For a blog taken with the mission of memories and memorialization, what better track to obsess over than “Oh Memory” from Hayden’s recent album Us Alone. Each track from this album resonates with my agenda–“Old Dreams,” “Blurry Nights,” and “Rainy Saturday”–and the album in total calls for quiet introspection. A cozy chair, the warmth of a tapered fire, and the type of stillness that settles dust. In short, Us Alone is primed to transition us into Fall. Which is perfect, because the nights have begun to chill.
Category: Musical Miner
The outlet of Nostos Nic: Music Journalist, to include concert reviews, mixes, current obsessions, jukebox classics, and artist profiles.
Throwback Thursday: Elvis and My Father Comeback
Our musical education starts young, and is largely influenced by our parents in its infancy. I’ve oft hypothesized that you either grow up in a Beatles household, or an Elvis abode–that the two seem to be mutually exclusive. My father was a HUGE fan of the King. To my teenage horror, he would roam the house doing impressions: singing with his lip curled and pulling Presley tunes from his diaphragm. I even inherited a sweat-stained scarf he allegedly (according to lore from his own mouth) fought a woman for after Presley had tossed it into the audience at a show. To reassure you, the provenance of the item is legitimate, but the process of acquisition is suspect; my father could tell a tale.
Elvis Presley remains an integral thread in the fabric of our American heritage, he cannot be ignored, but he is also a controversial icon. Largely credited with the creation of Rock and Roll, he is also criticized as a thief for stealing music played more authentically by its originators, black musicians, and making money from their sweat with his white face and bedroom eyes. He was also a drugged-out psychotic who commodified women, loved guns to an uncomfortable degree, and was drunk on the power of his own mystique. Greil Marcus (my idol) discusses Elvis’ legacy as it relates to the American landscape far better that I in Mystery Train, which I suggest you read if you want to follow this thought further.
As with most criticisms, however, there is always a counter-argument. Elvis grew up dirt poor on the wrong side of the tracks, literally, so it stands to reason that he would absorb the rhythm and blues prevalent in the black community with which he interacted, bonded as they were in their poverty. He was also incredibly generous and while his taste was ostentatious and his entourage absurd, it’s easy to interpolate from these facts the underlying insecurities that drove the King of Rock and Roll–he would always be the Mississippi mama’s boy with dirt under his fingernails from scratching his way up into the world. To displace this, he lived lavishly and showered all he knew, even mere acquaintances, with finery as if to remind himself that he had made it, but also for the joy of giving and having. Once you taste the P in Poor, you never again want that flavor on your tongue and are compelled to spare others from the same.
My father was a lot like Elvis Presley. The plot lines of his early years were the same but different, the generosity almost identical if not financed on a lower level. I have a feeling he understood this even if he didn’t consciously dissect it’s meaning. The last years of his life were difficult and did not befit his stature, just as the way the world lost the King did not jive with all that he had given. No man who savored company as sweetly and cared for his loved ones so thoroughly as these two should have died alone, and in this respect I will always mourn the passing of them both with a pang of regret. When Elvis died, the world sobbed together and sort of lost their minds. When my father died, I grew up fast and soundtracked his last moments aboveground with an Elvis song. After all, my father had left the building.
This Throwback Thursday happened because I stumbled upon an uncut version of Elvis Presley’s glorious 1968 NBC Comeback Special. 1968 was a heavy year of world-wide social upheaval, and in its midst comes a svelte, leather-clad Elvis, looking better than he ever did before and ever would again, singing stories in an intimate setting. This is how I prefer to remember Elvis, and not as the bejeweled Las Vegas spectacle he became. After rolling through the Presley catalog like a stroll down memory lane, the special ended with the debut of “If I Can Dream”–a call for hope in a time seemingly gone made, and now, through the fog of nostalgia, a thought to guide a daughter growing older in a vacuum.
Current Obsession: A.A. Bondy, An American Mind
In 1927, Mark Sullivan wrote a book titled Our Times: The United States, 1900-1925. Part II of this work is called America Finding Herself, the first chapter of which is “The American Mind.” Here Sullivan defines a nation’s culture as consisting of, among other things, “the points of view every one has about individual conduct and social relations…his standards of taste and morals, his store of accepted wisdom which he expresses in proverbs and aphorisms; his venerations and loyalties, his prejudices and biases, his canons of conventionality; the whole group of ideas held in common by most of the people.” He goes onto explain that we learn these things from our parents and our system of education.
Webster’s definition of education is as such: “2. The knowledge or skill obtained or developed by such a process : LEARNING.” I note this to emphasize that the classroom need not necessarily apply to education. In fact, I would argue much educating, the kind that sticks and supports integrally, is found outside of a walled room. Learning is to be had in bars and underneath bras; on trains and in shallow waters; in movies and meadows; at the bottom of a bottle and the end of a race. And all the things I know can be found in song because music is the slate upon which Americans write their lessons–present but chalky, a mere swipe away from irrelevance.
With his 2007 album American Hearts, A.A. Bondy takes it upon himself to quietly draw us a roadmap to American history. Bondy’s songs so masterfully incorporate American imagery that the listener fails to know he/she are learning. This is the best form of education. American Exceptionalism, in particular, is on display from the battle cry of Don’t Tread on Me repeated in “American Hearts” to the reckless wanderer as outlined in “Killed Myself When I Was Young.” The track that filets the American mind best is “Rapture (Sweet Rapture)” for we are nothing if not descended from a group of miscreant Christians looking for the Rapture on their own terms in a City on a Hill. Even all these generations later, most of us are still looking for that City, for some sign, for a voice that brings us home. That’s the essence of an American heart: belief abutting doubt atop a bed of impudence in the lonely drive West.
What an education.
A “Crooked River” to The Teddy Bears picnic
In her label biography, Antenna Farm Records describes the music of Dana Falconberry as “stripped-down songs inspired by dreams, memories, and landscapes.” I cannot improve on this except to say I agree. I agree because the imagery which sprang to mind while listening to the track “Crooked River” off Falconberry’s album, Leelanau, is exclusively sourced from a 1989 film I was obsessed with as a child called The Teddy Bears Picnic. This comparison is not literal, the music not similar, but the sense of wonder and magic is present in both song and cartoon.
This bit of nostalgia is (OF COURSE) available for perusal on the YouTubes. What a delightful trip down memory lane courtesy of Falconberry and the Internet.
Shining Stars
Spec’s is a North Beach bar filled with salty old-timers. The walls are filled with odd curiosities and ancient faces, and you would do best not to order a fancy cocktail or sit at a regular’s stool. Hidden behind the old Pearl’s (RIP) in a half-assed indent masquerading as an alleyway, this bar is one of my favorite in the City because I love old men who tell tales in dim light. Sadly, it’s being overrun by the Marina set these days, and this is partially due its growing reputation as a destination spot for out-of-town musicians. This is where (caution: name drop approaching) I drunkenly shared a booth with some of the gents from Franz Ferdinand, and it’s also where the good folks at La Blogotheque filmed Stars a few years back.
Stars of Canada have seen some travels as a band, and their album Set Yourself on Fire is so good, ’till the last drop, that it’s been in my rotation repeatedly since 2004. The featured video shows a roaming performance of “Your Ex-Lover is Dead,” an absolute beauty that gives you chills when seen live. This is a known truth; I’ve had the good fortune of finding myself in the crowd at a handful of Stars shows in San Francisco. One such night, at The Independent in June of 2010, I was even handed a white rose by their keyboardist. Charming.
These fine people return to San Francisco tomorrow night, September 17th, at Great American Music Hall with a follow-up show at Slim’s on September 18th. They are captivating performers that should not be missed. Maybe you’ll even walk away with a rose.
Father John Misty, “I’m Writing A Novel”
Josh Tillman’s brain is a national treasure, and I mean this in all semi-seriousness. During performances as Father John Misty, he lights up the stage with his eccentric dexterity, his quick-witted banter and superb musicianship. This video, for the track “I’m Writing A Novel” off his album Fear Fun, was just released on 11 September and it puts on exhibit a life most likely not like your own. Perhaps what I admire most is his irreverence, his seemingly resolute desire to make life entertaining. Take, for example, the title of directional tabs on his WEBSITE: “I’m Coming To Your Town So You Can Film Me On Your iPhone” aka Tour; “Please Buy My T-Shirts!” aka Merchandise; and “These icons may be tiny but they will take you to websites that will be around for at least another 8 months before they are bought and made uncool by major media conglomerates” aka Facebook and Twitter.
Genius. Rumor has it that he’s ACTUALLY writing a novel. I can’t wait to read that.
Current Obsession: Lana Del Rey
I’m the worst at staying current with Pop Music. Some have chalked this up to my being a “hipster,” one close friend even blaming my Fella for being a “popular culture shield.” While the truth of these statements has yet to reveal itself, my learning curve is most definitely steep and slow. For instance, it took me two years to put a face to the name of Lady Gaga, a connection that was made only because I went to the Castro bar Toad Hall which plays music videos.
This is a long way of saying: I just jumped aboard the Lana Del Rey Train! While I knew about her (I don’t live underneath a rock), I paid her no mind until her track “Young and Beautiful” from The Great Gatsby soundtrack incited an addiction. The underpinning of my obsession is two-fold: firstly, she looks like a mash-up of every vintage movie starlet that ever existed–a fact she plays up well in her video for “National Anthem;” secondly, she covered a song by Leonard Cohen (“Chelsea Hotel No. 2”) which instantly endears me to an artist.
But this goes deeper than a historically-nuanced video and a cover song. I find her fascinating as an American Studies specimen with the way she uses a sexualized approach to denude classic American imagery and tropes such as “Blue Jeans,” the “National Anthem,” “Cola” and “Summer Sadness” which call to mind movies like Grease and American Graffiti, if both of these films featured more adult content. While my snobbery precluded me from wanting to like songs with titles such as “Diet Mountain Dew,” I was seduced by her pairing of that clarion call voice with commentary on a scenario familiar to any red-blooded heterosexual female: loving the bad boy. Lana continually repeats this potent combination on her album Paradise and, god help me, I sure as hell relate to her motivations in songs like “Gods & Monsters.” Additionally, her song “American” is enchanting in its adolescent framework–a phrase that can easily be applied to American culture at large. The teenage linguistics of “American” are delivered in atop a fairydust hail of accompanying music that, for some odd reason, reminds me of instrumental tracks from the 1995 movie Casper, as does the song “Bel Air.”
All intellectual persuasions asides, Lana Del Rey’s music is catchy and allows us the opportunity for role-play. I’m not a Las Vegas club kid. My nether-regions do not taste of pepsi cola. I don’t date rich older men who like to party. However, when I’m folding laundry and singing my heart out to “Video Games,” suddenly I’m a coquette in a sundress instead of an archivist in leggings and an oversized Santa Anita Racetrack sweatshirt–a little naughtier, a little less up in my own head where I over-think everything. This last only a moment until my Fella or roommate come home, but in that moment I have released an entire week’s worth of stress simply by being outside myself.
Lana Del Rey is neither the pantheon of feminist empowerment nor the mascot of the new Americanism, but she is damn addictive. Her music and her personae make me question both of the aforementioned: what it means to be a woman in a woman’s skin, and what it means to be an American in an American’s skin. Not bad for a pop star, if you think about it.
Throwback Thursday: Fleet Foxes
Conceded: Fleet Foxes are not technically a “throwback,” per se. However, this is a blog about memory, and whilst sitting at my computer and stumbling through the internet abyss I came across a recording of the first Fleet Foxes show I ever attended courtesy of Wolfgang’s Vault. Talk about nostalgia in real time, this vault gives me the band banter and crowd chatter in addition to their set.
In 2008, the hither-to unknown Fleet Foxes opened for Blitzen Trapper at Bottom of the Hill during a local indie music festival called Noise Pop. I say “hither-to unknown” because this was their first out-of-town show; they hailed from Washington state. If you live in San Francisco and haven’t attended a Noise Pop festival, you should: the lineup always features a few stunners and the shows are staged in awesomely intimate venues scattered around the City. I was coaxed to the show by a friend who loves Blitzen Trapper, and dragged my heterosexual Lifemate with me. At the time I was painfully (painfully) single, and just young enough to foster the delusion that lead singers in bands were making eye contact with me.
We arrived at the venue early to survey and be surveyed, so we were front center when Fleet Foxes took the stage. Perhaps it was the second beer on an empty stomach, but this concert became a religious experience. For those unfamiliar with the venue, the stage at Bottom of the Hill is minuscule but has height to accommodate the storage of gear underneath it. These dimensions create an odd dynamic where the band feels accessible because they’re crammed onto a tiny stage, yet remote since they sort of overlord above you in an illusory command. Being front and center, we were gazing up into the lights when the fellas took the stage and, in that atmosphere, the flannel-wearing, long-haired Robin Pecknold looked like a modern-day Messiah. Please remember, I was somewhat intoxicated. Then the man opened his mouth and out came that folk hymnal mightiness that has driven this band into the limelight. Glory, glory, everyone.
After our communion with musical religiosity, the Lifemate and I moseyed over to the merchandise table which was manned by Fleet Fox Skylar Skjelset. Being awkward college co-eds, we fumbled to make conversation and what transpired is the reason why my memory of this concert (aside from the music) remains so fond. As we pawed at CD’s and records we had no intention of purchasing, Lifemate said to Skjelset, “Has anyone ever told you you look like Macaulay Culkin?”
Skjelset’s expression went from welcoming to deadpan and my inner monologue screamed “Uh, oh. Abort. ABORT.” He simply said no and then there was silence. So I jumped in with an uncomfortable giggle and the caveat that, sometimes, people just like to make celebrity associations. For instance, people often tell me I look like Kirsten Dunst. To which he replied, “At least Kirsten Dunst doesn’t look retarded.”
Having sufficiently slammed the door shut on that interaction, we moved on–specifically a few feet to the right in order to stay in close proximity to the band (cut us some slack, we were young). I went to grab another drink, and I returned to find Lifemate chatting up Josh Tillman. Sweet lord, she was on a roll. The point at which I entered the conversation, I heard him say “Oh yeah? What instrument do you play?” It should be noted that Lifemate does not, nor has she ever, played any instrument. Ever. Meaning she somehow either intimated mistakenly or blatantly lied to the fact that she was also a musician in order to find common ground. Excellent strategy; I think it unnecessary to elaborate on how that turned out.
To reiterate, we were incredibly young and intoxicated, and who hasn’t done some stupid stuff when those are the elements in play. For the record, I now KNOW through the wisdom of age that lead singers are not making eye contact with me except to acknowledge that I’m the girl that cold-emailed him/her about reviewing his/her show. Although it’s painful to recall growing pains, it’s also a delight to remember a time when possibilities were rife when you set foot into a venue–when every glance and every innuendo were titillating, and the music was all you had. I do take issue with the Wolfgang’s Vault for-profit model in which they market our memories to us, betting on the fact that we’ll subscribe to the soundtrack of our youth.
But…I am a subscriber. I am a subscriber because listening to the exact transcript of a show that partially inspired me to pursue music journalism is an out-of-body experience and is priceless. And that is the definition of a throwback.
Mount Moriah Tells Time
The new album by Durham, North Carolina’s Mount Moriah has rightfully garnered attention from industry standards NPR, Stereogum, and Pitchfork, but also from musicians-in-arms the likes of the Indigo Girls, Bon Iver, and John Darnielle of label-mates The Mountain Goats.
It seems that Miracle Temple shies away from little, evidenced by the burning barn on the album cover. The potency of Mount Moriah’s lyrics coat the listener like molasses, an effect amplified by the drawn-out tempo of tracks like “Miracle Temple Holiness” and “Telling the Hour” (my personal favorite). With this album, Heather McEntire, Jenks Miller and Casey Toll assisted by James Wallace question the centrifugal forces so common to our existence and so abundant in the “New South”. Crafted with confidence, it is a telling portrait of a band ascending into maturity, of artists choosing their paths and not merely meandering–the perfect second LP.
So settle in, “Oh be still, oh be quiet. Let the sun fade into night,” and give Miracle Temple a thorough listen. It’s deserving.
Current Obsession: Ray LaMontagne
I am not proud of the incident that first turned me onto Ray LaMontagne. It was my birthday, a handful of years now behind me, at Spec’s bar in North Beach. I was well on my way to an alternate reality when two little Yippies approached my Fella in a sort of coy, sidestep motion. They giggled, stared at one another, looked into their beers and then one of them asked, “Is your name Ray?” It isn’t, but this truth would never be sufficiently communicated to two youngsters psyched to see a celebrity. The bolder one took another stab at it: “Are you sure?”
At this point I assured them his name was not Ray. Could this have been done more gently? Probably. Did I immediately go home and Google “Ray LaMontagne”? You bet I did. Turns out, the Dude I Date bears a slight resemblance to Mr. LaMontagne, particularly in a dimly lit bar. This realization cheapened the satisfaction of my birthday snub, since what I thought was a crude ploy to undermine me was, in actuality, just two young girls genuinely excited to meet a musician.
While I’m not proud of the way he entered my life, I am quite content with his current role within it. Lately, his role is prominent for the minstrel has a song to fit any mood. His catalog features no miss: Till The Sun Turns Black, Trouble, Gossip In The Grain and my current obsession, God Willin’ & The Creek Don’t Rise, are all thoughtfully developed and satiating. Listening to the title track from that album you can almost hear the Appalachian soil give beneath his feet as they pivot and strain from the force of performance. Which is to say this music is the perfect synthesis of the American myth; it’s small town chatter and howling at the moon. This realm of limitless possibility under an endless western sky, however, is tempered by LaMontagne’s visceral sadness. He is a pessimist who speaks of loss with a husky sincerity in “Empty”, and of love with an other-era soul in “You Are The Best Thing.” This is the broad spectrum of human emotion flowing effortlessly from one man.
Honestly, what else does one need?
Nostos Algos 