Come Along With Me

Anniemal by Annie

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The first time I listened to Anniemal, I was slightly bored; the album felt like a very straightforward pop album, and Annie's voice was too quiet to hold my attention. But neither of these things are necessarily bad things.

Annie began recording for Anniemal a half year after her boyfriend, Tore Kroknes, died in 2001 of a heart defect. On many of the tracks in the album, Annie's vocals can be described as melancholy, even if the lyrics themselves are not meant to be sad. Annie herself admitted that many of the tracks might feel melancholic, but making sad music was never her purpose; instead, she aimed to make bittersweet songs.

Most of the tracks on the album deal with love, whether it is falling in or out of it. The album opens with "Chewing Gum", a metaphor for being single and happy ("I'm just a girl that's only chewing for fun!/Spit it out when all the flavor has gone/Wrap it 'round your finger like you're playing with gum"). "Heartbeat" narrates the story of a party and feeling the thrill of meeting someone new ("Feel my heartbeat drumming to the beat/Like a woman in love") while "Helpless Fool For Love" describes the helplessness of falling in love with someone. On the other side of the spectrum, "Always Too Late" describes the frustration of waiting around for someone, eventually degenerating into feeling like a fool for "waiting for somebody who don't care". "Happy Without You" begins with the reasons why she chose to leave, admitting later in the song how hard it was, but coming to terms with it and eventually being happy without him.

Though Anniemal does not make an effort to push musical ground or spearhead a movement, it draws its merits from its ability to make happy songs despite its melancholy. If an album can aptly describe both the fallings in and out of love, that by itself makes it worthwhile.

I Think Ur A Contra, I Think That You Lieee

"I had a feeling once/That you and I/Could tell each other everything/For two months/But even with an oath/With truth on our side/When you turn away from me/It's not right" — "I Think Ur A Contra" by Vampire Weekend, Contra (2010)

I'm sitting here tracing my veins, trying to find the blood clot that is constricting my happiness. I try to count all the platelets that are building up — deep smile lines, scents, the inside of your car, every cross word we've ever slung, every word you're not speaking to me now.


I like it better here inside my head. I like my pretty thoughts, I like my humor. Sometimes I even manage to like myself, just a little bit.


So why can't I just be happy alone? I lay my head down at night, looking at this modern tin can telephone, knowing its copper string leads no where. There is no one to talk to in the middle of the night, no one I can whisper my dark secrets to. No one who cares what's it's like inside my head.


Everyday I walk these streets and feel like every door is closed on me. I start to wonder if I'm already homeless. I start to fear I'm the phantom, that he was real and I'm left behind, this ghost staining his city. So I scream, I cry, I laugh, I sing as I walk home, to prove to everyone that I'm the real one.


I try to use these 250 albums like sandbags to hold back the flood of grief in my life. I try to pull out lines from their songs like little love letters I no longer receive. I try to stitch them all together, to make an armor to keep out the loneliness, the emptiness. But all I have are sloppy lines scattered like leaves at my feet, statused like the insane writing on walls, them all meaningless to everyone but me.


Things would be easier if I could just be upset with you. If I could just be honest, and ask you why you don't talk to me like you used to. But I'm already defeated. When you turn away from me, it's not right. It's not right.

Happy 800

This marks my 800th post.

So in the last 100-ish days, I have reviewed a total of 38 albums from my list. Which feels like very little, when compared to the remaining 212 albums. It has only been three months and I'm already apprehensive of my project ending. I have tried doing 365 projects in the past, but I have rarely taken those seriously. The difference between this and the past attempts is the fact that it feels worthwhile to me. I end the day feeling like I've accomplished something.

I hope that in the last 100 posts my writing has developed, if by a little bit, and that my understanding of music has improved with this practice, and that continues for the next 100.

Come On, Feel

Illinois by Sufjan Stevens

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Don't ask me to explain the cult-like fanaticism Sufjan's fans all seem to exhibit. Don't ask me why people credit Sufjan as an amazing musician when many, many other musicians can do exactly what he does, sometimes better. If I were a much more pessimistic person than I am at this very moment, I would suggest that the majority of people love Stevens' work because of his supposed "50 States Project" (which was revealed to only be a promotional gimmick).

I am not a Stevens fanatic, but I don't hate him either. In 2007 I had to grudgingly admit that Illinois was enjoyable after finally deciding to sit down and listen to his albums. Possibly the most off-putting thing about Sufjan Stevens isn't even his sometimes annoyingly soft voice (it lacks expression) or the incredibly long song names — the most off-putting thing about Sufjan Stevens is the fans he gets. God, are they annoying.

But that's not necessarily related to the quality of his music, is it?

For people who love to dissect albums, Illinois is rich with references, large words and historical tidbits about, believe it or not, Illinois. But let's be honest here, at 74 minutes, this album is kind of drag (this coming from someone who sat down and read lyrics along with Have One On Me). Of course, you have to commend the orchestration, the meticulous detail and patience that Illinois employs. The harmonies, strings and horns are all surprisingly heartwarming (it's hard to remain cold to a line like "We were in love, we were in love/Palisades, palisades/I can wait, I can wait").

The best moments on the album, at least for me, are the livelier moments. But I use the word "lively" in a very loose sense; the liveliest Stevens manages would likely be "They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back From the Dead!! Ahhhhh!!", but even this track fluctuates between the driving "I-L-L-I-N-O-I-S" chant and Sufjan's soft voice. Other high points for the album would be "Decatur, or Round of Applause For Your Step Mother!", "Casimir Pulaski Day", "The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades is Out To Get Us!", and "Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland IL".

Illinois is an exercise in patience, both for the artist and the listener. Heavy with historical references that could be fun to explore if you didn't already have a life, Sufjan manages to make an amazing tribute to Illinois, calling attention to small things that most people would likely overlook. You don't need to be from Illinois to enjoy an album that seems to explore the lives of everyday people.

(P.S. I do not hate Illinois, it's actually my favorite album by Stevens. But god, do I hate his fans. Especially you, Alec Duffy, with your listening parties! And anyone who actually goes to those damn things.)

I Need Some Video Games

It's been a very long time since I just wrote crap, just put down my crappy thoughts here. Not the less-crappy thoughts that I dress up in sloppy metaphors, but the real verbal crap, like what I'm spewing out right now.


I simply cannot attempt another album review, because I feel that my last three have been pretty sub par. My mind feels like mush, I've been bruising my brain, beating it against these impenetrable albums that I want to say something brilliant about.


Why am I just blathering like this? Because I worry that the blog is getting further away from me. Further away from the reality of me. 90% of everything I say on any given day is verbal garbage. In most conversations I have (online, of course, because I rarely have real human interaction) I am either laughing or screaming "aaahhhhhhh". And in reality, that is pretty much the same inside of my brain.


On nights like this, when I'm bored to death, I kind of wish I had some video games.


Okay. In order to validate this being published, at all, here is a little playlist of the songs I've been enjoying.


Animal Collective - "Daily Routine (Phaseone Remix)"
Casiokids - "En Vill Hest"
Cults - "Go Outside"
Cults - "Most Wanted"
The Russian Futurists - "Precious Metals"
Vampire Weekend - "Giving Up The Gun"


And for laughs: RAAAAAAAANDY and Dave Sitek - "Baby Baby (ft. DJ Ol' Youngin')"
Watch the video for this on Pitchfork.




So here ends the reminder that I am just a crappy little person eating my crappy little peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner, bored out of my mind.

And I Don't Know A Soul Who's Not Been Battered

She rides the bus nearly every day, her dove-white hair gathered loosely underneath her winter's hat. She carries her belongings in suitcases, as if on a long ride from the airport to her final home.


But we all know there is no place she can put her suitcases down. There'll be no unpacking, there will be no homecoming. She will never put down her burden.


I look at the detail of her cheekbones, the clarity in her eyes. Did anyone ever tell her she was beautiful? Did they ever whisper "I love you" into the warm curve of her neck? Where is the young girl who laughingly vowed to be best friends forever, the father who told her, "One day I'll have to beat them away with a stick, my beautiful little girl".


I close my eyes to shut her out like everyone else.




Inside, I want nothing more than to reach across the aisle, to hold her hand. I want to unpack her suitcases, I want to let her shed her heavy coat. I want for her to never lower her eyes in shame again.


Because in the end, I don't want to be homeless. I want to open the door to your heart, and make it my home. I never want to pack my suitcases.

Nothing From Nothing

Album by Girls

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As far as band start-up stories go, there are few that can compete with Girls. If there is ever a need for an encouraging background story of a successful artist, you can owe Christopher Owens one.

But even without the amazing backstory, Album stands as one of the exceptional albums of 2009, as well as the past decade. The album manages to reference an almost dizzying number of musical styles, but instead of focusing on imitating or even paying homage to its antecedents (they've been compared to Beach Boys, Morrissey, Elvis Costello, and Roy Orbison, just to name a few), Girls achieves an almost golden-oldies type of classicism just by their honest approach to their songs.

In lieu of Owens' past, it's easy to listen to "Hellhole Ratrace" or "Darling" and try to imagine which part of which song was shaped by his past. But it's also quite amazing to listen to lines like "I work to eat and drink and sleep just to live/Feels like I'm never getting back what I give/I've got a sad song in my sweet heart/And all I really ever need is some love and attention" followed by the sincere, if simple, advice "Sometimes you've just gotta make it for yourself".

But the most winning point of Album is its straightfoward honesty. Owens finds it easy to call "Laura" a bitch and himself an ass and still ask to be friends forever. In fact, "Darling" puts the album into perspective, singing "I was feeling so sad and alone/But I found a friend in the song that I'm singing". You don't need to be a part of the Children of God cult to understand Owens' desire to "rock like no one ever told [him] to stop" in "Big Bad Mean Motherfucker".

In Christopher Owens' own words: “These guys are weird and they’re doing something genuine and they can actually play and it’s nice to listen to and, hell, they even have an interesting backstory — check it out.”

(Not to mention, "Morning Light" may be one of the best songs from 2009.)

I'll Be The One Who'll Break My Heart

The Reminder by Feist

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Everyone I know listens to Feist. In 2007, you might have seen The Reminder being sold in your local Starbucks, playing on a television commercial, or laying in your friend's car. The music on the album, however, seems to be completely ignorant of its commercial success; instead its surprisingly stripped down organic feeling creates an intimate atmosphere for the listener.

Where Let It Die featured songs both written by Feist and cover songs, every song but one on The Reminder was at the very least co-written by Feist. Though it's true that there were many people involved with the album (most notably, Gonzalez, Jamie Lidell, and Mocky, among others), their presence in the album is largely a huge success. There is never a moment on the album where collaboration sacrifices intimacy; much of the album is recorded in a fashion that emphasizes simple melodies and beautiful arrangements, with the desire to promote fellow musicianship rather than creating a glossy, slick pop album.

It may also be a surprise to realize that many of these songs were written and performed for a long time before ever set down in The Reminder, precisely because the album is so cohesive that it almost seems as if each song was imagined in the exact order they occur on the album. Perhaps what truly makes the album so perfectly intimate is the fact that many of these songs had been given such a long time to grow. Where many old songs are simply scrapped (Jens Lekman) or forcefully pieced together into an album (Beyonce), Feist exhibits a rare patience with her own songs, allowing each to flow organically into the other. 

Though it's clear that there was never an intention to create a commercially successful album, The Reminder's success sprouts from its amazing accessibility. The album opens with "So Sorry", a penitent wish to stop fighting ("We're so helpless/We're slaves to our own forces/We're afraid of our emotions"). "The Park" is a song of a long-distance relationship, with Feist baring her insecurities in the lines "Who could be sure of anything through/The distance that keeps you from knowing the truth". Despite such joyful melodies as "1234" and "I Feel It All", these songs mask different facets of relationship frustration; Feist declares "I'll be the one who'll break my heart" because "the truth lied/and lies divide" in "I Feel It All", while in "1234" she sings "Sweetheart, bitter heart/Now I can't tell you apart", trying to keep up with someone who keeps changing their heart.

Everyone I know listens to Feist, and for good reason.

Now That It's Over This Weight Is Off My Shoulder

You're A Woman, I'm A Machine by Death From Above 1979

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I first listened to Death From Above 1979 in 2006; though I've always enjoyed You're A Woman, I'm A Machine, I never quite understood what drew me to the album. At first I chalked it up to that period of my life: I was listening to Blood Brothers, Fall of Troy, and this made sense. As the years went by (and the two successive computer crashes that wiped out my music library), both Blood Brothers and Fall of Troy disappeared, yet Death From Above 1979 did not.

It wasn't until I was listening to it last night, at a volume probably not good for anyone (I can almost promise that I will be deaf by the end of this year), that I realized the album's magnetism. For one thing, songs like "Black History Month" or "Sexy Results" are obviously dance-y numbers, with slick hooks and a surprising gloss to its noise. But the best thing about the album by far is its pure emotional purge, a cathartic release of post-break-up frustration: these songs are thinly veiled and amazingly raw.

Though it may be slightly hard to hear under the dance floor noise that the album presents, in many ways it almost feels like each song follows a theme of love and violence. There are few things that bring couples together; two of the majors ones are sex and fighting, both which are explored in the album. "Romantic Rights" is descriptive of an attempt to make a relationship work when it simply can't, illustrated in lines like "You play with shapes but they just won't fit" and "Your romantic rights are all that you got". "Blood On Our Hands" is an obvious exploration in love and violence, finding "blood in all the things I say".

You're A Woman, I'm A Machine works on many different levels. As pop songs, dance numbers, noise rock, or break up songs, the album draws you in with violent, emotional catharsis. (And, it's amazingly fun to dance to.)

Everything Hits At Once

 

My memories are becoming memories of memories. I can't remember how it really was. It's as if we are playing a nightly theater behind my eyelids. We're always changing roles; you play the villain and I'm the victim. Now the scene replays, the roles are reversed.

I might be remembering things wrong. As I write this sentence, 50,000 cells in my body are dying. 50,000 new cells are being created, each one without your name coded in my genes like some kind of virus.

The point is, I'm not the same person when I met you. Literally. The very cells in my bones have died, been replaced, and have died again. My stomach lining was replaced in four days, so that the acid in your words couldn't eat through me. It took five months to change my skin (harder this time, of course — it is, afterall, my first line of defense). My liver, with its 500 functions — one of them trying to filter out the toxic blame you let flood my bloodstream — regenerated in six months.

The miracle of this life is the centuries of evolution that took place to make the idea of you even possible. That the entire history of human life is just an elaborate dominoes of events that led to you. If history could be redone, if I could push the tears up my cheeks and back into my eyes, so that planes will fly out of buildings and the atomic bombs will fly up into the planes, if history could un-goose-step across Europe, if the machetes attached hands to limbs by a simple upward motion, there could never be a more perfect you.

Evolution isn't a survival of the fittest, it's an experimentation of beauty. In the filter of you, historical events align like stars, and human life is worth all the work it takes to live it.

Everything hits at once. I'm letting you go, one cell at a time, so that the you that will align all of my maladies, all of my tragedies, can enter my life.

Someday My Pain

For Emma, Forever Ago by Bon Iver

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I was feeling slightly hesitant to write this review. I started listening to Bon Iver soon after Justin Vernon released For Emma, Forever Ago in 2008, but I never bothered to listen closely until this week. And then last night maybe I listened too closely.

Most of what Vernon sings tends to be unintelligible. His layered vocals blend words together, so that what you're left with are sounds bleeding into melodies. And this is intentional; when writing the songs, melodies were written first and words were chosen to accommodate them. When I first listened to For Emma, Forever Ago, I felt very little need to know what he was singing; I preferred making up words for the ones I didn't know if I felt like singing along, and was mostly fascinated with the expression in the words rather than drawing meaning out of them.

But last night, for reasons unknown, I suddenly decided to look up the lyrics. On the whole, Vernon knows his way around words; and yet, after reading the lyrics, I was mostly left feeling disappointed. (I'll chalk this up to me becoming extremely nit-picky as I near a musical dry spell. The closer I get to the dry spell, the pickier I become.)

"Flume", the opening track, hides behind the lyrics "Only love is all maroon/Lapping lakes like leery loons/Leaving rope burns, reddish ruse". "Lump Sum" seems to be a reference to his decision to move back to Wisconsin and his need to recuperate. Most of the songs on the album, aside from "Skinny Love", are beautifully descriptive but frustratingly cryptic. As if to explain this, Vernon's last track, "RE: Stacks" ends with "This is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization/It's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away".

I don't mean to imply that Vernon sacrificed meaning for sound (though there's nothing wrong with that either). Instead, these songs live in a place in between ambiguity and poetry. Though Vernon's imagery is wonderfully descriptive and poetic, their meanings weigh less than the weight of their sound deliverance.

For Emma, Forever Ago is the product of Vernon's decision to sequester himself in a cabin in Wisconsin for three months in an effort to deal with the events of the previous year. Though not initially intending to write an album, Vernon ended up writing and recording most of the songs on the album, and releasing it by himself. In this sense, having such beautifully cryptic lyrics makes sense — the album comes across as "the sound of a man left alone with his memories and a guitar". The album serves to expose those memories without actually relinquishing them.

You Used To Think Your Life Was Precious Metals and Rose Petals

I woke from my bed today and wondered what charm (or more fittingly, what curse) is keeping me anchored to it. I'm not this person who sleeps the light away; somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, I ache to go out. I want to go outside, run into flowers, just leave my body for a night.


When I was younger, my favorite thing to do was climb the rock wall in our backyard. The first time I came upon the rock retaining wall in our backyard, I felt like I had found something beautiful, as if these rocks weren't visible to the rest of the world. I spent most of my summer climbing up and down the wall, walking along the top of it, and sitting on the warm black rocks. I spent so much time on them my dad started calling me "little mountain goat".


If I had to think of the happiest moment of my life, it would not be the day someone other than my family told me they loved me. It wasn't the first time a boy I liked put his lips on my skin (Chaz McCoy, who sat down criss-cross-applesauce and kissed my arm in first grade). It wasn't my first best friend, where we promised to be just like sisters and to remain friends for the rest of our lives. It wasn't even the moment with my three best friends, throwing streamers at each other, the static balloons or using paper hearts hanging on strings like whips. It wasn't any of the playgrounds I've ever played on, the festivals I've been to, or any day in Seattle.


The happiest day of my life was the day we went down to Ocean Shores. On the far corner of the beach was a mile-long pile of giant black rocks that led straight out into the ocean, which I, the mountain goat I, inevitably gravitated towards. As I slowly and aimlessly made my way towards that far out edge that faced the ocean, the sudden thought crossed my mind to run the entire length. I turned halfways, thinking I should start at the beginning so I could say I had truly traveled the entire thing. And suddenly, doing it perfectly didn't matter quite as much as doing it at all. I took off running.


It was like moments suspended in flight. As I raced past the burgeoning families, the middle school lovers, the elderly couples and the picnickers, I felt like a parade, not of showy, gaudy youthfulness, but a celebration of living. Every rock I jumped, I congratulated the elderly couples for their ability to stay together throughout the years. I congratulated the middle school lovers for loving, I congratulated the picnickers for taking the day off to enjoy life. I congratulated the burgeoning families for wanting to create a family of their own, to continue a legacy or to create a new one.


For that one day in my life, I was alive precisely because I stopped worrying about living correctly. I didn't care about doing it perfectly, I didn't care if I fell down and possibly broke my leg, if I might slip and fall into the ocean.


I didn't reach the end of the rock wall. My family called me from the beach and we climbed back into the car, my legs sore and shaky from the hour I had spent jumping from one rock to the next. As we drove away, I vowed to come back and finish climbing that entire rock wall. Which never happened.


If I went back now, it wouldn't be the same. I'd constantly fear the dangers of broken bones, floating out to sea, hitting my head and drowning in a shallow puddle. I wouldn't be able to smile at the elderly couples, I wouldn't feel like a celebration of living.


I can't help but gravitate towards my bed. The million decisions of how to live is too much. I want to do the right thing, I want to do something for myself. I don't want to add more mistakes onto the horrible ones I've already made. So I climb into my bed, shut my eyes and will myself into unconsciousness. I'd rather spend my time with nightmares than with my responsibilities.


I want to remember how to live. I want to remember how to do something for the sake of doing it all, to remember the satisfaction at having tried at something seemingly impossible, and not bear the regret of failing, of mistakes, of worries. I want to remember how to be happy.

I Have Your Dreams and Your Teeth Marks

Boxer and Alligator by The National

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I first came across Matt Berninger's paradoxically deadpan yet stunningly emotional vocals in 2007, listening to Boxer and then Alligator. In a lot of ways, I'm only familiar with these two albums as a continuation of each other, which is why I decided to review both together. There is something incredibly magnetizing about these albums, in the way they feel like the product of lonely nights walking through empty city streets. Where Alligator can be considered a night isolated from the world, Boxer is in many ways like a continuation, in which the personal isolation is thrown off in favor of observing those around them (though not necessarily interacting with them). 

Both albums have been described as "growers", in that the strange turns of phrases, incredibly ambiguous lyrics and the interesting way these songs navigate around hooks can take a while to be enjoyable. On both albums, the songs are incredibly dense; the tight, precise drums are the centerpiece of each song, building tension and often magnifying the emotional distress deceptively masked by violins, guitars and horns. But the songs' density draws its source from their nearly inscrutable lyrics, purposefully murky songs whose meanings change each time you hear them.

Alligator begins with "Secret Meeting", an incredibly ambiguous song about ambiguity, the imagery (of spies, sunglasses and basements) preoccupied with hiding, though nothing is illuminated other than the secret meeting "went the dull and wicked ordinary way". "Lit Up" is the first song that most obviously points at the feeling of big city isolation, singing "So lit up, lit up, lit up alright/I try to untie Manhattan", though  Berninger also tries to "untie from your bad blood". "All the Wine" is the most introspective, with Berninger singing "I'm put together beautifully", calling himself a festival, a birthday candle in a circle of black girls, a perfect piece of ass, and finally pronouncing "All the wine is all for me". Again there is the imagery of an empty city, singing "Through the black city, night lights are on in the corners/And everyone's sleeping upstairs/All safe and sound".

Boxer begins with "Fake Empire", picking up on the imagery of being isolated from the city surroundings, singing "Tiptoe through our shiny city", though later calling the shiny city a fake empire. But the main difference between Boxer and Alligator is immediately evident in its opening track; whereas Berninger attempts to untie his city and untie himself from others, Boxer opens with a plural, repeatedly using "we", "us", and "our". In many ways, Berninger has untied his city; songs like "Squalor Victoria", "Racing Like a Pro", "Ada" and "Mistaken for Strangers" seem to reflect his opinions on society, calling attention to the corporate ladder, white-collar lifestyles, upward mobility and the "uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults". Tracks like "Green Gloves" and "Brainy" offer an illuminating view of how he untied the city; namely by observing those around him in a detached manner ("Get inside their clothes/with my green gloves/watch their videos, in their chairs/Get inside their beds/with my green gloves/Get inside their heads, love their loves").

Of course, there is the subject of love songs. For Alligator, these love songs mostly seem terribly defeated. In "Karen" there is a sense of regret, Berninger singing "I've lost direction, and I'm past my peak/I'm telling you this isn't me", finally singing "Karen, believe me, you just haven't seen my good side yet". By "Looking for Astronauts" it's already "a little too late for this"; Berninger sings "Bye bye bye/We know we're gone" and gives up with the lines "You know you have a permanent piece/of my medium-sized American heart". As if in reflection of the relationship, "Daughters of the SoHo Riots", Berninger asks "How can anybody know/How they got to be this way", though he admits "You were right about the end/It didn't make a difference/Everything I can remember/I remember wrong". "Val Jester" is the most blunt song on the album, in which he expresses remorse for letting her go. By "City Middle" Berninger has only one thing to say about Karen: "I have weird memories of you".

The love songs in Boxer, on the other hand, seem mostly concentrated in "Slow Show", "Apartment Story" and "Start a War". Almost like a three-song narrative, "Slow Show" begins with the desire to "hurry home to you/Put on a slow, dumb show for you/And crack you up/So you can put a blue ribbon on my brain". The song ends with the incredibly sweet "You know I dreamed about you/for twenty-nine years before I saw you". However, "Apartment Story" immediately follows, where "everything we did believe/is diving diving diving diving off the balcony"; he summarizes the relationship with the lines "So worry not/All things are well/We'll be alright/We have our looks and perfume on". The three-song narrative ends with "Start a War", with the admission "We expected something, something better than before, we expected something more", but ends with "Walk away now and you're gonna start a war".

There are few albums that manage to be so perfectly honest and personal, yet ambiguous enough for the listener to have room to grow with the album. Instead of choosing easy lines, both Alligator and Boxer are intricate albums whose meanings manage to change with time. Though considered "grower" albums, when these albums finally reach you, they really hit you. It's easy to consider these albums as emotionally dark, but perhaps the biggest surprise is the amount of humor, hopefulness and willingness to love that can be found in the album, even when love itself may be resigning and not exactly what you expect. 

Do It, Do It, Alright

Thunder, Lightning, Strike by The Go! Team

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There are few albums that manage to legitimately encapsulate the raw action power of classic Saturday morning cartoons (just think: Kid Cudi's Man on The Moon; for all the narration and "plot", it falls utterly flat in so many ways). It has been nearly impossible for me to think about writing about Thunder, Lightning, Strike. It's hard to find words to describe something when the only sentence going through your brain is "Just listen to it!"

Thunder, Lightning, Strike was the debut for The Go! Team (created in Ian Parton's kitchen, of all places), first released in the UK, re-released a year later in the US, a slightly modified version due to issues with certain samples featured on the tracks. But either way you get it (the original or the slightly remixed), it's impossible not to start grinning ear to ear.

The album starts off with "Panther Dash" (and yes, all the other tracks have equally awesome names), which sets the mood for the album, each track building off of the previous. Songs like "Ladyflash" and "The Power Is On" feature ample use of samples, creating music that combines guitars, horns, double dutch chants, old hip hop and movies.

It's easy to understand the motivation behind making such a record; Parton decided to take some of his favorite things and make music out of it. The fact that most people would never combine Sonic Youth guitars with 1970s car chase music is what makes it so incredibly endearing. The Go! Team's ability to cohesively create music that recalls the nostalgia of our most beloved action sequences in film and animation automatically makes Thunder, Lightning, Strike one of the best albums of the year.

"Junior Kickstart"

Don't Call Me Incomplete

Neon Golden by The Notwist

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Most people are familiar with the story of The Notwist's transformation: "gloomy grunge misanthropes reborn as laptop-pop romantics". I first started listening to The Notwist when they had already finished their transformation, stumbling upon The Devil, You + Me in 2008. While enjoyable as background music (ouch, sorry!), it generally didn't make much of an impression on me. I barely even remembered listening to The Devil, You + Me when I found Neon Golden as a relatively high ranked album on most Best Of lists.

The first time I heard Neon Golden, I was laying in bed trying to find something to fill up the silence. I had tried listening to the album before, but it couldn't grab a hold of me. Given a moment with no distractions, the house at rest and my mind completely blank, I was immediately surprised by how familiar the album felt.

Most noticeably, for someone who loves lyrics as much as I've recently begun, it only struck me to try understanding the lyrics after the fifth or sixth time I had listened to the album. Markus Acher's voice is completely entrancing; Acher could call you a freak but somehow you'd keep smiling and nodding along, attracted to the way he texturalizes his words rather than caring about the meaning. And in fact, Acher does call you a freak, more than once in the course of the album. The opening track, "One Step Inside Doesn't Mean You'll Understand" ends with the line "Don't call me incomplete/You're the freak", while "One With the Freaks" repeatedly asks "Have you ever been all messed up?" and eventually states "All of a sudden/You are one with the freaks". When I finally looked up the lyrics, I was almost amazed that I had never even caught it.

While most lyrics can easily be construed as romantic (nearly every song is sung about a "we"), truly the most enrapturing aspect of the album is simply the music. Whether it is the percussion and rhythmic drums, the plucking of strings, or the many different electronic gurgles, crackles and static washes, the album is noticeably spaced and comfortable. Even the most driven tracks, like "Pilot" or "Pick Up the Phone", manage to still feel spaced in the sense that every sound is necessary, uncramped, and in its right place.

Strangely, the opening track perfectly describes my inability to write comprehensively or assuredly about the album: "One step inside doesn't mean you'll understand". 

Happy Late March 1st

Lazy, lazy, lazy.


Another month has gone by, and soon a quarter of the year will have already passed. It's surprising how incredibly slowly I feel like I'm winding through this project. What can I say, I lead the life of a procrastinator.


The excuse this month? I haven't been sleeping enough.


Here's to hoping this March I can actually make a sizable dent into my album list.