Saturday, July 22, 2006

soundtrack to my life, volume III

The Figgs - "Favorite Shirt"

When I first saw the Figgs circa 1995, I was immediately mesmerized by them. It took only a few chords for the band to blow me away. They were up there smoking, drinking, and hitting every goddamn note they sang. After only a few songs, they tore into "Favorite Shirt", complete with those stop-on-a-dime rock n' roll breaks that make you want to pump your fist. The crescendo of the song soon arrived, when the hits are doubled up, matching up perfectly with the phonentics of the words: once I had my favorite kind of ice cream. These breaks are as explosive as anything you will ever hear in rock n' roll. This lyric - which, on paper, doesn't look like much of anything - sounds powerful and profound when delivered by the mighty Figgs. Hearing it live, for the first time, was at once transcendent and cathartic; it literally gave me chills. It was at that point that I turned to Mike and said, "This is the kind of band I want to be in."

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

soundtrack to my life, volume II

Moving from sunny days to sleepless nights...

Do songs change your life? Probably not. But my confusing existence makes much more sense with a soundtrack. I find it hard to imagine a world without these songs. I need them, and will continue to need them...at least until I get my own theme music.

Every Night - Screeching Weasel

Anthem for a New Tomorrow? More like anthem for self-defeating insomniacs. I can remember countless nights driving around at three in the morning cranking this song louder than any rational person should. The guitars absolutely scream. This is no more evident than at the beginning of the tune, when they literally explode over the top of the first line:

I'm not feeling human anymore

The guitars are so high in the mix, it's nearly impossible to make out the vocals unless you crank the volume. There is so much gain and distortion that the chord changes are barely discernable. The best way to appreciate "Everynight", I've found, is by turning up a cheap car stereo, as loud it goes, and trying to sing over it. My ears are still ringing from this song. Musically and lyrically, it may as well be entitled "Overly Active Brain". I don't generally listen to it unless I am personally not feeling human anymore. It's neurotic as hell, and not just lyrically (each night I document the things I've done/the pointless points I've made for stupid reasons/I will analyze everything/and make myself count the ways I fucked up today)...the music itself makes me skittish. Punk rock, self loathing, and insomnia (which, I suspect, are connected in more ways than one might think) come together, lock you in a room, and make you want to scream as loudly as the ear-bleeding guitars. Brilliant song, and, thankfully, one that I don't listen to much anymore. Listening as I write...people, places, moments come streaming back into my head with this song. It's not a matter of second-guessing myself. It's the sheer futility of it all. The song is called every night for a reason. It's not about some random issues you're dealing with, or even about the inescapable ones with which you always deal. It is the very act of grappling with those issues, and it is the act of screaming about it that matters. When that outro builds and then fades, you almost feel as if you might finally fall asleep. Almost.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

aural pleasures (a.k.a. soundtrack to my life, vol. I)

Teenage Fanclub's "Ain't That Enough" is the perfect pop song.

You cannot help but have your mood improve exponentially upon hearing this tune. It's like musical comfort food: lush, soaring guitar pop, devoid of pretension and unblemished by posturing, that almost seems to embrace you as you listen. The band's beautifully layered harmonies and trademark bleary optimism anchor an irresistible melody that lingers in your head and refuses to go away. It's not quick and flashy, just steady and comfortable. It doesn't hit you over the head; it surrounds you, envelops you, consumes you. Whenever I'm down, this song makes me feel better. Whenever I'm up, this song makes me feel better. It's simple and obvious, but never cliched and cloying.

Try to recall the most relaxed moment of your life, driving on a sunny afternoon, arm hanging out the window, when things are - for a split second - just right, exactly as they should be. "Ain't That Enough" is that good.

Here is a sunrise/Aint that enough
True as a clear sky/ain't that enough


For 3 minutes and forty-two seconds, it's not only enough...it's all that matters.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

live

I'm completely lit up. Naturally, it's time to post on the blog. Currently, Mike is even more wasted than me. This is the nth level of sketchy. He's "fucking had it" (his words exactly)...I'll transcribe as it unfolds...

Mike: Dude...it smells like fucking puke in here.
P.j.: What?
M: Puke...it smells like ralph all over the goddamn place. What the hell did you do?
P: Nothing, man...you're insane.
M: No!!! What the fuck did you DO in here?
P: I didn't do anything...
M: Holy fuck it reeks in here...and whose fucking belt is this?
P: What?
M: Something fucking smells horrible!
P: Well, I can't imagine what it would be. I did cook a bagel pizza...with provolone...
M: Provolone!!
P: Man, it's not the cheese.
M: It is! It totally is! The whole house smells like ass!
P: I don't know what you're talking about...
M: It amazes me that you can't smell this fucking shit...
P: I've got nothing.
M: It smells like barf...the whole fucking place...I'm throwing that provolone out tomorrow...jesus, how can you NOT smell that?
P: I just ate it! It's fine!
M: I usually lock all the doors...but I'm leaving everything open to get rid of this puke smell...
P: (suppressing hysterical laughter) ummm...sure...
M: (breaks out the dustbuster)
P: Does that help? Vacuuming the fucking carpet? Seriously, someday I'm gonna tie your hands behind your back and you're gonna have to watch me fold a map incorrectly.
M: I'll put a piece of provolone on your fucking tombstone.
P: I'll provolone you.

And that...is living with a sibling. Bottoms up.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

...I guess that's where I'm from

Having grown tired of my own songs, I spent the greater part of tonight learning, re-learning and playing Replacements tunes. I had already lionized these songs as classics (the 'Mats are one of my favorite all-time bands), and it turns out they're even more fun to play than they are to listen to. It's impossible to overstate what a creative songwriter Westerberg was and is; his songs come alive behind the guitar. As I fumbled my way through the melancholy bar ballad "Here Comes a Regular", I was reminded of everything I love about this band: the rough edges, the raucous attitude, the lore surrounding their early live shows. Ultimately, though, it was the unmatched plainspoken melodicism of Westerberg that made the band so endearing. This guy is a tunesmith on par with anyone, and the naked honesty of his lyrics and delivery made these great songs even better. His voice cracks as he sings the tail end of these lines:

Everybody wants to be someone's here/someone's gonna show up, never fear

...and the effect is nothing short of staggering. You can feel the song itself in his voice, the overwhelming solitude of last call, the melancholy lurking under the surface, the underlying, desperatate loneliness that drives people to the bar in the first place. Westerberg - along with Dr. Frank, Tom Waits, and Rhett Miller - is one of only a handful of songwriters whose songs I can relate to better than my own.

Monday, July 03, 2006

Lately...

I seem to have this thing for getting drunk then posting a lot of self-indulgent nonsense on the blog. Then I pull the posts the next morning.

After some deliberation, I've decided to let my dumb rants stand. It's more real that way, even it is kind of stupid.

Sunday, July 02, 2006

paint every insignificance a sign

Why the hell do people blog anyway? It's 2:13 in the morning and I feel compelled to write, but...why the hell write something publicly visible? What motivates bloggers? Is there an exigence, and, if so, what is it? My best guess is that there is some widely shared need for personal validation. Or maybe my life needs a timeline. If you've been paying attention, you know that's a bad idea. Lame. OK, so I suppose I owe you something profound (you = all seven of you). No, I don't. I don't owe anyone anything. And yet I write. Ironically, I don't think I can verbalize anything - at least not eloquently - that's in my head. I suppose this blog is a failed attempt at doing so. I wanted to use it for my rants about - well, everything - but somehow these things always turn into glorified self-important diaries, predicated on the ludicrous notion that someone OTHER than you is actually interested your inane thoughts. This is all random. And pointless. That's my excuse for everything. I preface whatever I say with a simple "now this doesn't matter AT ALL, but...". It's an age old tactic, preemptively shooting holes in your own argument before you make it. Words on paper. Or a screen, I guess. WTF? God, I loathe internet shorthand. What the fuck is WTF? Hmm...Ok, a point...my blogs used to have a point. Ya know, there seems to be a dearth of points and an awful lot of dull edges in my brain tonight. One good thing: this is painfully high school, but...when you like someone, it's so exciting to see signs that they might like you back. An "accidental" brush of the leg, a glance that lingers too long...I notice this shit. Chuck Klosterman would blame this on my self-obsessed generation, always looking for fake love, but these signs are more real than the pathetic relationships most people fall into. I love these things. I love them more than love itself. Or maybe, in my warped brain, they comprise what love actually is. Lou Gramm wanted to show us "what love is", but honestly...who listened to him? I refer back to childhood idealism more than any sane adult ought to. OK, so, as I'm writing this, Staylefish is playing unplugged reggae on my porch. Where was I? Right, so...signs...the flicker of a remote possibility of mutual feelings may be the best feeling on earth. Because what people THINK they want - love, whatever - is actually just a fundamental human need to be understood. For a millisecond in your life, perhaps someone ELSE actually gets it. Probably not, but well...it's sort of a beautiful thought. It's in their eyes...for a split second, they almost say, "I agree, I am thinking what you are". That's better than the best orgasm I've ever had, probably because it's much easier to get laid than to be understood. Now...the problem with all this is that I risk playing the "no one understands me; it sucks to be a tortured artist" card. And it most certainly doesn't suck to be me. Not lately, anyway. But I do have this incessant need to figure out damn near everything. I know I can't, but I stay up trying anyway. As I stated before going off on all this...none of it really matters. Right? Is that a rhetorical question? Who am I talking to? Pfft...blogosphere. I'll blogosphere you. You're a blogosphere. Who the hell is playing slide guitar out there? I suppose it's cathartic while it lasts. What's important? What matters? What SHOULD be in my head right now? Windy as hell tonight. I hate asthma. I really can sing when I can breathe. Also...oh jesus...now they're playing George Michael. I like Faith (shhh...don't tell). Wow...that is some serious drunken, off-key caterwauling going on out there. Sacrilege. I've got nothing else. Where did all these words come from? Still a few more hours to figure that out. Daylight bad.

This post will self-destruct tomorrow.