Top Track: "Make Me A Bird"

I was watching something the other day and something happened that doesn't happen very often these days.

I heard something I had to hear again, immediately. 

I nearly forgot to pay attention to the show, I was so busy trying to listen to the music. But the scene itself did in fact strike me as pretty interesting.

A lanky blonde Swedish kid with lips like Angelina reclines in a chair on the bottom of the vast, white basin of an empty indoor pool, lit from above by a single broad beam of bluish light. It's that lighting reserved for classic interrogation scenes, the kind that obscures everything not directly beneath it. He's brooding (which is typical of this particular character) and sulky (also pretty typical) and by now I'd say he has pretty good reason. He's working on a dark bottle of something, and a cigarette. There's a small stereo next to him, blasting out this song. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEhPOpBvb54

And I just imagined the weird and fabulous acoustics of an indoor pool, and I thought to myself, if I were in that position, I'd probably play this song exactly. It reminds me of everything I like about the Donnie Darko soundtrack. It's like The Smiths, it's like Skream. I'm probably going to need to check out a little more of Elektrik People. 

One of those rare moments when the context and the content fit perfectly.

Don't you love it when that happens? Nothing at all could come of the spark of interest, or it could become the flavor of the month, or your new favorite band, but it doesn't really matter because you got what you didn't know you were looking for? 

It made me so happy. I'm going to listen to this song all by myself with my headphones on tonight, and shake my head in time when it says "beyond the comforts of the sick, sick game". 

"Open Up My Eager Eyes": The Killers

My first apartment, the one I moved into in fall of 2009 (oh strange year), spent several months in bleak sparsity. I guess when your life is complicated you can't even unpack your heart in your own space. But eventually, and with a giant push from my amazing mom, it came to look, feel, and be livable. I couldn't paint them (though I know from creepy peering from the sidewalk as I pass by that tenants since me, did) but the walls did get a kiss of me as I resurfaced.

Of course there were the albums, one Flogging Molly and two Bowie, on the south wall of the living room, and I think it was Bowie too, in poster form, on the wall opposite ("It's 1986 David Bowie from the movie Labyrinth, Brett.") The east wall was mostly window, but the west wall, right next to the niche where my stereo sat, I put up The Killers. 

No, there is no significance to the fact that it was the west wall. I'm just giving you a little sense of perspective. :) I bought it at their show at Comerica Theater (FKA The Dodge) in Phoenix in October 2009, along with a gray (how original!) tour shirt that I still wear on the regular. A word about the show: the crowd sucked, the band was all swagger and effort, and I sang my heart out.

I once read a critic's highly memorable quip that The Killers are not nearly as important a band as they think they are, and that is what makes them so lovable.It's true, nobody does bombast like The Killers. Remember that boy-band smack-talk battle they had with The Bravery back in 2005? Barely one album out and they thought they were legitimate enough to have a Vs., like Rolling Stones Vs. Beatles or Judas Priest Vs. Iron Maiden or any other contemporaries with overzealous fanbases. The magazines laughed, and so did I... (incidentally, I think The Killers unquestionably came off conqueror). But I like the Killers, a lot. Even if they have a track that made last week's reflection on filler songs.

I passed on the solo project by Brandon Flowers, which was hailed as "Sam's Town Part II: This Time Without the Hits" by another critic- dang, they love to rag on these guys. Gotta be tough to be The Killers, that's for sure. And I didn't ever buy into 2007's Sawdust, a compilation of B-sides and off-cuts. But I do own, one way or another, all the remaining releases. High school would simply have not been the same without that debut album, Hot Fuss on everyone's minds. Sam's Town never grabbed me til later, but my most-played album of the bizarre winter of 2008 was easily Day & Age. And yes, even though it sounds like Killers-do-Springsteen-in-Las-Vegas, I enjoy Battle Born. In fact, it's how much I am enjoying listening to Battle Born the last few days that makes me post tonight on The Killers, when I have accolades for new Hall of Fame members RUSH, and a truly delightful "guest post" on Led Zeppelin. 

I don't think I know of any other bands that are so exquisitely fun to sing along to in the car, for one thing. Brandon Flowers' voice sometimes bawls and sometimes trembles, and yet it is a pretty voice, and I LOVE singing along. I surprise myself by knowing all the words to all the songs. Windows up or windows down, it's me and The Killers, live for one rush hour only. 

But I think in the end, I love them because we've gone through a lot together. We both take ourselves too seriously, both like to contemplate dark subjects (sometimes things outside of our own experiences), both love David Bowie and the Smiths and other New Wave pioneers. (And, at least in the case of Brandon Flowers, we're both Mormon! See Exhibit A.) Since their emergence I have in some respects carried them with me through everything I've done and seen. The "keep on going, you are awesome" sort of songs critics disdain as self-indulgence, I have always taken to heart as a pep-talk, from the Killers to me.

It's breaking my heart that I didn't realize they were going to be in Tucson so soon (May 4). I could have made arrangements for that, if I'd known even a month ago. Such tragedy! Well, I am hopeful that they will outlast their internal conflicts long enough to make one more lap of the US. I'll be there next time. 

And I do not know why I pay so much attention to what the press says about The Killers. Of course in the end it's your ears that form your opinion, no matter what critics have to say, and that is true on many fronts. I would like to submit, though, something that a cranky old blogger that I follow has been known to reiterate from time to time: when they heckle and criticize and talk... you know you've made it. Congratulations, guys. You made it. ^_^

This playlist is sort of unique. It is made of both favorites and significant songs. Not all of these selections are "the best" Killers tracks, but the ones that aren't are still the ones that call to me because they mean the most, for whatever reason. Here you go: My Eager Eyes: The Killers 

For Your Playlist: Side A

1. "Mr. Brightside" from Hot Fuss

2. "Sam's Town" from Sam's Town

3. "This Is Your Life" from Day & Age

4. "Miss Atomic Bomb" from Battle Born

For Your Playlist: Side B

1. "A Dustland Fairytale" from Day & Age

2. "Bones" from Sam's Town

3. "The Rising Tide" from Battle Born

4. "On Top" from Hot Fuss

Bonus tracks: "Tranquilize" (featuring Lou Reed) from Sawdust, & "Crossfire" from Flamingo by Brandon Flowers. In keeping with my penchant for songs that mention heaven, hell, devils, angels, etc., "Crossfire" filled me with joy the first time I heard it, which was on the way back from the gym late one night, after stopping on a bench to look for a fresh soundtrack for the walk home.

And if you have time for just a little more Killers, (which might make you a bona fide Victim) I suggest listening to this fabulous cover of an excellent Bright Eyes song, and watching the video that started it all: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gGdGFtwCNBE

Getting Lucky

Facebook already knows this, but last week my Prince Genuine, AKA Bryson, set his mind to it and got us tickets to the Mumford & Sons gig in June. That is to say, he called a radio station 26 times to become Caller Number 8 and thereby score a couple of tickets. What a stud! He told the DJ, "My wife will be so happy!"

I am so happy. We had just been talking the night before about how, as much as we would like to go, neither of us were comfortable spending so much on one evening's entertainment. I told him wistfully that I would rather have Mumford & Sons tickets than butterfly shoes. But I understood if it couldn't happen.

Well, he wasn't about to give up without a fight. We got lucky this time.

More than lucky, I feel blessed to have a man who takes time out of his day (especially these busy days with precious little time) to make me happy. Blessed to be married to a man to whom I am not just "enough", but "everything".

On the one hand, I went through a ton of frogs (and toads, and newts, for that matter) before I found my Prince Genuine. You might say that he is a reward for persevering. On the other, if you know me in person, you may know that I seemed to deliberately seek frogs and toads and newts, so any misery I experienced as a result was self-inflicted. Then you might say he's a reward for breaking the routine of looking for a mate in the swamp. Either way, he is a reward, and reward means BLESSING.

I hope I never forget, even for a day, or for a moment, that he is a great blessing to me, warts and all. :)

He hasn't been to that many concerts. Mumford & Sons will be our second together. I am pretty stoked about that. I hope it's as great a show as the one in 2011.

His birthday is coming up at the end of the month. What do you get the man who called from the parking garage at work to say "I won us the tickets to Mumford & Sons; I guess you get your butterfly shoes after all"?

If you are looking for a new original playlist tonight, you should go to my blog-friend Jen's page, where I am guest-posting (thanks for the opportunity!!) this evening while she is on "maternity leave." (Personally I suspect the baby is waiting to be born so I can finish the toy I am making for her- she's a few days overdue.) Or you can skip to the nursery-themed list Babycakes.

If, however, you want to hear the happiest thoughts I had in 2009, I have drafted a slightly-revised (track 1 & 7) version of an enduring mix I made on this day that year. It was a really hard year in many ways, but Stir-Fry and Cult Films (April 2009) was one of the easy days: laboring over a clumsy stir-fry supper, talking about music and midnight movies (most especially Harold & Maude) with a new friend. I still listen to this mix. it's one of the rare occasions when I think I got just the right balance and just the right mood, with only the positive memories framed in it. Enjoy!





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"Hallelujah, lock and load!": My Chemical Romance

"Bad news from the Zone, tumbleweeds."

News broke last week, I think it was, about the disbanding of My Chemical Romance. I did not cry, and it did not ruin my day, but it did give me a kind of saggy feeling in my heart, and I had to text a few people to spread the news.

Yes. This may discredit absolutely everything I have said so far but I am about to tell you the truth: I thought My Chemical Romance was pretty awesome.

There are a lot of elements I like about their music. But I think it's something about Gerard Way's vocals that especially engage me. In my private mental world, when I close my eyes and pretend I'm a rock star on a big stage, strutting and sneering and crowing, he is what I sound like. He's my secret alter-ego. Eyeliner, gothy rendition of a Sgt. Pepper uniform, and that sharp voice- like crossing Brian Molko's pipes with a cheese grater and a jet pack. (I know, this fantasy might sound weirdly anticlimactic. Kind of like if you found out that Rob Zombie wears footy pajamas. Of course, you might think that would be awesome. In which case, I will imagine you in the audience next time I imagine I am Gerard Way.)

It definitely happened slowly. I really rather liked "Helena" from Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, which was arguably their breakout song from their unarguably breakout album. I was crazy about the video. (It was that one and The Killers' "Mr. Brightside" that I ended up buying- when you love something, you'll pay for it even if you could get it for free on YouTube.) But even now I'm not sure I'd like, heartily recommend Three Cheers. It's very.... Oh, yes. Emo. That is the word. The ugly word that turns every thinking person off of a band. But honestly, what else could you call an album that has songs like "It's Not A Fashion Statement, It's A Deathwish" or "Thank You For the Venom"... which is our title track tonight, by the way, and also a decent tune. It's a good example of its kind, though, for what it's worth.

I think what clung to me about that album, besides the aforementioned video, was a track called "Ghost of You" that I really liked, without even knowing the artist. I remember waking up from a dream the morning after my eighteenth birthday with that song in my head. I asked my sister if she knew it and I hummed a few bars. She raised an eyebrow and said "That's MCR."

Huh?

"My Chemical Romance."

Oh. Tres embarrassing. I wasn't an emo kid. I didn't like that stuff. I decided to tell no one.

But that kept happening. Every time I heard an MCR song I always found myself going "This ain't half bad" and then groaning when I found out the artist. So at last I caved and bought The Black Parade.

Which is a very different animal from Three Cheers.

The Black Parade is a cool little gem. It moved away from the melodrama on the previous album and moved more toward a concept album, lyrically. (I heard of a critic saying Roger Waters should sue for the story rights.) And it moved away from definitive "emo" and leaned toward glam rock, sonically. Don't get me wrong, it's still rough and punky but there's some extra swagger in there and it's great. Inexplicably great.

After I quietly came to the realization that I may in fact, LIKE My Chemical Romance, I confided this to my friend Alex, who has excellent and eclectic taste of his own. I knew he wouldn't judge me, see. In fact, he went out and listened to the album and came back as favorably impressed as I had. That made 2 of us, secret fans of the former emo band My Chemical Romance.

And then came Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys. Which, I think, was even better than Black Parade. The whole album I love unabashedly. But if you don't believe me, listen to "S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W" which sounds a little like a nursery rhyme from the dystopian post-apocalyptic future... Which is the setting of the album, by the way. This album also contains the unexpectedly beautiful "Sing" which that abomination Glee took and made into a super hit. (It's ok, I guess. You gotta sell out sometime, huh, guys? "Gimme gimme some of that vampire money, c'mon!")

The handfuls of music they released last year lean toward the earlier stuff, which as I mentioned, leaves me kinda cold compared to the concept albums. For being a return to that form, I'd venture to say it's better than the older work- they've learned a few tricks in the last few years. But it's too late for me, I'm already their fan. I would have borne with whatever they flung me, and given it a fair chance to grow on me.

And now they are no more. Yes, it's over. And I am sad. Maybe most sad that I didn't run off impetuously to Los Angeles to see them the last time their tour brought them close to me, which was for Danger Days. Alex and I toyed with the idea but ultimately we didn't. And now, there is nothing else to do but step up and say yes, I liked that band. I liked them a lot. I genuinely hope that we have not heard the last of these guys.

"Keep your boots tight, keep your gun close, and die with your mask on if you's got to."

Their body of work is available to hear on Spotify, with the exception of what came before Three Cheers (an album called I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love).


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Conor Oberst Part II: A Concert & a Kiss

The short hipster guy in a button-down shirt seemed disappointed when I turned down his invitation to come back to the hotel where he and his friends were staying. I told him I had people I was with but it had been nice talking to him. If only he'd known what a real fan's after-party consists of. Me, I know the secret:

If the venue is small and the crowd is fervent, there is a possibility that after the show is over, the artist will come 'round the back or side to mingle for a few minutes. This trick I learned from the same ex-boyfriend who, incidentally, introduced me to this artist's music originally. (Our lives have diverged for good, now, but I will be grateful to him for several things, this among the more frivolous ones.)

I will admit, there was no way to be sure that Conor Oberst would do that. He has a reputation for being surly and detached from fans. He hates it when people sing along at shows, so to be contrary he alters the words a bit for live performances. He shuns the laud and hullabaloo of being an icon, so he only releases albums under the name "Bright Eyes". And he never smiles onstage.

Well, this was 2008, and he'd done the first thing, releasing a "solo" and eponymous album that I really really liked, earlier that year, so put one tally under "Never Say Never". This was a warm night in Tucson, AZ, at a pretty venue called The Joint, and he had not only smiled, he'd been so stumbling drunk, he looked like he was having fun. He didn't even seem to mind when those of us who didn't know better (like me) unfolded our arms to sing along with whatever songs we knew. So now all bets were off.

The show was rock-solid. Conor Oberst, who I'd never really cottoned to until I heard this album made with "The Mystic Valley Band", delivered. He passionately bellowed into the microphone and strummed away on his guitar like the chords could bring world peace if he just hit them hard enough. He tried a few times to stand up on an amplifier, alarming us a little with the way he wobbled and swayed in his alcohol-fueled exuberance. But what should have been a slightly disturbing spectacle starring an artist who sometimes gives too much fuel to his inner demons, was instead almost transcendent. It was beautiful. With his eyes closed and a hint of a blissful smile as he sang "Danny Callahan", he was beautiful, and it moved me deeply.

So I, the undeserving fan-initiate, stood pressed against the ropes under the watchful eye of a few security guards after the show, eyes trained on the back door of the venue with absolute precision. Sure enough, he came stumbling out and the crowd (mostly female) of superfans around me erupted in a cooing euphony like so many happy pigeons. "Connor, Connor, Connor" they murmured, and sure enough again, he moved toward us. Hands thrust in his direction and he took them and shook them and muttered generally good-natured responses. It was pretty clear he was still very disoriented. It may have been my idea but I pulled out my ticket stub (thank goodness I found a pen, after fishing around in my purse for a moment longer) and held it toward him.

He moved toward me, as if nothing would please him more than to sign my scrap of paper. The pen nearly didn't work but after a moment of confusion it did and he handed back the ticket. I touched his hand and leaned close over the rising swell of fangirl voices, and told him the only thing I really felt like I had of value. The only thing any of us, really, have the right to say to a stranger who has impressed us.

"Conor, you did really great tonight. I mean it, you were great. That was a wonderful show."

Our proximity turned into a hug at that moment. I felt his cheek, bizarrely soft and smooth, brush mine as he told me, "Thank you, thank you. You're a sweet, sweet lady." And then he kissed me on the cheek, as his bodyguards pulled him away from me.

I think for a moment I blacked out. But I was taking up space now that I'd had my turn, and I didn't want to get jumped and have my cheek torn from my face as the girls near me took up the incredulous cry of "He kissed her!" So I fled, to the car where my sister, mother, sister's then-boyfriend, etc, were waiting. I was dizzied with the impact of being starstruck. "He kissed me!" I said breathlessly, grinning, and flashing my signed ticket.

My sister's face broke like I'd dropped something made of porcelain and dreams. She'd been toward the back of the throng and hadn't even gotten close enough to look into his face. The triumphant feeling drained from me instantly, and I gave her my lasting prize, the ticket I didn't deserve to have signed. If I could have transferred the kiss from his lips to her face too, I would have done that, because no matter what, I love my sister more.

We saw Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band again in the spring, in Tempe, but things were different this time. He looked healthier, to his credit, (much more sober and characteristically grim) and performed a good set, but the magic was comparatively absent. I felt torn, glad for his sake that he was in better physical form and mental state, and favorably impressed with the new material performed that night, but sad that something had to be missing.

Conor Oberst, wherever you are, and in whatever incarnation you are right now (Bright Eyes, Mystic Valley Boy, Monster of Folk, or Desaparacido), hi. I hope you are well. You don't remember me but I remember you. I didn't deserve to be the one you kissed, like Arizona doesn't deserve to be a state you shun (most of the people who rabidly adore you are on your side about the whole immigration business- why are you punishing them?). But I'm really glad it happened, like I'm glad you brought the magic to the stage that night. I still listen to the Mystic Valley Albums when it's springtime and when it's autumn, especially, and my friend Rob called the MoF album the best one he'd heard in 2010. And with the sincerity of someone who you only managed to win over by being yourself, rather than Bright Eyes, I'll stand by what I said then: you do a great job doing what you do. "I don't wanna dream if it won't come true."

"Nikorette" by Conor Oberst & the Mystic Valley Band

"Je nage, mais les sons me suivent": Arcade Fire

"Je nage, mais les sons me suivent": "I swim, but the sound follows me"

You already know I was hopelessly devoted to David Bowie. I'd say there is a distinct possibility that I would never have really, genuinely allowed myself to love anything else if he himself hadn't made any recommendations. I read in an interview from around the time of Reality that David Bowie thought that Arcade Fire showed some promise. (Yes, it's time to deviate from the old school pattern and talk about something 100% Made In the 21st Century.)

In 2007 I read a review in a magazine about Neon Bible, and the review was more than favorable- it glowed. I recognized the band's name from the Bowie interview from a few years before. I bought the album. For several weeks, while I worked on my epic final project for my high school art class, I don't remember listening to much else. I didn't buy Funerals for another year or so, but I did get The Suburbs on the day it came out. I guess that means that in a way I've been on their team from the beginning, before anybody knew who they were, before they ironically won Album of the Year at the Grammy Awards for The Suburbs. Which doesn't make me any more or less of a fan than anybody else, by the way. It just makes them more special to me, because I feel like I've been watching them grow for a while.

In 2011, which was for me the Year of Concerts (more on that another day), my friend and even bigger music fan Rob went to see them at the Comerica Theater (FKA The Dodge which is where I saw Bowie). The Local Natives opened for them. They were pretty good. The weeknight crowd was sluggish, as usual. I perceived that AF felt that vibe too. There came a point at which I felt like they just sort of dismissed the tepid crowd and began to just play for themselves tonight. I could have sworn I watched the decision cross Win Butler's face, and they just started to pretend we weren't even there. And then the energy tripled. Not ours. Theirs. Have you ever felt like music is moving through you? Making something more out of you, like you're the giant wand through which one of those enormous Ren-Faire bubbles is being blown? That's kind of how I felt. Regine wailed "Sometimes I wonder if the world's so small/ That we can never get away from the Sprawl" like she was singing to God Himself.

That's what I love about Arcade Fire. Even at their lowest key, they are passionate. That first summer after high school graduation, the first summer my family went to San Diego for a few days to vacation, I walked along the sand in the dark with "Ocean of Noise" from Neon Bible in one ear, and the Pacific Ocean in the other. I waded out a little further toward the water and let the tide exhort me up to my knees, hearing the rasping boom of waves and the mournful horny outro before "The Well and the Lighthouse" broke in with its heart pounding. I felt passionate and tremendously big and hopelessly small all at once. I think I will replay that scene every time my path leads to a moonlit oceanic beach, for all my life. It's the little moments, without any especial significance, after all, that make up a life, and sometimes you have to see the beauty and the dramatic in the regular.

Which, incidentally, is what The Suburbs conveyed to me.

You can find all their albums on Spotify or any kind of record store you like. Since there are only three, (and there are only three full ones so far, not counting the EP that preceded Funeral) there is not a lot of material with which to make a mix tape. Furthermore, to try to compile a "Best Of" for Arcade Fire is, in my opinion, sort of detrimental to the body of work, since the tracklist on every album sounds so good in its original format.

However.

If you insist on only a taste, here are a few video-based suggestions:

1) "Sprawl II: Mountains Beyond Mountains" from The Suburbs
2) "Neon Bible" performed in an elevator from Neon Bible (and you haven't seen anything til you've seen a 7-8 person band making music in an elevator)
3) "Wake Up" featuring David Bowie from Funeral