Sunday, October 14, 2007
TOWARDS A DARK CASTLE
Katy Davidson sent me a copy of a record called 'Just As God Made Us' by Lloyd & Michael, out on States Rights records. Katy is half of that group. The other half (the Michael half, I believe) is Marianna Ritchey, the genius behind The Badger King and Manta / Mantar.
I always loved Dear Nora. Pretty much without reservation, in fact. But the L&M record is committed and accomplished and badass in a way that Dear Nora rarely was. It's also floaty and psychedelic and insane in a way Ritchey didn't quite get to with The Badger King or Manta. It sounds a little bit like a Yes record, complete with birds and mountains, and with some unstoppable pop songs: If 'When the Morning Comes' doesn't melt you then you're planet Mercury and all hope is lost. And, maybe most importantly, it's so nice to hear L&M singing together again for a whole record.
So that's what I'm listening to, along with the Emily Haines record, and some Sunset Valley for good measure. And thank God NPR pledge week is over.
The DCfC record is in full swing; we're six songs in. Thus far it's pretty weird, and pretty spectacular; lots of blood. It's creepy and heavy... We've got a ten minute long Can jam, and had you suggested that possibility to me in 1998, I'd have eaten your puppy's brain with a spoon.
I know it's been a long time since I've updated this blog. Mostly it's because I keep forgetting how to log in. My solo record is coming along nicely, despite the fact that the master drive was confiscated by US Homeland Security at the border (much of the record was recorded between Vancouver and Victoria, BC). I'm told it's at 'computer forensics in Quantico' but I wouldn't be able to tell you what that means in any real way; you see, there's exactly no customer service element to our federal government. Like, if you subscribe to Qwest or Comcast or something for your Internet service, and that service goes out, you can call them and complain and something happens (discounted bill; resumed service; credit; sincere apology; insincere apology; et cetera). But I'm here to tell you that if the drive containing your solo record is confiscated at the border, the feds don't have to do shit for you. And, in fact, they don't.
It's not a Kafka novel, and I'm not a prisoner at Guantanamo. My life isn't so bad. But still, this situation is a concrete and real reminder of what fuels the world we live in: It's fear and mistrust and suspicion. And oil.
You know what would would be great? If all the items seized in border searches were divvied up among the Senators to investigate. In my wildest dreams, my drive ends up on Arlen Specter's desk in Washington, and he studies the files with surgical precision. And maybe my little songs tip him forever away from the fence, in either direction.
He's a fencesitter, Mr Specter: They're the most dangerous, you know.
- Chris
I always loved Dear Nora. Pretty much without reservation, in fact. But the L&M record is committed and accomplished and badass in a way that Dear Nora rarely was. It's also floaty and psychedelic and insane in a way Ritchey didn't quite get to with The Badger King or Manta. It sounds a little bit like a Yes record, complete with birds and mountains, and with some unstoppable pop songs: If 'When the Morning Comes' doesn't melt you then you're planet Mercury and all hope is lost. And, maybe most importantly, it's so nice to hear L&M singing together again for a whole record.
So that's what I'm listening to, along with the Emily Haines record, and some Sunset Valley for good measure. And thank God NPR pledge week is over.
The DCfC record is in full swing; we're six songs in. Thus far it's pretty weird, and pretty spectacular; lots of blood. It's creepy and heavy... We've got a ten minute long Can jam, and had you suggested that possibility to me in 1998, I'd have eaten your puppy's brain with a spoon.
I know it's been a long time since I've updated this blog. Mostly it's because I keep forgetting how to log in. My solo record is coming along nicely, despite the fact that the master drive was confiscated by US Homeland Security at the border (much of the record was recorded between Vancouver and Victoria, BC). I'm told it's at 'computer forensics in Quantico' but I wouldn't be able to tell you what that means in any real way; you see, there's exactly no customer service element to our federal government. Like, if you subscribe to Qwest or Comcast or something for your Internet service, and that service goes out, you can call them and complain and something happens (discounted bill; resumed service; credit; sincere apology; insincere apology; et cetera). But I'm here to tell you that if the drive containing your solo record is confiscated at the border, the feds don't have to do shit for you. And, in fact, they don't.
It's not a Kafka novel, and I'm not a prisoner at Guantanamo. My life isn't so bad. But still, this situation is a concrete and real reminder of what fuels the world we live in: It's fear and mistrust and suspicion. And oil.
You know what would would be great? If all the items seized in border searches were divvied up among the Senators to investigate. In my wildest dreams, my drive ends up on Arlen Specter's desk in Washington, and he studies the files with surgical precision. And maybe my little songs tip him forever away from the fence, in either direction.
He's a fencesitter, Mr Specter: They're the most dangerous, you know.
- Chris
