To be young, is to be sad, is to be high...

I was talking to one of my friends who has had real tragedy in her life (I’m not talking “my boyfriend was cheating on me” shit, I’m talking death and depression and real suffering.) and she said that it is hard for her to listen to music or go to the movies because everything reminds her of her loss. So she only watches stuff like “White Chicks” and listens to albums like the new Le Tigre (which, ps, I wrote about for the shortlist of this week’s voice…Check it out!). I totally understand that sentiment but I don’t subscribe to it. When I’m feeling bad or bummed out or totally depressed, I gravitate to the saddest music and movies. It’s like I want to feel bad about something else. I noticed this the other day when I was making the big winter changeover in my room (since I moved into my new place in summer, I had yet to find and unpack any sweaters or jackets or scarves) and I put the TV on for background noise. Now, since it was a Saturday afternoon the pickings were slim so I settled on “Sweet November” on TNT thinking, “Hey! A schlocky Keanu Reeves movie! I won’t have to pay close attention to this while I’m cleaning.” Instead, I found myself immersed in this TERRIBLE film. I mean, the plot is unbelievable and I think they should take Charlize Theron’s Oscar away from her on the basis of her performance in it, but I cried so hard I made myself sick. (Note: this is in no way an endorsement of this piece of crap!) Now, I’d been feeling really shitty for a really long time and had been totally unable to cry about any of the things that were bothering me. But I could totally turn on the waterworks for poor, cancer-stricken Charlize. And it’s like my ipod knows this because it has been on a rampage of the saddest, most heartbreaking of the thousands of songs on its hard drive. It constantly returns to ballads by Bright Eyes and Death Cab and Rilo Kiley, totally bypassing the party music of OutKast or the experimental warbling of Bjork. I realize that I have not helped the situation by purchasing and subsequently becoming obsessed with the new Elliott Smith album, but it is my ipod that chooses to play his “Pretty (Ugly Before)" every morning on my way to work. It really is miraculous that I don’t just turn around and return home and climb into bed for the rest of the day. Especially last week when it was rainy and ugly every day. However, I think there is a sick part of me that enjoys hearing songs about misery and heartbreak. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: I’m a wallower. And, unlike my friend, hearing cheery happy dance music doesn’t make me feel cheery or happy. (I almost puked when my ipod revolted and played “Deceptacon” on my way home from work the other day. And I love that song!) It just reminds me that I’m not. So at least listening to music that sounds like hearts breaking and unhappiness, sounds like the soundtrack to my everyday life and doesn’t make me wish I didn’t feel this way. I’m hoping it’s a fall thing. Maybe come winter I’ll be all acclimated to the chill in the air and I’ll be home listening to some of my favorite hibernating music like “Vespertine.”

Hell I still love you New York...

My Ryan Adams/Parker Posey sighting totally made it onto gawker. I was pretty proud—it was the first time I’d ever thought to write in a “celebrity sighting” and I only did so because it was at such a seemingly weird place. I was waiting for Adam who is, like most of my friends, perpetually late, outside of Veselka so we could grab a quick bite before the Faint show and there they were eating at the counter inside. (Though I must say, she looks like she don’t eat much!) The Faint’s concert, by the way, was excellent. Their gothy, sexy dance music was offset by really interesting video art. Who is their video artist, I want to know! The only problem with the show was the overabundance of CMJ pass holder (all of whom are approximately 19 with hormones that are running wild) who do not use deodorant. Needless to say, I spent much of the show gagging. (I have a very sensitive sense of smell.) Anyway, back to my boyfriend Ryan…. Two days after spotting him in his western-shirted glory (looking much less fucked up than the last time I saw him at Rosario’s on the 4th of July in the sweltering heat wearing multiple jackets!) I walked into the Starbucks near work and they were playing songs off of “Heartbreaker.” Now, I know that he lives nearby and I was wondering how weird it would be for him to walk into some bastion of middle-American consumerism and hear one of his tunes about heartbreak. (I would like to add here that I myself was only in Starsucks because it is close to work and I don’t drink coffee so it is the easiest, cheapest place for me to get tea which I need because the air conditioning vents blow directly onto my desk.) I’ve often wondered how amazing it must feel to be onstage at a place like Madison Square Garden and look out over tens of thousands of people who are all singing along with you to a song you wrote. That must be the best feeling of affirmation ever. Better than having your book on the New York Times Bestseller List. Better than winning an Oscar. It’s not just an award saying that you are good, it is immediate, visceral reaction and acceptance of art that you created. Anyway, I was thinking about this as I was humming along to “Why Do They Leave?” and buying my green peppermint tea (or whatever stupid hippie name they have for the beverage I purchased). Ryan Adams could very well walk into this Starbucks to purchase his morning hangover cure and he’d hear this song that he wrote during a very dark time in his life playing to all of the latte drinkers. And that must be really weird. And strangely satisfying, too. Starbucks is like MSG for the Norah Jones set.

It goes like this: The fourth, the fifth....

The thing that is special about music is its ability to affect you in a totally visceral way. I mean you can be afftected by a poem or piece of theater or a work of art, but in some way that is all about taking in the information and processing it. Your brain works out how you feel about the words being spoken or written or the image you are looking at. But with music--lyrics aside--sometimes the chords or the harmonies affect you physically, without brain analysis. Like when your chest hurts during a key change in a song or when a certain guitar chord gives you goose bumps. Oftentimes this is coupled with lyrics that you find particularly meaningful but--unlike in other artforms--the thing that is affecting you isn't necessarily tied to language or something that is easily analized by the brain.

I call this phenomenon--of being moved by something unexplained and beautiful in music-- "the minor fall, the major lift," after that line in Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" when he says:
"Now I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah."

Despite my atheism, I like the idea that there is this secret chord change that is so moving that it's God's chord. Plus I fucking love this song. I know that most people know the Jeff Buckley version and I do think that he sings it best (there is something about his voice that just sounds doomed and like a sonic representation of pain and beauty) but I could do without the minor 7th guitar noodling in the intro. Leonard's version--pluses include that it's the original and the haunting quality of his basso profundo--has a kind of cheesy overproduced Seventies Elvis gospel feel to it. I recently heard a KD Lang version that is just her and piano that is lovely. But the most affecting version for me is the John Cale version on the Basquiat soundtrack. His gravely voice sounds really lived in and is nicely dissonant with the spare guitar arrangement. Every time I hear this version, I cry. (I guess its a good thing then that my version of the soundtrack was stolen in the robbery of 2000!) It sounds like the song is literally dying to come out of him--each guitar chord is mourning and each croak of his voice is riddled with exquisite sadness. The song itself, lyrically, isn't particularly sad. I mean it is fraught with disillusionment and loss of faith but its references to sadness are veiled in poetry and expressed explicitly through the "the minor fall, the major lift" of the music.

Anyway, its namesake song is a perfect example of tmf,tml but I get that feeling all the time. Tearing up the first time I hear some song for no other reason than the chords are like being played inside my chest. Sometimes I even get it during songs that I didn't realize moved me...until one day, they do. Case in point: Change Your Mind by the Killers. Clearly, I know this album backwards and forwards and this song was never one of my favorites. But one day last week it came on my ipod (I swear, I rediscover more interesting music via the shuffle feature!) while I was working and I got shivers. There are very close vocal harmonies that sound itchy to me because the notes are so close. And they are laid over this very slithery synth line that is one of the most Duran Duran-esque moments on the album. And the part that really gets me now is after a swelling bridge and chorus, the music dampens and is mostly bass and drums and Brandon sings, in a very croon-y voice (which is unusual for him--he mostly barks in a faux-Brit monotone) "We're all the same and love is blind." And something about the way he sings it, coupled with the close vocal harmony in the overdub and the note that the word "blind" is sung on (it goes up, instead of down which was the pattern set by the other verses). It just puts a lump in my throat.

Take a look at me now...

So after all of my big talk about the Bravery show that was last night, I totally didn't take my own advice. I didn't go to their show (which I knew would be outstanding and possibly my last chance to catch them not at some overpriced, packed venue). Nope, I shuffled home to watch the debates and the Yankees game instead. Even though I can't vote (I'm--ahem!--Canadian) and it mostly just makes me angry to watch Bush hem and haw and baldly lie on tv, I still had a sick need to watch the candidates in action. Especially after reading the new Rolling Stone. Say what you will about their music coverage (and believe me--I have!) but they actually do a great job of reporting on international politics and the upcoming election in a manner that speaks to me. Pick up the new issue if you haven't already--Jon Stewart, my hero, is on the cover. There is also an article about the media bias against Kerry (apparantly the press corp on his campaign trail hates him and so misreports on him), some incisive Daily Show commentary, and an article on Maureen Dowd (who I pretty much hate--she says things in the article like, "I stopped buying French wine because I'm a patriot."--but who I can't believe Rolling Stone actually interviewed. It seemed so incongruous yet kind of amazing.) and her anti-Bush book. Dowd and the article on Kerry seriously scared me into thinking that he might not win the election. I forget sometimes, surrounded by likeminded thinkers that there are people who like Bush and there are things about him that appeal to people. (Because, basically, to me everything he does is an embarassment.) I just can't handle the prospect of him being president for another four years. I realized last night, as the debate ended, that if that douchebag wins I'll be in my thirties before we're rid of him. THAT was a fucking scary thought.

Oh yeah, you read it right above when I said that I came home to watch the Yankee game. I know I don't seem like much of a sports enthusiast (and god knows I HATE playing them) but I always manage to get caught up in the excitement of the playoffs. Especially when my home team is involved. Now I know what you are thinking, "Rebecca, I thought you hated the Yankees. You always rail against them and like rooting for the underdog." This is true, while I find the Yankees to be the best dressed team in baseball (pinstripes are very flattering on all of those bubble-butted, barrel-chested, goateed gentlemen), I generally loathe that their money buys them a fancy team that never fucking looses. If they had a match up with the Mets or the Phillies, I'd be rooting against them. But here's the thing: I hate Boston. All Boston teams. I feel about Boston teams, the way I feel about LA teams. So I enjoy the Red Sox/Yankees rivalry. Plus, there is a part of me that feels very "New York" and hometown-y when I root for them. Yeah, its not the most daring or unconventional choice to root for them and I'm sure that the die-hard Yankee fans would be upset by my fair-weather friend-dom, but I don't care. There are lots of very "New York"-y things to do, like shop at Zabars or go to the Bronx Zoo, that I don't do. So, instead, a couple of times a year I get perverse pleasure watching the Yankees score on some Boston ass. That's my contribution to being a New Yorker.

It's funny, I was talking to one of my co-workers yesterday about last week's Rilo Kiley show and he said that he was dying to hear them because their new album has gotten such great press and that he felt really lame that he wasn't "in the know" about them. "I used to be really into music," he said. "And I just sort of stopped. Now I don't know anything that's going on." I told him that being into music was like being a sports fan; you have to make the effort to keep up. I don't know shit about batting averages or statistics and it just seems like a whole lot of effort to follow it all season long. So I just show up for the last 15 games of the season and root for the popular, oft-winning team of the city in which I live. You know, like the kids who only know the 5 songs that they play on the radio or on MTV because they don't have the time or don't care enough to explore music on their own. I think most people only have the time/energy/money for one obsessive diversion. So my co-worker has only missed 3 Yankees games all season and I haven't had a good night's sleep in two weeks because I've been out at shows. You know some people are counting the days to the Superbowl (don't look at me, I HATE football. I only know the Superbowl is in January because it has often fallen on my birthday.), I'm counting the days until next Tuesday when the final Elliott Smith album will be released. And until then, the pigskin fans have games every Sunday and I can just play the Postal Service's cover of "Against All Odds" 200 times a day.

"You go to a movie, you go to a show...

...You think you're living but you don't really know"
-Elvis Costello

This week has been busy as hell. Work has been crazy and every night that I haven't been working late, I've been rushing out of work to run to concerts. And it's only going to get worse as I fill in for a bunch of editors this week--especially since this week is CMJ and there are exciting, interesting concerts every night. So far my CMJ plans include the Faint/TV on the Radio at Webster Hall, controller.controller at Pianos, and the Bravery at Plaid. I wish I could go to the Low/Thermals show at Mercury but as I am without adaquate press credentials to get a badge and since Mercury Lounge doesn't sell tickets in advance, I'd probably spend the evening outside waiting in line. So, fuck that. I will say this though: If you are overwhelmed by the cmj calendar (you can check it here) and don't know what shows to go to or what bands will be interesting I have one tip for you--the Bravery. Their Arlene Grocery residency in May was a sell-out and they are getting some great buzz (whatever the fuck that is!). Hell, they even got a shout out in the new Entertainment Weekly. I've written about them for the Voice a couple of times. Basically they marry the clinical cool of New Order's synth pop with the drunkenly indifferent croon of Julian Casablancas. What could be bad about that?!

I can't believe I have a whole shitty week of work and show-going ahead of me because, frankly, I'm fucking exhausted after last week and a little concert-ed out. Last Sunday was the Black Keys' show, which was good. I was a little thrown by how much the lead singer resembled the original actor who played Todd Manning on One Life to Live (Christ, that is the single saddest sentance I've written in a long time!), but aside from that they played some great covers (the Kinks, the Stooges) and just generally rocked their sludgy, dirty Midwestern blues. It's always so interesting to me when just two people can totally fill out a song.

Tuesday was the Killers' show. Now, you know I can't really write anything bad about this band. I want Brandon Flowers to father my children and it is always really fun to see them live because their music is so danceable. Plus, I love going to shows where you know every single song (I guess this is what happens when you only have one album and like 15 songs!) and you can sing along and you are excited about each song. That happens so infrequently. (So often bands are testing new material off an album that isn't out yet or you've just gotten into a band and they are playing stuff off of older albums that you aren't familiar with.) And it was great to think about how far the band has come in one year. Last October, I was dragging Beth and Shaya to see them play a short showcase set at Don freakin' Hills and now they are selling out two nights at the thousand seat venue of Irving Plaza! However, Tuesday might've been my last Killers' show for a while. It was too crowded with assholes thowing up devil horns and drunk college kids puking in the bathrooms and frat boys waving their hands in the air like they just don't care. I'm not begrudging them widespread popularity--hell, I'm glad these jack asses in the general public finally got hip to something that is actually good--I just don't think that I can be in the same room as them unless I have a fancy VIP pass that allows me to sit far, far away from the yahoos who blocked my view and knocked me around with their retarded dancing. After like 3 songs, Beth and I gave up and went to stand in the back with the rest of the grown ups. I still danced around like an idiot and sang along with every song, even though we'd moved to the land of the too-cool-to-even-nod-along. After the show ended, I bought some merch to make up for the fact that I'll probably never go see them live again. (Well, that was part of the reason. I also had to run away and look busy to avoid talking to the worst lay ever. Sadly, I can't even remember his name. I just saw him, made eye contact and spun around to buy a tote bag. Frankly that was a conversation I just didn't want to have.)

Then Friday was the Rilo Kiley show, which totally made up for my lack of enthusiasm about the Killers'. It was honestly one of the best live shows I've seen all year. I mean they had some sound problems, but who cares when you are drunk and hanging out with Jessica (see Jess, I told you you get mentioned on the blog!) and listening to songs off one of my favorite albums of the year and watching perhaps the most mesmerizing frontwomen ever. Seriouly, I want to BE Jenny Lewis when I grow up. She was wearing this itty bitty Austin-Powers-esque pink mini dress and white fishnets and played like four instruments (bass, guitar, keyboards and harmonica) and was so enchanting and sexy and powerful. It is rare that women are able to convey vulnerability AND power on stage at the same time. The crowd was totally made up of super-fans who sang along with every song and (unlike the Killers show) they seemed more my age and less annoying and rowdy. Everyone was just totally enraptured. I think my favorite part was the first encore when Blake came out with the trumpet player (yeah dude, they had like a whole freakin' orchestra up on stage with them--horns, strings!) and they broke into an acoustic version of the Postal Service's "Such Great Heights" and then Jenny came out to play piano with them and sing back up. I LOVE that song and this version was so intimate and precious (I mean that as a compliment) without the itchy electronic beats of the original. (Um, that wasn't a put-down of the original--I like the itchy clicks and beeps.) Seriously, it was a great show. And I'm especially glad that Jessica and I went because--given that they easily sold out two nights at the Bowery like a month in advance--I bet I won't have another chance to see them again in such an intimate venue.

Can I just mention--before I go--that as I wrote this I was flipping between VH1 Classic's show "the Alternative" and MTV2's "Subteranean" and I just saw a Decemberists'' video and am now watching the video for "The Boy with the Thorn in His Side"? Wow! Sometimes there is something good on music television.

It's Friday....I'm too lazy to make up a title.

After hearing from one of my best (and brightest) friends that he couldn’t understand my blog because he “doesn’t watch that much TV,” I decided I was going to try and class this joint up. No more rants about Lucas and Saved by the Bell and the Surreal Life. Or, to be more realistic, maybe I would just try and have ONE post that was about something other than the drivel found on TV. (Though, in my defense Kenneth, a lot of my postings are about music, not television. But I get your point—it’s not like I’m musing on Tolstoy!)

Anyway, I thought I had a great subject all prepared because I got involved in a fight with some co-workers about modern fiction. Now, granted, my knowledge of modern fiction is only slightly higher than “laughably low for someone with a college education” because I spend my free time reading an absurd amount of magazines and non-fiction. However, I do know my Cheevers from my Moodys and my Updikes. (Which was the starting point of said argument.)

But, I don’t know. Now that three days have passed and feverish flush of literary argument has drained from my cheeks, I don’t much care to write on my ridiculous blog about a bunch of WASPy, New England writers. Then last night I was hit with new inspiration as I watched the first presidential debates. Though I had to watch much of it through my fingers like I would a horror movie (dude, the idea of W. smoking Kerry in an oratorical competition is scarier than Freddy Kruger and Jason combined!), I was pleased to see Kerry look so authoritative and comfortable and confident. I was thrilled that he was able to be specific about his plans and quote facts and figures about Iraq while still being “plain-spoken.” (Though I must say, I don’t get what the American public’s obsession is with “plain-spokenness” and the mediocrity of their leaders. I want my president to be smarter than I am.) Bush looked flummoxed and angry and short. The best moments of the debates were when he admitted he wanted to leash his wild daughters!

But even the debates—which I watched with great interest and clearly care passionately about—aren’t really adequate fodder for blog talk. I mean, what do I have to add to the political discussion? Nothing. I’m not an expert or an insider. Christ, I can’t even vote!

So then I got to thinking…why do I even keep this dumb online journal? Isn’t this a hobby for middle schoolers? Everything I write here, I eventually say to my friends who compose the majority of my readership. I’m not interested in being on blogging scene. I’m not looking for recognition. I don’t even really use this as a diary—I mean when have I ever written about a fight that I’ve had with a friend or a boy that I liked? (never) No, the only reason I keep this “blog” (god, I hate that word!) is because I’m a frustrated writer. My job, while allowing me lots of opportunity to write for the paper, doesn’t afford me ENOUGH writing opportunity. (Or, should I say, I’m too chicken shit to actively seek out more/better opportunities.) So this online space is like my own personal newspaper column. (Though without the pesky copywriters and editors!) I can write about whatever I want. And, since all I want to write about is the minutiae of pop culture, that is why my “columns” are filled with dumb references to TV shows and albums that I’m obsessed with. Plus, since I’m a terribly lazy writer (I would NEVER finish a novel!), this at least forces me to sit down a couple of times a week at the computer and crank out some opinions about dumb bands and reality shows. Hey, at least I know where I stand on the Flava Flav/Brigitte Neilson hookup! (Poor Flav, she’s gonna break his heart!)

So, that being said, here’s what I’m listening to this week:

“So Alive” by Ryan Adams. I’m really trying to give his most recent album a fair shake. I mean the man is my favorite, young, living singer-songwriter. I think most of it is copycat, Replacements-lite but this song—obviously his nod to Morrissey—makes great use of disco-eighth note drumming and really shows us a different side of Adams singing voice. He croons and keens and whispers in a faux-British accent and holds off on the familiar yelp and drawl that we’ve come to expect of him until the very end of the song. Maybe I’ll learn to love this album one song at a time?

“An Open Letter to NYC” by the Beastie Boys. I know I’ve talked this song up on this blog already but now—after about a million listens—it’s not the Dead Boys sample or the local shout outs that are my favorite parts. Nope. Now, I giggle every time I hear the verse, “Shout out to South Bronx, where my mom hails from right next to Highbridge across from Harlem. To the Grand Concourse where my Mom and Dad met before they moved on down to the Upper West.” I just love the way Mike D (I think it’s Mike D.) brats out the words “Upper West,” like it’s a super-tough place. Like he’s saying that he grew up in the projects in Bed Sty. He makes his kinda posh, pussy neighborhood sound so badass. So I giggle.

“Shrink”—the whole album—by the Notwist. This is another discovery made by my ipod. (Thank you, Return of Retardo Montalban!) I really loved the Notwist album Neon Golden that came out last year. (In fact, now that I think of it that was one of those albums that I learned to love one song at a time. I heard “Pick Up the Phone” and was hooked by the symphonic electronic textures of music and how it melded with the soft-spoken vocals, the fingerpicked acoustic guitar, and the hard dance rhythms.) I was surprised the album didn’t make more “Best of” lists at the end of the year. But I never really knew their earlier albums—even though I had some of them on my ipod. About a week ago, my ipod became obsessed with songs off of “Shrink,” their 1998 album and now it has become the album I listen to exclusively at work. The crunchy electronic beats keep me focused and motivated and the sweet guitar lines are unobtrusive. I’m falling in love with Markus Acher’s voice; it’s soft and throaty and sometimes you can hear his German accent. Mostly, I’m impressed with how cerebral and clinical the music is and yet how infused with feeling (often melancholy) it is.