Year of Record

As I mentioned the other day, music site bandcamp launched their “un-label”, bcwax with a release from ukulele songstress Sophie Madeline. Today, it showed up! And jesus christ this thing is pretty. It’s the difference between a hallmark card and something you had letterpressed on heavy stock. It’s something while maybe not hand made, has so much love and taste and thought poured into it that you can love it as an object, regardless of the music. Which is pretty great!

I don’t think I’ve ever held a 200g record before? This thing is incredibly substantial just to hold, and the candy apple red is gorgeous, even on my hideous slipmat.

The art from poster master Dan Stiles is great, and while not necessary, the included print is gorgeous. I’d have maybe liked it without the name for it to be a bit more frame-able, but the quality of the print is incredibly vibrant and magical to look at. The sleeve design, disc labels, and inner sleeve all come together in a great kaleidoscope of Fisher Price wonderment, capturing the simplifying sound of a ukulele and Madeline’s songs perfectly.

The music itself is wonderful. I probably would not have bought it on its own, but it’s almost secondary to this wonderful world its built around it. Which I guess is the point. I may come back to the music itself, but for now, this is taking a proud place in my pile.

I got in relatively early, a few hours after they posted the announcement, but my copy’s already 335/500. Sounds like they’re going to do well with this experiment. I’m paying attention.

Bandcamp just launched an “unlabel” producing physical objects (i.e. records) for artists that don’t have anything. They’re calling it BCWax, and their first release is from ukulele princess Sophie Madeline.

Looks like I’m not crazy!!!!! From their site:

• This release, like all BCWax releases to come, was designed by Dan Stiles, the force behind striking poster art for Sonic Youth, Arctic Monkeys, Death Cab for Cutie, and Feist, to name but a very few. In the 1950s and 60s, Reid Miles and Francis Wolff created a series of iconic album covers for Blue Note Records, pieces which were themselves gorgeous and unique, yet clearly part of a whole. Fans were driven to collect them all, and ended up exposed to music they might otherwise have never explored. We aspire to this same lofty goal, and think you’ll agree that Dan (who we stumbled upon at last year’s South by Southwest Flatstock show, standing way out from the hordes) is the perfect man for the job.



• The print is not simply a reproduction of the cover art. It’s silkscreened, uses an overprint technique that gives it a sense of depth and texture, includes a silver ink not present on the record jacket, is printed onto sumptuous, 100% recycled French Speckletone paper, and is signed and numbered by Dan. You will want to frame it, and you’ll be free to do so without any do-I-hang-this-jacket-on-my-wall-or-do-I-leave-it-on-my-shelf angst.



• The LP is truly something to behold. Yes, it’s an LP. As in a record. As in vinyl. Not because it sounds better (though it often does), but because of all it allows from a design perspective. A size that allows you to appreciate, not squint at, the cover art. Full lyrics and liner notes right on the sleeve. A die-cut that lets you peek right into the label graphics. And a candy apple red disc that begs to be ogled, handled, and spun around and around.
• This is an enduring object. The sleeve and jacket are printed onto heavy and even heavier paper stocks (respectively), so the tearing and edge splitting common to lousy vinyl production is not present here. The record itself is pressed onto super heavyweight (200 gram) virgin vinyl, which we chose not for audiophile reasons (though some say a heavier record sounds better), but because of the sense of permanence and quality that a stiffer, heavier disc conveys. When you hold it in your hands, you immediately feel that it’s worthy of the music it contains.



• There are only 500 copies. In an age of infinitely replicable digital goods, part of the attraction of physical items is the knowledge that only a very limited number exist in the world. It’s just more fun to own number 37 of 500 than to own that thing that anyone can get by clicking a link.
• The record sounds terrific. This isn’t a lazy direct transfer of the CD. The tracks were remastered specifically for vinyl, and the record went through multiple test pressings to get the sound just right.
• The digital music files are included. The fact that 99% of the CDs and LPs for sale today don’t come with downloads is beyond comprehension. BCWax records always include the downloads, and in just about whatever format you could possibly want: 320k mp3, FLAC, Ogg Vorbis, Apple Lossless, AAC high/low, or mp3 VBR high/low.

PS. The weekly geek podcast I recorded last night is up. Hear me cuss and drink with a bunch of nerds!

Another old internet friend, Chris, has a weekly podcast where he and some friends talk about music, videogames, movies, politics, anything nerdy. A few weeks ago they did a segment on Year of Record. Check it out (starts at 33:35). They call me profound lol.

Hopefully I’ll be on next week talking about the project so far and other geeked out junk. I’ll try not to cuss to much, but I can’t promise anything. They tape at tequila time!

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.

Been a bit, but had a big day yesterday, so expect some updates soon.

Supposedly this song was written for the kind of racist casion-heist/cardcounting caper “21″. I’m sure James Murphy was approached by the director of Legally Blonde to do a track, and rather than put any real effort into it, recorded himself doing a couple lines and making up a sick bassline. This is one of those tracks that doesn’t really have any song structure to speak of (similar to “Yeah”) , it’s just a build and a build and a build and a build and then some weird harmonies that always sound out of Murphy’s range.

Bundled with a shitty electro mix.

There’s big and then there’s big big (shown next to a tiny guitar for awkward reference).

This album taught me how to love.

This was my first “secret club” record, where I felt like I was part of a cool kids group for knowing it existed, let alone loving it. My group of friends in college all had this album on their all-time-favorites lists, and we could put it on and all feel a comfort in that fuzzy bass and poor, poor, Ms. Frank.

This album taught me how to cry.

When going through my divorce, there were some days that were better than others. On the ones that weren’t so good, I could put this record on, and hands down, every time, no exceptions, end up bawling. At work, at home, in the car, walking down the street. At the time, it seemed healthy: a tool to work through the toughest days. The funeral march horns at the end of The Fool still get to me, a futile wail of brass and tears.

This album taught me how to dance.

King of Carrot Flowers, Pt 2 was the first song I ever danced to, really danced. I had moved before, but in a tiny dorm room at University Towers in Austin, TX, Andrew McCown put this on at an impromptu dance party and I let go for the first time, just flailing my arms and jumping around. Before this song, I didn’t “get” dancing. I’d stand on the sidelines at high school homecomings until a slow song came on, trying to get the nerve up to go talk to a cute girl and see if she’d stand shoulders away for the remainder of the Goo Goo Dolls song. After this album, I was a different person. I wholly credit this track (and McCown’s exposing me to it) with any gregariousness I developed post High School. A shot in the arm.

Also, Holland, 1945 kills it on the dance floor.

This album taught me how to sing.

I imagine the experience of singing these songs in a dingy living room, stacks of Lone Star and Pizza Classics is not dissimilar to Irish Pub Songs. The words fade away and the song is automatic. Everyone links arms, and sings and yells, and raises their glass, and is one, together. It’s magic.

This experiment is about the music, but it’s also about the albums. I got my copy of the Muslim’s (now the Soft Pack) self-titled LP in the mail today (unbeknownst to me, shipped from about 4 blocks away). The album cover is matte white, with three holes in it, going straight through the inside photo of the band and through the back cover. From the 1928 Recordings page on the release:

The first pressing was a 7 song 12″ EP that included a CD version with additional tracks Extinction, Bright Side, and Nightlife, songs that were available on various 7″s at the time. The recordings feature several musicians that helped flesh out material written by founding members Matt Lamkin and Matt McGlouhlin. As the lineup solidified into what is now the Soft Pack and initial pressings sold out, the 7 song EP became a 10 song LP with a digital download compliment. The one physical constant throughout the evolution of the release, each gatefold jacket has been shot with .22 caliber pistol.

I think that about sums up why I’m doing this. To hold an object important enough someone shot with a gun. No amount of embedded album art and iTunes LP liner notes can replicate that experience and physicality.

My brother got me this record for Christmas this year, somewhat begrudgingly. And I get it. They’re not the best band in the world, they’re pretty formulaic, they’re kind of weird and annoying. But that’s why I love this record: it’s familiar and fun, but still interesting enough for me to come back to it.

I think the first time I heard them was the Time to Pretend video with it’s Mind’s Eye / Myspace aesthetic and anaglyphic 3D version, I was smitten. These were weirdos, for sure, but they were weirdos who knew how to write a song more than grow a beard. Plus Andrew Vanwyngarden has one of my favorite text tattoos ever.

And this whole album is good, from start to finish, there are great tracks. The production by Dave Fridmann gives it a similar vibe to his Soft Bulletin work: giant drums, farty horns and driving rhythms push it to the edge. Really though, the rest of the album is just an excuse to listen to Time to Pretend over and over again. Those opening synth lines, that crashing first beat, those yelling vocals, singing to the sky; it’s one of those rare nearly perfect, infectuous pop songs that can bring me to tears.

The other night I was out with my friend Joe, visiting from Austin. After a night of laughter and emotion and some big life decisions, we got up to leave, and Time to Pretend came on. The song was epic, the night was epic, and life is epic.