Forget Your Self Esteem

Simon with a timely reminder to listen to Mercury Rev again.

Also want to publicly thank him for quoting the best bit of my recent drunken rant at the top of the above-linked page. 

I only discovered Yerself Is Steam a few years ago, but it made quite an impression. I think I had written off that whole psych side of early 90s US indie inadvertently. I was never really a huge Flaming Lips fan, and the ubiquity of "that sound" at "that time" nudged me almost towards active revulsion, so hearing Rev was, erm, revelatory as that album, and Boces, seemed to really somehow address my unexamined prejudice, a prejudice I still can't really define. 

Maybe it's just the touch of chaos, the feeling that the psych was actually that, not just a reference, but a state of mind and possibility. The guitars sounded sometimes as if they were not being made to scream by human intervention, but, were, in actual fact, screaming themselves.

The best kinds of people are the ones who just say yes. A few years ago, an October night, I was thrashing about my old apartment in Providence, listening to Steam, and I texted someone, kindly requesting that we set an appointment for the following spring. I had a plan, a plan that, on the first warm day, the one that reinvests the world with possibility, that we drive to some small and beautiful town in Massachusetts and take mushrooms and not leave until we had made friends with all the squirrels. Of course it never happened, wasn't even a good idea, but somehow, that yes would have made all the difference, and, in some ways, I'm glad I never got it.


Another Short One

Probably most books worth reading should just be titled It's Even Worse Than You Thought, except for history books; It's Even Worse Than You Thought And It's Been Going On Forever.

That's why I need to buy more music books again, slightly better: It Was Good And You Missed It.


I Dreamt Of Climate Change And ALL I Got...

... was this useless bit of alliteration... I'm headed to the Second Story Store for stilts.

Most of the dream involved permanent snowfall and the anxiety of what to do about cats that I don't even have.

Tell me what it all means.


Yeah, That's Them

I don't know if I have written about this before. It's kind of silly. Let's just say. My parents were in college between 1965 and 1969 and if there is a group of four years during which it is better to be in college in the 20th century, let me know. I mean, there are probably more profound years sure. World War One and Two happened between 1900 and 2000 I know you know but.

So what's crazy about me is that even though I moved far beyond my parents' aesthetic preferences years ago, um. 

That's just another way of me saying that, contrary to my father's love of The Beatles and my Mother's love of the Stones, well, at the risk of coming across as if I am just a rebellious child and not a principled adult, I have to re-iterate my love of the Who.


I dunno. 

The reasons change annually. 

What don't change: The Stones had the best attitude and the Beatles had the best songs.

This year...

The Stones are Trump. Fuck society, do what thou willssst and all that. 

The Beatles are the Liberals, renovators. Songcraft has legs in our hands.

The Who don't belong, still.

As they shouldn't. 

Quadrophenia could only be made by believers, not leaders. They are the sound of the recipient, not the giver, the penitent, not the priest. There is no equivalent. This casts aspersions on the characters of many. Pur. Pos. Full. Ly.

Not only believers, though. Dis-enchanted ones.

The Stones and the Beatles get all the credit which is why they suck. The Stones and The Beatles are an argument amongst those who have money and who get laid and who are able to combine sperm and ovaries into progeny that reify the narcissism of the biodonors.

Quadrophenia may be the only eloquent statement of the loss of those who actually needed this shit, only to find it wasn't. Orphan music, divine music, Jesus of the Virgin. The people reading about Carnaby or Bowery or wherever sitting on a toilet dealing with distressed bowel movements and caught in wife or husband or family or preternaturally decaying wall finishes or whatever. The Who don't get the privilege of choosing the direction of humanity, they only get the sadness of choosing a direction given to them by some abstract other who doesn't, ultimately, care about what is chosen so much as the pride of being one of those who choose the choices.

The Who is the sound of regular-ass people really thinking that rock could change the world because they fucking needed the world to fucking change, and the sound of the band telling them, no, it won't, but you aren't foolish for believing so, and, actually, we love you because you do believe, like us. It may be foolish to be foolish, but, somehow, even more so, to not be.

And you want to talk about what now?

I hate that there are better arguments to be had about 1969 than 2019. Or I hate that I am so abstracted from that which is now that I think so. Note the time this is posted. Rock and roll.


I sound like a kid but two wrongs

I've recently reached a point where all the shitty things people do because they aren't Donald Trump are now pissing me off more than the shitty things Donald Trump does. At least Donald Trump doesn't serve his shit with a side of moral superiority. Even he's not dumb enough to think he's a good person, but his detractors are dumb enough to think this of themselves.




It's amazing how hard a time I am having writing not-even-that-many-words and not feeling somehow fake about it. Jaded, I.

Suffice it to say, today I clicked on Blissblog like I always do, and today I found out from Simon's site that Pitchfork has published lists of best movie scores and soundtracks that Simon has contributed to and, overall, the list doesn't seem that bad. Most Pitchfork lists piss me off. Glad that Blade Runner "won" and that some hazy-headed intern didn't write about it.

That being said, I was shocked, SHOCKED, shocked, to see, unless I read this thing too dam quickly, uh, and maybe I did, um, no Tangerine Dream?

This is why I don't write about pop culture anymore, though.

There's something very odd about the persistence of the idea of canonization without any sort of system of values that is meant to be defined by said canon.

So I'm just some dude vaguely aggravated by the fact that the score of a 30-something-year-old movie isn't being recognized by a website I don't care about because what?

This almost feels like sports right now. Who is the greatest second baseman of all time? What should I feel if my favorite one is omitted from that list?

I didn't mean to go this route.

I just wanted to post a video of some music that I like. I do want you to like it too, if you don't already.

Here it is.


The Problem With Suicide

The problem with suicide is that the only person who could possibly benefit ends up dead.