Let’s worry about truth later, because I can see some things that you can’t see. I can see a magnifying glass as it helps a lost family get to Cape May and then Phoenix, Arizona; I can see the broken handle of a fridge door and the hands of the broken man who won’t dare fix it because it was the last thing his wife broke. I can see a lot of things that you can’t see.
One of these things is a club in a midsized American city. It’s got a clever name that’s now a cliché, and it sells $2.25 Coronas every Friday night in the summer. It owns a rusty dumpster in the back in which, every night after close, someone comes and puts the trash. It has concrete steps which lead up to the door and a black railing which does the same. If there is a God (and this one thing I can’t see), it would never cast a light upon a place like this, simply because there are better things to cast a light upon in the world we’ve come to know. I’ve seen the rhododendron of Japan, and those would be a better place to begin.
In the bar there are people of every kind you can imagine, and they are dancing. They are not dancing like the rhododendron of Japan dance to the sea breezes or to the rhythm of the rain — they are dancing to Top 40 radio. Top 40 radio is nothing like the sea breezes or the rains of Japan; it is a much different thing, but this is a comparison which would mean nothing to the people dancing because none of them have ever been to Japan. None of them have even tried.
There is a girl and she is dancing by herself. She is dancing by herself because she hates it when the boys come and touch her, and because there is a boy who is hidden inside of her head with whom she wants to dance, but cannot. He is not available for dancing. But by dancing she is highlighting the map for him — to bring him outside, up the stairs of the club and through the doors. She is reeling him onto the dance floor and into her proximity. She is luring him into the range of her perfume.
But on this last point I am only guessing. There are some things I can’t see for sure. Your guess is perhaps as good as mine. To you, the dance is maybe a ritual; it is maybe an act to keep the hope of return attached to the unreturnable.
I just saw this for the first time now, and so like all of the other lame people in the world with blogs, here we are.
Best Mountain Goats video to date. Except for maybe the one where Darnielle cameos in that Aesop Rock song, which of course isn’t a Mountain Goats video but hey, this isn’t an international darts competition or whatever. Anytime Darnielle plays a zombie my eyes open a little wider and I pay a little more attention. But I do that whenever Darnielle does anything.
And okay, I know what you’re thinking. You’re right, maybe the visual-display-of-the-lyrics-presented-creatively-as-they-are-sung is a tired music video technique. I guess it probably is. Oh well. It doesn’t remove Darnielle’s admiral’s suit of awesomeness.
if i would be a collector i would be a collector of those good pens and i would never use the good pens because they would become like the good cutlery or like the furniture at the houses of italian immigrant families in 1975. they would be good and so they would be no good to use. plus like all collection pieces you can never use the thing you are collecting because the label of “collection” transmogrifies the thing into a thing that needs to hold value or if you like ink as the metaphor or analogy. if you used the good pen it would lose some ink and so we’ve got to keep all the ink. and this is not some kind of tirade about the gas prices because fuck the gas prices and fuck the goofy guy from the shins with the marital problems and also fuck sweet and sour sauce (which is for some reason a sauce that most people really enjoy). and so what the fuck then is this value business and that pun was intended because here I have a very valuable glass jar of good pens? i suppose after all the pens are not even pens any more and so they must be something else. it’s clear that this something else does not have a name except if we pick up the whole jar we can yell “collection” at our loudest possible pitches and we would not seem crazy. my favourite something is the one with the name address and logo of the plastics manufacturing company on the side of it. this is my favourite one because the font used for the letters written on the side of it is easy to read and because it has a fine grip. the grip is of course not really important in the practical sense but now it is very important in the figurative sense and this is great for me. i keep this one in the middle of the jar protected by the other somethings and it is most days that i think about a time when i will need to visit a plastics manufacturer in some sort of emergency because in this fantasy i will save the day with my favourite something.
The best part about Will Sheff and Jonathan Meiburg is that, when they came together to make music, they formed two bands instead of one. And now we’re really seeing the culmination of this — Shearwater just released one of the best albums of the year, and Okkervil River is soon to release a new record and follow-up (and sequel) to The Stage Names, dubbed The Stand Ins.
It seems like there’s now been some changes, though; since May Meiburg has left his duties in Okkervil River this year to formally take on Shearwater, and Sheff seems to have distanced himself from the Shearwater camp. Meiburg wrote all of Shearwater’s songs on Rook for the first time. Perhaps these two friends are parting ways, instead of sharing the creation of their music under both names as they have in the past. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe it will prove to be a disaster. Or maybe they will continue to make songs together, mixing and moving like bodily fluids between the bands.
I don’t know.
But this song is like The Forks in the centre of Winnipeg — it’s a Shearwater song and it’s an Okkervil song and who even cares anymore when we’re slapped around with this kind of greatness. When I listen to this I’m being swept away like the broken branches of an Oak tree in the melding currents of Manitoba’s thaw.
I told myself I would write to you last year at this time, but I didn’t have the courage. I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry. I hope you are still at this address — I spoke to Fredrich and Philippe and they said this was the place. How are you Patrick?
I suppose it has been two years…
England is as enjoyable as it can be. I spend my days in the parks with the dogs and I am finally reading Camus (and regrettably enjoying it). I am becoming a better cook (I think) and I stopped smoking so much. I have taken a job with the Government like I told you I always would. It is a good job but the people are a little bit snobby to newcomers. I am waiting to become settled in.
How is Paris? I hope you still like it as much as you did when I left. I am thinking of going to Germany in the Spring to visit my friend Gerda. She lives outside of Hamburg and has a small farm with her fiancé. She invited me to come this summer but I was busy with my new job. I will let you know when I do go; I can meet you in Paris for a short time. I would be thrilled to see you.
There are days when I wished I hadn’t left Paris, but perhaps I was getting sick of it all. I wish I could have spoken French — it’s so troublesome when you can’t speak the same language as someone else. I’m sorry.
In an effort to keep the blood flowing these days, I decided to make a summer mix. I have titled it A.C. Off Summer Mix. I used Not-So-Cool Edit to blend/cross-fade the songs into each other to make it cooler (cheesier). It is a decent mix that has mostly been inspired by a guy on the What.cd? forums who said:
“sometimes i think of a world in which the supremes’ “you can’t hurry love” never existed.
i’m glad i live in this world.”
Here is the tracklisting:
Since I Left You by The Avalanches
Paltimos Park by El Guincho
Inní mér syngur vitleysingur by Sigur Ros
Fake Empire (Live) by The National
No Excuses by Air France
Depressing Interlude Feat. Billy Bragg, NMH, Manitoba
Get Lost by Patrick Wolf
Mwana Wamai Dada Naye by Hallelujah Chicken Run Band
I was at the dentist’s yesterday getting drilled into (that’s what she said). I was put under Nitrous Oxide, which is the best part of any dentist trip I’ve ever been on (pun intended). It’s really strange because you feel how a toddler must feel — you’re trapped in a booster seat watching food on a spoon zoom around your face to a mother’s airplane sounds.
I also sweat a lot under the gas.
It’s also a little bit difficult with the gas because I’m a mouth breather; I always have to concentrate really hard on only breathing with my nose. There is usually at least one moment when I’m under the gas where I get a sudden urge to freak out and rip off the whole apparatus. I don’t think this will ever change.
I’m not sure what song was playing on the radio; I don’t remember because I was under the gas. If I had to guess (which is exactly what I am doing), I would say it was this one from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. But this might be the compounded nature of my consciousness; I saw the VHS of Dirty Dancing in my living room downstairs because my Mom had taken it out to watch it a few days ago. In any case, the gas from the dentist made everything a little bit wonky, and so the music from the song came through my ears like a weird remix by sixteen year olds done haphazardly in GarageBand. I began thinking about how the song was maybe better this way (as a to-myself indictment, mostly, of easy-listening radio). This made me sort of laugh. It was a kind of stoner-giggle that must’ve been embarrassing. But I suppose this is why they call it “laughing gas.”
I think I chose this song because it’s a bit ironic when paired with a trip to the dentist. So when you listen to the song, think about the last time you were at the dentist. Think about Nitrous Oxide, or needles. It’s kind of funny.
I got three small cavities fixed; I laughed at easy-listening radio; I soaked my shirt with sweat; it cost a lot of money. I had the time of my life.
It’s been thirty-six years now… How have you been?
Today I was sitting alone in the kitchen with an apple thinking about the balloon rides we took in Switzerland that summer in 1966. I can still remember the white sails on Lake Geneva, seen from above. I dug up a photo book and found the one of us leaning on the vined wall — the one Fredrich took with his old Finetta. I couldn’t believe my hair! And yours, too! It’s a great photo, I wish you could see it — see us. It made me remember the cheese we tasted later that day, and when you spilled wine on your pants because of the boy and his fireworks. I thought, then, that you would strangle him and we’d be sent to the border guards in handcuffs. Just about the only other thing I can remember was The Shangri-las record I bought. I was so surprised to have found it in Switzerland, and I treasured it even when you scoffed at my choice. I loved that thing, and I listened to it all the time. Now I haven’t heard The Shangri-las in years.
It’s been difficult here in Britain the last few weeks. Sometimes there is nothing to do but sit and think. I am going strawberry picking with Rosey tomorrow — do you remember her? I’m sure I mention her in some of the other letters. She and I are still very close. It’s amazing how with some people you never get tired of anything. I will pick a few baskets to make jam. I always make jam at this time of year and use it in the winter. It’s a long process but I’ve found that I can’t be without my jam anymore.
I think that is all I have to say. I just thought I would let you know about the photo, and the memories.
I hope that just this once you could write me back. I would love to hear from you, Patrick.
Today, in my conveniently red car, I blast this thing driving into Glen Williams.
It’s Canada Day, and the sun is spilling all over like a busted sprinkler on the lawn, and everyone’s out watching ducks race down rivers and blurs of red and white. It’s summer and fuck it’s all so gorgeous out there in the world. You’d almost guess, if you were from a foreign country, that they’re all hurling fireworks up into the sky tonight as a sacrifice — to conjure the sun back into existence and this is how they do it, this is how they keep it all so wonderful. You’d think this place doesn’t understand the concept of ice but still uses it enthusiastically in drinks, like a die-hard dollar-store shopper who hates the Chinese economy. You’d think the boy in the sandbox doesn’t know what the hell a snowplough is.
So what’s a better way to welcome the day than with a song from Iceland, a song by a band who’d convinced us all that their country was a dreary and morose place of little-light and lovelorn feelings. Turns out Sigur Ros were lying to us all along. Over there, at some not-so-distant latitude, they must have hammock-hungry days like this one. There must be fireworks filling the sky. There must be jumping and strawberries and explosive kisses under large trees. The entire population must shed themselves of their wool sweaters and sweat in the sun. It must all happen there — these are the scenes from which the band snatched this song.
There’s a pile over there in the tall grass of what used to be a railroad switch — the flag, some ties and the special kind of rails that flank over into the main rail. All of the components. These parts haven’t been used in years, sure, but there’s the pile. It’s stacked up and showing something for itself. A little rust, a little worse than fifteen years ago when everything was one oiled machine, cared for and working day in, day out like the best mine in Timmins, Ontario. You can see it — stand on it even. There was a time when it was one single thing; there was a time when it carried the weight of a prairie field on its back; there was a time when it brought lovers together. It steered the heavy fates of a thousand North American locomotives.
But now here. Not worse, really. I wouldn’t say worse. It’s just not a railroad switch anymore. It’s not the same.
this is where it happens like a conduit -- geoff guenther's brain to fingers to electricity and then back into biology. yours.
and it happens, i suppose, because no one needs another music blog.
