“Your first 10,000 photographs are your worst.”
Working towards that number changes the way you see the world. Living in this crowded-crumbling, sexy-scary, crazy-noisy, feast-of-vision city surely helps a bit. Keep your eyes peeled and trigger-finger ready.
“When I was your age television was called books!” Peter Faulk neatly sums up the written word’s apparent fall from grace. Yes, the telly has of late been dating smarter girls. But there’s more than one way to peel a couch potato. Turn it off and turn the page.
“A film is more like music than like fiction.”
Indeed, they are birds of a feather– a murder of crows pecking away at yoga, politics and walks in the park to carve out a life of blurred vision, tinitus and narrow cultural vocabulary. That’s the way, uh huh, I like it.
“Blue Turning Grey” | Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! | 2005
…
It’s not one hour past noon and the light in the apartment recalls the end of a 4PM winter day. Flat grey light shrouds the neighborhood, a cool wind belies the memory of glorious sunny summer days past.
It’s not a day for the blues. Rather, a purgatory between the light and the dark, the uplifting thought or disheartening moment. Short bursts of light rain punctuate these inert moments with an activity non-committal. Not the best climate for productive work or deep inner ponderances. Let the sun break free, or at the very least, bring on the violent thunderstorms promised by fallibly prescient weathermen. Get it right, gentlemen, that we may prepare for t-shirts or umbrellas, laughter or bitter tears…
I love this. Though I would argue is IS the climate for productive work and deep inner ponderances. That’s coming from too much of an outdoor magnet when it’s bright and cheery out.
Their third proper LP, Black Mountain’s Wilderness Heart kicks off with Led Zeppelin keyboard riffs, wailing vocals and blistering guitars. And while previous efforts have likewise worn their influences on their sleeves (the aforementioned Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Nirvana, Deep Purple), this new collection of songs takes further pride in dipping into the well of 70′s rock to deliver a more accessible, melodic record that’s perfect for a summer ride in your favorite vintage convertible. Don’t forget the weed and canned beer.
Hailing from Vancouver, Canada, Black Mountain has been making records since 2004 as part of the Black Mountain Army, a loose-knit collection of like-minded musicians steeped in psychedelic rock. Led by Stephen McBean, he also fronts the mellower, more instrumental Pink Mountaintops, a sex-obsessed band with a sizable cadre of members that dip into a different well, this time reveling in Velvet Underground, The Stooges and, dare I say it, Bad Company. Add Amber Webber on lead and backing vocals in both incarnations and you’ve got some serious female cred by way of no comparison I can muster. (Amber also leads Lightning Dust along with Pink Mountain Tops’ Joshua Wells, a folkier, moodier outfit drawing from equal parts Fleetwood Mac and Catpower).
I’ve had these bands in heavy, heavy rotation over the past several months, and they are hair-raisingly great (Wolfmother, eat your heat out), even more so when blasted loud on vintage speakers and fresh vinyl. We can’t exactly replicate that here, but here’s a small digital sample.
It’s been nearly 8 years since the last installment of the hugely popular Undercover series, but the wait is over kiddies. Those of you clambering for the latest installment can go hole up in your bedroom and feast on this rather long but tasty mix of 38 tracks. For those new to UC, Vols 1-6 compile cover versions of tracks by original artists both popular and obscure. Now, this idea is certainly not new. But maunet’s carefully curated, lovingly sequenced take on the notion is the best, Jerry, the best.
As with previous volumes, UCV6 presents versions both faithful and wildly divergent from their more well-known counterparts. The most satisfying efforts transform a previously douchy track into a sublime experience. Case in point, Erika Simonian’s beautifully spare acoustic take on Springsteen’s woefully over-produced “Dancing In The Dark” strips the track of it’s 80′s douchebaggery to reveal a gem of a song with lyrics that slay you dead. Likewise, with a deeply odd choice, Arab Strap manages to (almost) rid all irony from their version of a Van Hagar track, while Bon Iver joyfully brings back teenage memories with a radio staple from The Outfield. Townes Van Zandt might have recorded a better version of the original with an acoustic rendition of “Dead Flowers” featuring backing vocals by Guy Clark that make the hair on the back of your neck stand to attention. On the faithful side, The Donnas (an otherwise dismal band) do a kick ass job of replicating the fat bass line and snaking guitar licks of The Beatles’ “Drive My Car.” And we can’t omit mention of Patti Smith Group’s raucous, hilariously vulgar take on “My Generation,” complete with monster bass guitar by John Cale.
But no need to break this all down for you. Judge for yourself. Listen below, or
download the tracks here*. *Now I usually do not condone the random distribution of purchased music, but in this case I’m making a very rare exception. Compensate by seeking out the artists on this list and give them some of your money!
For more of Undercover, check out Vols 1-5 in the right rail media player on this page.
Oy, it’s a three-day stretch of nothing but rain and relentless grey skies. The streets are soaked, curbsides spilling over with a dark and sludgy mix of rain water, soot, dust and pollen. Marshy creatures crawl from dark places–a giant frog here, an earthworm there, a battalion of snails marching slow and steady across a slab of concrete encrusted with jewel-like stones and broken glass.
I thought something like Bob Mould’s Black Sheets of Rain might have been appropriate but it’s too early in the morning for 90′s grunge, so I’m going with this classic 10KM track – “by the force of will my lungs are filled, and so I breathe.” Indeed.
Watch your step today, sidewalkers. Share the road with our marshy creatures!
What good is all this rain if it can’t somehow repair the severed roots of my window ivy? Yes, I’m still depressed over it and now this dismal weather comes to rub it in my face. All it does is drizzle, frizzling our hair, or rain in sheets, diluting our resolve to rise from bed, walk dogs, and make it to work on time.
So don your boots and gabardines, let your black umbrellas fly–just watch where you point that thing. You know who you are, ‘brella pokers.
“Dead Flowers” | Townes Van Zandt, Roadsongs | 1993
…
For seven years, ivy has grown slowly and steadily across my living room windows. Sparse at first, its delicate leaves dotted the screen with splashes of brilliant green, like parsley placed just so atop some fancy dinner dish. Gradually, dots became patterns, vines like tangled tributaries mapping the landscape of my view. Eventually it grew lush, thick as shag carpet, obscuring completely the inside glimpse to my private quarters.
One would think these thick organic blinds would darken and gloom the room, snuff the play of light on the wood floors and navaho walls, but no. Sunny days dappled the apartment with a patchwork of yellow-green light, the ivy an iridescent lattice that defied the city’s dreary brick and mortar. For the few short months of spring and summer, my apartment was transformed into a verdant sanctuary, a lush retreat from the hot concrete of my Brooklyn streets.
I loved my ivy drapes, my leafy blinds. Then they fucking killed them.
One morning last week, I woke to find my brood of brightly budding leaves drooping like disappointed children, wilted comrades struggling to stand against an unseen force. Apparently, my neighbors below didn’t share my affection for this beautifully pernicious plant that weakens brick and obscures the urban view of our glassed-in little boxes. Seems the super had snipped the ivy dead at the root, pruned its proud tendrils away from my neighbors’ window panes so they could use instead theirstore-bought blinds to keep eyes from prying into their domestic affairs.
No one thought about the country life they brought to our urban existence. No one thought about palette and contrast. No one thought to consult me.
I recall those vines and the lines they curved. Time to re-plant. Re-life. God I miss Brooklyn! Mau- I am flying to ATL on Thursday to see the Flaming lips play the Soft Bulletin. ALL the way from CR> Then Flying back on Sat. Music!
Safe to say that spring is here to stay, evidenced by this most glorious Brooklyn morning. 9AM, 62 degrees and climbing, brilliant sunshine, sky clear and blue as your childhood swimming pool. Can’t help but have a beautiful day…
Hey, I always forget how to download some or any of these compilations. Also, I am having a cocktail party soon with a few beauties I met recently that are enterprising and just plain good fun. Hoping to get you and Kev and Kelli together soon. Hope that you and Yula are doing well.
Yes, mental speed outsrips limited typing skills. Proofing only works 90% of the time when you multi-task. Find a typo? Your proofing services appreciated. Contact me and provide post link URL and text reference. Much obliged, kind sir, lovely madam.
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Friday 06.24.2011 | 9:42 EST
Rockpants says:
I love this. Though I would argue is IS the climate for productive work and deep inner ponderances. That’s coming from too much of an outdoor magnet when it’s bright and cheery out.
Thursday 06.23.2011 | 4:36 EST
KMD says:
pretty words, Mau:)
Thursday 06.23.2011 | 2:42 EST
Rob says:
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!? Those guys are gonna be HUGE!