Sometimes The Blues Is Just A Passing Bird...

This new EP by modern Americana folk (though he's Swedish) prophet The Tallest Man On Earth (ironic moniker for the rather short Kristian Mattsson) has everything i wanted from a release i was not expecting so soon.
i've been struggling to find inspiration recently. Searching through old scribbled notebooks of high-school and listening to the prolific and tear-jerking in hopes that that one epic chord of that one epic Akron/Family or Wolf Parade song will spark the missing link between Act one and two in this latest literary venture of mine. But alas, all listening efforts proved fruitless for my wrists aching to ache from feverish jotting.
Then this EP appears out of the blue. i grab it eagerly, put it on, and 'oh'. There it is. The doctor had a thing with the mom. Of course. And the tape wasn't cut, just ruined somehow mid-viewing. Yes. Why didn't i think of that?
Well. Actually i did. But not sooner.
Though the music has no place in the film being written, it's interesting how inspiring the unsuitable can be.
So where's the link?
How can folk songs and acoustic ballads bring ideas to light in a film better suited for electronic untz jams and indie rock chorus swells?
It's the heart of it. i'm trying to make something with heart. Something that means something. A specific story with some uplifting something ambiguous in name but indisputable in emotion.
This EP holds lyrics much like those of his former releases. Some specificity exists, but most songs drift so vaguely between emotions and air-born imagery that one can't help but detach themselves from literal interpretations and instead find more meaning in the strums of strings and octaves raised by the raspy croonings of this lovely Swede than in the words he loosely links together.
The album drifts between the bluesy-folksy feel of his earliest work (Debut S/T EP and before) and the more refined, studio feel of his last EP ('The Wild Hunt', my favorite LP of the year, available for download below).
Get it.
It's .... inspiring?



Be Inspired (scroll down to near the bottom right, click on 'Slower Download')

A Thought. (another one)

That old saying, about how when one door closes, another one opens?
something like that?
yeah, it works both ways.
one door opens, another closes.

With this whole spring springing thing going on, the temperature changes keep reminding me of high-school moments. Like how certain smells remind you of ex-girlfriends and childhood revelations. This current temperature reminds me of sneaking out just to lay on my trampoline and look at the stars. Rebel with a mundane cause.

relax to this. it's spring.

Shut up.

You ever get one of those moments when something so socially accepted and apparently simple just baffles you, just for a second, and you kind of forget where our current era lies in terms of technological advancement and nonplussing norms, and how whatever it is that you're seeing is nothing to be revered or even acknowledged, and you get that feeling that prisoners got when paroled after a 40 year stint in the 'joint' and saw an automobile infested Manhattan for the first time?
Yeah.
Well.
i had that tonight.
Watching this waitress pour us more coffee without provocation, happy to do so, and seeing my friend naturally add the cream, casually sugar it up, and stir the steamy white cup so unassumingly, it was like i'd never seen it before. How did he know to do that? Where did this coffee come from? The cream? The sugar? How old was it? What made the waitress smile when pouring it? What the fuck kind of utopia is this?
i didn't sleep too well last night.
And i burnt my tongue today.
But... breaking down our filters, having those fleeting seconds of forced forgetting, seeing this city, this current state of being with a fresh pair of eyes, well fuck dude. It's mind boggling.
It used to happen when under the influence of various psychotropic substances, hallucination induced revelations and chemical fueled gratitude, but with those days long behind me, i can still kind of see what it was that blew my mind.
Cell phones and ethernet cables, this is all science non-fiction we're living.
You bear this in mind and those sky-scrapers cease to be office buildings and high-end apartments, but become steel pillars of man's evolution from that first single cell of life.
We used to be little globs of life, dodging predatory bacteriophages and banking on mitosis for our future generations, no thoughts, no big goals, nothing, really. Now we dodge pedestrians caught in their blue-tooth importance and bar hopping friday nighters. We bank on that next loan, the good grade, the hopes that someday we'll leave our own sky-scraper behind so some future suit and tie can see that, yeah, this guy wasn't just another anaerobic organism, this guy meant something. So i try not to bank so much on meaningless mitosis, and dwell more on the thoughts my ancestral amoebas lacked, and try to avoid that nothingness as much as possible.
'Cause at the end of the day, that friend Barry, he wasn't just making his coffee as appeasing as possible, he was celebrating a few million years of evolution. A burnt tongue is a small price to pay for such things.

Sunset Rubdown - Shut Up i'm Dreaming

'Troubles Will Be Gone': Musings...

There's this strange kind of depression that hits me sometimes, which you may or may not be familiar with - assuming there is a you, that is to say, assuming anyone reads this drivel. But this depression, it's that kind of sadness that shows up unannounced, with no valid invitation, and sticks around for an inordinately protracted period of time, inexplicably lingering without reason.
Yeah. i'm kind of in that right now.
It's the kind of thing where an honest life appraisal will ultimately lead to that thought of, 'Well, nothing's really wrong.' which leads to 'So what's with this feeling like shit all the time?' and therein lies the mystery. And you don't have much too feel down about, which then leads to this added guilt and sense of down-and-outness for being sad over nothing and staying sad over even less. So yeah. Fuck this.
The lurking suspicion that this is seeming far too similar to an 8th grade Livejournal entry is probably rearing its pouting head in your mind right now, so here's the beacon of hope: this is leading up to something. Something beautiful, not of my creation.
About two weeks ago, maybe a little before, i got the newest LP from Swedish folk god The Tallest Man On Earth, called 'The Wild Hunt' after its first track. i eeped aloud when i saw it online, eeped again when it was downloaded, and eeped a final time when i popped in the headphones on my walk to class later that morning. It was one of the first nice days in a while, almost T-Shirt weather - almost - and the sun warranted sunglasses and gloveless hands, and i smiled big. Big. Like, real big. So i'm halfway to class, halfway through the second track on this LP, and i start tearing up. Granted, i had slept very little, but still, that's a fuckin' big deal. Public tearyness. And this wasn't your 8th grade 'too much Dashboard Confessional and not enough pretty girl hand holding' tearyness, this was pure, organic, 'man shit's pretty beautiful right now' tearyness. The best kind.
'Cause look, there's a million things in the world that can cause those woe-woe-woe tears. Death, Break-ups, family drama, etc. (all of which occurred over the course of the last two weeks in quite rapid succession). But it takes some honest effort, someone with their finger on the pulse of what's really going on in this charade of the living, to know how to get those sunny day tears out. And Kristian Mattsson (ie- The Tallest Man...), you've found the pulse.
So these next two weeks get that sweet sweet tumultuous drama going on, all this 'holy shit what happened' drama, which culminated in me watching my sister's pet kitten die in my and my mom's arms this past Tuesday (mind you, i hate cats, but i loved this fucking thing). And this whole time, my mind is reeling, down and out and mesmerized at how sane i still was. The whole thing just turned into a movie, that's the easiest way to put it, very cinematic and poetic, and behind it all was the soundtrack of this album. i'll spare you (once again, if you exist) the details, but suffice to say, this current state of sad has backing. Or it did. But still, that sense of guilt is there, that idea that it's not as bad as i feel it is, and that gut melting feeling that i shouldn't feel this bad. So fuck. That's me. That's where i'm at.
But this album, this Wild Hunt, it's been played in its entirety on my computer/i-pod/stereo at least once everyday since the morning i got it, and every time, there's a new little realization of how truly wonderful it is. Currently, i'm feeling like track 4, "You're Going Back", and i've been this track for the last few days. Before that i was totally and completely track 10, "Kids On The Run". And every now and then i find myself in a reprieve, a brief moment of fleeting content, and those are the "Burden Of Tomorrow" and "Love Is All" times. And man oh man oh man, those times are fucking sweet.
So grab this, listen, love, and hope that someday we'll all be able to see things a little more like this screechy scratchy Swede...
The Wild Hunt - March 2010 Original Soundtrack...

(That's him on stage)
(That's me in the hat)

Surf City, and walking, and transexual snow.

i'm outside having a cigarette, like 10 minutes ago, watching this snow hit the sidewalk and turn to water. Not even water. Just dark sidewalk. And i'm realizing this snow is just transgender rain. Just rain hiding behind this seemingly complex facade of snow. But fuck that. It's rain. Rain disguised as snow, unmasked upon contact with the street. Damn.
i'm watching these faux flurries and i notice this guy inside behind me on his cell phone. Pack of smokes in one hand, phone in the other, pressed to his ear, eyes staring into the concentrated conversational abyss we all find ourselves in, and i watch his feet. Nice sandals, like, really nice. Like, Arabian King nice. Really, great fuckin' sandals. And his feet start pacing. He's still talking, focusing solely on the conversation at hand (and in hand for that matter), but he's walking now. Forward, stop. Turn left, pace, stop. Backwards? Nope. Forward, turn, stop, repeat. And this goes on.
Normally, i'd think nothing of it. Everyone does this. Well, i suppose the wheelchair bound aren't afforded the aimless pacing luxury we un-handicapped, we 'normally capped', folks soak up on a daily basis, but on a whole, generally speaking, everyone does the pace'n'talk.
But why?
What for?
Feelings of importance? Productivity? Keep the legs working and the mind shall follow?
Furthermore, what subconscious motives lie behind the left turn? The right? Why stop-turn-shuffle and not shuffle-stop-turn?
What's the equation?
One could, arguably discern the severity of a conversation based on the pacing act alone.
Fast, sporadic turns, irregular foot movements, stamps and kicks.
Yeah, that mother-fucker's pissed.
Slow, swooning knee-bends, up to the toes and back, shifty steps and giggly walks.
Man, that guy's in love.
Could one then, theoretically speaking, decipher the subject matter by the precise motions and movements? Left-stop-right-right = Heart break? Stop-right-left-right = Surprise pregnancy? Left-Left-Left-Stop. Hey, Mom called.
There's got to be something that programs this very simple mechanism in our brains. Something so bafflingly simple that when laid in front of us, we'd 'Oh Yeah' and blush at our naiveté.
Cause simple's good. Simple's fuckin' great. When the complex warps our minds, sweet, awesome, right on. But come on, that's expected. Complication yields confusion. Yes. But when the simple occurs, and leaves our jaws dropped, eyes popped, and time standing still - or stopped? - that's what sticks. That's true genius.
So listen to this. Simple, but fucking great.
Surf City.

The Freaks and The Fury : Alex Bleeker.

Alex Bleeker.
Man, this guy fuckin' does it for me.
Pardon the foul language, but it's late, i'm running on fumes, fumes of fumes, and this guy is providing me with the perfect soundtrack to nostalgic mental convertible cruises through retro-grade fine-grain film stock memories of 60's suburban days that never happened. Yeah. It's like that.
I hear this guy, this Alex Bleeker character, who also supplies the increasingly hyped band Real Estate with their strums and hums, he's got it going on. His stuff with Real Estate is good, great even, with the help of Matt Mondanile (of Ducktails, Predator Vision, Dreams In Mirror Field, and probably a slew of other bands and monikers i'm not aware of), these guys encapsulate growing up in middle class suburbia. Beers in styrofoam coolers and kids in the blow-up pool. Weekend trips to the Jersey Shore and the occasional Marlboro light. Truly, good stuff.
But here, with his 'Freaks', Bleeker shines like a Jersey born Neil Young, fingers flicking through frets and riffs with perfectly relaxed precision. It slows, fades, then the blood starts flowing, something's going on, and suddenly those same riffs and frets emerge, this time backed by something teeth grittingly good. The Oh face rises.
i don't often get hooked on an album right away. Certain tracks will pull me in, and little chords and noodlings will coax me into giving song X a chance, as opposed to the regular track Y. Suddenly, X beats Y, V comes into the picture, and in a matter of weeks, i've got a new discography flowing through my i-tunes. This album, however, leaves me without a favorite track. Every time i've listened to it, it's been start to finish. Full thing through. It even made me late for a rather important meeting. Thanks Bleeker. Really. It was worth it.
See, when you get past the relaxed precision, when you overcome the calm beats and family's back porch in the summer lyrics, it's the voice that hooks you. What's behind the voice, i guess. When i hear someone sing, and their image appears in my head, that's a good sign. But when they appear, eyes clamped shut, little dribbles of sweat on the un-swabbed brow, neck curled in summoning the past in the bulged veins and pulsing temples, well, that's just something else. That's the kind of art I flock to.
Anyone can string a few catchy notes together. Rhyme some words and tap some drums, and yeah, it's music, but it's not art. It's not music. Get me? When this kind of art hits my ears, it gets in all the senses. I smell that suburban summer. i taste that cool raspberry ice-tea with the mint leaves from Nana's garden atop the ice chunks in the sweaty plastic cup. i see Alex Bleeker and The Freaks, playing, sitting, watching the sunset over the trampoline and neighbor's fence in the backyard. Little fireflies starting to appear. And you feel that temperature, that perfect cool warm that only an early summer night can give. And, well, shit man, it's fuckin good. Really fuckin' good.

... i guess Jersey ain't that bad...

Bowerbird calls.

i get in this head space sometimes, where i try and remember what it sounds like when my friends say my name. Acquaintances say it all the time. i pass, let's say, Carol on the street:
Hey Carol.
Hey Evan.
and we keep on walking.
But when i get a phone call from, let's say, Chris, it's always:
Yo dude.
Hey man.
... no names are said.
So the last few days, while immersed in conversation, i've stayed especially alert, listening intently to hear if my name is spoken. If my friends think i've suddenly become a better listener, they're right. But for selfish reasons.
Weird, selfish reasons.
This all started out of curiosity. Stemming from someone calling me 'Ev', i started wondering if others do the same without my knowledge. Then it occurred to me that i couldn't imagine any of my friends saying my name. Acquaintances, yes. Friends, no. Then this attentive listening began.
i've been through this mental torture before, but i've never actually stopped to examine why i do it. Well now i get it. i see the 'why'.
Ultimately, past the curiosity, past the nicknames, past the slight mental obsession, lies unsettled waves of self-consciousness. How people say my name, not that there's a particularly large number of variations on 'Evan', but it's a way of glimpsing how they see me. This focus on what it sounds like when 'Evan' comes out of the mouths of friends and strangers and acquaintances and family folks is a focus on what i am in their minds. Hearing them say my name, i guess, is a small, subtle, but definite indication of what i am to them.
The context changes, a pissed off 'Evan' is drastically different than a sympathetic 'Evan', but the ease with which my name is said tells a lot about how often it is said, or thought, or pined for.
Rarely is it pined for.
Hearing my name, let's me glimpse a part of me as observed from a part of you.
And i like that.
'Northern Lights'.
The 6th track on the Bowerbirds sophomore release, 'Upper Air', found in the dead center of this great LP. One of my favorites of the last year.
It starts calm, catchy, but nothing particularly special. It has just enough appeal, however, to keep you from hitting 'next' on the i-pod/walkman/car-stereo/i-tunes/etc.
35 seconds in, it hits you. You hear something different, and it hooks you in. The piano keys dance freely around the persistent guitar strums, all the while the drums try harder and harder to make themselves known.
2 minutes in, they join forces. Led by Phil Moore's vocals, the instruments begin to march together, stronger, to a concrete goal. The hope swells. Smiles spread and heads nod in tune without their permission.
It's the perfect song for the end of a movie. Where what seemed like a down ending turns to a realistically optimistic fade-out-finish.
The song ends, the credits roll, and you're left with a few moments of silence before the next track starts. These few moments are the point in the mental focusing act when i finally hear Chris answer the phone:
Hey Evan.
And despite the time of day, weather conditions, or surrounding events, we the listeners catch a glimpse of something we didn't see before. A wider field of vision that resets the day's clock right there, even if it's moments before sleep.
So check out this album, play it start to finish, let the grins flow and shoulders shrug contently, and listen for your name.

...oh, hey evan...