on the Replacements, again

I just watched the clip of the Replacements on Fallon last night and, on my couch, in my pajamas, reacted like I was being electrocuted. Celebrating a homecoming. Straight-up swooning like a tween showing off her dimples. Frankly, it's the best I've felt in weeks.

I have been in a state of suspended anxiety for quite some time. Partly because of The News, partly because of the heat, and partly because I'm between jobs. I've been waiting to hear a decision on a job I'd really like and applied for in June; they said I'd hear Monday for sure—it's Wednesday now and they're still working on it. Waiting on this sort of decision after being unemployed for a few months, I can't help but feel like my self-worth is dangling in the balance. Melodramatic? Perhaps, but anyone who's spent long afternoons on the couch waiting for a call—for a reason to put on real pants and leave the house again—knows what I mean: purpose becomes a slippery thing when you don't have an answer to "what do you do?".

And so, this summer, along with obsessing over success and failure, I've been contemplating the Replacements. How, to quote Steve Albini in Color Me Obsessed (the Replacements fan documentary) "a janitor, a crazy drunk, and a little kid" somehow formed this band. How they weren't afraid of screwing up, but kind of invited it. (Other incarnations were named Dogbreath, and the Impediments. They called their 1985 live album The Shit Hits the Fans.) They would play a set of drunken covers if they felt like it. They would never make it truly huge if they felt like it.

Watching that documentary a few weeks ago, I was moved by the articulate take of one super fan, a writer named Robert Voedisch. He talked about how their songs were "personally ambitious" and "strangely encouraging." For him, they even somehow "gave you permission to be yourself." He told a story about how, growing-up on a lonely farm, he pretended he knew them, would talk to them, "would run things by the Tommy [Stinson] in my mind." Though the charts never put them on top, for a lot of fans, they won. 

If you will, watch that Fallon clip again. That stance. The certainty of their down strums. The delight of the "oo" background vocals. The unabashed use of "love." That faded t-shirt. The dog collar. The triumphant ruckus they reach by 2:38, all together. The way, at the end, it seems wrong Jimmy Fallon's voice can be heard over the cheers. 

Author Michael Azerrad called Westerberg "the poet laureate of the American teenage wasteland." I read his chapter on the Replacements out loud on our drive to Kentucky to watch them this summer. This summer, when, disappointed by the anticlimactic end of grad school, I didn't want to try for a while. This summer when a bat flew in our house. This summer when our next door neighbors had mysterious yelling matches. When the thermostat read 88 inside our apartment. When my husband traveled for work to states in the middle of the country. When I ate pickles from the jar, swatted fruit flies. And when we saw the Replacements.

In Kentucky, in July. No one else at that festival made standing in the sun worth it but we only went to see them anyway and they sang "you're my favorite thing" and "nowhere is my home" and "kiss me on the bus" and "I will dare" and "we are the sons of no one" and "I can't hardly wait" and "children by the million scream for Alex Chilton when he comes 'round."

They make an unmusical, unemployed thirty year-old want to start a band and write a song about "love" and the Replacements. Or at the very least return to this neglected blog, write, try. A triumphant return, that'd be cool.

Dear Team Venue

I decided to study abroad in Bristol because, as I was flipping through the study abroad pamphlets in the international office, I read a sentence that said, "Bristol has a vibrant music scene." The study abroad director, who had spent a few years in Bristol himself, told me, "When you get there, get a copy of Venue and you'll know what's going on."

I remember getting back to my room in the student halls each week, closing the door, and reading it cover to cover, taking in its wit and its localisms and its musical recommendations. Bucky at Seymour's. Sufjan Stevens / Iron & Wine at St Bons. Holly Golightly at Moles. I met a great friend at the first, saw my husband for the first time at the second, and, a few years later, when I was living in Bristol again, the music editor of Venue, Julian Owen, would, in a rare lapse of good judgment, assign me my first review, 300 words on another Golightly gig, on my birthday. I still can't quite believe he let my name on the pages and that readers put up with my ex-pat Yankee golly-gee attempts for the next six years.

I know my part in Venue's storied history was minor. I know my story of transplanting to Bristol is not unique. But on Venue's last day, I just wanted to be sure to say thank you to all the writers whose humor and firecracker prose and vivid descriptions of the art of the city made me fanatically appreciative of Bristol and want to try to be a writer who makes every word of the count....well, count. 

Also, Julian Owen: he is a bloody treasure. Robin Askew and Kid Pensioner, thanks for making me snort, seal laugh, yell your one liners across the apartment in tears. I still remember fondly Carl Dolan's review of Dirty Three, John Stevens on Dirty Projectors, Anna Britten on The Bangles. All that damn enthusiasm and honesty about visual art and food and theater and bonkers happenings and the people of the community and music. Under the tutelage of your weekly musings, I even learned sarcasm.

I’m “home” in Bethlehem, PA for Thanksgiving weekend and I’m other home-sick knowing I can't be with you all toasting Venue tonight. I'll be having one, or a few, for you from here.

Cheers. xx

#ripvenue

journey music

A few weeks ago we took a trip out West that involved a lot of driving (for others) and being a passenger (for me).

Before we left, I made some extensively researched, painstakingly transitioned mixes to accompany those drives through dusty terrain. But I'm not going to write this post about listening to Bill Callahan warble about "wild, wild country" as we skirted sagebrush hills, or in what ways Forever Changes is the perfect soundtrack for crossing the border into Nevada, or how we car-danced while rediscovering the glory of The Bangles doing "Hazy Shade of Winter" as we merged onto the freeway out of Malibu, but, rather, about what happened as soon as our western vacation ended, we said goodbye to our friends, and the husband and I raced against weather delays, mechanical malfunctions, and little sleep to make it to Chicago in time to see The Bats.

We became fans of The Bats about six years ago, after this article in the Guardian about Flying Nun (the New Zealand label that put out their music and music by hosts of influential antipodean bands of the 80's and 90's) piqued our interest and we started digging for their old albums. Immediately, we realized how much we'd been missing all these years before we knew their jangly, direct, imperfect and infectious pop. Not long after we read that article, we got the chance to see them at the Primavera festival in Barcelona (in fact, we were staying in the same hotel and rode 22 floors on the elevator with them unaware they were Bats until we saw them take the stage that afternoon) and since have kept loyally checking their website for news they'd be touring again sometime, someplace near us.

Hence, this mad dash to make the only date we could on this US tour (which I thought best represented pictorially, despite my shoddy art skills):

There was a point, when we were on the car ride back to our apartment from the Columbus airport with our friend Tom, where we were looking at the clock and thinking the delays had been too much and we wouldn't be able to make the final push to Chicago in time. Then Tom said, "Good thing Chicago's an hour behind us," and we rejoiced in the existence of time zones.

So imagine us, if you will. Standing in the middle of Schuba's after briskly walking the few blocks from our B&B and realizing we had made it with 20 minutes to spare. Thankful and travel hungover and with huge expectations. The Bats take the stage and begin thusly. The interplay of guitars and bass and harmonies. The voice of Robert Scott reaching just a little, like yours does after you've woken up and as you say your first words of the day. And there's "Castle Lights" and many songs from Daddy's Highway, all the while Kaye Woodward and Bob Scott's voices in egalitarian counterbalance, the guitars in contrapuntal conversation. Standing there, exhausted and moved and blubbering just a little and grateful for the things this music reassures me of, how we're all going to be OK.

Watching them, I noticed the beauty in the way they drop lines, choruses like little gilded mantras that ache and wonder and hope:

"It's a mystery / how I'm so unaware / And you've been good to me / but I just didn't care," 

"We want you back here / you've been too long away / Images remind us / of what is lost today," 

"And I know that we're apart / but it won't be for long / And that's why I sing this song / and that's why I carry on," 

"I don't know / my mind's made up in blue," 

"It doesn't look good / and I'm feeling like a block of wood / so take me away / I know not where."

Later as we leave, hungry because we had no time for dinner, two friendly gentlemen point us toward a pizza place that might still be open. They're closing up but they sell us their last, slightly congealing slices for $1, and we walk the streets in the rain, gnawing on old pizza, in a haze and feeling like kings. I want to remember not only what it was to be standing in the middle of that audience, but also the walk home where anything felt possible, the destination irrelevant.

just can't get enough

It's summer, I'm back on the blog, and--be still my sequined-studded spectacle-loving heart!--the Eurovision semi-finals were this week. In case you missed them, I'm here to fill you in before Saturday's final.

Was there pleather? Double denim? Tinsel tassles? In spades.
Were there pyrotechnics perfectly synced to the key changes? Hilarious facial hair? Naturally.
Acrobatics performed inside a glass box? A giant disco ball? A human giant? Need you even ask?

Here's my rundown of the best and worst of the oompah-hybrid nonsense, wardrobe surprises, and tasteless gimmicks we've all come to expect of Europe's song contest.

Round 1:

Denmark: One of the bookies' favorites, Emmelie de Forest is clearly a major contender despite the fact that the song comes off a bit like Shakira going down with the Titanic. This is the first entry of the night to feature noteworthy, i.e. lots of and excessively large, drums--this year's big trend. Take note: now you ain't nobody unless your kettle drum's bigger than your Citroen.

Ukraine: "Ukrainian Giant Takes Eurovision 2013 By Storm" reads The Telegraph headline referring to 7 foot 8.33 inch Igor Vovkovinskiy who acted the part of friendly giant, lurching across the stage dressed in medieval garb only to carry the vampy diva Zlata Ognevich to her mark center stage and then retreat back into the wings. Bonkers. And easily my favorite gimmick in recent memory. Need you ask? Of course the song is shite.

Montenegro: I'm terribly disappointed this one didn't make the finals. What's not to love about Who See Klapa, a hip-hop duo dressed as astronauts rapping in Montenegrin, "I'll take you to the party, to to to to the party" while fog shoots out of the stage and a formidable female alien belts out the chorus C&C Music Factory-like? Maybe next year, fellas.

Lithuania: Sure, Andrius Pojavis is a scruffy cutie in a pleather jacket, but it's the depth of the lyrics that really make this one. To wit: "If you don't know I'm in love with you / when summertime falls it becomes untrue / Because of my shoes I'm wearing today / one is called Love the other is Pain."

Round 2:

Latvia: I was going to write something snarky here about PeR, which stands for Please Explain the Rhythm, the sparkly foursome from Latvia that features a keytar player. But after reading their profile on the Eurovision website, I realize they're just goshdarn hopeful and trying out there. Also, the lead singer was so proud when he launched himself into the crowd, shouting, "The first stage dive in Eurovision history comes from Latvia!" When they ended, he shouted, "Thank you! And may the farce be with you!" I'm not sure whether that was a mispronunciation or merely spot-on commentary.

Malta: Gianluca is a doctor by trade and, according to the Eurovision website, "his collection of smiles have warmed the hearts of many Eurovision enthusiasts." Allegedly, he sings regularly "with his prayer group" and has volunteered with the sisters of Mother Theresa, too. Truth: from the moment the miniature guitar started strumming and Gianluca began singing in breathy vocals--"His name is Jer-e-my / working in I.T."--a boy-meets-girl story of a "sensitive" guy who falls in love, my lip involuntarily curled into a sneer. I've rarely witnessed inoffensiveness this offensive. The. handclaps. don't. even. help.

Bulgaria: Two drummers, Bulgaria's answer to Sofia Vergara and Mandy Patinkin in a curly mullet, are joined by a screeching hook from a gaida (i.e. eastern bagpipes) in this ethno-club romp. For the record, they've got the most drums onstage at one time and they still didn't make it through to the finals. Inexcusable.

Iceland: Thor (aka Eythor Ingi) delivers a ballad (translated title: "I Am Alive") with subtle yet commanding stage presence, somehow managing to be moving even while singing in Icelandic.

Israel: Sigh. The piano tinkles. Another serious ballad, as always, from Israel. Then the camera zooms out and we see Moran Mazor, inexplicably wearing both 1970's librarian glasses and a lycra dress with Elvira cleavage to her belly-button. Score a point for Israel: that was unexpected.

Romania: Speaking of the inexplicable, I will just provide a link to this one. You best watch it for yourself. Consider this an illustration of why I can't ever get enough Eurovision.

where's that song?

I've had one of those summers. One that's been fun (hello, Dollywood! and Cleveland! and New York City! and cups of tea and Netflix documentaries in the afternoon!), but that's largely been spent feeling guilty about what I've not been doing: writing, revising, lesson planning, reading the 13 books I ordered in a frenzy of wishful thinking during finals week, or updating this blog. But, sadder still, it's also--so far--for me been a summer without a song.

There are the summer hits (remember The Summer of "Hey Ya" and how the dance floors filled and we all mash-potatoed and shook our hips?) and the summery songs, but I'm talking about when the timing's right and I meet a song I like around the time I'm pulling shorts out of boxes, and I get to know it better as the fireflies appear, and I like it enough to play on all the car trips and out the open windows, not tiring of it when the locusts start hissing, or when the school supplies invade store shelves, or maybe ever.

And so in lieu of posting this summer's song that I haven't met yet, I'm turning to a song about falling in love with a song. It just so happens to be one of THE top handclap tunes (revel in that breakdown at 2:38, please), but it's here because it's about that very good thing--I'm in love / what's that song?--that doesn't happen all that often and that we can't predict, but when it does, it's worth sharing.

I had never seen this video until I YouTube searched the song today, but I appreciate what seems a poignant sort of disconnect between the ho-hum black and white visuals of knees and nostrils and messy hair, and the dizzy, hyper affection in the music, the love Paul Westerberg's singing about--how the song gives life to the visual ennui. It makes me want to keep my ears open and to play music while I  finally get down to work at this old, boring desk of mine.

Eurovision Round 2

This round was an even split between melodramatic ballads (7) and slick club jams (7), with only a few anomalies.  The most distinctive of the bunch:

Belarus: This hyperslick Europop featured several questionable haircuts and when they sang the chorus that goes “we are the winners!” they pronounced the last word like “wieners” (so they could make it rhyme with “believers”). Bless them.

Turkey: A weird, nautical-themed Turkish shanty made interesting because at one point the dancers extended their arms and turned their costumes into a boat. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that a Eurovision audience loves a costume trick.

Sweden: This round was all about Loreen. Hers began a moody sort of club number but before long the beat dropped, her vocals lifting like a hip Celine Dion, as she chopped the air and bent to the floor, Capoeira meets rave meets pop transcendence. Easily got my vote for this round.

Eurovision Round 1

Those of you who know me will know that this is one of my favorite weeks of the year.

(last place 1980 Belgian entry)

You don’t even need to ask: yes, I will be watching from the first shout of “GOOOOD eveninnnnnnng, Europe!” until goodbye kisses are being blown at the camera.

In case you missed the first Eurovision semi-final on Tuesday, or you’re of the American contingent who haven’t yet had the pleasure, here’s a run down of what you missed in Round 1:

The Best of the Worst

Montenegro: A stocky middle-aged man who calls himself Rambo Amadeus lurched his way through a Balkan funk-rap fusion, dropping lines like “I don’t like snow peas” and “always stay cool, like a swimming pool.”

San Marino: This one’s called “The Social Network Song” because they found out late in the game that they were breaking the EV rule that bans brand names and had to remove all references to “facebook” from the song. The most delightful absurdity came thanks to the staging: a doctor, a cheerleader, and a pilot danced in the background while the blue pleather-bedecked vocalist sang things like “if you wanna come to my house, click it with your mouse.”

Austria: The group is called Trackshittaz.  The song is called “Woki Mit Deim Popo,” which loosely translates to “Shake Your Bum,” though they made it sound dirtier. It was no “I Like Big Butts,” but it did feature pole dancers, name-checked Nuddel Suppen (noodle soup), and a nifty online translator also helped me understand the lines that meant: “Your bum has feelings, your bum is part of you / Don’t put it on chairs, your bum has an opinion, yeah.”

The Best of the Best

Iceland: As a rule, entries from Nordic countries are usually classy and usually involve orchestral string instruments. This one featured a fellow named Jónsi (not to be confused with the one from Sigur Ros, his Eurovision profile boasts that he starred as Danny Zuko in Grease a few years ago) and violin. About as classy as Eurovision power ballads get.

Romania: Drums! Bagpipes! Accordion! A scantily clad pop princess! Excessive pyrotechnics! It was like Romanian folk goes club and had a tongue-twister of a chorus that goes “zah li la li la lee.”

Cyprus: Not terribly different from Romania’s tune in terms of its catchiness, but this favors a sort of Ace of Base beat and has a chorus that goes “How I’ve been waiting for this la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la love.” 

Ireland: Say what you want about Jedward the rest of the year, but they are made for Eurovision. Their “Waterline” is no “Waterloo” or “Borderline” but watching them bound around the stage dressed as cyberknights to the tune, I was reminded of “We Built This City” and “Footloose.” If either of those were sung by hyperactive albino Irish twins, that is.

Russia: I believe in these Babuski, and I would love to see them beat all the young, naked divas. They began by pretending to put something in a stage prop oven, all baking and looking adorable. Then the beat dropped and it became a “party for everybody.” The littlest grannie is such a star she gets her own solo dance with the camera. (Their previous entry “Very long birch bark and how to turn it into a turban" may have been a better tune, but “Party for Everybody” seems more appropriate for the Eurovision agenda.) They get my vote: