Year of Record

With a voice like Britt Ekland singing the Wicker Man’s “Willow’s Song”, and a mood like the end of an Argento film, Twin Sister puts out easy summer jams that make you more than  a bit uneasy. It’s the kind of discomfort that can be cured easily with a wine cooler and flipflops. It’s the kind of jams that work best on a Sunday afternoon in the park. It’s not yacht rock, but more canoe rock, designed for summertime broken hearts and sippin’ on the shore.

Since starting this blog, I’ve had a chance to speak with a lot of people in the neighborhood who happen to run record labels, putting out music I’d be buying anyways. Infinite Best’s Hunter came by to drop this off, along with a post-it note saying he was a fellow brooklynite; I wish I had been here to say hi.

This record’s getting heavy heavy rotation since this afternoon. Download the whole thing for free from their site, or just check out this jammin’ coolrunings remix of All Around and Away We Go.

Some bands you stumble upon by chance, and some stumble upon you. How I met up with Harlem:

1. My ex-wife sends me a survey for some philips mp3 player coming out, with the possibility of getting invited to beta test the device and get to go to some free shows.
2. I get accepted, get a free mp3 player and go to weird rock shows of local bands in some pseudo-corporate-competition for our votes at a lot of silly fancy apartments in Austin.
3. At one, I notice my friend Christian, setting up. He has no idea what I’m talking about when I bring up this mp3 player.
4. It turns out he’s playing in Harlem, who proceed to rock all worlds in some east austin garage, a bunch of rogue-type drunks with a marching band kick drum, no showers, and 3 tons of energy.
5. They rule

Free Drugs was one of my favorite albums of the past few years, with stripped down, grungy garage pop. When you start out on Hippies, if it’s your first time listening, you’d think they were a twee group, like the Shaggs with their shit together. Three songs in, you feel their sloppy swagger creep out and understand: they’re just happy to be playing, totally in their characters of rock and roll kids living the dream.

There aren’t as many standouts on Hippies; no “South of France,” “Caroline” or “Psychedelic Tits,” but there’s a consistency that’s both comforting and energizing. “Gay Human Bones” gets the rest of the record up and moving, and by the time you get to “Poolside,” you just want to hang out with these guys, you want them to play your birthday party, and you will need an extra keg.

Max Tundra is my childhood idea of a rock star. A true musical genius, at both times chaotic and expansively ambitious, his sound is one of a bull in a music shop, if that bull was a virtuoso with every instrument. His seemingly improvised and random compositions come out like a Vic-20 off it’s Adderall, but have a precision and twisted logic to them that make them beautiful.

“If I need a trumpet or a violin sound I’ll try and learn the instruments so that I can perform the part I have written for it. If– and only if– a synthesized equivalent is appropriate, I shall use that instead. If a certain street at dawn is required to provide background ambience, I’ll go there at that time and record it.”

Which is why it’s years between his records, as he gets the  mess of what’s in his brain out onto tape.

Long ago I was friends with a boy I betrayed,
I was evil, how dare I end up with the one that he craved?
But it turned out alright, ’cause she’s been by my side for an age.

I first heard this record in my days of random shattershot soulseek downloading: find a user who has some album you love dearly, browse their collection, and grab what sounds like it might be interesting. And every track on here was interesting.  A frenetic love song comparing her eyes to the ones in his studio; a plea to Michel Gondry to direct a video for one of his songs; a track about the nutritional benefits of lysine (but no mention of the contingency).

More than anything, this album was and is an inspiration: do what you love, dedicate yourself, and you’ll do something beautiful. The LP also includes one of my favorite inner sleeves, with the track listing, and highlighting the six-letter limitation on song titles:

And yes, it was mastered by Guy at the Exchange.

When I was starting this project, I went through my MP3 library and made a list of all the albums I would want to own physically. From that, I filtered down a few that were must-haves-at-any-cost to be part of my starter set, or priorities to buy early on. These included the (previously posted) Neutral Milk Hotel record, Junior Senior, Phoenix, and a few others. High on that list, however was the Notwist’s 2002 album, Neon Golden.

One thing I haven’t really talked about on here is the price of music and buying physical objects: how it changes your relationship with an item, and forces you to actually assign value and make choices. When things are digital / pirated / free, it’s easy: do you have space on your hard drive? If so, the new Soulja Boy Tell ‘Em has the same value/expenditure of effort and money as the Pixies or Mozart. With physical media, you have to decide: do I want this album enough to pay money for it, and if so, do I want to spend as much as someone may be asking for it?

Some records, I’d pay any amount for. Neutral Milk Hotel is one. Weezer’s blue album is one. And this is one. I tried to bid on a few copies on eBay, with a ceiling of around 50 dollars, but even that wasn’t high enough. I gave up, thinking that I may just have to hold off, or buy it on CD and be content with that, but eventually I found a copy spring up on Amazon UK. With shipping, it was around 35 bucks, but it’s so incredibly gorgeous, and worth every cent. Matte red sleeve, with a 10″ booklet inside, more art project than lyrics pamphlet.

And, the music. Like a blues-making robot with a blown fuse, it’s glitchy, heartfelt pop songs, with all the sad-eyed soul Owl Postal City Service can’t quite grasp. These are songs for belting out while embracing a friend and for dancing while crying. These songs sound like a breakup and first love and birth and life and death all at once, forever.

I have a copy of the Notwist’s first record on vinyl, in storage, in Austin. They used to be a metal band. I’m glad they’re not.

I’ve tried to stay away from Best Of comps while I’ve been doing this. It’s too easy, and sort of antithetical to the whole point of paying attention to these albums. That being said, Tribe’s Anthology is solid gold. It’s so perfectly sequenced, and the content of such consistently quality that it flows like a classic, amazing album. Yeah, I should pick up Midnight Marauders and Low End, but this condenses my favorite parts of those records into one manageable nugget of hip hop goodness.

Plus, it’s got Vivrant Thing, and that shit’s the jam.

Growing up, my parents never were really “into” music. The things I remember my Dad ever listening to were some Hammered Dulcimer records, a Carly Simon tape, and whatever Weird Al cassette I had at the time. Not to say that music wasn’t a part of my life, but for the most part, it came from the radio and self-discovery.

When CDs were first introduced, my parents, who are big ole nerds like their son, decided they needed to get a player. It was right around christmas, and I remember we go a 5 disc carousel deck with a Choral Holiday disc, Elvis Presley’s Christmas, Bing Crosby’s Christmas, some Mozart disc, and this: James Taylor’s 1968 debut.

Living in Dallas, I grew up listening to 98.7 KLUV Your Oldies and 94.5 THE EDGE, so most of my music consumption was either Pre-1960s doo wop or angsty early 90s alternative rock. This record was the first thing I heard that gave music more meaning than “Baby, I [love/hate] you”. My dad told me Taylor’s story of struggling with mental illness and his stint in a mental hospital before writing the songs on this album. Tracks like “Knocking’ Round the Zoo” and “Carolina In my Mind” gave my young mind more to think about than what was on the face of the lyrics or the sound. That music could say something outside of what was explicitly laid out blew my young little mind. These sweet, folksy, songs became descriptions of pain and torment and conflict and it was incredible.

The record sleeve is gatefold, with the album coming out of the inside, like an envelope or a letter. With the handwritten lyrics spanning the interior, corrections and flubs intact, and Taylor’s full frame extended on the outer, there’s really a sense of seeing a whole man’s mind when you hold this in your hands.

My Dad used to be a lifeguard in Martha’s Vineyard, and one summer he hitchhiked around the area, checking out the sights, taking his time. He got picked up by a young man with a guitar and they talked for a few hours as they drove around. He had been writing some songs, and seemed to be pretty pleased with his life, according to my Dad. His name was James.

1. Danie Lindlöf – Lower My Head
Electro beats and dreamy synths, a naptime love song for the lonely.

2. Anna Frödeburg – But Hey Even Though Your Horse Went Away
A campfire singalong, where somehow a robot got into the scout troop.

3. Tina Gardestrand – Baby Let’s Go
This is the song from the preview video I posted a little while ago. Sounds like leaving town, packing bags, and hitting the road with a smile.

4. David Ljung – Silence
A dark orchestra of guitar feedback, almost a lost Secret Machines track. A song for drinking, a song for a fight.

5. Mathias Alriksson – Return of the Ape
Despite it’s name, it’s not a Planet of the Apes cover of Return of the Mack. It is, however an Elliot Smith aping (ha!) story of coming back to love.

6. Johan Mårtensson – What Should I Do
YELLING! SHOEGAZING! Like early U2, with the Edge’s arpeggios and Bono yelling his heart out into the sky.

7. Cornelia Norgren – Pet Duet
Electro beats with some off kilter vocals, like a mix of Girogio Moroder, Looper and Jan Hammer.

8. Rikard Ljung – Nothin Like the Mornin
Early Flaming Lips.

9. Henrik Olofsson – Make Me a Cowboy Again For a Day
Iron and Wine.

10. Mattias Johansson – Be the Same
The first time I listened to this, I thought it was boring and sounded like an afternoon learning Logic Pro. Coming back to it, it’s got a delicate vocal quality over plunky synths that makes it pretty dang endearing.

11. Marcus Carlholt – Tour De France
A cover of the Kraftwerk track, done almost entirely spot on. Could have used some spice to differentiate from the original, but the driving electro beat is enough to make this a fun time. .

12. Emma Öhnell – Hej Hej Ivar
Hej Ivar! Kazzoo! One of the few tracks in their native Swedish, it’s got a kid’s show feel, coupled with a male/female call and response that makes me wonder if it’s as funny as I think it sounds.

13. Erik Ottosson – Zapatista
One afternoon, a tuba and a conga fall down the stairs. The end.

14. Johan Aineland – Best Days are to Come
I thought this was Rivers singing for a bit, like the sweetest ballads from Pinkerton.

15. Frida Öhnell – Morning Again
Bird noises and a Fender Rhodes and names of things you see outside.

16. Jonas Tjäder – Göteborg
A quick tourism guide to the city of Göteborg with it’s northern lights, fields of snow, drunk fights and sleepovers.

17. Christofer Olofsson – Alice in Wonderland
Like a cross between Ryuichi Sakamoto and the Vince Guaraldi Trio, so pretty, feels like a mug of mulled wine through a light dusting.

18. Olof Gardestrand – My BPM Might Be Off, But My Heart is Running Like a Clock
A teenage diary of angst poured into three chords and one of those 8″ Peavey amps. Also includes a bonus cover of total eclipse of the heart, before transitioning into an awkward death-metal and dirgey growl.

19. Kristoffer Ekstrand – UH! OH!
Really amazing fart of an intro, and more swedes swinging about kissing and the world being good for both of us and how great things are and xylophones and casios. Epic Journey-style vocal layering outro with a little Junior Senior breakin’ down.

20. Tobias Granstrand – Troublemaking
Candlebox-esque guitars and early 90’s bass drive this ballad about raising ruckus for love.

21. Micke Larsson – to the Clouds
Short, but more heartaching than sweet.

22. David Ottosson – the Wave
The Devil and the marimba lead you in a campfire dance on a moonless night before you crawl back to your bed, soaked in blood, smelling of soot.

23. Jacob Sollenberg – Sick of Love
Sipping buds at the waterin’ hole, Sollenberg channels the Magnetic Fields’ lament of love, and all its pains.

24. Martin Alfredsson – Kosmonaut
New Order synths and a vocoder chanting outer spacey things, this comes out a little overlong, but gets you in the mood for the moon.

25. Emanuel Lundgren – Hang On
The leader of this whole gang, whose voice we’re most familar with, plays a tender piano, sounding not unlike David Bowie, urging us with the typical I’m From Barcelona spirit to Hang On, for life, until there’s nothing left to hang to.

26. Jakob Jonsson – Matilda
Close mic’d acoustic ala Jose Gonzalez, we get yet another song about love lost and longing, with some lovely harmonies from an unnamed female vocalist giving it an almost Sergio Mendes air.

27. Julie Witwicki Carlsson – Dreaming My Dreams
If Björk and Ruby recorded together in a bathroom, it would sound something like this when you remembered it, years later, alone in a bathroom.

The gatefold interior of Dan Deacon’s second record is an arcade-like tunnel of human hands, held high in the afternoon sun, faces nothing but shadows and sunglasses. On the face of things, this record is more of the same of his Spiderman of the Rings, a collection of twee-distorted vocals, and ritalin-inspired rhythms that left me feeling like I ate a big mac: it was something, but I’m not sure if it was good, or good for me.

Bromst has that same heavy hand on the ring filter pedal, but is much more reserved and careful, almost gentle in its songwriting. “Build Voice” starts off the record with, as expected, a building surge of synthesized choir, pulsing with the rhythm of a toothache as Dan’s own voice comes through chanting a triumphant LARPer folk tale of gleaming stones and beasts unknown and untold. Piano lilts in, swirling arpeggios of magic, and finally, as if to signify what’s to come, a brassy sax section fanfares as the beat drops, driving, pushing us over the edge of a cliff into Deacon’s muddy tangle of a mind.

“Snookered” may be my favorite song of last year. The additional instrumentation Deacon’s used on this record gives it a depth and emotional dimension that wasn’t present for me on his previous release. The bookends of xylophone add a gentleness to the  meows and whines of Deacon’s self-made gang of 20. By the time you get to the lyrics, it’s heartbreaking, like Daniel Johnston with a Korg.

“Been wrong so many times before, but never quite like this.”

A stranger with open arms, offering a free hug, Deacon’s not the guy you want to be close to. But his earnestness is so disarming, it’s hard not to be consumed.

I may have mentioned my affinity for dance parties in a previous post. That’s not to say I’m a good dancer, but rather that I like to dance. We would have dance parties in college that were a bunch of sweaty proto-hipsters jumping up and down to bouncy indie rock, and then– this record happened.

As any good nerd, I have friends that I’ve never met from across the globe. One spring day, my buddy Mikkel, who hails from a magical land of ghost kings and pancakes, sent me a video of a pixellated squirrel causing mischief and insanity. It played to everything in my heart: joy, nerdiness, partying, and more than a little pervy troublemaking. I was hooked.

I downloaded the record as it hadn’t come out in the states yet, and played it for everyone I knew. I’m firmly convinced, at least in Austin, TX, I was singlehandedly responsible for Junior Senior’s popularity. I would play it at parties I was only tangentially invited to. I would play it on repeat for days, driving a wedge between my roommates and me. I would “dancebomb” local businesses and take over their sound system and jam out until they kicked me out. At one point, I recorded a video of myself dancing and sent it to a friend, just because I loved it so much.

It was the inspiration for my other, now defunct (and copyright-takedown pockmarked), blog, Glitter Parade wherein I would dance to a different song a few times a week. Each one was fun, but none could match the energy of Move Your Feet.

Junior Senior has a fun story / gimmick, too with the Large Senior being a jovial, rotund homosexual, and Junior, the girl-loving, spritely youngster. But what unites them is a love of pop music, dancing, partying, having fun, and being themselves. And I can’t think of a better message for music: not just getting along, but rocking it til the break of dawn and being yourself.

I saw them play once, opening for some band that has long since been forgotten (Electric Six?) and it was magic, how much fun they were having and the energy they were putting out into the crowd. I waited outside their tour bus and was dumbstruck at what to say to them. I think it was just that I loved them, their music, and I was their number one fan, forever, for life. Plus, with Senior, it was like looking in a mirror that showed me 20 years from now:

Junior may have been a little confused by my excitement:

In the fall of 2008, Junior Senior announced they were breaking up after a stellar second album and a bunch of smiles. It breaks my heart, but they’re both up to some rad stuff these days: Junior’s current project is I Scream Ice Cream, making 25 minute dance-jams that are a grand old time. Senior’s releasing under the name Jeppe, with some fun singles more in line with the Junior Senior vibe.

Musicians you discover and evangelize hold a special place in your heart. You almost feel like you’re a part of their work, a missionary for fun. If they keep giving it to me, I’ll keep spreading the good word.

As the album ends, the first track begins again, playing the first 30 seconds or so before fading out once more. A reminder that the party never has to end: just flip the record over and keep going.

There are some albums that change your life, and there are some that you wish had been given the chance.

I don’t know where I first heard M83; I’m sure on some Pitchfork end of year compilation/namedropping when Dead Cities came out, or back when I would get on soulseek and search for artists I like and download everything else that user was sharing. I do know that by the time Before the Dawn Heals Us came out, I had lost track of them, and didn’t know a new record was coming out. So when I started hearing tracks from it, it was piecemeal. I heard a track here, a track there, and it all flowed into the river of music I was struggling to keep my head above. Which is a shame, because I think if I heard this album for the first time in one go, it would have demolished me. The synths, the reverb, the childlike whelps, those drums, those fucking drums, they soar and lift and crush and stretch and terrify over the course of a glorious hour. It’s too much.

Equal parts Sigur Ros, ELO, and The Russian Futurists, this record can make my hair stand up and tears fill my eyes while the next moment pumping my fist before cowering as some mother tells her daughter “he was there all along”. But, I wish I had the fortune of having it hit me all at once. It’s like knowing the end of a movie, it almost spoils the journey.

The last track on the record, Lower Your Eyelids to Die With the Sun got some recent notoriety for being in the Palm Pre commercials and at the end of that Britney Spears comeback documentary, but what has it seared into my brain is this incredible intro for skate video Fully Flared, directed by Spike Jonze. Epic, epic, epic. If I ever have sex while listening to this track, I am 100% sure I will make a baby. If I woke up to it, I’d have be in a sports montage, kickboxing a punching bag in an empty, dusty warehouse by the end of it. For now, I just let it make me feel like I’m awesome.

P.S.: Lots of vinyl releases these days (including this one) are 2xLP which I suppose allows for louder music and higher sound quality, but it means I have to get up and change sides every 12 minutes. Stop that.