Big Star :: Stroke it Noel
Captains log…March 26 2008, Cadaques, Spain.
Tonight we drove into cadaques from barcelona. it’s on the northeast coast of Spain, so close to France that a lot of the people there speak french. it’s known for being the town where salvador dali spent his summers. along the streets there are plaques with dali paintings put into the spot that he actually sketched or painted them. “oh look there’s a sweet tree, i’ll turn it into a bull on fire.” we ended up at this bar called L’Hostal, where dali would frequent and i read he took mick jagger there and it changed his life. it wasn’t hard to find, because it was the only building with a psychedelic patio and a huge sign that read “Surrealisme”. we figured we were in the right place. upon entering, good ol classic american rock was blasting on the stereo, and the lights were dim. on each table was a drip candle, only these weren’t drip candles i’ve ever seen. they’d been dripping for the past 30 years at least, and now looked like formations of stalactites and stalagmites on like a sea rock on the mediterranean. the walls were plastered with posters of famous rock stars, photos of dali, origianl dali sketches and paintings. we sat down and ordered some beers, from the younger of two bartenders who did not speak a lick of english. the older bartender we assumed was the owner of the place. all night we were taking pictures and talking about dali and what it must’ve been like being there when he was alive, the whole time under the impression nobody understood us. i brought up to my sister how sad it must be being the owner having these tourists come in to honor his friend when they really didn’t know what dali was like or what he was all about, but at the same time being reminded of his friend’s death every day. but really i think he’s reminded of what kind of an impact dali made on the world that these tourists would come out to see this place from all parts of the world. so yeah, my sister bought a t-shirt before we left, and she was trying to say it in spanish, and the owner came over and said “We only have large.” he spoke english the whole time, and we didn’t get to talk to him about dali at all. but he gave us some matches with the bar’s logo that dali designed and on the inside is a drawing that gabriel garcia marquez drew for the bar. before we left, we took some pictures with Marcie the owner. it was totally inspiring.
Stroke It Noel
Big Star (fan site, wikipedia)
Selda Bağcan :: Bülbül
When Selda Bağcan was a physics student in Ankara in the late 1960s, she and her friends listened to every psychedelia and folk record pouring out of the US and Europe that they could get their hands on. Soon she began recording. Because of the gulf of time and language between us I don’t know how, but I imagine late nights, friends, wine and smoke, and borrowed gear. The resulting songs have a political urgency and sound borrowed from the records she was devouring, but deepened by something completely new: her country’s own political and musical history, her guitar, and her beautiful, singular voice.
In 1971, her last year at school, she released her first 45. It sold nearly a million copies, and suddenly she was no longer a student recording furtively with friends, but a professional musician. She released five more 45s that year, now considered classics in Turkey. That same year, the military usurped the government with a coup by memorandum. Prominent leftist leaders like Deniz Gezmiş were murdered in increasing numbers. Selda Bağcan became the voice of that year until she was known only as Selda, the mother of Turkish protest-folk music and revolutionary left-wing progressive politics.
Since then, Selda has endured censorship and imprisonment. She’s been unable to travel freely or perform. Yet there are still her records, which have slowly trickled into the outside world. The barriers of time and politics and language melt away at the sound of her voice. Bülbül is a song named for a bird, and the voice that sings it moves with the same effortless beauty and freedom. But it’s still a song sung inside a cage.
Bülbül
Selda Bağcan (myspace page)
Sincere thanks to my friend Emre Akyüz for help with Turkish history and translation, and for giving me so much of Selda’s music.
Dolly, Linda, and Emmylou :: Pain of Loving You
For a few years of my childhood, my Mom sang in a trio. It wasn’t a big deal — just Mom and her two best friends, Bette and Etta, getting together once a week to sing songs in three-part harmony. Except for one hilarious performance of Sister Suffragettes at the Rhodes College student open-mic night, they never sang in public.
In the summer, though, their ‘rehearsals’ at our house were the *best.* Seriously southern: iced tea, fans roaring, the three of them laid out on the front porch laughing hysterically in between ironic renditions of Stand by Your Man and It Takes a Woman (from Hello, Dolly), as well as rousing versions of torch songs like No More Genocide in My Name (Holly Near) and K.T. Oslin’s 80s Ladies. I *loved* it when the trio practiced; I’d run around turning their songbook pages, just to have an excuse to be near them.
What they sang most were songs from Trio, a collaboration between Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, and Linda Ronstadt. By osmosis, I learned every word. And then I sort of forgot about all of it — that album, Mom’s trio, the porch rehearsals. Years later, though, in college, I overheard a girl I barely knew humming one of the Trio songs at a party. Almost automatically, I joined in. She freaked out, called her friend over, and the three of us stood out on a snowed-in St. Paul porch singing half the fucking album in drunken three-part harmony.
The Pain of Loving You is one of those brilliant songs about being miserable. And please allow me to admit, in my sentimentality, that I’ve maybe never been happier than when listening to my Mom and her friends laugh through it.
The Pain of Loving You
Dolly, Linda, and Emmylou (homepages, fan site)
Todd Rundgren :: Hello It’s Me
Sometimes, if I’m fortunate, I will have the monotony of my typical office afternoon broken up by catching the faint strains of this classic rock hit wafting out of a nearby cubicle radio. The 70s are my favorite decade, not only for their glitter and over-the-top debauchery, but also because of songs like Hello It’s Me. I can imagine slow dancing with a tall boy dressed in a blue leisure tux at the prom to this song, and it would surely be the happiest moment of my life.
Originally recorded with his former band Nazz in 1968, this re-worked version appeared on his double-disc 1972 masterpiece Something/Anything? It was Todd Rundgren’s only top ten hit (though I have read that he expected the Carole King-esque I Saw the Light to be bigger). Both songs are incredible bookends in the spectrum of the male psyche; Hello It’s Me details the end of a serious relationship via a telephone call. The denial that comes with bad breakups is well represented here, and even though he is crystal-clear (“it’s important to me that you know you are free”), there’s the uncertainty of the whole mess being over. He then wants to know if he can come around once in a while and perhaps have one last night together, if it’s okay by her. Well, there’s always breakup sex, and the indecisiveness of the song is my favorite part.
Hello It’s Me (6.5mb mp3)
Todd Rundgren (homepage)
the Silver Apples :: I Have Known Love
Simply put, I Have Known Love, is a love ballad driven by nine throbbing oscillators.
Manipulated by eighty-six manual controls, the oscillators pulse, drone, hum, buzz, and beep through an electronically-generated masterpiece detailing the full spectrum of delight and agony that flows from being in love. The wading in the golden streams to being imprisoned on the moon — it is all part of love’s package.
Tritely put, it is better to have loved than to have never loved at all.
So drink out of the magic urn and dance between the stars. Ignore the warning voice. Surrender. Do it even though you will almost certainly burn your fingers on the sun
This song is my kind of love song. My kind of beauty. Oh yes. I have known love.
I Have Known Love
the Silver Apples (homepage)
Black Elf Speaks :: Creation Story
War, famine and genocide have remained a constant throughout history. As Americans, we tend to avoid serious consideration of these things, instead choosing to live in microcosms of daily habit, entertainment, and consumer culture. As a nation, we are more learned on the subjects of celebrity gossip than we are on our own government’s devastating foreign policy, the state of the war (over 1,193,000 Iraqi deaths due to the US invasion, not to mention the ever-growing number of American deaths: 4,000 and counting!), or the genocide currently happening in India and Africa.
Of all our atrocities against humanity, perhaps the most oft-overlooked is the genocide of indigenous Americans in our forefathers’ conquest and subsequent development of the 48 contiguous states. Thomas Hollman is the genius behind Black Elf Speaks, a sorely underexposed band whom at their core, served as a dedication to native American culture and spirituality.
Black Elf Speaks was a short-lived project founded by Hollman in 2001 (they once played Chicago’s back-in-the-day-mainstay the Fireside Bowl in October 2002!). They disbanded shortly after their first and only album, Elvish Presley (Bulb Records, 2002, BLB094), a brilliant concoction of Thrones/Melvins-influenced sludge, Native American heritage, elvish lore and 60’s American folk. Hollman currently plays in the brilliant-but-hard-to-swallow USAISAMONSTER.
The Elf in a nutshell: myth, forests, ethnocide, leather thongs, gregorian chant, peace pipes, J.R.R. Tolkien, feathers, long hair and a purposeful detachment from our insipid society. It’s not a joke, it’s just a lot ballsier than you’re used to. To quote Black Elf Speaks, “Imagination wears no yoke.”
Creation Story
Black Elf Speaks (label site, sort of…)
Joni Mitchell :: Coyote
It’s great to get Joni’s take on the Coyote, a Native American version of the Trickster archetype, like Loki (Norse), or Monkey (Chinese), or even Baby Krishna (Hindu) stealing butter and hearts. These characters might play tricks on you, might mix the sacred and the vulgar, and may be a little bit dangerous. Even though he might knock you on your ass, the trickster will teach you to laugh about it, maybe give you a little perspective too. Joni doesn’t see herself as a victim; she welcomes the chance to tangle, to match him trick for trick.
In Coyote, we catch a knowing smirk, that humble and humorous nod acknowledging you’ve met your match. Joni describes the irresistible attraction an independent woman feels for a mannish man — the capable one who works with his hands, leathered by the sun, who lacks good manners, follows his instincts and his joy. Coyote is the perfect fit, both as the wild animal and the slippery mythical figure. Listen closely, and you can almost smell his musk through all the lyric chatter. You can feel her heartbeat quicken when he sets his sights on her.
Katy mentioned lists of songs a few weeks ago. I have two such lists: “Songs I wish were written about me” and “Songs wedded to an experience;” this song is on the latter. In 2005, I had my own Coyote moment, saw myself reflected on the dark strange pupil of a wild thing, cleverly disguised as a man. Even though my memories of the night have lost some clarity, when I hear the first guitar jangles of this song (they sound like bird flocks whipping over an open plain don’t they?), and Joni’s quizzical lyrics, I’m taken back to my old kitchen, decked out in winter sun. I was cleaning my apartment listening to Hejira that next morning in a post-coyotal haze. It was the first time I really heard what Joni was singing — that line about getting close to the skin and the eyes, but still feeling alone, but still feeling related. I pause in scrubbing the floor and sit back on my heels to shake my head in wry recognition.
Coyote
Joni Mitchell (homepage)
(note — on Joni’s site be sure to visit the glossary of references made in her songs, and this interview with David Crosby about recording her first album.)
Neutral Milk Hotel :: Ghost
I know many of you have been listening to and singing or playing Neutral Milk Hotel for years; it’s nothing new so I won’t analyze. I ask you humbly to listen again, repeatedly (if necessary) and purposefully. I chose this song for the end of winter. Today is the first day of spring, but there’ll be snow tomorrow (last week to you, dear readers). The land has cracked and thawed enough for me to smell the stink of the city again and the cold has left my bones, but we need that extra push: a triumphant song of life and death and ghosts and never being afraid… with trumpets that bear down and the kind of beat that grandmothers and Baptist preachers warn you about. The devil’s beat, the beat that works against and with our natural rhythm. We need our blood to pump and boil so the collective heat of our beating hearts will finally force the end of this godforsaken winter. Spring will rise again! The ghosts of winter will spook us no more! The world will turn into a wonderland where people roam free without the tethers of coats and boots! I bought flip flops yesterday! Let’s do this!
Ghost
Neutral Milk Hotel (Elephant Six site)
The Sound :: Missiles
The saddest part of Adrian Borland’s story was the end. But perhaps the voices finally stopped.
I was introduced to Borland’s music with The Sound a couple of years back by a dear friend and I haven’t stopped listening. I can hear the trouble. I can hear the overwhelming concern. I can hear anxiety build. No, it’s not from the lyrics. It’s from his voice. It’s all right there. Post-punk has never sounded so good. Personal angst has officially turned to real worry and social concern. It all happens right here. This timeless piece will never die and neither will Borland’s desperate apprehension.
In 1999, Adrian Borland threw himself under a train.
They’ve got the money.
They’ve got the know-how.
It’s all above our heads;
It’s coming down now
Somehow this song makes me happy. I don’t think that was ever it’s intent but I can’t change that. That’s the one thing I don’t want to change.
Missiles
the Sound (homepage)
Preston Love :: Chicken Gumbo
The snare is hit once. It is on.
This one’s for overcaffeinated dance-offs. Especially on the river after it freezes over. I’ll slip and jitter to the guitar, pass it over to you, and you shake, tumble, and slide to the sax parts. That ice can be like glass. I can see our reflections moving in it now; calling and responding.
Sometimes when no one’s home I put this song on and run recklessly down the upstairs hallway and then down the stairs at full speed. I have had my face reconstructed nine times because of this song.
My father foolishly performed a circumcision to this song in 1982. No one was harmed, thankfully. What was my father doing performing a circumcision in the first place? Especially after he lost his hands in the war?
I also recommend challenging your food processor to a coleslaw-making contest to this song. You are a modern-day John Henry. That’s right. A cleaver in each hand, you died of exhaustion shredding cabbage. Just the way you wanted to go.
You see that man? He has a sax in one hand, and a huge goddamn brisket in the other. Preston Love’ll handle the sax; you gotta play the brisket!
Chicken Gumbo
Preston Love (Nebraska Life article)