each day the long light dims and fades

The Breeders “Here No More”

Realization of the obvious: I’m most at peace when I’m looking at art.

Another long day in a string of long days, unable to keep my mind from dwelling on worrisome things its best not to think about. The last thing, absolute last, that I feel like doing is stepping inside the gallery door to look at a photography show. But I have to – reviewing it for the paper and all. And so I do.

And immediately, I’m delivered of anxiety, absorbed into the solitude of the room, into these framed silver images of rural / pastoral scenery, done up all surreal-like. It wasn’t even a particularly strong exhibit, honestly, but it was all I was thinking about at the moment.

on shuffle on y-rock: march 14, 2010

artist – title – album

7 p.m.: Philly Local Show Hour One
The Dead Milkmen – The Woman Who Is Also A Mongoose – Local Tracks Session
Gemini Wolf - Disappear (Kilroy Remix) – Rare But Serious Side Effects
Pink Skull – Peter Cushing – Endless Bummer
Buffalo Stance – Maya – Sugar Glider
The Armchairs – Owl Hands – Local Tracks Session
Gang – Cracks In the Sidewalk – The Electronic EP
Grandchildren – Toss and Turn – Cold Warrior
Ape School – Wail to God – Ape School
RJD2 – Gypsy Caravan – The Colossus
Audible – The Last Thing I Remember – Isolette EP

your tongue, your transfer, your hand, your answer

“Kiss Me On The Bus” by The Replacements

Selected Destinations On the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority’s Bus Lines

Route 19 – Krewstown

Route G – Food Distribution Center

Route 97 – Barren Hill

Route 205 – Main Line Industrial Park

LISTEN: “Kiss Me On The Bus” [buy Tim]

make us who we are

“Nasty Habits” by Grand Ole Party

This past Friday I went to Vouyer, a nightclub in Philly’s Gayborhood that also plays host to DJ Dave P’s semi-regular indie/dance behemoth party, Making Time. Last time I went to one of those, I bummed cigarettes mercilessly from my friend Cat, even though I no longer smoke.

This time I figured I’d atone for my past moochery – and thwart any inevitable near-future moochery – by buying a pack in advance for us to share. Nope, still not a smoker. But it was unsettling how readily all those instinctive behaviors came back to me.

if she knew i was watching, she’d surely draw the shades

“The Loser” by Auctioneer

A somewhat romanticized take on stalking care of Craig Hendrix, a Kensington (Philly) musician who records under the name Auctioneer.

The fellow in this song, the titular loser, he’s been at it for a while, vouyer-ing his way through a neighbor’s upstairs curtains and it always seems to be while she’s undressing. But no – more than that, man – it’s about knowing her. Listing and reflecting on the items that clutter her room, using these as clues to her life, her trappings and passions and ideals, searching for the fated connection that’s just gotta be there. Virgin Suicides shit, right? The dudes know what I’m talkin’ about.

’twas good

“Moses” by Elizabeth Fraser

Talk about pressure mounting from expectations. The word “otherworldly” has to be one of the most overused descriptions of ex-Cocteau Twins singer Elizabeth Fraser’s voice. We’re nearing the third decade of rock writers fawning over her in that fashion, and I’m sure I’m guilty as any of them.

I didn’t realize before today, but for the singer, that sort of language has got to be terribly uncomfortable at best, downright upsetting at worst.

Fraser has largely remained in hermit-recluse mode since the Twins split in the 90s. She claimed the vocal leads for the best tracks on Massive Attack’s 1998 album Mezzanine, collaborated on a much-bootleged tune with Jeff Buckley (google “All Flowers in Time Bend Towards the Sun”), but otherwise laid low. This excellent Guaridan article is a great look at Fraser’s public perception, and how it affects her privately.

so allright, we are right

“On A Rope” by Rocket From the Crypt

It’s one hell of a chorus, I’ll give it that. Don’t know what the rest of the words are all about.

I mean, c’mon John “Speedo” Reis, what exactly were you getting at with “I wanna steal your love, stop holdin’ the dove” or “Do burning hands seem to care?” Is it the frustration of a dude who’s being massively cockblocked from the lady he fancies? Methinks it is. Which I guess makes it shallower than a wading pool. But damn if it doesn’t sound killer coming out of speakers.

Which is the point. Rocket From the Crypt wore matching jumpsuits well-coiffed pompadours. They got lumped in with 90s SoCal punk, but they didn’t have much interest in ripping the system. (Not that any punks in the 90s honestly did; the goal of the largely comfortable era was more complacency in one’s vagrantude. But I digress.) They were a party band, a rock n roll band, and it didn’t matter if there was a weighty meaning to the proceedings.

It looked and sounded like the best time ever, and you could scream along to it. Holler.

Listen: “On A Rope” [buy Scream, Dracula, Scream!]

only memories remain

“Slimcea Girl” by Mono

In retrospect, “trip-hop” sure was one lameass genre name. But with all due respect to my friend Rob over at Pop That Rocks, I can’t cay that the more contemporary “chillwave” is any better. What’s doubly perplexing is the way those unfortunate descriptors absolutely nail the sounds they’re attached to.

I don’t know, I was really drunk at the time

“Money” by Pink Floyd

Duuuuuude, Philly people, World Cafe Live is gonna sync up Wizard of Oz with The Dark Side of the Moon on February 2nd. COSMIC, MAN!!!!

Seriously, though, it’s a fun time music geek experiment if you’ve never tried it before. Up there with Zaireeka. Nick Mason of Floyd naturally dismisses the notion that any parallels between the two are intentional. But he totally makes me want to go sync up Ben Hur and The Wall!

WATCH: “Money” [more info on the show]

Don’t tell me what I want to hear

“Lounge Act” by Nirvana

Let’s not split hairs here – I fucking love Nirvana.

They’re noisy, they’re sloppy and erratic. Indirectly, they’re responsible for some of the worst music that emerged from the greasy deep pockets of record label execs in the wake of their demise. A common, crass assessment I saw tossed around in the early aughts was that had Kurt Cobain come back to life and seen the Puddle of Mudds and Fred Dursts and rubbish meathead rockers who tossed around his name “a major influence, man,” he’d kill himself all over again.

But Nirvana and its core power trio of Cobain, Krist Novoselic and Dave Grohl – or Chad Channing, should you prefer hippie-haired, smiley Kurt – is unimpeachable in their righteous imperfection.