I'm not going to write too much about this, because you just have to watch it. Continuous shot. Quidditch team. Anyone want to join me in applying for admission to Emerson?
I love when I sleep in, then wake to find it's raining. Rain is only nice for not going anywhere; Sunday is the day for that.
When I implored the good people of Twitter (no, not "tweeple," I will fight you if I hear you say that) for their favorite Sunday morning songs yesterday, the only one I didn't know was the choice of Soldout head honcho, Russ Marshalek. It happened to be absolutely perfect for this morning: the rain, the feeling of in-between just the right amount of beer and one too many the night before, the coffee getting cold too quickly.
I give you the Cowboy Junkies' "Something More Beside You":
I have fallen in love with this song; just this morning I listened to it four times in a row. Not just because I'm writing this column, but because every time it ended, I wanted to hear it again. It kicks in and out as the lyrics take you down a path you need to re-tread. Margo Timmin's voice is a like a caress here, and it's up to you to decide if it's a reassuring embrace or a goodbye kiss.
Cowboy Junkies are one of those bands that I've been told over and over again to check out, which goes into one of my ears, lodges briefly and then shoots out the other. This Sunday morning, however, has given me a reason to seek out their back catalogue.
Consider, the greatest love song of all time:
I am tempted to post all of the lyrics along with this, because it is my personal philosophy made manifest. You should just listen to the song a few dozen times instead of me breaking it down and likely ruining it for you.
As I've been feeling ill all this weekend, taken down by some mysterious stomach virus probably contracted from the Pittsburgh Transit System, I haven't been able to do much but lay around and complain.
But one should never underestimate the power of David Byrne.
I put Stop Making Sense into my DVD player, made sure it was on the beautiful 5.1 remastered version, and halfway through I'm already feeling better. Perhaps it's just me that finds obtuse pictures of hotel rooms, Byrne flopping around on the floor, twitching, and harsh lighting under faces to be comforting. Yeah, it's probably just me.
If you're lucky, I may someday reveal my theory and proofs about how David Byrne is actually an alien sent here to observe humans. This is why he gives the best life advice.
(And just so it's on the record: Chris, Tina and the Tom Tom Club, you can suck it. That rift simply proved where the genius lay. I would suggest that you skip the Tom Tom Club song while watching SMS, but it's cruical to know how very terrible they are without David Byrne. Don't skip it. Simmer in it. Be afraid.)
Kristin
Addendum: I just found one of the special features of Stop Making Sense in entirety on YouTube, wherein David Byrne interviews himself. I cannot convey how much I love this man.
Photo by Kristin Ross SXSW 2010In early May, when I first heard Treats, the new album by Sleigh Bells, I commented on Twitter: “If the National speaks of our ennui, Sleigh Bells speaks of our party.” After repeated listens, this still stands. This album rages and it rages hard. It’s the perfect contrast to the mega-downer High Violet, though that’s not to disparage the National. (Let the record state that I love High Violet.) They’re two sides of the same coin; two different moods of the current zeitgeist. When the National are in my headphones, I want to buy a bottle of wine and weep gently into my carpet. When Sleigh Bells is in my headphones, it obliterates my thoughts other than “fuck yes.” One album for the world-weariness and one album to bring back the optimism and I’m sitting comfortably in the middle.
The beginning of every Sleigh Bells song amps you up. It’s exciting and you are excited by it. This is precisely what it was made to do. This music even makes typing dynamic. When Alexis asks, “Did you do your best today?” on the opening track of Treats, the appropriate answer is “fuck yes I did.” All of these cuts will punish your speakers; this production is not kind. It’s unapologetically loud and intentionally left that way. Shit is dirty. Again, this is precisely what it was made to do.
Submitted evidence #1 : “Riot Rhythm.”
About 70% of the people I know will hate this song, but I can’t get enough of it. I’ve been listening to it about three times a day, probably because it happens to segue into “Infinity Guitars.” I assure you, you’re not ready for this.
Submitted evidence #2 : “Infinity Guitars.”
Listen to everything shaking! That is how you know some shit is going down!
Sleigh Bells aren’t trying to revolutionize lyrics, but there is a simplicity and clarity that’s totally refreshing. At SXSW, where some of the soldout team got to experience this hurricane live in person, we talked about “tweetable songs.” If you can quote a song in less than 140 characters, there’s something markedly charming about that. There are phrases here just waiting to be plucked out of the fuzz and Derrick’s unrelenting guitar.
They have a soft side, too, as displayed on “Rachel” and “Rill Rill,” but it’s just not as interesting to me and the latter song has moments where it sounds like Sublime melted and run through a sieve. I’m happy to move on to the screech and thump of “Crown on the Ground.” I’m having a tough time expressing how energizing this stuff is, because I think it hits a neural receptor that not everyone has. If you do, it just hits there and you know it.
The album is taken out by “A/B Machines” and “Treats,” another double wallop (like the “Riot Rhythm and “Infinity Guitars” pairing).
Submitted evidence #3: “Treats”
Here we come to the part where I wish I could have a sufficient way of conveying the booms of this song into words, but I can’t. Sleigh Bells isn’t really about what Alexis is doing, it’s about the boot stomp of Derrick’s guitar. I can only partially understand what she’s saying in this song, but it doesn’t matter. The whirr whirr whirr is what matters.
Yeah. Sometimes it is just the whirr whirr whirr that matters.
I leave you with this handy reference on where to place your A and B machines, by Russ Marshalek:
I had never heard of the Horrors before a co-worker handed me the CD "Primary Colors." He had attached a note to the front: "Sounds like MBV, with a little Joy Division, maybe a little Cure. GREAT."
Yeah, I thought. Great. Sounds like a total goth trainwreck. I stuffed the CD in my bag for a couple of weeks and forgot about it. After having run out of new releases to listen to and discard, I threw the disc onto my iPod. What I got was a nearly perfect song for Sunday morning, "Sea Within A Sea."
The Horrors are what I call a VBB (Very British Band) and I'm getting a lot of blank stares when I mention them. (People in the indie set find it easier to just not say anything if they have no idea what band you're talking about; this neither confirms nor denies their knowledge.) It seems that they've proven my theory that it's possible to be on the cover of NME and still have everyone ignore you.
The video is an over eight minute epic, suitable for your first cup of coffee. Bonus points to whomever can tell me who the announcer is. I find the flashing psychedelic colors oddly soothing. Faris Badwan has the longest nose you will ever see and his haircut only serves to make him look like he used to be a crow, but made a deal with a nature spirit to become human. He wanders around stage, disaffected, while the editor intercuts unrelated stock footage. This song gets even better on repeated listens...that bass, the odd shimmy of the guitar that I didn't expect in something so very goth.
Wherefore art thou new music, the Horrors? I think it's your time.
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