound’s source as possible, be it the gentle background gurgle of “#1” or Avey Tare’s guttural cries on “For Reverend Green.” This is easily one of the most life-affirming songs I’ve heard in a while. I raise my fist to the sky as Tare yelps, “Now I think it’s all right to feel inhuman / Now I think that’s all right yeah!” As a pair, “Cuckoo Cuckoo” and “Derek” prove to be an overwhelmingly powerful conclusion. Though neither artist nor listener can always be sure where this group is headed, they are definitely on their way.

Simply put, I would do whatever this album told me to do. I would murder a teddy bear if that were what it wanted. As much as I keep on living, this album keeps refusing to die. Life can be syrupy, but at least there’s a constant flow.

“Synchronicity rules chaos with an iron hand, and it is only the merciful defense of some kind of brain filter that keeps us from going mad seeing how it all fits together. When this brain defense wears thin, we see the mind’s boggling connectiveness of every event in time and space and reel from the nausea of unrelenting synchronicity.”

-Andrei Codrescu

Robot Rock

2007-09-02T12:52:00.000-04:00

I would never issue a formal complaint, but sometimes there is just too much good music to see in New York. Lately I feel especially spoiled. Seeing live music, which although never truly a rare occurrence in my life, used to hold more significance. A concert was something special, even if it didn’t completely blow me away. My standards have since risen. Not to say that it takes more to impress me musically, but it takes more to genuinely affect me.

While listening to music is oftentimes a highly individualistic sort of activity, witnessing a live show fosters (or should at least encourage) a more communal feel. A concert is such a fleeting thing; a single performance can happen only once and can never be wholly recreated. This is what makes it real. This is what makes it exciting. This is partly what binds us as concertgoers. To be able to say “I was there too!” To be able to gush over that same song transition or that face-melting Malkmus solo. Or to be equally speechless as those other 12,000 people who crowded into that baseball diamond on a rainy August night for Daft Punk.

This was no ordinary concert. This was a return to the ritual nature of music. I was part of something larger than myself – something too big to ever fully comprehend. Yet at the time, it didn’t matter what was happening, I was reassured just to know that it was happening at all. My grip on reality was temporarily severed, something that doesn’t happen quite often enough.

Imagine being transported, to a place outside of yourself, to a place you never knew existed but always hoped did. It felt scary and safe at the same time. It felt like it might feel to die dreaming. Just two masked humans atop a burning pyramid of light doing this, whatever this was, to a crowd of thousands. Most of the time I didn’t even know how to respond to what was going on in front of me. Overly stimulated and slightly confused, I was left looking like a possessed fool with a maniacal grin plastered across the face. Peering deeper than usual into a friends’ eyes and recognizing that same look of horrified amazement, I knew there was no choice but to surrender. And even though it is times like these we feel the least in control, these are the moments when we experience that overwhelming sense of self, of living.

skee-boppin skeetily-wheelie

2007-08-10T21:30:00.000-04:00

he remembered her better
in the
better weather

she remembered him sideways
on those
nighttime highways

they remembered each other
not because of
one another.