Iron & Whine*

As usual, I am quite behind on all things entertainment-related. I don't watch shows until they come out on Netflix ("Oh my GOD! McDreamy's married?!?") and I don't buy music until I see it on everybody's top ten list of albums of the year.

So I bought Iron & Wine's The Shepherd's Dog. Now, I have always had great love for Iron & Wine, and it's been my longstanding belief that it'd be great music to slit my wrists by. (Not a criticism--every emotion needs it own soundtrack. Although I'm not allowed to listen to The Creek Drank The Cradle in February.) (AndI have to be careful to whom or how I make that joke. I went to a party at Boy and Girl's Mom's house, and she was playing Iron & Wine, and I was all "Damn! You're playing that? You planning on handing out razor blades with the cheese plate?" Must remember that not everyone shares my sense of humor. Still embarrassed about that.)

However, The Shepherd's Dog isn't like that.** For one thing, it's a lot less muddy. Since Sam Beam didn't make it in his basement and all. And it feels like an album, which so few do. Like Cat Power's The Greatest, I have trouble picking out any particular song. It's not that they don't stand out and have their own specific melodies and moods. They do, but they run into one another so well, producing one uber-melody. (I really just wrote uber-melody. But I couldn't think of another phrase that describes what I mean. Sorry). It's raucous at times--Wolves, The Devil Never Sleeps--but, while some disagree, I didn't find it any less melodic and pensive for that. Melodic, pensive--but not tragic. It makes me feel peaceful, but not bored. Or, you know, suicidal. I'm content to sit and listen.

Constantly. Guy and I are wearing down the cd. Just imagine if we'd gotten it months ago.



*Really no whining here for a change. (That I can think of, anyway...) I just couldn't resist.
**With one notable exception. Resurrection Fern still makes me want to reach for my bottle of sleeping pills.*** But, you know, in a good way.
***I'm not ready to make jokes about Heath Ledger, as I am genuinely sad. This was not a joke about Heath Ledger.

When Did This Stop Being Fun?

When I ended up with only two women and no Jeff Tweedy. And no British Sea Power. And no Josh Ritter. And--sigh.

Bob Dylan
Neil Young
Joni Mitchell
David Bowie
Brian Wilson
Prince
Jagger/Richards
Lennon/McCartney
Marvin Gaye
Elvis Costello
Bono
Tom Waits
Bruce Springsteen
Van Morrison
Madonna
Stevie Wonder
John Fogarty
Paul Simon
Rufus Wainwright
Fleetwood Mac


I also had to remove all Jazz/Musical people.

This list is a shadow of itself. Also I personally despise two of the entries, and never listen to six of them.

Top 20

Last night, I complained about Elvis Costello. I don’t like his voice. (I also dislike the voices of Tom Petty, Neil Young, and Bob Dylan).

Guy: I don’t care. He’s still one of the Top 20 Best Songwriters of the past forty years.
Cordelia: If you say so.

It occurred to me that’s a phrase people bandy about with far too much ease. Who are these Top 20 Songwriters? What are the criteria? Over the rest of the bottle of wine, we came up with, um, a lot more than twenty Top 20 Songwriters. And they were 90% rock musicians. And 90% male.

We are in need of assistance. We’re looking for Top 20, not Top 50. (Also, if you can think of any women I’ve left out…)

The criteria we settled on include, but are not limited to:

• Longevity. Will these songs be covered in 50 years? (This is why Radiohead didn’t make it).
• Mass Love. If they deeply touched millions of people, they should probably be on the list. (This is why Lennon/McCartney did make it).
• Just Being Damn Good. Just because someone’s underrated and unknown doesn’t mean they don’t belong in the Top 20. This is our list, not EW’s.

Elvis Costello
Bob Dylan
Tom Petty
Neil Young
Joni Mitchell
Patti Smith
Stephen Sondheim
Bonnie Raitt
Keith Jarrett
PJ Harvey
Elton John
John Fogarty
Rufus Wainwright
Brian Wilson
David Bowie
Fleetwood Mac (so as to free up space on the list, we melded together Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks, and what the hell, threw in Christine McVie too)
Marvin Gaye
Bob Marley
Van Morrison
Michael Stipe
Josh Ritter
Kathleen Edwards
Chrissie Hynde
Mark Knopfler
Burt Bacharach
Carole King
Jagger/Richards
Lennon/McCartney
Paul Simon
Bono
Bruce Springsteen
Tom Waits
Jeff Tweedy
Lou Reed
Madonna
British Sea Power

Bruce

There is one concert I have always wanted to see. More than the Stones, more than Joni Mitchell. I wanted to see Springsteen. And now I have.

I was kinda grouchy before the show started--they made us walk waaaay past our seats, and up the escalators in order to go back down to the floor. Which kinda sucked for me, since beestung-hobbling through a drunken crowd is less than fun. We got to our seats, did our best to ignore the completely wasted folks around us (in fact, let me just get this off my chest now: you paid a lot of money for these seats! I paid a lot of money for these seats! So don't you maybe want to be able to remember the show in morning? Or just SHUT UP and stop chatting amongst yourselves at the top of your voice? God.) I pulled out Atlantic Monthly and felt slightly pretentious.

But then Bruce came out, and I was over it. I was over the pain in my leg, the sounds of British Sea Power still echoing in my head, the annoying people, the fact that someone spilled beer over my (inherited) Gucci bag--Springsteen was playing.

He played a lot from Magic, but he played almost as much from Born To Run, so much so that we might have been seeing him on the Born To Run tour. Meeting Across The River into Jungleland were unbelievable. Reflective, cacophanous, and ecstatic. Like the best of Springsteen always is. Guy got all choked up at the point, while I came near to losing it during The Rising.

I see you Mary in the garden
In the garden of a thousand sighs
There's holy pictures of our children
Dancin' in a sky filled with light
May I feel your arms around me
May I feel your blood mix with mine
A dream of life comes to me
Like a catfish dancin' on the end of the line

Sniffle.

But You Can Look (But You Better Not Touch) was hilarious and delightful...and Badlands. A song that I've loved but never quite understood--is it happy? is it sad? Who knows. It rocked.

Are there other songs I would have loved to have heard? Of course. I'd'a been pumpin' my fists for Adam Raised a Cain, and couldn't we pretty please have heard one more song from Born In The USA? But all this means is that I want to see him again. Bruce can play whatever the hell he wants--whatever makes him happy. Because nothing is better than seeing someone having such a fantastic time.

18,000 people singing Born To Run (and not just the ho-ohhhhhs--we all knew all the words) made me forgive the drunken chatties, in some sort of amazing spirit of togetherness and Americanness and striving through disappointment and just shouting with joy....that's all I wanted.

If there's anyone asking did you get a rush

I find it difficult to write about music that I love without sounding like I'm in high school. Is that why critics always seem to dislike everything--because they want to avoid sounding all gushy?

British Sea Power is a widely unknown (except for a few people who really care what Daniel Radcliffe thinks), deeply weird, and fucking amazing band. I've seen them at the Bowery Ballroom, Staten Island, and now Maxwell's. They've taken my breath away every single time. If we weren't seeing Springsteen on Thursday, we'd be at the Bowery Ballroom again. They're that good.

They rock harder than any other band that I love. The last time I saw a show at Maxwell's, I had a migraine and Yo La Tengo was playing. I ordinarily find Yo La rather soothing, but not live. And not there. Not all echo-y. We had to leave.

Last night, I hobbled around (I have a beesting, more on that later) and wouldn't use my earplugs because I felt too distanced, too removed. I wanted to be completely present. (See what I mean about the highschoolish?) My ears ring, my beesting vibrates, but I care not. Songs that don't mean much to me on cd suddenly become vibrant and powerful. Songs that I love make me jump--or bob vigorously, anyway. Am I a member of the Third Battalion (as wikipedia tells me their fan base calls itself)? I know not.


Counterclockwise, from right*:

Eamon. No longer in the band, now singing crazily in Brakes Brakes Brakes. I miss his drumming antics, but (sorry Guy) the keyboards must not have made much of an impact, for I noticed nothing amiss.

Hamilton. Despite How Will I Ever Find My Way Home, is probably still working in an office and paying his bills. Takes out his frustration on his bass.

Wood. The only drummer that has ever made me say "That guy is an amazing drummer." Holding the band together is a tough job, and keeping his drumming interesting is an art. He misses crew. It was simpler.

Yan. Certifiable. Paints houses while listening to "Leaves of Grass" on tape. Writes Elegiac stanzas for me.

Noble. His father and three brothers are all highly decorated military officers. He is a very restrained rebel.

*Pure fantasy. But so might be anything else you read about them.

The Kind of List I Like

Imperial Teen
Bruce Springsteen
PJ Harvey
Wilco
The Meat Puppets
Spoon
Feist
Joni Mitchell
Tegan & Sara
Rufus Wainwright
Lucinda Williams
Maximo Park
The White Stripes
Josh Ritter
Rachael Yamagata
British Sea Power


What do all of these have in common? They are everybody in the world that I love. What else? They all have or will put out an album this year.

It's insane. It's Christmas every day. What's next? Joey Ramone comes back from the dead?

Town & Country

Hill Country, it’s called Hill Country. Must remember that.

After the Times’ review, Guy and I and some friends really wanted to go. Obviously. We are Barbecue Pals. And lo—good new barbecue review on the day before we all have dinner plans! Is fated!

Was crowded. Half Hour wait turned into Over Hour wait. Was a mite chaotic. Had bad bottled beer.

All of this surprised me not at all. We were there on The Day After a good review—not several weeks after or months after but One Day After. Of course there was a wait. And of course the restaurant underestimated the wait—they are only a month old and had no way to anticipate or prepare for last night’s rush. And the bad bottled beer was noted in the review.

But for whatever reason, others in our party were surprised: “This is not okay. When I go to a restaurant, I like to sit down and have food. Also, the beer selection really sucks. Miller? Seriously?”

Um, yeah. Get over yourself.

And while you’re at it, get real. This is New York. This is a new restaurant. Of course there’s wait, and we knew there would be one which is why we had a backup plan, remember? Don’t be such a fucking princess, man, you’re at a barbecue place. (Although I'm with you on the beer thing).

And back to the barbecue. It was GOOD. Not “what is this, it delights me with its complexity” but just plain good. As barbecue ought to be. We didn’t actually get the moist brisket as they gave the last of it TO THE WOMAN RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME NOT THAT I’M BITTER, but the sausage was greasy and great and the ribs were very juicy.

And I have to say, despite what Mr. Meehan may think, I thought the sides were pretty darn tasty. We tried the bourbon sweet potatoes and the green bean casserole and the mac & cheese and corn pudding, and while the corn pudding wasn’t quite as good as my mother’s, they were all yummy. It was suggested that they maybe got a guy to come in a beef up their sides after the review, which I think is unlikely, but hey, all’s I know is I was happy. And the green bean casserole had mushrooms which Guy doesn’t like so I had it all to myself. Much like how Guy had the banana pudding with Nilla wafers all to himself, but I’m told that was very good as well.

And then we held our stomachs gingerly and hobbled our way over to Webster Hall to see a bunch of Brits. Quite the culture shock, except not really because food aside, Hill Country bears very little resemblance to anything Texan (they didn’t even have Lone Star, for God’s sake), and Maximo Park are so over-the-top-ly British that they seem almost not-British. There were bowler hats. I thought they were fun. Guy decided that, even though this was a band that he likes, that he didn’t enjoy the show because they’re not a jam band and he really likes jam bands, so it was kind of boring.

Logic and taking into account things you knew ahead of time were not features of any part of the evening.

Venue Whore

Guy: "Hey, is it cool if I go and play a gig in August?"

Cordelia: "Of course. When is it?"

Guy: "Oh, you don't have to go."

Cordelia: "Well, I may not. Is it the same Rolling Stones crazy cover band thing?"

Guy: "Um. Not really."

Cordelia: "Oh, you're playing something new? Well, then I definitely want to go! What is it?"

Guy: "We're playing Joe's Pub."

Cordelia: "Wow! That's great. What are you playing?"

Guy: "I've never played Joe's Pub before."

Cordelia: "I know. What are you playing?"

Guy: "I've always wanted to play Joe's Pub."

Cordelia: "Guy. What are you playing?"

Guy: "They're paying me..."

Cordelia: "Ahem."

Guy: "We're playing The Who."

Cordelia: "The Who??? The Who who we hate and their songs are dumb and boring and we hate them?"

Guy: "It's at Joe's Pub."

Cordelia: "I don't think I'm going."




No one knows what it's like

To feel these feelings

Like I do

And I blame you

Let's Try This Again

If I can introduce one person to British Sea Power, I will feel that the five minutes I spent on YouTube will not have been wasted. Although this really isn't an ideal representation of Yan, it's still a cool video.

Josh Ritter

Remains of the Drums

Last night at the Bowery Ballroom I saw a man who looked like a butler rocking out. This is his story:

Simon O'Shea walked the halls of Misselthwaite Manor once more, to make certain everything was set for his departure. He had told his employer that he had a sick nephew in New York. This wasn't exactly the sort of hobby a respectable Head Butler could admit to having. Simon checked his pocket watch (a Timex--butlers don't make what they used to), and heaved a sigh. He really needed to leave now. If anything wasn't done, well, it would have to remain undone.

He didn't even have time to change, he realized. Oh, well--wearing a tuxedo would probably seem ironic and hip to jaded New York youth.

At Heathrow, he got some strange looks. After all, it's not every day you see a man in a tuxedo carrying drumsticks and nothing else onto a transatlantic flight. He did remember his passport.

On the flight, Simon decided to at least remove his bowtie and cummerbund. His employer would never know. And they were pretty uncomfortable. Coach seats got smaller every year, it seemed. He tucked his discarded clothing into the seat pocket in front of him with SkyMall and someone's forgotten headphones. He didn't want to have to carry them with him.

He took a taxi from JFK directly to the club. It was appallingly expensive. Simon wondered if he was getting too old for this shit. Again, a butler's salary was hardly enough to keep him in pints of cider--he'd been saving for this trip all year. Didn't even buy the most recent Harry Potter.

He was early. He practiced a few bars on his shoes. They were too shiny anyway. He rubbed his chin, feeling the beginnings of stubble. He normally shaved twice a day, but obviously that wasn't an option tonight. But the stubble made him look unprofessional, vulnerable. No, not vulnerable, he told himself. Hip. Bet Josh didn't shave for days.

Josh showed up, his curly hair like a halo around his head. "Simon! You're here--how was your flight? Man you look cool, I wish I'd thought to wear a tux. You got your sticks? New York is crazy, huh? Can't wait to get back to Idaho." Simon followed him in, shaking his head. The audience always seemed to find Josh's enthusiasm infectious, but Simon just didn't know how to deal with it. He loved the music, but he didn't have Josh's boyishness. He wasn't even that much older than Josh--but then, he'd looked thirty when he was nineteen, and Josh would probably look nineteen for the rest of his life.

Simon sat backstage, twiddling his thumbs and suffering through the opener. Bluegrass pop? American Loreena McKennitt? Sweet Jesus.

When they finally went on, Simon tried not to shudder. Not a face over thirty. What in God's name was he doing here? He broke one of his sticks during the first song. A bad sign. The helpful techie with the obscure but surely offensive t-shirt brought him new ones. More expensive ones.

But when Josh broke into Me & Jiggs and the Irish lads in the front started jumping with literal joy, Simon remembered why he had come all this way. And he smiled, and began to really play.

Song:
Good Man, Josh Ritter

Another short anecdote, for Gilmore Girls watchers--Dave Rygalski was there. He was one of the dancing Irish lads. Guy says his name was probably Dave O'Rygalski.

Quote:
Dave Rygalski: A few weeks ago you told me that Lane had a crush on me. Well, I have a crush on her, too. Now, I know you have very strict rules about dating and boys, but I just want you to know that I'm a good person. I don't smoke, I don't drink, I've never gotten a ticket, I'm healthy, I take care of myself, I floss. I never watch more than 30 minutes of television a night partly because I think it's a waste of time and partly because there's nothing on. I respect my parents, I do well in school, I never play video games in case they do someday prove that playing them can turn you into a serial killer. I don't drink coffee. I hate soda because the carbonation freaks me out. I'm happy to give up meat if you feel strongly about it. I don't mind wearing a tie. I enjoy playing those hymns on my guitar, and I really, really want to take your daughter to the prom.
Dave Rygalski: [Mrs. Kim doesnt say anything] Mrs. Kim? Please don't make me repeat that list again.
Mrs. Kim: Let never day nor night unhallow'd pass, but still remember what the Lord hath done.
Dave Rygalski: Okay, thank you.
Dave Rygalski: [Dave and Lane walk outside] Did you hear what she said?
Lane: Yes, I did.
Dave Rygalski: What did it mean?
Lane: I don't know.
Dave Rygalski: Was it a yes, was it a no?
Lane: I'm not sure.
Dave Rygalski: Well, it's gotta be from the bible, right? So I'll just go home, do some research, look on the Internet, see what I can find. I'll call you when I know something.
(Gilmore Girls)