9.1.10

lilac wine

Pure gorgeousness… The Cinematic Orchestra covers Jeff Buckley’s Lilac Wine.

4.21.10

i’ve eaten them baked, in their jackets and boots

I’m not a fan of Natalie Merchant, but my Dad promised that if I watched the first song of this performance it’d suck me in. He was right. I swear, the first song will have you thoroughly charmed. Natalie’s new album, Leave Your Sleep, is a collection of lost 19th century poems and nursery rhymes. This whole presentation/performance is a lovely mixture of delight and melancholy. The lyrics to these poem-songs can be found here.

Here are the lyrics to the first song/poem, The Sleepy Giant by Charles E. Carryl:

My age is three hundred and seventy-two
I think, with the deepest regret
How I used to pick up and voraciously chew
The dear little boys that I met

So now I contentedly live upon eels
And try to do nothing amiss
And I pass all the time I can spare from my meals
In innocent slumber like this
Innocent slumber like this

4.10.10

pride & prejudice

Let this be a lesson to me about knee-jerk judgments to musicians these days. A couple weeks ago when I watched the first half of Jónsi’s video for the song “Go Do,” I was intriuged by both the man and the song. But then somewhere along the way I became annoyed and dismissed the singer as another hipster wearing feathers and painting lines across his face like some post-neo Adam Ant singing like the guy from Sigur Rós. Of course, after realizing that Jónsi *is* in fact Jon Thor Birgisson of Sigur Rós, I revisited and gave myself permission to devour the album. (Birgisson has been marching to the beat of his own suitcase for the last decade, so I feel justified.) Yikes. Just goes to show how subjective art really is. Listen to his album (Go) here. It brings you to the sonic heights of Sigur Rós, but with a beat and lyrics you can (sort of) understand.

3.24.10

cosmic love

The stars! The moon! Those drums!
This song is epic.
Love how Florence sometimes has that Grace Slick warble thing going on.

3.22.10

emerald ice

Emerald Ice
by Diane Wakoski

If I were a jeweler,
I’d look for emeralds the color of
healthy basil leaves, pungent and thick and green
as parrots;
and if I were a woman who had emeralds weighing down
her harpsichordian hands and nudging her neck
as they turn warm but do not melt,
I would hold my emerald-laden hand
against this new snow which covers the not yet frozen
November ground, the liquid hardness of the stones
contrasting with the chalky softenss of the snow.

For just a moment at least until,
if I were an astronomer, mirroring an arc of light which
might mean a new galaxy
has been discovered, I might name
this phemonemon, “Emerald Ice,’
to tell you how
beautiful these things are to me.

But none of it would
matter, if I didn’t dream of boys
with leather aviator jackets,
or men who rode motorcycles into the living room, once,
or the Silver Surfer who might travel with me,
nude of emeralds, a galactic wonderer.

What could matter
if there were any sex or love that could
transcend death,
speed faster than my imagination
or the light?

What could matter
if these boys,
if all men,
were not just memories like emeralds,
or pungent basil,
new snow,
throwing their scuffed leather jackets carelessly
over my empty bed,
while I am surfing,
streaming,
light trailing my heels,
from galaxy to galaxy,
trying to escape death?

What could matter if life
was really about sex
instead of learning
to die?
Isn’t orgasm called
“the little death”? Or is that something else?
like eating the best
fresh-leaved pesto on homemade noodles,
drinking an icy, or is it
snowy
eau de vie? one drop of which glistens
over the basil,
and together they are the only
emerald.

Do women dream
the Saturnian ice of emeralds and sapphires
because men never touch them? They sleep
alone in snowy sheets,
surfing galactic oceans.

We pretend,
but there is no mystery
in either sex or death. Just –
the unthinkable.

The one,
always elusive, never attainable, missing
as soon as you seem to have it.

The other
always waiting, unavoidable, something
no one escapes.

(Photo)

3.22.10

the great white northern lights

This beautifully shot doc just premiered at SXSW. S’gonna be gooood. (That Jack sure wears a kilt well.) The Playlist raves…

Raw, rough-hewn and yet roaring with an electric vitality Emmet Malloy’s “The White Stripes: Under Great White Northern Lights” is the blueprint for music docs that all filmmakers should strive for: ones that are loose, feel like they have a sense of danger to them and crackle with life. Without spoiling too much, the concluding, wordless scene is flooring. On the 10th anniversary of the band’s existence — still to this date their last show ever played so far — Jack White takes to a piano, exhausted, to play “White Moon.” It’s not for anyone other than Jack himself and Meg who quietly saddles up next to him on the piano bench. As White moans through the devastating catharsis of the song, Meg begins to gently weep as Malloy’s team silently captures the moment. It’s utterly breathtaking and quivers with emotion and magical, unspoken depth. Did the band break up in that moment? (That’s the rumor, they haven’t played since). It is a goodbye or happy tiresome tears for 10 years on the road or just of the moment? We may never know and it’s as beautiful a scene as anything burned onto celluloid we’ve seen this year.

3.20.10

cherry bomb

Check out the newly minted music video for “Cherry Bomb” cobbling together scenes from The Runaways movie. Thanks to the sweetest friend of mine (who knew of my obsession with The Runaways), we got to attend the premiere while at Sundance in January. I, for one, thoroughly enjoyed this rock n’ roll picture show. Kristen and Dakota are totally entertaining to watch as Joan and Cherrie. Floria Sigismondi (the director) nails the 70’s vibe/aesthetic. And Michael Shannon is electric as The Runaways sleazy manager. While the film won’t revolutionize the rock n’ roll biopic, it definitely pays fitting and stylish homage to a noteworthy slice of rock history!

After the screening there was an “all-star” Q&A. Some kid asked Joan Jett how she felt about times changing since the 70’s when young girls were still an anomaly in the rock industry. With her raspy, Pennsylvania accent Joan asked the kid, “Times have changed?” Which begs the question, why are there so few girl rock bands? So few female rockers? Where are all the Suzie Quatros out there? Is rock n’ roll really a man’s world? Survey says, yes.

Behold, the untouchable original:

3.19.10

i put a spell on you

Great rendition of a great song for a great cause. Of all the various musician/celeb-driven songs for Haiti, this is one of the best. Shane MacGowen (The Pogues) brought together Nick Cave, Chrissie Hynde, Johnny Depp, Bobby Gillespie (Primal Scream), Mick Jones (The Clash) Eliza Doolittle, and I’m loving Paloma Faith! (She’s the red head.)

3.17.10

rodrigo y gabriela!

This song is better than a cup of coffee in the morning. I recently discovered Rodrigo y Gabriela’s self-titled album from 2007 (described as “acoustic, metal-tinged flamenco-folk.”) These two were once members of a Mexican thrash metal band who moved to Dublin where they took to busking on the streets. Fellow busker Damien Rice invited them on tour and that’s how they broke big. Joyful, exhilarating music!

3.17.10

the changeling

Insightful article in the NYTimes about Joanna Newsom and the inspirations for her new album (thanks, Dad.) Now that I know she believes in spirit animals, I love her even more…

“I hesitate to speak about it because it sounds so corny, but one of my goals out there was to find a spirit-animal,” Newsom told me. “On the third day, I was kind of delirious. I’d only eaten a little rice. I’d just slept and looked at a river for three days. I was prepared to be visited by my spirit animal — I was just sitting there, saying some sort of prayer, inviting that presence into my life. And then I saw three white wolves charging down at me. I thought maybe I was hallucinating; but I was also prepared to die [...]“