apocrypha

Here's a song. More later.

I need some sort of new writing endeavor. Extracurricular. Someone help me out here.

It went something like this...

1. Caribou – Andorra
2. Panda Bear – Person Pitch
3. Burial – Untrue
4. Vampire Weekend – s/t
5. Dan Deacon – Spiderman of the Rings
6. Samamidon – All is Well/But This Chicken Proved Falsehearted
7. A Sunny Day in Glasgow – Scribble Mural Comic Journal
8. Studio – West Coast
9. Radiohead – In Rainbows
10. No Age – Weirdo Rippers
11. The Avett Brothers – Emotionalism
12. Joan as Policewoman – Real Life
13. Magik Markers – Boss
14. LCD Soundsystem – Sound of Silver
15. Janelle Monae – Metropolis-Suite I: The Chase EP
16. Justice – †
17. Holy Fuck – LP
18. Muscles – Guns Babes Lemonade
19. Jens Lekman – Nights Falls Over Kortedala
20. A-Trak – Dirty South Dance
21. Deerhunter – Cryptograms
22. The Aliens – Astronomy for Dogs
23. Lo-Fi-FNK - Boylife
24. Pharoahe Monch – Desire
25. Kieran Hebden & Steve Reid – Tongues
26. Yeasayer – All Hour Cymbals
27. Wilco – Sky Blue Sky
28. Grinderman – s/t
29. Black Moth Super Rainbow – Dandelion Gum
30. Donnie – The Daily News

Some honorable mentions: Lucky Soul, Deer Tick, Shugo Tokumaru, Feist, Airiel, M.I.A., Brother Ali, Kevin Drew, Nina Nastasia & Jim White, Mark Ronson, Kylie Minogue, Rihanna, The Field, Gui Boratto, Glass Candy, Times New Viking, Of Montreal, Kathy Diamond, Von Sudenfed, Battles, Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings, Robert Wyatt, Arthur & Yu, Keren Ann, Extra Golden, Strategy.

Singles mixes coming soon, with streaming and mp3s.

Look for regular updates again in 2008.

All things even, my favorite is his pirate song

RETRO: McGuinn, Clark & Hillman - "Don't You Write Her Off"

I just can't stop listening to Roger McGuinn these days.

It started, I'm pretty sure, when the copy of The Enlightened Bracketologist perennially stationed next to Ben Freed's toilet reminded me just how majestic McGuinn's cover of "Up To Me" is. Bob Dylan's original, from his half-scrapped first attempt at Blood on the Tracks is no less a classic, of course.

This past week, my obsession with The Byrds' frontman led me to "Don't You Write Her Off," McGuinn's the top-40 single from his 1979 project with his former bandmates Gene Clark and Chris Hillman. The song is lushly arranged and economical, so much so that the chorus barely lets half a minute elapse before erupting from the verse: In short, it has nothing to do with The Byrds' jangly folk rock, or even the more polished brand that surfaced on McGuinn's 1970s solo albums. "Don't You Write Her Off" has far more in common with the forced, pseudo-Latin guitars of Crosby, Still and Nash, and the limp country rock of the Eagles, a pedigree which, by any logic, should translate to "soulless."

For whatever reason, "Don't You Write Her Off" is the very opposite: spirited, buoyant and maybe even vital, in such a way that anticipates what Paul Simon did seven years later on Graceland.

The tragedy? McGuinn only penned and sang two for McGuinn, Clark & Hillman; the other, "Bye Bye, Baby" actually does recall his work with The Byrds. The contribution's of McGuinn's bandmates, however, are barely a degree removed from--and hardly any better than--the Eagles' hits that dominated the radio waves of the day.

The cowboy and the lady

Arthur & Yu - "Lion's Mouth" and "Absurd Heroes Manifesto"

The party line on Arthur & Yu is that this Seattle duo pulls a fantastic Nancy and Lee impression, and I couldn't agree more. They're not alone, however, and so I have to wonder: Is Hazlewood really so cool of a sudden, or is all the worship a product of the death sentence--he was diagnosed with terminal renal cancer--that the idiosyncratic songwriter received earlier this year?

Personally, I blame the critics: In Camera, the duo's enchanting debut, certainly wears the Hazlewood aesthetic on its sleeve, but it balances it with equal parts Velvet Underground, Galaxie 500 and Tommy James. Like the best of all those groups, and Hazlewood's late-'60s work especially, In Camera is a study in contrasts. For every lounged-out Rhodes, there's a fuzz-drenched Fender; the many harmonies seem both torn and balanced by Sonya Wescott's (Yu) sugary vocals and Grant Olsen's (Arthur) Banhartlike rasp. To buttress that affect, Olsen's voice always hides behind reverb effects, while Wescott's is unadorned.

The point is that I can't get enough of this album. Highly, highly recommended.





Hey, since I'm in a good mood, here's a song by another dude named Arthur!

Ingmar Bergman (1918-2007)

RETRO: Scott Walker - "The Seventh Seal"

The legendary Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman, who directed such classics like The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light and Persona, not to mention countless others, died today. Bergman was one of the first directors to meet simultaneous acclaim in the art house and mainstream, and his high concepts--particularly his explorations of existential and metaphysical themes--left a permanent mark on the art form.

But his influence--and truly, Bergman is one of cinema's most iconic figures--was not unfelt by musicians. Take this somewhat campy, but ultimately haunting, song from the baroque-pop singer Scott Walker. Named for Bergman's best-known film, "The Seventh Seal" is the first track on Walker's fourth album, from 1969, and one of my favorite songs from that era. With its coarse trumpet and percussive Spanish guitar, it could have easily soundtracked an early Sergio Leone film. But it carries all the power and somberness of its namesake, in which, against the backdrop of a plague-torn Sweden, a returning crusader plays a game of chess against Death, his life the prize should he win. "The Seventh Seal" also shares that film's ambition; it's the rare pop song that is both elaborate and immediate. It's because of songs like this, I imagine, that later eccentrics--those along the lines of Nick Cave, Tom Waits and Julian Cope--themselves channeled the cerebral, doom-laden themes of Bergman's best films.

What Andean folk has to do with Portlandlish folk (clue: not much)

Little Wings - "Scuby"

And I'm back.

I drove to St. Louis, Chicago and back to Washington, DC before flying to Peru for eight days. Yet, despite copious exposure to the jewels of hipsterdom and the most tourist-friendly songs of Andean folk, I could never put away the smooth, sun-drenched early-'70s soft rock that has dominated this blog's recent posts. (One explanation: You can't step three feet into the Andes without hearing "El Condor Pasa," the region's best known song, which Simon & Garfunkel covered famously in 1970. Even in coastal Lima, duos with guitars and sikus swarm to the outdoor tables of tourist-frequented cafes and, almost invariably, "El Condor Pasa" is the first song they play. Another explanation: I should have left my iPod at home.)

Anyway, Little Wings has a new album, Soft Pow'r, but seven years after the lo-fi outfit's frontman Kyle Field fled California for Oregon and adopted the Pacific Northwest's very twee brand of folk, he's still liable to channel early-'70s burn-out-then-chill-out rock. Only, he prefers its darker, more damaged side: Field played at Brandeis University, my recent alma mater, this spring, and the second half of his set was dominated by requests (best of all, a glorious version of "Boom!") and two covers, Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" and one of my favorite Neil Young songs, "Ambulance Blues."

The latter cover, from Young's brilliant On the Beach album, perfectly complemented the five-or-so new songs Field played, "Scuby" best of all. Field exhibits his usual restraint here, but rather than pair it with the buoyancy of 2002's Light Green Leaves or the eccentricities/idiosyncrasies of 2005's Grow, all he brings is mournfulness. It's a far cry from the silliness that characterized Little Wings when I first heard them, years ago, but there's something at work here--perhaps Young's severity matched with Field's naturalist lyrics?--that I just can't get away from.

Draggin' 'cross the USA

RETRO: Roger McGuinn - "Draggin'"

I'm driving to St. Louis from Washington tomorrow, and I'll be cruisin' the whole way to songs like this 1973 gem by The Byrds' frontman Roger McGuinn. It's all kinds of '70s smooth.

(Obviously, this isn't quite thematically appropriate. But how much can you demand from a song about drag racing in airplanes?)

The spy who loved him

RETRO: Colin Blunstone - "Caroline Goodbye"

For reasons passing comprehension, much of my recent crate-digging has oscillated between late-'60s pysch rock and the laid-back, comedown soft rock that flourished along the West Coast in the early '70s. And as best as I can tell, One Year--the restrained and delicate solo debut of The Zombies' frontman, Colin Blunstone--is the missing link between the two. Never mind that it was an ocean and a continent removed.

The 1971 album was rereleased earlier this year, and I can't recommend it highly enough. One Year is essentially a spiritual, albeit stripped-down, follow-up to The Zombies' flawless and final album, 1968's Odessey and Oracle, with production by the band's primary songwriters, Rod Argent and Chris White, and a sharp focus on Blunstone's breathy, angelic vocals.

Blunstone penned four of One Year's 10 cuts himself, and surprisingly, these are the best here (he wrote only two Zombies songs). Among his contributions is "Caroline Goodbye," a stunning and plaintive ballad about his break-up with the actress Caroline Monro. In so much music of the early '70s, and especially on albums by the largest figures of the preceding decade, artists' sentiments and the studio's sheen failed to align. With song like "Caroline Goodbye"--and on albums by John Phillips, John Lennon, Curtis Mayfield, Gram Parsons, and their peers--there is vulnerability, and uncertainty, and a general frustration with the failure of the '60s dream, often beneath ornate and celebratory casts. As "Caroline Goodbye" begins, Blunstone sounds fragile and weather-worn, barely whispering to gentle guitar strums. Yet even as he bridges to the chorus with "I should've known better," and as bouncy piano flourishes nearly telegraph optimism in the face of heartbreak, he can't shake his despair: On the last word, his voice cracks. From there on, "Caroline Goodbye" is a gorgeous, shimmering concoction of stirring strings and horns, Spanish guitars and one final, glorious crescendo, yet no matter how many sound layers White and Argent pile on, the whole thing is depressing as hell. I love it.

I've seen those English dramas too-oo

Vampire Weekend - Live @ The Red and the Black/"Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa" and "Walcott"

This NYC quartet has been the jewel of the blogosphere for months, so much so that I wasn't going to write about their forthcoming album for fear of redundancy--hell, even The New York Times beat me to them. But after catching them last night on the first date of their first tour, I can't stress this any more fervently: If you haven't heard Vampire Weekend, hear them. And if you've never seen them live, this summer's your chance.

I can't help but worry, of course, that Vampire Weekend will be the next Great Unsigned Band, destined to be worshiped on the up-and-up and maligned by the time it drops an album, a victim of its own (over)hype. Recent years have birthed a plethora of these: Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!, Oh No! Oh My!, Tapes 'n Tapes, V*o*x*t*r*o*t. It'd be nice if that rule only applied to the unfortunately punctuated, but Voxtrot isn't actually spelled with asterisks. Although that would make for an unreadable band name to match the Austin outfit's wholly unlistenable debut.

(It's possible Vampire Weekend was clued in to this grammatical phenomenon. Toward the end of the album, they ponder: "Who gives a fuck about an oxford comma?" ...but I digress.)

So, Vampire Weekend: They all graduated from Columbia University in the last year; they play restrained indie pop punctuated by gentle African rhythms (not unlike, but much more convincingly than, Islands); they obviously love Paul Simon's Graceland, as everyone has pointed out, and as the band seems very aware of itself. They try to tell smart jokes, and barely bat .500. They dress in matching button-downs, and frontman Ezra Koenig even tucks his in. They're uncool and they know it.

They look green, but everything on this 10-track album clicks. Vampire Weekend embraces African rhythm without appropriating it. Nor does the band bury the enthusiasm required by their influences, matching the electricity that Simon and the Talking Heads nailed but later acts with an eye toward Africa shied away from. Smart and unassuming, casual, concise, and more than a bit inventive: Finally, indie rock to get excited about in 2007.

Rainbow resin, sticky cyclone

Thurston Moore - "Fri/Emd"

Even when he's very much mellowed, Thurston Moore seems entirely disinterested in fully shaking off what's been at the center of his quarter-century career: the most cacophonous yet masterful guitar work this side of Glenn Branca. There's no reason for the 11 seconds of guitar squeals and white noise that begin--and have nothing to do with--this subdued, velvety song, except maybe to remind us that even though Trees Outside the Academy, Moore's first solo effort in 12 years, plays like a placid complement to Sonic Youth's recent albums, it could erupt into discord and histrionics at any point. But, you know, only if he feels like it.

"Stripped-down," "mature," and "moodily reflective" are often pretty cozy bedfellows, but this acoustic-guitar-and-fiddle affair deserves only the first label: Moore, who at 48 looks half that age, prefers to concoct his fantasias--in this case, about a romance that is both drug-fueled and consummate--with wide eyes, a youthful heart, and not an ounce of nostalgia. Truth be told, I've never thought of Moore as an excellent songwriter; I enjoyed Sonic Youth for its experimentalism. I'm sure I'm not alone there, but "Fri/Emd," and the bulk of Trees Outside the Academy, puts my impulse to shame.