You probably wouldn't expect that an album called My Maudlin Career (read: foolishly emotional) would be the one that'll be played out of rolled down car windows across the country this summer. Or maybe you would, in which case I say way to go. You are a seer of the future.
That's the name of the new one just dropped by indie-pop-boppers Camera Obscura, and it's the bands best record to date. Which is saying a lot — 2006's Let's Get Out of this Country had more catchy-cute songs than a Jonas Brothers record that didn't suck.
Nonetheless, on My Maudlin Career, the Scottish band has sharpened everything about its sound. The harmonies are Beach Boys sunshine, the guitar lines are perfectly catchy and non-obtrusive, cutting in just as Tracyanne Campbell's gorgeously heartbreaking melodies step aside. Is it twee pop? Maybe, but in the least annoying way possible.
Take the first single, "French Navy." The percussion and bass parts are straight out of a 1960's chamber pop tune that was probably about holding hands and those strings are like a part Grizzly Bear wrote for a cartoon. Weird. Lovely. Really, really fantastic.
Here's the clip:
The happiest thing you heard all day, right? I know!
My Maudlin Career is full of gems like that one, and it just dropped this week. You're $9.99 couldn't be better spent.
No surprise there. And though study aids like booze, Facebook and reading my blog may seem to help pass the time, they won't help you land an A.
That said, I've assembled a study aid that does work — it's the playlist that I listen to whenever attempting to write a paper, study for a test or read something I don't care about. It's a tough life being a college student, I know.
Because the actual playlist is over 7 hours long, I've pulled a few samples for you to use as suggestions. Obtain music by these bands any way you can — I promise you'll make Dean's List.
Here we go:
Welcome to the wonderful world of Air. All smoothed-out, slowly unfolding grooves that'll soothe your brain into learning. I know that sounds stupid, just trust me. If I could only listen to one band during my four years of college studying, this would be it.
Ahh, American Analog Set. Beautiful, muted and subtle. Slow and simple enough not to distract you, but more than gorgeous enough to keep your spirits up. And the fact that almost all the vocals are sung in a hushed whisper is perfect to remind you that there's no talking in the library.
Explosions in the Sky are the perfect band for writing papers. You've got no words to distract you from pumping out your own. Write your thesis to this band, you won't regret it.
And finally, we come to the motherload. Above is one of Godspeed! You Black Emperor's shorter songs. Most edge in on 20 minutes, which is perfect to keep you focused. None of that checking to see which song is playing next — it'll be the same one until you finish reading this chapter!
Of course, the list goes on. Any study session that has any chance of being successful probably shouldn't be without Sigur Ros, Boards of Canada, Portishead's newest record, Chairlift and, of course, a healthy dose of non-swing and definitely non-smooth jazz. As in, real jazz. Davis and Coltrane will make you smarter. And probably sexier.
So there you have it. Good luck taking tests about subjects you despise, writing papers on topics that bore you and generally living in a library or at a coffee shop. As for me, come tomorrow afternoon, I'm officially done doing any school work. Yes.
Having just watched last week's South Park that lambasted Kanye West's monumental ego six ways from Sunday AND heard his new track with Clipse, conveniently titled "Kind of Like a Big Deal," all within a few hours, I can't help but feel that there's a tinge of irony floating around.
Nonetheless, while no one's got a show stopping verse on the track, this beat if monstrous — a needling guitar line that sounds like its blasting from a garage in the 60s over pummeling drums. I give it a few days before there are remixes even hotter than the original.
So without further ado, here's "Kind of Like a Big Deal." You decide if the track will end up being just that.
Annnnnd in case you didn't catch it last week, here's Kanye's South Park episode. Do you like fish sticks?
Generally, you can categorize most music into a day of the week. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday tend to be tough, but the rest of the week has fairly defined sounds.
Thursday — anxious, nervous, ready to hit the weekend (See: Most post-punk)
Friday — free at last, spacious, upbeat soundscapes, excitement, urgency (See: hip-hop, tense indie rock)
Sunday — slow down, grab a blanket, recover from the weekend and mourn the coming week (See: Most things acoustic, Norah Jones. Ha!)
Well, funneling through my inbox today, though it's only Wednesday, was one of the more beautiful Sunday albums I've heard in a long time.
The name is Matthew Barber, and his new record is Ghost Notes. It was just released stateside yesterday, but was already nominated for a Juno (Canadian Grammy equivalent) this year for best Traditional Roots album. Not bad, eh?
His acoustic guitar and piano have the same light, meandering and lovely tones and melodies as Mark Kozelek/Red House Painters or a less urgent City and Colour (which, if you haven't fallen in love with already, you should check out...now).
As I was attempting to write my last music column for my college newspaper, I put on this record and got wildly nostalgic, in the least cheesy, last-song-at-prom way possible. His melodies are plaintive but hopeful — and I couldn't help but sadly smile, sitting alone in my room, writing what will be my last imprint on college.
This is Sunday morning music, coming home from war music, falling in or out of love music. Beautiful, aching in a way that doesn't quite hurt. Check it out here.
And here:
And he's only got one tour date coming up in the states: May 13, Union Hall, New York, NY and supporting Jill Sobule. If you're in the area, this is a solid bet for a great night. Even if it isn't on a Sunday.
Ryan Adams, on his criminally underappreciated record Rock’n’Roll, sang it best when he howled, “This is it. This is really happening.” While he wasn’t singing about graduating college — it’s time to say goodbye.
Farewells in rock’n’roll are a tricky business, though, and have historically come in many forms. There’s the KISS model, in which farewell actually means, “Goodbye until next year, when we decide to launch another farewell tour. That’ll be our 12th!” Then there’s the Nirvana model, when goodbye really does mean, um, goodbye. Like, forever. Too soon?
Nonetheless, there’s an important message that must be sent before bowing out of academia.
Take some time, as much as you need, maybe years, and find the music that actually affects you. Simple enough, right? Well, sort of.
For many of us, there’s a general apathy towards our choice of music, or art, or movies or any form of creative expression. If it’s on the radio, we’ll listen to it. If it’s playing on MTV (do they play videos anymore?), we’ll watch it.
And for many people, that’s worked out just fine. Maybe you’re not a music person, particularly, and the beat of the new Flo Rida jam makes you smile. And that seems good enough.
But there’s a huge world of music out there waiting to be discovered, and it’s filled with things that won’t just make you smile — they’ll change your life. I don’t care how ‘not that into music’ you are (people who list “Everything. Except country” on Facebook, I’m talking to you), I promise that there is a song out there — hell, maybe even a whole genre — that will change how you think about life.
Sound silly? Maybe I’m just a music nut idealist. Were the tables turned and an engineering major told me there was an equation out there that would change my life, sure, I’d have trouble believing him.
But there’s something about music that is so purely human, so organic and emotional, that even the most robotic engineering student will feel something. The same argument could be made for film, for literature, for dance — and to that, I say go and explore those mediums too.
But don’t spend your life listening to whatever’s convenient. Especially in this world of technology, when any song in any genre is literally a few mouse clicks away, there are no excuses left to keep yourself in the dark from the music that could, and will, change you forever.
And that music, the earth-shattering, life-moving stuff, is different for everybody. The argument could certainly be made that Lupe Fiasco or Nas are more inspiring rappers than Flo Rida, but if Flo Rida really, truly moves you then run with it.
The point is that some music, whatever it is or however awful people like me might think it is, it’s your duty, as an emotionally-driven and intelligent person, to find it.
Don’t let critics or your friends influence you with this, either — no matter how much I hate Nickelback and wish that the band and all its music would be shot to one of Jupiter’s moons and legislation would be passed to banish any mention of Nickelback or Chad Kroeger for the rest of time, leaving the world a much better and bullshit-free place, the truth is that some people are actually moved by that music.
And if you are one of those people truly affected by lyrics about blowjobs and strippers, then, though it pains me to say this, more power to you. I wish my mind were as simple as yours.
Now your search might take some work. If your search for meaningful music truthfully starts and ends on Top 40 radio (I could believe avid card enthusiasts to be emotionally stirred by “Poker Face”) then maybe you are luckier than the rest of us.
For most people, though, the search could be long and hard — you may need to dig through your old favorites, listen hard to friends’ iTunes, search through tons of music online.
My progression began with Boyz II Men, dancing around the living room with my dad. Then somehow on to Hendrix and Zeppelin, through Saves the Day and Thursday, through The Decemberists and Jeff Buckley and, maybe most importantly, The Grateful Dead among countless others. What a long, strange trip it’s been indeed.
But, hey, you can do it. You’re a Pitt student, educated more than most people in the world. And I’ll even give you a suggestion, quite appropriate for those of us feeling scared and crazed and exhilarated about moving into the real world next week — “So Alive” by (can you see a trend?) Ryan Adams.
A few months back, the world was introduced to Tinted Windows, the new band featuring Taylor Hanson, James Iha and company. And hey, they didn't blow.
Apparently, though, the notion that any random assortment of musicians from other, unrelated bands can join together to become a (gulp, I hate this word) supergroup is becoming a trend.
And with that, I introduce Chickenfoot, the new band featuring Chad Smith (Red Hot Chilli Peppers), Joe Satriani (guitar virtuoso, relative douche bag) and ex-Van Halen bros Sammy Hagar and Michael Anthony.
The truly (cough, cough) exciting part is that Chickenfoot is heading out on tour this summer! Anyone who was really dying to see over-the-hill Sammy Hager put on his best (read: still not good) performance will finally get the chance to see it!
Now look, supergroups are all good and fine I suppose, but few reek of such desperation to get back into the limelight than this one. Besides Smith, none of these dudes has done anything remotely noteworthy in years — aside from, of course, Satriani's sad attempt to sue Coldplay for stealing his song. Which sucked.
In terms of musical backgrounds, we can again make an exception for Smith — his drumming in the Peppers (mixed with Flea's bass acrobatics) make for one of the tightest rhythm sections in rock. But Hagar was, for years, the worst part of Van Halen, and Satriani's pompous, bloated guitar rock is less exciting than waiting for Led Zeppelin to reunite.
If you're not convinced yet that Chickenfoot will not, in fact, save rock'n'roll, here's a post Anthony wrote on his blog when the band first surfaced last fall: "I just got back last Wed. from a week and a half of recording with Sam, Joe, and Chad, and all I can say is....F_K, the shit is ROCKIN!!!! NOBODY will be disappointed!"
Hmmm. Al caps tends to mean "I don't even believe myself."
Now! 30, as in the 30th installment of the popular Now That’s What I Call Music! compilations, was just released and sold 146,000 copies in one week.
This news immediately brings to mind two questions. First, how in the hell have 30 of these things been made? And second, who are the 146,000 people dumb enough to buy Now 30?
The answers to these questions are actually rather simple, but they point to a deeper issue. Basically, 30 of these compilations have been made because they continue to sell, and they continue to sell because fans of soulless pop music are the most vapid type of music fan, and hence will buy anything with an exclamation point and a good beat. But that’s a gripe for a different column.
My real issue with Now still existing is that, in an age where we can download entire catalogues of records in under a minute or buy individual songs on iTunes, thereby making your own hits compilation, this series of pop song collections is utterly and completely irrelevant to the music scene. What's more, you can actually go to the Now! website and stream the compilation in its entirety, meaning that anyone willing to shell out 17 bucks for the actual disc may be the last person in the country to discover the internet.
But it wasn’t always that way.
Now! actually debuted back in 1983 in England as a 30-song double vinyl, but even then the idea wasn’t new — hits collections had existed since the early 1970’s. The series exists in Mexico, China, Czech Republic, Poland, Portugal, Israel, New Zealand and Greece, where the title roughly translates to “Now These are the Hits Today!” They’ve long served the purpose of encapsulating Top 40 radio in one place — all the catchiest pop hits of the last few months on one record, no waiting around to hear them on MTV or the radio.
Even in 1998, when Now! debuted in the states it was arguably relevant. Napster was big, sure, but the downloading scene certainly wasn’t as saturated as it is today. Looking at the track list is particularly entertaining, too — remember “Never Ever” by All Saints? Fastball, K-Ci & JoJo, Aqua, Marcy Playground and Cherry Poppin’ Daddies all show up too. Inexplicably, so does Radiohead. Seriously, Thom?
In seventh grade, when I was king of the Bar Mitzvah party dance floor circuit, I actually won a copy of Now! 2 (which included the New Radicals’ still-underrated “You Get What You Give”) at a middle school dance when the DJ asked students to have a dance-off. And at time, it was a pretty cool prize.
If I was the same 13-year-old winning Now! 30 today, though, I doubt I’d be as thrilled. With the incredible amount of access we have to music, the fact that I could burn my own version of Now! from iTunes, without any songs I didn’t like, in a few minutes, the compilations just seem unnecessary.
Now by no means do I condone downloading mass amounts of music and stealing from deserving artists, but the songs on Now! compilations are so ubiquitous in the pop music lexicon they’re basically public property. Why spend money on a compilation that has pop songs you more than likely have on iTunes already? For the cover art and liner notes?
It seems pop music consumers have begun to catch on. While Now! 5, to name just one, sold over four million copies and Nsow! 7 sold 621,000 copies its first week, as access to music increased, the series’ sales have dropped pretty dramatically. Now! 30, with 146,000 first week sales, is one of the series’ least successful.
Still, folks, come on now. Make your own, better mixes of your favorite hits. Plus, any establishment that would put Nickleback on a compilation, like, say Now! 30, is one that doesn’t deserve your support.
When he speaks, his words are slow and crisp, each sentence clearly well thought out. The music that emanates from the multi-instrumentalist, then, seems to make sense — delicate, detailed and beautiful.
With his latest record, Noble Beast, Bird takes listeners on a musical hike through enchanted woods, complete with violins, guitars, hand claps and, as appears on so many of his records, whistled melodies.
Since Bird left his first gig — as a member of the swing revivalists Squirrel Nut Zippers — he’s been making music that floats between folk, rock and old-world jazz and blues.
Bird recently spoke to Gravity Rides Everything about music, his decidedly un-rock ’n’ roll life and the liquid state of songwriting.
Gravity Rides Everything: How much of what you write never makes it into a song?
Andrew Bird: I started off writing 25 or 30 songs for a record and cutting half of them. But that became such a heartbreaking process. Now I tend to take the same 10 or 11 songs and record them in like 10 different ways, putting them in different lights. Sometimes I’m writing three different songs at first and I realize they’re the same song. I put them together and cut off the fat.
GRE: Your songs often transform greatly from one live show to the next. How do you put together a set list?
AB: You’re tempted to do whatever worked the night before, but you have to work against it. Once you repeat the night before, there’s the potential for getting in a rut. When you’re playing every night, it’s a lot to ask of yourself, but you have to work to make the set more precarious.
GRE: Do you look back on your time with the Squirrel Nut Zippers nostalgically?
AB: It was pretty exciting to be a part of that. I was 22 or 23 playing for over a thousand people a night and hanging out with a hard-living, Southern, eccentric group of people. But it was a double-edged sword, because years after that, my own original stuff and the promoter of the show would say, ‘Come on, daddy-o, come down for a swing lesson.’ But my music had nothing to do with that scene.
GRE: What factors pushed you toward a completely solo career apart from [your former band, Andrew Bird and the] Bowl of Fire?
AB: Hitting the road really hard with five people and no support — all sleeping in one hotel room if we could afford it. And the pressure of being the host of a large band, and also just creatively not wanting to delegate parts to other musicians with their particular taste. I was writing bass lines in pizzicato in an octave pedal and playing whatever felt natural, not thinking like a bass player at all. There were no rules all of a sudden. I was just doing what I’d suppressed.
GRE: Where are you most at home — writing, recording or playing live?
AB: Playing music live is the most honest. A close second would be when I’ve a new song in my head. It can be very gratifying — the time before you bring it to anybody. It’s like this cool secret. Then the moment finally comes to show it to an audience, it’s a pretty special thing.
GRE: Do you carry around a recorder to get new melodies in your head?
AB: No, I figure if it’s worth remembering, it’ll come back. Especially with melodies — I like things to stay in a liquid state in your head for as long as possible. They stay more interesting there. Once they get out of your head, they start to solidify. That liquid magma state is the key to new songs.
GRE: So what’s next for you?
AB: A good solid year of playing shows almost every night. I don’t want to call it work, but it’ll be very demanding. I’m about my health like I’m about to do the Tour de France, putting myself on a specific training and diet regimen. It’s not the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle exactly. If I did indulge in that, well, I just wouldn’t make it.
The Smashing Pumpkins, how I remember them blissfully.
Just this week, Billy Corgan, the one-time rock god of The Smashing Pumpkins, announced that he’d be holding auditions to find a new drummer for his somehow-still-existing band.
As in, you could be a pimple-faced 15-year-old high school band geek today and the drummer of a multi-platinum and formerly awesome alt-rock band tomorrow.
The recent development in The Pumpkins’ devolution into rock’s longest running joke formed after original drummer Jimmy Chamberlin quit the band, leaving Billy Corgan as the sole original member. Unsurprisingly, Corgan was quick to let the public know he’d continue to truck on.
As a former Pumpkins junkie ho long ago played the band’s opus Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness so much that the cassette tape actually wore through and snapped, I must say that I’m really bummed.
This is just the latest in disheartening news to spring from the Corgan camp since the band began to unravel back in the late 1990s — and the slow, painful process of watching the Pumpkins rot has been a difficult pill to swallow.
Here’s a scene: The big family Hanukkah party, held in my grandparent’s basement, and there are no fewer than 15 separate piles of presents scattered along the walls. Each grandkid gets one, and, as a general rule, the piles vary in size depending on how much each set of parents wants to show off their wealth to the rest of the family.
Well, the Jacobs brothers tended to have the smallest pile of gifts while our cousins’ would consist of several boxes the size of small cars stacked atop one another. Usually, this dichotomy would bum me out, the sensitive 9-year-old that I was.
But this year — 1995 it was — I knew that my best gift was the smallest — the double-cassette of Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, by the coolest band in the land, The Smashing Pumpkins.
My young mind rationalized the Pumpkins as the coolest band ever using the following logic:
1. The guitar riff of the song “Zero” sounds like the most violent car chase ever.
And so it went, for several years, that The Smashing Pumpkins were everything to me. I picked up the band’s earlier work (“Cherub Rock” is killer) and buzzed my hair off. Whether this was to emulate Billy Corgan or not, I can’t remember, but I looked like a penis and grew it back as quickly as I could. Several Hanukkahs later, I even received the five-disc B-sides collection box set and carried it around like a lunchbox.
But I was no blind follower, and when The Pumpkins began to decompose, so did my adoration for them. First came Machina/The Machines of God in 2000, a record that was about as memorable as the pysch class you slept through today.
Then came the first breakup — during which a few band members actually made some decent work. Guitarist James Iha’s A Perfect Circle work was solid, and Zwan, the band including Corgan and Chamberlin, was at least passable.
Bassist D’arcy Wretzky, on the other hand, was arrested for buying a whole bunch of crack. Oops!
But then began the long climb toward both a reunion and the notion that Billy Corgan is batshit insane.
In 2005, the dude took out a full-page ad in the Chicago Tribune begging his old band to rejoin him. It worked, sort of, but the resulting album Zeitgeist (featuring only Corgan and Chamberlin) was anything but, and the band began a freefall into irrelevance.
Corgan’s statement that The Pumpkins would only release singles, not albums, because, “People don’t even listen to it all” made him sound like a bitchy child. Maybe people just didn’t listen to all of your record, Billy.
And now, with Corgan living out his notorious reputation as a weird and egomaniacal control freak, he’s attempting to hold on to the spotlight for just a few more minutes by holding public drummer auditions. Seriously, send your bio, picture and a video to pumpkinsdrummer@gmail.com, and it could be you.
The whole thing stinks of desperation and is the nail in the coffin of the credibility of a once-fantastic band.
So, though I don’t have the money or shamelessness to take an ad out in The Chicago Tribune, Gravity Rides Everything will have to do.
Please, Billy, stop dragging your good name through the mud. Continue to make music, sure, but quit the childish stunts, quit the lame excuses. Iha, who just formed a band with Taylor Hanson, is more respected than you.
Enough is enough, man, and it’s time to know when to gracefully bow out.
Though the school's got negative fashion sense, very little social normalcy and entirely too much emphasis on academics, Carnegie Mellon University sure knows how to pick its live bands.
While Pitt will be aurally bludgeoned to death by the likes of The Academy Is... and the insufferable Secondhand Serenade for its free spring concert, CMU bagged Ted Leo & The Pharmacists and The New Pornographers.
I knew there was a downside to attending a state school.
Nonetheless, the show is going down at 8 p.m. on CMU's large lawn in the center of campus on April 17.
And it's free. Did I mention that?
If you're not a fan already, it'd be a marvelous idea to familiarize yourself with either of these two truly great bands. Here's a start:
In a world where most bands struggle to get a record deal, Amanda Palmer is struggling to get out of hers.
The sometime Dresden Doll and sometime solo piano basher's been playing a new live song that mirrors her real life. It's called "Please Drop Me," and it's quite literally a plea to her label, Roadrunner Records, to do just that.
Apparently, Roadrunner attempted to cut a shot of Palmer's surely lovely midriff from an upcoming video because label reps thought she looked a bit overweight.
First of all, Palmer's tummy is a lot different than the rest of her body, I'm quite sure it's damn fine. And secondly, people don't listen to Amanda Palmer's theatrical, dark cabaret pop because she's hot.
With lyrics like "I'm tired of sucking corporate dick," it seems that Palmer's coming back swinging. It's the perfect instance of an artist - a respectable, talented artist - bucking the suits, saying "fuck you" and doing exactly what she wants to do. It's more rock'n'roll than any of the other artists in Roadrunner's band collection (including Slipknot and Deicide and some other dick-rock bullshit) could muster in even the heaviest breakdown.
And speaking of dick-rock, scrolling through Roadrunner's roster is like listing the lineup of the worst festival never created. Seriously, Soulfly, Biohazard, Madina Lake, Dragonforce, Megadeath, Dream Theater, Theory of a Deadman, Sammy Hager, Stone Sour, Slipknot and, my personal favorites, RATT and Nickelback.
In a musical climate where the biggest tours roll around the country with dozens of massive buses, trucks and planes further blasting the environment to damnation, it’s refreshing to hear about an act like Blind Pilot. The acoustic folk band spent last summer on tour, just like countless other bands — but these guys did it all on their bikes.
“We went from Washington to San Diego. From just below Canada to just above Mexico,” said Blind Pilot’s singer Israel Nebeker. “And it wasn’t the first time. We’d planned a bike tour before but didn’t make it so far. We got our bikes stolen in San Francisco.”
Nebeker’s freewheeling, almost whimsical spirit carries through perfectly in his music. His high, airy voice taps out melodies like The Shins’ James Mercer over his own gently strummed guitar and college buddy turned bandmate Ryan Dobrowski’s lightly splashing drums.
The two Oregon natives began playing together amid the rush and stress of college, but never quite as much as Nebeker wanted. As it so often does, school simply got in the way.
“It was hard to do both — college takes a lot of time,” said Nebeker.
The two rejoined shortly after leaving college, and with no more pesky classes to worry about, Blind Pilot finally began to take shape. With only a handful of acoustic gems, instruments strapped to their backs and a pair of bicycles, Nebeker and Dobrowski set on the first Blind Pilot bike tour, albeit one stunted by theft.
But the first show wasn’t exactly what the two flighty folk post-grads could’ve ever expected.
“The first show on that tour — our first show ever — was booked with a punk band called, I think, F**k Me Dead. We found that out when we got to the venue and kids poured in with Mohawks, studs and leather. It was our first show, and I thought we’d be eaten alive,” said Nebeker.
Surprisingly, the punks had a soft spot for Nebeker’s utterly heartfelt folk.
“Our music didn’t fit in with the rest of the night at all, but it was cool. A guy with an orange Mohawk came up to me afterward and shook my hand. And he had the softest handshake ever,” said Nebeker.
After rebooting in Portland, Ore., getting new bikes and adding bassist Luke Ydstie and banjoist Kati Claborn, Blind Pilot was ready to head out for round two last summer. Dragging along a homemade upright bass trailer (“There are no companies making bass trailers. Luckily, Luke is a good woodworker,” said Nebeker) and a cache of instruments including a ukulele and dulcimer, the quartet biked through a lot of West Coast civilization.
“There were tons of small towns that we didn’t even know had music venues. We basically showed up and asked around where we could play. Those turned out to be some of the best shows,” said Nebeker.
With the band’s music gaining popularity through online avenues and consistent touring, Blind Pilot’s no longer traveling without a motor. Riding in style in a van nowadays, the band has even booked it’s biggest tour ever — with prog-folk heroes The Decemberists, a band whose humble sound on its first record wasn’t unlike the unassuming beauty of Blind Pilot.
Blind Pilot’s debut album, 3 Rounds and A Sound, collects the flowing vibe of life on the road, weaving in and out of ethereal melodies just like the band weaved in and out of California towns. Tracks like the nothing-short-of-lovely “The Story I Heard” find Nebeker’s voice soaring with melodies that’ll stick with you all day — and likely put a smile on your face.
Shades of Iron and Wine, Neutral Milk Hotel and even Simon & Garfunkel show up throughout 3 Rounds, all with a tinge more urgency and carried by steady shuffle beats and rhythmic guitar.
But if you hear something completely different, said Nebeker, that’s just fine. Much like his sentiment toward touring, Nebeker’s feelings on his fans are free and easy.
“I think it’s important to remember that when people are hearing my songs, it’s a two-part process. I’m writing the songs, but the process isn’t complete until they hear it,” said Nebeker. “So if they hear something there, it’s there.”
But whatever fans hear, only one thing matters to the Portland crew: Just hear it.
There’s nothing to pick up sullen spirits quite like a dance party, and that’s exactly what N.E.R.D. brought to a crowd of totally-bummed Pitt students in the Fitzgerald Fieldhouse Saturday night.
Local hip-hop powerhouse Formula 412 opened the show, sponsored by Pitt Program Council, to an audience slowly filtering in during the commercials of the basketball game. It’s a shame the two events coincided, too — the band plays the kind of juggernaut funk that’s best appreciated live. 412’s MC, Masai Turner, had a thumping, rhythmic flow that rode perfectly atop guitarist Nasty Nash’s jackhammer riffs and Young D’s impossibly tight percussion.
Rhythm is Formula 412’s strong suit, and like an more vicious version of The Roots, the band’s live set hit with machine gun precision. Definitely a local band to watch out for.
PPC beamed the last minutes of Pitt’s game against Villanova on the two jumbo screens in the Fieldhouse as the N.E.R.D. crew set up the show and the tension in the room was stifling. And with the last-second loss, the energy of the crowd deflated like a popped balloon.
Luckily, N.E.R.D. front man Pharrell Williams knows how to work a crowd. And the “F**k you ‘Nova” chant didn’t hurt either.
Led by Williams, MC Shay Haley and producer/synthesizer maestro Chad Hugo, N.E.R.D. hit the stage bolstered by a live band including two drummers, two keyboardists a guitarist and a bassist, making for a gigantic sound that immediately got the crowd shaking booties and all semblance of appendages.
“Brain,” a highlight of N.E.R.D.’s debut record In Search Of… was a full-on funk assault, the staccato guitar riff reverberating through the entire Fieldhouse and shaking up even the most depressed of Pitt kids.
In addition to controlling the bounce of the crowd, Williams also seemingly likes to control the crowd itself, laying down the rules of the show.
“Here are the rules. There are no more inhibitions tonight. You will totally let go,” commanded Williams. “Second, if you punch someone, you leave. Three, respect the security guards. And four, when you go back to class, you will tell everyone what the fuck they missed.”
Yes, sir.
After a punchy and energetic “Kill Joy,” Williams dove back in on the crowd instruction, actually attempting to teach the crowd proper crowd-surfing techniques. Teaching when he could’ve been busting out another funk blast, Williams’ insistence on hearing his own voice talk, not perform, was a bit of a kill joy.
Nonetheless, the music took center stage again with the smoothed out drug ballad “Provider” and the sublimely explosive “Sooner or Later,” easily two of the band’s best songs.
Though the lady-heavy audience often seemed there solely to be in the same room as Pharrell Williams (can’t blame them, dude is adorable), the front man wanted to play fair to both sexes. For the fuzz-bass blowout “Rock Star,” he invited a line of guys onstage to have their own rock star moment, resulting, predictably, in said guys jumping up and down, playing air guitar and generally wishing they were Pharrell Williams.
But the self-love didn’t stop there. For a six-minute slinky soul jam, the N.E.R.D. crew invited a veritable entire floor of Holland Hall onstage for Williams to dance with and sing to. The guy and girl stage overpopulation played more like an episode of the surely in the works MTV reality series “Who Wants to Fellate Pharrell?” than a hip-hop show.
Thankfully, all was not lost.
N.E.R.D. dove head first into the thumping coke workout “Everybody Nose” and the extraordinarily funky “She Wants to Move.” When the band spliced in the guitar riff of Franz Ferdinand’s “Take Me Out,” the show finally came full circle, ending with the infectious and intense energy it started on.
Pitt might not have won Saturday night, but for the few hundred students packed into the Fitzgerald Fieldhouse, N.E.R.D.’s show of wild and live hip-hop made the loss an easier pill to swallow.
There are good bands, and then there are bands with music so good they become the standard of a genre. The Hold Steady have done just that for barroom rock, The Roots have done it for live hip-hop. And more recently, punk rock got its contemporary standard in the form of New Jersey-ites The Gaslight Anthem.
The band, made of singer Brian Fallon, guitarist Alex Rosamilia, bassist Alex Levine and drummer Benny Horowitz, make music that is a synthesis of two of New Jersey’s finest exports — the epic, storytelling, everyman rock of Bruce Springsteen fused sonically with the fast, fist-pumping punk of the Bouncing Souls. And with last year’s The ’59 Sound picking up steam, a cross-country headlining tour about to launch and spots on magazine covers and TV shows piling up, The Gaslight Anthem is about to ignite.
Guitarist Alex Rosamilia, on his last day off before hitting the road, called Gravity Rides Everything to talk rock, Jersey and meditation.
GRE: You’ve had a pretty incredible and quick rise to rock fame.
AR: It’s weird. It’s a constant barrage of surreal moments and pinching myself. I don’t believe this is actually happening because everyone told me it was too impossible for someone like me. We just got back from Europe and most of the shows were sold out. To go to places I’ve never been before and have people stoked to see us, that was incredible.
GRE: How’d the band come together originally?
AR: Brian and Alex were playing together in a band and drafted Benny. The previous guitarist wanted to go back to school and Benny asked if I wanted to join, but I was cautious at first — I’d given up the dream at that point. I was ok with being assistant manager at a sneaker store. I made enough money to do whatever. But he twisted my arm enough to do it.
GRE: A lot’s been made of the band being from New Jersey. Do you feel a particular connection to Jersey bands?
AR: I wouldn’t say there’s a specific Jersey sound or a Jersey genre. But even though everything sounds different, there’s a similar sense of desperation. There’s a hint of claustrophobia because of how easy it is to get stuck in New Jersey. So it’s not a genre, but a state of mind.
GRE: Gaslight’s music has a timeless quality. Is that where the ‘59 Sound concept comes from?
AR: The whole idea behind the record was that we’d found out that we all liked soul music. We basically tried to make an homage to an earlier time. We’re reaching for that sound on purpose — the Stax sound, the Motown sound.
GRE: A lot of songs on the record were written specifically to be live tunes. How do you feel onstage?
AR: This is going to sound really cheesy, but it’s a meditative process. It’s the hour a day where I don’t worry about anything, the only time I feel really focused. We’ll be driving all day, doing photo shoots and interviews, but I get onstage and it all makes sense for an hour. Then I step offstage and it stops making sense again. Onstage I don’t have to worry about creditors calling and asking for money, what I’ll do when I get home. All that shit leaves my head and I just worry about the guitar — a totally innocent thing to worry about. Something can go wrong on guitar and it won’t be the end of the world. Playing a bad note isn’t hazardous to my health.
GRE: There are a lot of styles going into Gaslight Anthem music. What are some acts that have influenced you the most?
AR: Personally, I’d say The Cure. Robert Smith and Johnny Marr have had more say over what I sound like than any guitar player. Peter Green, the original guitar player of Fleetwood Mac, and I’d have to throw in Dave Knudson from Minus the Bear. He’s too good — it’s not fair.
GRE: If you could control the future, what would the next five years look like?
AR: We’d keep doing what we’re doing, but I’d have my own place. That’s the consensus of everybody. I’m currently residing on my friend’s couch. When you’re not home at all, it’s not worth spending money. And I’m not the only one — a few of us are living the nomadic lifestyle right now.
Female voices don’t come tougher, ballsier and more beautiful than the siren call of Heartless Bastards front woman Erika Wennerstrom. Her band’s dirty power blues sound finds Wennerstrom’s voice dragging through gravel, howling in pain like a lover scorned, all over a punch-in-the-gut bed of thunderous dirt-road guitar and percussion.
The band sounds like the soundtrack to riding into the sunset just after the apocalypse. Yup, they’re that good.
Wennerstrom took some time to talk to Gravity Rides Everything as she winded through the country — soon to be in Pittsburgh Sunday night.
GRE: A lot’s been made of your voice. When did you realize you could sing?
Erika Wennerstrom: I was 18 or 19. I’d always wanted to sing, but I never had — I just told everybody I was going to be a singer. Then around 18, I thought ‘Well, I should start doing this if it’s what I want to do as a career.’ I began to write songs and work at it.
GRE: Do you remember first time singing in front of a crowd?
EW: I’m sure it was some sort of open mic night in Dayton Ohio, but I don’t remember the exact night or what happened or anything.
GRE: How’d you get hooked up with [indie label] Fat Possum?
EW: Patrick Carney of The Black Keys walked into a show we did in Akron, Ohio and I thought I recognized him — I went up to him afterwards and we ended up hanging out and drinking some beers. I handed him a demo and he passed it on to Fat Possum.
GRE: At this point in your career, would you consider moving to a major label?
EW: I don’t know. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Ultimately, I’ve got to do what’s best for the band. I think there are a lot of great things about independent labels, and good things as far as the exposure bigger labels can offer. But in the industry right now, I think indie labels do better. They have more loyal followings. I don’t know anyone who says ‘I have the whole Sony catalogue.’ But I know people that are really big fans of labels like Fat Possum or Sub Pop or Matador. Those labels have really loyal followings that will check something out just because it’s on the label.
GRE: Who are some of your vocal idols? Who do you look up to?
EW: I love Otis Redding, Iggy Pop. I love Mick Jagger, Nina Simone, Joan Jett. My influences are all over the place.
GRE: If you could control the future, what would the next five years look like?
EW: Well, I’d hope that I can continue to write songs that I like and have people respond to them. Plus the whole ‘hope to be happy’ stuff. I’d be livin’ the good life.
GRE: What can fans expect to see from a Heartless Bastards live show?
EW: I’m sure everyone’s view of it is a bit different, but I think we’re a good band. I think we’re entertaining. I don’t do any crazy acrobatics or anything — we’re straightforward. We don’t wear costumes. No pyrotechnics or lighting. We put on a good, old fashioned rock and roll show. We’re just doing what we love to do.
Check out Heartless Bastards at Mr. Small's on Sunday night. Expect to leave feeling like you got kicked in the stomach.
Goodbye, Paris Hilton. See you later, Jennifer Aniston. The most important cultural icon we’ve got nowadays is none other than T-Pain.
Why? Well, first off, he’s on a boat. He’s on a boat. Take a good, hard look, because he’s sailing on a boat.
In the parallel universe of pop culture that co-exists with the real world in which normal shmoes like you and I exist, T-Pain is the guy that shows up at every party (though no one is sure who invited him). He always has something witty to say, and he probably slept with your sister. And very possibly your mother.
By appearing in just about every popular song to hit the radio, he has become the digitized voice of pop music, the thermometer for what is hot up in da club and what is not.
Seriously, his resume of hits is staggering. Here’s just a sampler: Chris Brown’s “Kiss Kiss,” Kanye West’s “Good Life,” Flo Rida’s “Low,” Baby Bash’s “Cyclone” and my personal favorite, “I’m ‘n Luv (Wit a Stripper).”
Aren’t we all, Mr. Pain, aren’t we all?
But with T-Pain’s latest guest appearance on the brilliantly dumb “I’m on a Boat,” this big-hatted teddy bear has come full circle in the pop universe, revealing that, yes, he knows what he does is silly and meaningless, but damn it, there is nothing wrong with that.
“I’m on a Boat,” written by the regular-dude trio of Andy Samberg, Akiva Schaffer and Jorma Taccone as The Lonely Island, is, at first listen, a club track with a colossal, thumping beat about — predictably — how cool it is to be on a boat, motherf****r.
The lyrics are obviously silly, especially when being rhymed by awkward white boys in tuxedos.
“I’m the king of the world, on a boat like Leo / If you’re on the shore, then you’re sure not me, oh,” is not exactly Dylan, but that’s not the point. “I’m on a Boat” is a spot-on parody of the entire genre of bling-tastic, my-grillz-is-shinier-than-yours hip-hop pop music. The bigger the boat, the more garish the display of wealth.
That part’s easy, though. Without T-Pain, the track would be little more than the best song Weird Al never wrote.
By featuring Mr. Pain, the genre king of mechanized, impersonal party jams, the song not only sounds way cooler, but also raises the tune to a whole other level of parody.
In imitating the sound of big-beat hip-hop tracks, “I’m on a Boat” has become one of the best to drop in months. It’s divine irony is anchored by T-Pain’s self-knowingly ridiculous appearance.
Because his trademark vocal addition to any song is sung through an auto-tune machine, thereby making the sounds you hear on the record not his own, T-Pain is the ultimate disposable pop star.
He is every hip-hop dude rapping about booties droppin’ down to the flo’, he is every pop star singing about love or sex or love and sex and he is every recycled chorus that sounds like a song from six months ago.
By appearing in a song that directly makes fun of just how silly club jams are, he is stepping back from his bling-image and saying, “Yup, it’s pretty stupid.” And in admitting so, he immediately becomes the smartest pop star in the business.
You wouldn’t see Akon on this track — dude takes himself way too seriously. And you sure wouldn’t see fellas like Diddy or Young Jeezy or Usher singing lines like “Never thought I’d be on a boat. It’s a big, blue watery road ... Believe me when I say I f****d a mermaid.” Those guys are too caught up in exactly the image that “I’m on a Boat” is making fun of.
And so was T-Pain.
But by jumping around on a boat, he’s winking to every music listener that has trouble swallowing the meaningless, hollow club tracks that seem to be recycled and redone every few months.
He gets it, he’s in on the joke. But you know what? That doesn’t bother him at all. He’s getting paid, and he’s giving us one more silly banger to get us gyrating on the dance floor.
And you really can’t blame him. Because the dude’s on a boat. He’s on a boat. And all we can do is take a good, hard look at the motherf*****g boat.
This video hit the web back in January, but it warrants repeated viewings. If you haven't seen it yet, pay attention and listen up. The stop motion action going on here is nothing short of breathtaking, and it helps that the song is quite lovely as well.
Just a bit of background - singer Oren Lavie is an Israeli singer-songwriter with a concentration on theater. The rest of his tunes are very Leonard Cohen-y in their understated beauty, subtle melodies and slow, plodding pace. Really, really nice stuff.
Interestingly enough, his video for "Her Morning Elegance" has hit over 4 million views on YouTube, but the dude's only got 6000 or so friends on MySpace. Guess we're all just in for a one-off, which is a shame — Lavie's no one trick pony. Check the rest of his online music here.
It is my hope with Gravity Rides Everything to present thoughtful and thought-provoking discourse on music so as to push readers and listeners to think and appreciate music on a more thorough level. As in, no silly over-hyping, no crazed-fan freakout — I want to keep a weight to the music, hence Gravity Rides Everything.
But damn it, it sure as hell is hard not to have a mini-freak out after hearing Grizzly Bear's new record, Veckatimest.
The copy came to me through a friend in town to give a poetry reading — both the work and the people behind it are quite fantastic. Check 'em out here.
The Brooklynites told me they'd been jamming to Veckatimest consistently on their reading-tour of the past week — they'd fall asleep and be brought back to life by the sweeping sounds of the record, finding themselves in a new city, new surroundings. Thinking about how gigantic each song on the record becomes, only to sink back to the shadows, it sounds like a pretty beautiful experience.
Well, this was Thursday. Now Sunday night, I've fully submitted to the power of the record. I can't turn it off. I've tried, sure, by playing other new music (Thanks you Heartless Bastards and Thursday, but you just can't help) and even old standbys (Good effort, Band of Horses), but nothing can draw me away from this record.
I will likely bite my tongue for typing this at somepoint, as I'm sure that my life will soon be significantly less swallowed by Grizzly Bear, but right now it feels right: Veckatimist is one of the most beautiful pieces of music I have ever heard.
These harmonies are otherworldly — a chorus of ghosts singing from a dark corner in an abandoned house. The guitars alternate between ground-rumbling and barely-whispers, sweeping you up like a strong wind and twirling you around, over and over and upside down and inside out. And then the piano. Oh, lord the piano. Jetting in and out of each track like a devilish and clever child, beautiful, full of life.
The whole album feels like the ocean, it's tides changing over and again, each bringing something different to shore. The scope is both a huge, endless open field and the tiny space under the bed of a scared child where he hides from monsters.
It is absolutely gorgeous. I honestly cannot remember hearing another album that hit me the way Veckatimist has. Maybe The Decemberists' "Her Majesty," and that was back in 2003.
End of weekend count: 21. I've listened to the record 21 times through. That's over 1000 minutes, over 17 hours. I feel like a drug addict. But when the smack is this good, I don't wanna stop.
Here are a few of the most-leaked tracks, in the best video forms I can find 'em. Enjoy. I know you will.
When you're a busy dude like me (class two days a week! an almost sort of full time job! at least 3 requisite nights at the bar a week!), it's easy to let some of the best music slip right by you.
Well, over the past 10 hours, I've spent some much needed time playing catch up with some of last year's gems... instead of writing the paper that's now due in 51 minutes.
Nonetheless, in case you too missed some of these sparks of brilliance, here are a few suggestions to brush up your knowledge of what totally killed in 2008.
Enjoy! Frightened Rabbit: Yes, I've already kicked myself, difficult as it was, for not having heard Frightened Rabbit until now. But now that I have, my mind is running circles around the beautifully tortured mess that this band creates with each song. Pumping guitars, meandering melodies and enough jangle to creep into every nook and cranny of your brain. Epic, stunning. Listen now.
The Tallest Man on Earth: It's been said over and over and over, so this extremely late name-drop comparison won't hurt any feelings; dude sounds like a more ethereal Dylan. Like Dylan singing from a desolate bayou porch in the middle of the coldest night in November, wind swirling all around him, the only light coming from a single candle that's about to burn out.
Raphael Saadiq: Yessssssssss. Raphael just feels right, like a glass of wine on a night in with somebody to hold onto tight. Does that sound cheesy? Fine, but this is feel-good soul like only the greats like Stevie and the Reverend can pull off. Play this at any time of day for an instant chill out, and expect to call people 'cat' for several hours following.
I've still got more catching up to do, but these three will keep me smiling at least until I hand in this paper... in 37 minutes. Student, me?
As I type this column, I’m downloading the iTunes advanced release of The Decemberists’ new record, The Hazards of Love. And I’m extremely nervous.
It’s not that I fear the album will be bad, though — the band could release an entire record of power chords and Buddhist chants and I’d likely find something to appreciate. Rather, my apprehension comes from the notion that The Decemberists, a band that I’ve loved for almost six years, is no longer my own.
With each album, The Decemberists have seen a steady increase in both fans and critical attention — a pattern that would suggest that The Hazards of Love will be the band’s biggest record. And if the huge media push (Rolling Stone called it “the Decemberists’ full-on classic-rock move”) is any indication, it’s looking like the band once beloved only by nerds and classics majors may soon be embraced by the people who used to beat up nerds and classics majors.
The Decemberists are primed for the big time, a place filled with bands that suck and the people who love them. What a sad day.
But shouldn’t I, a diehard Decemberists fan (Colin Meloy’s pre-Decemberists band was Tarkio. Who knew that one?) be happy for my band’s growing success? Well, no. Not exactly.
And herein lies the problem so many fans face as their favorite bands make it big. The logic goes like this:
You discover a band you think no one else knows at a time in your life when the band’s music gives you hope. The band becomes “yours,” and you introduce your friends to the music. Your friends begin to love the band as well. The band becomes “theirs” as well as “yours.” This you can deal with — you like your friends, you like your band. The two can co-exist.
But then everyone else catches on, usually because of brain vacuums like MTV. “Your” band begins to be the band of everyone, from the girls with braces and black hoodies in Hot Topic to the quarterback of the football team, whose previous favorite band was Bon Jovi. Your faith in “your” band begins to falter. How can someone like Bon Jovi and “your” band?
Still, if you love “your” band, you should want the best for it, and it’s hard to deny that making millions of dollars is worse than not making enough money to buy gas or underwear.
You’re stuck.
There must be a way to reconcile a band’s success and a fan’s personal connection to the band — they can’t be absolute inverses. Or can they?
Often, a band’s initial output is rough. It’s difficult to absorb, and the band gains a devoted but small following of fans who are willing to put in the time to appreciate the music. As the band gains experience, it’s music becomes easier to digest and the band gains more fans simply because it takes less effort to appreciate the music. To the economist, this is a good strategy. To the diehard fan, this means the band is getting worse.
Every band follows this pattern, from Taking Back Sunday (if you say you didn’t love the first album during high school, you’re a liar) to the Foo Fighters (The Colour and the Shape is a classic, the later stuff is tired — but loved by everyone).
For the diehard fan, decreasing personal connection is actually caused by a decrease in the quality of the music, not merely the accumulation of more fans.
But The Decemberists, much like My Morning Jacket or Death Cab for Cutie, for example, bucked that trend — popularity has grown seemingly because more people have finally heard the band, not because the music’s been dumbed down.
Like The Hazards of Love itself, a 17-part opus about a character named Margaret being ravaged by a shape-shifting dude named William, the situation is complex, and though I could wax philosophical about the price of fame on artistic integrity, the bottom line is that we fans may just have to be alright that “our” bands often become the bands of countless others, whether those countless others appreciate the music as much as we do.
It’s a difficult task, I know, but a necessary one. I’ll always have my Decemberists moments, when I felt like the band and I, in a rather Lifetime Channel way, were truly meant to be together forever. And nothing can take that away from me.
The festival lineups continue to roll in, and Rothbury (July 2-5) may just edge out Bonnaroo for the title of the Best of 09.
I'd say the top five billed acts alone make the Michigan fest's pricey 250 tickets worth it, but the list stays strong the further down you go.
Unlike both Roo or All Good, Rothbury's been able to straddle the line between mainstream blowout and jam-band heaven by raking in a lineup that is, you could say, a jam-band blowout. The best of both worlds — absolutely gigantic bands that won't appeal to the annoying douchebags who came to see Dave Matthews Band. All rejoice!
The highlights are bolded, but there are few bands that don't excite me to some degree. Damian Marley and Nas?!? Fantastic.
If you scan down the page, you'll find a picture of a Guatemalan volcano.
Welcome to the last week of my life.
I returned today after, quite literally, more than 24 hours of traveling (tiny rural village of Paraxaj to Guatemala City to Miama to JFK airport to Newark airport to Pittsburgh airport to public transit to home) from what I'd consider the most important and powerful week of my life.
Still, though, I'm too close to the action right now to be able to sort through the impact that my time living in an impoverished village will have on my life — the feelings are too fresh, too new. All I can say is that I'm not sure I'll ever be the same, or that I can ever again willingly embrace the foolish wastefulness of American culture.
But that's another topic for another blog.
Like any intense patch of life, there's music for every emotion. I went into my week in Guatemala with very few expectations for what music I'd crave, and for many of the most intense moments (visiting a family of 10 living in a house the size of a Cadillac), there was simply no music at all that fit.
I wanted nothing but silence.
But, surprisingly, one band rose to the top for those moments when sight and sound matched perfectly: Dr. Dog.
Sure, Explosions in the Sky popped up on the moments when we were driving through the mountains and RJD2 was played in our room when spirits were feeling funky, but Dr. Dog was consistently the band I came back to during the few moments when I needed a musical kick in the pants.
Why? Because Dr. Dog music makes me happier than any other band I can think of.
Just check out "The Breeze." The ethereal, floating harmonies, the slow, bopping melody, the sprinkled piano and plucked-toy guitar. The rhythm driving forward so steadily, so playfully.
And, of course, the line, "What blows us here today will blow us all away...the breeze will blow us all away."
With only one week in the tiny village of Paraxaj, I did feel that the breeze blew me in and swept me away just as quickly. And like the best music should, Dr. Dog brought out the words I couldn't find.
Beginning tomorrow morning, I'll be heading to Manhattan for a few nights of drunken debauchery, immediately followed Sunday morning by a week of sobering reality — in Guatemala.
I'll be spending a week volunteering in an impoverished village in Guatemala and sleeping on a floor. No phone, and definitely no computer.
I know, I know. You're wondering whatever you'll do without GRE. I promise, you will survive. Stay strong, read some old posts for comfort and try to focus on something else, like knitting or reading a book (yes, they still exist!), to take your mind off your sorrow.
For some of us will spend spring break lounging on an exotic beach, perfecting our tans while sipping on drinks mixed with any assortment of alcohol. Some of us will spend spring break in the front seat of a friend’s car, our arm hanging out the window on the way to an unknown destination. And some of us will spend spring break watching OnDemand reruns in our parents’ basement.
Others of us are real people and have jobs (shiver races down spine).
For that third group, I feel your pain. I’ve been there — sure, spending spring break at home seems fun at first, what with all the free home cooking and…well, really just the home cooking.
But by Wednesday, a year’s worth of your mom’s awesome meatloaf couldn’t keep you from yearning to return to school. Your parents started asking you to, you know, do things (Chores?! What the hell?), and you’ve watched even the most uninteresting of what OnDemand has to offer (Check out the totally un-captivating ShalomTV).
Whatever shall you do to pass the time? Homework? That’s just silly talk. Prepare a nice family dinner before your parents return from work? Only if pop’s bringing home a sixer of your favorite beer.
Luckily, unfortunate soul, I’ve got you covered.
Listed below are five bands that, unless you are a musical whiz or a big nerd like me, you’ve never heard of. And if you have, then you don’t need my help to find some new, exciting music. Check out exactly one each day, beginning Monday, and by the time you’re listening to the last band on Friday, you'll be home free.
Monday — Kiev: This Orange County, California band is a perfect early-week pick-me-up. The percussion is propulsive, sending each post-rock shaker towards a satisfying end. Think Muse with less of an alternative rock feel, or Radiohead (The Bends-style) with a bit more of a punch, and you’ve got this co-ed crew’s sound.
Tuesday — Apes and Androids: Replace ‘apes’ with ‘funk’ and you’ve got this New York band down pat. Decidedly non-Daft Punk robotic-melodies ordering everyone to “Get f****d up” shoot like lasers over minimalist electro-funk beats. Find an astronaut suit, pop this band on at a costume party you throw at your house (you know at least mom and dad will show up!) and get ready to have a ball. It’s almost Wednesday. You’re going to make it.
Wednesday — Heartless Bastards: Alright, so the middle of the week doesn’t feel quite as close to the end as you thought. Fear not, for the slow-chugging guitar blues of the Heartless Bastards will turn those sad thoughts into, well, sadder thoughts. But the good, introspective-but-not-bitter type of sad. And better yet, this Cincinatti, lady-fronted grit-machine will play Pittsburgh next month with Gaslight Anthem, so you can relive the excitement that was your spring break once again!
Thursday — Vetiver: You made it over hump day and it’s time to celebrate the nearing end of your time at home. But we’re not talking a big champagne bash with the folks — the sunshine-drenched, upbeat, acoustic folk of Devendra Banhart compatriots Vetiver will suffice perfectly. Tunes like the lovely and sublime “Everyday” will remind you that there are greener pastures back at school. Greener pastures where you can get drunk when you want to get drunk, and you can dance through the streets freely instead of being confined to your hallways where you risk breaking mom’s piece of art she bought at a community crafts fair.
Friday — Dan Deacon: You’ve made it! Through trips to the mall with mom, ‘We’re proud of you’ moments with dad and more couch time than a coma patient, you’ve made it to the end of spring break. Congratulations, and some hot beats are in order. Blast some of Dan Deacon’s strobe-ready dance party jams and watch your folks freak out. Seriously, they’re having a seizure. Deacon jams will do that to the fragile and middle aged.
Well, there you go, homeward-bound students. I guarantee that the inclusion of these one-a-day bands will make your basement dwelling significantly less of a bummer.
I’ll see you next week, after I get my wicked, tropical tan.
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