Ten more yards.

Bah. Another false start. Blogging is tough, especially if you're loath to self-promote. One can project out to the void, but with not even an echo, desire to create either falters or is distracted by nearer, louder sirens.

Hence, I've been sinking time into elsewhere.

I'ma come back here and get more post-y.

Primarily because regular writing is the only thing that will keep my voice flexible, but also because I just posted something really clever on someone's Facebook update and nobody's noticed yet, even though it's been a whole seven minutes.

j.

Recent photos of note...

Shot lazily within 15 feet of my front door.

A pane of glass at work decided to shatter unexpectedly today. Something about a disproportionate glob of cadmium used in the tempering process absorbing heat and expanding at an unfriendly rate.

Perhaps a nice wallpaper?

Reviews of stuff I bought last Tuesday pt. II

tUnE-yArDs w h o k i l l

Both henceforth referred to as, respectively, Tuneyards and Whokill for convenience.

This album gives me pause. It is clearly good. It is clearly innovative and expressive and powerful and neato. But I have no idea what the hell any of it means. This is a work of restless genius, but it begs to be listened to almost more as an assertion of its own brilliant novelty than for any motivation that conventionally compels human beings to listen to music.

There's the blaringly awesome Gangsta, which herds Solex, Lily Allen, and M.I.A. into an inconsistently lit alley, takes their lunch money, and kicks the shit out of them for no other reason than that's just what happens when it gets out of bed.

Naturally, it's followed by the beautiful Powa, which is sweet (like a lullaby) and leads into sweet (like bad-ass). Merrill Garbus gots pipes, and she uses them here like they were both the fishnet stockings that caught your eye and the broken bottle used to demonstrate why you shouldn't stare.

Later, Bizness rips like you somehow already forgot about Gangsta. It's aggressive in its reach, but it feels merely assertive because you don't doubt that it gets what it wants.

You Yes You sets up with Garbus doing her thing, but then she yelps "What's that about? What's that about?" like a scalded Mark E. Smith.

As we start moving towards the wrap-up, Wooly Wolly Gong invokes the same spiraling introspection that made DJ Shadow's Endtroducing so powerful and with similar results. A circular guitar and a plainly affected drumbeat provide the bed over which Garbus croons sounds that evince both hope and dread independent of the word-vessels that contain them. Also, a truck drives by. You will look out your window for the offender, but no, it's just something there to fuck with headphones wearers.

The album closes on Killa, the feel-good not-a-single of the barbecue season. It sums up the album rather nicely. There are bits where a singular Garbus informs you of this and/or that, and intermingled are bits where multiple Garbi wrestle each other for the honor of exclaiming something you will never understand on the first several tries.

But there is something alienating about this album that keeps it from seeming more enjoyable to me. Is it the willful inconsistency? The chasing ideas back out from the rabbit hole?

The best I can come up with is to out myself as something of a sexist. I could use all the same hyperbole and praise I used for Ms. Garbus to describe a Dan Deacon record, except that I'm somehow all for that. The two aren't really stylistically similar, but they do share a similar grating-as-fuck-when-you're-not-in-the-mood quality. But I think I perhaps find a more satisfying logic in how a guy putters with deconstruction than a lady. Maybe?

Whokill is more than just a deconstruction though. Through all of its myriad filters and edits, it is a pop record (somehow) when all is said and done, and a damn good one.

j.

UPDATE: Technically 10/24/12, though I've been meaning to add this for months. Maybe after the implosion of indie/college rock, I'd fallen out of the habit of challenging my tastes? I don't know. I no longer question this record or Garbus. It's just plain great.

Reviews of stuff I bought last Tuesday.

Having been a bit frustrated at my inability to get myself to stick to the plan of reviewing a new album a week just to get the old juices going again, I hereby present a review of the first of three albums I bought last Tuesday.

First up, Man Man's Life Fantastic.

There appear to be two ways to look at Man Man's fourth album.

The first is to take Life Fantastic on its own individual and excellent merits, sealed away from the rest of the world (and it's predecessors) in an insular vacuum. The second is to liken it to your friend for whom the renaissance fair never ends and you're one, "Aye, m'lord," away from swearing off the all-night mead sessions.

Not that there aren't new tricks. Opener Knuckle Down chugs along fantastically courtesy of the 8-bit grit of its fuzzed-out synth bass underpinning.

Old tricks sail by here and there, some more welcome than others. It's ridiculously difficult to not chant "Mustache, mustache," when you hit the rhythm rocks at the heart of of Haute Tropique, and the prog interlude backloaded in Shameless (which might be the album's best track) also harkens back to Six Demon Bag.

Eel Bros. is just a little transitional throwaway bit of fun, but its attempt to fuse Nintendo phrasings with late '90s Beck tropical dance fever makes one kind of want to see Man Man dedicate a whole track to similar ideas.

The album closes on two strong cuts: the title track and Oh, La Brea. Life Fantastic swoons deliriously in tightening circles leading to a cacophonous center that's actually kind of surprising in just how tuff it is.

Oh, La Brea works a bit differently. It operates somewhere in the neighborhood of a medley of their various preferred pastiches, but incredibly satisfyingly.

In conjunction with the previous track, it does beg the rather awkward question of when will frontman Honus Honus pull a Nick Cave and, while recognizing his supporting players as The World's Most Enabling Band, take the spotlight unto himself and attempt to flourish as a Named Songwriter Guy as opposed to basking in the nurturing safety of being the Main Guy In a Quirky Fringe Band.

At the very minimum, Life Fantastic is good . To those new to the fold, it may even be their best. But four albums in, Man Man are less trailblazers than minstrels making merry in their very own crop circle.

However, it's a very nice crop circle, and the mead is very nice, especially after a few cups, and maybe entirely worth putting up with a few more thees and thous.

Dream #1

So not my first dream, and thankfully not a Frist dream.

But I figgered I might as well document them on the rare occasion that they occur.

This is from last night, so it's had most of the day to alternate between coming together and falling apart entirely.

Anyhow. I'm out with a dog (maybe Dagny, maybe not a dog at all, but at least another friendly, playful entity) on a beach between the sea and some mighty tall cliffs. It's definitely night, but a waxful-if-not-full moon is doing its thing, and I've got my Maglite to boot.

Why am I there? I think I was meeting up with a party maybe? Not sure. So there I am, on a sandy beach that's maybe 15o yards from rocky, sheer cliffs to crashing surfs, looking for something, playing my flashlight along whatever shrubs or rock piles there might be.

I knew the specifics of the next part when I woke up this morning, but have since forgotten them. Something to the effect of finding a lost child. I didn't return him to anyone, and I don't remember the kid speaking at all, but I kind of played the flashlight back in the direction I'd come from and said, "That way." The boy was seemingly grateful and ran off where I'd pointed.

Some time passes. Maybe a night, maybe a week. I don't know.

I'm on a similar stretch of beach, doing kind of the same thing, but I know that I'm making my way towards the kid's parents' house for a reward or recognition or something. It's a big, ridiculous Spanish villa-type thing with white walls and red tile roofs and more split levels than anyone would ever want.

It's still night, or perhaps night again, but I have no sidekick.

I get there.

Not really sure what's going to happen or supposed to happen next, but I decide to sneak off to the bathroom before anything big happens. I walk down a long hallway that seems to be kind of rickety, although I could never tell you why. I find the bathroom and go in.

The toilet is next to a window. I'm pissing in the toilet, trying to be quiet so they don't know I'm not wherever I'm supposed to be. It's taking forever. I look out the window. It's not night anymore, or at least not out the window, which overlooks a staggering, rocky, cliffy stairstepped waterfall leading to a tropical tree-laden lagoon. I'm still pissing, and the stream seems to get louder and more powerful.
The bathroom begins to shake.

The wall with the window shears off from the house and falls down onto the first step and splinters shoot everywhere. I take a step back towards the hallway, still pissing.

The toilet is next to go down the cliff, and I remember seeing it hit a rock not too far below and bounce into the lagoon far below with a splash. I pissed in it until it would have come undone from the plumbing, had it been attached to any.

The rest of the bathroom, myself included, went next.

I tried to mirror the trajectory of the toilet but miscalculated. I sensed the household was watching me and that a great tragedy was unfolding. I hit the first step of rocks hard but bounced high, far higher than I had originally fallen and arc up and over into a loose sort of compost heap next to the lagoon, and that impact siphons off enough excess kinetic energy that I only bounce about ten feet up and over into inexplicably dry soil.

I knew that I'd hit hard and was fucked up, but also that I was pretty badass for having survived the fall I did. The frames to my eyeglasses were straight ahead of me, temples even with the bridge, but the lenses were gone. I staggered to my feet, limped a step and smiled.

We flash forward some time. I'm well-dressed, maybe in a suit, probably wearing sunglasses, and kind of too warm. I'm standing in some sort of park with palm trees, maybe in front of a spendy Florida hotel or something. Someone (again, unsure of who, but certainly a friendly) is chatting with me. It feels like a social debriefing following a lengthy hospital stay.

Just as I'm reiterating how great I feel and how wonderful it is to be alive, I notice one of my hands has had a couple knuckles amputated and the stumps seem kind of flattened and burned.

This does not bother me. I rationalize it as being a small price to pay for surviving such a tremendous fall. I must have done it aloud, as my compatriot warns me that if my hand is surprising to me, then I should maybe or maybe not look at my face.

I don't know that I ever find a mirror to look into, but I remember looking for one. I know that I did find out that, years ago, I had interviewed for the Volante a man who had fallen down a bouncy cliff from a bathroom in a strikingly similar fashion to myself.

I took note of the man's forgettable name and set out to track him down.

Things get hazy again, but I find him at the racetrack and am about to ask him some questions about what happened when I am waylaid by a college-aged reporter who wants to ask me questions about falling down a bouncy mountain.

Helloooo, old shit!

Just stumbled across some unreleased Brainiac songs that I haven't heard since I first downloaded music via free university-provided dial-up.

They're not great, and kind of obnoxious because the mixes I got this time are all inexplicably hard-panned to the right channel (yes, I am on headphones, and yes, the plug is seated fully), but holy nostalgia for France. Wow.

Baby steps.

Time Out for Relevance

Where are all the gun-toting Second Amendment champions when the gun-toting nutjobs come out?