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.

After 40 minutes or so, I step back out to the 2nd St. sidewalk and this Breeders song clicks on in my headphones. It’s a short, serene number from their last album, Mountain Battles, and its evocation of bubbling tides and leaves in the breeze sustains my first calm mood in days for a couple minutes longer.

It also begs the question: why was I apprehensive about coming here in the first place? When will I learn?

LISTEN: “Here No More” [buy Mountain Battles, or tickets to see The Breeders in Philadelphia]

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
Buried Beds – Steady Hand – All Creatures: A Sherman Arts Compilation
Kurt Vile – My Sympathy – God Is Saying This To You
The Chimeras – Audrey – Her
Drink Up Buttercup – Doggy Head – Born and Thrown on a Hook
The Mural and The Mint – Builders – Private Pockets

8 p.m.: Philly Local Show Hour Two
Oh! Pears – Fill Your Lungs – Fill Your Lungs EP
Pilot Cloud – Meridian – Halcyon
The Sky Drops - Hang On – Bourgeois Beat
A Sunny Day In Glasgow - So Bloody, So Tight – Nighttime Rainbows
The Extraordinaires - The Egg Of Columbus – Electric and Benevolent
Brown Recluse - Contour and Context – The Soft Skin
Grammar Debate - Good Morning, Girl – Broken Heart Deluxe
Philadelphia Slick – Culture Industry – Culture Industry
Amanda Blank - Make It, Take It – I Love You
Reading Rainbow - New Safety – Mystical Participation
Adam Arcuragi – People and Private Music - I Am Become Joy
Writtenhouse – Mahogany Blue – Mahogany Blue
Birdie Busch – Rabbit’s Foot – Penny Arcade
The Swimmers – Try To Settle In – People Are Soft

9 p.m.
They Might Be Giants – Dr. Worm – Severe Tire Damage
The Pogues – Streams of Whiskey – Red Roses For Me
Those Darlins’ – D.U.I. Or Die – Those Darlins’
Ted Leo and the Pharmacists – One Polaroid A Day – The Brutalist Bricks
Monsters of Folk – Losin’ To Head – Monsters of Folk
Stereo Total – Get Down Tonight – Oh Ah
Gorillaz - Rhinestone Eyes – Plastic Beach
Menomena - The Strongest Man In the World - I Am The Fun Blame Monster!
Lead Into Gold - Faster Than Light – Age of Reason
The Feelies – Moscow Nights – Crazy Rhythms
Wire - Different to Me – Pink Flag
Jotto - Lost Man – New Century Courting
The Long Blondes – Lust In the Movies – Someone To Drive You Home
The Kills – Hook And Line – Midnight Boom
Elizabeth Fraser – Moses – Moses

10 p.m.
A Perfect Circle – Blue – Thirteenth Step
Gene Loves Jezebel – Desire (Come and Get It) – Discover
Pilot Drift – Caught In My Trap – Water Sphere
Tegan and Sara – City Girl – If It Was You
Travis - Good Day To Die – Good Feeling
Death Cab for Cutie – Pictures In An Exhibition – Something About Airplanes
Lawrence Arabia - I’ve Smoked Too Much – Chant Darling
Vampire Weekend - Diplomat’s Son – Contra
Cold Cave – E Dreams – Cremations
Animal Collective - No More Runnin’ – Merriweather Post Pavilion
Throwing Muses - Crabtown – University
Young Marble Giants – Credit In The Straight World – Colossal Youth
Massive Attack – Saturday Come Slow – Heligoland
Tom Waits – Tom Traubert’s Blues (Four Sheets To The Wind In Copenhagen) – Small Change

“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]

“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.

It started, waiting outside for the group to show up, by flipping the pack over and smacking it swiftly on my wrist to pack the tobacco down. This allegedly makes the cigs burn longer, but I’ve seen no evidence of that and figure that honestly it’s just deeply wired nic-fiend OCD.

From there, the stupid superstition an ex-girlfriend taught me: counting each cigarette in front while spelling the name of your significant other. When you stop, flip over the one next to it for good luck. I started doing this, realized my fiancee’s name is seven letters (ie. the entire first row, meaning there was no cigarette next to it to flip) and furthermore that this practice definitely never brought me good luck with relationships in the past. And wishing my fiancee to remain my fiancee, I checked myself and simply pulled out a random cigarette to smoke.

While smoking, I bummed out to people – used to do this too, freely and frequently. It was a way to rationalize my own bumming when I was broke. In this case, I bummed to two people who then tried to sell me drugs. (“Got some KINEBUD, man! Great PARTY material!”) Should taken this as a bad omen of the post-cabin fever bacchanalia the night had in store: I was later caught in the crosshairs of not one but two near-fights, both between friends and strangers. Liquor was spilt. Glasses were lost. But that’s another story for another time.

Finishing up the cigarette, I rolled it’s butt between my thumb and forefingers to drop the last embers to the ground. I stomped them out and found a trashcan to dispose of the butt – used to do this to avoid littering as well as accidental arson.

Cat and I (and some surrounding friends) collectively ripped through two-thirds of the pack that night. By the time I returned it to her on Monday (we got separated when the bands started and they were with me), six cigarettes remained and I wound up bumming two of em after a particularly frustrating meeting at the radio station. For all my good intentions, I don’t think I honestly balanced out the Karmac universe much – though Cat said it was more smokes then she woulda had otherwise and she appreciated it.

Despite all this, and to reiterate, I still don’t consider myself a smoker. Why? Once I admit this – even if I were to couch it with the word “casual” or “lite” or god forbid “social” – I open myself to more frequent impulsive purchases and slips of resistance. It took me too long to quit-quit that I’m not risking this. Plus, did you know cigarettes are like $6 a pack now? Fuck that.

Still, the readiness with which I fell right back into the behavioral trappings of a habit that took forever to break were frightening. In this swaggery number by San Diego trio Grand Ole Party (yeah, you were wondering when I was going to get to the song, weren’t you?) they argue that habitual behavior – in their case, lust, natch – is what defines us and our personalities. That it should be embraced, not broken. Part of me agrees with them. And part of me sees it as wimpy excuse-making, avoiding the confrontation of your personal failings. And that part therefore sees the agreeable part as a hung-up compulsive.

And frankly, I’m not sure which to believe.

LISTEN: “Nasty Habits” [buy Humanimals]

“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.

Then he’s wracked with guilt. Knowing that he’s pervy and intrusive, and out of her league besides, this busted Quasimodo type who, if she she knew he was ogling her, the curtain would be snapped shut. Then he goes inward, self-reflective from his perch in a tree, mulling over the man he could be.

So far, his story is plausible – sad, but plausible. I’m with the guy up until this point.

But his inward journey then takes him to some bizarro / indistinct place(s). He talks about meeting John the Baptist and frolicking with him in the river, or something, which I guess is emblematic of rebirth and so forth. But in that rebirth, the loser seems to have constructed some sort of false bond (or fortified his existing false bond) with the object of his lust, one where he once lived in fear of approaching her, but admires her for now being unafraid of him, since “she knows that I am watching, and she barely draws the shade.”

So, uh, is this tune a confidence building pep-talk? “She WANTS you to ogle her, dude!” Or is our anti-hero delusional, and ultimately more pathetic than ever?

Can’t say for sure.

But to me, the bigger mystery is how easily a pretty melody and smart arrangements make voyeurism seem like a breezy, delightful pastime.

LISTEN: “The Loser” [hear more Auctioneer tunes]

“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.

“Moses” is her first new tune in years. It cavorts in an eclectic bounce – dubstep beats, Balkan accordians, a lilting vocal in a language I cannot recognize or comprehend. Is it even a language? What about a made-up one? Hopelandic / Elvish? But there I go with that “otherworldly” stuff again.

“Moses” came from very, very tortoise-paced sessions for what would have been an eventual solo record, had her collaborator Jake Drake-Brockman (of Echo and the Bunnymen and others) not died in a motorcycle accident last fall. Instead, the song is released as a single in tribute to her friend.

Hopefully the hyperbolic swooning can remain in check and Fraser can be coaxed further out in public. “Otherworldly” or merely mortal, she clearly has songs left to sing.

Listen: “Moses” [buy Moses single]

“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!]

“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.

Mono was a electronic pop duo from the UK in the mid-90s. Their recorded output consists mostly of a single album – 1997′s stunning, multi-single success Formica Blues – and some scattered remixes. Since they were based in London, used keyboards, and made downtempo music, people tripped over one another to label Mono “trip-hop.” There was never really a universally agreed definition of what the eff “trip-hop” was (even if we could agree that Massive Attack was the template, their work is kind of sprawling), but I’d argue that the duo’s sound stretched further; there were elements of French pop music, Wall of Sound production and classic soul, all of which are at play in “Slimcea Girl.” It’s the less famous of the album’s four singles (Wikipedia regards them as a one-hit wonder for the jam “Life in Mono”) but clearly the superior.

A DJ at Sunday night’s Julian Casablancas show dropped this in their pre-show set. I hadn’t listened to it since wearing my Life in Mono CD out somewhere around the turn of the century, and though I knew every chord change, every melodic lilt and most lyrics, my neural music archive couldn’t retrieve band name or album title (and mis-read the song title as “Slim City Girl”). Had to place a phonecall to my better half to straighten the mystery out after 30 straight minutes of racking my brain, and she fell right into the quagmire with me. Fortunately, the Internet was at her disposal, clearing the problem up for all parties.

Mono split in 2000; singer Siobhan de Maré currently plays in Violet Indiana with Robin Guthrie of Cocteau Twins (more on another ex-Cocteau Twin later this week) and reportedly founded a music management company, programmer Martin Virgo went on to the less-notable rock act International Love Corporation.

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]

“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.

Their most popular album, for instance: Nevermind. Possibly their weakest. Yeah yeah, I know. Best selling record, defining classic of the alternative generation, blah blah blah. It’s also too slick and polished and razor-sharp. Nirvana wasn’t a razor, it was a radial arm saw that’d been sitting in the basement rusting up for a spell. And while Butch Vig is certainly deserving of the endless plaudits he’s received over the years for the commercial and zeitgeisty successes of Nevermind, he failed when it came to understanding the soul of the band he was working with. He tried to make them sound too perfect, and doing so cut a record that was imperfect.

Consider also that the best song on Nevermind isn’t one of the megahit singles that frontloads it (you know their names), nor is it one of the esoteric moments that pads it (“Polly”) and closes it (“Something In The Way” or, should you prefer dissonant esoteria , “Endless / Nameless”). It’s a minor track buried in the album’s bottom third that you probably wouldn’t think of had I not pointed it out – “Lounge Act.” A creepy slinky bassline, a forceful riff, Cobain’s poppiest pop chorus (in this collection anyway). Vivid sexual jealousy seeps from its lyrics (“I still smell her on you”) and the punchy tune wraps in just over two-and-a-half minutes’ time. The band rarely played it live, and honestly, Grohl and Novoselic would probably dismiss it as forgettable, but there it is. A standout album track, diminished by choice. An imperfect choice.

I was happy to remember, watching Nirvana’s newly released Live at Reading DVD last night, that “Lounge Act” was included in the setlist of what rock historians widely regard as The Best Concert Nirvana Ever Played. This DVD is a strong case for why I’m still, nearly two decades after first hearing them, so hard in love with this band. They flubbed notes. Kurt sings off key and messes up lyrics. They played their big hit in the middle of the show, and kept playing for another hour. Who does that?

I rhapsodize about this imperfection, because owning their imperfections kept Nirvana honest – one of the last really honest big star bands in rockdom. They weren’t above screwing up onstage at one of the biggest festivals in Europe, they just shrugged and kept moving with badass song after badass song. They weren’t above letting a goofy dancing punk rock dude upstage them for a majority of the set. “He writes all our songs,” joked Grohl. They weren’t above joking, showing they had actual senses of humor, showing that they’re fucking human. Yeah, Kurt loved his heroin and this was his downfall. But he could even laugh at this most major of faults – a roadie at Reading famously brought him out on stage in a wheelchair so he could shakily rise to the mic, sing a line of Bette Midler’s “The Rose,” then faux-collapse. Ba-dum-bum.

It might not have been as funny over the next couple years when he OD’d, then OD’d again, then shot himself in the head in a greenhouse one morning. But in retrospect, Nirvana and Cobain were incredibly self-aware. Rather than craft some faulty mythos about themselves, they simply were what they were, “warts and all” as the writerly types like to say. And in being imperfect, they made art that will endure.

LISTEN: “Lounge Act” [buy Live at Reading]