Some Songs Considered

“The First Snow of the Year” – Jason Anderson 
(Words/music: Jason Anderson, available on Tonight, States Rights 2007) 

Having a new crush can feel like one of those amusement park rides that changes direction frequently.  Every tiny sign of affection causes unparalleled glee, and every mixed message feels like an impossible labyrinth to solve.  In both cases, this new interest starts monopolizing every stray thought and boxing out some of the necessary ones. The final verse in this song phrases it in a way I love:

My buddy calls it Tetris brain 
when you play that game all day 
and at night when you’re going to sleep, 
you close your eyes and see the pieces moving. 

On top of the “Be My Baby” drumbeat, Anderson likens the image of falling blocks to the “phantom cellphone vibration” one experiences when they want the phone to ring.  It’s a beautiful metaphor, right down to the way one might try to “fit all the pieces together” to turn a romantic interest into something more concrete.  Anderson sets the tone throughout the song with warm organ tangled with playful piano.  Lyrically, he keys in on mittened hand holding (coupled with a Joni Mitchell allusions) and spending snowy nights with loved ones.  It’s only in this final verse where he shifts his focus from setting to character; in this instance, it’s the one who has his leg tingling who warms his soul more than a couch, fireplace, or mitten could.  

(As for the snow around here, I’m decidedly less romantic.  It can go away as soon as possible.)

More on Jason Anderson: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“I Love Life” – Pulp
(Words/music: Nick Banks / Jarvis Cocker / Doyle / Steve Mackey / Mark Webber, available on We Love Life, PolyGram 2001)

Hi.

It’s been a while, and life got cluttered up with the kind of things that clutter one’s life, so blogging fell off considerably.  I convinced myself that it was OK by reminding myself that I proved that I could write everyday, and that over time it became more important that what I wrote was good rather than just writing for the sake of writing.  And it was OK – I didn’t feel guilty about it, and most of the time felt grateful that having one less thing to do somehow made it a lot easier to get to bed at an hour where I didn’t feel it the next morning. 

Then today I had a strange revelation.  I was OK with not writing because I forgot why I started in the first place.  Three things led me here.

The first is the return of Conan O’Brien’s show to television tonight.  To make an extremely long story short, I ended up identifying with his experience this year all the way down to ending the year in a better place than where it began.  More importantly, I admired the way Conan handled it in a classy and composed way.  Sure, it’s easy to take the high road when it comes with millions in a contract buyout and another huge contract after it, but his triumph comes from doing what he loves and creating opportunities for himself, whether through his tour or the web. 

The second came in Google Reader today.  Pitchfork Reviews Reviews today shared that he’s working on a screenplay about his childhood and apologized in advanced for extended absences.  Something he said struck a nerve with me.  “I write this blog because it is something I like to do,” he says near the end of his post, and after reading that I stared back at the screen for a few minutes lost in thought.  I felt like that too. 

(Speaking of PRR, indulge me for a moment as I address him directly: I enjoy reading your blog, David, and find a lot of moments in your posts where I nod along in vigorous agreement.  Best of luck on your screenplay.)

The final one came when I read about Pulp reforming to play shows next summer.  I caught myself reacting with joy and a little anxiousness hoping that Pulp would make it over to the States next summer and started thinking about it.  I’ve been lucky to see a lot of terrific bands this year – some old favorites I’ve seen more than a dozen times, and other long time favorites that I hadn’t seen before.  Each time, there’s a similar moment of joy in getting the confirmation e-mail for the show, or in removing the shrink-wrap off the new record, or in that breathless moment when the house lights dim and the band walks out on stage.  These are the same tiny joys that I try to think about every time I sit down to write.  On my best days, I got to return to these moments, and in the rarest instances, I created new ones for myself.

These tiny joys are the things that led me to put on Pulp rather than do work that needs to be done tomorrow.  The same joys I find in Jarvis Cocker’s voice and his imagery.  The same joy in the way that the music in “I Love Life” restrains itself until it can’t help but explode into distorted chaos.  The same way that Cocker’s lyrics read sincere and sarcastic, often in the same line, and the way I marvel at his ability to paint complex pictures in his words (in this case, by making a song full of affirmation still sound dark). 

Today though, I’m most grateful for the joy I find in putting together all these thoughts in my head.  I’ve always thought a lot about music – I did it long before I started writing this blog, and I’ll do it long after I’ve stopped writing this blog.  Today, however, it was important to me to remember why this made me happy in the first place, enough to start writing a post without really knowing where to begin (and having it end up far longer than expected, and certainly enough to hit publish before forever dooming it to my drafts folder. 

And it worked.  Thanks for indulging me.

More on Pulp: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“15 Step” – Radiohead
(Words/music: Radiohead, available on In Rainbows, ATO 2008)

If you downloaded In Rainbows that morning in October 2007, unzipped the files, and hit play on the new Radiohead that seemingly dropped out of the sky, “15 Step” greeted you.  The programmed drums, clipped of their crispness, blip and snap in an unconventional and disorienting beat.  Programmed and live drums weave together in an unconventional and somewhat disorienting beat, and Thom Yorke’s entrance follows this lead.  “How come I end up where I started” sounds like a man, literally or metaphorically, lost.  The song occasionally dips into these pockets or confusion, but never as unsettling as the opening twenty seconds.  Gradually, the song finds its footing: live drums enter and give more stability, and by the time the rest of the band joins in, the misdirection becomes a gentle (yet eerie) floating feeling. 

Appropriately, given the narrator’s confusion at the opening, the track stabilizes right as the narrator shifts from first person to second person.  “You reel me out and then you cut the string,” is the last line of the opening verse, and by the time the narrator feels stable within this lopsided rhythm, his outward turn becomes accusatory.  “You used to be alright – what happened?” he says, and now the track becomes disorienting for the listener.  This quick shift replaces the uneasiness of the opening seconds, trading rhythmic uncertainty for emotional turmoil.  Of course, this isn’t Yorke directly accosting the listener, but it still reveals a quick shift from lost and confused to a focused anger.  Generally, the pieces fall into place for the audience (or in this case, the listener).  However, here it’s the narrator who puts everything together before the audience, making the audience squirm for a minute while reconstructing the story. 

Some way to start an album, eh?

More on Radiohead: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“In the Backseat” – Arcade Fire
(Words/music: Arcade Fire, available on Funeral, Merge Records 2004) 

Right now, I have minimal expectations for the Arcade Fire’s forthcoming album The Suburbs.  I’ve thought so little about their album that I was startled to realize earlier today that it comes out in roughly two weeks and that I will see them close out Lollapalooza the following weekend.  This isn’t apathy – their two previous albums rank among my personal favorites – but this is something new.  When Neon Bible leaked, I scoured with a singular focus.  Today, I barely blinked at song clips posted online. 

This general patience somewhat ironically comes from those fanatic listening binges, particularly the hours spent with Funeral.  Without over-generalizing, I end up cycling through favorite songs on many of my favorite albums.  It begins with the first couple tracks I hear – either singles or ones someone dropped on a mix or whatever – that feel familiar before the album’s first spin.  Then there are the immediately grabbing songs.  These are the ones that work in every setting – in the context of the album’s sequencing, in random, isolated iTunes double-clicks, and in those frantic, volume escalating moments in the car to name a few.  Then, over time, the other songs on the album creep up one by one and seize attention.  Sometimes it takes hearing an alternate version or a live performance, while other times it takes hearing a lyric differently or an instrument leaping out of the mix unexpectedly.  Sometimes, it’s unexplainable. 

Both of Régine Chassagne’s lead songs on Funeral earned this belated affection, but “In the Backseat” fits this description perfectly.  Tucked away at the end of the album with many sonic and emotional peaks and valleys, “In the Backseat” rarely got my full attention.  Listening with less than engaged ears, the quiet beginning and even volume to Chassagne’s voice slipped past me.  It was only the day that, for whatever reason, I keyed in on the lyrics that the song clicked.  The lines “my family tree’s / losing all its leaves” gripped me, but it was Chassagne’s voice – the beautifully crystallized and generally even foil to her husband’s gruff and theatrical vocals -  that floored me.  Her voice throughout the song quivers yet never buckles whether backed sparsely or engulfed in the swelling sound around her.  To call it the peak of the album might be unfair (or, at the very least, a matter of opinion), but its delivery crept up on a way that I’ll never completely shake.

More on Arcade Fire: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Carnival of Sorts (Boxcar)” – The Feelies
(Words/music: Bill Berry, Peter Buck, Mike Mills, Michael Stipe, recorded live in Woodstock, NY 9/12/2009 and available via nyctaper)

One of the unintended consequences to obsessing over a band is to unravel and retrace their influences.  Being a devout R.E.M. fan meant travelling down several paths.  The trio of Velvet Underground covers on Dead Letter Office made the Velvet Underground an obvious choice, as did Michael Stipe’s repeated and enthusiastic mentions of Patti Smith in various interviews.  The Feelies came later only after someone connected the dots for me that R.E.M.’s earliest songs “sound a lot like Crazy Rhythms.”  Sure enough, the same guitar tone (which I want to say that Buck said came from plugging the guitar directly into the mixing board, but I can’t remember exactly) and frantic energy filled these songs.  If the Feelies weren’t a direct influence on R.E.M., they certainly drew from a similar pool of influences.

Naturally, when I saw that the Feelies recently covered an R.E.M. song from the Chronic Town EP, my heart nearly skipped a beat.  Having seen the band perform earlier this year, I was eager to hear them play one of my favorite early R.E.M. tunes.  Not surprisingly, they perfectly replicated the original’s guitar in tempo, tone, and tune – easily as good as the way R.E.M. played the song on tour in 2008, at least.  It made sense, as this similarity drew me into the band in the first place.  Even though vocalist Glenn Mercer flubbed a few lyrics (which, to be fair, Michael Stipe does on a regular basis), he captured not only the melody of the original but also the intonation in his delivery.  His performance singing the tune made it sound as natural as one of his own, which is as good as a cover version gets.  Aside from a mini guitar jam at the end, their version stays faithful to the original, which fit in nicely with the rest of the band’s set.

(Kudos to the always terrific nyctaper for sharing yet another brilliant live recording!)

More on The Feelies: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Game Theory” – The Roots f/ Malik B.
(Words/music: Malik B., Khari Mateen, and The Roots, available on Game Theory, Def Jam 2006) 

No one will ever question the Roots’ chops as musicians, nor should they.  However, I wonder if their consistent prowess gets them taken for granted.  They always put meticulous thought into the performance and sequence of their albums, and now as Jimmy Fallon’s late night house band, they are on TV five nights a week backing musicians ranging from Christopher Cross to Public Enemy.  Even ?uestlove’s Twitter account reflects his immense understanding of music history and ear for tunes, as he constantly shares deep cuts many haven’t heard and offers off-the-cuff “lectures” ranging from production minutia to a thumbnail sketch of his band’s catalog.  Continued brilliance defines genius, but it also makes it easy to accept brilliance as commonplace and let appreciation lapse into acceptance. 

This thought ran through my head over the last week as I listened to the new Roots album How I Got Over at least a dozen times in a variety of settings.  It’s the same thing I’m hearing this afternoon, granted in a harder tone, as Game Theory fills the air.  Their recordings manage one of the trickiest balancing acts – minding the tiny details without sacrificing the song’s “big picture.”  Every bit of the track, whether the snap out of half time when the rhyming begins or the timbre and level of the organ peppered throughout the verses, feels perfectly positioned and performed.  Even with a band as good as the Roots, this isn’t a one-take track.  Still, this degree of attention to drum sounds and integrating samples might get in the way of the track’s overall feel, yet the Roots always manage to retain the same intensity they exude as a live band.  I can lose myself in the specific sounds in one of their tracks as easily as I can absorb the beat and bob my head along to it.  This versatility may seem effortless, but it’s also elusive, and few ever reach that level once, let alone at the frequency the Roots find it.

More on The Roots: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“The Comeback” – Shout Out Louds
(Words: Adam Olenius, music: Shout Out Louds, available on Howl Howl Gaff Gaff, Capitol 2005) 

Even if they don’t come to mind right away as a personal favorite, it’s fair to say that I’m a fan of Shout Out Louds.  I’ve enjoyed each of their three albums more than the previous record.  Tonight, I realized that I consider one of their songs (“1999”) as one of my favorites of this nearly half-completed year.  I even realized that I wrote about this band in this blog’s second entry – before pretty much every single band that I’ve loved my entire listening life.  I only qualify my fandom because it seemed to sneak up on me.

I suppose it relates to the way the band puts together their songs.  “The Comback,” for instance, isn’t flashy or overly dramatic; instead, it lays out its melody with few frills.  There are some nice embellishments, in particular the quick guitar work near the end of the solo section, but generally the band pushed the melody to the forefront and lets it carry the song’s weight.  I realize this might sound like a backhanded compliment, but in this instance its straightforward nature helps the melody linger even after the song ends.  Rather than call it “simple,” I’d prefer selective, as the band knows when to toss a curveball and make it effective.  When they do, these embellishments aren’t lost in sensory overload.   It’s easy to overlook a band that makes spectacular songs seem unspectacular, but only while the music isn’t playing.  When one of their records spins, the admiration returns. 

More on Shout Out Louds: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Sleep All Summer” – The National and St. Vincent
(Words/music: Eric Bachmann, available on SCORE! 20 Years of Merge Records: The Covers!, Merge Records, 2009) 

The first ever second post on a single song!  Here’s what I said about the original version last October:

Sonically, it feels like these warm October afternoons, specifically in the way the guitar sounds.  The gently picked acoustic guitar sounds warm yet tempered by the wistful slide guitar lines that gently come and go.  Whenever the bright notes cut through to the forefront, the somber slide guitar swoops back in like a cool breeze.  Eric Bachmann and Lara Meyerratken’s vocals tug at these emotional strands as well. Bachman, especially when reaching for the higher notes, sounds bright especially when contrasted with Meyerratken’s even-keeled vocals.  It’s when they sing together that Bachmann and Meyerratken bring out the best in each other’s voices and channel that early autumnal warmth.  Even without listening to the words, it’s clear that these two characters sound conflicted – in this case, it’s a longing to reconnect with a lover while realizing that the spark is gone.  Lots of pop songs use the seasons as a metaphor for life, but few feel as focused on the moments of flux between seasons as “Sleep All Summer.”  It captures the feeling of summer’s last moments before fall.  Like the love between these characters, change is inevitable, for better or worse.

And even in June, I’m not going to argue with that logic.  If anything, The National’s Matt Berninger’s deeper voice sounds even more autumnal than Eric Bachmann.  Like Bachmann and Meyerratken in the original, Berninger and Annie Clark play off each other, letting their voices gently intertwine during the chorus without becoming completely inseparable.  It’s a faithful homage to the original without being redundant, largely because it’s nice to hear Berninger and Clark sing together.  Hearing it now at the beginning of the summer, I’m more drawn to the breezy tone rather than the somber story; in short, I hope my summer is full of evenings where “Sleep All Summer” would be an appropriate soundtrack.

More on The National: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

More on St. Vincent: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Rappaport’s Testament: I Never Gave Up” – Ted Leo and the Pharmacists
(Words/music: Chumbawamba, available on Mo’ Living EP / Living with the Living Bonus Disc, Touch and Go 2007) 

Near the end of a blistering set this past Friday night, Ted Leo took a few minutes to speak candidly to the audience.  The dialogue with the crowd wasn’t strange, as Leo does this several times every night.  However, the tone deviated from the kind of witty banter normally spun off the stage.  Instead, Leo thanked his supporting act Screaming Females (who are a must see on their own) and then apologized to them.  Evidently, on an otherwise troubled tour cut short by van failure, the Screaming Females faced boycotts at certain shows for their association with “sellouts” like Ted Leo.  This baffled the crowd Friday night, and seemed to get under Leo’s skin too, as he calmly but forcefully recounted the band’s repeated efforts to keep their shows affordable and accessible.  Furthermore, even when playing larger gigs in support of bigger bands, he uses his website and Twitter page to let fans know what to expect (specifically, not to pay $45 for a 30 minute Ted Leo / Pharmacists set).  This also doesn’t mention the responses to e-mails, willingness to talk to every single person waiting around after a show (me on several occasions), and show up with guitar in tow for charitable causes.

I present all of this to offer a slightly different take tonight.  I could (and have, believe me) go on about the merits of Leo as a songwriter and performer, but his convictions also factor in as well.  While I might not share all of his causes, I always admire his resolve and his passion; in a world of complainers, Leo acts.  When he dedicated the final song of the set, a cover on Chumbawamba’s concentration camp prisoner-quoting “I Never Gave Up,” to the Screaming Females, it felt like a genuine act of respect for a (relatively) young band that endured too much crap in order to play music for people.  It’s also hard not to read into the song’s closing proclamation as a sort of mantra for Leo’s ethics too – someone who  persevered through his own struggles along the way.  Even though it’s possible to appreciate art created by less than ideal individuals, I find my appreciation for the art deepens when I genuinely appreciate the artist as well.  With Leo, the list is almost as long as the list of things I appreciate in his music.  Personally, it’s also refreshing to have heroes at the age of 27, with Ted Leo certainly among them.

More on Ted Leo and the Pharmacists: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Fake Empire” – the National
(Words/music: The National, available on Boxer, Beggars Banquet 2007) 

For the past couple of years, the National brought along a horn section while they toured.  In a recent interview with Pitchfork, Aaron Dessner called the choice to bring these extra instrumentalists on the road as one necessary to recreate some of the songs from Boxer.  “We don’t have them because we want to sound bigger or grander,” Dessner said in the interview, “it’s just the texture of those instruments.”  This statement stuck out largely because it hits on two truths in the band’s music.  First, The National aren’t about gimmicks; even with a large number of instruments on their two most recent records, the tracks rarely feel excessive or decadent.  Secondly, this band approaches their songs as compositions, taking great effort not just in the writing of their songs, but in the arrangement and continued performance of these works.  Thus, the horn players become necessary parts of many of these songs, as opposed to something that a slightly maddening (and hopefully tongue-in-cheek) Vulture post might suggest to “liven” up the band. 

As those in attendance this past Wednesday night at Radio City Music Hall know (and from looking down from the second balcony, a lot of people were there), The National needs little help creating excitement.  Their lineup, in addition to the horn players, featured a small string section and help from Annie Clark (a.k.a. St. Vincent) and Sufjan Stevens on a couple songs.  Still, none of these additions were choices of excess that playing a room like Radio City might warrant.  Instead, each of these additions, including their famous friends, played supporting roles.  Even Clark and Stevens contributed texture rather than star-power.  The result, particularly on the swelling, set-closing “Fake Empire,” not only validated the choice of room (as the sound resonated beautifully, especially at the back of the room where we sat), but also the band’s reputation as a live presence.  Even before Matt Berninger navigated the fringe of the room and dragged a hundred feet of microphone cord into the first balcony for the electric “Mr. November” in the encore, the richness of the songs captivated the crowd throughout.  Even if Berninger’s repeated trips into the audience get cited as the most electric moments in the show, then the supporting players deserve some of the credit for their exceptional textural contributions. 

More on The National: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“LA” – Elliott Smith
(Words/music: Elliott Smith, available on Figure 8, Dreamworks 2000) 

I’ve never been to Los Angeles, so the mental picture of the city is a patchwork of film scenes, tourist clichés, and other assorted images.  One of these is the album cover of Elliott Smith’s Figure 8 album, where the late singer (decked out in a vintage Los Angeles Summer Olympics t-shirt) stands in front of a swirling mural in the Silver Lake neighborhood of the city.  Smith recorded most of his previous album in Los Angeles, but by the sessions for Figure 8 had relocated to the city, with the references to the city on both the cover and in the album itself, including the song sharing the city’s initials. 

Where most people think of Smith’s music as a “sad guy with a guitar,” Smith’s ambition and chops as a songwriter went well beyond the singer-songwriter mould.  Like much of Figure 8, “LA” features full instrumentation, including a highly melodic lead guitar riff.  It also leans heavily on Smith’s multi-tracked vocals – one of his underrated skills as an arranger.  Smith had a knack for using his voice like a painter; he knew when to blend colors, over-saturate part of a piece, or gently shade to set the tone for the entire work.  On “LA,” Smith’s blending of his own vocals makes it catchier and sunnier as his harmonies bolster his lead vocal and the lead guitar riff as well.  This is the kind of song that fits the LA in my head – one that borrows heavily from an East coaster’s idealized California and its perpetual sunshine.  I know that the actual city has its own clouds, but the LA in my brain remains closer to this idealized concept.

(Also, since this post came as a result of the Lakers’ NBA championship tonight, I present the following tenuous sports connection:  Smith’s later albums, Figure 8 in particular, loosely remind me of Lakers’ forward Pau Gasol.  Both face persistent reputations of “softness,” Gasol in his play from a lackluster 2008 finals appearance and Smith for his hushed early work.  However, both have a deeper toughness and a broader range than often credited.  Neither is the flashiest part of the team (be it the Lakers of Smith’s discography) nor the MVP (Kobe Bryant and Either/Or respectively), but both deserve closer consideration.)

More on Elliott Smith: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“The Boys are Back in Town (Live in Belfast, 2001)” – Belle and Sebastian
(Words/music: Phil Lynott, available on The BBC Sessions Bonus Disc, Matador 2008) 

The thing that always catches me off guard about “The Boys are Back in Town” is the way that Phil Lynott crammed in so many words during the verses.  I tend to think of the way the chorus just repeats the title of the song, so the longer half spoken verses sometimes sneak up on me.  Of course, Lynott tossed off these lyrics with casual grace and general coolness that made Thin Lizzy enjoyable.  This chunk of story forgives the somewhat hurried feeling to the vocals in this cover version, making the rushed feeling admirable rather than admonishing; after all, it’s impressive that he remembers all of the words and manages to keep up with the band’s somewhat raucous (at least as far as Belle and Sebastian goes) cover version. 

The band steals the spotlight here, giving the song the crowd pleasing enthusiasm it deserves.  However, it’s not just giddiness that makes this enjoyable; the band flexes some serious chops.  From the double guitar attack to the crispness of the off-beat fills, Belle and Sebastian showcase a tightness and precision that many of their early shows lacked.  All of the markings of a masterful live band – a playful tone, a precise performance, and an captivated crowd – shine here.  Even if the pairing seems unlikely (as Thin Lizzy and early Belle and Sebastian records share few sonic qualities), the marriage sounds healthy on this recording. 

More on Belle and Sebastian: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“No Backbone” – The Lemonheads
(Words/music: Evan Dando and Tom Morgan, available on The Lemonheads, Vagrant 2006) 

For a while, Evan Dando slipped out of the spotlight.  When he brought back his Lemonheads moniker roughly a decade after their last record, Dando came out swinging.  He borrowed the rhythm section from punk legends The Descendents and tore through a collection of songs that seemed to reclaim the “pop punk” label from the mall punk popular during that time.  These songs worked well because they leaned on Dando’s strengths, particularly his gift for melody and his relaxed voice.  However, these tunes benefited almost as much from the Descendents’ paunchiness, giving Dando’s songs a snappiness that highlighted their melodies. 

For all its strengths, though, J Mascis’ guitar dominates “No Backbone.”  From the second Mascis puts pick to string, his nimble lead guitar takes center stage.  Even when it plays a supporting role to Dando’s vocals, Mascis’ fills seem to spur on the rest of the band.  Even without a punchy rhythm section supporting his songs, “No Backbone” would hold up with the rest of Dando’s upbeat compositions.  By adding Mascis to the mix, Dando ensures that his comeback set hit all the right notes.  Even if Dando had an eager audience willing to give any new batch of songs a try, it sounds like he wasn’t taking any chances with anything less than full speed ahead. 

More on The Lemonheads: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Make Me a Mixtape” – The Promise Ring
(Words/music: The Promise Ring, available on Electric Pink EP, Jade Tree 2000) 

Sometimes random shards of memory stick inside far longer than ever expected.  For instance, I remember years ago, probably in 2002, having an instant messenger conversation with my friend Dan that touched on the “perfection of Davey [vonBohlen] from the Promise Ring’s lisp.”  It was a passing point in a conversation long forgotten, but that single moment tucked away deep in my brain and resurfaces whenever the Promise Ring crosses my consciousness.  It’s the quickest way for me to identify a deep cut in their catalogue – I usually cue in on his voice before actively considering the song (or, sometimes the band itself).  In a way, it’s the Promise Ring’s beauty mark – a subtle, humanizing flaw that grows more charming with more time spent in its company. 

At times, it makes vonBohlen sound younger, particularly on “Make Me a Mixtape.”  Maybe I just associate the sentiment in this song with the time spent as a teenager on the floor of my bedroom with my boom box and stacks of records (and not to mention bands like the Promise Ring), but I imagine vonBohlen singing this song from a nostalgic place.  Considering the lyrics tonight for the first time in a long time, I’m struck at the similarities between my mixtape process and the one in this song.  I tend to think of a few songs or bands to serve as tent posts and then fill in the rest with things that work well around those.  I (almost) always accompanied these mixes, whether on tape or CD, with some kind of note or letter as well, generally opting for a track-by-track accompaniment (many of which read like a primitive form of these blog posts).  It makes me want to dig out the blank tapes in the back of my closet, gather a bunch of records, and over-think song transitions until dawn. 

More on The Promise Ring: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Higher than the Stars” – The Pains of Being Pure at Heart
(Words/music: The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, available on Higher than the Stars EP, Slumberland 2009) 

The Pains of Being Pure at Heart came through Connecticut last Thursday and played a tight and fun set.  The band locked in from the first note and played with an understated charisma and confidence rarely seen in a band with only an LP, an EP, and a handful of singles to their name.  I wasn’t surprised by their musicianship, as quickness and precision make many of their songs terrific, nor the extra punch in their live set.  I wasn’t surprised by the way the bass would peek out of the live mix, or the giddy ways that vocalists Kip Berman and Peggy Wang-East gently harmonized.  Nothing from the Pains’ set, save for their charmingly hilarious banter about finding a bar after the show, surprised me nearly as much as the crowd. 

The audience crowded up to the front of the stage and bounced along moderately and followed each song with enthusiastic cheers and applause, none of which surprised me – after all, their self-titled LP grew on me more and more with every listen.  The surprise came when I started looking at the people around me.  At first, it was the people singing the lyrics – all of the lyrics – to themselves.  This wasn’t in the loud, band spurred sing-alongs, but rather the way one sings along quietly to yourself to a personal favorite.  Aside from the new tunes, people on both sides of me were mouthing along the lyrics to every single song.  Even more surprising was that some of these people had their eyes closed!  At first it seemed strange, but then near the end of “Higher than the Stars” I had a moment of recognition.  When the “back of her mother’s car” line, the song’s hook that waits as long as possible before sneaking out, I realized that not only was I singing along without realizing it, I was also clutching the copy of the “Say No to Love” single I picked up between sets.  I felt odd only for a split second before I understood all the responses going on around me.  These are the kind of songs that trigger these moments of immersion, and when they are played with the conviction and skill that this band naturally exudes, it’s impossible not to radiate the same sort of joy yourself. 

More on The Pains of Being Pure at Heart: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm