I went to see You Won’t at The Independent on Friday, and I left a devoted fan of Lucius. If I’m honest, I was so excited to see You Won’t that I didn’t bother to research the headliner. Boy, was that a mistake. Jess Wolfe and Holly Leassig, the ladies of Lucius, are perfectly paired both visually and vocally. Playing up a sisterly vibe, the two came onstage with matching hair, makeup and costumes–all of which were working on every level. So well, in fact, that the fellas of You Won’t opened their set wearing farcical wigs in imitation of their perfect blonde bobs.
Wolfe and Leassig both graduated from the Berklee School of Music, a pedigree that can be heard in the intelligent way they merge an irresistable 1960s doo wop sound with layered western strength and folk friendliness, all wrapped up in a Heart (as in 1980s girl wonder band Heart) bow. Combined with Danny Molad, Peter Lalish and Andrew Burri, Lucius delivered a performance by which the litany of shows left to be seen this year will measured. At one point, the audience–which had been incredibly respectful for the entirety of the show–lost its mind, and collectively gave the loudest and longest applause I’ve ever heard at The Independent. As a nod to this show of respect, the ladies snuck into the center of the crowd and performed a graceful rendition of “Two of Us On the Run,” a fitting end to a lovely night.
After quickly congratulating Josh Arnoudse of You Won’t on a great show, I walked away from the venue in search of an Acme burger with a You Won’t t-shirt shoved into my coat pocket and a copy of Wildewoman on vinyl snugged protectively under my arm. Divisadero Street was wet with rain, and pockets of the bar-bedraggled clogged the sidewalk. As I waited to cross the street, I smirked a little in acknowledgment of this rare and beautiful night–the kind of night that started with no expectations and then blew my mind. Thank you, Lucius and You Won’t, for an unforgettable experience filled with wind chimes and harmonies. Travel safe and stay golden, Pony Boy(s).
My first real piece of music writing came in middle school when I was a yearbook staffer assigned to write two pieces on popular culture representative of that year, 1997. I chose to review two movie soundtracks: Titanic and Good Will Hunting–Titanic because I was a ‘tween obsessed with Leonardo DiCaprio, and Good Will Hunting because Elliott Smith was the soundtrack to my “tortured” middle class suburban existence. Although I didn’t know it at the time, I had found the thing that would dominate my adult life: explaining music with words.
The soundtrack to Good Will Hunting propelled Elliott Smith into notoriety following his performance of “Miss Misery” at the Academy Awards. Ever the introvert, the attention was daunting. In a recent Jeff Baker interview with William Todd Shultz, author of Torment Saint: The Life of Elliott Smith, Schultz describes the discomfort Elliott Smith felt after meeting Celine Dion backstage at the Oscars, and observed that “[Smith] didn’t have the greatest self-image. It was almost problematic to be famous because it didn’t fit with how he experienced himself as a person.” For a man beloved by a hardcore fan base, he generally wanted to be alone. Perhaps this explains his prolific musical output, first with Heatmiser and then on is own. It also explains the general tone of his songs, which are quietly introspective, Beatles-informed and confessional. I think this is the great conflict for many artists: how to sing to soothe your aches but maintain your privacy in a public forum.
Elliott Smith’s biographical record is sad, a cautionary tale of drug addiction born of low self esteem that ended the life of an immensely talented artist. Similar tales have been told too many times before. To listen to his albums chronologically from Roman Candle (1994), to Elliot Smith (1995), Either/Or (1997) and XO (1998) through Figure 8 (2000) is to watch an artist become more sure of his voice, ability and message. At the time of his death, he had acquired a coterie of vintage equipment and was actively recording new material for an album provisionally titled From A Basement On The Hill. Depending on whose story you believe, he was either turning things around when he died–clean and sober, in a stable relationship and starting a foundation for abused children–or devolving into another period of paranoid depression. Competing versions of the year prior to his death have produced different opinions on the act: either he executed “the best suicide I ever heard of,” as believed by Courtney Love, or he was murdered with a kitchen knife through the heart. While I want to believe the latter, the former is equally as likely.
I remember where I was when I heard of Smith’s death like my mother remembers where she was when Kennedy was assassinated. I’m very protective of Elliott Smith and his music in a big sister kind of way. This is why my hackles were raised when Madonna recently covered “Between the Bars” in a politicized performance that promoted the short film secretprojectrevolution. What I’ll say on this is…I think we’ve all seen the manipulating effect of politics this week. My protective instincts aroused, I realized–to my astonishment–that this month marks the 10th anniversary of Smith’s death, and learned a tribute will be staged in New York on October 21st. The lineup boasts indie powerhouse Cat Power at the head, with Yoni Wolf of WHY?, the Low Anthem, Adam Schatz from Landlady and Man Man, and others who will play their own music in addition to Smith covers. Tickets are steep at $50, but a portion of the proceeds will go to the Elliott Smith Memorial Fund, which partially supports youth based nonprofits Free Arts for Abused Children and Outside In–a Portland group that helps homeless youth (to which you can also contribute through IndieGogo).
Elliott Smith, gone for a decade, has now entered the realm of the footnote, but one that is referenced as a resource, not relegated to the dustbin of history (to borrow a phrase from Greil Marcus); he is an active citation and not a forgotten muse. This is encouraging to me, a little validating even, because no one wants to see their inspirations fade even if they die. Momentary resurrections through the posthumously released From A Basement On The Hill and then the two-disc New Moon (2007) have kept him near and dear, a voice speaking from the grave, guiding the teenager that found him through college. I am, as ever, a devotee of he.
Featured below is a short called Lucky Three made by Jem Cohen (recently profiled on this blog in the post “Museum Hours”) on 17-20 October 1996 in Portland, Oregon and released in 1997. It falls out of sync at one point, but still offers insight into Elliott Smith’s world as well as his music, and reminds me that music is made by men and women who are mortal, as flawed and as fine as we the unmusical.
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.
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.
Having partially been raised in San Diego, I was immediately intrigued by a band named Escondido. Turns out they’re from Nashville, Tennessee, a fact that is imminently evident after listening to the album The Ghost of Escondido for mere minutes. The Nashville swagger is in full force with Jessica Maros and Tyler James, whose music pairs Mazzy Star smoothness with that Jenny Lewis je ne sais quoi. Escondido just recently finished the summer festival circuit in support of Lord Huron, with a smattering of smaller venues in the likes of Missouri and Illinois. If you weren’t able to catch any of those shows, why don’t you buy their debut album–definitely worth the purchase price.
Having had the concurrent displeasure and honor of planning several funerals, I’ve come to understand the importance of music in the heady moments of a final goodbye. Accordingly, I’ve started a playlist for my own funeral to save my loved ones the agony of soundtracking a ceremony to honor a woman who thought always in terms of music. Also, I don’t trust them to get it right (which makes me a pretentious asshole).
Which is not to say I morbidly contemplate death at every turn. I do not seek the songs on my funeral playlist, they find me and this is how I discovered Bombadil. The track “I Will Wait” off Bombadil’s album All That The Rain Promises–a title which in and of itself can offer an optimistically funerealistic aura–is so incredibly moving in its gospel simplicity. Bombadil, however, is no one trick pony. The rest of the album pairs bouncy melodies with wry humor that showcases the band’s musical ability without taking itself too seriously–offering a wonderfully refreshing contrast to the more somber opening track. All in all, a deeeeelightful listening experience and another notch acquired on my quest to create the perfect funeral playlist.
Hold on, hold on, hold the phone: a song that references Theodor Adorno and Noam Chomsky?! I have been persuaded (couldn’t resist the pun) that this song by Faded Paper Figures delivers on every level: intelligent, thought provoking lyrics that forces we as listeners to examine our consumer culture and its effect on the human condition and our planet set to a repetitive tune which evokes the robotic. Genius. You need to buy and own this album. Wait…damn it.
“He won’t know Adorno
He’s an adult with an adcult
You can buy your way into his head
He was never better
Wearing sneakers and a sweater
Made by 12-year-olds sweating in Shenzhen
He says,
Let’s drive, drive, drive
Till we burn, burn, burn,
We can choke on it later on tonight
And we’ll fumble with the planet
Dry the river and then damn it
Just persuade me that everything’s all right.
This was his reality,
says the stupid love equality
And he’s never seen a car he didn’t like
On code like a reptilian
Pays Rapaille another billion
From your cortex to the page is just a hike.
So Let’s drive, drive, drive
Till we burn, burn, burn,
We can choke on it later tonight
And we’ll fumble with the planet
Dry the river, then we’ll damn it
Just persuade me that everything’s all right.
Because things…we’ve got to have our things.
We’re not persuaded by the Omnicom
We’re not persuaded we’re the only ones
We’re not persuaded by hegemony
We’re not persuaded we were ever free
Is that your conscience, or are you alone?
Is that Noam Chomsky on the telephone?”
One of the best singer songwriters actively working today is Joel P. West, the brain-force behind The Tree Ring. When I say “actively,” I mean it. The man released three albums under his own name from 2007 to 2011, then two albums by way of The Tree Ring in 2011 and 2012 and in his free time he scores films such as I Am Not A Hipster.
It’s no surprise that West has found a home in the realm of film because his music tends toward the hopeful, and all the best films float you from the theater on a current of hope manifesting as meditation, inspiration, or maybe merely a suspension of the everyday drudgery; this is the power of possibility. Images without sound are powerful but moving images set to music are affecting because music transforms mere images into life imagined in tandem to life as it is lived, and parallelism is enthralling since the two points (the real and the imagined) by definition can never meet. They are parallel. Thus, art is created from the force of the question, “But what if that’s not true? What if I can make what I want to see real?” This is the essence of hope, the great chameleon whose meaning changes with the scenery—that liquid gold that Barack Obama bottled and sold to us all on his way to the presidency, the thing that is a filmmaker’s Ace in hand and a musician’s magic potion.
But hope is not just a tactic, it is a fragile force that drives us to know the next day, the day after that and so forth until we’re able to see into future space, beyond the moments we need to conquer just to survive and onto the ones that will set the tone for years down the line. This is planning, a derivative of scheming also known as the fruit of schematics set down with intent—a transparent overlay of guidance points that keep us moving, not always forward but ever in motion. Therefore, hope is built upon motion that breeds results. Music and movies are the same. Hope offers a respite, a place to lose oneself in the possible. Music and movies do the same. Hope is most useful in steady doses, not the erratic peaks that plaque artificial stimulants. Likewise, music and movies emote best when a vision unfolds slowly with direction, wrought from craft and not happenstance. The difference between an album defined by one radio friendly hit that dominated one summer and Abbey Road, the difference between Shawshank Redemption and Happy Gilmore, is depth. True musicianship spawns a comprehensive, multilayered production that releases slowly and stays fresher longer. One hit wonders melt in your mouth quickly and are devoured, but everlasting albums—the ones that may have gotten short shrift at first in the shadow of a flashier wunderkind—provide the longevity so essential to fermentation. Because things taste better when they’ve aged—just like steak and wine and whiskey. And what is fermentation but the hope that the tasty thing you have in hand will be better if you watch and wait in an environment of your own design?
While fermentation may have fallen pray to instant gratification, Joel P. West is not interested in the fleeting or the superficial. As a counter-balance, West creates music that is full-bodied and optimistic. His ability to stand apart from a soundscape littered with superfluous noise lies in his ability to craft albums. Not just songs, but albums that beg to be listened to from first to last. In accomplishing this, he is able to restore a totality to music listening that has been fragmented by an iTunes-loving world that has divorced songs from the aura of the album. Perhaps this ability is an extension of his composition work in film. Songs beget songs on his 2012 opus Brushbloom, just as scenes beget scenes in film, on a journey to that final climax that justifies your emotional investment. He not only creates music, he masters atmosphere. The cover art features desert shrubbery West recalled from a camping trip or something and hunted down, at dawn, so he could photograph it in the perfect light for the perfect metaphoric ambience, for Christ’s sake. This is what a painstaking attention to detail motivated by an incredibly thorough vision will produce. To further explore the totality of Brushbloom, let’s look at the song “Shoulder Season,” shall we?
It begins with a softly plodding beat that could be the soundtrack for a nature flick about the growing cycles of daisies (in a good way). That beat is joined by a crisp yet warm guitar, and then it breaks: “Even these trees are huddled tightly in the sharpness of the morning.” But their apples are rotten, their arms sun-starved, and the sounds from his mouth so loud. Here we are, the stage is set: it’s morning and our hero has a tale to tell. West describes a stubborn gracious, earth; he breathes deep. This is when he finds his Whitmanic yawp and the tempo quickens into a refrain that speaks of cold air and is driven by shakers that give way to that same soft beat which opened the track. Then, without warning, we have our new spring with soft new things on its way. Here is our direction and we are no longer alone, surrounded instead by the vivid ghosts of swelling instrumentals—present yet spectral. With our balance underfoot, the story has reached its zenith and the music has summited. Here, West admits, times are harder but we’ve taken flight so, worry not: if we are sustained then we alive, left with an endowment of hope.
If good music gives gravity to images and great music conjures images from the blank canvas of your brain, then lasting music, music like that which is made by Joel P. West, draws meaning into quiet moments with invigorating bliss, compelling you into different territory, onto new tangents. Brushbloom gives context by placing the listener in an atmosphere of simple imagery and understanding, thereby outlining the possible. In this respect West’s music is cinematic in scope and breadth using lyrics which mimic the music in an expertly choreographed dance that can be experienced again, and again, and again without fatigue. Whether for hire, for film or for his own musical persuasions, Joel P. West is a poet with a purpose and a vision too enthralling to bypass.
Nostos Algos 