Tag: indie music

An Optimist, A Pessimist: You Won’t in San Francisco

 

Playing The Independent this Friday is a two-person outfit called You Won’t that you will like, I promise. Well…as long as you’re into the earnest indie vibe. Hailing from Boston, this combination of bffs Josh Arnoudse on guitar/vocals and Raky Sastri on percussion produces infections acoustic folk rock that instantly caught my attention.

 

Skeptic Goodbye, the duo’s 2012 debut released by Old Flame Records, could not be better titled. Every time I push play on this album I’m transported to another place, a better place–one floating on a nostalgic accordion ebb and flow. I find it impossible not to bounce about in my chair as associative images rattle about my personal unconscious–lakeside tire swings, battered back-of-the-bar pianos, and Edison lights crisscrossed along the horizon of a winter-crisp city street. Each song seamlessly transitions into the next without losing its own unique character. Skeptic Goodbye opens with “Three Car Garage,” a precocious track that immediately catches the listener’s attention. In songs like “Old Idea,” the tempo is perfectly paired with the lyrical mood while the eclectic harmonium prevents a simple song from being simplistic. In fact, these fellas consistently call upon a creative assortment of  instruments like the melodica, the saw, and even wind chimes throughout the album. Finally, they cap the effort off with the satisfying song “Realize”, a contemplative piece filled with reverence and wonder.

 

Perhaps what I like most about the music of You Won’t is how it lends itself to relational memory, how something created by another can so easily feel like my own–so easily be the personal soundtrack that was seemingly always present yet fresh enough to incite a creative rush. In this sense, Skeptic Goodbye is both a blanket and a bombshell banishing boredom (often the root of skepticism) in a comforting cocoon. These kids have fun, they’re funny, and if we follow their lead they may just make optimists of us all.

Word on the street is that their shows have converted skeptics like NPR’s Bob Boilen, so I’m giddy with excitement to experience the album live. Hopefully you are too, and I’ll see y’all on Divisadero this weekend!

Current Obsession: Hayden

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.

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.

Throwback Thursday: Fleet Foxes

Robin Pecknold and Skylar Skjelset, Bottom of the Hill, Feb. 2008. Photo by Paige Parsons courtesy of The Ice Cream Man

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

Mount Moriah courtesy of Merge Records

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.